“General Mana arrived from Baghdad ten minutes ago,” Samir said. Hussan Mana was the commander of the base at Mosul and, according to his press releases, the number one fighter pilot in the Iraqi Air Force.
“I’m impressed,” Johar mumbled. “You don’t think he’s going to fly tomorrow?” The two exchanged knowing glances. The joke around the squadron was that Mana flew once a month whether he needed to or not. “Did you hear the latest rumor?” Johar asked.
“That we’re going to join Syria?”
“Not that one,” Johar replied. “The one about Mana’s younger brother being killed by an Israeli agent. Supposedly, she could stop traffic.”
“A Mana interested in females?” Samir grinned. “I thought all Manas were alike.”
A young and boyish-looking lieutenant colonel came through the door. “The commander will be here shortly,” he announced. “Please take your places.” The pilots shuffled into two lines on each side of the center aisle, making a corridor for the general to walk down. They lined up by rank, the lowest and least important near the door. Johar and Samir were the first in line. When the lieutenant colonel was satisfied that all was proper, he called them to attention. The two lines stood there, waiting for the general.
Five minutes later, General Hussan Mana entered, his immaculately tailored uniform resplendent with braid and medals. As he walked down the line, each pilot would click his heels and give a short bow. Mana didn’t see the lieutenants, ignored the captains and majors, acknowledged the lieutenant colonels with a glance, and actually nodded at the four colonels whose uniforms matched his.
“Do you think they own flight suits?” Samir asked out of the side of his mouth, referring to the colonels and the general.
“It has been rumored,” Johar whispered.
General Mana stared at the assembled pilots, all still standing at attention. “It is my honor,” he began, his voice rigid and formal, “to tell you that we are now engaged in battle with our most hated enemy. Soon we will have the chance to show the world that their air force is nothing but a pitiful collection of half-assed Barbary apes who call themselves pilots.” The general permitted a tight smile to cross his lips.
“Oh, I hope they are,” Samir mumbled under his breath.
“I will lead you into battle,” Mana continued, “and prove that our Sukhois are better than the American F-Fifteens and F-Sixteens that have allowed the enemy to dominate our Syrian allies. We will attack using a ‘bearing of aircraft.’ I will be in the lead and you will follow according to position.”
A bearing of aircraft was a standard Soviet formation, a long line of aircraft that a radar ground controller directed into an engagement. It was a follow-the-leader formation in which each aircraft followed approximately two miles in trail and stacked slightly higher than the one in front of it. The arrangement allowed the radar ground controllers to maintain aircraft separation and tight control. By “position,” Mana meant rank. Johar and Samir would be the last aircraft in the formation.
Now Mana’s face hardened. “Victory is ours. Itbach al-yahud!” Kill the Jews! The general stomped out of the room.
On that late afternoon, Iraq had 604 men who could fly high-performance fighter-type aircraft. Two of them were fighter pilots nicknamed Joe and Sam.
The MP guarding the Iraqi POW directed Matt to drive to a headquarters compound near Acre where a doctor and translator were waiting for them. The doctor climbed into the back of the ambulance and examined the Iraqi while the translator relayed the doctor’s questions. “He says his unit is the Hammurabi Division” the translator said. The Israelis exchanged worried glances. The Hammurabi Division was part of Iraq’s Republican Guard.
“He can be interrogated,” the doctor said and climbed out.
Time and the road blended together for Matt as he and the two women shuttled back and forth between the fighting and hospitals in the rear. From the wounded, he heard that the Israelis had mounted a counterattack and then had to fall back to their original positions. Matt was able to learn that fighting was the fiercest on the northern border and hinged on a low ridge that straddled the coastal plain. On one trip back to Haifa, a young wounded tanker described the battle to him. “If they push us off that ridge,” he said, “the road to Haifa will be wide open.”
The action ground to a halt as both sides ran out of tanks, fuel, and ammunition. Then Matt started hearing stories about how a small, ragtag collection of tanks and infantry called Levy Force had fought stubbornly for the ridge and had held on against repeated attacks.
Finally, they were headed for Haifa with their last load of wounded. It was early morning when they reached the hospital and Hanni collapsed from physical exhaustion while they were unloading. Matt carried her to an open place under a tree, amazed at how light and frail the dark-haired woman was under her bulky fatigues. She’s been going on sheer willpower, he thought. He gently laid her down and covered her with a blanket.
When he returned to the ambulance, Colonel Gold, the air attaché, was waiting for him. “I got your message,” he said. Matt sat down, too tired to answer or think. Shoshana appeared with a plastic jug of water and handed it to him. Matt took a long pull at the cool water and felt better. Slowly, he started telling Gold all he had learned and seen. The colonel listened quietly and made extensive notes. When Matt had finished, the colonel asked detailed questions, filling in the blanks.
“Matt, I was ordered to personally find you and get you out of Israel. The Israelis are taking a beating and this is the only place where they’ve stopped the Syrians. The Syrian Third Army has pushed them right to the edge of the Golan Heights and taken Mount Hermon. God, if they kick the Israelis off the Golan … It’s much worse in Jordan and Jerusalem is being shelled.”
“In the Sinai?” Matt asked. “The Egyptians?”
Gold shook his head. “No change. The Israelis still have most of Southern Command in the Sinai covering the Egyptians. If they can free those forces and move them north, the Israelis will have a fighting chance.”
“The Iraqis are in it now and the Egyptians are going to attack,” Matt predicted.
“I know,” Gold said. Matt could hear pain in his voice. “That’s the reason you’ve got to get out of here. Furry says your jet will be fixed and ready to fly tomorrow. Be there and get the hell out of Israel.
“Matt, you gave me the first hard evidence that the Iraqis have come into the war. Look, I haven’t got time to baby-sit you. I have got to get back and try to convince somebody in Washington just how critical things are here.” He looked at the almost comatose young pilot. “You’re in no condition to fly. Get some rest and get to Ramon on your own. If you have trouble, contact me here.” He handed Matt a slip of paper. “I’ve moved to Ben Gurion Airport.” The two men stood and shook hands. Then Gold was gone, running for his car.
Matt found Shoshana asleep in the ambulance and drove her home to her family’s apartment. The woman Matt had talked to earlier answered his knock, took one look at Shoshana, and half carried her, half dragged her to the bathroom. “You,” she said to Matt. “Go in the kitchen and get out of those clothes. Take a sponge bath.”
In the bathroom, she lifted out the two small children who were sleeping in the tub and filled it with hot water. She sat Shoshana on the edge and pulled off her fatigues. As Shoshana slipped into the water, she came half awake. “Aunt Lillian,” she mumbled. “That’s him, Matt.”