The events had happened 25 years ago, but they may have occurred separately, in a different order, or in a parallel world. However, they definitely had happened.
Based on the Hebrew post here.
There were castes in Lebanon.
There were castes in Lebanon, and the higher your caste was, the greater your chance of glory was. The higher your chances of glory were, the greater your chances of death were. These two chances had marched together, hand in hand, in the trenches.
The South Lebanon Security Zone was divided into three Sectors: eastern, central, and Western. The east sector was the top decile, and positions were held by divisional units, mainly paratroopers, Golani, and Nahal. These units were considered to be the higher class. The central sector was the middle class, with elite battalions and a few divisional units. Last, the western sector lay below the poverty line and was therefore entrusted to the armored corps.
You need to understand how frustrating it is for IDF infantry officers to be under the command of an armored corps. It's like getting your orders from a fucking mechanic!
But I wasn't an officer. I was a sergeant. Sergeant 5-Yellow. For me, being an infantry platoon sergeant under the command of a tank battalion was the best. Tank battalions had more money, better food, newer equipment, and an operational support company. For a platoon sergeant, having these resources is more important than fighting, patrolling, and defending the communities in the north. I kid you not. A sergeant is busy checking equipment, updating equipment, fetching food, and providing food all day. I prefer to do all these tasks at any given moment under a tank battalion commander.
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| "The Unimplemented Killing Machine." When I arrived at the assistant company, it was common to camouflage your weapon with graffiti until the MP was replaced. |
As I mentioned, your caste decreased as you got closer to the Mediterranean (unlike the real world outside the military). However, as your caste went down, your survival rates went up. My platoon was stationed in Rotem, or Ras Al Bayada, as the locals called it. The first month was like a walk in the park. We were stationed atop a cliff above the seashore, went on day trips to a nearby village, did guard duty, and enjoyed the calm, sun, and corrupt armored corps chef's meals. Once, during a morning round, I walked between the guarding posts to see if my soldiers were still reasonably awake. I reached the checkpoint to talk to the dozing-off soldier when, suddenly, a tank drove by in front of us.
No, not a tank transporter.
No, not an Israeli tank.
A T-55 in all its glory. If you've never seen one, it's a Volkswagen Beetle with a trunk, compared to a Merkava or Abrhams tank. The tank appeared out of nowhere, passed the road right in front of us, and continued driving.
Unlike the eastern sector, where they shoot at everything before it moves, and the central sector, where they shoot at anything that moves, in the western sector, near the sea, you ask questions before you shoot. For example:
"Headquarters, this is the checkpoint. A tank is driving on the road in front of me."
"So what?"
"Headquarters, this is not our tank."
[Silence]
"Headquarters, this is the checkpoint."
"Checkpoint, are you joking with me?"
"No, come on, there's a T-55 tank driving south."
[Silence]
"Headquarters, this is the checkpoint. It's going toward Israel."
Steps lead to the checkpoint, and the CO (from this story) arrives.
CO: "What happened?"
The checkpoint soldier and I pointed to the T-55.
The CO's face drained of color, and he yelled on the radio, "Attack on base, Attack on base!! Headquarters, do you copy?"
Headquarters: "Roger that, Headquarters copies. Is that for real, or is it military exercises, sir?"
Well? have you figured out the half-assed shit base?
After the whole base woke up in chaos, standing on their heads, the commanding officer of the armed battalion announced that it was an SLA (South Lebanon Army) tank from the SLA post up the ridge from us, which had driven to Tapash (weekly garage maintenance) in Naqoura. As I said, it was a half-assed shit base.
After a month at the half-assed shit base, the mortar barrage arrived. Sporadic shelling occurred initially, but then the metal bomb rain started to fall heavier. The first massive mortar barrage happened when we returned from a daily recon mission in a nearby village. We were seven or eight soldiers lying on the ground 50 meters from the half-assed shit base, surrounded by smoke from exploding shells. Then, we started running between the bombardments. When you run through a mortar crater, you always have a dilemma: should I go around the small pit that forms around the shell's tail or run through it? What are the chances that a mortar will land in the same place twice?
The second mortar barrage blew up the gas tank behind the base kitchen. The battalion's cook, who had just served his gourmet meal, was in the kitchen. He ran to the shelter and went to the base doctor for mental reasons. After that, he refused to go back to Lebanon.
The conclusion of this mortar rain was to get as many soldiers out of the half-assed shit base as possible to minimize casualties. So, instead of the Rotem half-assed shit base on the sea at the northern end of the security zone, I found myself at the Tabak half-assed shit artillery base on the Israeli-Lebanese border near Zar'it with the Artichoke ambush team.
Switching back to the castes, the top castes were pure infantry. They fought against terrorists on foot. The middle castes fought against terrorists on foot but were covered by tanks. And last, the lowest castes operated a combined ambush of a tank and an APC and were not allowed to leave their vehicles!
I did that for three months.
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| A glance from an APC to a gully in southern Lebanon. Our APC was a British Army battle tank called Centurion. Its turret was removed and replaced by steel plates with firing nozzles. |
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| Magach |
These ambush teams that combined tanks and infantry units were called Artichokes. Our tank crew, good men all, had terrible luck with tanks, and they projected this bad luck onto us all.
We went on an "Ambush 24" (the number indicated the hours we would spend in the South Lebanon Security Zone) and took equipment for at least 72 hours.
Why?
Because Ambush 24 operations tended to be extended the most.
Why?
Because "they" were in the zone for "just" 24 hours, what difference would it have made if they stayed for another 24? (It can be proven by induction that the IDF remained in Lebanon for almost 20 years because of this argument.)
We positioned ourselves on the highest point in the western sector because it was a dark, moonless night. The tank didn't spot anything, we didn't spot anything, and we weren't allowed to leave the vehicles.
We peed and defecated at the edges of the armed killing machine. If you've ever taken a dump from a cliff, you will know what I'm talking about. You just need a friend to hold your hands while kneeling back as far as possible so your shit wouldn't drip like bird crap on the sides, unlike the high castes that praised their excrement, returning it to the Holy Land in plastic bags and urinating in bottles for the benefit of the Kinneret's (sea of Galilee) water level. When you left armed vehicle tracks after being somewhere in South Lebanon, your excrement was the last thing that interested anyone. Half-assed shit.
Early in the morning, we began to fold up.
A Moroccan-origin officer commanded the tank, and a Russian-origin Barrett sergeant was responsible for our APC. If you were infantry in the IDF, you don't need an explanation, but if not, here's one: The Barrett Department was a department of snipers, mainly soldiers born in the Soviet Union. In the old anthem of the assisting company, there was a line, "The Barretts are Russians, and only two Jews..." because in the assisting company, the platoons are small, noisy cliques, and people flock like sheep toward people who are similar to them—nepotism, racism, you name it. It doesn't matter. That's how it is. Half-assed shit.
To maintain political correctness, even the Sergeant of this Barrett department had left the Soviet Union sometime. I mention this because it is relevant to the rest of the story, not because I am a bigot.
So we packed up the ambush, and as we drove away, I noticed that the tank was circling itself instead of following us. I told the Barrett Sergeant that the tank had a problem.
"What's wrong with it?"
"I don't know. It's driving in circles instead of following us."
[Swearing in Russian] Barrett Sergeant over the radio: "Driver, stop, head toward the tank."
We pulled up next to the tank, which had been circling in place. The Barrett sergeant climbed on top of our armed vehicle, which was parked on the highest point of the Western sector in the South Lebanon Security Zone. He began waving his hands and shouting to get the soldiers' attention inside the tank. After a few minutes, they finally noticed him.
Tank officer: "My aiht tick doe n't ork."
Barrett Sergeant: "What?"
TO: "My ai-ht ti-ck doe n't o-rk!"
BS: "What?"
TO: "Turn off the engine. I can't hear you!"
BS: "Turn off the engine. I can't hear you!"
TO: "Turn-off-the-en-gine, I-can't-hear YOU!"
BS: "Turn-off-the-en-gine, I-can't-hear YOU!"
[Engines turn off]
TO: "My right stick doesn't work."
BS: "?"
Ya, I'll explain. Every tank crew member has always had a small car mechanic and vehicle technician inside them. They have always loved everything related to machinery and cars. A tank crew member has always taken advantage of every opportunity to work on a vehicle. Infantry soldiers had always dodged signing on armed vehicles, avoided riding them, pretended to be sick to ditch armored vehicle training weeks, killed family members when the army tried to send them to do armored vehicle test drives and run away from anything involving grease and heavy equipment!
It turned out that the engine had busted. Only the left caterpillar of the tank was spinning, but the right one didn't move. At the highest point in the western sector of the South Lebanon Security Zone, pre-dawn was nearly over, and I wanted to get up the following morning.
My proposal was to abandon the tank, take the soldiers, and have the air force blow it up from the air so that it wouldn't fall into enemy hands. But I wasn't in charge of this oversight. The battalion commander was responsible for it, and this operation was my first collaboration with the armored corps' way of thinking.
The battalion commander drove around in his jeep at headquarters with Armed Forces songs blaring from loudspeakers. He knew every finger and bolt in his unit and decided this was the perfect opportunity to practice changing an engine in enemy territory.
They gave us a point near Naqoura where the exchange would occur, and we started to drive. We fled the mountain peak. The tank moved behind us, back and forth, and progressed slowly. Then, unfortunately, daylight broke forth. So we ran from the tank, and the Tank officer shouted at us through the radio to wait for them.
We arrived in a town called Naqoura late afternoon, where the UNIFIL (United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon) headquarters were located. We camped near a house with red drapes that they told us was a friendly house. It was the local brothel that served the UN headquarters. Half-assed shit.
The relief convoy waited until dark, and the tank battalion commander, who was the happiest man alive, arrived with a tank carrier and an engine secured by two tanks. Greatest joy. Fortunately, he had left the "Armed Forces Songs" disc in Israel.
They worked for half a night, and the tank worked like new. Then the battalion commander said, "I brought you food."
Our jaws dropped.
We muttered, "We would eat at the base."
"What base?" he asked. "We need to check the tank. We extended your ambush for another 24 hours."
We returned to the mountaintop in the middle of the night.
No, it wasn't over.
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| Stuck at a high peak with a sea view near Ras Al Bayada in southern Lebanon, with a damaged tank on the left edge. |
So what does an infantry soldier do when he sees a fire in the back of an APC?
We shouted together, "Engine fire! E-N-G-I-N-E F-I-R-E!" and jumped out of the APC while pulling the Spectronics (APC's fire suppression systems). A white cloud rose from everywhere and covered the APC. Out of the smoke appeared the tank officer yelling.
"Idiots! It's not from the engine! It's from the bogie!"
We all together: "?"
The tank officer, accompanied by curses in Moroccan, said, "Your bogie is broken, and its rubber burned, not the engine."
We all looked at each other in confusion, except for the Barrett sergeant, who added curses in Russian and then yelled at me, "It's not an engine fire!"
I explained to him that, according to the warfare doctrine, there are two options for a fire in an APC: a fire in the crew compartment or a fire in the engine compartment. Since the engine is located at the back of the APC, it was an engine fire.
The APC's drive sprocket axle broke down and crashed into the bogie, causing the bogie's rubber to burn at the peak of the western sector of the South Lebanon Security Zone.
I suggested we abandon the APC, return on foot, and let the air force blast it so it would not fall into the enemy's hands. But I wasn't responsible for this failure. The Barrett Sergeant and a tank officer were in charge, and from that moment on, they began to curse each other in Russian and Moroccan slang. Each one also used curses from the other's origin language.
At first, they connected one cable and tried to pull the APC, but the cable tore. Then they tried using two long cables, but they also tore.
Finally, they switched to the short cables of the tank, and the APC started moving. The Barrett Sergeant stayed on the APC, and I gathered the rest of the squad and told them quietly, "Let's keep a distance from the shouting so we won't get hit by a stray missile." In the wake of the noise, we began to see lights on in various isolated houses in the area. I thought it was the closest I had gotten to death at that time. Although I don't believe any enemies were around from Hezbollah's side.
We kept our distance and advanced slowly after the broken, squeaking APC until it suddenly stopped. The caterpillar fell off, tangled with the bogies, and the APC dug in. The tank shouted and screamed despite its new engine but couldn't move. The Barrett Sergeant got out of the turret, and so did the tank officer, and they continued to curse each other. Then they realized that the giant drive sprocket, weighing about a ton and a half, was missing, or as the officer said, "You lost the damn sprocket!".
The Barrett Sergeant told me to take the soldiers and go fetch it.
Me: "What?"
Barrett Sergeant: "Go fetch it. It's an order!" He yelled and returned to curse the lieutenant. I told the squad we must bring back the toothed wheel because what the fuck is a drive sprocket?
Soldiers: "What?"
Me: "It's an order."
Soldiers: "Whose orders?"
Me: "Not mine, the Barrett Sergeant."
Soldiers: ""
We went to look for the toothed wheel.
We arrived at the point where the giant toothed wheel, aka drive sprocket, was. We gathered around it in a circle. The giant-toothed wheel rested in peace, unmoving. We knew that none of us could move it. Even if we all tried together, it wouldn't budge. It didn't want to move.
One of the soldiers asked me if we should try to move it. The Silence spoke volumes. Another soldier sat on top of the giant-toothed wheel and lit a cigarette.
"Hide me," he said.
We concealed him sitting on the drive sprocket that had arrived at its resting place at the high point of the western sector of the South Lebanon Security Zone.
We returned to the tank and the cursing crew, who managed to move another 20 meters down a hidden trail and stopped. The Sergeant and the officer were angry that we didn't bring the drive sprocket. I suggested that they drive with the tank and drag it, but they were unwilling.
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| APC without a drive sprocket on the rear slope in southern Lebanon. |
Our faces fell.
We muttered that we would eat at the base.
"What base? We need to check out the new APC. So we extended the ambush for another 24 hours," the happy man chirped.
The D-9 and happy-man's tank took the broken APC, along with the Barrett sergeant on board, and drove.
We had returned at night to the highest point of the western sector of the South Lebanon Security Zone.
I was appointed to command this fiasco, at least the infantry one. We folded up the morning after and got approval to return to base after 72 hours. At this point, I was already looking forward from the APC to the calm and beautiful scenery of South Lebanon until the soldier behind me tapped me on the back and shouted, "Miler, the tank on a smoke screen!"
"Why is it on a smoke screen?"
"Maybe he spotted missiles?"
I confronted the tank through the radio. There were no missiles and no sneakers. The tank had a malfunction, probably a pipe burst.
South Lebanon, daylight, a tank with a white plume of smoke visible across the entire South Lebanon Security Zone. You can't get a more precise target than this.
The tank officer in charge of this ambush yelled at me to wait for him and to drive slower, but I didn't hear him. I was busy yelling at my driver to step on the gas and get away from this tank! Because I'm not from the caste that gets hit by a missile because of a burst pipe!!
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