Mishka Ben-David - Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

I’d led some of these men as a platoon commander when they were first drafted. By now most of them had already done two stints of reserve duty with me as their deputy company commander. But being number two is a world away from being at the top, in charge.

My idea is, I told the battalion CO, that we take our time on this. After all, it’s been a year since these guys’ last spell in the reserves. People aren’t fit, some of them even have potbellies. Let’s just start with a one-night ambush, run through the drills, sort out what needs to be sorted out, and then move things up a notch.

The soldiers listened attentively. I discovered–not for the first time–that the kind of courage needed to face up to your superiors is different, but no less demanding, than the sort you need to confront the enemy.

The CO made the decision. Start with a two-night ambush.

I was given a sector overlooking three arterial roads and it was my job to decide where the ambushes should be set. I was no longer the impulsive young paratrooper immortalized in my battalion for storming my way barefoot up a thorn-infested precipice and firing an FN MAG machine-gun simply because the alarm had been sounded and it seemed a pity to me to waste time putting on my boots. Now I was a student in the Department of East Asian Studies, about to graduate and with the prospect of marriage.

I don’t have the strength for this anymore, Orit said tearfully after I’d finished packing my kit-bag. It’s OK for you, you know exactly what’s happening to you when you’re there, and as usual you’re in control. But I can’t sleep at night and bite my nails all day long. I can’t take the uncertainty any longer.

That uncertainty had also spilled over into our relationship, and the conversation ended with an understanding that when I came back from this spell in the reserves, we’d set a date for the wedding.

For the first time, I felt a burden of an altogether different kind tempering my natural instincts. Many people tended to think of me as an adventurer. The reverse was nearer the truth. For me being adventurous in the army meant not doing my best, in effect leaving my survival in the hands of the enemy or fate. I wanted to be master of my own destiny and never leave it to others. That had been an ingrained principle of mine ever since the Holocaust Memorial Day ceremonies at our elementary school. My determination had been reinforced while listening from behind the living room or kitchen door to the few stories my grandparents were willing to tell. These were mostly about what they’d been through during the years my dad, as a child, was hidden away in the monastery where he’d been left when his parents had to flee for their lives.

So that is why I had to practise at the firing range three times every day, run until I felt I was about to faint, go the extra mile the next time round, always charge up a hill, vomiting from the sheer stress of it. And then, having done all of that, at the end of the day I would return to the firing range to practise shooting at night because my previous results hadn’t been good enough. I also had to learn to lie in ambush in the most advantageous spot and for the longest time possible. As a result my frustration knew no bounds when the Lebanon War broke out while I was still a raw recruit barred from taking part in the fighting. There I was, aimlessly walking around in a paratrooper’s uniform, while others were risking their lives to protect our homeland. Later on, that sense of frustration almost had me court-martialled when I refused to accept the campaign ribbon. The messages of the pacifist ‘No to the Ribbon’ movement had spread among the soldiers in the field, and it took me quite some time to convince my superiors that I simply didn’t think I deserved the award. After all, I told them, I wasn’t a combatant in this war. At the time, I didn’t yet know how much of the horror of Lebanon I would have to stomach during my years as a conscript and then as a reservist. Each additional stint in Lebanon and Gaza moderated my views. I came to understand the awfulness of these two treacherous quagmires into which we were sinking. At the same time my studies and forthcoming marriage diminished the importance of the army in my life.

My men–especially those who’d known me since our time together in regular service–were happy about my slightly more moderate approach. I even compromised on the ambush sites. I still insisted, of course, on choosing spots with the best firing line and the easiest position from which to mount an assault, even if that happened to be a rocky, thorn-covered ledge. But I balanced these considerations against the value of an area where we could spend two consecutive days and nights in relative comfort.

I also didn’t take any chances with the size of the force. I split my scaled-down company into two: one platoon led by my second-in-command and the other by me. I didn’t have enough men for a third combat unit. Every night we covered two of the three routes in my sector and every night Hezbollah travelled along the third road. Conceivably, Hezbollah’s intelligence officers had probed the area and marked possible ambush sites. Perhaps their spotters had seen us coming and going. Whatever the reason, not a single vehicle passed the ambushes we’d laid. Yet on the roads we’d vacated their convoys travelled freely.

When the time came for the last ambush, I decided to try and outsmart them. We went up to the pre-planned spot immediately after dusk, and settled in. On the second night, when the sector was completely quiet, I quickly moved my men to an alternative location on the third road, coordinating the move with my deputy and battalion HQ.

From an operational point of view, Lebanon is quite unlike anywhere else. Not even Gaza. And not only because of the difficult terrain. At night in Lebanon you move like an ant fearful of being trapped in the mouth of the devil. You know he’ll spot you, then overpower you with his tongue, pulverize you with his fangs, or swallow you whole. Lebanese mountains are blacker and steeper than in Israel, the whistle of the wind shriller, the shrubs thornier, and the dark shadows cast by trees and bushes could well be mistaken for the enemy.

My men didn’t like the order to pack up and move to the alternate position. And that’s putting it mildly. But after almost three weeks under my command, with everything working so smoothly, no one could really object. After all, despite our strenuous efforts, we had achieved nothing. Of course we’d functioned well–set out punctually and silently, taken up our positions properly, were constantly on the lookout, and returned safely. But that wasn’t what we’d been sent here for. True, that in the atmosphere of those blood-soaked days, even getting back to base in one piece was an achievement, but for me that simply wasn’t good enough.

Navigating our way there was easy. I led my men to the road below us, then along it until we reached the junction. We moved in combat formation ready to engage the enemy in case a Hezbollah convoy suddenly appeared. Finally, we reached the foot of the mountain, making our way along the second road to an area just below the ambush site. In single file we climbed to the spot I’d chosen and settled into our positions.

The rocky, weed-ridden ledge overlooked a bend in the road that would force any passing vehicle to slow down. I checked it on aerial photos and through binoculars. Although it was clear to me that this would not be an easy place in which to remain, I decided that we’d stay there till dawn, something like five or six hours. That was manageable.

There was a bit too much of a commotion as the men dug themselves in, some of them uprooting or flattening several large and very prickly bushes. But apart from a rather aggressive whisper of ‘quiet’ from me, we managed to keep our mutual hostility under control.