In Israel’s War of Independence in 1948-49, I became known as Sidney Fersht, Haganah Number 76490, having proudly taken the oath of allegiance swearing to fight and defend the new fledgling sovereign State of Israel. I was just one of some 4,500 volunteers from Diaspora Jewry, including a number of righteous gentiles, who joined Israel in its fight for independence. Sadly, 123 brave volunteers were to make the supreme sacrifice – God rest their souls, may they rest in peace.
In World War II I had served in Britain’s Royal Air Force, traveling through Cape Town and Durban in South Africa and eventually reaching Burma.
This is my story. I need to mention that this presentation actually started out with the intention to just write about how I had gotten involved in volunteering to serve in Israel in its War of Independence in 1948, and what I was destined to do, witnessing history-in-the-making to help the fledgling state in its hour of need. However, it suddenly occurred to me where my priorities were – as a British Citizen, or as a Jew. True, in my youth I tended to be impetuous, but now that I am older, I have come to realize that my intentions as a volunteer, including swearing allegiance to fight in a foreign country, especially Israel, could have resulted in serious consequences for me. However, with the activities after the war of Sir Oswald Mosley’s British National Nazi Party, I felt I had the absolute right to put my Jewish face first, and my country second.
Sometime in 1948 I listened to two emissaries in London, guest speakers sent by Prime Minister Ben-Gurion, one from the Palmach and the other from the Haganah; they spoke emotionally about six Arab armies waiting to invade the UN-proposed Jewish State after the British withdrew from Palestine, and to push all the Jews into the sea. The silence in that hall was scary. You could actually hear a pin drop. It was obvious that the Arabs intended to finish off what Hitler’s thugs could not accomplish. I took this all personally. I was fired up, and without further thought I volunteered my services to join my brethren in the Holy Land.
Within days of volunteering, I received notification to report to a private house in London, where I was asked a few simple questions by a gentleman about my age – had I served in the British Forces, how was my health? Obviously satisfied with my answers, I was told to pack a small suitcase with bare necessities, and to be ready when called to report to the Jewish Agency in Russell Square in London. A week later I received a telegram from the Jewish Agency, “Chaim awaits you,” which referred to Chaim Weizmann, who was nominated as the first president of the new Jewish State, and the date and time.
Now for the tough part. I needed to report to my family of my decision to volunteer, knowing they wouldn’t take kindly to my decision. Orphaned at 13, and the youngest of eight siblings, my eldest dear sister Celia, my guardian angel, showed her disapproval right away. Asking if I hadn’t I had enough, having served my country well in World War II, why was I temping fate, and why was I doing this? And especially since I had just returned home from three years overseas, safe and well, to civilian life. I expected the questions, and could only answer as best I could about my feelings of deep conviction: we are not living in this world alone, but my family’s attitude was, “Why you again?”
At the Jewish Agency I was given a small slip of paper. On it, written in Hebrew, was my name and an introduction to the Jewish Agency in Paris. I was advised to roll the paper into a ball and to slip it into my trouser pocket and forget about it. I was given a one-way ticket from Victoria Railway Station via Calais to Paris, and told to report on arrival to the Jewish Agency at the address near to the Arc de Triomphe. My final instruction was not to talk to anyone en route to my destination. After shaking hands and wishing me good luck and “Shalom,” I was told to leave through the back door of the building.
The rail journey from London to Dover wasn’t a problem. My undercover mission was about to be tested going through Customs at Dover, when the Customs Officer saw fit to detain me for questioning, and I was thoroughly searched at the rear of the building; the officer finally told me he was aware that I was going to fight in Palestine, and before dismissing me said, and I quote, “We will get you on the way back.” Little did I realize that those few words spoken by the customs official were to cause me many anxious moments when I finally did return a year later, entering Great Britain through the customs at Dover.
Reporting to the Jewish Agency in Paris along with several others, we were driven to a place called “Tretz,” near to a place I later heard about: “Grande Arénas,” also used for Jewish refugees in transit to Palestine. We were housed in a chalet-type building. What I found interesting was that in one building, buried beneath a floorboard, were several British rifles with their firing pins removed; they were for instructional purposes only, and we had orders not to remove them from the building at any time.
Finally, it was time to pack, as we were being shipped out to Palestine. 30 of the British World War II veterans were to police the vessel during our voyage; the ship was filled with refugees, Arriving at the coast of Marseilles, we had to walk over pontoon-bridging for quite a distance to what appeared to be a tiny vessel. The cargo ship we were to sail was called the ”Monte Charo”; the hold was fitted out from stem to stern with shelves built from wooden planks about 30″ apart to accommodate the hundreds of passengers. I won’t attempt to describe the temporary toilet facilities, the meager food rations, mainly cereal and water, just enough to avoid malnutrition and starvation. The whole nine-day voyage was a nightmare. Arriving in Israel, we dropped anchor on the shores of Tel Aviv on July 19th 1948, and were trucked to Tel Litwinsky, since renamed Tel Hashomer.
Action stations: in the twilight hours of our first night in Israel, we were chased out of our beds, ordered to dress and to get out of the building. Outside, we were handed vintage Lee-Enfield rifles and old beat-up helmets; loose rounds of bullets were thrown into our helmets and we could then hear vehicles revving their engines. This all was happening whilst most of us were still closing their fly zippers on their pants.
Still without a clue as to what was happening, I enquired of one driver where he was taking us. He replied, “As reinforcements to Kibbutz Hanita, under attack, on the Lebanese border.” As the panic settled, I found myself in the early hours of the morning seated on the floor of a truck in a foreign land with a bunch of crazy foreigners armed with weapons, going into action waving their weapons – which could have been loaded – pointing them at one another. These untrained refugees behaved as if we were going to a party or were on some kind of treasure hunt.
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I decided in the short time we had together, before arriving at Hanita, to attempt to instruct my fellow passengers in the safety, the loading and the firing of the British Lee-Enfield rifles in their possession. Loading my rifle and pointing it outside the vehicle to the sky, I removed the safety catch and placed a bullet in the chamber. As I squeezed the trigger my rifle jammed and I discovered that I had been issued with the wrong caliber bullets, rendering my rifle useless in any Arab attack at Hanita. In order not to cause panic; I decided to keep this information to myself for the present. Fortunately, that early-morning lesson in futility turned out to be a false alarm and was aborted. By midday we were driven back to Tel Litwinsky where all the new arrivals of the “Monte Charo” were paraded and swore allegiance to the State of Israel. I became known as “Sidney Fersht, Number 76490, Haganah.”
After being dismissed from parade, Mark Compton was standing beside me; Mark and I had become friends during our time together on the “Monte Charo.” Mark was an infantry-trained soldier from one of Britain’s elite battalions. He was so disgusted with our scary, first-morning life-and-death situation that he opted to join the Palmach, but ended up in the intelligence and sniper platoon of the 72nd Infantry Battalion.
Now this is where over the many years I have a problem: I simply cannot recall the few moments in time on that very first mindless morning spent in Israel, when I can only say it appears I was told, or ordered, to take on the awesome responsibility, at a moment’s notice, to “MAKE SOLDIERS OUT OF THEM,” the words that were to ring in my head for a long time. What I do recall from that time is being surrounded by hundreds of refugees, after the word got out I was to be their commanding officer; with the aid of an Israel interpreter and a peg-board listing the names of my raw recruits, their nationality, language spoken, and so forth, I had to plan to make up squads of men with an instructor, and if necessary, an interpreter.
Thankful for my training as a young recruit in the Royal Air Force, I was really well-prepared for the responsibility thrust upon me. Now, instead of taking orders, I was about to give orders. Interestingly enough, the least of my problems was to find capable instructors. I had the pick of thirty well-trained World War II veterans, mostly infantry soldiers I had served with and whom I had got to know on the “Monte Charo.” They, too, witnessed the preposterous early morning situation with our untrained refugees sent as reinforcements to Hanita.
Like my comrades-in-arms, I saw the need; the country was armed to the teeth, with every able-bodied person in Israeli fighting on all fronts. If not us, then who else was available? And so, without a reference such as the Military Routine Regulation Training Manual, but with the full support of battle-scarred infantry soldiers – now instructors – this was to be our mission as volunteers: to make soldiers out of a bunch of wild and crazy guys. Suffice to say that during the time I was stationed at Tel Litwinsky, at no time was I told or ordered to report to any Israeli military higher command.
Setting up a base camp site was not a problem. A British army-based training camp, recently vacated, was to serve our purpose. Food supplies, rifles, ammunition, a Bren gun or two, grenades: all our needs for training purposes weren’t a problem. With help from my Israeli interpreter, and some discussions with our eager instructors, I had soon posted DROs (Daily Routine Orders) on a board outside my office, set up squads headed by instructors, and if and when necessary, an Israeli interpreter. We looked like a renegade outfit, wearing the same clothes in which we arrived, Requests for uniforms were denied, there simply weren’t any. Without uniforms or ranks of authority, our recruits respected us for who we were, showing their appreciation in their own way for our presence and for training them to live to fight another day. I can’t recall a single incident when I was asked to discipline a recruit.
We had our charges occupied from morning to night, learning to work as a team: taking orders, stripping their weapons and taking care of them, throwing grenades on the firing range, taking instruction in field deployment, taking ground cover, when to fire. When not in class, we had them marching in formation all over the place. It soon became obvious, as our recruits gained confidence, that there was a complete change in their personalities, and also in their relationships with one another.
My guys were experienced, hardened infantry soldiers who had survived many a battle in World War II. I would venture to say that whatever they lacked as instructors, they certainly made up by sharing their knowledge and experiences with their charges, re-enacting actual battle combat situations and enabling them to live to fight another day. I have no doubt that each of our recruits, when put to the test with their comrades-in-arms, made excellent back-up soldiers. As it was for the earlier Jewish immigrants, survival through trouble and strife was the gift that the Jewish people learned, regardless of ridiculous odds.
In documenting this material, I am so proud that in my youth I had the courage of my convictions, and was able to serve the fledgling State of Israel in its hour of need. My one wish is that Israel may continue to grow from strength to strength, and that perhaps one day all nations in the Middle East will know what it is like to live in Peace – Shalom.
Author: Sidney Firth, November 2009