amounts to, all entirely for the Arabs. And that’s why we’ve got our hands full at the UN, just staving off a resolution for
our total withdrawal. Like the vote after we won the Suez War.”
General Elazar and Kishote looked somberly at each other. Dayan got up and walked to a wall map of Sinai and Egypt, and Kishote
noted again how paunchy and unmilitary he appeared in his ministerial dark suit and tie. “So far, one idea has cabinet approval,
and mine,” Dayan went on, gesturing at the map. “A tank reconnaissance in force across the Canal, wiping out army bases, artillery
emplacements, AA batteries, and so on. Military targets only. In and out with air cover, half a day. Southern Command is working
on it. I want your views, Dado.” He turned to Kishote. “And yours. It would take dash, like your run to El Arish.”
David Elazar said, “It would also take time, Minister, and serious planning and rehearsal. A water obstacle presents major
problems. Moreover —”
Abruptly Dayan turned on Kishote. “Well, Yossi? If assigned, would you organize and do it?”
“I have a different idea, sir.”
“Let’s have it.”
“It’s not practical now.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“Because you made me think of it.”
Dado remarked, “If it’s Kishote’s idea, it’s something crazy.”
“No, just requiring a lot more time. Use Russian tanks.” Dado and Dayan exchanged sharp glances. “We’ve captured hundreds.
Put Egyptian markings on them, and once across we could roll to Alexandria. Total surprise, total enemy confusion. Even in
a one-day recco in force we could do tremendous damage with few casualties.”
“Why can’t we do that in the next week?” Dayan demanded. “Transfer seasoned Centurion crews? Train night and day? Assemble
pontoon rafts?”
“Minister, have you climbed inside a Soviet tank lately?”
“Once. I could barely squeeze in. I’ve put on weight.”
“It’s not your weight, sir. They’ve sacrificed everything for low profile. The order went out,
low profile
, so they’ve got low profile, by God! Soviet munition-making. Those tanks must be manned by Russian midgets. They can draw
on two hundred million people for small guys. Nasser, on fifty million. We’ll have a problem, but it can be done, and it can
be a stunning blow.”
“By your life, Kishote,” said Dayan, “let me have a study soon of such an operation. Meantime, Dado, what do we do?”
“Minister, even if the air force is out,” said Dado, “one requirement remains,
swift response
. Slow reprisal sends a hesitant and mushy message.”
“How about artillery, sir?” said Kishote. “Remind them we’re not a hundred miles off in the Negev anymore, but right there
at the Egyptian border.”
Dado nodded. Dayan’s good eye glinted. “We’ve been considering that, too, Kishote.”
“T his is a mistake,” said Amos Pasternak.
He stood with his father in a sheltered observation post in the south of Sinai overlooking the deep blue Gulf of Suez, watching
the oil refineries on the other shore blazing and exploding. Squinting in the desert sun, Dayan was talking to interviewers
while cameramen filmed him against the background of the smoke and fire billowing over Egypt. The artillery exchange was still
going on: distant flashes, staccato thumps, and nearby earsplitting thunder, rolling smoke, and pale flame.
“So, you’re back from America a few hours, and you’re passing judgment on national strategy.” Sam Pasternak’s tone was rough
but not ill-natured. Despite his son’s fine tweed jacket and flannel slacks acquired in San Francisco, Amos’s Israeli look
was unchanged; swarthy and thickset like his father, his heavy oval face almost boyishly open, his dark heavy-lidded eyes
sparkling and sharp. He had telephoned at the first news of the
Eilat
, saying, “Looks like the war may be starting again, Abba. I’m not missing it, I’m coming
our total withdrawal. Like the vote after we won the Suez War.”
General Elazar and Kishote looked somberly at each other. Dayan got up and walked to a wall map of Sinai and Egypt, and Kishote
noted again how paunchy and unmilitary he appeared in his ministerial dark suit and tie. “So far, one idea has cabinet approval,
and mine,” Dayan went on, gesturing at the map. “A tank reconnaissance in force across the Canal, wiping out army bases, artillery
emplacements, AA batteries, and so on. Military targets only. In and out with air cover, half a day. Southern Command is working
on it. I want your views, Dado.” He turned to Kishote. “And yours. It would take dash, like your run to El Arish.”
David Elazar said, “It would also take time, Minister, and serious planning and rehearsal. A water obstacle presents major
problems. Moreover —”
Abruptly Dayan turned on Kishote. “Well, Yossi? If assigned, would you organize and do it?”
“I have a different idea, sir.”
“Let’s have it.”
“It’s not practical now.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“Because you made me think of it.”
Dado remarked, “If it’s Kishote’s idea, it’s something crazy.”
“No, just requiring a lot more time. Use Russian tanks.” Dado and Dayan exchanged sharp glances. “We’ve captured hundreds.
Put Egyptian markings on them, and once across we could roll to Alexandria. Total surprise, total enemy confusion. Even in
a one-day recco in force we could do tremendous damage with few casualties.”
“Why can’t we do that in the next week?” Dayan demanded. “Transfer seasoned Centurion crews? Train night and day? Assemble
pontoon rafts?”
“Minister, have you climbed inside a Soviet tank lately?”
“Once. I could barely squeeze in. I’ve put on weight.”
“It’s not your weight, sir. They’ve sacrificed everything for low profile. The order went out,
low profile
, so they’ve got low profile, by God! Soviet munition-making. Those tanks must be manned by Russian midgets. They can draw
on two hundred million people for small guys. Nasser, on fifty million. We’ll have a problem, but it can be done, and it can
be a stunning blow.”
“By your life, Kishote,” said Dayan, “let me have a study soon of such an operation. Meantime, Dado, what do we do?”
“Minister, even if the air force is out,” said Dado, “one requirement remains,
swift response
. Slow reprisal sends a hesitant and mushy message.”
“How about artillery, sir?” said Kishote. “Remind them we’re not a hundred miles off in the Negev anymore, but right there
at the Egyptian border.”
Dado nodded. Dayan’s good eye glinted. “We’ve been considering that, too, Kishote.”
“T his is a mistake,” said Amos Pasternak.
He stood with his father in a sheltered observation post in the south of Sinai overlooking the deep blue Gulf of Suez, watching
the oil refineries on the other shore blazing and exploding. Squinting in the desert sun, Dayan was talking to interviewers
while cameramen filmed him against the background of the smoke and fire billowing over Egypt. The artillery exchange was still
going on: distant flashes, staccato thumps, and nearby earsplitting thunder, rolling smoke, and pale flame.
“So, you’re back from America a few hours, and you’re passing judgment on national strategy.” Sam Pasternak’s tone was rough
but not ill-natured. Despite his son’s fine tweed jacket and flannel slacks acquired in San Francisco, Amos’s Israeli look
was unchanged; swarthy and thickset like his father, his heavy oval face almost boyishly open, his dark heavy-lidded eyes
sparkling and sharp. He had telephoned at the first news of the
Eilat
, saying, “Looks like the war may be starting again, Abba. I’m not missing it, I’m coming
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