Lonely Soldier

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

Wanting the Red Beret Over the last five months, I’ve run on dirt paths to increase my stamina and made every effort to improve my ability to speak and understand Hebrew. I’m now well beyond being only able to ask where to find the bathroom, but I’m far from being able to communicate fully and completely understand what’s being said.

Collectively, members of the kibbutz have spent hours describing military life while we’re working in the fields or relaxing in the community’s lounge, but I still don’t have a clear idea of what to expect. At 5 am on November 6, as ready as I’ll ever be, I kiss my girlfriend good-bye. I hope I look more relaxed and less anxious than I feel.

I cut through the cow pasture and climb over an eight-foot-high fence, carrying a knapsack filled with socks, underwear, shorts, T-shirts, small notepads, pens, and a paperback novel. I reach the road that links the kibbutz to the wider world. After ten minutes, I cross the main road to the same bus stop that has taken me to Jerusalem many times in the past. Today I’m standing in the dark waiting for a bus to take me to Jerusalem. From the local induction center in Jerusalem, I’ll be taken to a base near Tel Aviv, called Bakum, where everyone in Israel begins his or her military service.

While I’m waiting, a car approaches. I point my index finger at the ground as Israelis do when they want to hitch a ride. It’s as if I’m asking the car to stop right where my finger is pointing. My bus should be coming along soon, but asking for a ride has become a reflex. I recognize the vehicle as being one of the twenty cars used by kibbutz members. As the car stops beside me, I see that it is Yaakov. I’ve worked with him in the almond fields. He rolls down his window and says, “Where are you going?”

“Jerusalem.”

“I’m going to Tel Aviv, but I can drop you off at the next junction.”

I gladly accept, because more buses stop at that junction.

I tell him I’m going to Bakum, and he wants to know where I am going to serve.

“I don’t know yet. Where did you serve?”

“With the tanks.”

The five-minute car ride is over. Yaakov pulls over to the side of the road. Before I open the door, he offers his hand and says, “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Yaakov. Drive safe.”

I’m already out of the car and shutting the door when I hear him say, “You’re going to be all right.”

“I hope so.” I shut the door and wave good-bye. Ten minutes later, a bus stops and picks me up. Traveling on the modern highway connecting Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, I look out the window and see half a dozen rusted trucks on the edge of the road. I know them well. They’ve been resting here for more than forty years. During the Israeli War of Independence, Arab forces blockaded the road to Jerusalem. The Jewish citizens in Jerusalem were under siege, and the Palmach staved off starvation and capitulation by delivering vital supplies in convoys. These convoys came under attack; fierce battles were waged along this road. As a constant reminder of the sacrifices made by these men and women, several vehicles damaged in the fighting have been left to rust where they broke down. On the kibbutz there lives a woman who drove one of those trucks. She looks younger than her sixty years, and it’s hard to imagine that this attractive blonde with a pixie-like stature, sweet disposition, and mischievous smile ever knew a moment of stress or anxiety in her life. As we pass by these vehicles, I wonder what I’ll experience in the next two years and how I’ll handle it.

When I arrive at the central bus station in Jerusalem, I walk to the local induction center. From there, a chartered bus is waiting to take me and a dozen other young men from Jerusalem to Bakum.

Soon after arriving, I climb onto the bus and find a seat. I’m one of only a few people on board; everyone else is outside mingling with their parents and siblings during their last moments as civilians. An hour later, as our packed bus leaves, a small crowd of people is still there to wish their children good luck. On the bus, several guys are talking easily among themselves. Others, like me, are sitting quietly and looking a bit anxious.

Once we arrive at Bakum, we all pour out of the vehicle. I follow everyone else. When we reach the main gate, I need to show the guard my paperwork. My hands aren’t shaking and I don’t feel queasy, but my jaw muscles are tight. The guard says something about tak- ing a left, I think, but I can’t be sure because he speaks too quickly for me.

Adjusting my knapsack, I follow the other young men who are already walking down the road. Despite that fact that I don’t know where I’m going or what awaits past this gate, I am now less anxious and realize that these first steps are taking me to my next adventure.

There are thousands who have been arriving from communities across Israel over the last couple of weeks. There may be several dozen like me who traveled halfway around the world just to stand in this long line. To start, a black-and-white picture of me is taken. The picture is quickly developed and stapled to a brown document that identifies me as number 5035379. The guy ahead of me was 5035378. I am officially an Israeli soldier now.

Like the hundreds in front of me, I slowly walk down a corridor filled with stalls. I’m reminded of a country fair, but instead of my trying to knock over milk bottles to win a prize, the proprietors at each station throw uniforms, belts, canteens, blankets, and many unidentifiable items at me. There is no yelling. In fact, the guys in the stalls are young men themselves. They are all smiling good-naturedly.

Thinking about my military identity number, I realize that more than five million men and women have experienced a day just like mine since the beginning of the nation. Some went on to be combat soldiers; others pushed paper. I know I want to serve with the infantry. I tell everyone I want to join a combat unit because it’s the only way for me to really understand the Israeli–Arab conflict. I think that spending time in Lebanon, the Golan, the West Bank, and Gaza will make me more knowledgeable. And given the fact that I grew up in America, if I serve with a combat unit it will make it more difficult for Israelis to dismiss my viewpoint. That’s what I tell everyone and that’s what I tell myself.

Once I have all the gear the military has to offer, I follow the others toward a large cement quad that looks like the parking lot at a mall. The lot is packed with tents that are designed to house about twenty people.

Entering the tent to which I’m assigned, I immediately feel like a curiosity. At twenty-two, I am four years older than most. I’m also the only non-native in the tent. They all ask where I’m from and are enthusiastic when they learn that I’m from the United States, but the conversation ends soon after that discovery. I don’t think much about the ways in which I am different from my new friends but my speech is halting. They must find me as difficult to understand as I find them. A sergeant or officer—I can’t tell the difference between them yet—walks into the tent and says something. I don’t know what he’s announced, but I follow the others as they leave the tent. As it turns out, we’re on the way to a dining hall. My first meal in the army consists of eggs, cottage cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, bread, and hot tea. It’s a lot like kibbutz food. The chatter around me echoes in the large hall. It’s like being in an aviary. The birds are restless and seem to have a lot to say. I wish I spoke their language.

That night, I take out my copy of Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera. The lightbulb hanging in the tent is bright and I don’t need a flashlight. Within an hour, I am asleep. At dawn, someone who feels entitled enters the tent and yells something. I pull on my olive-green uniform, lace up my black boots, and leave the tent with everyone else. The man who woke us calls my name and says, “You’re a chayal boded,* right?”

* In Hebrew, the term means “lone soldier” and refers to someone without family in Israel.

I have heard that term often enough on the kibbutz and have seen it used on the many forms I have filled out since I’ve come to Israel. “Yes, I am.”

“Follow me.”

And like a good soldier, I do as I’m told.

In my previous lives I didn’t care much for rules or authority figures. By almost any standard, I was probably considered a good kid and a solid citizen, but I had my share of disagreements with high school teachers, and signs that said keep out rarely worked on me. Now I move quickly and in lockstep with everyone else. Once I understand what I’m being asked to do, I’m more than happy to oblige. I recognize the change in my behavior, but I’m too busy trying to understand what’s going on around me to think much about it.

After following what seems like a circuitous route, the man whom I think is a sergeant stops near a small office space. He says something about returning to my tent when I’m done here, but I don’t really know where I am, why I’m here, or what I’m about to do. I don’t know if I’m supposed to wait for him to return or if he expects me to find my way back on my own. His job is done, though, because he turns around and leaves. I walk toward the office building and see about a dozen men sitting on the ground. I approach the office and am told by the attendant to sit with everyone else. As I walk toward the others, a member of a group sitting in a loose circle offers a friendly smile. I say, “Ma’kneesh’ma?” (How are you?)

His smile widens and in lilting English I recognize as South African, he introduces himself as Jonathan.

I’m invited to sit with them and I learn that Jonathan and his friend Nathan were both part of the Habonim (the Builders) youth movement. Like me, they moved to Israel soon after they graduated from college, but since they were part of a Zionist movement, they have been studying Hebrew for years and speak the language with near fluency. I also meet a twenty-six-year-old former British barrister and pharmacist named Martin. He has been living in the country for several years and is engaged to be married. Martin looks like he could carry Jonathan, Nathan, and me for several miles without breaking a sweat. I’m glad to see that I’m not the oldest person here.

They explain to me that every chayal boded is processed here before being sent to his individual unit. They’ve been here for almost a week already. For days, they have been sitting and waiting for the office workers to read their names off a list. When people are called, they sign papers and move on to the next stage.

By this day’s end, none of us has been called. We find our way to the dining room and return to our tents.

Over the next few days, I get to know Jonathan, Nathan, and Martin fairly well. As it turns out, they all plan on joining the paratroopers as well. It is clear from our conversations that they are all much better informed than I am regarding what to expect. I learn that once we complete this initial step, we will meet with an officer, who is a psychologist by training. Even though the military has ample information to develop a personal profile, this thirty-minute discussion is another opportunity for them to evaluate my motivation level and fitness for duty.