Bullets to Bandages: Life Inside the Israel Defense Forces

By Mark Terris

Bullets to Bandages: Life Inside the Israel Defense Forces

The Israel Defense Forces (IDF) is a renowned fighting force. It has defended a young vulnerable country from repeated attacks. In the process, it has produced great generals and statesmen. Bullets to Bandages is set in the late 1970s, at a time when many Western armies viewed the IDF as a heroic and idealistic force.

Bullets to Bandages explores the daily life inside the Israel Defense Forces. These are true stories that center on the experiences of four Israeli soldiersme and three close friendsand provide the reader with an intimate view of life in the Israeli army, the meaning of army friendships, and our own coming-of-age.

Life in the IDF is in many ways similar to other armies with a lot of chicken shitannoying military nonsense. Good shoe-polishing skills are valued over combat readiness. Soldiers are chronically sleep-deprived, often standing for midnight inspections and enduring nightlong stretcher marches. And yet there is a more humane side. Everyone, regardless of rank, is addressed by his or her first name. Commanders lead by example, not by threat. Beneath the uniform, soldiers are eighteen- to twenty-one-year-old men and women, still fighting acne and constantly fantasizing about sex.

You will witness the induction experience, which transformed us from teenagers into serial numbers. Other experiences included basic training (paratrooping, artillery, and air force), with the unique traditions of each corps. We evolved from new recruits, to sergeant-major slaves, to combat medic students, and finally to commanders. Along the way, we internalized, accepted, and eventually perpetuated the IDFs traditions.

Life in the Israel Defense Forces is not always fun. The physical hardships are real, and the stress challenges your resolve and morale. As young men, we did not verbally express our feelings, which were often tainted by our raging hormones, but broadcasted them through our actions. Humor and friendship allowed us to thrive in this environment. We matured and ultimately put our hearts and souls into the Israel Defense Forces, and this is the true secret behind the IDFs success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543412284

Mark Terris

Dr. Mark Terris is a native of Washington DC. His family immigrated to Israel when he was eleven years old, and he lived there for over ten years, including three years of service with the Israel Defense Forces. Upon discharge he returned to the United States to attend college, medical school and post graduate medical training. He is a head and neck surgeon with Kaiser Permanente and resides in Alexandria, Virginia.

Book preview

Copyright © 2017 by Mark Terris, M.D.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2017904925

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5434-1226-0

   Softcover   978-1-5434-1227-7

   eBook   978-1-5434-1228-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/10/2017

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

755664

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 Mark

Chapter 2 The Military School of Medicine

Chapter 3 Otto and Asaf

Chapter 4 The Sergeant Major’s Slaves

Chapter 5 Dennis

Chapter 6 Thursfri

Chapter 7 Sleepless Nights and Sore Purple Asses

Chapter 8 Into the Vein

Chapter 9 Burying Our Mistakes

Chapter 10 Sacrificing a Life for Medicine

Chapter 11 A Day in the Field

Chapter 12 Our Visit with Death

Chapter 13 Gaining a Little Experience

Chapter 14 A Crazy Captain

Chapter 15 Finding Our Niche

Chapter 16 What’s White with Small Red Spots?

Chapter 17 The Cohort

Chapter 18 Teaching vs. Discipline

Chapter 19 The Instructors’ Curse

Chapter 20 An Invitation to Refuse

Chapter 21 Opening Day

Chapter 22 Ariella’s Midnight Stalker

Chapter 23 The End of the Line

Chapter 24 Pizza and the Duty Instructor

Chapter 25 Peons Learn the Meaning of Respect

Chapter 26 The Final Countdown

About the Author

PREFACE

A dull pencil retains more information than the sharpest mind, a pharmacy professor instructed me during my second year of medical school. As we age our memories fade, become more complimentary, and details are lost. Pencil and paper retain the details.

This is a true story. I wrote the first draft during the months following my discharge from the Israel Defense Forces. The manuscript, preserving the details, sat in a box, and moved along with me to college and from there to medical school. It stayed in its box during my years of residency training. Over the past years I have on occasion had the opportunity to edit and polish the book. I have preserved the details. Even though it has been over 35 years, out of respect for Israel’s ongoing security concerns, I have changed the numbers of soldiers involved in any activity. To protect my friends from their youthful indiscretions, I have changed their names. Everything else happened as described.

Mark Terris, MD

Alexandria, VA

Dedicated to

Yuval,

Yoram,

and Gary

There are no friends in the army.

Though frequently heard,

nothing could be further from the truth.

CHAPTER 1

Mark

John F. Kennedy International Airport, the Bell Telephone Company, and thirty cents conspired together in late October 1977 and forever changed my life. I was returning home. In my hand, I held the second unused half of a round-trip ticket between Tel Aviv and New York. Alongside the ticket, in the blue plastic folder supplied by my travel agent, were my two passports—American and Israeli. I was American by birth, as were my parents, and Israeli in that I had lived in Israel the past six and half years.

I waited for my flight. I shared the concourse with couples, families, and small groups of travelers. Every flight between New York and Tel Aviv seemed to carry at least a few Hasidic families. The fathers wore dark suits, long overcoats, and fur hats, as if they had come directly from a nineteenth-century Polish shtetl. The mothers wore long clean faded dresses, their hair covered by scarves. Hasidic children always seem boisterous, dressed in blue shorts and stained white buttoned shirts, all but the oldest spent their lives in hand-me-downs. Their heads were covered with brightly colored hand-crocheted yarmulkes. Their excited voices filled the terminal.

I had made this flight a number of times in the past. My family had moved to Israel when I was eleven years old. I had been active in the Israeli scout movement and in June had graduated from an Israeli high school. My friends were Israelis. I was returning home. I felt alone, scared, and miserable. I looked through the large picture windows of the international terminal. A light rain was falling. The light was gray and muted. I watched the taxiing planes.

It had been one of the most difficult decisions of my life. In June of my senior year of high school, I had decided that I would not follow in the footsteps of my older brother. I would not emigrate from Israel; I would not be attending college in the United States. In one short week, I would be conscripted into the Israel Defense Forces. The Zionist ideas I had been exposed to in high school and the scout movement had taken root. It was my responsibility to serve the country that I had called home for the past years. I had benefited from the protection of the Israeli army during the Yom Kippur War. I had a debt to repay. With that decision to serve firmly made, I had left Israel for a last visit with friends and relatives in the United States. It had been a wonderful visit. My extended family loved me and had challenged my resolve.

The consequences of my decision were unknown. The best-case scenario was giving three years of my life; I could not fathom the worst case. I approached a bank of pay phones. I dialed a number that had been safely tucked away in the deep recesses of my memory since age four. It was the number of my best friend. His mother was my second mother. We had shared a quiet breakfast that morning. I would always have a home with her, she had promised; no questions asked. It was not too late to change my mind. I could stay in the United States, go to college, and dodge the draft. My parents would be supportive. My parents had never pressured me to serve; it was my decision.

I listened to the beeping sounds emanating from the phone’s receiver. I did not know what I would say. Was I calling to say goodbye, or was I calling to ask for refuge? Did I just want to hear a familiar voice to ease my loneliness? My throat and eyes were dry as I waited for the familiar ringing sound.

Please deposit one dollar and twenty-five cents for the first three minutes. The computerized voice was a poor imitation of a human operator.

I dug my hands deep into the front pocket of my jeans. I came out with ninety-five cents. The voice repeated its request for one dollar and twenty-five cents. I would have been happy to speak for just two minutes but was not offered that option. I needed to hear my second mother’s voice. Computers do not reason with desperate eighteen-year-olds. As I sat there listening to the recording, I heard my flight being called for boarding. I slowly replaced the receiver. I swallowed my self-pity and shuffled toward the gate. Ninety-five cents were left on the small table in the telephone booth.

And people say there is no God. There is a god. Either there is a god, or I must accept the fact that I served three years in the Israeli army for the lack of thirty cents.

63215.png

Induction day was the day I realized that I was not special, no matter what my mother said. There were hundreds of new recruits, and we were all processed along the same assembly line. We shuffled from station to station, more compliant than herded sheep. We were assigned serial numbers, imprinted on small yellow cards and committed to memory. Our pictures were taken. We coated our fingers in black ink and were fingerprinted. We were inoculated in both arms simultaneously and were expected to thank the medics. Our heads were sheared. We received an advance on our first month’s pay—the equivalent of ten American dollars.

I was assigned to the blue company along with thirty other new recruits. We stood in the late afternoon sun with duffel bags at our feet, dressed in coarse dirty uniforms, our backs itching from our recent haircuts, our arms sore from too many needles, our feet adjusting to stiff army boots, and our fingers still black.

A soldier, with two white stripes on his shirtsleeves, approached. Someone in the group knew to yell, Attention! Most of us stood a bit straighter, hoping not to call attention to ourselves. The soldier, a corporal, I later learned, was our assigned commander for the day. We gathered our belongings and followed him to two large tents. As instructed, we locked our duffel bags to our assigned cots and lined up outside the tents. One person was volunteered by the corporal to stand guard over our possessions. The rest of us were led to the mess hall, where I experienced the worst meal of my eighteen years—runny eggs, thick cucumber slices with mud still caked on the thick green skin, and olives. I was lucky. Halfway through the meal, the corporal sent me back to spell the guard. I was saved from the second half of the meal.

Dinner was over. The blue company was again standing in formation outside of our tents. The corporal approached. Attention, someone called out.

"Congratulations, you’ve survived your first day in the Israel Defense Forces. You only have one thousand and ninety-four days left to serve. You also have one thousand and ninety-four nights to serve. Tonight is your first night. You will all remain in the tents. At random intervals, I will come by and read roll call. Anyone not present will be considered AWOL. This is not a game. You are in the army.

I have prepared a guard roster. You will guard in full uniform—shirts tucked in and boots laced up. You will parade outside of the tents. No smoking and no eating while guarding. Seven minutes before the end of your shift, you will wake the next guard and then wait for him outside the tent. He handed the roster to one of the guys in the front row.

Thirty minutes later, the blue company was again in formation, standing in front of our tents. The corporal had returned. He called roll call. On dismissing us, he again warned that he would be nearby and would return to check on us.

We were strangers thrust together, bound only by the misery and uncertainty of sharing our first night in the army. The evening passed slowly. We argued the pros and cons of volunteering for one unit over another. Those who had older siblings in the army were the experts. I envied their secondhand knowledge. The corporal never returned to check on us, but we were too scared and too green to leave the tents.

My sleep was filled with vivid dreams. I was anxious. It was my first time guarding in the army. What if I fell asleep while guarding? What if the soldier before me did not wake me up when it was my turn to guard? Would I be sent to jail?

Fall in! Everyone up and in formation! You have seven minutes. Move it! someone was yelling. It was pitch dark in the tent. I stumbled into my uniform and boots. I joined the rest of the company and lined up outside.

The corporal was pacing back and forth. Your first night in the army and already you have fucked up. I came by here ten minutes ago, and there was no one guarding. You could have been slaughtered in your sleep. This is not a game. It’s time you guys wake up and realize that you are in the army. Whose name is on the roster? Who is derelict?

Was it me? I knew I was on the roster. I thought I remembered guarding, but maybe I had been dreaming. I didn’t know the time. It was too dark to see my watch, and I was afraid to move. No one else was speaking or moving. I stepped forward. Sir, I was the one who was supposed to have been guarding. I don’t know what happened. It will never happen again.

Name? Serial number?

I answered, surprised that I had already committed my serial number to memory. It just rolled off my tongue. My first night in the army and I had already fucked up.

He glared at me. You guarded two hours ago. I have the roster. He waved it above his head. You’ve got more guts than brains. You’re willing to take the blame for this sorry bunch of losers. The army admires that spirit. Perhaps you should volunteer for a combat unit. The paratroopers may suit you.

63208.png

Come morning we were traded on the slave market. We packed our belongings in our duffel bags and followed the corporal to a large dirt field surrounded by a few dried eucalyptus trees. Attached to the fence posts and trees were signs with a single letter of the Hebrew alphabet. At one end of the field, there was a small dais constructed of old faded plastic milk crates. Our company was joined by additional companies. At eight in the morning, hundreds of soldiers were assembled on the field. I scanned the sea of faces. Not a familiar face. You can feel more alone in a large anonymous crowd than just about anywhere else. I had no idea what awaited me.

A small group of soldiers with multiple stripes decorating their shirtsleeves appeared on the dais. They stood in a row behind one man—a sergeant major. He stood rigidly wearing a freshly pressed and overstarched uniform. His boots were polished to a mirror shine.

Attention! one of the multistriped soldiers barked into the microphone.

The crackling static and the loud barking voice stopped us dead in our tracks. More by instinct than by knowledge or training, we stood absolutely still, our duffel bags dropping at our feet.

The sergeant major approached the microphone. Revealing a nearly universal human compulsion, he gently blew into the microphone. The speakers crackled. At ease. He had a deep voice. Physically he resembled the caricature of a British career soldier. He was short in stature and had a bushy waxed handlebar moustache. His hair was gray, his face wrinkled and deeply tanned. He looked like he had been welcoming soldiers into the Israeli army since its inception. You may sit on your duffel bags.

We sat down, hard and fast.

"Welcome to the Israel Defense Forces. For the benefit of those who are on this field for the first time, you are about to undergo a ritual. A ritual referred to as the slave market. Each morning you are to gather here with your company. I will call each and every one of you by name and serial number and assign you a letter group. When called, you will pick up your duffel bag and walk to the designated marker at the periphery of this field. You will not talk. You will not say goodbye to your new friends. You will simply quietly and quickly move to the designated marker with your belongings. Some of the groups will be assigned to permanent units and dispatched to the appropriate base today. Others will undergo additional testing. Still others will be assigned to either work in the kitchen or do maintenance jobs around the base the rest of the day. Those not assigned to permanent units today will return here tomorrow.

Please hold your yellow cards on which your name and serial number are printed. Do not rely on memory. Take out your cards. For the following three hours, the sergeant major called out names and serial numbers and assigned each soldier a group. We sat on the field, our yellow cards clutched in our hands waiting to be called.

The first time I was traded on the slave market, I was assigned to kitchen duty. The second, third, and fourth times ended with the same result. By day 5, I had lost all of my new friends. Everyone who had been drafted with me had already been assigned to a permanent unit and had shipped out. I was already considered an old-timer. On my fifth slave market day, the army made an incomprehensible mistake.

On my fifth day, I carried my duffel bag to the designated spot. Everyone was very excited. It seemed that everyone else had volunteered for the paratroopers. The Israeli paratroopers are strictly a volunteer unit. Only about one in four soldiers who volunteer is accepted. My group of thirty was led over to a remote part of the base. Five paratroopers, easily identified by their mud red boots, were waiting for us. One sergeant and four corporals were charged with testing our mettle.

I approached the sergeant. Excuse me, I started, mistakenly speaking like a polite civilian. I believe there has been a mistake.

The sergeant’s icy look froze the words as they formed in my mouth. I stood mute.

You are in the army, soldier. His voice was barely above a whisper. You are the lowest of the low. You will speak only when given permission to speak. Am I clear? You will be interviewed this afternoon, only after passing the physical test. Go and join your group.

I turned. The rest of the group and the four corporals were staring at me, disbelief evident in their eyes. A few were sadly shaking their heads. I realized I had gotten off easy—only a reprimand, no physical torture. Red faced, I joined the group.

We locked our duffel bags to a nearby chain-link fence. We waited not sure of what the day would bring. A few minutes later, a second group of thirty soldiers joined us. They too locked their duffel bags to the fence. Together we faced our common fate.

Fall into formation, one of the corporals barked. Five days in the army had made me an expert at falling into and out of formation. We arranged ourselves in three neat rows.

Two of the corporals pushed wheelbarrows filled with empty plastic canteens and stopped in front of the group. Each of you will take two canteens and fill them at the spigots over there. He pointed at two lone spigots, which were sticking up out of the dirt next to the fence. Fill the canteens completely. You will then return and stand in formation. He looked down at his watch. Seven minutes. Move it.

Sixty frantic soldiers converged on the two taps. There was no teamwork—just shoving, yelling, and cursing. Amazingly, there were no fights. Seven minutes later, we were again standing in formation. We each held two one-liter canteens filled to the brim with water. One liter of water weighs one kilogram. The plastic containers were wet and slippery. There was no comfortable way to hold them. Either they were slipping out of my grasp, or the sharp plastic ridges were cutting into the flesh of my hands. The corporals slowly walked around us. The sergeant started walking away from the group.

Right turn! one of the corporals yelled. Follow the sergeant. Stay in formation. Keep five meters between the first man and the sergeant at all times. Let’s move it.

We turned and started to follow the sergeant. He was already fifteen meters ahead of us. We started to run, slowly closing the distance. As we drew closer, the sergeant increased his speed.

Five meters between the first man and the sergeant. He is not your friend and doesn’t want to become your friend! one of the corporals yelled. We were running at a fairly fast pace. It was getting harder and more painful to keep hold of the canteens. I glanced at the corporal who was running to my left and slightly ahead of me. He was loaded with a full ammunition belt and a submachine gun. He was carrying thirty pounds of gear and was running effortlessly. My physical fitness was not in the same league. I was starting to doubt we were the same species.

Within five minutes, we were running faster than I had ever jogged before in my life. During my senior year of high school, I had spent many afternoons running on sandy roads through the orange groves of my hometown. Even so, I was poorly prepared for this run. We were not maintaining our organized formation, but the corporals did not seem to mind. Pain shot through my hands and up my arms. The canteens were dead weights. Three kilometers into the run and my feet were killing me. My new stiff army boots were destroying my feet. I could feel a rash starting to creep up my inner thighs. The acne covering my back was in full bloom.

Five kilometers into the run, my eyes stung from sweat. I could not move sufficient dry desert air in and out of my lungs. My mouth and lungs burned as I labored to breathe. I could taste blood in my mouth. I lacked the strength to keep my head up. I found myself migrating closer and closer to the back of the pack. Again, I glanced over at the same corporal. He continued to glide effortlessly along with the group. He continued to breathe easily through his flaring nostrils. I looked down at my painful feet as they pounded the dirt. I shifted the canteens so that the plastic ridges would stop cutting into the raw part of my hand and could start destroying some intact flesh.

There was no end in sight. The sergeant showed no sign of slowing. I became one of the stragglers twenty meters behind the pack. At least I was not last; a few soldiers were spread out behind me. A few had given up and quit. They had abandoned the dream of becoming a paratrooper. I had never considered the paratroopers, but I was stubborn. I would not give up. I would pass the damn exam. And then, and only then, I would tell them to go fuck themselves. The thought sustained me.

One of the corporals was suddenly at my side. How is it going?

I looked up and tried to conceal my pain. Fine.

You’ll make it. Don’t give up. He was off to harass another soldier.

An eternity passed. Finally, the sergeant stopped. The group stopped. A minute later, I joined them. We stood in formation, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat.

Pair off, one of the corporals said. Each pair is to completely drain one canteen of water. You must never carry a partially filled canteen. The enemy may hear the sloshing water. Canteens are either completely filled or completely empty. You have two minutes.

I could barely breathe. How was I going to drink? Somebody shoved a canteen at me. I dropped my own canteens, lifted the proffered canteen to my lips, and took a few swallows of water. I could feel the water trickle into my mouth, pass into my throat, and then pour through my esophagus into my stomach. I could feel the cold all the way down. We passed the canteen back and forth, never speaking. I could only take a few sips at a time. Any more than that would have caused me to throw up. The water was rejuvenating.

Everyone drop for twenty, one of the devils in a corporal’s uniform ordered.

I was afraid I knew what that meant. As I looked around me, my worst fears were confirmed. Everyone was lying down on the ground doing push-ups. I joined them. I had trouble doing twenty push-ups under the best of conditions. I was destroyed by the run. The dirt caked in the blood and sweat that covered my hands. I completed my fifteenth push-up; everyone else was finished and preparing to start running again. I’d rather run than do push-ups. No one seemed to be counting. I got up. And we were off running again.

Three rest stops and two hours later, my canteens were empty, and we were finished running. We were back at our duffel bags. I had finished the run, not with style and a few minutes behind the pack. But I had finished. I tasted blood in my mouth. My feet were numb. The cuts on my hands stung. I sat on the ground and followed the corporals’ instructions as they led us through a series of stretches. My mind was blank. I was proud of myself.

One by one we were taken into a tent for interviews. Most interviews seemed to take about ten minutes. My interview lasted two minutes.

I entered the tent and saluted. A second lieutenant and a sergeant were seated behind a table. They occupied the only chairs. The second lieutenant returned my salute. I remained standing at attention a few feet in front of them.

I hear you had a hard time with the run, the sergeant said.

Yes, sir. What did he expect me to say?

What happened to your hands? the sergeant asked.

The plastic ridges on the canteens cut into them, sir. I placed my hands behind my back.

Why didn’t you take different canteens?

I thought they were all the same. I was surprised to learn otherwise.

You just about died on the run, the officer interrupted. And your hands are a bloody mess. I could see that behavior from someone who really wanted to be a paratrooper. But I was told that you didn’t volunteer for the paratroopers. Is that true? Why didn’t you just quit? You knew that was an option. We can make you start the test, but we cannot force you to finish.

I don’t quit. I finish what I start. I had decided to tell them to go fuck themselves only after they had accepted me into the stupid paratroopers.

Your file says that you are from Rehovot. Do you know Amir Ben-David? the sergeant asked.

Yes, sir, he was a classmate of mine all through high school.

He’s my brother. Welcome to the paratroopers. You will be in my company.

Thank you, sir. Now was my chance. I took a deep breath.

That is all, dismissed. The sergeant pointed to the tent’s opening.

I was speechless. I sat down outside with the other volunteers. I do not know why I did not speak out. I had just agreed to become a paratrooper.

Basic training was hell. I owe my life to that sergeant. He made sure I was tortured fairly. I also owe my life to pneumonia.

63203.png

I did not know the basic survival tips that most soldiers seemed to know instinctively. Perhaps they learn it from their siblings or parents who had served before them. Healthy feet are the key to survival.

It was a Thursday night, the second week of basic training. We were in the midst of a fifteen-kilometer march.

Mark, why are you walking like a duck? the sergeant whispered. It was a night march. Night discipline was strictly enforced—silence was mandatory. Only the sergeant would dare speak.

The soles of my feet are burning, sir.

Why? Don’t your boots fit? You had better not be wearing plastic bags.

No, sir. One way of keeping your feet warm and dry was to wear a plastic bag over your socks inside your boots. This prevented your skin from breathing and was not allowed during basic training. I had seen many of the guys in my company do this. I had not. It was not necessary; it was not raining.

How many pairs of socks are you wearing?

Just one, sir. I was puzzled by his question. How many pairs of socks does anyone wear at a time?

That’s your problem. In the future, wear two pairs. Your boots will fit better and be much more comfortable. It is best if the inner layer of socks is cotton—ask your parents to send you some.

Yes, sir. I later learned that almost everyone in my company was already doing this. Wisdom passed down from siblings and parents.

The following morning, I stood with my company. We were lined up for breakfast. The soles of my feet were still on fire. I was balancing myself on the outer edges of my feet.

Mark, the drill instructor said, are you a duck? Why are you standing like that? What is wrong with your feet?

The soles of my feet are one huge blister, sir. It feels like I am standing on raw flesh.

That’s because you are standing on raw flesh. After breakfast, report to sick call.

Thank you, sir.

What was that?

I said thank you, sir.

I never want to hear those words from you. This is the paratroopers. We are not your friends. The words ‘thank you’ and ‘please’ have no place here. We help one another because we are brothers, and it is our duty!

The medic who cared for my feet did not treat me like we were brothers. He had no bedside manner. After examining my feet, he set to work. With a scalpel, he cut away the skin overlying the blister, in effect removing the entire sole of my feet, without any anesthetic.

This is disgusting. I have never seen blisters this size.

I could not answer him. I was clenching my teeth to keep from screaming. Sharp electric shocks emanated from my foot each time he brought the scalpel in contact with my skin.

Why didn’t you wear two pairs of socks?

No one told me. I didn’t know about that.

You’ll heal.

Can you give me a few days of restricted physical activity?

No. You can walk on the sides of your feet. Keep your feet clean and dry. They’ll toughen up quickly.

63197.png

By Sunday of the sixth week of basic training, I felt dead, which was somewhat worse than I had come to expect. I was sick, complete with shaking chills, cold sweats, flush skin, and vomiting. I continued training. There were no other options, at least none of which I was aware. I must have looked like I was on the verge of dying. The drill instructors demonstrated their usual concern. If I seemed weak and slow, then I must be in need of additional training. They had me run a few extra laps.

The sergeant, upon seeing me, sent me straight to the infirmary. The medic had me see the doctor. The doctor prescribed rest, and lots of it. To keep me a safe distance from the drill instructors, he confined me to the infirmary. By Wednesday evening, I was starting to feel better, not well, just better. I was still weak and had a fever. My commanding officer (CO) visited me in the infirmary.

How are you feeling?

Much better, sir, I replied innocently.

Then you’ll be joining us tonight. It was spoken as a command, not a question. We are marching to Jerusalem tonight. By Thursday, we will be in the old city of Jerusalem for the swearing-in ceremony.

Truth be told, I was looking forward to the march to Jerusalem and the swearing-in ceremony. It is one of the rights of passage to becoming a paratrooper.

Sir, the doctor has confined me to the infirmary.

You look fine to me. The doctor has gone home for the day. Let’s go, the CO ordered, and I obeyed.

In the small hours of the morning, all of the men of my company, myself included, were loaded onto open-bed trucks. We carried our weapons, our backpacks, and our ammunition belts. We were driven to the march’s starting point, a mere thirty kilometers from Jerusalem.

Jerusalem, holy city to three major religions, is a gem perched on a mountain. It has a commanding view. The fertile valleys of Israel and the Mediterranean Sea lie to the west. The Jordan River is to the east. We approached the Holy City from the north along the ridges of neighboring mountains.

It was, I later learned, optimal pneumonia weather—cold, windy, and wet. By six in the morning, we were standing in formation ready to start the march, wearing our ammunition belts and backpacks and carrying our M16s. We were in good spirits. This was our first march that we had the privilege of doing during daylight hours. Night discipline was not in effect. We were allowed to talk to our buddies. And at the finish line, Jerusalem awaited us.

The howling wind drove the freezing rain through our single-layer cotton fatigues. Eight kilometers into the march, it started to hail.

Our CO must have been cold. He kept increasing the pace. My hands started to freeze to the M16 I was carrying. We were still required to carry our rifles by their metal handles, like suitcases. Paratrooper tradition reserved the honor of using a rifle strap for graduates of basic training. We still had another six weeks to go. The stinging penetrated my numbed nerves as the metal handle froze to my flesh. The pace grew faster.

I felt a relapse; the flu was returning to my body. My energy was sapped. The sergeant saw me stumbling. He assigned Amir, one of my fellow soldiers to help me. Together we discovered a miracle. At first Amir would march in front of me with my hand on his shoulder. I found the extra energy to walk at his pace so that he would not need to pull me. His shoulder was kept warm by my hand, the only warm part of his entire body. We would alternate positions. When in front, I found the energy to keep moving so that Amir would not need to push me, and my shoulder stayed warm. We had found a new source of energy—friendship.

Twenty kilometers into the march, we came to an old deserted building. This was our rest stop. The building, an old stone barn, had seen better days. None of the windows had glass panes, and there were only a few holes in the roof. Most of the wind and rain was kept out. The inside was warmed and lit by a number of roaring bonfires. We gathered around the fires and slowly defrosted. We thawed, and our spirits soared. We would soon be in Jerusalem.

After a lunch of chocolate spread sandwiches, apples, and hot coffee, we gathered in formation in the shelter prior to starting back into the wind and rain.

You are two-thirds of the way to our destination, Jerusalem, the CO addressed us. Remove your rifle straps from you packs, and attach them to your rifles. The drill instructors will show you how. Be ready to move out in five minutes.

The rain stopped. The clouds thinned. Rays of sunshine glistened in the clear air. It was cold and clear. With soaring spirits, we marched into Jerusalem. People came out to greet us and cheered. We sang folk songs that we had all learned as children. The march ended at three in the afternoon at an army base in Jerusalem. We fell into formation.

Congratulations, the CO said, you have just broken the all-time speed record for this march. No group of paratroopers has ever completed this march so quickly or under such harsh conditions. I am proud to call you paratroopers.

We were given a rare afternoon off to shower and rest in preparation for the evening festivities. My buddies went out to explore Jerusalem. I collapsed onto the nearest cot. My body felt like it was on fire.

Since 1967, the paratroopers have been sworn into the Israel Defense Forces at the foot of the Wailing Wall in the old city of Jerusalem. Few symbols in Judaism are as poignant as the Wailing Wall, also called the Western Wall. It is the only standing remnant of the second temple. It has symbolized the Jewish nation’s yearning to return to Jerusalem over the past two millennia. Though the State of Israel was founded in 1948, the Wailing Wall remained in Jordanian hands for another twenty years. During the 1967 Six-Day War, the Old City of Jerusalem was captured in fierce hand-to-hand combat by the paratroopers of the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). To preserve the historic and religious sites, no air support was used, thus greatly increasing the difficultly and the human cost of the battle. In recognition, the paratroopers have since been honored to conduct their swearing in ceremonies at the Wailing Wall.

With nightfall, we again put on our boots and marched the last few kilometers into the Old City of Jerusalem. We entered via the Dung Gate. As we entered the Old City, cheers arose from a group of civilians. One by one we each began to recognize members of the crowd. They were our families.

Under the glow of burning torches, we fell into formation facing the Wailing Wall. The wall towered above us. Each of its ancient base stones was the size of a large truck. The border of each stone was carved and fitted perfectly with its neighboring stones. Tufts of desert grasses grew between the stones. Prayers and messages to God, written on small pieces of paper, were cramped into every crack of the wall. The melody of Hatikva, Israel’s national anthem, filled the air. One by one we were called to the central dais. Our hands grasping a Bible, we were sworn in as paratroopers of the Israel Defense Forces.

A brief celebration with our families followed. I did not know that families were invited to this ceremony and had not mentioned it to my parents. I did not expect to see them.

Mark, I heard my mother call out. I quickly spotted both of my parents and my younger brother and sister. Mark, you look terrible. Look at you, you’re shivering.

I’m okay. How did you know to come?

The Ben-Amirs called and told us. Their son is your sergeant. He has been quite worried about you. She poured something out of a thermos and offered it to me. I brought some chicken soup.

I did not need much encouragement. The warm soup felt good.

He looks fine, my father said. The army life is doing him good.

What do you know about the army? my mother demanded of him. You volunteered for a desk job in the American Navy, to avoid being drafted into the army and getting shipped to Korea. This was news to me. It also exposed a side of my mother that I was not accustomed to seeing. My parents had never criticized each other in front of the kids.

I also brought some homemade cookies. She handed me a shoe box heavy with cookies. There are plenty to share with your buddies. She refilled my soup cup.

Our reunion seemed to last only minutes. We were ordered back onto the waiting trucks. We arrived back on the base about one in the morning. In true paratrooper tradition, we were ordered to prepare for inspection, which was to be held at five in the morning. We had about six hours of work to accomplish in four hours. I could not stay on my feet. I collapsed onto my cot. My fellow soldiers swore, yelled, and screamed. They could not believe that I was sleeping and not helping to prepare for inspection. They knew everyone would pay the price. They were furious.

During inspection, I stood in front of my bed. My gun was still muddy from the previous day’s march. My bed was a mess. I was a mess.

Mark, the CO hissed, what the fuck is wrong with you?

I think I’m dying. I can barely stand. I wavered on my feet.

We’ll see. Double-time it to the water tower and back.

I can’t, sir.

I can’t is the cousin of I won’t. This was a frequent expression heard during our training. Are you refusing my order? His voice grew harsher.

I stumbled toward the door.

Hold it. Okay, everybody, outside the barracks.

We lined up in formation. Since Mark is so sick that he can’t even run to the water tower, the CO continued, everyone here is to run with him and encourage him. Two minutes. Move it.

We turned to run. I stumbled a few stops when two buddies scooped me up and half carried and half dragged me to the water tower and back.

Mark, the CO continued after we were once again standing in formation. Report to sick call after breakfast. Dismissed.

63190.png

Well, well, well, the doctor greeted me. I was wondering when you would return. He paused. What the fuck were you thinking? I confined you to the infirmary for a reason. Was the swearing-in ceremony all that important?

I stood mutely, trying not to collapse. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I could have told him that I was following my CO’s orders. But, in all honesty, I was grateful that my CO had coerced me into the march. I felt triumphant. I had endured the toughest physical challenge of my life. I had been sworn in at the Wailing Wall. Nothing could take that away from me. I would survive the relapse of the flu, I hoped.

Fifteen minutes later, after a brief physical exam, I was on my way to the hospital. I was transferred on a cold rainy winter day to a hospital seventy-five kilometers away in the back of an open jeep.

In the emergency room, I was poked, prodded, and x-rayed by what seemed like an endless stream of medical students, interns, residents, and any other curious onlookers who happened to be in the emergency room that day. The learned doctors then informed that I was not that sick, and they were going to return me to the army base. I agreed, though privately wondered if I were so healthy, why did I feel like I was on the verge of death? As it was Friday, the doctors had decided to have me stay in the medical corps infirmary, across from the hospital, until Sunday. On Sunday, they would reexamine me, prior to returning me to the paratroopers.

What the flu, the rain, a hail-soaked march, and the drive in an open jeep had not accomplished, the medical corps infirmary finally accomplished. The infirmary occupied an old British Quonset building. The British had heated the building with fireplaces. These were considered a fire hazard and had been sealed off. No alternative source of heating had been provided. The windows kept most of the rain out, though it seemed like the wind was given free access to the interior. The floor was poured concrete. There were twenty cots per infirmary ward.

The food was slightly better than standard army fare. The soup was hot. The bread was fairly fresh. And I was too sick to taste much of anything.

Sunday morning, I felt slightly better after having slept thirty of the past thirty-six hours. I was subjected to the same emergency room routine. I was x-rayed, poked, and prodded by every medical student, intern, and resident who did not have anything better to do on a Sunday morning. Much to my surprise, I was not returned to the paratroopers. I was admitted to the hospital. I had pneumonia. I was overjoyed. I looked forward to the prospect of lying in bed instead of running to and from the water tower.

After checking into the hospital at admissions, I was shown my bed. It was in the army’s version of a semiprivate room. There were only six beds in the room, and there were curtains, which when closed could separate the beds. I was preparing for a glorious week of sleep, when my whole world was disrupted. A nurse appeared at my bedside.

Yes, I asked hesitantly.

Are you allergic to penicillin?

I don’t think so.

Well, I’ll run the test, just to make sure. Hold out one of your arms, please.

I held out my left arm. She swabbed it with alcohol and scratched it twice with a needle. She then placed a drop of penicillin on the scratches. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes later, I was still alive, sitting on the edge of my bed, chatting with one of my roommates. The nurse disguised her disappointment. She examined my arm with its two scratches. They had not changed. You’re right. You’re not allergic to penicillin. Lie down on your stomach and lower your pants please.

What?

You heard me. I need to give you your first penicillin shot.

Accustomed to following orders, I complied and was harpooned in the left buttock. It seemed like she injected a pint of medicine, though on questioning, she claimed it was only ten milliliters. I spent the next few hours on my right side.

My nemesis returned in six hours. She carried a hypodermic harpoon in her hand. Like an idiot, I did not argue. I rolled over and exposed my right buttock. It was pumped with another pint of penicillin. My left cheek had not yet completely recovered.

I managed to doze off. Six hours later, I awoke on hearing the curtain rustling around my bed. A new nurse was standing over me. She looked nice. I was mistaken.

I’m sorry to wake you, but it is time for your next injection.

Oh no, it isn’t, I objected. She was a nurse, not a drill instructor. I figured it was worth arguing with her.

Come on, don’t give me a hard time. It’s the doctor’s orders.

Why can’t I take pills? Penicillin comes as pills.

The doctor ordered penicillin by injection. That way you get a higher level in your blood, and you will get better sooner.

Can you ask him if I could take pills instead. I hate shots. I was in no particular rush to be released from the hospital and returned to the paratroopers.

Everybody hates shots. Sometimes they are necessary. Her tone was somewhat condescending. Now roll over.

I was beginning to feel like a dog. But I was a soldier and complied. After the shot, I half expected her to want to play fetch. Will you please ask the doctor if he can switch me to pills, I pleaded. I looked longingly at my M16 in the corner of the room. I could half imagine myself grabbing it and setting down the law.

Okay, but don’t get your hopes up. She left carrying her now-empty harpoon with her.

She returned six hours later—sans harpoon, but with a smile. She carried a glass of water and a small plastic cup containing a few pills. I would live to be discharged from the hospital.

My second day in the hospital was full of discoveries. I discovered that medical students were crazy. I had been admitted for pneumonia, which to the best of my understanding had something to do with my lungs. The medical student, who had asked to interview and examine me, was studying my feet.

How long has your toe been like this? he asked.

Like what? My toes were perfectly normal. I may have had more than my share of blisters, but otherwise, there was nothing wrong with my feet. I sat up and studied my toe. That’s disgusting! I exclaimed, somewhat surprised that I was not in pain. My right big toe was red and swollen. There was pus oozing out from around the nail.

This doesn’t look good, he said. You see these red streaks going from the toe up past your ankle towards you knee? That’s a bad sign. It means that the infection is spreading. Doesn’t it hurt? he asked while poking and squeezing the toe.

No. It was odd. It looked like it should be extremely painful, especially with the medical student’s cruel manipulations.

How long has it been like this?

I have no idea. This is the first time I’ve noticed it. Kind of hard to believe.

You’re joking?

No, I’m in basic training. I only take my boots off for bed, and then only if I’m not scheduled to guard that night. I don’t have the energy to study my feet. Besides, it never hurt. Army boots combined with basic training were known to rob soldiers of sensation in their feet. This allowed soldiers to walk impossible distances with heavy loads.

I’m going to have one of the doctors look at this.

He returned with reinforcements. Once again I became the center of attraction for every intern and resident. I was told that I had a classic infection complete with a warm swollen toe, oozing pus, and radiating red streaks. The surgeons were called in. My toenail had to be removed in order to drain the infection. They also ordered additional antibiotics to be added to my four-times-a-day cocktail.

My toe never hurt, that is, not until the surgeon gave me an injection in the toe with a local anesthetic. I was on the table in one of the procedure (read: torture) rooms.

Lie down, the doctor ordered. I had bolted upright from the pain of the injection. The orderly started to push my shoulders toward the table.

I’d like to watch.

Why?

I’m curious. I am thinking of becoming a doctor when I get out of the army.

Bullshit. Lie down.

The orderly again pushed my shoulders toward the table. I did not fight. I was still exhausted from having pneumonia.

The nurses covered my legs with green drapes. A curtain was erected so that all I could see was the heads of the doctors and nurses. I felt them poking and prodding my toe. The anesthetic had taken effect; there was no pain.

Shit, the surgeon hissed under his breath, hoping that nobody heard him.

I heard him and bolted upright. Pus was no longer oozing out of my toe. Pus and blood were shooting out of my toe as if it were a geyser. The doctor quickly recovered and draped a towel over my toe. The nurses and orderly recovered. My shoulders were once again pushed down toward the table. The procedure was completed, I assumed without complication. I was returned to my room with a large bandage on my toe.

Medical science succeeded. I recovered from both my lung and toe ailments. Two weeks later, I was horrified to learn that I was being discharged from the hospital. Before leaving, I was told to check in with the army’s hospital liaison.

Sir. I saluted and walked into the lieutenant’s office. I sat as directed in the only available chair.

Mark, I have been in contact with the paratroopers. Your CO and I have been going over your file. We’ve decided to give you the opportunity to transfer to another unit. What do you say?

This is quite a surprise. My mind was blank. I hated basic training. But I had gotten used to being called a paratrooper. I knew the guys. It was the only army I knew. Why?

You’re not cut out for the paratroopers. Your CO admires your attitude. You were determined to succeed and tried your hardest. The greatest challenge of the paratroopers is mental. You did not give up. You were triumphant. But physically you are falling apart. The doctors think it will be at least another month till your foot is back to normal and your lungs have fully recovered. You will have missed six weeks of training by then. You will probably be put with a different company. No one is forcing you to change units, but the army doesn’t offer transfers very often. This is the army’s way of thanking you for doing your best. What do you say?

I don’t know. Where would I go? What would I do?

I’ll tell you what. I’ll arrange for you to take a training course to learn some new skills. After that, we will figure out which unit is best suited to you.

What type of course? I was suspicious. Where were they going to send me?

You name it—communications, armored personnel carrier driver, combat medic, just name it.

Okay, the medic course. Rumor had it that the course was a real cherry.

You got it. Pick up your papers from my secretary after lunch. Dismissed.

That afternoon, I picked up my papers. They consisted of a sealed mysterious brown envelope, to the front of which was stapled my orders to report to Base #780, the Military School of Medicine, the following Sunday. I was given one week off in which to complete my recovery.

The following Sunday, I met Asaf. Two weeks later, I met Dennis and Otto. I credit the three of them for changing my military career goals and in the process probably saving my life.

CHAPTER 2

The Military School of Medicine

A large battleship gray sign with bold black lettering announced that I had arrived at the Military School of Medicine. Beneath this was a sun-bleached drawing of a medic ministering to a wounded soldier. The medic was dragging the injured soldier out of the line of fire. Both were loaded down with battle gear. A second smaller olive-green sign with dirty white lettering read, Base #780.

The bus had dropped me off at the nearest intersection, where pavement met gravel. The crunch of my boots was a familiar and somewhat comforting sound, as I walked the final kilometer. My right great toe was still tender, and I favored the foot as I limped along. I looked down at the brown envelope clutched in my hands. The envelope was glued shut. Earlier I had steamed it open. It contained my medical file, detailing my recent hospitalization and my immunization records. It also contained my discipline record. I had erased a few minor comments from the discipline report that had been written in pencil, figuring that serious offenses would have been written with ink. Stapled to the front of the envelope were my orders to report to Base #780 for the combat medic course.

The sentry, who was sitting alongside a dirty small whitewashed shack, seemed oblivious to my approach. He was wearing fatigues and a scuffed, dented white helmet, which looked as if it had been stolen from the military police. A dusty Uzi submachine gun lay haphazardly across his lap. He was engrossed in a tattered pornographic magazine, the kind printed on coarse yellowing paper, featuring women with silicon-laden breasts in positions usually reserved for contortionists.

Shalom. I waited for him to look up. After a long half minute, I added, "Where do I report