~ Sons Of Israel ~

by

Douglas Ponton

We were woken before dawn, but it was already starting to get light. I had trouble actually getting up, my neck felt so stiff. No sooner had I poked my nose out of the hut than one of the Arabs who had walked through the night handed me a coffee, a big smile on his face. He said something in a loud voice, rubbing my left shoulder at the same time, but whether he was speaking his language or trying out his English, I was too sleepy to tell. The coffee smelt of cardamoms, and was sweet and strong. In the cool air I looked down, westwards to the sea, which was visible already. You could see over a vast plain which, in that light, had something of a lunar aspect. It looked like a desert to me, though I could make out dark patches which had to be trees, and others which could only be human habitations of some kind, small kibbutzes, perhaps. Our Palestinian hosts were breakfasting, and I joined David, who passed me some pita bread, the inevitable goat’s cheese and some fruit. I was very hungry and ate everything, though cornflakes and toast were more what I felt like at that moment, as well as a cappuccino, of course. Half an hour later, we said our goodbyes. I shook Kamal’s hand, slipped a coin into it, and said I hoped to see him again. David translated this for me, and Kamal smiled. David patted his cheeks. The men shook hands with me and embraced David like some old comrade in arms. Then we moved away, without our donkeys, and very much on our own. As the day began to break in earnest, the taller buildings of Tel Aviv, instead of shadowy forms against the water, caught the sun and we began to have a clear idea of the trek ahead of us. I should say it was a good fifteen miles, downhill, of course, but still way too far for my liking, though I could see David was enjoying the ramble, as laid-back as a boy scout leader at a summer camp.

“Never mind,” he consoled me, pointing downwards and to the left, past some boulders which stood like sentinels on the path below. “We just head straight down there and we’ll get a lift along the road sooner or later.”

After an hour or so, picking our way down the rough track, the sun was beginning to make its presence felt. Although it was still early, it was uncomfortably hot for walking, and my feet were starting to get sore. David passed me an apple, and we munched them, staring towards Tel Aviv, which still seemed very much a distant horizon.

At that moment, the noise of an engine made us turn back and look up. Above the brow of the hill we had just descended appeared a small military helicopter heading in our direction. We could see a soldier scanning the ground with a pair of binoculars and another, on the other side of the pilot, sitting beside an open door, rifle at the ready.

“Start walking!” ordered David tensely: “Act natural, for God’s sake!”

The helicopter was almost on us, and I could sense three pairs of eyes scrutinizing the top of my head. I felt the machine coming lower and lower, had visions of the marksman taking aim, his finger tightening on the trigger. I thought what a suspicious couple we must have seemed to them, even to the naked eye. The helicopter’s roar had become insupportable, and we both turned to look up at the same moment. I had a brief glimpse of the gunman, whose rifle was pointing up innocuously at the sky. The other had lowered his binoculars and was leaning out towards us. David smiled, and shouted a greeting, waving his hand vigorously. The soldier nodded, said something to the pilot, and the helicopter shot upwards, ahead and away.

In the returning silence, I felt my knees shaking and sat on the gnarled trunk of a solitary olive tree by the side of the track. David passed me some water.

“What on earth did you say?” I asked.

“I said ‘Go and get the bastards’ in Hebrew,” David answered, “But he probably couldn’t hear me over that row. They could tell us from bedouins, I’m afraid. Should have thought of that and borrowed some gear from our friends. But wait! Look out,” he said, gripping my arm and helping me to my feet, “He’s coming back!” There was no doubt of it; in front of us this time, low to the ground, the chopper had turned and was heading straight for us.

“Run for it!” shouted David, sprinting for the shelter of some massive boulders a short distance off the path. At that moment, there was a flash of light from the helicopter and something thudded into the ground behind us. There was a deafening noise, and we seemed to be hurled from our feet, coming to rest on a patch of earth behind the largest of the boulders. The secular olive whose shade I had enjoyed just moments before was a wreck, severed from its roots and blown clear from the ground. It was now smouldering a cricket’s pitch away from where it had grown. David was bending over me. “Are you all right? What the fuck do those idiots think they’re doing?” he shouted, audible above the helicopter’s din. It was now hovering above us, at a height of perhaps forty metres. “Have you got a handkerchief?” David asked me, “Quick, man!”

“It’s all right,” I managed to say, “I’m not hurt.”

“No, no,” interrupted David, “We need a bloody handkerchief—a white one, to surrender with before those twats do something else. Wait a moment,” he ripped his shirt off. It wasn’t a perfect white, as it was decorated, incongruously for Lawrence of Arabia, with a single pink pansy. David leapt from the shelter of the boulders and started waving the shirt frantically above his head. There was no immediate response from the helicopter, which kept its menacing position in the sky, like some hovering bird of prey. At that moment, we saw something flash, like a shooting star, heading straight for the helicopter. There was a collision, and with a tremendous bang that seemed to shake the very rocks, the helicopter exploded in a flash of brilliant light. While we took frantic cover among the rocks, fire and brimstone seemed to be raining down as the ruins of the helicopter were scattered around us.

“Fuck,” said David, when we eventually got to our feet, “We could have done without that.”

Not far from the path, on a little knoll, was the roofless shell of an ancient farmhouse. We hadn’t paid it much attention, passing, but now gaped in amazement as a single figure in Arab dress emerged from the ruins of the door, riding a pony and with something looking like a couple of metres of drainpipe slung across his back. At the head of the knoll, he paused, silhouetted against a brilliant blue, and gave us a courteous wave before hurrying off uphill towards the ridge from which we had just descended.

“That’s all we needed,” said David bitterly, waving back, “Fucking Zorro!”