Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [102]
Nathan shook his head. “No.”
“Where do you intend to go? The pogroms in Russia and Poland are worse than anything Europe has seen since the Middle Ages.”
“America,” he answered.
“Very well. Do you have relatives in America who will pay your passage and vouch for you?”
“Yes.”
She took some forms from her desk and shoved them over to him. Nathan began to cry, softly.
“It’s all right,” she said. “You’re not the only one leaving Palestine.”
“Zionism has failed me,” he wept.
PART THREE
AMERICA! AMERICA!
GIDEON
MITLA PASS
October 30, 1956
D DAY PLUS ONE
IT IS DIFFICULT TO know when my flight of ecstasy segued into a horrifying awareness. I was buzzing along merrily in my morphine haze when the zzzz turned from pleasant to hostile and became louder and louder, then switched to a shrill, ear-splitting scream.
I fought my eyes open at the same instant that angry puffs of earth and stone erupted all about me like little geysers and sharp little bits of stone sprayed into me like hornet stings. Machine-gun bullets!
I caught a glance of Shlomo as he pounced on top of me and covered me with his body. “Don’t move!” he yelled.
No sooner had Shlomo pinned me down than the shooting stopped and the screams tailed off quickly. We were being attacked by low-flying jet aircraft. Shlomo rolled off me.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Where the hell are we?”
Then I began to recall: Lydda Airport ... Val and my daughters taking off in flying boxcars ... the beach ... Natasha ... Grover Vandover ... the slow agonizing flight of the Dakotas into the Sinai ... the parachute jump. The parachute jump! Jesus! Hadn’t I been injured on the landing?
The screaming sounds returned ... louder ... louder ... louder! This time the earth bounced from the impact of bullets as Egyptian MiGs, engines shrieking, flashed over at what seemed touching distance, the noise nearly splitting my skull. Ugly bastards! Shlomo smothered me once more.
“Get off me, you goddam ape,” I shouted at him and lifted my head to catch a glimpse of the plumes of a pair of jets streaking away. I propped myself up on my elbows and watched our guards firing at them futilely.
“Medic! Medic!”
A paratrooper was shot up only a few yards away. He was a damned mess, his entire upper body gushing blood.
“Stay put!” Shlomo ordered. “They’re coming back.”
I watched the MiGs appear over the horizon, a couple of specks, banking, then growing larger and larger as they zeroed in for another pass.
Suddenly the Egyptians pulled out of their dive and zipped skyward. Shlomo had his field glasses on them.
“Yahoo!” he cried. “Yahoo! Yahoo! Gideon! Our boys are after them!”
Another pair of specks tore after the MiGs, which hightailed it for the Canal and safety. Cheering erupted from the ground, and then a massive sigh of relief. Attention turned to the wounded soldier.
During the night, while I was unconscious, the injured had been moved from the exposed open ground into a small wadi to afford us a measure of protection. There wasn’t too much cover anywhere, but it’s amazing how you can burrow into the smallest crack.
The balance of the Lion’s Battalion had made a forced march to the mouth of Mitla Pass, had found some good elevated ground, and were digging in to halt any attempt by the Egyptians to break out and reinforce their troops in the Sinai.
During the night, supplies, artillery, and jeeps had been dropped by parachute. Of the dozen jeeps, nearly all were damaged. A number of tires burst on impact, and other vehicles hit the ground engine first. Working in near-total darkness, so as not to draw fire from inside the Pass, they cannibalized six of the jeeps for spare parts to get the other six into working order.
Dr. Schwartz got the wounded lad quieted down and his bleeding under control. About this