the company of recruits heading for the starting point. The lads are completely green. This will be their first battle. They are singing loudly and happily: "Believe me, the day will come ..." We stop to let them pass. It is a terrible moment. We know what Beit Affa means. We also know that the moon will be shining brightly tonight. We know that not many of them will be coming back unharmed.
* * *
We are in Negba, in wounded, bleeding Negba, and wait in the dark for the whistling of the first bullets from the direction of Beit Affa. That will be our sign to drive to the appointed place, to wait for the wounded, and then take them to the medical station. It is shortly before midnight. Everything is much too quiet. The Egyptians are also waiting for the decisive battle in the last night before the ceasefire.
The night is very bright and visibility good. A warning sign for the attackers. We think of our comrades who will have left the base an hour ago, with a song on their lips. The night is much too bright...
Shots. First a few, then salvos. And suddenly the world around us wakes up - colorful rockets climb into the sky, artillery roars, machine guns chatter. Time for us to set off. Four men in an unar-mored jeep. Our destination is about five hundred meters away from the village which is under attack. Were we earlier somewhat ashamed of this task? That was a mistake. This is a worthy job for "Samson’s Foxes." The enemy is shelling the road. We leave it and drive across the open field toward the fire. The area is flat and doesn’t offer even a hint of cover.
There it is! We lie on the ground and set up the machine gun. A scene in front of us could almost be described as beautiful: artillery fire, colorful rockets, glowing streams of tracer. But we don’t feel comfortable. We lie there with no protection and have nothing to do apart from wait - for a bullet or a piece of shrapnel.
We don’t talk. We listen and try to guess how the fighting is going from the noise of battle. We hear the occasional battle cry from our comrades. It is the first time that we have observed fighting without taking part in it. Not a pleasant feeling.
An hour passes. Two. Benjamin Friedmann has fallen asleep. Joseph, the driver, reveals to me his secret fear: that he would faint at the sight of a severely wounded man. I smile. I also said that once, and