"Respond immediately ... important message ... maximum
speed..."
We jump into our jeep, Elimelech slams it into gear, five kilome-ters per hour, ten, fifteen, twenty...
It is a hot, clear day. The sun is burning down, but when we are moving we don’t feel it. A squad of infantrymen are marching next to the road. They are sweaty and tired with their weapons and equip-ment on their backs. We think of the days when we were poor sods like that.
The infantry lead a bitter life. When they arrive on the battlefield they are already dog tired. They are so tired that it doesn’t really mat-ter to them what will happen. And though they suffer more than the others and work harder than the others, they are treated like inferior beings. The Palmach despises the army, the artillery and the men of the air force laugh at it, and only writers who were never in the field sometimes show sympathy for those who "are occupying positions" or "our young men in Arab villages."
Thirty kilometers per hour.
The road is lined by orange groves. Here and there we see a young girl, and wave at her. Sometimes she will smile, or turn her back on us. Life is great.
We keep a casual hand on the machine gun mount. We all wear an ammunition belt over our shoulder. The cartridges shine like gold in the sun - a poseur’s dream.
Forty kilometers per hour.
It really was a stroke of luck for us, becoming the motorized com-pany. It might mean more danger in combat. But you quickly forget this little drawback when you consider the advantages: a comfortable drive to the action, with weapons and equipment just lying there; pleasant words of recognition from HQ; and an almost aristocratic status in the estimation of civilian friends.
And what about danger? You go on an extremely dangerous mis-sion, attack the enemy from the rear or from the flank, and return without losses. And on the next day you undertake a boring routine patrol, run into an ambush, and lose half the unit. Our experience teaches us: mobility is more important than thickness of armor,