Back and Forth: pain to frustration

So I finally did it. That large, stereotypical Jewish thing that sits between my eyes in the middle of my face, well, I broke it. Twenty years of playing physical sports and activities couldn't do the trick; all the army needed was just a few months.  I was probably bound to eventually have an accident-- there have been so many times in the army when my inner balancing capabilities fail me and I trip over a step, a root, or my own boots which always feel a size too large but necessary for when my feet swell on long hikes. In the civilian world one might call it 'clumsiness' at times. In the military world we call it...well, I suppose clumsiness as well. (Although at Mikveh I was often prone to stumbling in front of my friend Mike, who soon called any sort of non-graceful movement, 'pulling a 'Flesch'.)

I would like to say, 'you should see the other guy,' but the reality is that in my case, the 'other guy' is the butt of my gun (yes, yes, get all the laughs out now). And this whole experience highlights just exactly how the IDF works. Enjoy...

Two weeks ago Sunday was the beginning of our second week in the field, called 'shavuah tzemed' or partner week. Essentially, we learned how to operate as a unit of two. From now, every subsequent week in the field will build on the previous; the next field week will be about working in a squad of four, then our class of fourteen, then our machlekah of thirty plus, then the plugah, etc., until one of the last and absolutely hardest week of training, Shavuah Milchemah, War Week.

I was paired up with one my best friends in my unit, a kid from Tel Aviv named Michael.  (Which reminds me: a few weeks ago, I mentioned that when a commander throws a grenade, he shouts "'Aza," as in "Gaza."  Michael said that's not true.  It's actually "azar!" which is a Hebrew acronym of "enemy throws a grenade."  My apologies.)  He speaks very good English, which is one of the main reasons we're good friends. He often helps translate for me and we switch between Hebrew and English when we talk with each each other. But I didn't know he was my partner until minutes before I went to sleep beside him (but in my own sleeping bag!) in the field. Why? Because that entire afternoon I was assigned to work for the guys who do logistics for the plugah. And on that Sunday, that meant packing up an army truck with dozens and dozens of supplies, driving out to a location near where we would be setting up camp, and erecting tents and a mini camp for some of the higher commanders. We finished well into the evening and I was driven back to the base with a couple of the other unlucky workers, given fifteen minutes to pack whatever I need for the field, then we headed out again. I found my machlekah, found my partner and sleeping bag, and went to sleep.

Woke up the next morning and was given a laminated half sheet of paper with the terms needed to know when conquering a hill.  Essentially, we would mimic being fired upon during a patrol, the commander of the two would shout out that we're being hit, call to act as a pair, yell where the enemy is, how many, and how we're going to advance.  Then one guy would advance a few meters, keeping his head low, sprinting to find some cover and then drop into the prone position.  His partner, meanwhile, would provide covering fire.  Then we would switch.  We leapfrogged up the hill in this manner, eventually getting close enough to the "enemy" (cardboard targets), where we would (pretend to) toss a grenade, and then sprint at them, ending behind the last terrorist.

Michael and I switched off being the commander and the partner.  This was perhaps the biggest test of my Hebrew abilities.  Most of the words were completely foreign to me and it was necessary to memorize the entire script; you couldn't exactly stop, pull out the sheet and scan it to remember what to do next when you're "taking fire" from the enemy.  And, I'm proud to say, I nailed it.

It took me a while, there were certainly groups of words that never ceased to trip me up.  Michael and I would rehearse and if I got stuck on a line, he would make me repeat it, and then repeat it, and then repeat it, over and over again until I got it.  He was a big help.  While I also began to learn what some of the words meant, most of them were just sounds to me.  I honestly can't even imagine how infinitely easier this entire exercise would have been if it was in a military that spoke English!  I'm at the point in my Hebrew where I don't need to translate words in my head because I know what they mean.  But this week brought me back to square one where I had no clue what most of the words meant so they were just still foreign sounding noises, which made memorization even harder.

Each time Michael and I ran through this exercise with the Mem-Mem (company commander), we would do a dry run where we would shout "aish" ("fire") without actually pulling the trigger.  Then our commander would give us some pointers, we would go back down the hill, put our earplugs in, and then do the rest with live ammunition.  We would tell each other, "make sure you shoot far enough ahead, I don't want to be shot!"  We also did this at night, which made it just that much more....exciting.

When we weren't doing this exercise (and that meant most people) we were either practicing or being punished.  Well, not exactly punishment, but rather physical exercise designed to hurt us and get us tired and worn-out.  Is that punishment?  In many ways, this week was harder than our first week in the field. We crawled and crawled and crawled.  And we did it through the thorniest bushes imaginable.  And we carried people up and down mountains.  One mountain was so steep, that when I carried Michael on my back, I swear I thought I would fall backwards.  The ground was mainly loose dirt and rocks, so nothing gave a firm foothold.  He would be laughing on my back, trying to offer encouragement in English, that I eventually started shouting and swearing in English, yelling at him, at my commander at the top of the hill, at being in the army, at the extreme discomfort in my back, at my ankle every time it twisted on loose footing, at everything.  And eventually, it got me up the mountain.

We also practiced quickly assuming the prone, kneeling or standing positions.  Our commander would shout out the position or the distance of the terrorist and we would jump into place.  If we were on the ground, we often rolled over, which is near impossible and literally back breaking if you still have your helmet attached to your combat vest instead of on your head.  We also practiced what to do if we our gun jams.  The first kind of jam is where you need to pull back again on the charging handle and it pulls out the damaged round and reloads another.  The second kind of jam is if there are multiple bullets stuck in the chamber.  For this you need to drop to kneeling if you're in standing or prone if you're in kneeling, pull out the magazine, pull the charging handle a few times and then reload and fire.  Finally, the last is if you need a new mag.  While fun at times, it is definitely hard work, especially since you need to do it fast, without looking, and if you're in prone position, you have to roll over when performing the last two fixes.

But it comes in handy.  My gun jammed often when doing the exercise with my partner and while I froze the first time, not realizing what exactly needed to be done, I was quick to execute the proper steps to fix the jam and fire the next time it happened, much to the approval of my company commander.

This week was also much easier than our first week in the field because we were allowed to sleep in sleeping bags as opposed to digging ditches.  And we were given ample time to eat.  They broke us into the field our first week; they didn't need to do it again.

Tuesday evening, the Sammal (sergeant) decided to have one of his fun session with us when we know at the end we're going to be tired, exhausted and in pain.  This time, it was with the stretcher.  He had one guy get strapped in as if he were injured and then four people always carry the stretcher on their shoulders.  If one guy raises his hand, that means he needs to be switched out and someone comes up behind him, and taps him on the shoulder indicating that he's ready to take over.

This time, our Sammal had the three citahs (squads) race each other up the mountain and down.  Then we had to cross a hundred meter field three times.  And this was uneven terrain, strewn with boulders, rocks, and even barbed wire.  And day was turning to dusk.  We started off and when we reached the turnaround point, I switched with one of the guys in the front.  We raced back to the start and then turned around for the third and final leg of the trip.  I raised my hand, knowing that with the bar pulling down hard on my shoulder from being a taller guy, I couldn't make it the last hundred meters.  After a few steps, I didn't feel any tap on my shoulder.  I turned my head to yell that I needed to be switched and then BAM!  My legs get caught on rocks or barbed wire, the barrel my gun got jammed into the ground and the קת ("kaht" stock) of the gun broke my fall with my nose.

I was stunned, down on the ground, knowing that I had hit my nose real bad, but not having any sense of the damage.  My commander pulled me up to my feet, looked at me funny for a second because of the fading light, then realized that what he saw on my face was blood.  He quickly pulled out some tissues and put it to my nose.  I looked at my hands and my uniform and realized that the dark stains and lines were blood.  I had broken my nose.

The commanders called for the medic to come, but as we were in the field, and the medic in my plugah is really a guy who doesn't seem to care too much about his job, it took nearly an hour for him to make it out to see me.  "Does it hurt?  Let me take a look.  Do you think you can go on?  Are you sure it hurts?" Not exactly the warmest bedside manner.  He even wanted me to do the partner exercise one more time before going back to base to have a doctor check me out.  Finally, the Mem-Pay came by, asked if I had done the exercise already at night (I did, last night), and sent me back to base.  I took off my vest and waited by my room for someone to walk me the two blocks to the doctor's office.  Waited some more then a soldier took me into a room and started to take my information: name, plugah, what happened, what time..."Listen buddy.  I know for this sort of a thing, I definitely need some ice.  And it's been over an hour and a half.  Can I just get some freakin' ice?!"  "Sorry man, it's the army, I need to do this first."  Twenty minutes later, I had my ice.  Then the doctor saw me and decided that I could go to the hospital. Oh really?  You noticed that my nose is busted?  Wonderful, how insightful of you!

Half hour later and I was off to Beer Sheva hospital with a driver, a commander, and another soldier who had a spent bullet casing hit his eye.  Half hour later, over two hours after I fell, I finally was seen by a doctor, got an X-Ray, and my nose was officially fractured.  Congratulations, job well done Mr. Holmes!  Now I just had to wait for the other soldier to finish with his doctors.

At 1:30 in the morning, we left the hospital.  Now, I guess it is a rule or law in the army that no military vehicles can be driven between 1:30 and 6 in the morning.  Perfect.  We had to sleep in the car in the parking lot of the hospital for four hours.  Well, if you can call it sleep.  I guess the half hour drive along open, traffic-free roads is too much of a risk, especially with two injured soldiers, one of whom can be picked up by his father from base.  But such is this army.

Now it's my fault that I never got a clear answer as to what to or not to do from the doctor.  I got back to base around 6 and passed out.  Was woken up a few hours later by a soldier entering the room and I followed him out to the firing range to meet up with the rest of my unit.  I even went out to the range itself and popped off a few shots before telling my commanders that my nose was killing me and I couldn't breathe.  My Sammal sent me back to the room to rest.

And that's what I did until the evening when I went back to the doctor on my own initiative to get some answers.  I told her how I was in a lot of pain (obviously) and I couldn't breathe.  She told me that she would give me gimmelim (medical leave) until Sunday.  Wonderful!  She wrote some words on a sheet of paper and sent me on my way.  I told my Mefaked (commander) what the doctor said, that after the events of the next day, I would be going home.  All good, right?  Or so I thought.

The next day was Yom Horim (Parents' Day) for all of the soldiers.  Well, as lone soldiers we don't have any parents in the country so Tzanchanim sent us on a Yom Keff (Fun Day).  We went hiking near the Dead Sea, rode camels, talked with a Bedouin, had a barbecue and ended the day with a few hours at the beaches of Ashdod, just north of Gaza.  I showed the medic on the trip the note from the doctor and went home.  The rest of the soldiers in my plugah had to return to base.  Evidently when they got there, the other Mefakeds were like, "where's Daniel?"  And thus begins another chapter of IDF frustration.

I talked to David after the weekend and he said he was actually surprised it took this long for something like what I'm about to relate to you to happen to me.  The army can frustrate and anger, and this certainly succeeded in both.

I got a call Thursday evening from my Mefaked asking where I was.  "In Tel-Aviv with my family."  "Ok, bye."  I thought that was the end of it.  A half hour later: "You might need to return to base.  I'll call back to let you know.  Don't go to sleep."  But I'm on medical leave.  The doctor wrote me a note.  "Read me the note."  I read it.  "Ok, I'll let you know.  Call you back in fifteen."  In the meantime, I called my friend Sam to get his input.  It was close to midnight but he answered and helped me through the entire thing.  I read the doctor's note to him and he said that I might be shit out of luck, that the note makes no explicit reference to gimmelim and simply says that "Daniel Flesch has permission to go home after Yom Keff if he isn't feeling well."  That's all.  I called my commander back after a half hour and told him that I still can't breathe, I'm in pain, if I go back I still won't be able to perform my full duties, etc.  "Wake up at 5am and I'll give you my response."  Wonderful.

Another half hour later: "Flesch, you're coming to Hebron with us.  Wake up at 5, be in Jerusalem by 7, you'll go to Kiryat Arba and we'll pick you up there."  Bada bing bada boom.  Back in (semi) action.

That morning was not fun.  I got to Hebron by a military jeep and walked into an auditorium where my entire plugah was gathered to hear from an officer about guarding in the city.  I could feel everyone's eyes looking at me as I walked in in my Aleph uniform with my bag slung over my shoulder.  My Mem-Mem gave me a sincere look of displeasure.

The meeting lasted a few hours.  We learned that guarding in Hebron can be anything but a cakewalk.  We were told what to look for in crowds of Arabs, how they can quickly pull out a knife and then disappear into a mass of people, how bunches can appear out of nowhere and threaten any guard post.

I then took a bus with my citah to a base within Hebron for the weekend.  First off, the buses to Hebron are always bullet proof; they aren't the standard coach buses you see traversing Israel.  On my trip last summer, we went to Hebron in such a bus.  Now, almost exactly a year later, I was returning, this time as a part of the military.

We arrived at the Givati base.  When I say "base," it's more like an area where Givati soldiers live and operate.  Someone said that the reason every "building" on this base is a shipping container is because Israel can't have permanent bases in the West Bank.  That is unconfirmed.  Still, we slept on beds like at Mikveh in these shipping containers in a base that is probably no bigger than fifty meters by fifty meters. It was also right by an excavation from King David's time that I remember visiting twelve months ago.  This weekend was full of deja vu.

And it was completely void of guard duty.  The most interesting time I had was when a Givati officer walked us around to the different guard positions, explaining what the area is like, what to do, etc.  "There's a Palestinian house here, a Jewish family there, that building is all Jews, this one is Palestinian..."  Our guard posts were right in the middle between Jews and Palestinians.  You couldn't be closer to a place where tensions run high.  But for me, I would have no experience with that.

I told my Mem-Mem and Mefaked that regardless of any miscommunication that had occurred, I was still in pain and had difficulty breathing.  "Fine, you're going to guard our equipment all weekend."  What?!  The very purpose that you dragged me back here, to guard the city of Hevron, I can't do?  That's total crap!  I was in Hebron but barely left the Givati base.  I'm getting upset all over again right now as I think about my Mefaked telling me that and reliving those emotions.

The one time I left the base was on Saturday when the Mem-Mem, another soldier and myself walked the mile to the Tomb of the Patriarchs, the second holiest site in Judaism, where Abraham, Isaac, Jacob and their wives are buried.  Now I returned in uniform.

We went back to base that evening and the next day went out to the firing range, where we were to be all week.  That one day I did the most firing in my entire life, which really isn't saying much.  We would fire from fifty meters, 100 meters; standing, sitting; five bullets in ten seconds; two bullets, fix the jam intentionally caused by a reversed cartridge, then fire the last three; fire five bullets, switch cartridges then fire the rest; fire standing up, then go to the ground; at night, fire two shots to the body, then four as if the terrorist had fallen to the ground; and more and more and more.  It was hard but certainly fun.

The next day I had a doctor's appointment at a base near Rishon Leziyyon, the same place I went a few months ago for an eye exam.  I left in the morning (any day in Aleph, especially if it's the middle of the week, is a great day) and somehow found my way to the base after some difficulty.  A great moment was when I asked another Tzanchanim for directions and after talking for a few minutes I started to lose understanding and asked him to slow down because my Hebrew isn't very good.  "Are you not Israeli?" No man, I'm from America.  Did you think I was from here?  "Yeah."  Point for Daniel.

I saw the doctor just before his lunch break.  "So, are you on break right now?"  No, I've been at base since I fell.  "What, seriously?  You need to be on break.  I'm giving you two days medical leave.  Also, in four months we'll contact you in case you need plastic surgery."  Another point for Daniel.

I returned to Tel Aviv, had a wonderful lunch with Amy and the girls, then went back to base to grab some things.  On the way back that evening, I happened to be on the same bus out of base as the Mefaked who loves punishing me for speaking English.  This time, however, we spent the next three to four hours traveling to Tel Aviv and had quite the conversation.  It started off in Hebrew but as I explained more about myself, my experiences in college defending Israel, politics, Israel Apartheid Week, and other issues, we shifted to mainly English.  I mention this for a few reasons.  It showed me that he was interested in learning from me, in understanding my experiences and as I did not have the Hebrew to keep up the conversation, English was kosher, too.  Also, life will be different soon as basic training ends and advanced training begins in mid-July.  More to come about that later.  But finally, unlike some of my eighteen and nineteen year old fellow soldiers, I don't exactly worship the ground that the Mefakeds walk on.  They are certainly my commanders with an extensive amount of military experience more than me; however, they too can learn from me.  I'm twenty-three, a college graduate, and American.  Myself and other lone soldiers, without a doubt, interest them.  At the end of the trip back, I received a handshake from the Mefaked.  It was a great day.

I spent those couple days in Tel Aviv with my cousins and went back to base on Thursday morning for the day.  Now I'm finally back at my kibbutz for the first time in nearly a month.  We're starting to count down the weeks and days until basic training ends and we have a week off.  Until then, it's back to work on Sunday.