The Thirty-Five and The Thirty-Six
Israel awaits its Sullivan
One of the things I loved about basic training in the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF) was that every now and then we would receive lectures, some about the military history of the IDF and some about more cultural matters, usually meaning Jewish matters. This latter was a kind of Judaism 101 for the majority of recruits who came from non-religious homes. I understood how the two types of subject matter could help make a better soldier by the strengthening of Jewish roots and the identification with heroic soldiers of the past. I was well-read and learned in both categories but enjoyed the lectures all the same. It was better than training. But sometimes it could be worse. We learned right at the start that the real purpose of those lectures in the eyes of our non-coms was to catch anyone who nodded off.
It was a battle of the titans. The first skill you learn as a recruit in this setting is how to sleep while sitting ramrod straight in your chair. The next is how to lift your eyelids and return to full wakefulness as if you had only just blinked. The gifted few could sleep with their eyes open. There was some mercy shown to us, in the form of being allowed to stand in the back of the hall if you knew that you would fall asleep if sitting. It was fake mercy though. Just ask any horse or military recruit. Sleeping while standing is surprisingly simple. You lock in your balance mechanism and sleep fitfully. However, all these tricks were known by the non-coms and easily foiled. Sooner or later, during one lecture or another, each of us fell asleep. The punishment was pushups or a run around the base, no big deal, but you had to pretend that you were suffering mightily so that the non-coms would be happy. Once, after four days in the field we had a lecture and within three minutes the two entire platoons present were snoring. That was the only time that we were run into the ground as punishment. Though the punishment was totally uncalled-for, we still felt ashamed about what had happened.
Speaking of balance, our company of recruits tipped the scale to the opposite side in terms of age. Our platoon and one other were made up of recruits who were not born in Israel. The average age was about thirty, my age at the time, and we were a true ingathering of exiles. In these platoons we had Americans, Frenchmen, Ethiopians, an Irishman, some Englishmen, a few Russians (their big immigration was a few years in the future), a Romanian, an Argentinian, and to add some spice an odd fellow from Belgium. We were in our prime but were led at the squad level, awkwardly at first, by non-coms and second lieutenants who were aged nineteen through twenty-one, and our company captain was twenty-four. All native-born Israelis. The first couple of weeks were awkward but to their credit, they got the hierarchy in place and soon we were performing just like the other regular platoon of recruits of native Israeli eighteen-year-olds on our base.
Our base was in Gush Etzion, just south of Jerusalem. This was where we did our individual weapons and soldier training. Because of our backgrounds there were some funny moments. During this type of training there was a drill for encountering an enemy while on patrol. It is a drill with a single recruit, while all the other recruits wait in line for their turn. Even before we started, we were about to burst out laughing. Our nineteen-year-old sergeant, a short skinny fellow of Yemenite extraction tried to get us hyped-up. “I want to see murder in your eyes,” he shouted. We were mature enough to realize the importance of the drill but still, the sight of this olive-skinned kid jumping around and shouting like the head cheerleader of the Gush Etzion football team was too much. To a man, we failed to hold in our sniggers feeling that the laugh was worth whatever punishment we would receive.
The drill went like this: The LT would shout “move out!” and the soldier would slowly move ahead scanning front and sides with eyes and weapon. After a few meters the LT would shout “engagement!” Here things got tricky. The movement was compound. Your body needed to move at a run straight towards the enemy. During that movement you were expected to raise your weapon and, aiming over the sites, take two quick shots, every few meters. The technique was ballet-like. While raising the weapon, you planted the forward foot, and dragged the trailing foot up to a standing poise. The dragging was to give a semblance of a steady firing base. One can easily see the internal contradiction here. Move fast to the direction of the enemy but on the way take these waltz-steps while shooting. If it sounds convoluted it is because it was. Executed properly, it made sense. There was a beauty to it when done correctly, and no-one did it better than our Yemenite sergeant. What would you call it? A waltzing run? Combat two-step? It took us half a day to move from walk-through to almost full speed.
That’s when our commanders added a new dimension to the drill—a verbal dimension. Let’s look back on the drill to divine its purpose. The soldier in the drill is point man for a squad-size progression. The idea of staying exposed when shot-at and returning fire immediately is to cause the enemy to put their head down, giving the squad time to bring all its weapons to bear. As point man you draw the fire, and you supposedly know where it came from. That has to be communicated to the rest of the squad. When learning the drill, the initial contact is from the front, and the phrase to be communicated is terse: “Contact front! Charge ahead!” In Hebrew it is also four words. The problem was not the words; it was the syllables. The words in Hebrew had three syllables each. Syllable Score: English 6; Hebrew 12. An example of what might be called a syllabic translation would be: “We’re attacked from the front! Charge ahead right quickly!” Awkward in English, with Hebrew as a second language it was like climbing Everest.
Most of us by this time had become established in one way or another in our Israeli lives, with families and a profession, and with a more than passable command of Hebrew. We had self-confidence born of life lived, with possibly an extra measure of confidence owing to the fact that we were living life as immigrants. We were “passing” as Israelis, as long as we were involved in the daily routines of life. All that disappeared during the drill. The phrase was just too unusual and convoluted for normal speech, let alone for a battle cry while moving in that unnatural waltz-like style. I kept going over the phrase while wandering to the back of the group so as to have more time to prepare. But everyone was doing the same thing so the whole group was mumbling and moving away from the commanders. They were not pleased.
First up was the friendliest guy in the platoon. He wasn’t first because he was friendly or because he volunteered; he was first because he was called by our Seargent, who loved to say his name. Maybe because it had three syllables, and maybe because it was not a recognizably Jewish name. “Sullivan! Get up here!” That Seargent loved to say the name “Sullivan.” It must have seemed exotic to him, like speaking a foreign language. The thing about Sullivan was that he had a great sense of humor. If something were funny, he was going to laugh and to his credit, he would not hesitate to laugh, full-heartedly, at himself.
So Sullivan got up there, looking back at us sheepishly, trying to be angry for being called first, again, but then ok with it because if it weren’t him, it would be one of us, so it might as well be him, as if to say: “What the hell fellas, let’s get it over with.” The LT said “commence movement,” and Sullivan got started—murder in his eyes. We were holding our breaths because we were expecting a disaster. Sullivan’s Hebrew was rudimentary. We were not disappointed. “Engagement!” the LT screamed. Even we, who were standing by feeling lucky that Sullivan was drawing the fire, jumped at the suddenness and power of the LT’s shout. That was nothing compared to Sullivan. He had been concentrating on the text and when the LT shouted he jumped straight up like a surprised cat. We looked on in wonderment as the ninety-five kilo Sullivan with another ten kilos of weapon and equipment hung suspended in the air. Because we knew Sullivan, we knew he would be laughing before he hit the ground and he was and he just continued on down, collapsing in hysterics. So much for discipline. Half of us were on the ground with Sullivan. The commanders were laughing too—even the Seargeant.
Then something unexpected happened. We were getting to our feet and we saw that Sullivan was up and ready to go. It was a statement, as if to say: “We’ve had our laugh. Let’s get going.” The commanders were surprised too, but we all fell in and Sullivan moved out. He mangled the phrase of course, when engaged, but he did not hesitate and did the “dance” fairly well. Most importantly, he did it in a state of high seriousness. One by one we went through the drill. We were coming together in terms of the movement, but the phraseology was threatening to defeat the whole project. None of us wanted to see that happen. Then it was the turn of one of the Frenchmen, Marcel. Instead of trying to enunciate the actual words, he substituted “da” for each syllable. “Dadadadadada, dadadadadada. It was so simple that everyone immediately understood that we now had a way forward. It took me three to four attempts but in the end I had substituted the actual phrase for the placeholders as did most of our platoon. We were the only immigrant platoon that mastered this, and it crowned us the leading platoon until the end of basic training. Thanks to Sullivan, we had become tight-knit, and had no problem with the ever-increasing difficulties of the drills. And yes, I admit it: there was a touch of genius in Marcel’s little improvisation.
What had happened was that we had become professional. We expected more of ourselves and of each other, and we had unquestioning confidence in one another. This basic unity soon set us apart from the other platoon of immigrants. It was sometimes awkward, as both platoons ate together. There were good recruits in the other platoon—as good or better than any of us—but they did not have cohesion. What impressed me most about the good soldiers in the other platoon was that they never gave up. They kept pushing themselves while pulling the stragglers along, all the while hoping that they would achieve that magic unity. Not everybody gets a Sullivan I thought, just by wanting one. Even our commanders were surprised. They had a serious platoon on their hands where none was expected. All this unevenness between the platoons would straighten itself out about a month later when we were deep into company-level drills.
For the time being, we were a bit elitist. Personally, one of the signs that we had something special was the fact that I got along very well with the Frenchmen. The default relationship between an American and a Frenchman is one of mutual disdain. Americans think the Frenchmen are snobs and the Frenchmen think Americans are buffoons. Both are correct, until the ice is broken. The Frenchmen in our squad were highly intelligent and it was a pleasure to talk with them.
It was about this time when we had another lecture. It was on the general subject of Hasidism. At one point, the lecturer mentioned the “Lamed Vav Tsadikim.” Upon hearing this I perked up. The idea is that the Universe cannot exist without the presence of thirty-six righteous individuals. They are anonymous. So anonymous, that they themselves are not aware of belonging to this group. As a moral engine, it is unparalleled. If no-one knows who belongs to the club, including the club members themselves, then anyone can imagine themselves as belonging, and as a result live their lives striving to be worthy. It is a thought that grows on you, and I took it with me back to the base after the lecture. That evening at dinner, I looked around. The chef? The kitchen help? Then I looked over at the next table. There he was, Sullivan in all his glory, entertaining anyone within earshot. You took your chances when you sat with Sullivan. More than once food had exited through nostrils as a result of something he said. Could Sullivan be a Tsadik?
At this time we were preparing for our “beret forced march.” It was a twenty-kilometer night march with full equipment at the successful conclusion of which we would receive our grey combat engineer’s beret. The IDF loves to load these events with significant content. As I have mentioned, our base was in Gush Etzion, an area of Jewish settlement south of Jerusalem. In the war of Independence these villages were conquered by the Jordanian Legion under British mercenary command. During the siege of the Gush, there was an attempt to bring supplies on foot from Jerusalem. The group of thirty-five got a late start and by sunup they were still short of Gush Etzion, and were discovered by local Arabs. They organized a defense on a local hilltop and fought to the last man and woman. Their fate was unknown until wounded Arabs started to show up at the medical clinic in Hebron. The suspicious British, who were still ruling over Palestine, sent out some officers and they were shown the mutilated remains of the soldiers. They became known in Israeli poems and songs and history as the “Lamed Hey.” The “Thirty-Five.” We were to trace their final steps and end our forced march on that same hilltop at daybreak.
In preparation for this we received a lecture in the neighboring Kibbutz Kfar Etzion the afternoon before the march. This kibbutz had it own tragic past, but on that day the soldier-teachers who ran their field school told us about the Lamed Heh. It was a good lecture; we all felt a connection with the doomed relief patrol. We had something in common with the Lamed Heh. Some of them had been settled in careers. They were not too much younger than we were. They knew what they were getting into, as did we. Most of us were married with children and although the combat engineers are not considered the elite of the Israeli combat troops, if a war broke out, the engineers would be at the front, clearing mine fields and paving the way for the fighting brigades. The lecture was the perfect run-up to that night’s march.
Which means that my platoon—the most professional one—was hyper sensitized, because one of the qualities of being a professional unit is to know that when things feel perfect, something will be shaking loose when the machine starts moving. That is fine, as long as you are ready and react quickly and efficiently, and effectively. Even then, there are times when nothing helps. When the whole structure falls down and the once tight unit becomes individuals spread around on their backs wondering what the hell happened. That can be the result of a physical event, such as an explosion or even a vehicle accident. It can also be the result of some unexpected sociological or spiritual event, such as happened to us on that day in Kfar Etzion.
We left the lecture hall and moved towards the perimeter fence of the Kibbutz and the gate that opened to the narrow valley between Kfar Etzion and our base. We were going to run across that valley and climb the hill to our base. Then we would assemble for dinner, eat, be bussed to the starting point, and then sleep on the ground for about four hours before the march. We were in the best possible frame of mind for the march and the entire platoon wanted to keep it that way. It should have been easy: a short run, dinner, sleep. It should have been easy.
The other immigrant platoon went first, and watching from the rear, I saw the fiery blond-headed visage of one of the Americans in that platoon. I could see that he was preparing to open his mouth and everything in my body and soul focused on entreating him to keep it shut. I watched in horror as he raised his rifle on high and shouted: “Remember The Thirty-Six!” In an instant the adrenaline exited my body like sweated urine. I looked over at Sullivan and he just stared down at the ground in front of him. The French guys were stunned silent but I knew that wouldn’t last long. They would not have recognized the echoed “Remember the Alamo,” but they could sense it. That is the evil genius of French disdain of Americans. They could sense it. And with the tools at their disposal, they went to work.
“Did he mean the Thirty-Five?” asked Marcel.
“I think so,” the other Frenchman said and then turned to the rest of the squad.
“Is it The Thirty-Five or The Thirty-Six?” He asked in that smooth disingenuous French way that elicited answers. I heard the answers. Most said thirty-five but one of the Americans said thirty-six. My guess is that he was showing solidarity with the Alamo. Just perfect.
“Really? The Thirty-Six? Well, you learn something new every day.” Thankfully, they left it at that. We were moving already, and I allowed myself to flow with the tide. While running, I was appalled at the thoughts that entered my head. Embarrassingly enough I had felt an inner stirring when he had shouted what he had shouted, and against my will I was imagining us as the last defense against Santa Ana’s hordes attacking Kfar Etzion. Worse, his confusion between thirty-five and thirty-six echoed my own and probably everyone’s. We all remembered the trauma of the verbal component of the infantry drill. Thirty-five, thirty-six…Just thinking about those two numbers had me hearing the LT’s voice: “engagement!”
We dragged ourselves up the path to the base with the foul taste of disarray in our mouths. I think that even the Frenchmen regretted having reacted as they had. It seemed as if at every turn we remembered our own Alamo, that time when we found ourselves confused and mumbling during that infantry drill. The soundtracks of our lives had become discombobulated then, and thus humbled, we had crawled back slowly through Marcel’s “da da da da da da,” to a new order, one that now, on entering the base, we understood to preclude petty cruelty. The new soundtrack that we had adopted was one of simple, direct speech, and to our surprise it could easily accommodate a once outlandish phrase such as “Remember The Thirty-Six!”
We stood at attention before the mess hall. Just that short uphill run had demonstrated something new to us: we had become a self-healing organism. I couldn’t help myself—I looked over to that goofy blond American in the other platoon. He had a peaceful look on his face. I came to realize that we had earned it; that is, we had earned the right to have no one ridiculed or ostracized in our midst. To paraphrase Whitman: We were large, we contained multitudes. Looking over to Marcel and receiving a friendly smile in return, I realized that a new arrangement had descended silently upon us, and that it had implications that extended far beyond military life.
For the time being, though, we needed to eat. We filed in and I noticed that the American from the other platoon sat down on the last table of recruits before the commanders’ table. Sullivan made a beeline for him and sat down. Soon the table was full of Americans from both platoons. As we were eating Sullivan made small talk with his neighbor. I continued eating and suddenly noticed that Sullivan was silent, looking at the rest of us at the table. I’m sure that what he was going to say was addressed to his American friends at his table, but as soon as he began talking the entire dining hall went quiet.
“I’m not so sure that there is a difference between The Thirty-Five and The Thirty-Six,” he began. “What are we talking about here?” It was then that Sullivan realized that everyone was listening to him. He was unflustered. He repeated, louder this time.
“What are we talking about here? I’ll tell you what. Total commitment. Nothing held back. Both groups are totally committed to the continued spiritual and physical existence of the Jewish people.” He was speaking as if both groups were present in the dining hall with us. “We need both. The Jewish People and the State of Israel cannot exist without one another. We need to remember the Thirty-Five, and the Thirty-Six.”
Well, I for one was flabbergasted. Not only did Sullivan unify the troops—using excellent Hebrew by the way—he had also transfixed the commanders, who as one had listened, this time as the young men that they were. Sullivan had a big smile. Marcel, sitting behind me said: “Maybe we can say ‘Remember The Seventy-One.’” Sullivan fixed him with a stare and said: “I get it. Thirty-five plus thirty-six equals seventy-one. Nice! I like it!” We all liked it, but before that could develop into an actual moment of relaxation, the Sergeant broke it up and told us to finish our meal and meet at the buses. We were going to march.
One of the basic patterns of the renewed Jewish presence in the Promised Land is that on the eve of any significant movement, the essential conflict is internal, within the body of the Jewish people itself. A tremendous noise surrounds us at these times; the greatest and most powerful nation of all time can send numerous envoys to plead its case. That part of the Jewish people who finds itself aligned with the ideas of such foreign “well-wishers” do not hesitate to accept aide from them, and to have them amplify their stance against the opposing group of the Jewish people through international media outlets until only one voice is predominate. These well-wishers are treading on fertile ground, and knowing Jewish history they expect to be able to influence Israeli policy. In the past, they sometimes succeeded in this, but less as time goes on. The State of Israel faces its future, and its foes, alone. There is a great reckoning going on within the body politic of Israel and it has been going on since the founding of the state. Truth be told, it has been going on since the founding of the People of Israel standing before Mount Sinai. It is essential that it be hammered out to its resolution. The Thirty-Fives of Tel Aviv and Thirty-Sixes of Jerusalem must and will find common ground and will plant the seeds for a regeneration of humanity of which the World has only yet dreamt.
This is so moving. You have me choked up. This is beautiful.