A Golani warrior’s October ’73 reminiscence

The warriors, my brothers-in-arms, were huddled in the main bunker when we arrived. Upon arrival, brief hugs, and then a brief command. No one sleeps. A few brief exchanges. The constant bombardment of the Syrian artillery and the deafening roar of aircraft above dispelled any idea of sleep, command or not. Bread sandwiches were still available: a slice, another, and bread in the middle, soon to become emergency ration biscuit crackers. The huge cauldron of coffee was available to everyone there. A ladle and plastic cups, orange plastic. Denoting kosher for use with meat dishes. We kept kosher, even though there was no longer any meat. Even though I was vegetarian, and had many meat loving friends, who loved me for the meat that they were able, deftly without disturbing the rice, to lift off my plate.

Outside the just below shoulder height trenches allowed access to heavy machine gun posts. We rotated from post to post, every two hours, to keep awake and to keep alert.

The next day another command. Sleep for two hours. Trench and heavy machine gun posts and radio duty for four hours, taken in turns with everyone there.

Someone had come up the road during heavy Syrian artillery bombardment. Two men, heavy black coats, black hats, white shirts, fringes sticking out from under the shirt and the vest and the jacket. Sidelocks beneath the black hats.

They came bearing gifts. Etrog and lulav, Sukkot holiday mere hours away. Etrog long before the exorbitant rip off prices so prevalent nowadays. Lulav freshly woven with palm and willow and myrtle.

It’s difficult to say exactly when, but shortly after that visit, with peripheral vision, I see Lieutenant D running not in the trench, but along the trench on top of the sandbags, to the 50 caliber machine gun position. With him the deafening roar of a jet engine, a MiG, coming in fast. Coming in to drop a load of death on top of us. My FN, converted with bipod, heavier, like a small machine gun, along with Lieutenant and D on the 50 cal, open up and the sky fills with nasty hornet-like projectiles that actually hit the cockpit. A North Korean pilot? How…but the hornets strike, pierce, and the MiG veers and descends and over the horizon, a huge fireball.

Another command. We have tracks and wheels and we will leave outpost 104 just before dawn. Load up. Pack your gear. Get as much ammunition as possible. Mine is called a transistor. No idea who came up with that, but it weighs heavy on my back.

World War II halftracks! Really? We make sure that the warrior in the “shotgun” seat has enough ribbons for the thirty caliber browning. Helmets on. Gear stowed. Water. Fuel. Several halftracks take us into Syria, each in a slightly different direction, still under heavy Syrian artillery bombardment.

The narrow roads to the small Syrian villages leading us to Tel Shams are strewn with Syrian wreckage and burnt Syrian bodies. The smell of death is everywhere and leaves a forever memory chip implanted in my brain. Flies buzz on the corpses, doing what nature does best. Nature recycles.

Sukkot comes, and goes, and the lulav and the etrog must have remained back at outpost 104. Boxes of REMs arrive somehow.

We spread out on both sides of the road, a road that is in the middle of a small valley, gently sloping hills on either side, and a self propelled IDF 120mm mortar crew near us.
That crew was about to die, but they did not know it yet. They worked so fast, too fast, that they did not realize that a mortar shell was still in the tube, when they dropped another on the outgoing shell, exploding and killing them instantly.

What is that? Friendly fire? Accident? Horrible tragedy? All the above, is my guess, and to this day my heart is broken for them.

We are still on our way to Tel Shams. I am upgraded when a Syrian who is now dead relieves himself of his RPG and rocket pack. I am also given an Uzzi submachine gun and I get to exchange my FN for it. I am rewarded further by getting to carry a black gerrycan of water on my back, with the RPG rocket pack. But only when we walk. While we ride in our World War II halftrack, that gear is carried, along with the fuel fumes and my brothers-in-arms. We have additional passengers now. Fleas.

All of us are scratching because we haven’t showered for at least a week. Maybe more. Platoon commander radios for an improvised shower truck, along with fresh work clothes and medication that our medics will dispense to ease the itching. We shower with flea killing soap.

A number of warriors converge at Tel Shams, once we finally reach that Syrian fortress, now in our hands. I see my former commander, Yoni, from basic training, with an Ariel Sharon bandage wrapped around his head. “It’s a scratch…” as we hug, and shake hands, and part company.

Meir, a paratroop officer from my Kibbutz sees me. His face is drawn, ashen, with sparkling eyes, despite the news he’s about to divulge. “My twin brother is still alive.” His brother is a combat helicopter pilot deployed to Sinai.

“Uzi and Danny and Avinoam and Dudu are KIA.”

I ask Meir to please tell my friends back on the Kibbutz that for now, at least, I am still alive. We shake hands, and part company.

And now we begin our stay in the bunkers of Tel Shams for the foreseeable future. We can’t see any of our futures. For us, there is no future at this point of the Yom Kippur War.

The bloodstained bomber jacket I found and wore that first night is still with me.

At this point in time, that jacket is the only thing that keeps me alive, like a mythological dip in the River Styx.