Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon Read Online Free
Author: Barry Sadler
Well, I guess we'll know soon enough. Is it right about Moshe Dayan?"
"Yeah," Tommy answered, "the BBC confirmed it last night. The Israeli government swallowed its pride and appointed him Minister of Defense, even though he's still the main opposition leader in the Knesset, their parliament."
"Well, he sure did a good job in 'fifty six," said Harry Russell. "H e was a commander in the field, wasn't he?"
"Commander in Chief," somebody said.
"That where he lost his eye?" another voice asked.
"No, that happened when he was a terrorist working for the British," came an answer from further down the bus. "Stern Gang, was he?"
"No, Plugo Machaz – Striking Companies in English," said Harry Russell. "The Brits formed them to operate behind Rommel's lines. They recruited them from the Haganah, an old Jewish terrorist group from the twenties that specialized in raiding Arab villages. The Brits let a lot of IRA boyohs out of Dartmoor to train them." He chuckled. "But the Paddys taught 'em a few tricks the Brits hadn't counted on, and after the Germans left, Dayan concentrated on killing British policemen and detonating bombs in the bazaars of Jerusalem. They made the Stern Gang look like Boy Scouts."
"True," said somebody else, "but by the time Dayan lost his eye, the Haganah had become this army we're in now. During the War of Independence in 'forty eight a mortar burst knocked his eye out with his own binoculars while he was watching a distant battle."
"Something I've always wanted to do," Moynihan mused.
"What? Get an eye knocked out?"
"No, stupid. Watch a battle from a distance."
The bus took them to a camp guarded by the most ragtag military any of them had ever seen. No two uniforms were anything alike. Soldiers seemed to wear whatever they liked, especially in headgear, which ranged from military caps and steel helmets to turbans and straw hats. Nowhere did they see a pair of polished boots.
A few hours later they had been fed, outfitted, armed, and relaxing on comfortable bunks in a Quonset hut, listening to Israeli pop music on Moynihan's little radio. The huge Billy Glennon was mightily pleased with his uniform, and showed it off to his comrades, modeling it like a mannequin.
"First bloody army I've been in where a uniform went anywhere near fitting me."
"Me too," agreed the diminutive Moynihan. "My father always told me if I ever could afford it to go to a Jewish tailor. I'm about half a tailor meself, I've taken up so many pairs of army pants."
Harry Russell was delighted with the food. "They might call it goulash," he said happily, "but in my book it's damn good Irish stew with some peppers in it."
They were all impressed with their arms and equipment. They were all brand new, plentiful, and the best of their kind. Casca had just dismantled his Kalashnikov rifle for an unnecessary but ritual cleaning when the door opened and a dark, hawk nosed, Arabic looking man entered the hut. The five were on their feet in an instant. They didn't need to think about it or rationalize it. The three horizontal white stripes on his upper sleeve said that he was a samal , a sergeant, and that was enough. They had all been sergeants at some time, and expected to be so again, maybe in this army. If this guy should turn out to be an asshole and try to make his rank work just for himself, well there were ways to handle that. For now he had their respect.
"Are any of you men Jewish?" he asked in Hebrew.
The others looked confused, but Casca had learned this language when it had been the common tongue of the people of the Roman territory called Judea, and he had been serving under the Procurator Pontius Pilate. He answered for the group: "All of us."
"Cut the crap," the sergeant snapped in Brooklyn accented English, "and stand at ease. I ain't the United Nations I'm your sergeant, and I want to know the truth. So far I ain't got a single kike in my outfit."
"Ye've got three Micks, a sort of a Dago with a Mick name, and a
"Yeah," Tommy answered, "the BBC confirmed it last night. The Israeli government swallowed its pride and appointed him Minister of Defense, even though he's still the main opposition leader in the Knesset, their parliament."
"Well, he sure did a good job in 'fifty six," said Harry Russell. "H e was a commander in the field, wasn't he?"
"Commander in Chief," somebody said.
"That where he lost his eye?" another voice asked.
"No, that happened when he was a terrorist working for the British," came an answer from further down the bus. "Stern Gang, was he?"
"No, Plugo Machaz – Striking Companies in English," said Harry Russell. "The Brits formed them to operate behind Rommel's lines. They recruited them from the Haganah, an old Jewish terrorist group from the twenties that specialized in raiding Arab villages. The Brits let a lot of IRA boyohs out of Dartmoor to train them." He chuckled. "But the Paddys taught 'em a few tricks the Brits hadn't counted on, and after the Germans left, Dayan concentrated on killing British policemen and detonating bombs in the bazaars of Jerusalem. They made the Stern Gang look like Boy Scouts."
"True," said somebody else, "but by the time Dayan lost his eye, the Haganah had become this army we're in now. During the War of Independence in 'forty eight a mortar burst knocked his eye out with his own binoculars while he was watching a distant battle."
"Something I've always wanted to do," Moynihan mused.
"What? Get an eye knocked out?"
"No, stupid. Watch a battle from a distance."
The bus took them to a camp guarded by the most ragtag military any of them had ever seen. No two uniforms were anything alike. Soldiers seemed to wear whatever they liked, especially in headgear, which ranged from military caps and steel helmets to turbans and straw hats. Nowhere did they see a pair of polished boots.
A few hours later they had been fed, outfitted, armed, and relaxing on comfortable bunks in a Quonset hut, listening to Israeli pop music on Moynihan's little radio. The huge Billy Glennon was mightily pleased with his uniform, and showed it off to his comrades, modeling it like a mannequin.
"First bloody army I've been in where a uniform went anywhere near fitting me."
"Me too," agreed the diminutive Moynihan. "My father always told me if I ever could afford it to go to a Jewish tailor. I'm about half a tailor meself, I've taken up so many pairs of army pants."
Harry Russell was delighted with the food. "They might call it goulash," he said happily, "but in my book it's damn good Irish stew with some peppers in it."
They were all impressed with their arms and equipment. They were all brand new, plentiful, and the best of their kind. Casca had just dismantled his Kalashnikov rifle for an unnecessary but ritual cleaning when the door opened and a dark, hawk nosed, Arabic looking man entered the hut. The five were on their feet in an instant. They didn't need to think about it or rationalize it. The three horizontal white stripes on his upper sleeve said that he was a samal , a sergeant, and that was enough. They had all been sergeants at some time, and expected to be so again, maybe in this army. If this guy should turn out to be an asshole and try to make his rank work just for himself, well there were ways to handle that. For now he had their respect.
"Are any of you men Jewish?" he asked in Hebrew.
The others looked confused, but Casca had learned this language when it had been the common tongue of the people of the Roman territory called Judea, and he had been serving under the Procurator Pontius Pilate. He answered for the group: "All of us."
"Cut the crap," the sergeant snapped in Brooklyn accented English, "and stand at ease. I ain't the United Nations I'm your sergeant, and I want to know the truth. So far I ain't got a single kike in my outfit."
"Ye've got three Micks, a sort of a Dago with a Mick name, and a
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