Tales of the Golan: Harry vs. The Wild Boar
I couldn’t help but laugh while reading Shmuel’s near splattering of a wild boar on the Golan Heights while driving home from work. It reminded me of one of the funniest experiences of my army service.
We were somewhere in the middle of a military zone on the Golan Heights. Even though our base was only a few kilometers away it was way too expensive (the fuel) to drive the tanks back and forth from the field too our base just for a few days while everyone went home for the weekend, so a few of us were spending Shabbat in the field. The guard duty rotation was two hours on, six hours off. Not that bad considering I once did two hours on, two hours off for three days. Is that even legal? Anyway, It must have been two or three in the morning. I was just finishing a two hour shift guarding the tanks and all of our equipment. My fellow soldiers were sleeping in a large tent, while I stood on top of one of the tanks manning the radio. (Quick aside. I would often tune to the United Nations radio frequency and say “UN out of Palestine” and “Long Live Mao!” for no apparent reason.) Anyway, my shift was up in ten minutes so I had to go wake up Nuriel, who would relieve me. Nuriel, the driver of my tank crew, was a humorous and warm religious Yemenite kid. A bit of a wise ass, but a reliable soldier and a terrific driver. He actually drove while sleeping on more than one occasion. Trust me, that is a very impressive feat. If he didn’t respond to orders because of his slumbering, I would fake that I hurt my hand or something and scream “SHIT” really loud into the radio in order to rouse him. Thanks would be given later during our wind down time after a long day in the form of “Cafe Lavon” or “white coffee.” A delicious spiced hot drink I only had prepared for me by Nuriel and have not heard of or seen since.
So, my shift is ending and I hop down to go wake Nuriel up. I wake him and tells me he’ll be out in ten. I go back to the tanks and suddenly I hear snorting. Snorthing was new to me. I’d heard Jackals before. They are quite loud on the Golan. However, I never quite got used to the cackling of the Jackals. I find it unsettling. Damn Joker.
I shine the spotlight (in Hebrew “projector”) to the source of the sound and see a huge mother fucking wild boar about ten meters away from where I stand. Now, as long as I stay on the tank I’ll be ok. There’s obviously no way it can get to me but Nuriel is on his way out. Should I be concerned? I couldn’t exactly call out his name because I didn’t want to wake everyone else up. I keep my eye on the tent and fruitlessly (and retardedly I might add) attempt to blind the boar with the spotlight. That didn’t work. I figure I’ll just wait for Nuriel to come out. 15 minutes pass, no Nuriel. Must have fallen asleep while putting his shoes on. The damn pig is still running around, mocking me with his snorts.
Now, my options are limited. I can’t run anywhere and I certainly can’t shoot it. I can however, throw stuff at it! The question is, what do I throw? Bullets of course! I start with the standard 5.56 mm, and quickly go through almost an entire magazine and hit him only twice. The bastard shrugged off the bullets as if someone was throwing them at him. I upgraded to the 7.62 mm from one of the MAG machine guns, but those too weren’t affective enough. Nuriel finally emerges about an hour after he was supposed to, sees the boar, screams some obscenity in Arabic slang and runs back into the tent. I then grab the carrot sized 50 caliber bullets from the mounted M2 Browning machine gun and throw them with a hell of a lot of force at the Boar. Good thing that that did the trick. I wasn’t prepared to lob a tank shell at it. One big squeal and the non-kosher beast ran. Right towards the tent where everyone was sleeping. Luckily, he took a quick left and ran into the darkness. I waited a few minutes to be sure he was gone and finally jumped down and headed towards the tent. Nuriel of course had gone back to bed. I woke him by kicking his cot, then affectionately cursed at him, told him the pig was gone and I set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. so I had enough time to clean up all those damn bullets.
Bad Connection
Last year, on this day, I shared this story with you. Just wanted to let you know that the marriage didn’t last. Perhaps it has something to do with them celebrating the engagement on Memorial Day.
In any case, I didn’t feel very connected to the holiday this year. Not really sure why. I didn’t watch the ceremony on television last night, during the siren my thoughts wandered a bit and I didn’t take the time today to watch any of the gut wrenching home movies playing simultaneously on nearly every channel. Oddly enough, this is the one holiday that I always feel thoroughly connected with. I don’t know, I just feel a bit distant. I just don’t know.
I was lucky enough to serve in the IDF during a relatively quiet time. It was before Israel pulled out of Lebanon and a few years before the second intifada started. I knew some guys who were seriously wounded in Lebanon, one guy in my unit killed himself during basic training (at home on a weekend off) but other than those instances, I didn’t personally know any soldiers who died.
So what do I usually think about during the sirens?
I think about my friend who lost five of his former soldiers in a horrible brush fire in Lebanon during a firefight with Hezbollah, just a week after he was discharged (I’d met one of the guys the week before at my friend’s army release party). I went with him to two of the funerals.
I think about the father of an old roommate who was killed by a sniper as he got out of his tank during the Yom Kippur War just hours after the ceasefire was declared. My roommate was 11 months old at the time.
And I think about the history of my unit, the Seventh Brigade, and the sacrifices they made as they fought to protect our borders from our enemies in every single one of Israel’s wars.
Victims of terror is another story all together. Some good friends have narrowly escaped with their lives (but with both physical and psychological scars), others I’ve known did not.
So why can’t I connect today?
Timewarp: Harry chats with Shaul Mofaz
Yet another chapter of the Harry’s army chronicles…
1998. My advanced tank training was held on the southern Golan Heights. We spent about 90 percent of our time out in the shetach (field). Upon returning to the base on Sunday we would drive our tanks through military only areas of the Golan, passing decimated and rusted Syrian tanks that are now used as target practice. Advanced tank training consists of obstacle courses spread over several kilometers. Each week, we would ship out to a different part of the Golan, training on different types of terrain. This week we happened to be near the city of Katzrin, the only city on the Golan Heights, sitting about 12 kilometers northeast of the Sea of Galilee. It was a good place to be, because we knew the chances of recieving an “after,” (free time) in the city was fairly high. Now, Katrzin isn’t a city per se, but it had a couple of cafes, mini-markets and shwarma joints. More than we had on the volcanic rock of the Golan where we spent most of our time.
On Wednesday morning we woke up shivering as usual, anxiously waiting for the sun to rise to rewarm our bodies. Our morning rituals of cold water shaving, eating crappy food, putting away our sleeping gear and preparing the tank for the days activities was done in silence. Everyone too tired from the previous night’s events. After breakfast we were told by our commanders that we’ll be having a special guest today - the new IDF Chief of Staff, Shaul Mofaz. It was his first week in his position and he was going around to random units to meet with the troops. He would be arriving at 11:30, so we’ll need to straighten up the area, put up some new flags and choose a representitive to tell him about our unit.
Mofaz and his entourage of advisors, security and photographer arrived promptly. Eitan, a born leader who we chose earlier to speak about our unit spoke elequently and intelligently about who we were and what we were doing. Mofaz then spoke briefly to our unit about the importance of the armored corp and upon completing his short speech asked if there were any questions. A few of the guys had some questions - though nothing too serious. Mofaz then said “Anyone else?”
I happen to be sitting dead center in the group and foolishly looked to my right and my left to see if anyone had their hands up. No one did. And that was my downfall.
Mofaz looks directly at me and says, “You there! The one looking around, please stand up.” I was so nervious that I thought my heart was going to explode through my chest and I immediately broke out in a heavy sweat.
There was a collective “Oh shit” among my commanders and the officers. The guys in my unit all tried to mask their smirks because they knew this conversation was going to be awesome.
I was a good soldier, but as you can imagine, a bit of a jokester. Now, this is the chief of staff of the IDF, so I wasn’t planning on fucking around. But sometimes, things just happen. My Hebrew wasn’t all that great. Good enough to understand orders and converse with the boys but I couldn’t have a intellectual conversation about Kant’s categorical imperative. all my answers below are translated in English directly from the Hebrew I used.
I stood up and saluted the highest ranking officer in Israel.
“What is your name?” Mofaz asked.
“Harry Rubenstein” I answered with an intentionally strong accent.
“Ah a new immigrant? Where are you from Harry?” said Mofaz.
“Port Jefferson, New York”
“When did you come to Israel?”
“About eight months ago”
“How are you finding the army?”
“It’s difficult, but it’s going OK.”
“How old are you?”
“23″
Did you go to college?
“Yes, I studied at SUNY Albany.”
“What did you study?”
“History.”
“What kind of History?”
“Middle Eastern.”
“What do your parents do?”
“My father teaches Physics and mother helps people with speaking problems.” (I didn’t know how to say “Speech Therapist.)
“Are they happy with your decision?”
“Yes, they are very proud.”
“How did you end up in tanks?”
“I read Avigdor Kahalani’s book OZ 77 and wanted to be part of a unit with such a big history. Kahalani is a hero.”
“Yes, he is a hero.”
“Are you a lone soldier?”
“Yes”
“Where do you live?”
“Jerusalem”
“Do you receive invitations to any of the guys for Shabbat?”
“Yes, but I never go. I see them enough during the week, I like quiet on Shabbat.”
“Me too,” Mofaz says laughing.
Now there were other questions as well. We went back and forth for a good ten minutes or so. He was really into me for some reason and I just wanted it to end. Finally I heard the words that brought me relief.
“Good luck Harry” the Chief of Staff said effectively ending the conversation.
“Thank you. Good luck to you too in your new job” I said, not believing I just said GOOD LUCK IN YOUR NEW JOB to the fucking chief of staff of the army.
And with that I saluted and sat down relieved that the most high pressure conversation of military career was over. Mofaz and his entourage left and and all the hoopla died down. Many of my fellow soldiers came up to me and gave me praise and a few pats on the back, with a few telling me that I represented the unit with respect.
Now, we were still in training so at this point our Platoon commander has not spoken to anyone of us on an individual basis. He only addressed us as a group. He was totally intimidating and I avoided him at all costs. Interaction with him was just plain uncomfortable and unnecessary. He was one bad dude.
As I chatted with my friend Shachar, my Platoon commander barrels our way at top speed and stops short a few inches from my face, cracks a big smile and says, “Harry, is there anything else you’d like to share with the Chief of Staff?”
My life in the IDF
When I made aliyah I was in a rush to join the army. As a young idealist, I thought it was the most important step in my absorption into Israeli society. My Ulpan (intensive Hebrew course) was ending in December and since I was seriously short of money, I wanted to get into the army as soon as possible. I was 23 at the time and according to law I was obligated to serve three months in Shlav Bet and then do reserve duty. As far as I was concerned, this wasn’t the real army. I wanted to be in a fighting unit. A friend escorted me to the recruitment center, acted as a translator and helped me arrange to receive a call up notice. I was informed that since I am “old” and I would have to request to extend my service. With an army secretary’s help I filled out the request and she told me to come back next week for the answer. The next week came and I was told that my request to extend my service to a year was accepted and I should await a letter in the mail to come do my physical and mental examination. I showed up and got poked, prodded and questioned by a doctor. “Have you ever done drugs?” he asked me. “No, of course not,” I replied. “Come on, you went to University in the States. Lots of parties there, no?” he said. With a smirk on my face I replied. “I think I might have been at a party where someone was smoking a marijuana cigarette.” He glared at me for a couple of seconds and quickly jotted something down.
A couple of months later I was on a bus on the way to an Army ulpan (guess I didn’t do so well on the Hebrew test) on an educational base outside of Carmiel. There were 100 soldiers there. 97 of them were Russian immigrants and their aspirations in the IDF were to be drivers. That left me and the only other American guy (we both wanted to go to Tanks), a guy named Boris who wanted to go to the Border Police, and an absolutely insane French Canadian dude named Yossi who also wanted to go to the Border Police. Needless to say, the entire experience sucked. It might have been the loneliest time of my life. Thankfully, the time went fairly quickly, my Hebrew improved and I was on my way to Bakum, the army induction center.
If Israel has it’s own hellmouth (Buffy reference, thank you), Bakum is it. It is so incredibly demoralizing. Since Bakum is the first real army experience for Israeli boys and girls they need to make it quite clear that it ain�t no joke. Lots of yelling, cleaning, kitchen duty goes on. But most of all, you just sit. And sit. And sit some more until finally your name is called for the most important meeting of your entire army service. The meeting with the officer who decides exactly what unit you are going to. It was a long week and a half until I finally had my meeting. I had grown quite close to the guys I was assigned with. They advised me on how to speak to the officer and what to say. It was finally my turn and as soon as I entered his office and saluted I noticed his black beret of the Armored Corps and the numerous amounts of photographs of tanks on the wall and knew I was golden. He asked me about my age and I told him in a heavy American accent that I have a lot of “motivatzia” and would like nothing more than to go to Tanks. He asked me why and I went into a well-rehearsed monologue about the influence of Avigdor Kahalani’s book “Oz 77″ about the well known tank battle on the Golan Heights during the Yom Kippur War had on me. I saw him crack a smile as he said “don’t worry.” I saluted and I left.
I ran over to my gang and told them what I said and that the officer told me not to worry.
Nadav, a young man who wanted more than anything to go to Golani like his five brothers did said to me, “Harry, if he told you don’t worry, then don’t worry. You are going to tanks.”
The next morning my name was called and I jump on the bus headed down to the Armored Corp training base. I was excited, nervous and feeling pretty damn psyched.
Let’s fast forward to the next morning.
I recently found a couple of tiny notebooks where I jotted down feelings, words of wisdom, general thoughts and new Hebrew words. This was an entry my first night of basic training.
As I lay on the ground, my arms shaking as I feebly attempted to keep my body suspended above the ground I realized fairly quickly I was in over my head. I was being yelled at in a language where I understood every sixth word, I felt like I was going to physically collapse in the desert heat and I began cursing myself for not getting into better physical shape, not paying better attention in my Hebrew classes. What the fuck did I get myself into?
No worries though. It got better. I realized after a couple of days that although my Hebrew wasn’t the best, majority of my unit’s physical condition were no better than my own. Also, everything is done as a group so I just paid really close attention to what everyone was doing and did the same thing. After a few weeks with the help of fellow soldiers and just being submerged in that intense environment, my Hebrew improved dramatically. Oh and I dropped from 175 pounds to 150 pounds in a two month period.
This is a pretty big blog entry so I am going to cut it short. I think I might do a “army memories” entry once every two weeks or so. Next entry: Tank School or “I thought all new immigrants become drivers?”
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