“I was a U.S. Marine,” he said, smiling. “I finished training with the fifth highest grade in my battalion. Want to make a bet?”
“You’d lose,” she smiled, “because you’re about to encounter the best thing in Israel — its army. And the very worst — its bureaucracy.”
On a raw February day, Jason Gilbert stepped off the bus at the Kelet, the army induction center just outside Tel Aviv. The camp was large and sprawling, consisting of corrugated-roofed huts, occasional eucalyptus trees, and a series of tents.
Up north at the local army office, he had enlisted for the mid-winter induction and passed a series of preliminary mental and medical tests.
Now he stood on line with another member of the kibbutz, eighteen-year-old Tuvia Ben-Ami, who was manifestly nervous. Not about the army as much as being away from home for the first time.
“Keep calm, Tuvi,” said Jason, pointing at the long line of adolescents waiting to be processed. “You’re going to find a lot of new friends in this kindergarten.”
When the recruits were assigned to small groups, the young kibbutznik practically held on to Jason’s belt to ensure they would not be separated.
Then they all went to the “butcher’s shop” to have their hair mercilessly sheared. For some of the urban Casanovas, it was the trauma of their lives, Jason had to laugh as he watched them suppress tears as their Elvis- like plumage dropped to the floor.
He in turn simply sat down and let the army lawnmower relandscape his locks.
Then it was time for the dog tags. The dispensing officer suggested that Jason consider changing his name to something more biblical and more patriotic.
“In Hellenistic times, when the Jews all aspired to be sophisticated Greeks, every Jacob changed his name to Jason. Think about that, soldier.”
After donning their khakis, they were led by their supervising corporal to the tents where they would be staying for the next three days.
Tuvia whispered to Jason, “You can tell who are kibbutzniks, and who are soft boys from the cities, just by the way they look at the sleeping bags. I think some of them expected feather beds.”
After dinner they strolled through the camp to look at the recruiting huts where they would be interviewed for special units. Over one shack a sign boasted THE BRAVE TO THE PARATROOPS.
“That’s where I’ll be at dawn tomorrow,” said Jason.
“You and a thousand others,” replied Tuvia, “including me.
“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
