Adrian D'Hage - The Omega scroll

Michael’s ground crew were waiting. With the exception of the sergeant, every one of them was a civilian and like much of the Israeli Defense Force, they were a ragtag-looking outfit with not a matching windcheater in sight, but appearances could be deceptive. They might have seemed a far cry from the immaculate pit crews of the world’s Formula One racing teams, but Michael’s crew and the other Israeli ground crews would have been employed by any Formula One pit boss on the circuit. They could re-fuel, re-arm and turn an aircraft around in under eight minutes. It was one of the factors that would decide the war in the air. For the first two days of the war, the Israelis would manage to have their jets in the air for 80 per cent of the day. It was a feat that no other air force in the world could match, and certainly not the Arabs.

Michael greeted his crew with his customary smile and sprang up the aluminium ladder propped against the fuselage of his aircraft. He eased himself into the narrow cockpit and gave the ground crew the thumbs-up.

The Mirage IIIC was coiled in its nest like a giant three-legged bee with sand and brown coloured camouflage and a touch of green that on low-level runs made the Shahaks very hard to pick up from above. The Star of David was emblazoned on the starboard and port air intakes of the fuselage; some things were not meant to be hidden. The trademark delta wings were swept back at sixty degrees and external fuel tanks were suspended under each wing like two giant cigars. Under the fuselage were 150-kilogram runway-piercing bombs along with two 30mm cannon on either side that could fire over a thousand rounds a minute. In Michael’s case, his aircraft’s wing racks were also fitted with Matra ‘Diamond’ air-to-air missiles.

Michael flipped open his pre-flight checklist and commenced his pre-start checks. He could have done it blindfolded: Ignition/Ventilation switch – ignition Pre-heat switch – off Low-pressure fuel pumps – off Afterburner cock – on Speed brake switch

…

Halfway through his pre-start he pressed the rudder trim light to test it. He grinned as he glanced at the next check. Radio sets – on. Skip that one, he thought wryly. One after another he tested the armament master light, the speed brake light, the incident warning lights and the undercarriage flasher. Satisfied, he looked to his flight crew sergeant and gave him the thumbs-up for an engine start. Checking that the fuel cock and pumps were both on, Michael depressed the starter button and confirmed the ignition light. When the engine reached 700 rpm he moved the throttle to idle. Automatically his eyes flicked across the instrument panel, monitoring the fire warning lights, and the oil and hydraulic lights. With the rpm stabilised at 2800, he gave the thumbs-up again to his crew chief and when the wheel chocks were away he moved slowly out of the blast shelter to join the first wave of aircraft, sashaying down the taxiway to the far end of the runway – navigation and anti-collision lights extinguished, dark menacing shapes, engines with wings. The faint glow of the instrument panels reflected on the visors of the young Israeli pilots.

Death to the Arabs.

The Jordanians started shelling the Jewish sector of the Old City a few hours after the Israelis launched their attacks in the south against the Egyptian forces in the Sinai. At first the Israeli Cabinet was unperturbed. The High Command had expected that King Hussein would show a measure of loyalty to the Arab cause, but when the shelling got heavier and spread along the whole of the eastern front, the Cabinet began to realise that war with Jordan was inevitable.

As a lieutenant, David was not accustomed to attending even battalion orders, much less brigade, but these were not ordinary times and he took his place alongside his Commanding Officer and waited for Brigadier General Menachem Kovner to begin.

‘Last night the Jordanians machine-gunned innocent civilians on the Jaffa Road. This morning they captured the United Nations Headquarters at Government House and they have started shelling the city. Over six hundred buildings have been damaged including the Prime Minister’s residence, the King David Hotel and many of the holy sites, including the dome of the Church of the Dormiton.’ The Church of the Dormiton was just south of the Old City, close to King David’s tomb, and reputedly the place where Christ had presided over the Last Supper.

‘Mount Scopus has also been captured by the Arabs.’ Menachem strode over to the operations map. ‘The Jordanian presence south of the Old City threatens to outflank the entire city, including the Knesset. As a result, the 19th Armoured Brigade is now moving from its positions east of Tel-Aviv and has orders to re-take Mount Scopus and the Hebrew University to the north of the Old City. The 6th Brigade has orders to advance in the south and re-take the Mount of Evil Counsel. From there they will turn north towards the Garden of Gethsemane and the Mount of Olives. We have possibly the most difficult task of all. The American Sector and the Rockefeller Museum.’ Kovner paused and looked at his commanders. ‘It has taken nearly two thousand years, but a little over an hour ago, Cabinet approved plans to re-take the Old City of Jerusalem.’

His announcement was greeted with a loud cheer. As in the time of King David, the Israelites were preparing once again to take back their ancient capital. The modern equivalent of King David’s warriors were the crack paratroopers of the 9th Airborne Brigade, all of them Reservists.

When the applause had died down Brigadier General Kovner outlined his plan. If successful, the results of the battle would be broadcast in minutes, not only to Israelis, but to Jews in every corner of the world. If they failed, they would not be forgiven lightly.

‘Because of the holy sites, not only Jewish, but Christian and Muslim as well, there will be no artillery or air cover over the Old City itself. It will come down to hand-to-hand fighting,’ Menachem Kovner said, ‘but we have one advantage. We are experts at night-fighting, and for that reason we go tonight.’

Crump. Crump. Crump. The night sky over Jerusalem lit up as the Jordanians pounded it with artillery and mortar shells.

Death to the Jews.

David and the rest of his platoon took shelter in doorways and around corners as a sudden burst of machine gun fire crackled across the deserted road. When viewed from behind, the lines of green and red tracer seemed surreally graceful as they ricocheted off the old stone walls and climbed into the night sky, but on his platoon’s side of the road it looked decidedly ugly and David ducked as the bullets cracked and thumped around him.

‘Above the Gate! On the ramparts!’

‘I see him!’ One of his section commanders raised an M79 and took cool and deliberate aim.

‘Grenade!’ The shoulder-fired grenade snaked across the road and exploded on top of the Damascus Gate. The machine gun fell silent.

Death to the Arabs.

‘Cover me!’ David dashed forward another 45 metres to the next alleyway. Centimetre by centimetre, metre by metre, grenade by grenade, the platoon fought their way up Sultan Suleiman Street towards the Rockefeller Museum. The small-arms fire was sporadic now but again David asked for cover as he ran towards the corner of Haroun al-Rashid and Suleiman. Suddenly the world exploded and he was thrown to the ground. Dazed, he shook his head and crawled into the nearest alleyway.

‘Shit!’ he muttered to himself. ‘Fucking tanks!’ He felt his right cheek. Blood. And a lot of it. Another flash appeared from the bottom of the Mount of Olives and David hugged the cobblestones as the round exploded 45 metres in front of his position. Obviously the 6th Brigade had been unable to dislodge the Arabs.