had both tried to persuade me to stay. As if I suspected they were trying to deprive me of a valuable and rare experience. It was true that the photograph Yehiel had shown me had put me off for a while. But its shocking effect was wearing off: the picture had become a collection of faded images, details that had no connection with one another, like a tune that one remembers vaguely but can’t hum from beginning to end although it rings in one’s ears.
Did I really want to go to the front? Was that really what I wanted? For a moment I almost changed my mind. After all, Old Ramrod was also against it. Could I go back to him and tell him I had decided to stay? I walked off to the fence at the end of the camp, thinking about this.
A group of soldiers walked past me quickly. Their clothes flapped as they marched, a collection of old clothes bought from a secondhand dealer. All different shades of khaki. And the hats . . . Each of them wore a different kind of knitted woolen cap. I looked at myself. Tight khaki trousers and a thin olive-green shirt. I had brought these clothes from home. That was two months ago, and I hadn’t been given a uniform yet. How much longer will this go on?
My thoughts were confused, and this made everything seem gloomy and miserable. The skies were overcast. The cool wind made my teeth chatter. The middle of winter—and I didn’t have a coat. Until then I hadn’t bothered much about things like that, despite the rain that had already fallen twice during outdoor training sessions. The recruits complained every time they were soaked by these sudden bursts of rain. I would open my shirt to the falling drops, as if I wanted to get soaked through to my bones, and call out: “That’s the way to get tough, boys!” As it grew colder, we ran in the rain, clothes stuck tight to our bodies, our teeth chattering. Although we wallowed in mud for hours on end, not a single man fell ill.
But now I felt the cold more than ever before. I could have asked for a short leave so that I could go to my parents’ home and fetch a coat. But wearing a civilian coat would have spoiled my military appearance—or so I thought. And then I imagined my parents’ puzzled looks if I arrived home in the dead of winter wearing light summer things.
“Why aren’t you wearing a coat?” they had asked me anxiously the last time I had been home.
To which I replied casually: “I have to get tough, to get used to little things like that.” And when I noticed their skeptical look, I went off to the bathroom to have a cold shower. “You see,” I called to them boastfully, coming out shivering with cold, “I’m getting used to it!”
But my father continued looking at me suspiciously. “Do you have enough clothes and food?” he asked.
“Of course, Dad,” I declared confidently. “What do you think?” His skeptical expression told me I had not succeeded in dispelling his suspicions. This prompted me to add: “You can see I’m getting used to suffering. Spartan education.”
“Why not take the coat, all the same?” my mother said in a tender voice, holding it out to me. I refused it with pretended annoyance, although inwardly I would have liked to have taken it.
“No, I don’t need it!” I protested. “Please let me alone. I don’t need anything.” They looked at me sorrowfully as I left.
But now I really missed the coat. My skin was rough, like a chicken whose feathers have been plucked. Perhaps I was scared? Afraid to leave the camp? Was I going to change my mind? . . . I turned back, as if running away from my doubts, and returned to the OC’s office.
“I want to see the OC,” I snapped at the secretary.
“But you’ve just seen him.”
“Yes, I know. But . . . it’s something important.”
She smiled and walked into his office. In a moment she was back. “OK . . . go right in.”
Old Ramrod didn’t seem surprised to see me again so soon.
“I came to tell you,” I blurted out quickly, “that I’ve decided to go.”
“You’ve decided?”
“Yes, yes,” I mumbled nervously.
“Good, if that’s the way you want it.” A sad smile appeared on his face. He was silent for a moment, as if he was thinking about something far away. “This afternoon you’ll be transferred to the Sarona camp. There you will present yourself to the camp commander. They need platoon commanders.” The OC seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I’m sure you’ll make a good fighter,” he ended. Silence. We looked at one another. The old battle-scarred soldier, and the untried young star who was anxious to get a taste of war. Our eyes met. This meeting of our eyes meant a lot to me: it was a sort of pact between two generations of warriors, a silent agreement to what I considered to be the duties and privileges imposed upon every generation in turn. I regarded myself as representing enthusiasm and strength, while Ramrod stood for experience and advice. I knew that the war in which I was going to take part would be a life-or-death struggle. But I didn’t care. At that moment I regarded the need to face the danger of death as one of my deepest desires. Without this experience, I wouldn’t be a man, and I wouldn’t be worthy of continuing the soldierly tradition that I had just joined, in the silent pact with the OC.
“I hope we’ll meet again,” Ramrod said as we parted and shook hands warmly.
“I hope so too,” I echoed as I marched out. His eyes followed me. “Hope to see you,” I mumbled again, dodging outside. The secretary, who was standing outside the door, glanced at me curiously.
“Well, what happened?” she asked.
“I’m going to the front,” I announced proudly.
“What do you say!” she called out in surprise. “The old man must be in a good mood today!”
I went to my room, collected my few belongings, and stuffed them into my kit bag. I loaded it onto my back and went outside to inform the platoon commander of my transfer. I found him near the camp, watching a group of soldiers being taught how to throw hand grenades.
“What’re you doing here with a kit bag?” he asked.
“Well, I got what I wanted,” I replied.
“What’s that?” Arthur exclaimed, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Yes, Ramrod’s transferred me to a combat unit. I’m on my way now.”
“And what do you say about that?” he barked.
“I’m saying nothing,” I answered with ill-concealed pride. “I’m leaving right away, and no regrets. This is my big chance.”
“Yes, yes,” Arthur grumbled to himself. From sheer force of habit, he pulled out his pipe. “I wish you the best of luck,” he added, before putting the pipe into his mouth. He came up to me and patted me on the shoulder. “So you made it, huh?” We shook hands, and then I lifted my kit bag and went off. Arthur followed me with his eyes, clenching his pipe tightly.
About half an hour later, I reached the company’s headquarters at Sarona. A group of soldiers was working with two machine guns placed on the ground. “Where’s the OC’s office?” I asked the instructor. He didn’t reply, but pointed to a nearby two-story building with a red-tiled roof. I went into the corridor of the first floor. A cardboard sign hung on one of the doors. I looked at it: “Company Adjutant’s Office” it proclaimed
