He wore uniform casually cut, and open at the throat with cloth insignia
or rank and wings at the breast pocket. He was slightly
round-shouldered, probably from cramming his lanky body into the cramped
cockpits of fighter aircraft, and his head was brown and bald with a
monk's fringe of hair and a fierce spiky mustache through which a gold
tooth gleamed richly. His nose was big and hooked, the nose of a
biblical warrior, and his eyes were dark and snapping with the same
golden lights as Debra's. He was a man of such presence that he
commanded David's instant respect. He stood to shake the General's hand
and called him sir completely naturally.
The Brig subjected David to a rapid, raking scrutiny and reserved his
judgement, showing neither pleasure nor disdain.
Later David would learn that the nickname The Brig was a shortened
version of The Brigand, a name the British had given him before 1948
when he was smuggling warplanes and arms into Palestine for the Haganah.
Everyone, even his children called him that and only his wife used his
given name, Joshua.
David is sharing the Sabbath meal with us tonight, Debra explained to
him.
You are welcome, said the Brig, and turned to embrace his women with
love and laughter, for he had seen neither of them since the previous
Sabbath, his duties keeping him at air bases and control rooms scattered
widely across the land.
When Joe arrived, he was also in uniform, the casual open-necked khaki
of summer, and when he saw David he dropped his slow manner and hurried
to him, laughin& and enfolded him in a bear hug, speaking over his
shoulder to Debra.
Was I right?
Joe said you would come, Debra explained.
It looks like I was the only one who didn't know, David protested.
There were fifteen at dinner, and the candlelight gleamed on the
polished wood of the huge refectory table and the silver Sabbeth
goblets. The Brig said a short prayer, the satin and gold embroidered
yamulka looking slightly out of place on his wicked bald head, then he
filled the wine goblets with his own hand murmuring a greeting to each
of his guests. Hannah was with Joe, her copper hair glowing handsomely
in the candlelight, and she greeted David with reserve. There were two
of the Brig's brothers with their wives and children and grandchildren,
and the talk was loud and confusing as the children vied with their
elders for a hearing and the language changed at random from Hebrew to
English.
The food was exotic and spicy, although the wine was too sweet for
David's taste. He was content to sit quietly beside Debra and enjoy the
sense of belonging to this happy group. He was startled then when one
of Debra's cousins leaned across her to speak to him.
This must be very confusing for you, your first day in such an unusual
country as Israel, and not understanding Hebrew, you not being Jewish
The words were not meant unkindly, but all conversation stopped abruptly
and the Brig looked up, frowning swiftly, quick to sense an unkindness
to guest at his board.
David was aware of Debra staring at him intently, as if to will words
from him, and suddenly he thought how three denials finalized any issue,
in the New Testament, in Mohammedan law, and perhaps in that of Moses as
well. He did not want to be excluded from this household, from these
people. He didn't want to be alone again. It was good here.
He smiled at the cousin and shook his head. It's strange, yes, but not
as bad as you would think. I understand Hebrew, though I don't speak it
very well.
You see, I am Jewish, also.
Beside him Debra gave a soft gasp of pleasure and exchanged quick
glances with Joe.
Jewish? the Brig demanded. You don't look it, and David explained, and
when he was through the Brig nodded. It seemed that his manner had
thawed a little.
Not only that, but he is a flier also, Debra boasted, and the Brig's
mustache twitched like a living thing so that he had to soothe it with
his napkin while he reappraised David carefully.
What experience? he demanded brusquely.
Twelve hundred hours, sir, almost a thousand on jets. Jets? Mirages.
Mirages! The Brig's gold tooth gleamed secretly.
What squadron? Cobra Squadron.
Rastus Naude's bunch? The Brig stared at David as
he asked.
Do you know Rastus? David was startled.
We flew in the first Spitfires from Czechoslovakia together, back in 48.
We used to call him Butch Ben Yak, Son of a Gentile, in those days. How
is he, he must be getting on now? He was no spring chicken even then.
He's as spry as ever, sir, David answered tactfully.
Well, if Rastus taught You to fly, you might be half good, the Brig
conceded.
As a general rule the Israeli Airforce would not use foreign pilots, but
here was a Jew with all the marks of a first-class fighter pilot. The
Brig had noticed the marvelous man and thrust which that other
consummate judge of young men, Paul Morgan, had recognized also and
valued so highly. Unless he had read the signs wrongly, something he
seldom did, then here was a rare one. Once more he appraised the young
man in the candlelight and noticed that clear and steady gaze that
seemed to seek a distant horizon. It was the eye of the gunfighter, and
all his pilots were gunfighters.
To train an interceptor pilot took many years and nearly a million
dollars. Time and money were matters of survival in his country's time
of trial, and rules could be bent.
He picked up the wine bottle and carefully refilled David's goblet. I
will place a telephone call to Rastus Naude, he decided silently, and
find out a bit more about this youngster.
Debra watched her father as he began to question David searchingly on
his reasons, or lack of them, for coming to Israel, and on his future
plans.
She knew precisely how the Brig's mind was working, for she had
anticipated it. Her reasons for inviting David to dinner and for
exposing him to the Brig were devious and calculated.
She switched her attention back to David, feeling the tense warm
sensation in the pit of her stomach and the electric prickle of the skin
upon her forearms as she looked at him.
Yes, you big cocky stallion, she thought comfortably, you aren't going
to find it so easy to escape again. This time I'm playing for keeps,
and I've got the Brig on to you also. She lifted her goblet to him,
smiling sweetly at him over the rim, You're going to get exactly what
you are after, but. in trumps and with bells on, she threatened
silently, and aloud she said, Lechaim! To life! and David echoed the
toast.
This time I'm not going to be put off so easily, he promised himself
firmly as he watched the candlelight explode in tiny golden sparks in
her eyes. I'm going to have you, my raven-haired beauty, no matter how
long it takes or what it Costs.
The telephone beside his bed woke David in the dawn, and the Brig's
voice was crisp and alert, as though he had already completed a day's
work.
If you have no urgent plans for today, I'm taking you to see something,
he said.
Of course, sir. David was taken off balance.
I will fetch you from your hotel in forty-five minutes, that will give
you time for breakfast. Please wait for me in the lobby. The Brig
drove a small nondescript compact with civilian plates, and he drove it
fast and efficiently. David was impressed with his reaction time and
coordination - after all the Brig must be well into his fifties, and
David allowed himself to contemplate such immense age with awe.
They took the main highway west towards Tel Aviv, and the Brig broke a
long silence.
I spoke with your old C. O. last night. He was surprised to hear
where you were. He tells me that you were offered promotion to staff
rank before you left -'It was a bribe, said David, and the Brig nodded
and began to talk. David listened to him quietly while he watched with
pleasure the quickly changing landscape as they came down out of the
hills and turned southwards through the low rolling plains towards
Beersheba and the desert.
I am taking you to an airforce base, and I might add that I am flouting
all sorts of security regulations to do so. Rastus assured me that you
can fly, and I want to see if he was telling me the truth David looked
at him quickly.
We are going to fly? 'and he felt a deep and pleasurable excitement
when the Brig nodded.
We are at war here, so you will be flying a combat sortie, and breaking
just about every regulation in the book. But you'll find we don't go by
the book very much. He went on quietly, explaining his own particular
view of Israel, its struggle and its chances of success, and David
remembered odd phrases he used. - We are building a nation, and the
blood we have been forced to mix into the foundations has strengthened
them - - We don't want to make this merely a sanctuary for all the
beaten-up Jews of the world. We want the strong bright Jews also -,
There are three million of us, and one hundred and fifty million
enemies, sworn to our total annihilation -'- if they lose a battle, they
lose a few miles of desert, if we lose one we cease to exist - - We'll
have to give them one more beating. They won't accept the others. They
believe their ammunition was faulty in 1948, after Suez the lines were
restored so they lost nothing, and in 67 they think they were cheated.
We'll have to beat them one more time before they'll leave us alone, He
talked as to a friend or an ally and David was warmed by his trust, and
enlivened by the prospect of flying again.
A plantation of eucalyptus trees grew as a heavy screen alongside the
road, and the Brig slowed to a gate in the barbed wire fence and a sign
that proclaimed in both languages: Chaim Weissmann Agricultural
Experimental Centre. They turned on to the side road through the
plantation, and there was a secondary fence and a guard post amongst the
trees.
A guard at the gate checked the Brig's papers briefly, they clearly knew
him well. Then they drove on, emerging from the plantation into neatly
laid-out blocks of different cereal crops. David recognized oats,
barley, wheat and maize, all of it flourishing in the warm spring
sunshine. The roads between each field were surveyed long and straight
and paved with concrete that had been tinted to the colour of the
surrounding earth.
There was something unnatural in these smooth twomile long fairways
bisecting each other at right angles, and to David they were familiar.
The Brig saw his interest and nodded. Yes, he said, runways. We are
digging in, not to be taken by the same tactics we used in 67. David
pondered it while they drove rapidly towards a giant concrete grain silo
that stood tall in the distance.
In the fields, scarlet tractors were at work, and overhead irrigation
equipment threw graceful glittering ostrich feathers of spray into the
air.
They reached the concrete silo and the Brig drove the compact through
the wide doors of the barn-like building that abutted it. David was
startled to see the lines of buses and automobiles parked in neat lines
along the length of the barn. There was transport here for many
hundreds of men, and yet he had noticed less than a score of
tractor-drivers.
There were guards here again, in paratrooper uniform, and when the Brig
led David to the rounded bulk of the silo, he realized suddenly that it
was a dummy. A massive bomb-proof structure of solid concrete, housing
all the sophisticated communications and radar equipment of a modern
fighter base. It was combined control tower and plot for four full
squadrons of Mirage fighters, the Brig explained briefly as they entered
an elevator and sank below the earth.
They emerged into a reception area where again the Brig's papers were
examined, and a paratrooper major was called to pass David through, a
duty he performed reluctantly and at the Brig's insistence. Then the
Brig led David along a carpeted and air-conditioned underground tunnel
to the pilot's dressing-room. It was tiled and spotless, with showers
and toilets and lockers like a country club changing-room.
The Brig had ordered clothing for David, guessing his size and doing so
accurately. The orderly corporal had no trouble fitting him out in
overalls, boots, G-suit, gloves and helmet.
The Brig dressed from his own locker and both of them went through into
the ready room, moving stiffly in the constricting grip of the G-suits
and carrying their helmets under their arms.
The duty pilots looked up from chess games and magazines as they
entered, recognized the general and stood to greet him, but the
atmosphere was easy and informal.
The Brig made a small witticism and they all laughed and relaxed, while
he led David through into the briefing-room.
Swiftly, but without overlooking a detail, he outlined the patrol that
they would fly, and checked David out on radio procedure, aircraft
identification, and other parochial details.
All clear? he asked at last, and when David nodded, he went on,
Remember what I told you, we are at war.
Anything we find that doesn't belong to us we hit it, hard! All right?
Yes, sir.
It's been nice and quiet the last few weeks, but yesterday we had a
little trouble down near Em Yahav, a bit of nastiness with one of our
border patrols. So things are a little sensitive at the moment. He
picked up his helmet and map case then turned to face David, leaning
close to him and fixing him with those fierce brown and golden eyes.
It will be clear up there today, and when we get to forty thousand, you
will be able to see it all, every inch of it from Rosh Hanikra to Suez,
from Mount Herman to Eilat, and you will see how small it is and how
vulnerable to the enemies that surround us. You said you were looking
for something worthwhile, I want you to decide whether guarding the fate
of three million people might not be a worthwhile job for a man.
They rode on a small electric personnel carrier down one of the long
underground passages, and they entered the concrete bunker dispersed at
one point of a great star whose centre was the concrete silo, and they
climbed down from the cart.
The Mirages stood in a row, six of them, sleek and needle-nosed,
crouching like leashed and impatient animals, so well remembered in
outline, but vaguely unfamiliar in their desert brown and drab green
camouflage with the blue Star of David insignia on the fuselage.
The Brig signed for two machines, grinning as he wrote Butch Ben Yak
under David's numeral.
As good a name as any to fly under, he grunted. This is the land of the
pseudonym and alias. David settled into the tiny cockpit with a sense
of homecoming. In here it was all completely familiar and his hands