Not So Tough

   It was on my 26th birthday that the little green card arrived. I had a pretty good idea what the card meant, although at that time my ability to read and understand Hebrew was only about six inches ahead of negligible. I went next door to my neighbor.  "Shmulik, I think this is my army induction notice, am I right?" He told me I had to attend the army center for new recruits joining the Nachal unit in two weeks.

I took the bus down to the induction center, a few kilometers north of Tel Aviv. There we went through the ritual of getting our uniforms, plus fast efficient physicals, including turning your head and coughing, a battery of injections, and a chest x-ray. It was during the x-ray that I along with a few dozen other recruits witnessed a soldier being put on a charge. Pretty amazing as we had only been in the army for a couple of hours and hadn't even left for base camp. The charge occurred because of a French kid who called himself Moshe Lalum; To be x-rayed, one had to open a small wooden door, turn 45 degrees to the right, stand still for about ten seconds, turn back around then push another similar door open and walk out. Lalum decided to be clever and once in position bent down and smiled at the camera. Perhaps fun on other days, but not on your first day in the army.

It was dark by the time we boarded the buses to take us to base camp. We were all very tired, hungry, and thirsty as we rolled into our new home for the next twelve weeks. I was looking forward to a soothing cool drink, something to eat, and my bed. I knew enough to know we would be sleeping in tents, but I had lots of experience camping and enjoyed lying on a camp bed. 

  We were driven into Machaneh Shmonim (Camp 80) near the small town of Hadera in central Israel. None of the foreigners were fully aware of what was going to happen. The Israeli kids were all shouting,

 "Basar Tari" (fresh meat) as we drove through the gates and into the camp. The buses pulled to a stop. We exited the vehicle and stepped into hell.

MOVE IT, MOVE IT, RUN, screamed a soldier with three stripes on his arm, hands on hips. I started to run with the others but found myself bent over retching. Nothing came out as my stomach was empty. All I could think was "Why are they yelling at us? We haven't done anything yet."

 In my mind, I was still a civilian, with civilian rights. I was in shock, totally confused, and for the next few days, I saluted everyone just to make sure I wasn't making an error. Our Maki (Hebrew for Corporal) lined us up in threes and spoke to us directly for the first time.

" If you want to get any sleep tonight you will follow all my instructions exactly."

I didn't realize at the time that he was really saying there's no way any of you are getting any sleep tonight. Next, we were told to run over to a spot where an enormous tureen was standing. Beside the tureen stood a table laden with cheese sandwiches. We were told we had seven minutes to finish eating and drinking and be lined up in threes. We found that we had plenty of time as the tureen was by now more or less empty of the cocoa it contained. We ate the sandwiches with hunger, if not without relish. I was getting more depressed by the minute. I thought I was going to be eating garbage for the next 12 weeks and if I was lucky drinking cold cocoa here and there if the opportunity arose. In this I was completely wrong as from then on, the food and drink were very good. The problem was we were given just enough time to eat our meals, without any time to enjoy them. Yup, I had to face up to it; Like it or not I was now a soldier.

The rest of that night was a blur of confusing orders, well they were confusing for me as I couldn't understand about 90% of what was being yelled at us. Run here. Stand at attention. Run there etc. In the middle of all the confusion, we were given nine minutes to run to the showers and be back standing at attention in front of our camp beds. We had to repeat this exercise five times until we managed to complete it in under nine minutes. Looking back at what at the time seemed ridiculous to me, I realize that there really was a point to it all. I discovered there is such a thing as civilian time and army time. In civilian time if you arrive five minutes late for an appointment, you apologize for your lateness and are usually told,

 "Don't worry, it's not a problem."

The military, however, does not do late.

ACHSHEV (ATTENTION) screamed the corporal. We all stood to attention. Each new soldier stood rigid, trepidation screaming out of every pore. Fear of the enemy was terrifying. However, in this case, the enemy consisted of our corporal, sergeant, and officers.

       In Israel, it is customary for Kibbutz members to go into Nachal. The word Nachal is an acronym of Noar Halutzi Lohem, which translates as Fighting Pioneer Youth. A soldier’s time in Nachal is divided into three main parts. First comes basic training, which as in most army fighting units is 12 weeks of grueling non-stop action, with very little sleep. In those three months, young men are trained to obey orders immediately, learn basic rifle weaponry, march in step, plus a million other tasks that make a soldier.

   I had numerous difficulties during basic training. First, at 27, I was ten years older than my fellow inductees. Second, I spoke beginners Hebrew, which really did make life harder for me.

My lack of Hebrew language did cause one memory that will stay with me my entire life. We were working through a training exercise in a long field of heavily rutted uneven ground filled with brambles and various other plants. Aside from myself, there were two other foreigners who were with me in our specific part of the exercise. Ehud Rostiker, who hailed from Toronto, was about a hundred feet diagonally across from me. Mark Schaab, originally from Baltimore, was about two hundred feet to his left. My job was to shout in Hebrew, that Yehuda should run around, alert Mark, then both make a sweep around behind me.

  I knew exactly what to do, but after screaming at Yehudah in kindergarten Hebrew, I realized my instructions were becoming totally confused and meaningless. In my frustration, I decided to take the initiative which I was sure was going to get me at least one extra week’s guard duty. I yelled to Yehuda at the top of my voice in English.

"YEHUDA, GET YOUR ASS ROUND TO MARK AND CIRCLE BACK TO ME. NOW!" I waited for an officer to give me hell; Yehuda took off, rushed round to Mark, and they finished the maneuver coming up behind me. When the officer arrived, he told me in broken English that under the circumstances I did the right thing. He then asked me what I would have done if my buddies were Israelis. I had no answer for this, however, he did. For the next three Saturdays, when it was possible for soldiers to rest, I was to study Hebrew the whole day. In the end, the extra Hebrew lessons helped me quite a bit, although I never did fully understand the point of the exercise.

After basic training and the passing out parade, which I relished, we had one week of rest after which we had to either report to Paratrooper training, Tanks, or Infantry training. I chose infantry as the thought of being stuck in a tank has never appealed to me and the idea of jumping out of an airplane was a definite anathema for someone like me who gets dizzy standing on a chair.

 In the end, I didn't join the infantry. I got married in the middle of basic training. My marriage caused me to cut short a major part of my military service. I was glad of it at the time, but over the years I feel partly sorry and partly guilty that I didn't do the infantry training. Instead, I was moved from one camp to another, without anyone knowing exactly what to do with me. I was a tiny part of a huge machine. I may not have been what is often called 'a spanner in the works,' but there was no doubt about it; the military might of Israel had a situation and they couldn't figure out a way to solve the problem.

By this time about seven months later, my wife and I decided to leave Israel and move back to my birth nation of Scotland. I went through numerous interviews, in numerous army offices, trying to explain that My wife and I were leaving the country and that any time and money spent on me was a waste. Finally, after sitting a battery of different tests with manipulatives, I was sent to talk to an army lawyer. He advised me to write a letter to my camp commander explaining that I had to visit my sick mother in Scotland, and I couldn't be sure when I would be returning. He told me, once you're there, just don't bother coming back. I asked him if he was telling me to go AWOL, to which he replied,

“U'huh, it's the quickest and simplest way. Otherwise, you are going to find yourself stuck in a base somewhere in Sinai, washing dishes and sweeping floors." That did not strike me as very appealing. I got my buddy Shmulik to write the letter in Hebrew. To the camp commander, by way of the Assistant commander, etc. About a week later I received a letter telling me to buy the airline ticket and bring it to the camp, so they would know I was genuine. 

As I said earlier, looking back, I am not proud of it. I have always and will always, carry a degree of guilt, the cost of going AWOL nearly fifty years ago.