The Israeli troopers quickly dismounted and fanned out to take a careful look at the area and the surrounding terrain features. The radioman had already set up his equipment and was prepared to send or receive. The squad's assignment was important; twenty miles to the west, on their right flank, the Egyptian forces were reeling back in confusion and panic after an initial success; the halftrack's crew was to keep the Egyptians in sight and radio back the Egyptian position. Along with other units similar to theirs they were to keep the Egyptians canalized into as narrow an area as possible. This would make it easier for the Israeli Air Force to pick the Egyptians off. The secondary mission of the half-track squads was to take care of stragglers once the main body of the Egyptians had passed. They would either kill them or herd them back into the caldron of sunburned sand and rock that was Sinai.
Evening was coming when the squad satisfied themselves that the area was secure. The driver of the half-track, a smiling, curly-haired young man of twenty, unslung his 9mm UZI submachine gun and squatted in the sand. Grabbing a handful between his fingers, he let it fall in separate streams to the earth. He looked up at his squad leader and said-in a voice that had Brooklyn all over it: "Shit, man, ain't there nothing out here but this?" He threw the last of the sand down. "This ain't no fun, man. I wish to hell I hadn't let my old man hype me on that 'return to Israel' jazz. I wouldn't be out here now trying to blow up a bunch of ragheads." Pausing, he licked his dry lips. "I wish we had more water. It might get thin if we're out here too long."
The squad leader turned to him. The man's face was as rugged as these ancient hills. He oriented his square-set body to the north, waited a moment as though considering something the young driver could not know, then pointed. "There used to be a spring at the base of two hills about two clicks from here," he said. "It never ran dry. It's probably worth checking out later."
When he took his helmet off the scar by his hairline showed white in contrast to the deep tan of his face. The thin scar running down from his right eye to the corner of his mouth was almost invisible as it molded itself into his crooked grin.
The cocky young driver looked at him. "Is that right? You been out here before?"
Before Casey could answer, Isaac, the rabbi's son, called the squad to evening prayer. After all, it was the Sabbath.
Casey watched the young warriors pray to their God in the evening light, the sun letting red streaks break over the Sinai. He heard again the sound of the ancient Hebrew litany coming from the throats of these young men: "It is written in the Law: for the Lord your God, he is God of the gods, and Lord of the Lords, the great God, the mighty and the terrible… and it is written afterwards: He doth execute the judgment…"
Casey stood still, letting the terrible isolation of this land envelop him. He answered the Brooklyn Jew's question in a voice that was just a whisper that only he heard:
"Yes. I soldiered out here a long time ago. A very long time ago…"