Tuvia. As we made room for him he was impressed by our friendli-ness. In addition it seemed to be an honor for him to travel in a jeep of the Foxes.
There were four of us: Freddy Regenstreif, the driver, Shlomo Apfelbaum, a quiet, blond squad leader, Shalom Cohen, a roundish, self-satisfied fellow with a gigantic mustache, and me. In Gedera we stopped for a quick popsicle. Gedera marked the frontier between the civilized world and the "wild South."
Before we drove on, we got ourselves ready: Freddy pulled an enormous, rather dirty red cloth from under his seat, and wrapped it around his head. Shlomo rolled his sleeves right up to his armpits. Shalom took off his shirt and sat there half naked and we all put on our green driving glasses. The farmer watched us in puzzlement.
Freddy drove off at full speed. Just beyond Gedera there were deep pits in the road - tank traps. Normally you would drive through or around them in first gear. But not Freddy! Without slowing down, the jeep flew to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again. We knew Freddy and the tank traps, and were ready for it. But not our passenger. He nearly made a premature exit. At the last moment I managed to grab his collar and return him to his place.
After a while the fun really started. Freddy roared along. You need some practice to survive in a jeep like this at fifty miles an hour. For example you should not hold on to the machine gun, because it can spin around. Not to the machine gun mount, either, because it doesn’t do your fingertips any good. And you should try and stop your head getting too near to the stock. All this theory was learned by our guest in a matter of seconds. Not that he enjoyed the lesson.
At sixty miles an hour we reached a state of ecstasy, which dis-charged itself in the Foxes’ battle cries. Since the farmer was the only one without goggles, his eyes were running. He was hardly aware of his surroundings.
At seventy miles an hour it was Shalom Cohen’s turn. That speed always has a strange effect on him. He pulled out his private Luger6 and began firing into the air. And since we were approaching the front, it was time to try out the machine guns. One salvo after another.
Just then we were approaching the Be’er Tuvia turn-off. "This is where I get out" said our guest. The speedometer was reading over