The Glory (59 page)

“Yossi Nitzan will carry on,” Sharon concludes, putting aside the pointer. “We don’t have approval of the plan yet from headquarters,
but I’ll get it. Gentlemen, prepare to go to Africa tonight.” A smile charged with the old rough charm, and off he goes into
the bunker.

Kishote steps up to face Sharon’s senior cadre in their wrinkled dusty field uniforms and windbreakers, some bearded, some
unshaven, all looking rather stunned by the daring, complex, and very dangerous plan. After a silence he says, “Nu?”

It breaks the mood and brings uneasy laughs.

“It’s Abu Agheila,” says one brigade commander, “with horns on.”

Another: “It’s insane,” but this goes with a resolute grin.

A third, soberly, “We can do it. But bones will be broken.”

Kishote beckons to the intelligence officer, who comes forward with a bulging portfolio. “Most of the broken bones will be
Egyptian. Kobi will give the latest enemy dispositions.”

All that morning the sprawling depot is alive with the clamorous chaos and billowing dust of a division preparing to move
out — more than ten thousand men hurrying among the buildings and shouting, hundreds of tanks, self-propelled guns, APCs,
and “soft” vehicles, rumbling, honking, crisscrossing — a kicked-over anthill, but these are army ants, forming up to march.
The question is whether and when the command to march will come. Between his rounds to observe the progress toward readiness,
Sharon is incessantly on the telephone to southern headquarters or to the Pit, trying to get an official go-ahead. At last
word comes that General Bar-Lev is on his way, without his co-commander Gonen, for a final review of Sharon’s plan to seize
a bridgehead on both sides of the Canal.

“Yossi, I want you to be present,” says Sharon, “when Bar-Lev comes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sharon showers and shaves. He is on record expressing harsh contempt for Bar-Lev’s decisions and abilities. Kishote guesses
that he means to show relaxed confidence in his plan, to this old-boy Palmakhnik who for better or worse has the ear of Dado,
Dayan, and Golda Meir. Bar-Lev cannot veto a crossing, for Golda and the cabinet have voted it, but he can certainly snarl
Sharon’s bridgehead assault scheme. When Bar-Lev arrives, a trim lieutenant general of few slow words and reserved opinions,
he welcomes Kishote’s presence in the caravan with a cool smile and no more.

After brief chitchat about the Syrian front and the Security Council intrigues, Sharon turns to a map of his assault plan.
Bar-Lev absorbs with silent nods the bold picture of Sharon’s night attack to open the way, cross the Canal, and seize a bridgehead.
The concept is simple enough. A powerful frontal attack on the Second Army, which is entrenched north of the Great Bitter
Lake, will actually be a massive diversion; while another force will slip southwest into Sharon’s “seam” to capture Deversoir,
and then drive northward along the Sinai bank of the Canal to strike the Egyptians from behind,
from the Canal direction.
This is to be the shattering surprise. Other forces will meantime clear the roads to the Deversoir area so that the boats,
rafts, and bridges can get to the Canal. By morning at least two bridges will be in place, and the main invasion will be on.

“There’s the crux, isn’t it, Arik?” This is Bar-Lev’s first comment. “The bridges?”

“Absolutely.”

“And will they be there, when and as planned?”

“Of course.”

“Which ones?”

“The roller bridge and the crocodiles.”

Bar-Lev sits silent, staring at the map, nodding and nodding.

Kishote knows, and Sharon knows — and they can figure that Bar-Lev knows — that there is the weak point in the entire scheme.
Sharon himself has been raising hell about the traffic on the roads which blocks the movement of the crossing equipment. Now
there sits Bar-Lev weighing Sharon’s master plan to win the war, and putting his finger right where disaster lurks. Not two
weeks ago Sharon, the founder of the Likud Party, was publicly berating Golda Meir, Bar-Lev, and the entire Labor Party as
incompetent and corrupt. Twice in the past week Bar-Lev has backed Gorodish in trying to get Sharon relieved. Now Haim Bar-Lev
is to pass a detached judgment on Sharon’s great bid for glory and victory! A grotesque situation but there it is, Yossi is
thinking, when Bar-Lev abruptly turns on him. “Nitzan, you’ve been monitoring this matter of the bridges and the rafts, haven’t
you?”

“It’s been one of my assigned duties, yes, sir.”

“Will those bridges be there tomorrow as scheduled?” One lean hand darts an accusing finger at the map. “In other words, as
matters now stand, is this whole scheme realistic and responsible?” Kishote glances at Sharon, to whom Bar-Lev turns, speeding
up his drawl a bit. “Do you mind my asking Nitzan? This is serious business. Dado considers Yossi Nitzan an outstandingly
reliable officer.”

At once Sharon says, “Kishote, tell General Bar-Lev exactly what you know and what you think. Pull no punches. That’s an order.”

Don Kishote looks Bar-Lev in the eye. “The bridges will be there in the morning, sir,” he says with soldierly calm.

Bar-Lev returns the look and after a moment says, “Good enough. Good luck, Arik. God keep our fighters who have to carry out
this murderous plan of yours.”

Kishote remains in the caravan while Sharon accompanies Bar-Lev to his helicopter. Returning, Sharon punches his shoulder.
“Well done.”

“What’s the use of a reputation for reliability,” says Kishote, “if you can’t lie when it matters?”

“When I’m Prime Minister, Don Kishote, you’ll be my Minister of Defense.”

“Sir, I’d better get out and crack some heads on the roads.”

“One moment.” Sharon drops into a chair. His genial confident look fades into stony concern. “Yossi, will the bridges really
be there at
some
time tomorrow? And what about the rafts for the tanks tonight? Without tank support I can’t send Danny over. You know that.”
Colonel Danny Matt commands the paratrooper infantry brigade.

“Sir, I’ll have another look at the roller bridge first, then I’ll follow up on the rafts.”

“B’seder. If I’m going to attack at dusk, remember, the division has to start out no later than three o’clock.”

“Understood, sir.”

Kishote wonders, espying the bridge far off on the move, whether he may not inadvertently have told Bar-Lev the truth. It
is creeping steadily over the wide empty desert in the noonday sun trailed by its supply vehicles, fuel trucks, and AA half-tracks,
with the “short bridge” of spare rollers bringing up the rear; and when it comes to a rise in the ground it goes straight
ahead, humping itself over like a vast caterpillar over a rock, and continues on its way.

“Sir, that has got to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” says Sarak, staring in disbelief. They are approaching the bridge
in the signal jeep. “Shimon’s told me about it, but hearing isn’t like seeing.”

“That weird thing won the Israel Prize,” says Kishote. “Pull alongside the half-track.”

“It should win the Nobel Prize,” says Sarak, “if they give one for lunacy.”

Accompanying the bridge in a half-track are Haim Lauterman and the newly assigned colonel, a stumpy desert-dried ordnance
officer named Yehiel. The moving colossus raises a considerable tumult as it labors along; snorts and rumbles of the ten tanks,
nine towing and one braking; clanks, screeches, hollow booms, and some up-and-down writhing with great groans. The smooth
movement is an illusion of distance. Up close the bridge is a protesting tortured Frankenstein of steel, doing its masters’
will but screaming to the sky that it should never have been created.

“How’s it going?” Kishote shouts at Lauterman.

“Slick as water, sir,” the Jeptha man calls back. “We’ll be at Tirtur at three o’clock, no problem.”

“Kishote, what the hell am I doing here?” bawls Yehiel. He is an old friend, a reliable hard-charging commander. “This bridge
is okay. I’ve got a lot of urgent things to do at Tasa.”

“Get the bridge to the Canal, Yehiel. Nothing’s more urgent.”

“If you say so, Yossi.”

Yehiel waves as Kishote’s jeep drives ahead; an unlucky guy, that Yehiel, slated for brigadier general until his secretary
accused him of raping her. In the ensuing mess, though not officially penalized — Yehiel claimed it was a mutual attraction,
and that she proved to be a mental case — he lost all advancement prospects. The woman emigrated to Los Angeles, and still
writes him love letters, or so he says. Anyway, Yehiel is now just serving out his time, much embittered.

Straight ahead a high white dune stretches east to west for perhaps a quarter of a mile without a break; impossible to go
around, for the bridge is not built for turns, so it will have to climb over the obstacle.

“Sarak, drive up on that dune. I want to watch this.”

“B’seder.”

As the jeep mounts the hard-packed slope, the wireless receiver squawks,
“Flagpole Central to Yossi.”

“Yossi here.”

“Flagpole wants to know where you are.”

“Tell him I’m observing Snake, heading for Tirtur, ETA 1400, all normal.”

“And what about crocodiles?”

“Proceeding next to check crocodiles.”

“Hundred percent. Out.”

With nine tanks hauling it up the slope — three yoked in front, three more pulling on each side, and the braking tank trailing
behind on an extra-thick cable — the bridge slowly, slowly crawls up the dune, amid showers of sand from the tank tracks,
savage engine roars, and great clouds of dirty blue exhaust. The three leading tanks pass the crest and start down. The first
rollers follow over the top, and the bridge begins to move more easily and a little faster, as the drag of gravity behind
decreases. What happens after that goes very quickly, and Kishote does not understand it at first, or quite believe his eyes.
As though coming alive and revenging itself on its tormentors, the bridge takes off, scampers down the hill with great squeals
and clanks, and leaps up on a leading tank with a hellish colliding crash and a shower of sparks. There it stops, its huge
length stretching back almost to the crest of the dune in a boil of dust and smoke.

“God in heaven, I hope nobody’s killed,” Kishote exclaims. “Let’s get down there, Sarak.”

“By my life, I think Shimon is in that tank.” Sarak throws the jeep into gear and hurtles down the slope.

When they reach the scene Yehiel is pounding at the tank hull with a wrench, and getting answering bangs from inside. Yehiel
exclaims to Kishote, “They’re responding in there, anyway. What a fashla! Who ever dreamed up this rolling nightmare?”

“Can you get them out?”

“Sure, but it’ll take a while.”

Lauterman is peering up at the rollers that mounted the tank. “That first roller is kaput,” he says to Kishote. “We’ll have
to replace it, and I guess we’ll need another tank.”

Trotting around to the other side of the wreckage, Kishote crawls under a giant roller hanging askew, and manages to pry loose
the tank’s hull telephone. “Hello, in there! Brigadier General Nitzan here. Are you all right?”

“Hi, General. Shimon Shimon here.” The ceramicist sounds very hoarse and trembly. “All right? We’re pretty shaken up. It sounded
like the end of the world in here. The loader is bleeding, he fell, nothing serious. How can we get out, sir? Both turret
hatches are jammed.”

“They’re working on it now.”

“Well, the sooner the better. Not to put too fine a point on it, sir, one of us has shit in his pants. It’s a bit stuffy in
here.”

“Open any vents you can. You’re not in danger. The bridge got away and ran up on you, that’s all.”

“Sir, I
warned
the idiot commander of the brake tank about just that! He must have been asleep, or jerking off. He’s from Savayon, the jerk-off
capital of Israel.” Savayon is a wealthy suburb, much abused by people who don’t live there.

Yehiel is discussing with the tank commanders gathered around him how to pull the bridge off the tank. The Jeptha man stands
by listening. Yossi says, “Lauterman, any ideas?”

“Uncouple the first two rollers, I’d say, sir. Back up the bridge and they’ll probably just fall off the tank. Maybe it’s
even usable. These cylinders are hollow, and that Patton has a strong hull.”

Yehiel overhears him, and glances at him with a trace of respect. “Excellent. That’s it. Get your engineers to do the disconnecting,
and we’ll free the tank.”

As Lauterman goes off, Yehiel takes Kishote aside and says in a guttural whisper, “Kishote, that fellow plays with a yo-yo.”

“Well, he knows his stuff. We all do strange things.”

“To the devil, that’s true enough. If I’d had a yo-yo, and a different secretary, I might be a brigadier general.”

“How long a delay, Yehiel?”

The colonel squints at the bizarre pileup of rollers on the tank, then at the bridge stretching far up the slope, the tanks
stalled with limp cables dangling from them, and the soldiers swarming out of the personnel carriers to work on the wreck.
“I’d guess two to four hours.”

The Jeptha colonel is already giving instructions to a knot of grease-streaked sappers. “A word with you,” Kishote says to
him.

“Certainly, sir. Dzecki!” Lauterman calls. “Come along here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The three walk a little way up the slope, amid settling dust and pungent drifting smoke. “Is this going to happen again, Lauterman?
Or anything like it?”

“General, this bridge traversed such obstacles with ease — bigger ones too — when Major Pasternak’s tanks towed it. Dzecki,
confirm that.”

“That’s right, sir. Any number of times, before they got sent off to the north.”

“There you are,” says the Jeptha man defensively. “You can’t blame the bridge, sir. It’s an inspired, beautiful construction.
A work of genius! But it’s meant for trained handling.”

“You’re not answering my question. Will it happen again?”

Lauterman brings out the yo-yo, and absently spins it. “Sir, I’d ride in that braking tank myself, but frankly I get claustrophobia
in a tank. Even with both turrets open, I want to puke or scream. I’ve done both. My hat’s off to these tank fellows, I tell
you.”