Of the two dozen Phantoms we had when the war broke out, four were lost, and three others were seriously damaged and grounded. Many others were damaged, some several times, but were fixed and returned to fly and fight. Three used Phantoms arrived during the war from America, were absorbed into our fleet, and replaced lost aircraft. The squadron attacked enemy airfields and SAM batteries in Egypt and Syria, and gave our ground forces close air support. We shot down twenty-two enemy fighters and seven helicopters.
We all got to the end, some a bit battered, with two of us in the hospital.
It seems I was not alone.
As soon as war broke out, like an animal sensing danger, the Orange Tails woke up and began thinking and functioning. As if by themselves, original fighting techniques grew in the Orange Tails. Some new ideas were extremely important, and got funny names such as High Society, or Kettles, or Living Map.
High Society rose on its own out of the midlevel of the squadron. These were the more prominent leaders— pilots and navigators. They were involved in everything. Their voice was heard in the briefing room, in the ops room, in my office. These seven or eight guys—formerly our squadron’s loyal opposition—gathered around me, and took the weight with me and my officers. They backed us and added to our collective brainpower.
This might sound like a trivial thing, but what else do you expect soldiers to do in war, if not give their commanders their hearts, brains, and loyalty? Maybe, maybe not. I know of other cases. But in our case, my High Society led and the squadron followed. It showed faith in me and in itself, and suddenly I could do anything, make any decision, initiate and demand any kind of effort, and take any risk, and found all my pilots and mechanics behind me. As a result the squadron functioned beautifully. We only got better.
But there was something else, something almost spiritual: the Orange Tails gave me something I never asked for and wasn’t expecting. Since its inception all I wanted from the Orange Tails were clarity and efficiency. And suddenly, in the hardest moments of that war, I found the men themselves. I was like Saul, who looked for jackasses and found a crown.
Everything was the opposite of what I had experienced in the Fighting First; back then I wooed the men, tried to pull them with me, and the squadron was lost. But in the Orange Tails, where I had given up on PR and was interested only in the core mission—the operations—it all came to me on its own, and the squadron pushed ahead, with me in the front.
In the beginning I didn’t expect this boost, this strong approval I received from my men. I was suspicious, fearing to enjoy it. I asked myself, “How did I get so popular suddenly?” I looked to be proven wrong, to find out that this was just a passing fad. But nothing went wrong.
ONE EVENT FROM THAT WAR still cries out for closure. The story is not new, but for the first time ever, I’ll tell what really happened.
It happened on October 9, the fourth day of the war. We came back to land at dawn after attacking the Egyptian airfield Kutmiya, halfway between Cairo and the Gulf of Suez. On the way back Gilutz and Yaari’s Phantom was hit, caught fire, and went down in the Red Sea. After some time the two injured pilots were rescued, taken to the hospital, and the Red Sea gave up two points to me. When we landed after Kutmiya, a new mission was waiting for us: to attack Syrian headquarters in the center of Damascus.
Our eight-ship formation was supposed to hit the target after another eight ships from the Bats. The time for preparation was short, as usual, but it was necessary to prepare well—the air defense array around Damascus was formidable. Ten missile batteries surrounded the city, and flying in there at high altitude was totally out of question. But we were lucky to get an excellent flight plan to the target. Our route passed over Lebanon, over mountainous and forested areas, and the final approach was between mountains. In this way we could fly down the last slope into Damascus very low, under the missile radars. Then we would burst out of the wadi and appear over them all of a sudden, taking the antiaircraft batteries by surprise. A quick dive on the target, and then out over the mountains again.
I was well acquainted with the Damascus area. In the last year before the war I had led several sorties into the region. We attacked terrorist camps there, successfully eliminated the missile battery at Sheikh Maskin, and more. And in this war, too, I had already managed to roam around the city once or twice. I had a feel for the area. And my navigator for this mission, Kamay, could be trusted completely. So I gave my crews a short briefing, emphasizing the importance of flying low, right until the last moment.
“Use the land for protection,” I told them seriously, as I had told Khetz long ago. And then I had another order. “Aim carefully this time. This is a city, not a military base. Don’t scatter your hits!”
WE CROSSED OVER THE BEACH at Ashkelon and went out to sea. The morning was blue and beautiful, and our eight-ship formation coasted north at medium speed in total radio silence. Going deeper into the Mediterranean, the Israeli coast vanished behind us and we cruised calmly, alone over the high seas. Once in a while we passed a lonely ship. And when the clock and the navigation computer came to agree in some nowhere between sea and sky, Kamay turned me southeast, in the direction of Lebanon. The second element of our formation, four ships led by Gordon, slid back into line astern, and the heavy Phantoms were moving to the target in two elements, one after another, Ascot and Dubek.
Approaching Lebanon’s coastal radar, we descended to very low altitude and picked up speed, plowing the still face of the sea, and leaving furrows of foam in the water behind us. The tops of Lebanon’s mountains rose over the rim of the huge azure basin we were hovering in and peered out at us. Now it was time to get our maps out and prepare for battle.
The closer we got to the coast, the higher the Lebanon Mountains rose before us. I could already see their sides, mottled with black patches of forestry and scarred with whitish channels. Now I could see that clouds were heaped up over the mountain crests. The clouds were large, their tops white and shining in the sun, while their bottoms were dark, covering the mountaintops. The view was stunning, snowy mountains overlaying a white, sandy beach. What a vista, a Levantine late summer dream.
The mountain reflections played before us on the surface of the water, and finally, between the mountains and their reflections, a thin white line appeared. It was surf on a sandy beach. I rocked my wings twice as a signal, and we opened our throttles and accelerated to combat speed. We thundered over the beach and began climbing the mountain slope, to cross the first barrier on our way into Syria. Shadows of the great mountains covered us, and the sky above us became cloudy. The atmosphere around us changed instantly into the dark of winter.
“This is October?” Kamay chuckled from the backseat, but there was no humor in his voice. Our two pairs of eyes looked forward up the slope, searching for clearance between its tops and the clouds, to cross over to the other side. Finally there was something.
“Here, over there,” and I pointed my nose between two high peaks that stood like pillars under the cloud ceiling, creating a gate. The air was brighter in there. My Phantom squeezed heavily into it, turning, and the other seven slid in behind me. Mountaintops passed over our heads on both sides, disappearing in the gray cloud cover above. Streams of tiny water drops slid down our canopies. And then we passed the summit, and the ground dropped away abruptly below us. A sigh of relief in each aircraft, and we lowered our noses and dove into the valley, away from the ominous atmosphere above us.
Everybody took time now to prepare for battle and to arm his switches. The Lebanon Valley under the thick clouds was dim in the wintry light. I turned back in my seat and counted my buddies: Ascot was here, three Phantoms cruising in my wake, dark gray like sharks in the foggy aquarium around us. Dubek was just a blurry movement in the background. Good; everybody was in place. The target picture was almost black, and Kamay switched his cockpit’s red night lighting on.
The Lebanon Mountains receded in the distance behind us, and in front of us—on the other side of the valley—towered the next chain, the Anti-Lebanon Mountains, heavy and high. It also had its tops in the clouds. The light around us was soft and smooth, as though we were underwater, and the greens of the Lebanon Valley passed under us rich and lush, checked and variegated with lines of light. No sound on the radio, total communication silence, as usual. Five minutes to target. Fine.
The mountain slope. Again full power, nose up, and the Phantoms began climbing the slope of the Anti- Lebanon chain. Our altimeters rolled up, and the clouds in front of us came closer, growing in the windshield Again, Kamay and I searched for a break between the mountaintops and the cloud ceiling. This time it was seven times more important, since beyond this chain was the enemy. There, on the eastern slope down to Damascus, we would start our last approach to the city, and there the radars and the SAMs waited. We had to keep close to the bosom
