We learn from the newspaper that the General Staff has introduced new regulations for leadership and conduct. We, the veterans of the southern front, rejected these regulations from the depths of our hearts. They would mean the beginning of the end of the peoples’army that saved the state in its most critical days, that routed the enemy, and that fought successfully to open the way to the Negev.

Animated discussions broke out among the participants in the course. Most of us didn’t take it seriously. Is there anything more ridiculous than forbidding a soldier to grow a beard? But I knew: it was a consid-ered decision, and the result would be a complete change in the spirit of the army. It would mean the final victory of the rear over the front.

3 November 1948

Squad leader course

The soul of Nachshon

The first drops of rain fall on the tent. Someone wakes me - it is my turn for guard duty. It is cold outside. The wind is howling, and it looks as though the whole camp will soon be blown right over the next hill.

I feel cold. I rummage in my box until I can feel the softness of wool. There is the pullover. I fold it in two, clap the edges together, and pull the result over my head.

Sock hat! Sock hat!... in the darkness I begin to dream. And in this dreamy state a longing makes itself felt, a yearning for bygone days, for the days that were our finest in the army.

I look at my comrade’s face and remember another night of guard duty. It was six months ago, in Hulda. He remembers it too. And we begin to remind each other of forgotten details of those days, we laugh, we are happy, our voices rise until someone complains from the neighboring tent: "What the hell! What is going on?"

Nachshon ... a meal of dry bread and tinned sardines is consumed by the squad with grumbles and laughs ... we march through the mud which sticks to our boots until we are walking as if we had high heels, like a pretty Parisienne ... one hundred and fifty rounds and three hand grenades in the pockets of our Australian army jackets, and we look like bosomy girls ... the hours of oppressive fear before our first engagement and the outbreak of joy during the assault, as we

186