“I want to see the OC,” I snapped at the secretary.
“But you’ve just seen him.”
“Yes, I know. But . . . it’s something important.”
She smiled and walked into his office. In a moment she was back. “OK . . . go right in.”
Old Ramrod didn’t seem surprised to see me again so soon.
“I came to tell you,” I blurted out quickly, “that I’ve decided to go.”
“You’ve decided?”
“Yes, yes,” I mumbled nervously.
“Good, if that’s the way you want it.” A sad smile appeared on his face. He was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking about something far away. “This afternoon you’ll be transferred to the Sarona camp. There you will present yourself to the camp commander. They need platoon commanders.” The OC seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I’m sure you’ll make a good fighter,” he ended. Silence. We looked at one another. The old battle-scarred soldier, and the untried young star who was anxious to get a taste of war. Our eyes met. This meeting of our eyes meant a lot to me: it was a sort of pact between two generations of warriors, a silent agreement to what I considered to be the duties and privileges imposed upon every generation in turn. I regarded myself as representing enthusiasm and strength, while Ramrod stood for experience and advice. I knew that the war in which I was going to take part would be a life-or-death struggle. But I didn’t care. At that moment I regarded the need to face the danger of death as one of my deepest desires. Without this experience, I wouldn’t be a man, and I wouldn’t be worthy of continuing the soldierly tradition that I had just joined, in the silent pact with the OC.
“I hope we’ll meet again,” Ramrod said as we parted and shook hands warmly.
“I hope so too,” I echoed as I marched out. His eyes followed me. “Hope to see you,” I mumbled again, dodging outside. The secretary, who was standing outside the door, glanced at me curiously.
“Well, what happened?” she asked.
“I’m going to the front,” I announced proudly.
“What do you say!” she called out in surprise. “The old man must be in a good mood today!”
I went to my room, collected my few belongings, and stuffed them into my kit bag. I loaded it onto my back and went outside to inform the platoon commander of my transfer. I found him near the camp, watching a group of soldiers being taught how to throw hand grenades.
“What’re you doing here with a kit bag?” he asked.
“Well, I got what I wanted,” I replied.
“What’s that?” Arthur exclaimed, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Yes, Ramrod’s transferred me to a combat unit. I’m on my way now.”
“And what do you say about that?” he barked.
“I’m saying nothing,” I answered with ill-concealed pride. “I’m leaving right away, and no regrets. This is my big chance.”
“Yes, yes,” Arthur grumbled to himself. From sheer force of habit, he pulled out his pipe. “I wish you the best of luck,” he added, before putting the pipe into his mouth. He came up to me and patted me on the shoulder. “So you made it, huh?” We shook hands, and then I lifted my kit bag and went off. Arthur followed me with his eyes, clenching his pipe tightly.
About half an hour later, I reached the company’s headquarters at Sarona. A group of soldiers was working with two machine guns placed on the ground. “Where’s the OC’s office?” I asked the instructor. He didn’t reply, but pointed to a nearby two-story building with a red-tiled roof. I went into the corridor of the first floor. A cardboard sign hung on one of the doors. I looked at it: “Company Adjutant’s Office” it proclaimed in red chalk letters. I knocked at the door.
“Come in!” a choir of voices called out. I went inside, and found several instructors clustered around the adjutant’s table. He was giving rapid-fire answers to questions that came at him from all sides. He didn’t notice me. I came up to the table and shouted in a loud voice: “Hullo!” He looked up at me in surprise.
“Well?” he muttered, as if annoyed at being disturbed.
“I’m here!” I proclaimed triumphantly, expecting him to share my joy. But he looked at me as if he didn’t understand what was going on. “I’m reporting for duty,” I added, lowering my voice, embarrassed.
“Oh . . . you’re reporting for duty,” he mumbled, looking through the papers scattered on the table. Suddenly he raised his head as if he had remembered something. “Yes, of course, you’re being transferred to Jerusalem. You’ll talk to the company commander in a moment.” He dashed into the commander’s office with rapid steps, as if he was doing a dance. When he came out a minute later, he announced: “You can go in now.”
I entered the room, my heart beating with excitement. The commander welcomed me with a charming smile. He inspected me with his peaceful blue eyes like a good-hearted school teacher looking at his favorite pupil. “Sit down, please,” he said calmly. He picked up a packet of cigarettes from the desk and held it out to me.
“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”
The OC took a cigarette, lit it slowly, and drew smoke into his lungs. He breathed the smoke in with enjoyment, as if freeing himself of a heavy pressure that squeezed his lungs. “I’m sending you to Jerusalem.” He stopped, to test my reaction, and then went on: “It won’t be a picnic up there.” A slight smile spread across the corners of his mouth. “But I’m sure you’ll do a good job there with your platoon.”
A wave of joy swept over me. I felt like a schoolboy whose teacher had just taken him out in front of the class and said: “Excellent! Full marks!”
“Your first headache will be how to get to Jerusalem,” he went on. “The road is blocked, but occasionally convoys get through. Try to get onto one of those tomorrow. When you get there, contact Erez, the commander of the platoon, in the Building of the Pillars. That’s on the main street, you know. Take some leave right away so that you can say goodbye to your folks, and don’t forget to take warm clothes with you. It’s cold up in the mountains, very cold.” I nodded. “OK then. Tomorrow morning at six.” He rose and shook hands with me warmly. “Goodbye.”
When I went out, the adjutant gave me a travel pass.
“So long,” I said to him happily as I left.
“We might still meet again” he said, with a rather mysterious tone in his voice. That evening I said goodbye to my parents. “I’m being transferred to Jerusalem,” I remarked casually, adding immediately afterward, in a reassuring voice: “Nothing to worry about.”
They looked at me sadly. “Do you have to go?”
“Yes, of course,” I made light of the whole matter. “But it’s really nothing dangerous.”
“Look after yourself, my boy,” my father said, patting my back encouragingly. “War isn’t a game, you know.”
“And don’t forget to pray every day,” my mother added in a pleading voice.
“You know I don’t pray as often as you do.” I wanted to show her that my new job wasn’t risky.
But she gave me a sad look, and when she saw I was still stubborn, she said: “Alright, then I’ll pray for you. I’ll pray every day.” She added, “Take warm clothes . . . I’ll get a few things ready for you,” doing her best to stop herself from bursting into tears.
“It’s not necessary. Really not,” I tried to calm her. “I’m not going to the end of the world. Don’t worry.