The truck and the bus were both full of grapes and other fruits, and one truck carried some livestock. The second one had ammunition and shells for the field gun. On it was a brass plaque: “From the British Friends of Palestine to Kaukji’s Freedom Fighters.” The next day, tired and weary, we were taken to Malkiya on the northern border overlooking Lebanon. HQ was established at the Malkiya police station, where we were issued rations and jerry cans of water, and we made our way up the hill. This was some climb. and the march separated the men from the boys. The boys were collapsing and resting every 100 meters. I knew that on this type of march and climb, we must not look back but keep on moving. I finished the last 200 meters carrying my Spandau and a rifle one of the boys had dropped on the way. Capt. Appel came rushing down, told me to drop everything and come up with the Spandau, as they had sighted a group of Senegalese. He grabbed my machine gun and started to run and I followed with the boxes. We set up the gun and fired a couple of bursts, but were just a little too late. A few seconds later we heard another burst of fire – the Senegalese had got through and a young Sabra officer, Lt. Feldman from Haifa, was killed, and Capt. Norman wounded in the mouth. This happened close to the section where George Busch, Kenny Danker, Smiler Lipschitz and Teddy Levine were. It happened so fast that it took a long time for the shock to wear off. Kenny was completely confused and in a daze. While at Malkiya, we were on alert all the time, and food and water were brought up to us by foot until Capt. Appel started to build a track so that the jeep could make its way up to us. It was certainly some undertaking, with lots of physical work involved, but the efforts were well worth it. Due to the drive and inspiration of Capt. Appel, this road was completed in record time. We were tired and without sleep for more than three days, and it was very difficult to keep our eyes open and be on the alert at night while on watch. In the meantime I had picked up a badly infected finger and our medic, Hymie Treisman, decided to send me down to the Malkiya police station. I was taken down in a jeep with Lt. “Wild Bill” Shapiro, an ex-U.S. Marine from Support Company. While having my finger attended to by the medics and waiting to go back, we heard bursts of heavy machine gun fire up on the hill. I wondered what was going on and hoped that our blokes were all O.K. There were a couple of UNO officers at the Malkiya police station and they were told not to worry as the gunners were just cleaning their guns.
When we got back, we heard the news that the Arabs were setting up a machine gun post, but our heavy machine gunners, with an accurate burst of fire, discouraged them. That night, while on guard, we heard rumors that we were to be relieved soon, and for once this rumor proved true. The next morning we were told to get ready, and soon after breakfast moved down the hill by foot. Dead-tired as we were, it was certainly easier going down and looking forward to catching up on some sleep in the camp. Packed into our little buses we slept while the bus rattled its way over the northern border road between Israel and Lebanon until we finally got back to Nahariya. I could not sleep and was glad, as to me this area is one of the most beautiful spots in Israel. Got back to Samaria camp tired, stiff and sore. Most of the blokes went to their tents, dropped their packs and fell asleep, dead to the world. I could not sleep, so organized my things, had a good shower and did some laundry. Later in the afternoon, after a hot meal, fell into a deep and restful sleep. The next day we all got four-day passes but I decided to take mine with the second batch of men, as I did not feel like rushing off to Tel Aviv right then. George Busch and Cyril Clouts decided to stick with me. We had a good rest and an evening walk to Nahariya, where we had a good meal washed down by beer. In this whole campaign we suffered four casualties and the men were all laid to rest in the military cemetery at Rosh Pina, with the exception of Lt Feldman who was buried in the Haifa Military Cemetery. When we had our four-day passes we got a lift on one of the captured trucks to Tel Aviv and went to get accommodation from the Town Major, and we stayed at a private home in Jaffa.
George was a diamond cutter by trade, and had a diamond he wished to sell. So George, Cyril – a French boy from our platoon – Felix Milton and I started to do the rounds of the diamond merchants. This diamond was valued at about £100. As usual, I was the spokesman, and the game was on. At three of the places we visited, we were offered about £80, which we did not accept. We finally walked into a jewelry store on Allenby Street, near the Mograbi Cinema. As luck would have it, the owner spoke English and he had been to South Africa. He valued it at £100 which he gave us immediately, told us to return in the evening, which we did, and he gave George an extra £20, and so our feelings towards jewelers went up in our estimate. I left them after the second day as I did not like Tel Aviv. Today, after 42 years, my feelings have not changed much. I collected my monthly allowance, and my brother Chaim’s, from the South African Zionist Federation, our stamps and mail, and took off for Haifa. Went to the paratroopers’ camp in Ahuza, only to hear that they had left for a jumping exercise. Left a message for Chaim that I was off to Timorim. This was a Friday afternoon and at the checkpoint outside Haifa got a lift to Nahalal on a truck loaded with timber. In those days, every vehicle on the road stopped to pick up soldiers. All these old vehicles had seen better days, and it was surprising that they were still mobile. For every three soldiers that got off, four others got on. No driver ever bothered to check how many hitchhikers he had on his truck.
One had to hold on for dear life, and the drivers were generally not much better than the condition of the roads. Got to the crossroads of Haifa-Nazareth, and with the detailed map that Chaim had given me, started to slog up the hill. The hill seemed to get higher and higher the more I walked and I thought maybe I was on the wrong road. Got there in one piece, finally, and at least my infantry training helped. I met my cousin Fanny and her husband Dov Senderowitz, who were among the founders of Timorim. I also met those who were on the plane with me from South Africa – Zelig Genn, Gessie Goldblatt and Lionel and Essie Narunsky. It was a Friday evening and always a happy occasion on a moshav regardless of how religion is observed, and one is always sure of having a good meal. Met a few people, namely, Solly Meyers and the late Morris Braude, a friendship that has lasted to this present day. My finger was swollen and very painful and the local nurse lanced it and drained off all the pus and then I felt like a new man. Another thing that created an impression on me was the fact that the Sabras could enjoy themselves singing and dancing all evening without any alcoholic drinks or getting drunk. The only drunks who did wander around were mostly soldiers from the western countries.
The next day was Saturday, and Dov and Fanny took me around and showed me Timorim and told me about its history. After breakfast, great excitement as we sighted two Dakotas flying overhead and we watched the paratroopers jumping in groups of four into the valley below, the first time that any of us had seen paratroopers jumping. One hour later, great was my surprise to see Chaim, Sam Wulfsohn, Bolly Mallin and the paratrooper nurse. It was good to see Chaim and Sam and met I Bolly Mallin for the first time. Chaim and I had plenty to talk about and he introduced me to the rest of the South Africans and the Romanian and Polish Jews from the Youth Aliyah group. I made arrangements to meet Chaim in Haifa at the first opportunity, and they went back to their camp at Ahuza. The next day, Sunday, being the last day of my four-day leave, I made my way back to the camp at Samaria. I came back to find quite a few new faces, among them Dave Brenner from South Africa, Misha Figowski – a Polish Jewish volunteer from England – Charlie Thau, a big bloke from France who was put in charge of the P.I.A.T. (anti-tank weapon), and a couple of Canadians and Yanks whose names I can’t remember. Jack Kacev left, and so did a few others. Neil Goodman from Number 2 Platoon, a Yank, became our sergeant, and Joe Woolf from Number 1 Platoon became our Section corporal. I was made a lance-corporal. All these promotions entailed training, long route marches and night exercises. Not easy to adapt to this after our short campaign in the Galilee. But Capt. Appel soon put the know-alls in their places and showed us how little we knew. After a couple of weeks we broke camp and they moved us to another camp, St. Luke’s, an ex-British army camp, 14 kms outside Haifa on the Tel Aviv road, opposite Khayat Beach. This was a good move for us. We were opposite the beach and close to Haifa, in fact within walking distance. One evening George, Cyril, Kenny and Smiler went to the lower end of Haifa, near the port. Meantime, Chaim and I were having a good time drinking and catching up on the missing beers which they were paying for. Came midnight and I led our team back to camp. This was November, and the rains were on us. Boy, did it rain! None of us expected this much rain. Although Capt. Appel had warned us about what to expect in the winter, we had scoffed at his words but we soon swallowed them, mud and all. Fortunately for me, the extra boots and items Chaim had given me helped to keep me dry.
While at St. Luke’s we had our incidents – some funny, some tragic, and some pure luck. All in all, God or the Powers-That-Be were on our side, otherwise our casualties would have been heavier. The one incident occurred when the whole of ”B” Company, including Support Company, was to go out on a field exercise for a full day on a rainy and overcast day. We paraded for arms-and-equipment inspection, and attached to us were a group of signalers with their equipment. We cleared our magazines for inspection when we suddenly heard a shot and to our horror we saw a young signaler fall to the ground. The bullet tore through his upper arm and shoulder at close range and made a gory mess. The culprit was one of the new recruits from England, a real unpleasant type, a proper know-all, scheming to get out of all duties and training. He never bothered to wash but always wore a tie and there was always a cigarette dangling from his lips. As fate would have it, the signaler was a young boy from Poland. After surviving the horrors of the Holocaust, he was wounded in this senseless manner. I met him a few months later and spoke to him, although I hardly knew him. He told me he was happy he did not lose his arm and hoped to get back the use of it.
The other incident involved Teddy Levine, Zvi Brand and Smiler Lipschitz. There were abandoned houses on the beach, and the exercise was to lob a grenade through the window and after the explosion to enter the house, sort of house-to-house fighting. No-one examined the windows and we all assumed they were made of glass, or had been left open. But this house had windows with steel wire-mesh over the openings. Teddy lobbed a grenade and saw it bounce past him. He realized what had happened and jumped into the house. Because of his quick thinking he was not hurt by the explosion. Fortunately, the others were speedy in following Teddy, otherwise with the shooting and the grenade exploding, there could have been a serious accident. Brand later got a ricochet in his mouth but after the blood and excitement slowed down, all that had happened was that he lost a tooth.
Another story was not tragic but moving nevertheless. We did a night exercise north of Nahariya in some orange groves. Next day we marched at full pace to Acre. In this march the men were separated from the boys. On these kind of marches, I always tried to stay in front and not to look back at the stragglers as it could be really demoralizing. Luckily, we had no packs or extra equipment, just our personal arms. I had my machine gun and just kept my eyes to the front and slogged it out. Coming into Acre, Capt. Appel, as usual with his walking stick and pistol, caught up with us, and we kept pace with him until we reached Acre. He looked me up and down, smiled, and asked me how I felt. I told him I would feel better with his walking stick than with my machine gun. He had a good laugh and walked back to chase up the rest of the stragglers. All in all he must have covered many more kilometers than any of us, as he was going backwards and forwards pushing the stragglers forward. We meanwhile had time to lie down, relax, take off our boots, and doze until all the stragglers were bought to the rendezvous point.
At the meeting point, a group of olim were brought to Acre. This sight really moved me and reminded me how lucky I was that my parents had immigrated to South Africa. It was a group of Bulgarian Jews, all with their ragged clothing and pitiful possessions lined up in the road in front of the damaged Arab houses whose owners had fled the country. They were allotted various houses, all in a state of disrepair, filthy, and all damaged in some form or other. Certainly a disheartening sight and very moving. I was to visit Acre a few years later and it was hard to believe the transformation which had taken place. A very good and industrious community lives there, and certainly its citizens have made their mark and earned the respect of all in Israel.
While at St. Luke’s we were given the news that the battalion was to be given a party on the Carmel in Haifa. It was a good break and we dressed up in our best outfits and off we went. A great party, with lots of food, including meat, and above all, plenty of beer. We had a really good time, but we paid no attention to the speeches, which were partly in Hebrew and partly in English and we didn’t understand anything. The boys got good and drunk and I had to help George and Felix onto the bus. We had our pockets full of beer bottles and how I got them onto the bus without any damages was a miracle. We never knew what the party was all about and at the time could not have cared less. A party was a party. 40 years later, reading the book Dual Allegiance by our Brigadier Ben Dunkelman, we learnt that it was his wedding party for the troops. I wished him a hearty mazal tov and many thanks, albeit a bit late by a good few years.
Towards the end of the November, with the rains in full swing, we were told to break camp as we were moving north. We crammed into our buses with all our beds and baggage and all our kit. We traveled the same route as in “Operation Hiram” to Safed, but this time in daylight. Now we realized what our drivers went through, driving us under a moonlit sky. We traveled a narrow winding road, and we considered ourselves lucky at the time that we had lost only one truck of the convoy. Our new camp was at Fylon at the Rosh Pina crossroad. We arrived at dusk and moved into brick barracks. This camp was at one time occupied by Transjordanian forces, under the British. As luck would have it, our corrugated iron roof was full of holes and we were in the ludicrous position of forming make-shift tents of ground sheets as the rain was pouring in through the holes in the roof. In the one and only dry corner, Ralph Mond, an East End Cockney, set up his Crown and Anchor board and the gambling business was in full swing. George and I decided to try our luck, and before we knew what hit us we had lost all our money, £13. We lay back on our beds, two miserable privates, thinking of what lay ahead of us for the month. Not a happy prospect at all, in fact very bleak. Then George remembered that we still had between us £1 in stamps and we approached Ralph and asked if he would accept stamps as currency. He agreed and then our luck took a turn for the better. At the end of the evening, we came out the winners of £17, happy and a lot wiser and we had learnt for the future to stake our money only on poker. George was the poker player and I the silent partner and supporter.
We moved to our new defense positions. Our platoon was placed in an old Arab khan, a hostelry for camel caravans, in a place called Yarda. Our two other platoons were placed near Mansura, today the site of Kibbutz Kfar Hanassi, established by a group from the U.K. and Australia of the Habonim movement; 19 years later I was to become a member there.
We were separated by a wadi from the Syrians and we could look into the fields and buildings of Kibbutz Ayelet Hashachar. This area was the scene of heavy fighting between Syrians, the Haganah and the Carmeli and Golani Brigades. Kibbutz Mishmar HaYarden fell to the Syrians, the only Jewish settlement in the north to be captured by the Syrians. Scenes of heavy fighting were still evident. On the barbed wire emplacements there were still a few dead Syrian soldiers whose bodies had begun to putrify. Sappers arrived to check for booby traps and it was our unpleasant duty to loosen the bodies from the barbed wire and bury them in trenches. The stench of the bodies was something awful and a few blokes felt really sick. Other Syrian bodies were dropped into the well which was covered over with rocks – there is no shortage of rocks in the Galilee. The rains were on us in full force and it was terribly cold. Luckily, most of the South Africans came with corduroys and leather lumber jackets and that certainly helped. We were a very unhappy bunch, and our only consolation was to watch the Syrians across the wadi, looking even more miserable than we were. We were about one kilometer from the road and all our rations and supplies had to be brought through muddy roads and fields, an exhausting and wretched job. Later on, they sent us a crew of cooks and built us a fabricated mess hut and gave us two donkeys to transport the rations. These donkeys were a real disaster and more than once they bolted and all our rations were thrown across the fields. We were there for about six weeks and that was where we learnt the hard way what the job of an infantry soldier was all about. But slowly we got organized. The khan had underground caves: I used to collect dry wood during the day, and in the early mornings used to brew coffee and make myself toasted cheese sandwiches. We had no gumboots and the soles of our boots used to fall apart. Pliers were a godsend, and I used to repair the men’s boots by binding them with wire. The only item of interest was that one afternoon all our mortars and machine guns were taken away and we were left with a minimum of arms. Later on, we learnt that these weapons were kept in reserve while the Southern Command of the IDF was clearing the Egyptians out of the Negev. That was the general pattern of the war: at no time were the Arabs united in action or planning and the IDF. took full advantage of this situation.
One evening we were taken back to camp, and the next day we were assembled and transferred to Kibbutz Hulata on the banks of Lake Huleh. We were loaded onto a barge, while our ammunition and arms were towed by a fishing boat powered by an outboard motor. Our barge was loaded up by the whole platoon and the water was only about 150 cms from the gunwale. I am not a good swimmer, and I sat there looking across the lake, and even if there was no chance of getting seasick, I was not happy with all that water around me. After chugging along for what seemed like hours, we reached the other side of the lake, and my spirits sank to their lowest ebb when I saw what we were in for.
This outpost was called Dardara and it was on the edge of the Lake Huleh, directly opposite and below a Syrian stronghold. Dardara consisted of a corrugated iron dining hall and a huge covered concrete bunker where we all slept. Next to the dining hall was a deep pit where two cows were kept. In the early hours of the morning I and my number two, Abe Rachman, a Betar boy from Cape Town, were told to leave our machine gun behind and were led in the dark to the forward machine gun post. I was not at all happy about leaving my machine gun behind. As usual, it was cold, wet and raining, and we could hardly see a meter ahead of us. Drowsy and worn out, but too tired and tense to doze off. As dawn broke, and in the first light, we saw where we were and were immediately shocked into wakefulness. The Syrians were about 200 meters ahead of us, and about 100 meters above us, in stone huts. They crawled out and started their cooking fires, shouting insults at us in Arabic, Hebrew and English. The English we understood and we swore back at them in English and Yiddish. Abe and I were the only two there, and we did not fancy our chances if things got out of hand. An hour later, just as we were getting accustomed to the situation, the Syrians lobbed two mortar shells which landed a couple of hundred meters to the right of the dining hall. Phoned back to headquarters and asked them what to do and what was happening? They told us not to worry, as the Syrians regularly lobbed mortars to check their range. I was glad when our relief came and we went back to have breakfast and a good sleep.
On this outpost there was a group of youngsters, as well as about 30 French and Hungarians, all waiting for more members to settle there and found a new kibbutz. There was no way to talk to them because of the language problem. At this outpost, the numbers were always the equivalent of an army platoon, and in later years kibbutznikim from the surrounding area served there. I always had great admiration and respect for these people for their courage and dedication to their ideal.
Forty years later it was my privilege to go with the bar-mitzvah class from our kibbutz to view the site. Lake Huleh was drained in the early 50s. Fortunately, I had snapshots so that the kids could see that there had once been a lake there. Of the concrete bunker and the Syrian blockhouses nothing remained. The only reminder of what had been is a plaque in memory of four Israelis who were killed there. Later in the day, one of the veteran members of Kibbutz Hulata was giving the children a talk on the background of the history of the area. When he heard I had been in Machal and in Dardara in 1948, he asked me if I had been with the English-speaking Machal group. As coincidences go, he was the one who had ferried us across the lake. The reason for us being there at the time was that an action was planned in the area and we were to reinforce the position. I was certainly glad that I hadn’t been called to fight there, as things could have got sticky. People like those more than ever convinced me that there was more to achieve here than go back to the good and easy life in South Africa and Rhodesia. Great people – I believe that they later settled on a kibbutz in the south. Two days later we were pulled out and returned to our positions at Yarda, which was now in our eyes a paradise compared to Dardara.
At Yarda I suddenly developed a series of red rashes on various parts of my body; I was hot and itchy so I went through the usual routine of dousing my sleeping bags and clothes, but to no avail. When I woke up one morning with both my eyes and tongue swollen, I realized that this could be serious. I got a lift to our main camp at Fylon, and saw our battalion doctor, Harry Bank. He was a South African, a really dedicated doctor and a gentleman. He gave me some powders and cream and hoped for the best – but nothing helped. After a couple of months of service we were sent back to Fylon, all hoping to get some leave, but no such luck. In the meantime, an order came through that all students could apply for a discharge so as to continue their studies. One of these students was Jonathan Balter from our Intelligence section. He was a tall, quiet boy from England who kept much to himself. He was also a member of the Kibbutz Kfar Hanassi Habonim group. A couple of days previously, while on a night patrol, he and Hank Meyerowitz, from Canada, lost their way. Hank lost his glasses, without which he was almost blind. They had stumbled very close to the Syrian lines and Jonathan had the good sense to get a layout of the countryside, and under cover of darkness led Hank back to our lines. Jonathan had already received his discharge papers and decided to do one more scout of the area and visit his friends at Kibbutz Kfar Hanassi. He did not arrive at the kibbutz, nor at the camp. The next day a search party was organized to look for him. He had apparently stepped on a mine and was killed immediately. When the Syrians saw our search party, they directed us by signals to where his body was. He was given a military funeral at the Safed Military Cemetery. Many years later I was to meet his mother, who came every year to Kfar Hanassi to visit his grave. His nephew, who was named after him, came to Kfar Hanassi as a volunteer and did his army service in Israel. It was also my honor and privilege to take a bar-mitzvah class to Yarda, where I showed the young Jonathan where his uncle had served and where he had met his end. For many years Capt. Appel kept in touch with Jonathan’s mother.
A few days after Jonathan’s death, there was another tragedy. A replacement was posted to our platoon and was told to leave the next day for our outpost at Yarda. He protested and threatened not to go, but these threats were daily occurrences and were not taken seriously. But his was to be no idle threat. The next morning he shot himself. None of us knew him, and only later it came to light that he had originally come from Vienna and had been sent to England with a group of Kindertransport children.
While we were back at Fylon, we got the news that there would be no leave in sight.The feeling among the men was very bitter. That evening, a group from Number 1 and Number 3 Platoons took off and walked and hitched to Tiberias. Somehow, they found their way to Tel Aviv. Zelig Genn, Ralph Mond and I took off for Haifa, where we met up with Gerry Davimes and Harry Klass, who were among those who had walked to Tiberias. We got a lift in an army ambulance and on the approach to Hadera, Ralph Mond decided to open the back door for some fresh air. As fate would have it, the jeep behind us was occupied by Capt. Appel and two MPs. So that was that. We were taken to the central police station at Hadera and locked up in a cell. Zelig decided to try to force the door open, charging it at full tilt. The door was not locked and he was so surprised that he slammed it closed and then it locked itself. The police came in to see what the noise was all about.
At midnight Capt. Appel and our Company second-in-command Basil Sherman, an English dandy, along with a couple of MPs, loaded us onto a bus together with the rest of the men they had picked up. Among them was Kenny, in his white panama jacket, plus white collar and tie. Capt. Appel had no trouble rounding up the boys, as he knew where all their regular watering holes were. No charges were made, but the tongue-lashing we got from Capt. Appel for our irresponsible actions was a lot worse than any other form of punishment. Certainly there was a lack of responsibility on our part, and because we were Machal we got off more lightly than if we had been regular soldiers.
Meantime, my sickness was not improving and Dr. Harry Bank arranged for me to be admitted to the Italian Hospital in Haifa. Little did I know what was ahead of me, and that this was to be farewell to my mates of “B” Company and the 72nd Battalion. The Italian Hospital was at the lower end of Haifa, near the old Egged bus station. It was run by Catholic nuns and was taken over by the army and used as a military hospital. I was put into a ward for skin disorders and diseases. Our wards were in metal and brick Quonset huts, isolated from the hospital proper. My doctor was an Austrian, Dr. Rapp, a quietly-spoken and very patient man. He spoke Hebrew, German and French, but very little English. Our nurses were all male, who were studying medicine when they were called up for military service. Most of them were studying in the USA and Canada and were glad to practice their English on me. I spent over six weeks there, but my problem had them beat. All they were sure of was that it was a form of allergy but all the diets and medicines were to no avail. Consultations with other doctors were plenty – for them I was an interesting case. I myself felt fit but missed having my daily beer. At times I felt comfortable in a warm bed and felt sorry for my mates still in the trenches in the rain and cold.
Next to my bed was a big American non-Jewish flyer, who had ferried planes over to Israel. He had no love for the British and while we were there we heard the news that the Israeli fighters had shot down five R.A.F. Spitfires. The I.A.F. had also used Spitfires for this clash, but an ironic twist was that in the earlier stages of the war we had used Czech-built Messerschmitt fighter planes. This Yank was so happy, it was unbelievable, and we opened a bottle of brandy and drank l’chaim with all the patients. My brother Chaim came to visit, and gave me the bad news that his friend Sam Wulfsohn had lost his leg in a shooting accident and that he was also in the Italian hospital. We went up to visit him, and from that time I spent all my spare time with Sam. They were two to a room in the main building, and his roommate was a Sabra who suffered a leg injury following a land mine explosion. Sam and I had a lot to talk about, as we both served in the South African Air Force, and in fact did our basic training at Milner Park at the same time. Sam was later to serve as an air gunner on Marauders in Italy.
I can honestly say that I was never bored while in hospital. The staff was very good to me and I was a model patient for them. Chaim brought me books to read, and Hebrew books so I could study Hebrew. I had no trouble with the other patients in Yiddish and English, and all were prepared to help me learn Hebrew. Chaim always came with his friends from the paratroopers. There were a few Machal nurses in the hospital. Some were qualified, some not. One of them was Phyllis Hendler from Johannesburg; her brothers were active in the Betar movement, and Chaim knew her from there. She eventually married Sam Wulfsohn. While I was in hospital I used to collect my cigarette rations, as I was sure the boys would drop in one day to visit. I was not in need of money, and I always had some to give Chaim when he ran short.
After six weeks in Haifa, the medical officers gave me up as a lost cause and sent me to some Kupat Holim clinics in Tel Aviv for various tests, but without any positive results. Medical services at the time were chaotic, and my patience was tried to the utmost. I must admit it has improved since then (the medical services, that is). I returned to Haifa and from there they sent me to the Scottish Mission Hospital in Tiberias. The elderly doctor in charge had been in Israel for many years, and spoke excellent English. He tried a series of glucose infusions, also to no avail. In this ward there were two girls from Czechoslovakia. They spoke good English and were part of a group of children, saved from the Holocaust by Raoul Wallenberg. They were very friendly young girls and they tried to help me in my Hebrew studies. These two girls were willing teachers and a great help and comfort at the time, and they were very happy to have a chance to practice their English. So the month passed very pleasantly and my Hebrew improved. All these glucose infusions and injections did not help and I was sent back to Haifa. Dr. Rapp was glad to see me, as he wanted to try a series of injections which had been successful on another patient. The first injection left me with my whole body red and I felt I was burning up. This lasted for about two hours. Two days later I had the same injection, with no reaction. I spent a month there and celebrated my first Passover Seder in Israel with the other patients.
Eventually, I was brought before a medical board, and was invalided out of the army. I had to report to the army dispersal camp at Bat Galim. There I used to get transport chits to wherever I wanted to go with seven day’s pay in cash, and had to report back every week. At more or less the same time, Sam was also invalided out, but due to the loss of his leg, he was given special privileges. We decided to stick together and I would do the necessary running around for us. We were billeted by the Town Major at the Sports Gym in Mapu Street and we used Tel Aviv as our base. We were fortunate as Yael and her parents were living around the corner in HaYarkon Street. They had virtually adopted Chaim, Sam and me, and they made life very comfortable for us.
Passage back to South Africa was arranged through a special office in the old Law Courts at the lower end of Jaffa. This place was bedlam and chaotic, with everyone clamoring and claiming special reasons to get back first. The woman in charge was a South African, Etty Shapiro, sister to Louis Shapiro of Haifa, and a veteran in Israel. She took personal charge in dealing with Sam and when I stated that we were together, she was only too pleased to handle my case as well – this way she did not have to look for a companion to accompany Sam.
She gave me money for rations and pay for two weeks and extra money for taxis. Sam and I returned to Haifa, as Sam wanted to say farewell and thanks to all the hospital staff as well as to Louis Rabinowitz, a veteran from South Africa who represented the S.A.Z.F. in Haifa. A real gentleman and a great help to Sam while he was in hospital.
We met up with Chaim and went to visit the garin of Timorim at Gevat, where they were forming a new group. Kibbutz Gevat had been established 20 years earlier, and was now well-established. The air force base of Ramat David was nearby. Solly Meyers took us to the mess and we were treated like royalty. We had a great time there and all at their expense. These flyboys were not short of money. Solly Meyers knew a few of them from the WW II days and he was adopted by them and took full advantage of this privilege.
We returned to Tel Aviv after a pleasant weekend and got a message to contact Ettie Shapiro. I left Sam at Yael’s so he was in good company and went off to the offices in Jaffa. At Egged I looked for a taxi and with the usual spiel of Yiddish and English managed to get hold of one. The driver looked at me with a strange expression on his face and asked me if I was from South Africa. Imagine my surprise when he said to me in Afrikaans “Praat die taal boetie” (speak our language, brother). We chatted together in Afrikaans. He was from South Africa but had been in Israel since 1938. During the Depression years he had served in the Special Service Battalion (S.S.B.). These battalions were formed in South Africa in the depression years and the soldiers were paid one shilling per day and were given the name of “bob-a-days.” This way they had food and clothing during those years, better than being out of work. He took me to the offices and refused to take the fare when I explained to him where I needed to be, and asked him to wait for me till I had finished my business. One hour later, with our papers in order, I sat down with the taxi driver and had a few beers and swapped stories. He was a really tough and interesting character.
Sam and I left Lod by Dakota for South Africa. The only person I knew on the plane was Simmy Stern, a motor mechanic in the transport section in our battalion. I never met him again, but believe he came on aliyah in 1956 and has been here ever since. We arrived safely and Sam went to live with his sister in Johannesburg. Phyllis came a few weeks later and she and Sam were reunited and got busy making plans for the future. I met up with my friends and for a couple of days it was one party after another as I met all my old mates again. Reggie Roseman a friend of mine from cheder and Boy Scouts asked me to come and work for him as a plumber. He put me on a large block of flats and my good luck, the foreman was De Haas, a Hollander from Iscor days, a great guy who served in the Dutch Army in WW II. The work was easy and it was pleasant working with a good bunch of guys. Reggie used to come to the site from time to time and we used to chat about Israel and the news from there. An electrician overheard our conversation and was pleased to hear that I was from Israel. He asked me about all the interesting spots in Haifa. He had served in the S.A. Engineering Corps (S.A.E.C.) who built the railway tunnel at Rosh Hanikra and the railway line to Lebanon. We chatted about Israel on our tea breaks and became good friends. During one of these chats an African laborer who was always listening to us plucked up the courage to speak to the electrician and they found out that they had served in the same engineering company. From then on we always had a trio talking about Haifa and Nahariya. I met quite a few blokes in later years who had worked on this railway tunnel. At Rosh Hanikra there is a plaque with the name of the Field Company of the South African Engineering Corps commending them on their good work.
I still had time to play a few games of soccer for Iscor and played for the second side as I was no way fit enough for the first team. Chaim arrived a few weeks later, and our parents and brothers were ever so happy to see him again and his return started another round of reunion parties. Chaim and I made all the arrangements to collect our tools and possessions to prepare for our return to Israel. The S.A.Z.F. was a great help and paid for our fares and all our expenses. In addition, each ex-army soldier got £100 in cash plus a grant of an additional £500. They also sent me to a skin specialist for my allergy but he was not much help.
While in South Africa, Sam and Phyllis announced their engagement and we had one wild party. They planned to make their home in Israel on Moshav Habonim after their wedding. Chaim and I were disappointed, as we had looked forward to them joining us at Timorim.
Bob Crowie, Chaim’s good mate from the merchant navy days, paid us a surprise visit. Another happy reunion. Bob had just completed a whaling season in the Antarctic. He served on the catchers, the elite of the whaling fleet. He and Chaim discussed plans and he took him to the S.A.Z.F. offices to get everything fixed up. Bob was due to do one more season with the whalers and he and his wife Miriam would join us later at Timorim. Chaim and Bob went their various ways and I had a couple of weeks before my date of departure.
While in Israel I had kept up a correspondence with good friends, Hefty and his wife, and others in Gwelo. They let me know that if I did not come and say farewell personally they would be very hurt. So I packed my bags and off I went back to Gwelo and South Rhodesia. Arrived there after a two-day train journey and was met at the station by Hefty and Jack Larsen and we went off to the Midlands Hotel to catch up on events and the game was on and the beer was starting to flow. I told them to take it easy as I could not match them as I only had £10 and a return ticket. Jack told me not to worry as he wanted me to start working for him the next day and this was the good news. So the next day, between Hefty and Jack I was fitted out with tools and work clothes and was back in action in the plumbing game. To make my job easy, Jack gave me my two African workers, James and Long One, and they sure were two happy men. I stayed with Hefty and family in their municipal house.
After my first day at work, Jack and Hefty took me to the local liquor store whose owner was a Sephardic Jew who could speak Hebrew. At that time liquor was in short supply: four quart bottles of beer per person per day, one bottle of brandy a week and one bottle of whiskey every fortnight. We duly got our share and Hefty said to me in Afrikaans, “Speak to him in Hebrew.” My Hebrew was limited, so all I said to him was, “tishmah haver, ze lo maspik” (listen friend, this is not enough). He turned round with a surprised look on his face and before he could say anything Hefty started on him with a Zionist shpiel which would have made any shaliach look second-rate. He explained how I had put my life on the line for £3 a month so that there would be a Jewish state. Hefty was in his glory, making a hero out of me, much to my embarrassment. The owner took us to his office and we had a chat and all the booze we wanted and he wished me luck for my future in Israel. I believe there were three Jewish boys in Machal from Gwelo, one in the 72nd, one in the 79th and one who later became a pilot in the IAF
The week went past all too quickly, and it was great meeting with Hefty and family, Jack, and the barber Mr. Cohen and all the rest from my contacts at work and in sport – great people and a wonderful country. (I was to return for a visit in 1964. Hefty had passed away after a heart attack and his wife was overjoyed to see me again.) I returned to Pretoria and packed my bags to leave South Africa for Israel. In those days, the Dakota left Palmietfontein at midnight on Saturdays. A rowdy and happy send-off and the end of another chapter in my life.
Author: Max Chait