Lonely Soldier The Memoir of an American in the Israeli Army

Chapter 1 Wanting the Red Beret Over the last five months, I've run on dirt paths to increase my stamina and made every effort to improve my ability to speak and understand Hebrew. I'm now well beyond being only able to ask where to find the bathroom, but I'm far from being able to communicate fully and completely understand what's being said. Collectively, members of the kibbutz have spent hours describing military life while we're working in the fields or relaxing in the community's lounge, but I still don't have a clear idea of what to expect. At 5 am on November 6, as ready as I'll ever be, I kiss my girlfriend good-bye. I hope I look more relaxed and less anxious than I feel. I cut through the cow pasture and climb over an eight-foot-high fence, carrying a knapsack filled with socks, underwear, shorts, T-shirts, small notepads, pens, and a paperback novel. I reach the road that links the kibbutz to the wider world. After ten minutes, I cross the main road to the same bus stop that has taken me to Jerusalem many times in the past. Today I'm standing in the dark waiting for a bus to take me to Jerusalem. From the local induction center in Jerusalem, I'll be taken to a base near Tel Aviv, called Bakum, where everyone in Israel begins his or her military service. While I'm waiting, a car approaches. I point my index finger at the ground as Israelis do when they want to hitch a ride. It's as if I'm asking the car to stop right where my finger is pointing. My bus should be coming along soon, but asking for a ride has become a reflex. I recognize the vehicle as being one of the twenty cars used by kibbutz members. As the car stops beside me, I see that it is Yaakov. I've worked with him in the almond fields. He rolls down his window and says, "Where are you going?" "Jerusalem." "I'm going to Tel Aviv, but I can drop you off at the next junction." I gladly accept, because more buses stop at that junction. I tell him I'm going to Bakum, and he wants to know where I am going to serve. "I don't know yet. Where did you serve?" "With the tanks." The five-minute car ride is over. Yaakov pulls over to the side of the road. Before I open the door, he offers his hand and says, "Good luck." "Thanks, Yaakov. Drive safe." I'm already out of the car and shutting the door when I hear him say, "You're going to be all right." "I hope so." I shut the door and wave good-bye. Ten minutes later, a bus stops and picks me up. Traveling on the modern highway connecting Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, I look out the window and see half a dozen rusted trucks on the edge of the road. I know them well. They've been resting here for more than forty years. During the Israeli War of Independence, Arab forces blockaded the road to Jerusalem. The Jewish citizens in Jerusalem were under siege, and the Palmach staved off starvation and capitulation by delivering vital supplies in convoys. These convoys came under attack; fierce battles were waged along this road. As a constant reminder of the sacrifices made by these men and women, several vehicles damaged in the fighting have been left to rust where they broke down. On the kibbutz there lives a woman who drove one of those trucks. She looks younger than her sixty years, and it's hard to imagine that this attractive blonde with a pixie-like stature, sweet disposition, and mischievous smile ever knew a moment of stress or anxiety in her life. As weHarmon, Adam is the author of 'Lonely Soldier The Memoir of an American in the Israeli Army', published 2006 under ISBN 9780891418740 and ISBN 0891418741.