59
Palestine 1948
I sat with my back against a flat rock while the company scrambled, Irit barked orders, and we prepared to dig in. We had less than two hundred to stop the Syrian army from overrunning the Golan Heights. The five tanks we’d retrieved from the airdrop the night Irit’s brother died, sat in a semi-circular array, their crews lounging during the temporary lull. The guy I shared the cab with that night sauntered over. I remembered his quip about not having a driver’s license even though he operated a tank. He squatted beside me.
“Smoke?” He held out the pack. I extracted one.
“Thanks.” I lit us both up. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a ruddy complexion, reddened by the sun and the wind on the Heights. He might have been Swedish.
“You ready for this?” I asked.
He took
