Days of Lead: Defying Death During Israel’s War of Independence

Moshe Rashkes

Days OF Lead

Defying Death During Israel’s War of Independence

Foreword by Senator (Ret.) Max Cleland

Preface by Arik Rashkes

Days of Lead

Defying Death During Israel’s War of Independence

Copyright © 2018 by Moshe Rashkes and Arik Rashkes.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be sent by e-mail to Apollo Publishers at info@apollopublishers.com.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

Cover design by Rain Saukas.

Cover image copyright © 2018 by National Photo Collection, Israel.

Print ISBN: 978-1-948062-02-2

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-948062-09-1

Printed in the United States of America.

In memory of my parents,

Golda and Ariye Leib.

Contents

Foreword

Preface

Chapter 1: The Hill

Chapter 2: The Camp

Chapter 3: The Convoy

Chapter 4: The Trap

Chapter 5: The Road to Jerusalem

Chapter 6: Sight

Chapter 7: Night

Chapter 8: The Stains

Chapter 9: The Few

Chapter 10: Nightmare

Chapter 11: The Order

Chapter 12: A Fading Twilight

Foreword

By Senator (Ret.) Max Cleland

It was a great honor for me to be asked to pen an introduction to this important book, which received excellent reviews and was printed in Israel in nine editions.

The greatness of this book is to be found in its atmosphere, which enables readers to identify deeply with the author, as if they themselves were on the battlefield, experiencing the terrible pain and sensation of loss.

As a combatant in 1968, I lost both legs and an arm in the Vietnam War. The US government awarded me Bronze and Silver Stars for valorous actions in combat. Following my rehabilitation, I felt the need to serve the American public, first as secretary of state for Georgia, and later as a US senator.

So why am I writing about this particular book? Not just because Moshe Rashkes is a close personal friend, or because the book’s subject matter is close to my heart and my difficult life experiences. It seems that every meeting with the Angel of Death, and every escape from his clutches, lead to enormous changes in the soul of an individual. For most, these changes result in a desire to make things better for humanity and, in wartime, to help one’s fellow combatants.

Moshe followed the same path as I did. Even while hospitalized, following his war injuries, he was among the originators of the Israel Disabled War Veterans Organization, fighting for the rights of injured veterans. Later, after eight years as chairman of this organization, he joined the founders of the Israel Sport Center for the Disabled (ISCD) in Ramat Gan, which became a pioneering sports center for disabled individuals. He served as director of the ISCD for thirty-seven years, and then as chairman in a voluntary capacity for many more years.

I followed a similar path, first as secretary of state for Georgia, then as administrator of the United States Veterans Administration, serving wounded veterans, then as senator for Georgia, fighting—among other things—for the social rights of the disabled and, finally, as secretary of the American Battle Monuments Commission.

I find a strong similarity between this book and my own book, Strong at the Broken Places, written after my own terrible war injuries.

These two books, in my opinion, complete and complement each other. Moshe’s book clearly articulates the sensation of pain and the feeling of approaching death, while my book describes overcoming life-changing shock and loss. Both ultimately celebrate triumph and the power of the human spirit. It is important for every person to know about these things, especially the world’s leaders, in whose hands world peace—or war—rests.

The uniqueness of this book is that it gives the reader a precise and realistic view of the horrors of war, and the feelings of the individual who is engulfed by it.

preface

by Arik Rashkes

Moshe Rashkes is a war hero, a humanitarian hero, a successful author, and one of the founders of the state of Israel. He is also my father.

My father and his family fled Poland in the late 1920s, due to the increasing number of pogroms and growing anti-Semitism. He was only two years old when his family arrived, with very little money and very few possessions, at the shore of what was then Palestine. They moved to Tel Aviv, where life in the 1930s was far from easy. The family lived in a small one-bedroom apartment, worked double shifts, and went hungry most days—but they felt relatively safe. News from Europe came in sporadically and it carried unimaginable horror, initially from ghettos and later from death camps, and, sadly, included the news that most members of the Rashkes family who had stayed in Poland were either missing—or gone.

As a youngster, my father and his friends understood that in order to survive they would need to fight. It was more than self-defense, it was survival, and fighting for Israel’s independence and simple right to exist was not an option, but a duty and a necessity. My father fought on the Jerusalem front and was severely wounded in a heroic battle at the entrance to Sha’ar Hagai, the gate to Jerusalem.

My father’s injury transformed his life drastically, and his miraculous rehabilitation formed his philosophy of life and his future. In 1952, he was elected Chairman of the Israel Disabled War Veterans Organization. One of my childhood memories is walking with my father on the main street of Tel Aviv and being stopped time and again by people—strangers to me—who profusely thanked my father for things he did for them. They were veterans and he was fighting for their rights, for their dignity, and for their recognition.

After serving the veterans, he decided to lead and build a sports center for disabled children. He became a major advocate for rehabilitation through sports, applying many of the methodologies that had helped him with his own rehabilitation. Thousands of disabled kids have gone to the Israel Sport Center for the Disabled and it has helped them gain confidence, pride, and success. My father was, and still is, a hero for many of them.

In 1962, my father published his first book. Its Hebrew title translates into English as Days of Lead. He once told me that he wrote the book in order to be able to forget. The memories were simultaneously very painful and very important, and the book served as a tool for bringing relief. The book was a major success and an astounding best seller, and praise came pouring in. My father, with barely a high school diploma, had created a masterpiece.

Recently, as my father approached his ninetieth birthday, I asked him if I could translate the book and publish it for the first time in English. This was one of his dreams that had faded into the background over the years because of his busy schedule. This dream is now a reality and it has become one of the best birthday gifts for this wonderful and special occasion. The publishing of the book also coincides with Israel’s seventieth anniversary, an event that would never have happened without the spirit and bravery of my father and his fellow soldiers.

Chapter 1

The Hill

Wearily I lifted the field glasses to my eyes. They had once been Ilan’s. In front of me stretched emaciated slopes that quivered hazily when I first looked at them, and then settled down and stopped moving. My eyes wandered over the few scraggy clumps of trees scattered over the area, whose shadows made pits of blackness on the rocky ground.

For a moment I blinked my eyes. Between the faded green trees I made out little figures moving back and forth. I took a long, hard look. There was no doubt: enemy soldiers. Groups of them rushing around busily, as if time was short and they were hurrying to carry out their orders. Now I could make out a few lorries standing near them. The soldiers gathered around the lorries and began working frantically. I could even make out the cannons hidden behind the fences. But I was already tired, dead tired.

The words of the company commander hammered against my temples: Hold the hill—at all costs. That’s what he had said before we set out. That’s the order we were given. But we didn’t have much more left to pay. We were nine when it all started, and now there were only five of us left. Two of them lay dead next to me, their heads smashed into messy pulps of flesh and bones by a machine gun. The commander said something else: Until reinforcements arrive. But I wasn’t sure they’d make it, and was beginning to doubt they were even on their way. When the order had been given, I hadn’t realized all its implications. Now I completely understood it. But I was so bone-tired I couldn’t even complain. Perhaps reinforcements were really on the way. That’s what the company commander told us would happen, after all . . .

The enemy soldiers had stopped rushing about. Soon the shelling would start. I felt it wouldn’t be long. A bright tongue of flame glittered through the trees. That was it. I knew the time had come. White smoke hung there like a light cloud, and a shrill whistle cut through the air. A heavy explosion shook its anger loose somewhere on the slope of the hill. Heavy smoke climbed into the sky. It was a marking bomb. The real shelling began after a few trial shots. The explosions began to follow one another. Their thunder rocked and shook the layer of stones on the hill, like an earthquake that wanted to pound every bit of stone into gravel.

At first I could still make out the exploding shells. A dirty gray whirlpool of dust and rocks rose into the air, and fell back to the ground like a hail of debris from a detonation. The more frequent the explosions became, the less I was able to see. The smoke and dust rolling over the rocks mingled into a heavy cloud that hung over the entrenchment and covered the face of the sun. But by this time I wasn’t paying any attention to what was happening outside my own limited sphere of interest. I lay on the ground, curled up like a hedgehog, pressing desperately as close to the earth as I could. I would have liked to have been swallowed up in it, to be swallowed by it. I clasped the palms of my hands over the nape of my neck and pressed my arms over my ears in a vain attempt to shut out the thunder of the shells.

The guns continued to slam away at a crazy pace. Cold sweat started trickling over my face. At first it was only my forehead that glistened with sweat, but soon my whole body was washed by the sticky wetness. Streams of it, mixed with dust and smoke, trickled into my eyes, stinging them mercilessly. Every time the thunder of the shots rolled over the shuddering rocks, I shut my eyes. My body shrank into a tight, twisted knot, and my head banged against the ground. When I opened my eyes again, it was like waking up from a nightmare. Everything spun around me, around and around until my head reeled.

This had been going on for hours already. My whole body ached from the sudden contortions. Weakness took hold of me. My stomach lurched and the gorge rose. I felt like vomiting . . . I must have been stunned by the cannon fire and couldn’t feel my face. My lips were paralyzed; I bit them but felt nothing, and couldn’t feel my throat either. I put out my hand hesitantly and patted my neck. It was smooth and wet. My fingers dabbled in a warm, soft liquid. I passed my hands in front of my eyes, agitated. My fingers were smeared with a mixture of blood and soot. A piece of shrapnel from a shell must have hit me in the neck. But I felt no pain. I just kept on getting weaker and weaker, my strength flowing away.

I heard a muffled sound, a cry, like that of a frightened baby. It was so choked, so far off, so faint. The cries grew louder, came closer, until I could hear them quite clearly. Only a desperately wounded man screams like that, and this hopeless howling roused me from my dazed state. Slowly I turned my head toward the voice. But I could hardly see anything. Everything was covered by thick mist and acrid smoke. I screwed up my eyes and peered into the mist, putting my whole body into the effort of seeing. The dense mist lifted a little, and through its veil, which opened slightly before closing again, curled a heavy cloud of smoke that climbed over the stone outpost on my left. The wounded man’s cries grew louder. Who could it be? I wondered with growing terror. A chill of fear passed through my body, a chill that deadened the senses.

A black shadow passed in front of the mist. I strained my eyes. Through the rising smoke the figure of a man lurched, running and rocking from side to side, as if he were drunk. At first all I saw was a black shadow. But when the shape came closer I could see someone waving his hands as if he wanted to tell me something, to give me a signal. I couldn’t see the ends of his legs. They were covered by the mist that spread over the ground. He seemed to be floating and hovering on the waves of a sooty smoke. His cries didn’t grow fainter, but became louder, and his movements became more frantic. Now I could see that he was banging himself on the head, hitting himself and shouting. Another minute and he’d reach me. Only ten strides between us. The sound of the explosions deafened me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Suddenly he changed the direction of his walk. He stumbled, swayed in the opposite direction—toward enemy lines.

Stop! a hoarse cry burst from my throat. Stop! He went on. My voice was lost in the thunder of the guns. I struggled to my feet and ran after him. Stop! I went on shouting. Stop!

I caught up with him. Now I could put my hand out and catch him. A mighty burst rocked me. I threw myself on him and pulled him down to the ground with me. I bent over his head. His face was wreathed in smoke. It was Gershon! But he looked different. His face was twisted, distorted. His eyes bulged out of their hollows as if they wanted to leap out of the sagging sockets of flesh that held them. His gaze was expressionless, empty, hollow. He didn’t seem to see me at all, didn’t know me. I felt the shivering of his body against my skin. White foam covered his lips.

Gershon, what’s the matter? I yelled. His eyes moved over my face indifferently. The whites of his eyes were turned red, shot through by a thick network of veins. His mouth was wide open, and a choked, bitter cry burst from his chest.

They’re dying, he cried. All of them dying . . . His eyes were shut tight.

Who’s dying? I shouted desperately, holding his shoulders with both hands and shaking his body with all my strength. Answer me! Who’s dying? He didn’t reply. But his weeping grew fainter, and his vacant eyes opened again. What happened? I asked again. He shook his head weakly.

I’m going to die, he wailed. I’m going to die. His face quivered, and his howl turned into a sob.

Shut up! I yelled at him, feeling his madness taking hold of me. Shut up . . . shut up . . . If only I could have shouted like him, cried, released all the weight of fear that pressed on me. But I couldn’t. Something inside me, stronger than I was, prevented me from doing this. Was it sanity that was stopping me? Or madness? I screamed at him in helpless anger: Shut up! Shut up!

But he didn’t stop crying. His sobs grew louder: I’m going to die, he wept, to die . . .

You’ll die alright, if you don’t shut up, I shrieked, at