Raid on the Sun(51)

“It’s not good,” Raz said. “As the leader, I need a better airplane.”

“Take mine then,” Yadlin said.

In truth, Yadlin thought Raz’s complaint was somewhat odd. Training and flying in the same plane for months, a pilot became attached to his aircraft as though it somehow had its own personality, its own “soul.” Indeed, like high-performance automobiles, each plane handled a little differently, had its own quirks and mechanical signatures a pilot grew used to. To simply switch to a new aircraft voluntarily, especially at such a late date, was almost unheard-of. But Yadlin knew the squadron leader was under a great deal of pressure. Yadlin liked his plane, No. 129, but he wasn’t overly superstitious about it, as some pilots were. He was too practical for that. If it would make Raz feel better, then he was willing to switch. It was decided: Raz would fly 129, Amos 107.

The rest of Friday afternoon the pilots were left mostly to themselves to read, relax in their barracks, or wander the base. Meanwhile, the tech crews and mechanics checked out the twelve F-16s sequestered in their hangar. The familiar blue six-point Star of David and white circle on the wings were painted out with the sand, brown, and green iguana pattern of desert camouflage. The MK-84s, external fuel tanks, and everything else was checked and rechecked.

That night, after all the pilots had landed and been billeted in the officers’ barracks, the men watched a 16mm Israeli war movie in the squadron room and then turned in to bed early in the large dormitory-style room.

Saturday morning, the pilots were up by 0600 simply out of habit. It was to be a day of so-called leisurely activity—a torture for soldiers waiting to attack. The pilots were used to short-time combat. You were up, you spotted an enemy MiG, you got cleared to engage, and then you engaged and killed—all in less than ten minutes. Or in combat, you flew sortie after sortie, landing, refueling, rearming, and taking off again. In both cases Israeli pilots had no time to think, to ponder the unknowns and the what-ifs. This mission was an entirely new experience for the IAF, and it brought new problems. The squadron had just discovered the latest: time. It was their own personal version of Ha-Hamtana, literally “the waiting,” what the Israelis called the tense, maddening, interminable period of time in 1967 after Egypt reoccupied the Sinai and the nation waited for the inevitable war to follow.

The men picked at their breakfast without enthusiasm. That afternoon they organized a basketball game in the base gym, Raz’s squadron 117 team against Nachumi’s 110. The friendly game, however, quickly turned competitive. They were all young, aggressive fighter pilots and no one liked to lose. The play grew rougher and more serious. Relik Shafir was a great shooter and drew a crowd of defense from Raz’s 117. Soon elbows were being thrown, then body blocks and head butts. Shafir was knocked to the ground and a scuffle broke out under the basket. Some of the unspoken rivalry between the two leaders, perhaps, and maybe lingering resentment over Spector’s gambit to join the squadron, had found its way into the game. Driving to the hoop, Yaffe was knocked hard to the floor under the basket, almost cracking his head open against the post. He climbed back to his feet, surprised. The fall snapped the men back to reality. The two teams decided to call it a game and headed back together to the dorm to shower and cool off.

Saturday night, as they lay on their bunks after lights-out, sleep came to no one. Ivry’s wife, Ofera, a hundred miles away to the north, wasn’t the only one tossing and turning. Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, each alone with his thoughts and trying not to think about tomorrow, the pilots began to joke and kid one another to relieve the tension.

Yaffe piped up from the dark.

“Ilan, you know, chances are, one of us will be staying in Baghdad,” he said in mock gravity. “We talked it over, and we decided it was you.”

“Why?” Ramon cried.

“Because,” Yaffe replied.

“Because what?”

“Well, you’re the youngest, you’re the only one not married, you’re the only captain, and you’re number eight,” Yaffe said matter-of-factly.

Ramon was speechless. This was his first combat mission. Yaffe’s hazing was almost cruel. Complete silence filled the room. And then the pilots broke out laughing. It was the first real release of the pent-up tension of these last days.

“Hell with you,” Ramon groused. “I bet we all come back.”

“You’re on,” Yaffe snapped, not thinking about what he was saying.

The men erupted once again. After a minute or two, Ramon spoke for the last time that night.