In a somewhat perverse action I volunteered to go to Israel to counter the horrendous deeds committed by the British against defenseless displaced persons from the concentration camps, who needed to build new lives for themselves in a new country.
Having gained some expertise during World War II as a navigator on heavy bombers, I thought I’d put this expertise to the new country’s use. We were a truly united nation of people from many countries who had volunteered their services, although we were by no means all volunteers. Mercenaries are no new phenomena. It seems they go back as far as human memory, and many have been glorified in literature. However, they represented only a small minority in Israel.
I am no believer in miracles, but what transpired in those months in 1948 could well be considered miraculous. The small fragmented army of a country of no more than 650,000 people, augmented by volunteers, withstood the might of millions of Arabs from surrounding countries.
In the early days of conflict, the nascent Israel Air Force had consisted of small single-engine civilian planes from which bottles were dropped that whistled like bombs as they fell. Eventually, other planes were acquired and the air force developed. It included three Beaufighters from England and three B-17s from America, which constituted the heavy-bomber squadron in which I served.
To digress, here’s an anecdote I heard, so to speak, from the horse’s mouth: a certain Englishman¹ from a respected family, and married to a Jewish girl, was requested to acquire the three Beaufighters and fly them to Israel. He was given a brown paper parcel containing a £100,000 in notes to buy the aircraft. He took a taxi home only to discover that he had left his wallet at home and could not pay the taxi-fare without delving into the hoard wrapped in brown paper on his lap. In great embarrassment he told the taxi-driver that he would have to get the fare from his wife at home. As he had no alternative, the taxi- driver accompanied him to ensure that he got his payment.
Subsequently, this friend of mine set up a bogus film company to film the “Battle of Britain,” and with the cameras rolling flew the planes and kept on flying them to Israel via Crete.
A raid was carried out on Gaza with our three B-17s and a few Dakota twin-engine passenger planes, their doors removed so that the bombs could be thrown out. By chance I picked up the BBC news service thirty-six hours later. The item on the Gaza bombing was as follows: “From usually reliable sources, it was reported that the Israel Air Force blackened the sky over Gaza with heavy bombers estimated to number three hundred.” I pondered this blatant exaggeration and the lateness of the report, and then realized that how else could the authorities explain to the British public that this tuppeny, ha’penny air force could overcome the British-trained, and possibly British-manned, anti-aircraft protection.
Our aircrew members came from diverse countries. The pilot, second pilot and bomb aimer were from America. I remember the pilot, a likeable fast-talking Yank. In civilian life he was the marketer for the “Dymaxian” products, produced at the end of the war by the aircraft industry using aluminum airplane-industry technology. He would tell how he would spend his last dollar to have his tie pressed and his shoes shone before going to see an important client to discuss a multi-million dollar scheme.
The bomb-aimer was a man of quiet disposition with an air of great sincerity. His name was Jules, a divorced man with an 11-year-old daughter. I remember that his financial circumstances were dire. In the States he ran a hot-dog stall, although to the best of my memory he had qualified as a teacher. After some time in the Israel Air Force he was due to go back to the United States.
I happened to be in the office when he came in. “I have come to collect my money,” he said. “What money?” was the reply. “The money they promised me when I volunteered,” he said. “Didn’t you get paid every month?” asked the clerk in the office. “Yes, I did,” said Jules, referring to the three pounds a month we got paid and which we blew on one meal in a restaurant high up on the hill in Haifa.
“So what money are you talking about?” asked the clerk. “The thousand dollars a month I was promised in the States,” said Jules. “That was for the mercenaries,” the clerk responded. “Aren’t you a Jew?” he asked. “Yes,” replied Jules. “Then why are you acting like a mercenary?” asked the clerk. “If you pay that to the mercenaries, why won’t you pay that to a Jew?” asked Jules, “or are you anti-Semitic?”
The argument went back and forth with tempers rising. Finally the clerk capitulated and agreed to pay. What followed was calculation on calculation, checking the calculation and then more checking until a figure was finally agreed upon. At this point a check was written out. Jules checked it carefully and redid his calculation. I knew Jules’s circumstances and that he supported his daughter, and I admired his stubbornness and insistence. Finally, Jules accepted that the check was correct in all respects, and then calmly tore it up. “What was that all about?” asked the clerk. “Do you really take me for a mercenary?” asked Jules. “But a promise is a promise!”
¹ The London Daily Herald of 9th September 1948 names the man as Anthony Eric Terence Farnfield, described as a six foot ginger-haired South African with a R.A.F.-type handlebar moustache.
Source: South Africa’s 800 by Henry Katzew (Chapter 20).