The underground organization that recruited American volunteers in 1947 was known as Land & Labor. When I was seventeen, my friend Simon Levy and I decided that we had to volunteer to fight in the war that was inevitable between the Jews of Palestine and their Arab neighbors. I came from a family of strong Zionist tradition. I remember crossing over to becoming an active Zionist when I heard Pierre Van Passen, a Dutch Unitarian minister, speak at our synagogue; he told the story of how our Palestinian Jewish brothers had fought courageously in the Second World War for the Allies, only to be forgotten when the war ended. His book, “The Forgotten Ally,” is a book I will never forget; nor will I ever forget his speech about where we were as a people in 1944. ‘Justice must be done’ went through my young mind. Raised in the Conservative religious tradition I was exposed at an early age to the pioneering spirit of those living in Palestine.
My father was a righteous Jew who gave generously to Jewish causes, fought to have Hebrew taught in the high schools of Brooklyn in New York, and imbued his children with ethics and a love for Israel and the Jewish people that they would never forget. When word reached the local Zionist Council that Simon Levy and Ira Feinberg had met with Haganah representatives, and had applied to volunteer in the Haganah (the Jewish army to-be), they conducted a hearing to determine our worthiness and competency to become volunteers. Simon’s uncle went out of his way to ‘kill’ our applications: he simply did not want Simon to go. I had the proud distinction of being rejected by none other than the renowned Emanuel Neuman, a very high official and leader in the Zionist Organization of America. The rejection –based upon my youthful age and appearance (I was 17 when I enlisted in the Haganah) – and my obvious lack of military experience, only inflamed my passion to continue my efforts to reach the land where I was destined to fight for the creation of Israel.
I found a sympathetic rabbi, probably one by title only. (It was lunchtime when we met, and he sent me out to get some sandwiches for both of us. I ordered a tuna fish sandwich for myself, and he shocked the hell out of me when he asked me to bring him back a ham sandwich.) He was probably an undercover agent acting as a rabbi, claiming he represented the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in New York. He listened very seriously and sympathetically to my determined demands: that either he help me, or I would stow away on the first ship I could find going to Palestine.
He sensed that I meant what I said and made the connection for me to meet the so-called ‘shoo-shoo’ men who represented the Haganah in New York. (They were called that because one had to say ‘shoo’ when discussing anything clandestine related to Palestine, and the activities that they were engaged in.) ‘Shoo-shoo’ was an onomatopoetic word that meant a secret; the ‘shoo’ sound was made when someone was talking too loudly, and you didn’t want anyone to overhear what was being said.
Danny Silver, the son of Abba Hillel Silver, the great Jewish orator and leader of American Zionism of the time, was convinced that he had to help me in my unstoppable quest. His secret headquarters for his recruitment work was at the Hotel Breslin on Broadway, not very far from Macy’s in the heart of Manhattan. He knew that I had been rejected by the Zionist Council in Brooklyn, and in order not to override its decision, he cleverly and diplomatically assigned me to a group of Canadian volunteers about to leave for Palestine.
I was physically and mentally examined, and approved healthy enough to be a volunteer. I now needed to overcome one last hurdle to make my dream a reality, my parents’ permission. I needed their permission in order to get a passport to travel. Without it, I couldn’t travel anywhere. When I told my mother, a sabra born in 1903 in Jaffa, what my mission was, she categorically and immediately responded with a very definitive No! I then went to my father, an active Zionist (I needed only one parent’s approval to secure the passport), and requested that he assist me in getting a passport. He tried to convince me that I was too young, and that it would be a better idea to stay home and raise funds if I believed so strongly in this noble cause. I told him that I had to go, and that I would go with or without his blessing. I was shocked and surprised when he agreed to let me go. What normal father or mother would want to see a son or daughter at the young age of 17 go off to a war thousands of miles away. I believe that he knew that he was being tested like Abraham, and that if he did not say yes he would have denied everything he believed in and had so arduously worked for. He demanded that my mother accompany me to the Federal building in New York to assist me in getting the passport. My final hurdle had been removed.
The Canadians arrived in New York in March 1948, and I was introduced to them at the Hotel Taft. In my eyes they were all older men, and I was the kid who was going along with the big guys. To boot, I was a Yank, as they called me then. They drank a lot, and I accepted some hard liquor out of solidarity with them, but I had a hard time drinking it. Rum and coke was the fashion of the day, and so rum and coke I drank, sparingly for sure.
A day later we boarded the “Marine Tiger” from a pier of New York harbor. It was a cloudy day and I can remember my brother Sheldon and his wife Selma, secretly there on the pier to see me off. Goodbye America and Hello Europe, gay Paris for one night. Then to southern France to a training camp and jumping-off point, and eventually Palestine circa April 1948. Our shaliach (emissary), whose last name was Goren, and whose first name eludes me (Moshe or Itzik) warned us not to mingle with the other passengers, and to be as elusive as possible about our destination and what we were planning to do when he arrived there.
The voyage was a rough one, as it was still winter and the seas were stormy. The ship had been refurbished to accommodate war brides who were immigrating to the States from Europe to join their soldier husbands who had married them while on duty there. On the ship’s return voyage it was practically empty, except for a few passengers and us. This is a story in itself, as two of our shipmate friends, Tony Ferrento and Al McDonald, were on a very similar mission as we were. Only they were going to fight for the other side, the Arab side. They fought as artillery officers in the Egyptian Army, and were killed in combat fighting our forces in the Negev.
I had the privilege of owning a car that was being shipped in my name. Since I had never before owned one, I paid a visit to the hold to see what it looked like. There it was, a brand-new car, shipped in the name of Ira Feinberg. We embarked in Le Havre and took the train to Paris. How exciting Paris was for a young American! It was the thrill of my life, and all of us had one last blast in Paris in the Pigalle quarter before leaving the next morning for Marseilles.
From there we were sent to the training and transit camp called Tretz, somewhere in the hills outside of Marseilles, where I first encountered the survivors of Hitler’s holocaust. I gladly gave up a coat that I owned, and some other small things, for those poor emaciated souls. I was now beginning to understand what the world had allowed to happen, and of which we had no real knowledge. In the States I was told if you wanted to do a little bartering, bring a lot of soap bars to France, and in those days when all of Europe was in deep poverty, you could get anything you wanted in the barter transaction. I never had the time or opportunity to make a deal.
Moshe Lipson and Yochai Ben Nun, two Palestinians as they were called then, gave us a few days of orientation in soldiering. We had night training in squads, and learned how to assemble and disassemble a Sten gun (the precursor of the Uzi). There were five of us clinging together for camaraderie as well as for a feeling of security. I was still the kid. There was Ralph Moster, who became my older brother or surrogate father, Sonny Wosk who was Ralph’s best friend from Vancouver, Larry Suras, and Ray Rudin. Four or five days went by and we were told that the next day we would be on our way to Eretz Yisrael. A lorry took us all to the port of Marseilles, and there we received our passports with visas to enter Palestine. Some clerk, either real or not, at the British Embassy in Paris, or in some forgery location where visas and passports were created, made the mistake of writing my father’s name where the visa holder’s name was supposed to be. I worried about it for a few days aboard the ship as we were sailing to Palestine; would they let me in, or not, when I arrived with a name that was not mine but that of my father? Maybe this would let the cat out of the bag and my whole effort would backfire.
When I did arrive nobody questioned me about the mistake. A committee of three or four sat behind a long table and gave each person boarding the “Kedmah,” his documents, some food rations, and compliments of Ira Feinberg, a couple of bars of American soap that I never had the chance to barter with in Paris. Those in charge decided that it would look peculiar for one of us to enter Palestine with 100 bars of soap. And so they gave each immigrant one or two bars of my soap with, of course, my warmest good wishes.
The “Kedmah” was no deluxe luxury cruise liner. Our sleeping quarters were on the canvas covering of one of the holds. There we slept and passed the time until we arrived in early April 1948 to the port of Haifa on a Friday night, just in time for Sabbath. The night before we disembarked we watched fighting and shooting – like fireworks – between the Arabs and Jews of Haifa from our ship, docked on a quay extending over the water from the port. The next day a flat-water craft took us from the “Kedmah” to the port. There we were placed in homemade armored cars and driven to Hadar HaCarmel, where we were examined. If you were blind, deaf or dumb you would have passed this accelerated test. We were now soldiers in the army of Israel.
Egged buses were ready to transport us to the next stop, which was to be Kiryat Mayer, just outside Tel Aviv. At an Israeli army camp, we were each given some military clothing and a pair of boots. Since nobody knew what to do with us, we lingered in the tents wondering, what would come next? Other Americans and Canadians were waiting for assignments to an army that existed on paper only. Remember, the British were still in Palestine and very little could be done overtly until they were gone. So to keep us busy and make us feel like soldiers, our commanders taught us to march like British soldiers, swinging our arms to shoulder-height and learning to march with the same foot put forward as the soldier by your side. The cry of the sergeant in charge sounded to my ears, unfamiliar with Hebrew, as if smoll [left] meant “small.” Later I learned that the word for right was yameen. But to me it still rings in my ears to this day that smoll means “small,” not left.
There were really three potential armies that saw themselves as the only one true army to defend the nascent State of Israel. They differed philosophically and politically and ranged from the left to the right. The Haganah, together with their offensive fighting forces called the Palmach, was on the left, with Ben-Gurion at its titular head. The Irgun, from the center to the right, was led by Menachem Begin, and the Stern Gang was on the extreme right and made up the smallest group. The Irgun and the Stern Gang were classified as terrorist groups, while the Haganah was considered mainstream, and willing to negotiate with both the Arabs and the British. The Irgun believed in an Israel that embraced both sides of the Jordan River. Its members believed in an Israel that included part of Trans-Jordan, since Palestine had been truncated by the British in 1922, when it peremptorily cut off a piece of ancient Palestine, and for an obviously assuaging diplomatic reason awarded it to the Hashemite Tribes under the rule of King Abdullah. With this artificial truncation, they advanced the cause of British colonialism by creating an area of influence in the Middle East with this modern-day fiefdom.
In their quest to arm themselves for the up-and-coming fight for independence, the Irgun used whatever means possible to arm and train themselves, even if meant killing British soldiers. Some of the most heroic, courageous and idealistic fighters in the history of Israel were members of the Irgun. The story of their real heroism has never been told. The Stern Gang had no interest in dealing with the British in any other way than to terrorize them into leaving Palestine, thus leaving it for the Jews. Its small cells of operatives would eventually collapse after the state was declared, when they continued to act as an army with a non-compromising position against all enemies of Israel who should be destroyed no matter the cost, and no matter what the world considered proper.
This was exemplified by the assassination of the official designated by the United Nations to mediate between the Arabs and Jews, Count Folke Bernadotte.
Here we were in a camp in Palestine where the two major Jewish groups wanted us, and vied to enlist us in their “army”. The Haganah, on the defensive in every area where Jews confronted Arabs, was waiting until after the British departed to act aggressively to achieve its objectives. Its fighting arm, the Palmach, was drawn mainly from the kibbutzim [communal agricultural settlements] and its fighters had some training and were ready to do battle, but they were spread out in units in the north, south and east, guarding the lifelines of Jewish towns, cities, and settlements. Upon the departure of the British, and as left various British fortifications standing, the Irgun became unrestrained, and in April they engaged the Arab forces of Jaffa who had commenced harassing and firing on their neighbors in Tel-Aviv. So began the battle for Jaffa; the Irgun entered to take it over and force out the Arab forces. During the day the battle was somewhat subdued, but at night all hell broke loose. Some Irgun fighters and commanders came to our camp, and invited us to join them in the battle now raging in Jaffa. Together with a few of my comrades, we visited their battle lines at night to decide if this was the army we wanted to join. The next day, the Palmach recruiter came to our camp, and our five-buddy team – Ralph Moster, Sonny Wosk, Ray Rudin, Lawrence Suras and I – decided unanimously to join the Palmach. W e left all the other American and Canadians behind, and immediately went to the Galilee to a Palmach camp near Rosh Pina.
We were the most unfit soldiers you could ever find. At the age of 17, I was a pack-a-day smoker, and the most physical exercise I ever had in the past three years was holding a cue stick in a pool and billiard parlor. The first day we were awakened at 5:30 a.m., and off we went, jogging for two or three miles. I could barely keep up but I wouldn’t let on that an American from Brooklyn couldn’t do the same as trained kibbutzniks. Ralph, who was very flabby, smoked a lot, and his exercise over the previous three years consisted of taking laundry from the washing machines he operated at his business in his Laundromat in Vancouver, and throwing it into the dryers. Lawrence Suras was a bit overweight, Sonny had suffered from rheumatic fever as a child, and his heart wasn’t the best. He was in pretty poor shape but as a shochet [butcher], a profession he practiced in Vancouver, his arms were muscular and very strong, as were Ray Rudin’s. What a group of misfits we were! Five days of rudimentary training and we were called Palmachniks ready for battle. None of us spoke any more Hebrew than “ken” or “lo” [yes or no]. We were broken up into two teams. Ralph, Sonny and I were a machine gun team. Ray and Larry were assigned to a Piat (an anti-tank or armored car attack weapon similar to the bazooka) team. I learned how to line up a target with an Enfield rifle and my instructor taught me how to fire without using ammunition, of which we were very short. Ralph was assigned a Browning 30-caliber machine gun (cannibalized from a destroyed World War II Spitfire).
He was assigned this job because he had been a pilot in the Royal Canadian Air Force, and had been trained to dismantle the Browning machine gun fixed in the wings of his plane. Sonny was to carry the base (which came from a World War II German 30-caliber machine gun), and I, the third in the team, had the spare ammo loaded on my body; its weight seemed heavier than my 138 lbs. I was also given two ammunition boxes, each the size of an attaché case, one in each hand (good training when I later became a bell-hop working my way through college).
It was the evening of May 14th 1948 that we were assembled in a field at our camp in Rosh Pina. We were in full battle dress and assembled according to units, platoons and battalions, The Declaration of Independence of the State of Israel was read to us, and for Jewish people everywhere. What a moment in Jewish history! This was our pep talk before we were to go into battle against the enemy, the Arab world that chose to push us into the sea. The next evening we boarded our buses. Some of us would never return to Rosh Pina. On the buses the songs reverberated, a medley of Hebrew, Russian, French and American songs, and of course the marching song of the Palmach, and as we sang them our fears were being sublimated.
When the buses reached the foothills that led to our military objectives, we were silent. It was a pitch-black night as we climbed in single file up the steep hills. It seemed as if there was no end to the climb. We just kept on and on. I don’t know how I or my pals Sonny and Ralph kept up, but kept up we did. Sometime after many hours, I slipped, probably because of vertigo combined with sheer exhaustion, and the little attaché-size wooden boxes that I had carefully carried in my hands came smashing down on some sizable stones along the path, cracking their fragile wooden frames open and spewing out the 30-caliber bullets that were neatly fixed on the belts that carried them. Fortunately we were given time to rest just at that moment, and I had time to clean them off and put my ammo box back together again, with the bullets on the belt neatly in place. I even managed to repair the little wooden boxes that carried them. This stop in our climb was the end of our all-night walk, and we were allowed to sleep, if we could, in the hot sun, with no shade to shelter us. It was this long day in the sun the night before the attack that weakened many of us. We were not permitted to drink any of the water that we carried in our canteens, as this was our reserve for the following days, or in the event of an emergency.
At the end of the day, when the sun set finally and cooler weather prevailed, we continued to rest until total darkness fell. In the dark we packed our supplies and gear and moved on to our battle objectives, Malkiya, Nebi-Yesha and Kadesh, two towns and a Tegart fort, which we were commanded to capture. After the battles, there was a rumor that a doctor in our camp was a spy and had communicated with the Syrians that we were coming. A trap was set for us, and we stepped right into an ambush as the enemy allowed us to enter the village of Malkiya and then, when we reached the center of the village, opened fire on us. Over 30 of our best Palmachniks fell in the first few hours of battle. How ironic it was that on the day that Jews all over the world were celebrating the creation and independence of the Jewish state, we were suffering a catastrophic defeat by the Arabs. Later we learned that in other areas where we were fighting for our lives, the conditions were also very bad, and we had lost some important positions and terrain. The Old City of Jerusalem was lost, and the New City was nearly cut off from the rest of Israel. The Egyptians were moving up from the south, and in the east was the Arab Legion of Trans-Jordan under Glubb Pasha, a British general who commanded them. The Iraqis were lined up in the northeast, and the Syrians and Lebanese in the north. The world turned its back on the Jewish state. No nation lifted a finger to stop the invasion of the armies sworn to drive every Jew into the sea. The United States imposed an embargo on all arms to the Middle East, and by so doing punished Israel the most, but not the Arabs, who had the weapons and could secure more if they needed them from Britain, which tilted totally towards the Arabs.
Now back to the battle area: we were a group of 20, a small platoon. We were covering the humiliating retreat and ambush of Malkiya and Nebi-Yesha. Arab soldiers were firing on us from the hills above. We were sitting ducks on the plains. After carrying his Browning 30-caliber, Ralph couldn’t get it to fire. Our commander ran over to him, released the safety switch and starting firing on the Arabs who were getting closer and closer to us.
When our 30-caliber Browning finally starting spitting out bullets, their advance was halted, but they kept firing on us from about 500 yards from our position. I was told to remain behind a large rock. Suddenly, bullets starting hitting all sides of the rock. I couldn’t figure out, why me? My commander came running over and pulled down a rifle I had been given that I had stood upright against the rock, making it a perfect target for the enemy to shoot at. After four days of military training, what would you expect?
The next moment the three of us were given an order to move out from where we were, and climb to a hill overlooking the valley. Just as we made it to the top, a shell hit our previous location, killing five or six of our comrades. On that hill I remember meeting the two young Canadians (Edward Lugech and Harvey Abba Cohen) who later went missing in action, and whose bodies have never been found.* They were very agitated and upset. Neither of them spoke any Hebrew, nor had they been trained to be soldiers. They complained about how they had been through hell, and unless they got some training and learned some Hebrew, they were going to ask to be sent home. Later on they did decide to stay, and in one of the battle excursions they must have been separated from our forces, and they were never seen again. In those days, if the Arabs caught you, you were a dead duck.
*The story of how the remains of these two men were eventually found appears in the list of the Fallen under their names.
From our high position in the distance we could see a string of our soldiers retreating hastily, moving down from the main battle area of Malkiya. They ultimately passed through our position. I saw one of my tent mates, a young, handsome Romanian fellow, tall and blond, who was badly shot up. There was no plasma, no water, few bandages. We had to take turns carrying him on an improvised stretcher. He didn’t made it back alive. Our water supply was depleted. I remember drinking some water from a hole inside some large rock, using the barrel of a Sten gun as a straw. No water, no food, what else could you do? I ended up with dysentery which I had for months. Now we, the glorious Palmach, were in full retreat, and just after having declared our independence to the entire world, 21` of our best had fallen. Our military historians have claimed the number of wounded at 120. Whatever the true number, it was a severe blow to our morale. Although the numbers seem small in proportion to those engaged in that battle, the percentage of wounded and killed was very high. This was no way to commence a war of independence, the first such war in almost two thousand years of our history as a people.
We returned to Rosh Pina and regrouped. Not even a week had elapsed before we were on our way back to Malkiya, Kadesh and Nebi-Yesha. This time we were regrouped into three forces. Two were to attack from the front, and one fighting group was to come in from the rear. I was assigned to a convoy of armored cars, home- made of course, and we grouped at Ramat Naphtali where we spent the night. In darkness the following day our convoy of seven or eight armored cars led by a command car took a road that entered Lebanon. Through the slits in the armored car we could see Arabs sleeping on the side of the road near their flocks of sheep and cattle as we passed through a number of towns. Suddenly we heard a loud thunderous explosion, and the firing of various weapons. Following the lead vehicle, we made a U- turn on that road. As we did we could see the source of the explosion, a large truck in flames. What had happened was that our lead car ran into a truck, which ironically was carrying reinforcements for the areas that our forces were attacking from the front at that very hour. We had gotten lost in Lebanon and were on a road that led to Beirut. The U-turn set us in the correct direction to reach our objective, which was to attack the town of Kadesh from the rear. When we arrived it was dawn, and very quiet. Unloading from our armored cars, we spread out and moved up a hill with our weapons drawn, expecting the worst. To my right was Moshe Sadeh, whose expression was anything but calming. When we arrived in the village, the only person left was an old woman. The Arab soldiers who were there had gone, and our objective had been achieved without firing a shot. In the meantime, the other two objectives, Malkiya and Nebi-Yesha, had been taken by the other two groups. Some time later the regular militia replaced us, and we were transferred to Sarafand, a base just outside of Rishon-le-Zion. It was there that I heard that I had been reported missing in action. Ray Rudin, who had been shot in the face, and whose mouth was all wired up, reported to my family in Tel Aviv that I was indeed an MIA. I had to get to Tel Aviv urgently to see my relatives and get a letter or wire off to my parents informing them that I was alive and well. All my letters home were full of white lies to prevent them from worrying about my safety. I told my mother in a letter that it would be about six months before I finished my training, and then I would be assigned to another unit.
Separated from my comrades – Ralph Moster, Sonny Wosk, Ray Rudin and Larry Suras – I decided that I wanted to be part of the battle for Jerusalem. In order to do so, I transferred myself by applying to a unit which was about to go there, and I was welcomed with open arms. In those days, that was the way you transferred to another fighting unit. I then became a Palmachnik with the 4th Battalion, The Invaders, under the command of David Elazar – Dado – one of Israel’s greatest heroes and a magnificent soldier.
I was assigned to Company “B” under the command of Yuska Prinsky (now Yosef Ronnen). Yuska had recently joined the 4th Battalion after serving in Etzel. Yuska looked like a movie star when I first saw him. With his blond hair, blue eyes and broad shoulders, though short in stature he was a champion when it came to knocking anyone out in the first round. Yuska was a street fighter and you didn’t want to engage him in what he called a “fair fight.” I saw him floor more than one person who challenged him. We were stationed in a town called Bet Jeez, and there I underwent additional training. I became a machine gunner for our squad. We parried here and there with the enemy and helped in completing the finishing touches to the Burma Road as it was called, circumventing Arab-held terrain to create a road to the besieged city of Jerusalem. My section commander was a tall handsome fellow by the name of Leon. He later became a Mossad agent and lived in Syria performing incredible work. I was sad to hear that he committed suicide with his girlfriend some years after leaving his post. Why is a mystery that we may never solve. Jerry Raymond, a Machalnik from England, became my buddy. We fought together through some battles at Har Tuv, and Dera Ouwa and became good friends. Jerry’s brother was somewhere in Israel in another outfit, and after the war I lost contact with Jerry and have never been able to find out any news about what happened to him. Jerry was a trained soldier, and had served in the British Army for a few years before coming to Israel. He and his brother were amongst those young people who were sent by their parents just before the Holocaust to England in order to survive. Most of those parents met their death in the camps, but at least some managed to get their children out.
One of the most memorable experiences in my life was when I was part of force of about 20 trucks filled with provisions, the first to use the Burma Road and enter the besieged city of Jerusalem. Crowds stood on the pavements, cheering as we passed through the city, a city eternal to the Jewish people that had been saved. We brought water and food and checked that the road would be viable to get us through on a regular basis. Under the nose of the Arab forces, we had bypassed their lines and created a link with Jerusalem with a road that will live forever in our memory
After the battles of Deira Ouwa and Har Tuv, I developed an infection in my left arm, and was admitted to a hospital in Jerusalem. There I saw some of our badly wounded soldiers fighting to stay alive. One of them was a young mustached soldier from England named Marcus Stemmer. When I spoke with him, he told me how he had just arrived a few weeks before, and how he had been shot in the abdomen seven times. I would visit him every day, as his room was just down the corridor from mine. We talked about his life, and how important it was for him to be in Israel. One day I found him delirious, speaking only in German, his native tongue. He and his brother had been separated at an early age. Marcus went to England from Germany, and his brother was sent to the camps. His brother, who had just arrived in Israel, and who had not seen Marcus for more than ten years, found him in the hospital fighting for his life. In his delirium, Marcus could not recognize him as he sat by his bed in the hospital. The next morning when I went in to visit Marcus, he was no longer there; he had passed away during the night and his remains were removed quickly so as not to demoralize the other patients. After ten days in the hospital I returned to my unit. A kind woman in Jerusalem who took care of the welfare of soldiers after hospitalization tried to get me special boots that would protect my ankle. I will never forget her and her kindness, but I can only remember her beautiful face but not her name.
During the course of our sorties I kept twisting my left ankle until I had very little support that could prevent me from twisting it over and over again. This disabled me in combat. I couldn’t climb the hills without spraining my ankle. I was a key-man in my company and my weak ankle forced me to the sidelines. Not to be stopped from combat, I volunteered for the Jeep Commandos. These were converted jeeps loaded with two or three machines guns, and they were used as assault vehicles as they charged into the enemy lines, firing away in a terrifying way. I remember appearing before Dado to get his approval for the transfer. His answer was stern but avuncular in tone: “No. You are too young to die just yet.” Dado probably saved my life.
In the interim, as I waited to be formally discharged from the Palmach, my comrade Ralph Moster crashed his Widjin seaplane into the Sea of Galilee, killing himself and three other unfortunate passengers. I flew up to the Sea of Galilee sitting on the floor of a small cargo plane, and the old team had a reunion as we searched for Ralph’s body. Ray Rudin, Sonny Wosk and Larry Suras were all there to wait until the bodies were found in the depths of the lake where they had crashed. Four days later we spotted the first body, and on the next day the other three bodies. Then we returned to our bases, and then we attended the burial of Ralph Moster, who had made a name for himself by flying combat missions in the Negev. And so was another hero buried in the soil of Israel.
It was all over for me. Together with Danny Dannovitch, another medically discharged air force fighter, we sailed for Europe, and then back to the States. No other experience in my life had such meaning as this period: serving in the first army to fight for the Jewish people, and for the independence of the State of Israel. This was the pinnacle of my life’s experiences. Nothing comes close to it.
I have never witnessed such courage and patriotism as what I saw and lived through in Israel in 1948. Those brave men and women gave their all so that we, the Jewish people could, at last be free, and act and live as other free people everywhere. I have been told over and over again how wonderful what I did was. My response has always been, and will always be, “Israel gave more to me than I could ever have given to Israel.” How fortunate for me that I was there in 1948 when it all happened.
Ira Feinberg, September 2, 2001