Erich Segal - The Class

“That’s where I’ll be at dawn tomorrow,” said Jason.

“You and a thousand others,” replied Tuvia, “including me. Everybody wants to earn his red beret. And stupid as it sounds, I’ve got a better chance than you.”

“Oh yes? What was your grade at the medical exam last month?”

“Ninety-one,” Tuvia answered proudly.

“Well, I got ninety-seven,” Jason retorted confidently. “That’s the highest they give. And when I asked them about the other three points, they said that Superman isn’t Jewish.”

“Listen,” Tuvia smiled, “even if he were, he couldn’t get into the Israeli Paratroops. Because he’s too old.”

By seven the next morning there were already long lines outside the huts of the elite brigades.

Jason passed his time by doing stretching exercises. At last he was admitted to the tent of the paratroop recruiting officer, a wiry, dark-haired man in his middle thirties.

His first words were hardly encouraging: “Beat it, Yankee. I admire your initiative, but you’re over the hill.”

“I’m only twenty-seven and I’ve got two years’ military experience.”

“Twenty-seven means ten years of you that I’ve already lost. Send in the next candidate.”

Jason folded his arms. “With due respect, I’m not leaving until I get a physical test.”

The interviewer stood and leaned his hands on the desk. “Listen, you’d drop dead if you even looked at our training course. Now do I have to throw you out myself?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

“Fine,” he replied, quickly reaching over and grasping Jason’s collar with a cross-armed grip.

Instinctively the ex-marine broke the hold with an upward motion of his clasped hands and then proceeded to pin the officer down onto his desk.

“Please sir,” said Jason with extreme politeness. “I beg you to reconsider.”

“All right,” he gasped, “you’ll get a try.”

After Jason had left, the interviewer sat rubbing his bruises and wondering whether he should call the Military Police.

No, he thought, let the arrogant bastard collapse on the hills.

“Next!” he shouted hoarsely.

Jason was walking slowly toward the test course when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw that it was Tuvia.

“Well,” Jason smiled, “I see you made it, too. Was he rough on you?”

“Not at all. He took one look at my papers, saw we were from the same kibbutz and signed me on. What was all that noise I heard in there?”

“Just two Jews settling a difference of opinion.” Jason grinned modestly.

It was only two kilometers but it was all uphill. The candidates had to run in groups of four — carrying telephone poles.

Tuvia contrived to be in the same quartet as Jason. But, as they were ascending the final incline, one of their number collapsed and fell to his knees. The other three men stopped dead in their tracks, barely able to hold the huge pole aloft.

“Come on,” Jason encouraged, “you can do it. Just four hundred meters to go.”

“I can’t,” gasped the recruit.

“You’ve got to,” Jason barked. “You’ll mess it up for the rest of us. On your goddamn feet!” His tone — more like that of a commanding officer — shocked the young boy into getting up again.

They completed the course and dropped their gigantic burden to the ground, where it sank a few inches into the mid-winter mud.

Jason and Tuvia, who had done most of the lifting for the other two, struggled for breath and massaged their arms.

One of the recruiting officers approached them. “Not bad, he said. And then he pointed to the boy who’d fallen. “You’d better go back to the infantry, son. The others can stay on for further testing.”

He looked at Jason. “Okay, grandpa,” he grinned, “are you ready to go again?”

“Right away?” Jason asked, quickly masking his incredulity. “Uh, sure, as soon as you like. The same course?”

“Yes, the same course. The same log. But this time with me on top.”

At the end of two hours they were, like Gideon’s army, a small but select group.

“All right,” the officer barked. “If you thought today was difficult, I suggest you try another brigade. This was child’s play compared to what’s coming. So think it over. You may save yourself a nervous breakdown. Dismissed.”

Jason and Tuvia staggered back to their tent and flopped down onto their mattresses.

“You were the gutsiest one out there,” Tuvia said. “I saw the officers watching you. They were smiling like hell. You were so great that I’m going to share my most precious possession with you.”

Jason felt something being forced into his hand. He looked. It was half a bar of Swiss chocolate.

Twenty-four hours later, candidates for the Paratroop Brigade were loaded into a bus to be taken to the base at Tel Noff. During the journey, a man moved down the aisle and stopped in front of Jason. It was the paratroop recruiting officer.

“Hello, grandpa,” he said. “I’m surprised to see you’re still with us. But I warn you, you won’t stop running for the next six months.”

“That’s okay, sir,” Jason replied.

“And another thing, don’t call me ‘sir.’ My name is Zvi.”

All Jason remembered of the next six months was that he even ran in his dreams.

On his first twenty-four-hour leave, he hitched a ride to Vered Ha-Gaul. He was happy to see Eva, who understood that what he needed most was sleep.

When he finally awoke she had some news for him.

“Your father’s been phoning. I told him where you were, and he sounded distraught. He made me promise to have you call the moment I saw you.”

Jason got up, went to the kibbutz phone, and called his father collect.

“Look, son,” the elder Gilbert remonstrated, “I’ve been pretty patient with you, but this army business is going a bit too far. I want you to get back where you belong. That’s an order.”

“Father, I only take orders from my commanding officer. As far as being where I belong, that’s a personal matter.”

“What about your career? What about everything you trained for at Harvard?”

“Father, if Harvard taught me one thing, it was to find my own set of values. I feel needed here. I feel useful. I feel good. What the hell else is there in life?”

“Jason, I want you to promise me to see a psychiatrist.”

“I’ll tell you what, Dad. I’ll visit a shrink if you’ll visit Israel. Then we’ll all sit down and decide which of us is crazy.”

“All right, Jason, I don’t want to argue anymore. Just promise you’ll call whenever you can.”

“Sure, Dad. I promise. Love to Mom.”

“We miss you, son. We really miss you.”

“Me too, Dad,” he answered softly.

Jason was among the fifty percent who survived the ordeal and received their wings and red berets.

He immediately entered the advanced course, mastering techniques of helicopter assaults and learning every inch of the country’s topography. Not from a map. During the next six months, he covered every inch of the Holy Land on foot. He began to enjoy sleeping in the open air.

After that he spent a week at the kibbutz, taking long walks with Eva, and writing a lengthy letter to his parents. Then he entered the Officers’ Candidate School near Petach Tikva. There, the only thing he learned that he did not already know was the Israeli principle of leadership, which could be summed up in two words: “Follow me.” Officers lead all missions from the front.

Eva and Yossi came to the graduation ceremony and saw Jason parade by the chief of staff and salute. Standing right next to the commander was Zvi, his original recruiting officer. As Jason passed, he was whispering something into the general’s ear.