a wounded man, and in particular a severely wounded man, returns to his childhood. He forgets his unit and his comrades and longs for his family. Even I, who had never had particularly strong connec-tions with my family, spent the first few days in the hospital thinking only about home.
Who was this mysterious "Yitzhak"? One day he appeared and was none other than my old explosives trainer Itshe.
This Itshe was a special character. One of the very few old veterans left. A comrade who would stand by you through thick and thin. Yitzhak had an artificial leg. Unless you knew him well you wouldn’t know it. He drove a car (like the devil), jumped over fences, and had been decorated more than once for particular daring in the use of explosives. He was the Explosives Officer of the battalion.
"What can I do?" my room-mate cried. "How can I manage with only one leg? How can I support my parents? They have only just arrived in this country. What will they do without my help? What on earth can I do?"
"Stop crying like a baby!" Yitzhak shouted at him with simulated anger. "Look at me! I have only one leg - so what?" I had never heard Itshe mention his missing leg. In his presence the subject was strenu-ously avoided. "I drive a car, as you know very well. The wound will heal. They will give you an artificial leg and you will be able to do everything!"
The wounded man was not convinced.
"Listen to me!" continued Itshe. "We are in the army. We are all comrades here. We look after each other. We will look after you too. You will see. Tomorrow the whole squad will be here."
And the next day the whole squad really did come. Eight explo-sives experts with Itshe at the head. They filed in and stood around his bed. Itshe talked. The others keep quiet. Like every healthy soldier who visits a wounded comrade, they felt guilty - as though their own good health required justification.
"Would you like us to inform anyone?" asked Itshe.
"Not my parents! Just let my sister know."
"You can rely on us," said Itshe, and made a note of the address.
But the military machine has its own logic. There are social offi-cers, there are lists of addresses ("to be informed in case of... "). And so one evening, while I was dozing after a bad attack of pain, a man of