The commander comes in, sits down at the table opposite and looks at us sternly.
"Here come the compliments," Sancho whispers.
"You were good soldiers," the chief begins. "You carried out your tasks well. But a good soldier is not just a good fighter. A soldier must also behave well. And you were really terrible. You were wild and undisciplined! You played poker and so violated an explicit order." His gaze rests on Tarzan, our chief poker player.
"All that will have to change. From now on! Tomorrow you will be woken for the morning run at 5:45. At eight is morning roll call. I want the rifles to be shining, the shoes polished, the clothes clean, and the faces shaved." He fixes me with a stare. "Beards are forbidden!"
We look at each other. We don’t look like children any more. The faces are tense and red with anger. Our thoughts can be heard like the distant murmuring of the sea.
"From tomorrow onward, military discipline will apply. You will train! Exercise, with and without weapons! Combat skills! We will put an end to this wildness. When you speak to a superior, stand at attention! I don’t want to experience any more discussions with squad leaders! Is that clear to everybody?"
"What about leave?" asks Sancho. His voice is calm. But I know that he is as tense as a spring, ready for conflict. He remains seated. An explosion is not far away. The chief has also noticed it. He doesn’t react to the style of the question.
"No leave! A ceasefire is not peace, and we will remain prepared for every eventuality. The companies will take twenty-four hours’ leave in turns. Our company is the last."
"Why don’t they bring a brigade from Tel Aviv to guard the stink-ing positions during the ceasefire?" Tarzan bursts out.
"If HQ asks for your opinion, you can put forward your sugges-tions," remarks the chief mockingly. "That is all! You are off duty until five forty-five!"
"Atten-shun!" the sarge roars. The chief leaves.
Pandemonium breaks out. Everyone talks at the same time. After a while our voices assert themselves, the voices of the "veterans."
"Who does he think he is? Our father?" exclaims Kebab.