Leon Uris (11 page)

Six men, half of Haj Ibrahim’s guards, swallowed Ghassan’s wild description of a night of splendor he had spent with them. At Ghassan’s arrangement they deserted their posts in the middle of the night and slipped their way down to Ramle.

A buxom young blonde did indeed appear at the door of the designated house and bid them enter. They were discovered the next day in the Tabah village square with their throats slashed and their penises amputated and shoved into their mouths. The balance of Haj Ibrahim’s militia deserted over the next few days, fleeing back to their own villages.

The next week the muktar of one of Tabah’s neighboring villages was found decapitated in his fields. The defense of Tabah fell into the hands of a badly frightened and inept group of peasants. Although Ibrahim knew he was on the Mufti’s death list, he refused to cross the highway to seek help from the Haganah in Shemesh Kibbutz or from his friend Gideon Asch. Only Haj Ibrahim’s personal courage and all-night vigils kept the villagers from mass flight.

The next week was hellish for Tabah. Mufti raiders hid safely during the day deep in the caves of the Bab el Wad a half dozen miles up the highway. Under cover of night they came out and finessed their way around the Tegart fort at Latrun to the edges of Tabah’s fields. The Mufti’s Mojahedeen stalked their prey, picking off stray guards and howling terrifying obscenities. When villagers fled their posts they left their own fields and livestock naked for looting.

By the time a British patrol could be dispatched from Latrun, the raiders had slipped back into the wilds of the Judean hills. It was a land so fiercely rugged it had perplexed the legions of ancient Rome for years in trying to flush out Hebrew rebels. The deep ravines, impassable hills, and buried caves had given centuries of protection to hero warriors, smugglers, and thieves alike.

The British installed a token of permanent protection for Tabah, with roadblocks and frequent patrols, but they were thinly manned and could be easily bypassed. The British garrison had simply been stretched beyond effectiveness. The inevitable big raid to stampede Tabah could not be long in coming.

Gideon Asch had been assigned as the Haganah liaison with the British. His contact was Colonel Wilfred Foote, an old Middle East hand and close aide to the commanding general. Fink’s, a zany little eight-table affair of a restaurant in downtown Jewish West Jerusalem, was the favorite place for British officers and a natural listening post for the Haganah. Fink’s was one of those open secrets, a rendezvous and mart for exchanging information. David Rothschild, the proprietor, who often complained, tongue in cheek, that he was no relative of another family of the same name, nodded to Gideon Asch as he entered.

Gideon made his way up a squeaking stairs to a private room where Colonel Foote was waiting.

Rothschild delivered a tray of schnitzels and beer and closed the door behind him as he left.

The main concern today was the critical situation in Tabah. Gideon had informers in the village whose main job now was to not let Haj Ibrahim out of their sight. If Ibrahim were assassinated, there would be little hope of keeping the peasants of six villages from taking wing.

At meal’s end, Foote poured coffee, lit cigars, and changed the subject. ‘So far, no Jewish settlement has been in serious trouble,’ he said, ‘but those rascals are getting more brazen by the moment. If Kaukji were to knock over a single kibbutz, the recruiting lines in Baghdad would be a mile long the next day. I share the Jewish Agency’s faith in the Haganah, but we are starting to run the risk of seeing the Mufti turn this thing around.’

‘If you stopped using the energy of the British Army in chasing down immigrants, you’d be much more effective against the real enemy,’ Gideon answered. It was the perennial Jewish complaint.

Foote blew a ring of smoke, perplexed. ‘So would twenty thousand more troops help,’ he said. ‘You know that General Clay-Hurst has his hands tied. He can neither get more forces, nor can he formulate political policy.’

‘What we want to know is,’ Gideon said, ‘if things get worse, will you keep the Arab Legion over there in Trans-Jordan?’

‘If we allow Abdullah to cross the Jordan River, I daresay he’ll never leave Palestine. It’s also in Jewish interest to see that he stays put. As good as the Haganah is, it would eventually have to take on the Arab Legion. It’s a damned good little army. Our situation is this. We can’t do a hell of a lot more against the Mufti without having the entire Arab world cave in on us. We’re giving serious consideration to some very bright ideas.’

‘Namely?’

‘A young officer has recently joined the staff here. He’s a bit of an off horse, one of those maverick types who pop up now and again. He’s captivated the general with some quite original notions.’

‘What’s his background?’

‘Captain. Scottish ancestry. Deeply religious childhood, son of missionaries. I say, he’s rabidly in favor of Zionism and, incidentally, he speaks Hebrew like a Jew.’

‘What does he know about the Arabs?’

‘Long tour of duty in the Sudan. Bit of a desert rat. He’s won some measure of renown going on a one-man mission in search of the lost Zarzura oasis in the Libyan Desert. And don’t challenge him on the Bible.’

‘What does he have in mind?’ Gideon asked, smothering his growing curiosity.

‘A small elite force of Jewish night fighters given a free hand to strike where and when necessary without written orders. No one will ever be called to task over what they do. What do you think?’

‘It’s an interesting idea.’

‘Shall I ask him to join us?’

Gideon nodded. Colonel Foote pushed a buzzer, then lifted the phone connected to the bar. ‘Mr. Rothschild, there’s a chap at the end of the bar ... yes, a captain. Would you send him up? No, no thank you, we have plenty of coffee.’

A knock was followed by the entrance of a smallish but handsome dark-haired man in his early thirties. ‘You must be Gideon Asch.’ He spoke in a most friendly manner. ‘I’m a longtime admirer. I’ve traveled by your Sinai maps. Orde Wingate at your service.’

It was a lifelong friendship at first handshake.

‘What are you up to, Captain Wingate?’ Gideon asked.

The Scot smiled charmingly, but Gideon noticed that slight hint of lovely madness in his eyes. ‘We have to take the night away from the Mufti,’ he said. ‘You’re half Bedouin yourself, Mr. Asch. You know it can be done with a small, dedicated striking force. They must be good, very good, the best. They have King David’s tradition to uphold. I’ll let them know that.’

‘How many boys do you have in mind?’

‘Deborah and Barak routed a massive Canaanite army at the foot of Mount Tabor with three hundred hand-picked men. He was able to do it because he knew the Canaanites were illiterate and superstitious and used the night and great noises as deadly weapons.’

‘Captain Wingate. Suppose I’m able to sell this idea to the Haganah and Ben-Gurion. We have an urgent situation in the Valley of Ayalon. It will mean trailing fifty to a hundred of the Mufti’s men deep into the Bab el Wad. How soon can you address yourself to it and how many men do you need?’

‘Ten, twelve. They must speak Arabic fluently. I’ll teach them what the Bab el Wad means to Jewish fighters if you’ll do the tracking for us. Give me two weeks.’

‘I’ll have an answer for you tonight,’ Gideon said.

‘I jolly well told General Clay-Hurst you’d go for it,’ Foote said jubilantly.

‘Captain Wingate,’ Gideon said, ‘you didn’t come upon this by revelation in the middle of the night. What is your theory?’

‘I am a dedicated Zionist. I believe this is Jewish land. I also believe that the ways of using these valleys and hills and deserts for defense have all been writ in the Bible. If there is ever to be a Jewish nation in Palestine, I feel destined to be a part of making it.’

‘What is the rest of your theory, Captain?’

‘The Jews, we Zionists,’ he said, ‘will never be able to settle more than a few million people here. That is reality. What is also reality is the fact that such a state will always be surrounded by tens of millions of hostile and unforgiving Arabs. You cannot expect to hold them at bay forever. Sheer weight of numbers and a Moslem society that perpetuates hatred makes that impossible. If you are to survive, you must establish the principle of retaliation. For example, I am going to need several squads of these night fighters to guard the Iraqi oil pipeline into Haifa. It covers hundreds of miles and obviously a few dozen men can’t protect it from sabotage. What the Arab must understand before he cuts the pipe is that he is going to face a reprisal... massive retaliation—it is the key to controlling forces a hundred times the size of your own.’

‘Captain Wingate,’ Gideon said, ‘what kept you so long?’

D
EPENDING ON WHOSE GRANDMOTHER
was telling the tale, the olive press belonging to Ibn Yussuf of the Village of Fakim was anywhere from two hundred to two thousand years old. Four to five centuries was most likely. Ibn Yussuf’s ancestors had made a meager but passable living from the press for generations.

The Village of Fakim was midway up the Bab el Wad, off the main highway, embedded in the plunging ravines and terraces of the Judaean wilds. Despite its dire location, villagers came from miles around to avail themselves of Ibn Yussuf’s press, which owned a magical reputation. Its product could not be matched. The more ancient the press, the more splendid the oil’s fragrance, taste, and character.

Even the Jews, with all their modern skills, could not match Ibn Yussuf’s oil press, and eventually representatives of kibbutz after kibbutz found their way into the hills for Ibn Yussuf to convert their crops. Ibn Yussuf, scratched out a living, generally getting paid for his services in grain and other staples. One day the manager of the olive groves at Shemesh Kibbutz came to Ibn Yussuf with an idea that changed his fortunes considerably.

The idea was simple. Instead of accepting grain, Ibn Yussuf would charge a small percentage of the oil he produced. The kibbutz set up for him a one-building cottage industry to can the oil and they marketed it through their own cooperative. The size of the cans was either one or two liters and bore the words
IBN YUSSUF’S OLIVE OIL
in Arabic, Hebrew, and English. Beneath that was a sketch of the famed old press and the words
FOUNDED IN 1502, FAKIM
.

Ibn Yussuf and his wife were a childless couple, a considerable tragedy that bleached out their lives. Since he dealt with the Jews on a regular basis, he was convinced by them to allow himself and his wife to be examined at the Jewish hospital in Jerusalem. It was ascertained that a simple corrective operation performed on his wife could make her fertile. Afterward she bore him two healthy children, one of them the desired son.

The boy was nearly killed in a highway accident in infancy. Again it was the Jewish hospital that saved his life. Ibn Yussuf was a meek, humble little man, but his gratitude proved immense.

Gideon Asch found him in the normal course of events and over a period of years cultivated a special relationship. Since Ibn Yussuf was privy to the gossip from many Arab villages that used his olive press, he often knew in advance of any stir, any brewing against the Jews.

Fakim was also an excellent staging place for the raids of the Mufti’s gangs and, more recently, of Kaukji’s Irregulars. After an action the raiders would drift back to Fakim, ditch their loot and weapons in secret caches, and melt back into the Judaean hills until the British pursuit gave up. The villagers were treated roughly by the rebels, ranging from common theft of crops to an occasional rape, but there was little they could do in the way of protest. On numerous occasions younger village men were impressed into service. Kaukji himself made several appearances as the village was turned into a semipermanent base. Ibn Yussuf fared poorly. His one-room factory was the largest building in Fakim and had been all but confiscated for rebel meetings. Several hundred cans of olive oil were taken as ‘donations’ to the ‘Strike Fund for Distressed Palestine.’ It was obvious that a buildup in and around Fakim was taking place, an indication that a major action was pending, and there was no doubt that Tabah was to be the target.

Meanwhile, twenty hand-picked young Haganah men, the cream of Palestine, had gathered at Shemesh Kibbutz to form the first Special Night Squad under Orde Wingate.

Wingate treated them to a preview of hell. He literally turned day into night by plunging them into soul-sucking all-night marches that included cliff and rock climbing in total darkness. Their bodies amassed lumps, cuts, bruises, and bloody feet from the brutal terrain and even more brutal hand-to-hand guerrilla training. He taught them stealth and cunning that could get them eye to eye with an unsuspecting fawn. Tracking, shooting, cliff scaling, knife fighting, strangling, crawling, underwater movement, fox and hound chases, judo, interrogation methods, patrol without compass or light: hit quick, deadly, no pity, no nonsense.

When they had succumbed to exhaustion, Wingate paraded before their prostrate bodies and preached Zionism in English and spoke long Bible passages in Hebrew from memory. He imposed upon them absolute knowledge of how to use each part of the land as it had been used by the ancient warriors of Judaea and Israel.

With Arabs, Jews, and British living in close proximity in a fairly heavily populated area, secrets were always on the open market. News of the strange English officer and his troops became part of the daily gossip. The squad was always under scrutiny as it left the kibbutz by truck. To keep their movements obscure, he taught the men to leap from the trucks at intervals while traveling at high speeds. They would hide in the roadside ditches, then go, one by one, to an assembly place unknown to the Arabs.

The twin hillocks at Latrun were the last sentinels before entering the Bab el Wad. On one side of the highway stood a British Tegart fort. On the other side there was a Trappist monastery that had won a measure of note for producing a cheap but excellent wine. The original site of the monastic settlement had been abandoned for a modern building. It was in the old abandoned monastery that Gideon and Ibn Yussuf were able to keep meeting away from prying eyes.