Once upon a succa time

Posted by Bible Probe on October 21, 2005 at 16:41:09:

Above - Israeli soldiers saying morning prayers in the Golan Heights...

Once upon a succa time
Golda Meir tells why Israel MUST survive....
By YEHUDA AVNER

The metal brutes clawed and ripped at the rock-strewn path, up a rugged basalt slope to a ridge that terminated in a plateau designated as the tank replenishment depot. Centurions, much the worst for wear, were parked higgledy-piggledy, taking on ammunition and fuel.

From this vantage point prime minister Golda Meir could look over the Kuneitra Valley, dubbed the Vale of Tears, so named because it was the site of the bloodiest battle of the Yom Kippur War when catastrophe thundered down on an overextended and unprepared Israel in a juggernaut of armor more numerous than Hitler's at his peak. On the Golan Heights alone, 1,400 Syrian tanks hurled themselves against Israel's 160. The defenders fought at point-blank range, lurching and roaring in an unequal entanglement of tanks, armored personnel carriers, howitzers, and other paraphernalia that culminated in a contest of wills which left the Israelis staggering and the Syrians routed.

Golda Meir, her face deeply scored with tragic lines, stared out across this Vale of Tears and her eyes reddened. It was Hol Hamoed Succot 1973, and she had come to see for herself the carnage that had been wrought here. She was accompanied by her one-eyed veteran minister of defense, Moshe Dayan, and her ruggedly handsome chief-of General Staff, General David (Dado) Elazar. Faces gray for lack of sleep, the two warriors watched with the eyes of connoisseurs as squads of dusty men, some staggering with fatigue, loaded tanks with shells, refueled their engines, and waved them off, clanking and snarling back to the front.

The distant thud of heavy guns that was pounding the road to Damascus could be distinctly heard as Dado propped a Golan map on a tank hull, and with sweeps of his pen, resurrected the lines of battle for the benefit of this knotted elderly woman whose ignorance of things military was absolute.

Dayan handed her his binoculars the better to view the far-off valley floor strewn with the hideous debris of war: pulverized howitzers, blown-out trucks, banged-up armored personnel carriers, burned-out tanks punched through with bull's eyes, some still smoldering – and the dead. The stench of death, cordite, diesel and exhaust, was everywhere.

As she scanned the cadaverous landscape through the binoculars the creases in her face sharpened, and she fumbled for a pack of cigarettes from her black leather handbag. Dado struck her a match and she inhaled deeply, sparking a blaze of photo flashes from the accompanying journalists. They were in my charge, as director of the prime minister's foreign press bureau.

THE WHOLE inspection tour was a last-minute affair. It was made on Golda's insistence. She wanted to see this frightful valley, overriding Dayan's objections; he rightly feared for her safety. So a small, foreign media press pool was hastily mustered – she wanted the world to know the odds Israel was up against – and she was helicoptered in with the intention of rapidly helicoptering her out.

Given the improvised and sensitive nature of the trip it was agreed there would be no press conference, but one journalist, with bushy eyebrows, a baggy suit, and a perfectly pitched BBC voice, pugnaciously called out, "Share with us, if you will, prime minister, what's going through your mind as you look out upon this battlefield?"

Golda stared back at him, her features livid, and with a dismissive wave of the hand as though brushing away a fly from her plain gray suit, turned to Dayan and Dado, and said, "Come, I want to talk to the boys at the succa. I want to hear what they have to say."

Click HERE to READ THIS WHOLE FASCINATING STORY (Page 2 of 3)

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