New Heavens (15 page)

One morning, Misha failed to return on schedule from a local flight in the Tiger Moth. I went out on a search for him and eventually found the Tiger not very far from Sde Dov. He had made a forced landing after running out of fuel near Sidni Ali, the mosque of an Arab village some twenty-five kilometers from our base. From my vantage point circling above the mosque which is perched on a cliff near the sea, I could see a huge crowd of Arabs, some hundreds clearly identified by their galabiyas and white Kefa headresses, surrounding a seated figure near the wall of the mosque. I knew it was Misha.

The Tiger appeared undamaged, obviously having made a good forced landing. I continued circling at low altitude in the hope that my presence would discourage any attempt to harm him. When Misha finally stood up and gave a nonchalant wave to me, I had to decide whether to try a landing to try to extricate him or to return to base and request assistance from the ground forces. I decided not to try and fight it out there and then, though I buzzed the crowd by swooping down at ground level. At that time, the military situation
was so unsettled that I did not know if our ground forces would manage to reach him. We had no radios, so I decided it would be wiser to return to base and get help.

My decision proved to be right. The mob had no violent intentions, and a Haganah unit sent to the scene had no difficulty in persuading them to let Misha take off in the Tiger. When I questioned Misha later about the incident, asking him how he communicated with the Arabs, he said, “No problem. When the mob surrounded me, I pointed to the aircraft and motioned the crowd to back away shouting, “Benzine, whoosh!” It worked.

We made many flights to maintain contact with kibbutzim, sometimes dropping messages. Later we carried army walkie-talkie sets, enabling us to report on Arab troop movements. In many cases we were the sole means of transporting army commanders or reinforcements from kibbutz to kibbutz, and dropping supplies of ammunition.

An important part of our duties was the supervision of the water pipelines, the only source of water supply to the Negev kibbutzim after having been isolated from the rest of the country by the Arabs. Irregular Arab forces constantly blew up sections of the pipeline. From the air we would see large pools of water in the desert and alerted the Haganah who sent repair teams. Another part of our duties was to drop daily newspapers to the surrounded settlements, along with chocolate bars. We were a great morale booster to the lonely and beleaguered kibbutz settlers, and when necessary, we flew badly wounded kibbutzniks to hospitals.

In time those kibbutzim cut off from the rest of the Yishuv and devised a system to ensure that their needs were
being attended to satisfactorily. They began to appoint “consuls.” One kibbutz member was sent to stay in Tel Aviv and to represent that particular kibbutz. They used to badger us with requests for various kinds of assistance, be it the supply of medications or ammunition or rifles. One or two of the consuls were invariably to be seen at Sde Dov before our takeoff on a mission, and they often tried to join the crew.

One night at Sde Dov in October 1948 with the moon shining strongly and the stars glittering in the sky, we loaded a DC-3 we had obtained from the South African airline Westair, which I had formed shortly before. We used the aircraft for missions after they landed from Johannesburg on normal flights before flying back to Johannesburg. Revivim had a small strip, which we sometimes used for flying in light supplies and relief personnel but which was too short for landing a large machine like the DC-3. It was the outpost closest to the border with Egypt and far to the south of Beersheba. It was one of the most exposed locations in the country.

A consul named Michael, a blue-eyed German Jew, his fair complexion burned red by the harsh sun of Israel, approached me. He was a member of Kibbutz Revivim in the southern part of the Negev near the Egyptian border. While we loaded the aircraft and briefed the crew, Michael begged me to let him join the flight. He wouldn't be able to speak to his family or his friends in the kibbutz, but he would at least be able to see the settlement and gauge their chances of surviving the attack we knew would come from the Egyptian army after the end of the mandate. We knew that Revivim
was a prime target they had to overcome in their advance into Palestine. I had misgivings, but Michael begged to go, trying to persuade me that he knew the area and could help the crew find the settlement as well as the best point at which to drop the supplies. Finally, I agreed.

After takeoff I remained at the field awaiting their return. We waited for more than two hours, but the DC-3 did not arrive. Long after its estimated time of arrival back at Sde Dov, we began to worry. Eventually we received a communication from Southern Command that the aircraft was shot down by ground fire in the northern Negev, and the occupants, including Michael, perished. The exact circumstances remain unknown to this day, but I still see him in my mind's eye as night after night he followed the crews tirelessly while they prepared their craft for the flights to the Negev.

In December 1947 I made the longest flight I have ever flown in a small aircraft in one day. The tiny British Auster is no bigger than the better-known Piper Cub and was our workhorse at Sde Dov. My mission was to survey the southern and southeastern borders as far as the Red Sea. I took a former Soviet army tank expert, who was to examine the feasibility of introducing an armored column from the Far East via the Red Sea, then advance from the far south to the center of the country. I believe there was a plan to equip a unit in the Far East with World War II war-surplus tanks
from the Philippines, and after docking at the shore near the present port of Eilat, it was to make its way up the Arava Valley to the north.

From Tel Aviv we flew to Kibbutz Revivim in the Negev to refuel from jerry-cans carried in the aircraft, and from there to the extreme south along the border with Transjordan. In the southern Negev in 1947, we held only five positions: the kibbutzim of Gvulot, Beit Eshel, Tse'elim, Hatserim, and Revivim. Revivim was the most southern, near the Egyptian border. The kibbutzniks had cleared a short strip in the desert.

I spotted the kibbutz easily, the only green area in a landscape burned brown by the sun and no moisture. Rain falls rarely in the cruel desert of the southern Negev.

I spent some time studying the nearly featureless maps of the uninhabited deep south of Palestine. After taking off we climbed to cross the escarpment before descending down below sea level to the desolate valley of the Arava.

As soon as we saw Ein Husub (now Ein Hatseva) the first of the oases in the Arava, I descended and flew low above the dry stony desert ground. From Ein Husub we followed the track that vaguely marked the route from Aqaba to the Dead Sea. In biblical times, long before the sea route through the Suez Canal, this was the main route from the Red Sea through Palestine to Europe. On the way we examined and made notes of the location and appearance of the five existing oases, whose points were not well marked. Only a few date palms and a hint of green indicated their location. We continued at low level to Aqaba near present-day Eilat. I am not sure whether my passenger was unfamiliar
with Hebrew or if he was just a silent type, but whatever the reason we hardly exchanged a word during the nine-hour flight.

All that could be seen in the Arava was the stony landscape with a little scrub vegetation and an occasional oasis. Our only company for more than three hours was the mountain range of Moab and Edom on our left, brooding over us as we made our way along the Arava. On the right, the sharp, high crags of the Sinai Mountains added to the wild and inhospitable feel of a landscape stark and devoid of any sign of human habitation. I wondered at the courage of Moses and his flock, wandering for forty years in that terrible terrain to escape Egyptian slavery more than 2,000 years ago.

Finally, the coast of the Red Sea was in the distance, a refreshing change from the dryness of the environment surrounding us on all sides. We circled low above Umm Rash-rash, forerunner of today's Eilat. There was little to be seen apart from two elongated gray blocks of the British police post, and there was no sign of life apart from a few camels and some Arabs on horses. After circling the forlorn police post, I was eager to leave the godforsaken stretch of coast and head for home.

Sometimes, we flew to Gush Etzion, a group of five kibbutzim in the midst of the large Arab area between Jerusalem and Hebron. There was no other Jewish settlement or
village for many kilometers. The kibbutzim were about a kilometer apart, so planned because of the danger from the Arabs surrounding them. The few hundred courageous settlers possessed only a handful of machine guns and rifles for their protection. Already by December 1947, they were surrounded and cut off from the rest of the Yishuv. The only way to them was through Arab villages. An attempt had been made in the middle of January 1948 to reinforce and supply them from Jerusalem, but the thirty-five men in the rescue party, to this day well recorded in Israeli history as the “Lamed Heh”(thirty-five in Hebrew), were butchered to a man by Arab irregulars. By the time I had contact with the kibbutzim, they were under daily attack by Arab irregulars and were short of medical supplies and ammunition. Fortunately, all the children and some of the women had been evacuated.

A few weeks after the “Lamed Heh” were killed, we received reports that a large force under the guerrilla leader Abdel Kader el Husseini was heading for the group of settlements. A reconnaissance by one of our planes confirmed many vehicles heading toward the area. The gravity of the situation owing to the severe lack of ammunition and medical supplies made it essential to provide urgent assistance. After losing the Lamed Heh platoon, it was clear there was no way of bringing reinforcements or supplies by road. We agreed to try to supply them by air.

After receiving the order from the GHQ in the afternoon, we made an operational plan using three aircraft, the major part of our air resources. I agreed to fly the Tiger Moth twenty or thirty feet above the target area before and during
the proposed drop—quite a dangerous project to fly at low level over firing troops in the tiny Tiger Moth. Eli Eyal in the front cockpit was to fire a Bren gun, and both of us would hurl hand grenades to keep the enemy heads down. Ezer and Hennenson in the Auster and Black and Pussy in the RWD 13 would drop the ammunition and medical supplies.

On a cold midwinter morning on 15 January 1948, we drove out to the airfield. At that hour Tel Aviv was quiet with virtually no traffic. The calm appearance of the city contrasted with the tension I felt as we drove through the deserted streets. At the field, Eli checked the Bren gun and the hand grenades before we took off just before dawn. With Eli in the front cockpit, the Bren gun on his lap, we climbed to cruising altitude and turned toward the range of mountains to the east. The other two aircraft followed some minutes later as we headed toward the besieged kibbutzim. This was to be their last contact with the Yishuv.

After a short flight in the freezing open cockpit, the green valleys of the plains gave way to the stony foothills of the ancient forbidding Judean mountains looming over the coastal plain. As we approached Kfar Etzion, we saw the mountains were covered by low cloud. After breaking through a gap in the clouds, we were able to make out the five groups of kibbutz buildings set in a defensive circle. The big Arab city of Hebron is to the south, Bethlehem to the north. Nearer to them but not too close were villages containing thousands of hostile Arabs. The entire area looked dry and inhospitable, the only patches of green being in the kibbutzim. I was full of admiration for the brave settlers
with their families who had come to settle those stony hills buttressed by their faith that their return to the land of their fathers was ordained thousands of years ago.

Eli's Bren gun jammed after one test round, and because of the lack of communication between us, because I knew almost no Hebrew and Eli knew little English, I couldn't make out what had happened. We continued to shout loudly to each other through the primitive speaking tube, but I had difficulty in understanding anything apart from the word “kaput.”

I decided to continue the mission with the intention of at least buzzing the enemy troops during the drop. Eli continued shouting to me through the tube intercom, but with the buffeting of the wind I could not make out what he was trying to tell me. Fortunately, there were no hostile forces at that hour in the immediate vicinity of the kibbutzim, and the other two aircraft were able to drop their supplies on the rubber tires, which had been spread out to receive them.

As we flew over at low level, the kibbutzniks rushed out to wave in relief and gratitude. I felt satisfaction and a closeness to our embattled brethren down below encircled and lonely but not forsaken, with us as their only contact with the rest of the Yishuv and perhaps their sole instrument of survival. The depth of emotion I felt during the missions to help them has not been matched before or since. I have helped other beseiged kibbutzim, but Kfar Etzion remains etched in my memory, secured by some bond perhaps because of the hopelessness of their situation and their lonely stand against overwhelming odds.

After making the drop, we saw another aircraft that had joined us over Kfar Etzion. It did not take long for us to realize it was a British reconnaissance Auster. We beat a hasty retreat, making for Kibbutz Be'erot Yitzhak while throwing out all incriminating evidence, and from there we made for Sde Dov. Later we heard that the British pilot reported that he had been fired on by “Jewish aircraft.” What had happened was that he had seen a puff of exhaust smoke from one of our engines and thought we had fired at him. After our return and hearing that we were supposed to have fired on the British aircraft, we decided that for the investigation by the British police authorities we would admit to having been flying near Kfar Etzion while dropping medical supplies to the wounded settlers.