Military Service – Israel’s War of Independence
(March 1948 – August 1949)
I arrived back in South Africa after working in Northern Rhodesia, and applied to join the Israeli army as a volunteer. I filled in the necessary forms and in due course was called for an interview by a panel of examiners in Johannesburg. Luck was on my side, as Simie Weinstein was on the panel. He was a great personality, an ex-infantry corporal who later became a major and the Jewish chaplain at 1.A.D. I had met him several times at our home when my mother, a regular shul-goer, brought him home for meals. While he was stationed at 1.A.D. it was his custom to take Jewish soldiers home for lunch. I feel I must say a few words regarding my impressions of him: he was a tall, well-built, imposing figure, and spoke English with a heavy Afrikaans accent. He was from Oudtshoorn, and went up north as an infantryman, and saw service in Abyssinia (Ethiopia) and Egypt. He was always concerned about the welfare of Jewish soldiers. His superiors noticed this, and they arranged to send him back to South Africa to take an officers’ course; after that, he was ordained as a chaplain. I believe he was the first Jewish chaplain in the UDF. Subsequently, there were others, but I did not get to meet them. And then I met up with him again in March 1948, when he was on the Selection Board for volunteers to Machal. With him on the board, my passage to Israel was arranged smoothly and speedily. I met Simie Weinstein from time to time in Israel. He was a great man and has always remained a person for whom I have enormous respect.
As soon as my turn for the interview came, I went in and Simie recognized me immediately. He waived aside all formalities, and all he said was, “Don’t let’s waste time with this man, put him on the next available plane.” When we were alone together, he always liked to speak Afrikaans. As soon as I returned to Pretoria, I got temporary work as a plumber for Dawson and Fraser, a leading plumbing firm there at the time. Despite my high priority on the travel list to Israel, I still had to wait for my turn for over a month. This caused me great frustration, and so I was glad to be working.
The only way to get to Israel was by air with a Dakota, which carried a maximum of 25 passengers. With so many volunteers wanting to serve in Israel, getting a place was a matter of luck. Luck was on my side, as air force personnel were given first priority, with army personnel in second place. The rest were dependent on Zionist party connections. I got my call and resigned my job with the story that I was on my way to the U.S.A. We assembled in Johannesburg where Nat Lee briefed us on how we were to act: we were to claim we were students. All I did was buy myself a necktie, something that I had not worn since my bar-mitzvah. We left from Palmietfontein at midnight. As far as I can recall, with me on that plane were three nursing sisters – Felicia Phyllis Fisch, an ex-army nurse, Freda Celia Myers from Cape Town, and most surprising of all, Miriam (Mickey) Shapiro, whom I had met in Gwelo, Northern Rhodesia. They were a group who intended to join the Medical Corps. Going to join Timorim were Lionel Narunsky and Esther (Essie) Shapiro. (Essie and Mickey were sisters.) Also on our flight were Zelig Genn, who was to join our battalion at a later date, and Charlie Heller, but not a relative, Barry Chait, who was going to join Kibbutz Givat Brenner. From Cape Town were “Smiler” Lipschitz, George Busch, Cyril Clouts, Teddy Levine, Barney Meyerson from Johannesburg, and also Jack Patlansky from Potchefstroom. There were also two others, Mike Abel, who today lives in Ashkelon and served in the 79th, and another guy, Max Kaufman, who was to join the air force. There may have been some others but I can’t remember them. The air crew consisted of the pilot and co-pilot, flight engineer, wireless operator and navigator, and an airhostess, ex-South African W.A.A.F. The navigator was ex-R.A.F. and also from Gwelo, but I did not know him personally. However, he knew me from my soccer days there. Of the crew, the chief pilot was a German-born Finnish non-Jew, Leo {Siggy} Seigerkranz, who had seen service in WW I in the German Air Force, and in WW II in the S.A.A.F.
Little did I know that I was to retrace the route I had previously traveled when I was on the shuttle-service repair in my air force days. Our first stop was Ndola, where we stopped for lunch. Being thirsty, we also downed a few beers. On the seat next to me was Jack Patlansky, a first-year art student at Wits University, very keen on body-building and weight-lifting, so while the Dakota was being serviced I opted for beer instead of tea, and boy, did I have a thirst! Jack watched my performance and tried the same without much success. Our night stop was at Entebbe in Uganda, at the edge of Lake Victoria. It was a typical African setting and a really relaxing place to enjoy a good few beers. Jack decided that we should form our own kitty and pool our money together for our beers, etc…This suited me fine, as I was putting away twice the amount that Jack could cope with. At most of the stops we were a foursome: Jack, Mickey Shapiro, the navigator and I. After Entebbe, our Dakota developed engine trouble and we limped into Khartoum. We stayed at a hotel with the atmosphere of a Rudyard Kipling novel. Lots of British officers were always at the bar and in the lounge, and we kept our distance from them. The next morning we were told that we would have to spend the day in Khartoum. A tour of the city was arranged and I decided to opt out: having been in Khartoum before, I knew it had nothing to offer. Jack decided to stay behind with me, and we spent the day drinking beer and playing snooker and darts. Later on, the disappointed tourists were returned to the hotels, unimpressed by the sites the place had to offer. After that, Jack got the impression that I could do no wrong. The next day we left Khartoum, and our next stop was Wadi Halfa, were we spent the evening. It is situated on the Nile, on the border between Sudan and Egypt, a romantic setting. As our Dakota’s engine was problematic, we flew along the border between Egypt and Libya and had one stop at an emergency aerodrome. It was a dreary, bleak place, and my sympathies went out to the people who worked there. It was a big R.A.F. base and there was lots of action round there during WW II. We flew along the coast of Libya and landed towards evening in Tripoli. We were billeted to a disused army camp, and had no chance to see the sights of Tripoli. Next morning, we flew over the Mediterranean to Sicily, and as our engine was performing satisfactorily we did not have to land in Sicily so flew directly to Rome.
In Rome we were met by a delegation of South Africans and Israelis, and were quickly cleared through customs and immigration. We were put up at the Boston Hotel, a decent place, quite luxurious considering the situation at the time. We also got the news that the same day Count Folke Bernadotte had been assassinated in Israel. At the time he was chief mediator for the United Nations, and that was during the second truce. We did not know how this would affect us and for how long we would have to stay in Rome.
We were given forms to fill in and I was taken to one side with the nurses, and told I was to go with them to Israel by plane because I would be joining the air force. Well, this was my first argument, as I had no intention of joining the air force and wanted to join the army. I got my way in the end, but was to have quite a few more arguments on the subject later on in Israel.
The next day the nurses left for Israel, and I never met up with any of them again. I believe that after their return to South Africa, Micky Shapiro married Gerry Davimes, who was also to serve with us in the 72nd Battalion. We left the Boston Hotel and were moved to Ostia, outside Rome, to a reception centre. This was a three-storied building, a real comedown after the Boston Hotel. There I met Kenny Danker, Solly Sokolowsky, a mixed group of Yanks, Canadians and a solitary Australian. I was to meet this Australian 22 years later, when he was on a visit to his foster parents at Kibbutz Kfar Hanassi. We slept in the transit camp but we ate out. Ostia was not far from Rome, and we used to travel to Rome by train. Most of the blokes were students and scholars and the “in” thing was to visit art museums. For me, the fun was to walk around and look at the people and stop at a sidewalk cafe and drink a beer. In the evenings, we would sit in the parks or the sidewalk cafes in Ostia and drink beer. I spoke to quite a few survivors of the Holocaust, but met very few who came from Lithuania. One evening, a family with two children wanted to speak to me, having heard that I was from Southern Rhodesia. This man had a brother in Ndola and a brother in the States and could not make up his mind where to go. I explained to him that Ndola was in Northern Rhodesia and that there were very few Jews in the area and no synagogues. This made him opt to go the United States. It was hard for me to understand after what they had been through that some survivors preferred to live in the Diaspora.
One morning, we were taken to the beach and photographed for passport photos for our certificates. Our own passports were not to be used. We each received a Displaced Person certificate with our places of birth registered as towns in Eastern Europe. We were also briefed that while aboard the ship we were not to speak English while U.N. officials were around. The next day we were on our way to Naples.
We traveled to Naples in cattle trucks and were given food for the journey. In our truck were Jews from Tripoli in Libya; they would not eat the food supplied as it was not kosher. I don’t know how they managed to survive until they reached Israel. Meanwhile, our blokes were washing down their food with vino (Italian wine). I warned them of the consequences, but pride comes before the fall. At Naples harbor we lined up, approximately 800 of us, and saw what was to be our home for the next week. The Italian authorities were sympathetic to the Jewish cause and made things easy all along the line. The second truce was in force in Israel, and one of its conditions was that people of military age were not permitted to enter Israel. We volunteers, with our healthy looks, clothes and baggage stood out like sore thumbs compared to our companions who were Holocaust survivors.
As our names were called, we boarded our Italian ship, the Caserta, with its Italian crew from Napoli. Among the crew were two doctors from Israel, a married couple, two American sailors, two Israeli sailors, and two officials from the Jewish Agency. We were taken into one of the holds of the ship and to say I felt bad would be putting it mildly. I could not imagine how I would cope in this close and stuffy atmosphere, really claustrophobic. Apparently the Yanks were experienced in these situations, and made a deal with the captain that for £5 each, we would be able to sleep on the deck. He was onto a good thing, but for us it was worth it. In the evenings, we queued up on the quarterdeck, and feeding us all took about six sittings, and once seated there was no way of getting out till everyone left. Most of the blokes couldn’t eat, as they had already been violently sick from the cheap wine that they had drunk on the train. I was hungry and ate what was supplied, certainly not served with any flourish or finesse. Once again the Yanks and the captain came to an arrangement: we could eat in the officers’ mess and this cost us a further £10.
The trip was pleasant, with no rough seas except in the Straits of Crete, and I spent all my time speaking to the survivors and was thankful for knowing Yiddish. There were very few survivors from Lithuania, and from my birthplace Rokiskis, none. We approached the shores of Haifa towards Saturday afternoon, and we all had to stay below deck, as it was Shabbat; we lay out at sea till Sunday morning before docking in Haifa.
Prior to docking, all men of military age were taken below deck while the U.N. officials checked the passengers. The terms of the truce stated that no men of military age were to enter Israel. I was put in charge of a group of 12 blokes and they were told not to talk unless they spoke Yiddish. I had all their D.P. certificates and went through all the formalities of customs and immigration. U.N. officials were present at all the reception desks. Thanks to greased palms and bribery, none of us were questioned. Amongst the new immigrants we stood out like thorns, what with our style of clothes, suitcases, and well-fed looks. They could not help but guess what we were there for.
After all the formalities, we were taken by bus to an army camp on the outskirts of Hadera and there we were put in bungalows with other Machal volunteers. We underwent medical examinations and then we left for Tel Litwinsky, adjacent to Tel Hashomer hospital. Tel Litwinsky was built during WW lI by the Americans, and used as a reception and recreation camp for American soldiers. There we were outfitted with British-style uniforms and French kepis, and given £2 – four rand – as an advance on our monthly pay of £3 per month. We were taken by truck to Tel Aviv and got off at Ahad Ha’am Street, where the South African Zionist Federation offices were situated. Ahad Ha’am was then a gravel road and the Fed offices were in a double-storied office building. Today a skyscraper, the Kolbo Shalom, stands there. Mike Udwin was our liaison officer and held the rank of lieutenant. We were all duly registered, and we each received £5 as well as stamps worth ten shillings so we would send letters home.
I found a message from my brother Chaim telling me that he was with the paratroopers, stationed at Sarafand. For sleeping accommodation we had to go the town major and from there we were sent to various billets in private homes, as well as to institutions which had been converted to dormitories. We ended up in Mapu Street, just off Allenby Street. Our billet was a gym and a workers’ social centre. Today it is the site of the City Hotel.
As soon as I got settled, I was off to Sarafand with some gifts I had brought for Chaim. Little did I know what I was in for. Sarafand was a large military camp, much like Roberts Heights in Pretoria. Here I started my run-around. Nobody had heard of the paratroopers, tzanhanim in Hebrew. I was sent from one artillery – tothanim – camp to the other. I spent a whole day in a fruitless search. The only thing I can say is that it was a good exercise for a future infantryman, which is what I intended to be. I returned late in the evening to Tel Aviv, footsore and weary, and received the news that some of the boys had met paratroopers in Haifa, and that they were at a training camp near Haifa. I left a letter for Chaim at the Fed offices: at last I knew where he was, so I felt confident that we would meet soon. In the meantime, I spent the next two days getting used to Tel Aviv, and the sights and sounds of the all-Jewish city. On the beach opposite the Kaete Dan Hotel I saw the hulk of the wrecked Altalena, a reminder of the conflict between the right and left wing political factions in the country.
I also found that bars as we knew them in South Africa were practically non-existent, and only found in the better-class hotels. The favorite watering holes were the Pilz Hotel, the Park Hotel, and the Kalt Tom. I preferred the sidewalk cafes, where the beer was cheaper and the atmosphere much pleasanter. I seldom visited the hotels as I could not bear the loud talk and boasting of the characters with their pistols slung from their belts. Real cowboys, and we named them the HaYarkon Cowboys. At times, it all seemed like a Wild West Movie. I met a few blokes I knew from the S.A.A.F., and one in particular from Cape Town, Chone Geffen, who was a sergeant instrument maker in the 69th Squadron. He tried to talk me into signing on for the fledgling Israel Air Force.
I was very much impressed by the easygoing, open and friendly Israelis and above all, by their boisterous and loud voices. While I could not converse in Hebrew, I had no trouble getting by in Yiddish and English. One of the reasons I preferred drinking beer at the sidewalk cafes was because very few of the Israeli soldiers went to places like the hotels on HaYarkon Street. I quickly got used to the system of not paying after each bottle, but rather a tally was kept of the empty bottles when we were ready to leave. The other good custom was that each person paid for his own drinks. Also, there was no problem with tipping, as this was covered by a percentage included in the bill – all in all, an easygoing system.
Well, all good things come to an end, and we returned to Tel Litwinsky to see what was ahead of us. At the reception centre, there were many officers from various units looking for recruits. Men were badly needed in the ground forces, infantry and other units, and officers who were short of men took it upon themselves to recruit staff, and many of them did it in their own time. As usual, I was called among the first and interviewed by an air force officer. Very nice and friendly, but much to his surprise I turned down his offer. He then offered me the option to work in one of the arms factories. I turned this down too, explaining to him that I wanted to join the infantry and gave him my reasons. I felt that the air force was not the place for me or for my type of work, and at that stage I felt that the infantry had a more important role to play. He wished me the best of luck and I was then interviewed by an officer of the 72nd Battalion which was forming a second English-speaking company.
On our truck were Kenny Danker, Cyril Clouts, George Busch, Smiler Lipschitz, Solly Sokolowsky, Teddy Levine, Hymie Treisman, and amongst those from England, were the two brothers Dvorkin, Johnny Myers, Geoff Adler, and another two brothers. After an uneventful journey we finished up at our battalion camp at Samaria, near Shavei Tzion, about 10 kms from Nahariya. This was an ex-British army camp with a few administration buildings, a lock-up, and a mess hall and kitchen. We stayed in tents and joined up with other South Africans and Englishmen. The 72nd Battalion had already been re-formed after suffering heavy casualties at Latrun. It was the intention to make the battalion all English-speaking. This was due to the tragic incident where Colonel Mickey Marcus, ex-U.S.A. Army, was accidentally shot by a sentry at Latrun because he did not respond to the Hebrew password.
At the time, “A” Company was made up largely of immigrants from Hungary and Eastern Europe. Most of them were Etzel supporters, and some of them had been aboard the Altalena. They were good soldiers and good fighters. “B” Company was a mixture of English, Canadian, American and South African volunteers. Then we had a support company, a mixture of Belgians, and South Africans Hymie Josman, “Tookie” Levitt, Geoff Fisher, Jack Marcusson, Archie Nankin, Eli Reef, Albert Shorkend and Hymie Toker, and an English sergeant Albert Starr, who was in “C” Company. The rest were Eastern Europeans, as well as others who had been part of the Kindertransport.
December 1948 – Part of No. 1 section, 3rd Platoon “B” company at their night position;
L to R: Zelig Genn, Max Chait, Frank Fisher, Joe Woolf, Cyril Clouts, “Mo” Katz
Below: Kenny Danker and Martin Kahn (Photo: Zelig Genn)
We were to be the new “D” Company and our company commander was Captain Appel. It was obvious that “D” Company was not going to be up to strength and we only got to platoon strength. Our platoon commander was Lieutenant Sokolov. His claim to military experience was that he had completed an officers’ course while studying at a university in the U.S.A. He was not my type of bloke. Our sergeant major was Jack Branston, a sharp cockney from London and we had a sergeant, Jack Wise, another street-wise Londoner who did have some military experience. Another Englishman was Ralph Mond, a real character, quick to set up dice and card games: a real wheeler-dealer, Jeremiah Burns, ex-merchant seaman, a young Johnny Myers and Gerry Sussman, all from the East End of London. From Liverpool we had two kids, Geoff Adler and his cousin Bernard Hudaly, and later on we had what Zelik called the “Fyvies,” Johnny Goldman, “Mischa” Figowski, Zvi Brand, and Max Rosen, part of about 30 others from the Kindertransport who were in our battalion.
Our corporal was Solly Sokolowsky, not because of his military knowledge but because he was the only one who could speak and understand Hebrew. Our sergeant was a South African, Jack Kacev, who came to Israel with his non-Jewish wife, a nurse in Haifa. We started training with Sgt. Major Jack Branston, the cockney who saw service during WW II. We had the usual parade ground and we practiced field exercises, and they made me the machine gunner of our section. Jeremiah Johnny Burns was my number two. The other machine gunner was Cyril Clouts, with George Busch serving as his number two. We all opted to use rifles as additional weapons rather than Sten guns, which were unreliable at the best of times; also, the ammunition of Spandau machine guns and Mauser rifles were of the same caliber. Well, they kept us busy in our first week and we were not bored. This was just before Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. We were asked who was observant and who would be fasting. Non-observers were issued iron rations and did various guard duties around the camp. The highlight was when they marched us back to camp. As we entered the camp, I was in the front row and I saw someone in the distance who looked familiar to me. As we got nearer, I realized it was my brother Chaim. Without further thought, I broke rank and ran to greet him. So then the game was on, with hugs and slaps and handshakes and it was not surprising, as we had not seen one another for nearly five years.
He was sporting a moustache and a beautiful black eye. We quickly got organized and managed to get a 48-hour pass from Lt. Sokolov. He really had no option because I would have taken leave anyway. So we took off for Nahariya, where we sat down with beers and a good meal and tried to catch up on the past. The cause of his black eye was a typical “Chaim-Story.” He apparently got involved with a Sgt. M.P. who happened to be a champion boxer and street fighter from Tel Aviv, and whose main hobby was to get involved in fights with British soldiers. Later on I met him quite a few times as he was an Egged bus driver and he and Chaim became very good friends. The next day I went with Chaim to Haifa. He took me to the paratroopers’ camp in Ahuza, and there I met his mates, Sam Wulfsohn, a South African, and Avraham Aroch, a Sabra.
These paratroopers were a mixed lot: Palmachnikim, and some U.S. paratroopers from the 101st Airborne, tough Jewish lads from Brooklyn. One of the group was Charlie Bortz, also from the 82nd Airborne, a non-Jew but pro-Zionist who later became an officer/instructor in the paratroops. Then there was a mixed lot from Morocco, Tunis and Algeria, all claiming to be ex-Foreign Legionnaires. The commanding officer was Col. Palgi, who was parachuted into Europe during WW II, and he had the unenviable task of sorting out this crowd. They had no shortage of bulldusters, deserters and chancers. Between Chaim, Sam and Avram Aroch, I was fitted out with a backpack, sidepack, boots, British-style leggings and a beret. I came back to camp the best-equipped soldier in our unit.
Chaim and I came to an arrangement that whenever possible, we would share our money and whoever was in Tel Aviv could draw from our monthly allowance. He was part of the paratroop scouts which was being formed, together with Sam and Avram (Avromel). Back at our camp in Samaria, training was in full swing, and watching the instructors trying to get these blokes in shape tended to make one feel pretty helpless. Very few had been in the army and I felt better as at least I had been in service, though without infantry training, but I knew how to look after myself and to keep myself and my equipment clean and in order.
We had Kenny Danker, George Busch and Cyril Clouts in our tent. I did the laundry and all the necessary, providing they supplied the beers, with George always keeping us company on his mouth organ. The American-type leggings which laced up to the knees were a cross to bear and a real pain in the neck during the wintertime in the mud. Some guys preferred to sleep with them on, rather than wrestle with the mud. We were called on to do kitchen duties from time to time, but no one was really happy doing this.
All the cooks were Holocaust survivors, and I used to talk to them in Yiddish. One morning a cook, a huge bloke, asked me if I was a Litvak and what town I came from. He gave me the name of his town and his name, and asked me if I was from Cape Town. Teddy Levine was standing behind me and as he understood and spoke Yiddish, he was following our conversation and said that he was from Cape Town and gave his family name. Then the game was on: it transpired that this cook was Teddy’s uncle, the youngest brother of Teddy’s father, and the only survivor of that family. Well, it certainly was a happy occasion and from then on we had the best jobs in kitchen duties, and were never short of snacks and tidbits. Twenty years later I was to meet his wife, in one of the rare coincidences that fate decides. I was having the usual hassle with the Sochnut (Jewish Agency) and their bureaucratic foul-ups, and getting really worked up, and this blond middle-aged lady clerk was trying to calm me down. Seeing that I was South African, she asked me if I was from Cape Town and if I knew a Teddy Levine. I told her, Yes, I knew Teddy Levine, and she said that he was her nephew. I related to her the story of how Teddy met his uncle and she said she had heard the story, as she was his uncle’s wife. From then on it was smooth sailing. She gave me tea and cake and within the hour all my problems with the Sochnut were smoothed out. My great regret was that I did not meet up with her husband, the giant of a cook, as he had already passed away a few years previously. Twenty years later I was to meet Teddy Levine at Kibbutz Kfar Hanassi where his daughter was on an ulpan. It was the first time I had met Teddy since 1948 and we had a lot to talk about. He told me that his aunt had married again and was living in the U.S.A. She had told him how I had met her in the Agency offices, certainly a series of coincidences, and all happy ones.
Well, it looked as if the 72nd Battalion was not to have another company of Anglo-Saxon volunteers, as we were just over 40 men, and we did not know what their plans were for us. Training went on as usual and our Corporal Sokolovsky and Sergeant Kacev were always in Tel Aviv with wangled passes. Standbys were frequent, but no action. One night we had a standby on the evening of October 22nd and it was the genuine thing. We were worried that we would be left out of it but at the last minute the Powers-That-Be decided that we were needed. Little did we know what we were in for. We all got prepared and at nightfall we were packed into the buses and we were off. None of us had any idea of where we were going. All transport was by Egged buses of that period, mostly Macks and Whites, very uncomfortable and always cramped with all our equipment.
English-speaking ‘B’ Company, comprising two platoons, was to make a deep penetration raid into Arab territory and shoot up one of Kaukji’s headquarters at the village of Ikrit. Because it was during the U.N.O. supervised truce, the plan was to move in over the hills and get back before dawn. There was the “A” Company of Altalena boys and the other English-speaking group of “D” Company, one platoon of which was to occupy the surrounding hills and provide cover. “D” Company in particular was to cover and assist the support company mortar platoon.
We got off the bus at a kibbutz and our men were all issued with haversacks loaded with mortar bombs. We were to take the place of mules and donkeys which were not available. I reluctantly had to leave my machine gun behind and take a rifle instead. Then we set out with the usual instructions – keep quiet and keep your eyes on the man in front. Easier said than done. The haversacks and backpacks were of all shapes and sizes and many had no fastening straps. We had to keep our eyes on the man in front, as the mortar shells kept falling out, and as we bent to pick them up, our own were liable to fall out. Silence was forgotten, with curses and shouting and calling the man in front of you so that the fallen mortars could be packed back into the haversacks. Our two sections lost their leaders and we had to sit in the dark in the road until they sent scouts to find us. The O.C. “B” Company realized finally that they were not going to get in and out before midnight, and after reporting to the battalion commander, he was ordered to take up positions and open fire with all arms in the general direction of Ikrit. The mortar crews went to work, with bullets zipping all around us – couldn’t see the enemy, and nothing to fire at and to keep your head down. After a short while the firing stopped, and about quarter of an hour later we were re-assembled to make our way back to the kibbutz. While this was taking place, “B” Company was returning over the hills towards Kibbutz Eilon and on the way a stray bullet hit Louis Hack from “B” Company, a stomach wound which proved fatal and that was our only casualty of the night. Louis Hack was from Johannesburg, an active sportsman at Balfour Park in soccer and cricket and he was given a military funeral in Nahariya the next day.
At camp they let us have a day’s rest and gave us 24-hour passes. Some of the fellows went to Haifa. I preferred to rest and do my laundry and write letters and go and have my few beers in one of the quiet sidewalk cafes in Nahariya. Kenny as usual had to go with the boys to Haifa. They went to the smarter nightclubs in Ahuza. All Kenny was interested in was to have a good meal and down some beers. After finishing off a good meal, and just as he was ready to start the serious business of beer drinking, a fight started between our blokes and the paratroopers. It was soon quelled and the only casualty was Kenny, who got a good smack in the chops, his beer went flying and he lost all taste for having any more. As usual, he had nothing to do with the argument, nor did he know what it was all about, but that was typical type of Kenny-mazal as we got to know him better.
Meron
We started on an extensive training program. We sensed that something was in the air. We received no leave passes and were on standby alert nearly every evening. One thing I was always thankful for is that we did no guard duty in the camp. That was the job of the station police, the shin gimmel in Hebrew.
On the afternoon of October 26th, 1948, we were assembled and dished out with extra ammunition and all kinds of extras and told that in the evening we were moving up north. Our P.R. gave us a talk and read out our rights as overseas volunteers:
a) We did not have to go if we had any doubts and could pull out if we wished to.
b) Single sons in a family did not have to go.
c) Brothers, whether in the same infantry unit or another unit, did not have to go if one of the brothers was in a combat unit.
All our personal possessions, passports, money and other forms of identity would be looked after. Well, that was when the surprises came. We had two brothers in our platoon, the Dvorkin brothers, carpenters from the East End of London. They decided to go together without any reservations and two other brothers from London felt the same way as they did. Especially the older brother, who was overweight, wore thick glasses and was certainly in no shape for what was ahead, but decided that he was going with his younger brother, as that was what he had come for.
Imagine our disgust and shame when one of our South Africans decided not to go as he was an only son. What annoyed us was he was the “Gung-Ho” type and full of himself. As we did not have enough to form another company, we were made an extra platoon of “B” Company and Capt. Appel and Lt. Sokolov stayed on with us. Late in the afternoon we were loaded onto buses with all our equipment and we were on our way. We got as far as Acre, where the convoy was stopped and we were sent back to the camp confused, disgusted and generally fed up.
Troops were transported around by buses conscripted from the Egged and Dan bus co-operatives and this put an added burden on the civilian population. Back at the camp we unloaded the buses but we had to keep all the extra equipment. I certainly felt much happier with this idea, as I now had two boxes with belts of ammunition for my Spandau and my number two, Johnny Burns, and I did not have to carry our belts around our necks like necklaces. The next day, October 27th, the buses arrived and the P.R. officer again went through our rights as volunteers. Once again the “only son'” opted out; and as far as we were concerned, we were through with him. This time we knew it was the real thing when we learnt we were on the road to Tiberias.
We slept and dozed in bursts as the convoy crawled on its way in the black-out. We had absolutely no idea where we were or what was happening but there was no point in worrying. I left my seat and arranged all the equipment on the floor, a bit rough but certainly easier on the legs than having all that stuff in the cramped seats in the bus.
We arrived in the early hours of the morning and slept in the cemetery and its surrounding areas. In the morning we woke up stiff and sore and were told we were in the ancient city of Safed. I had heard stories about Safed because my brother Chaim was in the Palmach with Yigal Allon and they had captured the city from the Arabs with the aid of the Davidka, a home-made cannon mortar that used old bolts and nuts and bits of scrap iron for ammunition. Its power was negligible but the noise was frightening and awesome. And that noise more than anything else caused the Arabs to flee the city. After breakfast we were not told much and they let us wander through the Old City of Safed in groups. After lunch we were assembled and briefed in our objective, but that made little sense to us except that we were due for quite some footslogging with action in sight. They also promised some air support and we had to be prepared to leave at sundown. We boarded the buses and a short distance out of Safed, we left the buses and started to move off with strict instructions to observe silence. Our air support had arrived – all two of them, a Dakota and a Piper Cub – and bombed the area at dusk. Did not know if they were to help us or to show the enemy we were on our way. We stumbled on in the dark through the hills of Nachal Amud. Felt sorry for my number two, Johnny Burns. He was a short bloke, a good head shorter than me. Here, I got by with my longer legs, but he kept falling and stumbling, and with the noise of the ammunition boxes, curses and everyone telling us to keep quiet, it sounded sometimes like Allenby Street at rush hour. So much for silence.
Capt. Appel walked up and down with his walking stick, as calmly as if he was on an afternoon hike. He certainly inspired us with his confidence as we certainly needed it. At last we realized what our objective was: it was Meron, the place of worship of Hassidim and the tomb of Rabbi Shimon Bar Yohai. “B” Company was to capture it and our platoon was to act in support and provide cover-fire. Halfway through our march the Arabs already suspected that we were on the way. It was very difficult to maintain strict silence through these steep hills. They fired a burst of machine gun fire in our direction. One bullet hit Jack Banin, a volunteer from Kenya of Number 1 Platoon. The bullet entered his mouth, went partly down his throat and came through his shoulder. Locky Fainman, a South African medic, rushed up to treat him, but it was difficult in the dark to see where the exit wound in the shoulder was. Jack Banin subsequently suffered a slight paralysis in one of his arms. Meanwhile, we had all hit the ground and the OC “B” Company, Norman Schutzman, inexperienced in infantry, kept us waiting in the cold night while deciding what to do. If Capt. Appel had not come forward we might have lain there all night. He got Capt. Norman to get us moving again.
Shortly before dawn we arrived at our attacking point. We lay in the half-light while our mortars plastered the village. Some of our own mortar-fire came pretty close to us. We had arrived at our position from where we would cover the two platoons of “B” Company, who were to go in. Number 1 Platoon and about half of Number 2 Platoon spread out amongst the rocks underneath a long wall of the tomb, exchanging fire with Kaukji’s soldiers who were firing from the windows. The other half of Number 2 Platoon led by its commander Lt. Zachariah Feldman, a Sabra, and Sgt. Jack Franses from London, broke into the tomb and cleared it room by room. In this exchange of fire at dawn on the 29th, Number 2 Platoon lost one soldier, a direct hit in the head. He was a volunteer from the UK, born in Vienna, and had left Austria in the Kindertransport days before WW II began. His name was Shmuel Daks, aged 26. In addition to Jack Banin’s serious wound, luckily, there were just a few others who had been cut by rock splinters.
While the rest were busy collecting souvenirs, mostly army equipment, our section of engineers and a mortar crew and a heavy machine gun-crew, were left to guard the road. That is where I met for the first time a non-Jewish volunteer from Southern Rhodesia, Johnny van Heerden, a real character in his own right. Afterwards, we were taken to our assembly point and for the first time in daylight, saw what we had achieved. We were quite surprised, as looking at it we realized that we were better soldiers than Kaukji’s. Had they have been proper soldiers, they could have caused us a lot of problems. A number of dead Arabs were found, leaving large amounts of brand-new military equipment behind. Some of our men changed their rifles for new ones, but our section came too late to collect anything, except containers of food and eating utensils.
We were taken in buses to a high point just in time to see the armored cars of the 79th take over the Arab village of Jish. We had just sat down to rest and have our first hot meal in 48 hours when we were told to disperse quickly and to move out to the fields on the double. None too soon, as we were quickly under artillery fire. We were very lucky that we had no casualties. One shell hit a tree where five guys from “B” Company were, but luckily it failed to explode. We lay out in the fields all day. Fortunately, we did have water – but we had no food. “A” Company took five mercenaries prisoner, two of them British and three Germans who had tried to pass off as Yugoslavs. In our “A” Company quite a few were from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Yugoslavia, and they didn’t fall for the Germans’ story, and they were immediately shot. The British were taken as prisoners.
“B” and “D” Companies started an open company advance over the rocky fields and through the olive groves. During this advance we were shelled a few times by the field gun captured in the early hours of the morning. Just before dusk, we saw the column of armor of the 79th moving up the road to attack and capture the Arab village of Sassa. We moved into the hills to prevent any reinforcements reaching Kaukji’s force there, and to prevent them from getting out. During the night Number 1 Pplatoon of “B” Company was taken past the village and they dug in the direction of Tarshiha. Number 2 Platoon moved into the hills facing the road to Malkiya and Bar-Am, where they had the good fortune of ambushing an Arab column, capturing a bus, two trucks, and a small field gun.