Chapter One
May 21, 1997, “BAH 933” — Nahal Battalion Training Base
The sun hung directly overhead. The scorching asphalt seared the hands of the new recruits, who were holding a push-up position with their M16s balanced on the backs of their wrists. Three platoons had been in this position for over half an hour, spaced ten meters apart, arranged in an inverted “U” shape. In the center of each platoon, a sergeant paced back and forth, barking out the count:
“One-two, one-two!”
On the count of “one,” the soldiers had to bend their elbows and hold the position until the sergeant finally called “two,” the pauses between numbers stretching to an agonizing length as the sergeant shouted at them to keep their backs straight and not to hunch.
Ariel could feel his strength draining. His shirt clung to him like a second skin, soaked with sweat, while beads of perspiration trickled down his face, dripping off the tip of his nose only to evaporate instantly on the burning ground. “It’ll end eventually,” he thought. “It has to end sometime.” As if reading his mind, the sergeant finally gave the order to stand up. Still struggling to believe it was over, the exhausted soldiers slowly straightened, slinging their rifles over their shoulders. But before they could catch their breath, Moshe barked again:
“Get into ‘Matzav Shtayim[1]’! Everyone down!”
The soldiers dropped back into the same position, carefully placing their rifles on the backs of their hands. Any other way of handling their weapons was strictly punished.
Like a nightmare on repeat, it all began again. “What is this, some kind of Groundhog Day?” Ariel muttered to himself, his nose pressed against the blistering asphalt. “Yesterday, the day before… every damn day for the last month, it’s been the same thing!”
“One-two, one-two!” The commands of the squad leader echoed as if through a haze.
Their sweat-soaked shirts clung uncomfortably to their backs, their bodies itched, and the incessant buzzing of flies, drawn by the stench of sweat, seemed determined to find their way into eyes or noses. Ariel tried to shake his head to get rid of the buzzing menace, but that only seemed to encourage it. The fly landed on the bridge of his nose, rubbing its legs together with what seemed like malicious delight. Ariel puffed his cheeks and blew as hard as he could, trying to send the pest flying away before it reached his left eye. But it was no use.
It felt like this torture would never end. The sergeant kept them going, and each time the recruits managed to get to their feet, he sent them crashing back to the ground. Ariel’s arms felt like they were on the verge of giving out completely, which would mean punishment, a lot worse than just falling to the ground.
Finally, the ordeal ended when the platoon was ordered to stand at attention.
“And now,” Moshe boomed, “everyone look at your watches! Thirty seconds to run around the far pole, line up, and salute me! What are you waiting for? Time’s ticking!”
The soldiers sprang into motion, racing to obey the command. By the time thirty-five seconds had passed, the platoon was lined up in two rows.
“Squad leader!” shouted David, his voice strained and out of breath.
“Akshev!”[2] echoed the other soldiers, their voices weary.
Chins raised, they stared straight ahead, looking over the squad leader’s head, careful not to meet his eyes.
“You think you’re soldiers?” Moshe’s voice grew louder, his anger rising as he paced back and forth across the drill yard. “You’re nobody! Nothing! A bunch of faceless, pampered mommy’s boys! Insects! Worthless, and no one cares about you! You’re lucky the army even took you in and gave you the chance to become real men. But until that happens, you’ll crawl, you’ll run, you’ll sweat, and you’ll do whatever it takes to satisfy me and the other commanders! And remember — officers are gods to you, and we are your family now! Thirty seconds! Move!”
The line scattered, the pounding of their boots — dusted red by the clay soil—echoing across the training yard, making the scorching ground seem to shiver under the midday sun. The “red boots,” as they were called — though the actual color was a fresh clay brown — were a privilege reserved for members of the Nahal and Paratroopers brigades. Like a startled herd of zebras, spooked by the sudden appearance of a lion, the platoon raced around the cursed pole once more, only to line up again, saluting the commander with a sharp, collective breath.
Moshe squinted, his shortened M16[3] clinking rhythmically behind him as he paced in front of the line of soldiers. He scanned each of their faces with the suspicious intensity of a detective from the homicide division. The chevrons on both sleeves of his uniform, three teal stripes, marked his rank as sergeant. At one point, he stopped, carefully adjusting the sun-bleached green beret tucked under his epaulet.
“Did it really not occur to anyone to ask for an extension so your comrades could make it on time?” he said, lifting his head. “Your willingness to run yourselves into the ground is touching, but a good soldier needs to use his head!”
The sergeant’s words couldn’t have come at a better time. Ariel was barely able to catch his breath after what felt like his hundredth sprint in a row. Without daring to wipe the sweat pouring down his face, he gulped down air gratefully, as though it was a gift. The thought had crossed his mind several times now: it was impossible to cover the required distance in the allotted thirty seconds. And he knew this wasn’t exactly a groundbreaking realization. Setting impossible tasks was part of the fabric of tironut[4], pushing the recruits to their limits. It was an integral part of disciplinary training. But knowing this didn’t make it any easier, nor did it boost his motivation. Adapting to this new way of life was a slow, grueling process.
“If one of your comrades is falling behind,” the lanky, short sergeant continued, “push him forward, carry him if you have to, damn it, but finish the task on time! Thirty seconds, move!”
The pounding of boots merged with the orders shouted by the commanders of the neighboring platoons, who were no better off. Ariel broke ahead, rounded the pole, and was the first to return to formation. Without wasting a second, he turned to the sergeant.
“We need an extension, Commander!” Ariel shouted as loudly as he could, causing Moshe to wince.
“Fine,” Moshe nodded, “Five more seconds.”
“FIVE SECONDS!” Ariel roared, and the call echoed down the line as his fellow soldiers took up the cry.
As soon as the heaviest and slowest among them, Eitan, was dragged into formation, supported by two and pushed by a third, the platoon exhaled collectively, drained of energy.
“Akshev!” they shouted in unison.
Moshe glanced at his stopwatch with satisfaction and clicked his tongue.
“Thirty-five seconds exactly! See, you can do it when you put your minds to it! I hope you’ve learned this lesson well: without mutual support, you won’t succeed. It’s the most important element of any task you undertake.”
The silent, unanimous agreement of the platoon was all the confirmation Moshe needed.
“And now,” he continued, “everyone check your watches. Two minutes. I want you all back here with full canteens. Time starts now!”
No one needed to be told twice, and the line of soldiers scattered toward the tent.
March 21, 1997, “BAH 933” — Nahal Battalion Training Base
The Nahal Battalion’s training base, referred to as “BAH 933,” was situated in the rocky Negev desert, about nine kilometers from the small, tidy town of Arad, nestled among the desert hills. Two months earlier, on March 21, 1997, three army buses had arrived here from the Tel HaShomer induction center. The journey, considering the aging buses with black military license plates indicating their ownership by the Israel Defense Forces, took around three hours. Navigating the outskirts of Tel Aviv, with its endless highways and side roads, was an ordeal for any driver. During rush hour, local traffic swelled beyond all reason, and escaping the miles-long gridlock onto open roads was no small feat.
The new recruits, about forty to a bus, had long since lost hope of getting out of the stifling, overheated cabins. The air conditioners had stopped working for some reason right after leaving Tel HaShomer, and the young men shifted restlessly on the faded, sun-bleached brown seats. It went without saying that every last one of them was desperate to relieve themselves.
As the first hints of dusk touched the few clouds in the sky, the tires of the buses began crunching over the rocky road, the swaying of the bus bodies resembling fishing trawlers. Forty pairs of eyes pressed against the dusty windows. The buses strained and groaned as their massive metal frames climbed yet another hill. Stones shot out from beneath the broad tires, sparking against the nearby boulders like shrapnel. The abundance of flint in the region was unmistakable. There was no real vegetation to speak of, just the occasional spiny bush, a rare reminder that life did exist in the desert.
One by one, the buses passed through the main gates of the training base, followed by a green shield bearing the image of a sword and sickle[5], and came to a halt.
“This is the end of the world!” groaned Amir, a dark-skinned recruit with curly hair. “Where are we, guys?”
“Exactly where you said!” Niv, a wiry, slender soldier, chimed in with a grin.
“I couldn’t imagine a hole like this,” muttered Shai gloomily, rubbing his large almond-shaped eyes. “I want to go back up north.”
“Where you from?” asked David, a sturdy recruit standing next to him.
“Haifa. Best city in the world,” Shai replied, barely holding back tears.
“No, brother, Tel Aviv’s the best!” David, ever the optimist, slapped him on the shoulder.
“To each their own,” Ariel mused, shrugging. “I’m from Arad, and I’m not complaining.”
“You’re kidding?” Amir asked, half-laughing. “That little town of twenty thousand? What’s there for you?”
“It’s up to twenty-five thousand now,” Ariel shot back, stretching as his joints cracked.
“Everybody out!” came the sudden command from one of the officers outside, cutting the conversation short.
The bus doors flew open, and the cold March air rushed into the cabin. The desert’s extremes, scorching by day, freezing by night, were both a blessing and a curse. The recruits scrambled out of the bus, hauling their one-meter-long duffel bags with reinforced waterproof bottoms, and lined up. The straps of their M16 rifles hung over their shoulders, the barrels pointed directly at their feet. This position was a precautionary measure to prevent accidental discharges in case of an unexpected incident, such as a stray bullet. Although such mishaps were rare, this precaution was strictly observed to avoid any unintended casualties. Furthermore, carrying weapons slung over the back was, to put it mildly, frowned upon.
Twilight had fully settled in, and the floodlights took over from the last traces of daylight. The military base was well-illuminated, and true darkness never crossed the boundaries of the high, barbed-wire fence that enclosed the entire training complex. From the hill where the recruits and their commanders stood, they had a clear view of the perfectly maintained, geometrically precise grounds of their new home for the next six months.
In front of the three waiting platoons stood a large two-story building, the heart of the base, the kitchen and mess hall combined. Below that, spread across the grounds, were eighteen impressively large tents arranged in two squares of nine, forming symmetrical, almost military precision. The far square was already occupied, but the nearer one remained empty. Ariel quickly realized that these tents were reserved for the new recruits who had just tumbled out of the buses. Behind the “living quarters” stood four neat white trailers, which, much like the ones they’d seen at Tel HaShomer, were likely the showers and restrooms. About twenty meters to the left of them stood more trailers, which belonged to the neighboring battalion. Flanking the sanitation units were two-story warehouses, standing like weight plates on a barbell, completing the lineup.
A tall, solidly built officer wearing glasses stepped forward from the group of commanders. Ariel caught a glimpse of the two bars on his epaulets, indicating his rank of captain. The courtyard fell into a hushed silence.
“I’m honored to welcome you, the newest recruits of the elite Nahal Brigade,” the officer’s voice boomed across the space. “Each of you has made a choice that will shape your future, and from now on, you are part of one big family.”
His voice resonated through the open space, echoing far into the desert. The soldiers listened intently, trying to take in every word of this historic moment. After a brief pause to clear his throat, the officer continued:
“I am the commander of the 932nd Battalion, ‘Granite,’ and you’ve been given the privilege to serve your country in one of the most prestigious units in the Israel Defense Forces. This is a tremendous responsibility and, for that reason, hard work. Most of you won’t make it to the end of this journey. But for those who persevere, who sweat and bleed for this unit, you will emerge as part of the elite forces that protect the peace and prosperity of our nation.”
The solemn moment was marked with a minute of silence in memory of the victims of the latest terrorist attack, which had occurred earlier that day. A suicide bomber approached the entrance to the Apropo Café in Tel Aviv during lunch and detonated an explosive device. Three young women were killed in the blast, one of them three months pregnant, and forty-eight others were wounded to varying degrees. Hamas claimed responsibility for the attack. It was impossible to get used to this. It could never be forgiven. Every recruit standing at attention clenched their jaws, struggling to contain their righteous anger.
When the officer finished his speech, a hundred voices saluted the commander of the Granite Battalion in unison:
“Akshev!” Their shout echoed across the base and beyond.
The sergeants, now their mentors and direct commanders, approached each platoon.
“And now,” rang out the sharp voice of Sergeant Moshe, short in stature but loud in command, “I want to see all of you lined up by that warehouse in one minute!” He pointed toward the far end of the grounds.
Ariel hoisted his duffel bag, packed with all the essential soldier’s gear—dress uniform, a second pair of boots, and other essentials, and hurried to catch up with his fellow recruits. No one wanted to mess up on their first day and earn a reprimand or, worse, extra duty, so everyone was doing their best to follow the first order to the letter.
A staff sergeant with an oak leaf insignia pinned above his chevrons paced impatiently in front of the open gates of the warehouse. A distinct smell wafted out, a mix of synthetic leather, creosote-soaked wood, canvas, and metal.
“I need three volunteers!” Gal barked, making no effort to mask the hostility in his voice. Whether he was slouching on purpose or was naturally built like a question mark was unclear, but his biting tone was unmistakable—a skill no doubt honed over many years of military service. “You, you, and you!” he snapped, jabbing his finger at three random soldiers. “Unload the container with the sleeping bags! Move it!”
Ariel cursed under his breath as he realized he had been “volunteered,” thanks in no small part to his height and athletic build. His passion for basketball and experience playing in the ‘Bet’ league hadn’t gone unnoticed. He missed the game, but making it into the select group of athletes exempt from military service wasn’t in the cards for him. Not because he lacked talent, but because connections and the right people in high places played a significant role in determining who got that privilege. Still, Ariel didn’t regret his path. Somehow, the army, with all its gritty romance portrayed in films and books, had captured his imagination.
Soon, the task was done, and a stack of neatly rolled sleeping bags and foam mattresses stood before the ever-displeased sergeant. It was unclear if Gal had ever been satisfied with anything in his life. He cast a predatory glance over the “volunteers” standing at attention and shook his head in disapproval.
“If you think this is a joke, it’ll be the last mistake you ever make,” he said slowly, enunciating each word. “Matzav Shtayim! Twenty push-ups!”
Someone in the line coughed, drawing Gal’s attention.
“Make that thirty! You can thank your buddy here for that!”
“Great first day,” Ariel thought, nose pressed against the asphalt. Despite his athletic background, he wasn’t particularly fond of push-ups, and now, he forced himself to bend his elbows, trying to keep his back straight. Gal strode between the lines of grunting recruits, dishing out corrections.
“Don’t hunch! All the way down! One-two! One, and…” The pause was longer than before, and Ariel, like the others, silently cursed his fate, waiting for the sergeant to finally say, “…two!” With a collective exhale, the soldiers straightened their arms.
“What a bastard,” Amir muttered to Ariel when they were finally allowed to stand.
But the staff sergeant caught the movement of Amir’s lips and reacted immediately:
“Looks like you’re not tired yet! Another twenty! Down!” The platoon groaned as they dropped to the ground. “Rifles on the backs of your hands! One, and two!”
Ariel tried his best to take the collective punishments in stride, but it wasn’t exactly easy. It was one thing to be punished for doing something wrong, and another to suffer through preventive measures designed to reinforce discipline. Every muscle in his body protested against the pointless exertion. But fairness wasn’t what ruled here—something quite the opposite did. Certain concepts, like fairness, had been temporarily suspended in the army. To avoid any illusions, the unwritten set of rules held by the commanding officers took precedence above all else. And that was the way it was, following orders and abiding by both the official regulations and the so-called “code” played a critical role in shaping the minds of the fresh recruits, who had yet to see real combat.
To everyone’s relief, the first and most exhausting day in the army was drawing to a close. No matter how much the commanders wanted to emphasize where the recruits stood in the hierarchy, the inexorable approach of lights-out left them no choice but to postpone further “educational” measures until the next day.
The soldiers wearily shuffled into their assigned tents and began settling onto the cots, arranged in two parallel rows. The otherwise unremarkable folding beds had suddenly become the most coveted objects for everyone who had just secured a long-term stay at this training base.
Ariel placed his belongings next to the fifth cot on the right from the entrance and unrolled his sleeping bag. His blue sports bag, from the well-known brand Diadora, contained his personal items: underwear, toiletries, casual clothes, a couple of books, and a portable cassette player with a modest collection of tapes. The bag landed heavily on the bed. He needed to unpack and keep the essentials within easy reach.
“Damn this insane day!” Amir cursed as he stripped down to his boxers. “Did you see that, Arik? Who does Gal think he is?”
“Someone outranking us,” Ariel replied with a shrug, not sharing his friend’s indignation.
“Don’t get all worked up!” David said, humming a cheerful tune as he kicked off his boots. “There’s more to come! Save your nerves. It’ll be easier that way.”
“It won’t!” Niv countered, expertly slipping into a pair of house slippers. “But we knew what we were getting into, right?”
“Nonsense!” Shai chimed in, his large almond-shaped eyes filling with tears again. “I’m not here by choice!”
“And who is?” Amir shot back. “If you didn’t luck out and get assigned to drive for the army, welcome to hell!”
“No one said it’d be easy,” Ariel smirked, throwing a towel over his shoulder. “Change your attitude about all this. Remember why we’re here, and all this complaining will stop.”
“Well, I want to be an officer,” Nadav, who had been silent up until this point, joined the conversation from the cot next to Ariel’s. “I don’t see a reason to whine.”
“Did I hear that right?” Amir said, grinning in disbelief. Despite the short, army-regulation haircut, his curls still managed to poke out. “Great joke!”
Nadav put down the thick hardcover book he had been reading and looked up.
“No, I joke differently,” he said seriously, running his hand through his jet-black hair. “I see this as my calling. Serving the country — what could be better?”
“Lying on a beach with your girl, sipping cold mojitos through a straw,” Amir replied, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, plenty of things! Use your imagination, brother!”
“I’m afraid imagination will be all we have to get us through the next three years!” David said, pulling on a tight-fitting tank top over his muscular chest. “Get ready to face the hard truth, guys!”
“You sure know how to lift the mood!” Shai muttered, disappointed. “I want to go home! My mom made my favorite dish, shakshuka[6], and no one makes it better than her.”
“Why didn’t you say that earlier?” Niv said, arching an eyebrow as he carefully placed his rifle at the head of his bed. “Let’s all head to your place!”
Little by little, the eighteen-year-old boys quickly found common ground. Despite some disagreements, no one took anything personally, which gave Ariel a sense of relief. He understood they were only at the beginning of a difficult and thorny road, and much would depend on their mutual understanding and unity.
Some time later, Moshe appeared in the tent, causing everyone to jump off their cots. But before anyone could greet their commander, he raised a hand in a calming gesture, cutting off the attempt:
“Don’t even think about it! After lights out, you’re free to stay where you are and take care of your own business,” he said, with no bravado and in an almost friendly tone. “I’m here to hear any requests or concerns you might have.”
The sharp contrast from the earlier drill upon their arrival left the soldiers speechless. Barely fifteen minutes ago, the sergeant had been screaming at them, as if his job was to torment each one personally, and now they could just have a conversation with him? It seemed absurd.
“Where are we supposed to store our weapons?” Amir dared to ask first. “There aren’t any lockers in the tent to lock them up.” He looked around, scratching his head in confusion.
“As for your rifles, it’s simple,” the commander said, locking eyes with each of them in turn. “You never, and I mean never, under any circumstances, part with them! When you sleep, the rifle goes under your pillow. If you go to the bathroom, you take it with you. Even when you’re on leave, the same rules apply. From now on, your weapon is an extension of your body! Take care of it, and it will take care of you.”
“Great,” Shai muttered under his breath. “So do we take it into the shower too? It’ll get soaked.”
Moshe gave him a look as if he were a child and sighed heavily.
“Look around you. Who do you see?” Moshe asked, not giving him a chance to answer the rhetorical question. “Your comrades! While you shower, they’ll watch your rifle, and you’ll do the same for them afterward. Remember this! From now on, you’re one unit. One big, united family.”
Ariel wasn’t particularly moved by the sergeant’s lofty speech. Words are one thing, actions are another. They still barely knew each other and would need time to adjust, to bond. Becoming brothers by default, by order, or simply because “it’s what you do” wasn’t something that would just happen overnight. Besides, Ariel had never been the kind of person who made friends quickly. He didn’t see himself as the life of the party, the kind of outgoing guy who always had a crowd of people around him or who girls fawned over. Not because he thought he was special or different — just the opposite.
Maybe it was his circumstances, or maybe it was the small town where he lived, full of more retirees than young people, or… or perhaps he just hadn’t found anyone who didn’t bore him. Or, more likely, anyone who found him interesting.
“Can we bring a guitar here?” asked Eitan, sitting on his cot in his underwear, one sock still on, the other dangling off the side of the bed as he scratched his round belly.
“Why not?” Moshe smirked. “But no playing after lights out.”
“Deal!” Eitan grinned, satisfied with the answer.
Ariel couldn’t figure out how Eitan, with his build, had managed to end up in a combat unit in the Israeli army — let alone in the infantry, with its grueling conditions, and not in tanks or artillery. It seemed that as long as your heart and lungs were in good shape, a 97 medical profile could land you in any unit—green, purple, or brown berets, it didn’t matter. “But that’s not my problem,” Ariel thought. Little did he know just how wrong he was.
“Any other questions?” the commander raised an eyebrow. The confused recruits had nothing else to say. “In that case, draw up a schedule for night shifts among yourselves. No tent goes without a sentry overnight. Lights out at 10 p.m. and wake-up at 5 a.m.”
Moshe turned, lifted the flap of the tent, and stepped outside.
“Oh, no!” Amir groaned in disappointment. “Night shifts? What a pain!”
“Alright, alright! Line up, who’s taking which shift?” David immediately took charge. “I’ll go first! Who’s next?”
“And why should you go first?” Shai grumbled. “That’s the easiest shift!”
“Your turn will come,” David patted him on the shoulder. “Besides, I’m taking on the heavy responsibility.”
Chapter Two
March 28, 1997, “BAH 933” — Nahal Battalion Training Base
Ariel didn’t immediately realize someone was shaking him awake. It took a moment before he could force his heavy eyelids open. Over the past week, he and his fellow recruits had already begun to adjust to the reality of sleeping on military cots, far from the comforts of home. There was nothing pleasant about it. But at least no one had woken them up in the middle of the night until now, yanking them from the one sanctuary they had left—their previously undisturbed sleep.
He still found it strange that, on their very first day at the induction center, they had been fingerprinted, had their palms and even the soles of their feet scanned, as if they were a fresh batch of the most dangerous criminals in Alcatraz. Why? Later, someone explained that it was so the army could more easily identify the bodies if something went wrong. The explanation only made him feel worse. The army was covering all its bases. For the same reason, in addition to the metal dog tag with his personal ID number and name around his neck, known as the “death medallion,” each of his boots had a second identical tag hidden in a small sealed compartment. In case of… well, one of your feet is always bound to turn up.
Ariel scoffed to himself, and a shiver ran through his body.
“Get up, brother!” Amir shook him again. “I’m dying for sleep.”
“I’m getting up, I’m getting up!” Ariel reassured him, reaching for his nearest boot.
His fingers automatically laced up one tall boot, then the other. He tucked his pant legs into the elastic straps that were fitted over each boot, ensuring that his pants barely touched the tops of his army-issue footwear.
It seemed that every small detail of a soldier’s routine had been meticulously planned with one goal in mind: to leave no room for stray thoughts. No thoughts, no worries! A soldier, now a unit of the army, was ready to carry out any order without questioning its fairness or feasibility. If you looked deeper, in a critical situation, it was this mindset that would save lives — not hesitation over whether the command was just or achievable.
The fresh air jolted Ariel awake as he stepped outside the tent, making him shiver slightly. His sleeping bag still held the warmth of his body, and he longed to crawl back into its embrace, zip it up to his nose, and sink into blissful sleep. But instead, without much choice, he began marching briskly over the crunchy gravel beneath the firm soles of his red boots, glancing around as he went. In truth, there was no real need for night watches on a training base. There were no enemies, no actual threats to be seen. Yet, from day one, the soldiers were trained to stay vigilant, to never drop their guard. And to make sure this habit became ingrained, they had to practice it during times of peace.
Near the neighboring tents, other unfortunate comrades from the Granite Battalion were on watch, some of whom Ariel had already gotten to know. The most interesting thing was that he turned out to be the only one from Arad, which was just a stone’s throw away. Yet, the rocky desert hills concealed his hometown, and despite being so close to home, he felt as if he were on the moon. At least from the moon, you could see the Earth, but here, there was nothing but the vast sky littered with constellations and the cold, dark desert stretching out before him.
He took a deep breath. This new reality no longer seemed like the dream he had once imagined. The military routine — the daily grind of repeating the same tasks — was slowly but surely killing the romanticized vision he had drawn from books and films. And as his first week on the base had already shown, these feelings were just a small taste of what was to come during his next three years of service to the nation.
The manuscript is complete.
This excerpt first appeared in Judith Magazine.
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