"Fi! Fi!" Kebab roars and shakes with laughter. "Hat Massari! Fi! Fi!"3
"Shut up! That’s enough!" Nachshe shouts. "Shut your mouth!"
"Fi! Fi!" Kebab roars once more. "Hat Masari! Fi! Fi!"
"Are you starting again?" Nachshe asks in annoyance.
This morning we attacked Daba. It was almost like in the movies. Some officers and their guests, together with the officer responsible for culture, climbed onto the water tower of the nearby kibbutz to observe the spectacle. We drove toward the village in a broad row of jeeps, with about ten meters between us. While we were driving we fired thousands of rounds. It is difficult to aim an automatic weapon while you are moving. Particularly if you are sitting behind, with the gun barrel continually swinging between the driver’s right ear and the left ear of the man next to him. While we were driving, the weapon slipped out of Nachshe’s hand and a bullet flew between the legs of Tarzan who was sitting in front of him.
The village was empty. The Fellaheen had run away when they saw us coming. In front of some of the houses the petroleum stoves were still burning. We had interrupted them in the preparation of their lunch.
Rather bored we drove through the narrow alleys which were hardly wide enough for a jeep. We were dreaming of lunch in Rehovot and the shower in the camp. After little operations like this one we tended to "disappear" for a few hours before we returned to base.
Suddenly we saw someone. We were astonished to see a living creature here. It was an old woman. At least eighty years old. Wrapped in rags she sat in front of her house. When they run away the Fellaheen often leave the old and the blind behind.
We in the first jeep stopped immediately. Looked at each other.
"Not worth it," Sancho answered the unspoken question. We drove on.
At the next crossroads we noticed that the second jeep, with Nachshe, Tarzan, and Jamus, was no longer following us. With difficulty we turned and drove back. The second jeep was standing by the old woman’s house. Nachshe stood in front of her waving his pistol.
"Hat Masari! Hat Masari! Fi! Fi!" he shouted. Like all of us, he believed that every Arab must have a treasure buried somewhere.