Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon Read Online Free Page A
Author: Barry Sadler
Maori," Moynihan told him.
"And what the hell is a Maori?" the sergeant asked, looking at Wardi.
"I'm a Maori," Wardi said. "We come from some islands in the South Pacific that you call New Zealand. My mother's ancestors sailed there from Raratonga and ate up the local population, the Morioris. My last name is Nathan, so maybe you can guess where my grandfather's ancestors came from."
"Well, you might be just what this army needs. But I don't know if Arabs are good to eat. Nathan eh? Well, I guess that means I've got one half kike now."
"And what might ye be yourself?" Harry Russell asked quietly.
"I'm a Yid. But I'm as much a stranger here as any of you."
"What's the word?" Casca asked him.
"We could be in action today," was the laconic reply. "Tomorrow for sure." He turned on his heel and left the hut.
"A mine of bleedin' information, ain't he?" Moynihan hissed after him.
"H e must be joking about today," Russell mused. "The Jews surely wouldn't start a war on their Sabbath, would they?"
Billy Glennon shrugged. "Could be a smart move."
"Nah, they'd never do it," said Moynihan. "It'd sure be smart, but it'd be sacrilegious, and no Jew would do that."
"Where d'ye think the sarge did his soldiering?" Billy Glennon wondered.
"The 'Nam, I reckon," Harry answered, "but he's damned young. Must have been wounded out pretty bad or he'd still be there."
"He's got both his arms and legs and all his eyes and ears," came from Moynihan. "I hope he's got his balls."
"Maybe he's new to the game," said Glennon. "A different twist that'd be rookie sergeants and veteran privates."
"If that's the case, I'm off to join the Arabs," Nathan declared, and everybody laughed.
By nightfall they were none the wiser, but the hut had filled up.
David Levy, a fat Zionist from New York, had been in Vietnam. He threw his kit on his bunk and looked around in disgust. "Only a year ago I swore I would never set foot in a military camp again in my life, and already my politics have got me into another war." He turned to Casca. "What brings you into it?"
"Money." Casca laughed. "Makes more sense than politics."
"Maybe." Levy started arranging his gear.
And there was Hyman Hagkel, an Orthodox Jew from London. Hagkel had a full beard, long hair with earlocks, and wore a skullcap. He sat by himself in his corner of the hut, wrapped in a fringed prayer shawl, chanting incantations until the sun went down. Then he burned a braided valedictory candle, lit a Turkish cigarette, and bowed to the others in the hut.
"Please excuse me parading my religion in your living space. A good week to you."
"A good week to you, and a good year." David Levy waved a casual hand. "Your prayers may be naive, but they are not offensive." He swung his feet to the floor to look inquiringly at the cockney. "But tell me, what is a pious Jew doing in a war?"
"David fought," Hyman answered defensively.
"David sinned." The New Yorker laughed. "But what's your excuse?"
Hagkel lifted his skullcap and ran his fingers through his hair. "I thought about it a great deal. I was in Korea years ago, but that was before I embraced Orthodoxy. Now it is different. As a pious Jew, I should not even come to Palestine until the Messiah comes to lead us here. And certainly I should not fight."
He combed his long beard with his fingers, then shrugged. "It comes down to vanity. If the Arabs crush Israel, it will be God's judgment on the blasphemy of Zionism. But also, I will be shamed. If the Jews win, I will be proud."
"The Book of Revelations," said Billy Glennon, quoting:. "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the preacher."
Hyman nodded his head soberly. "Revelations is not reading for a Jew, but the lesson is well said."
Another bunk was occupied by Atef Lufti. Lufti was black and about six and a half feet tall. Thrust through his belt was a silver embossed leather scabbard with a silver handle set with coral. The curve of the saber was so tight that the silver knob on the end of
"And what the hell is a Maori?" the sergeant asked, looking at Wardi.
"I'm a Maori," Wardi said. "We come from some islands in the South Pacific that you call New Zealand. My mother's ancestors sailed there from Raratonga and ate up the local population, the Morioris. My last name is Nathan, so maybe you can guess where my grandfather's ancestors came from."
"Well, you might be just what this army needs. But I don't know if Arabs are good to eat. Nathan eh? Well, I guess that means I've got one half kike now."
"And what might ye be yourself?" Harry Russell asked quietly.
"I'm a Yid. But I'm as much a stranger here as any of you."
"What's the word?" Casca asked him.
"We could be in action today," was the laconic reply. "Tomorrow for sure." He turned on his heel and left the hut.
"A mine of bleedin' information, ain't he?" Moynihan hissed after him.
"H e must be joking about today," Russell mused. "The Jews surely wouldn't start a war on their Sabbath, would they?"
Billy Glennon shrugged. "Could be a smart move."
"Nah, they'd never do it," said Moynihan. "It'd sure be smart, but it'd be sacrilegious, and no Jew would do that."
"Where d'ye think the sarge did his soldiering?" Billy Glennon wondered.
"The 'Nam, I reckon," Harry answered, "but he's damned young. Must have been wounded out pretty bad or he'd still be there."
"He's got both his arms and legs and all his eyes and ears," came from Moynihan. "I hope he's got his balls."
"Maybe he's new to the game," said Glennon. "A different twist that'd be rookie sergeants and veteran privates."
"If that's the case, I'm off to join the Arabs," Nathan declared, and everybody laughed.
By nightfall they were none the wiser, but the hut had filled up.
David Levy, a fat Zionist from New York, had been in Vietnam. He threw his kit on his bunk and looked around in disgust. "Only a year ago I swore I would never set foot in a military camp again in my life, and already my politics have got me into another war." He turned to Casca. "What brings you into it?"
"Money." Casca laughed. "Makes more sense than politics."
"Maybe." Levy started arranging his gear.
And there was Hyman Hagkel, an Orthodox Jew from London. Hagkel had a full beard, long hair with earlocks, and wore a skullcap. He sat by himself in his corner of the hut, wrapped in a fringed prayer shawl, chanting incantations until the sun went down. Then he burned a braided valedictory candle, lit a Turkish cigarette, and bowed to the others in the hut.
"Please excuse me parading my religion in your living space. A good week to you."
"A good week to you, and a good year." David Levy waved a casual hand. "Your prayers may be naive, but they are not offensive." He swung his feet to the floor to look inquiringly at the cockney. "But tell me, what is a pious Jew doing in a war?"
"David fought," Hyman answered defensively.
"David sinned." The New Yorker laughed. "But what's your excuse?"
Hagkel lifted his skullcap and ran his fingers through his hair. "I thought about it a great deal. I was in Korea years ago, but that was before I embraced Orthodoxy. Now it is different. As a pious Jew, I should not even come to Palestine until the Messiah comes to lead us here. And certainly I should not fight."
He combed his long beard with his fingers, then shrugged. "It comes down to vanity. If the Arabs crush Israel, it will be God's judgment on the blasphemy of Zionism. But also, I will be shamed. If the Jews win, I will be proud."
"The Book of Revelations," said Billy Glennon, quoting:. "Vanity, vanity, all is vanity, saith the preacher."
Hyman nodded his head soberly. "Revelations is not reading for a Jew, but the lesson is well said."
Another bunk was occupied by Atef Lufti. Lufti was black and about six and a half feet tall. Thrust through his belt was a silver embossed leather scabbard with a silver handle set with coral. The curve of the saber was so tight that the silver knob on the end of
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