"So, did you ever even join the Army," asked my old friend on the tube, you would call it "subway." I replied, "Yes, I did," which nonplussed him, "The British Army." He paused, "Nice, I joined the IDF," which is what he did, "Discipline must've been strict, eh?" Well it was, not that I was much of a soldier. My friend, on the other hand, was.
He'd gone to a prestigious boarding school in London only to get bullied for being a Jew. So, he figured, let's x outta this and go to Israel. What's better, being bullied by entitled idiots or wielding an M16? He chose the latter route.
We met up in Dallas some 20 years later for a delicious grill out. "Tell me," I asked, "How'd it go, your time in the tanks?" He thought for a moment, over a perfectly grilled steak, "We were running Centurions, no kidding, and got ambushed in the Lebanon. Our Lieutenant froze, so I took over, training kicked in and we won. No kidding, Centurions."
Result. I met the driver(?) of his tank at a Kibbutz in the '80s. His hair was grey and he wore a body bandage. Thing is, when their tank blew up somewhere near Beirut, fella went back to retrieve individual weapons, and suffered. Point of this?
Respect to my pal, who lives in Jakarta or somewhere like that. Respect too to all who put their lives on the line. It is, I believe, a line worth holding. Am I wrong? Your call,
LSP
