Days of Lead. Moshe Rashkes

post. The bag of grenades lay on its side, propped against the fallen wall of stone. I stretched out my hand to the bag, and the grenades spilled out, striking the ground with a heavy, muffled sound.

      Automatically, I took hold of the first grenade my hand touched. I pulled the pin out and threw it over the wall. I went on throwing the grenades, picking them up from the ground and tossing them feverishly, one after the other. Through the boom of the detonations, I heard broken cries. I didn’t know what they were. Were they human voices? A sudden movement near a thorn bush a few yards away brought me to my knees. I kept my eyes on the bush. It moved, and I threw a grenade at it. As the grenade spun toward it and my arm came down again, two soldiers peered out from between the thorns. I could see them crouching there, like taut springs. But I could also see the black muzzles of the guns in their hands, pointed straight at me. I threw myself backward and pulled my head down.

      A white, clear light flashed in the muzzle, a quick, light flash, like the flame of a candle flickering in the wind. Then sharp and terrible lightning struck me, struck me like a raging storm, and a crushing, howling wind burst over me. A mighty blow shook my whole body. I was thrown backward, blinded. Darkness, a deep blackness in whose vast space flickers of flame spat, showering sparks over me. They fell on me, exploding on my head.

      I couldn’t breathe. My lungs were clenched in a painful vise. I struggled to take in a little air, but couldn’t shake free. A gust of heat began spreading through my chest and blowing through my body, my arteries, spreading like a licking flame. I felt hot spouts of blood filling the hollows of my chest and belly, rising up to my gasping throat, my blocked nose. I kept trying to breathe, to suck in some air, to wriggle out of the ring of suffocation pressing on my throat and lungs. But I couldn’t get any. Blood and spit spurted from my mouth.

      My head hung to one side, humming and buzzing spasmodically. A grating noise pounded in my ears like a rusty saw, and drops fell softly somewhere in my bursting skull. Drums roared against my temples—loud drums. They swelled up into a crescendo. I pressed my burning cheeks against the sunbaked stones. I felt their cool, smooth surface. My lips quivered in longing for a little moisture. I held them against the stones, which still held some of the spit and blood I had vomited up. I sucked the wet stones thirstily. They gave me a few minutes of chill relief. But soon their cool touch became a feeling of burning fire. The fire of thirst.

      Thirst . . . I was boiling all over. A bellows blew in my veins, blowing heat and flame. My tongue burned, my parched palate was on fire. My throat was choked by the mixture of spit and salty blood. The darkness that covered my eyes gradually lifted. Its place was taken by the dim image of the sun. I could feel its warmth through my closed eyes. It came closer and closer to me, a ball of fire—turning and boiling, swirling and blazing—until it became a huge purple spider, which put its white-hot hands on me, clasped my shrinking body, and vomited a sea of molten lava into me. I was burning, scorching! All the moisture in my body had gone. In another minute my flesh would burst, like land tormented by drought. “Water! Water!” But my voice choked and faded away. My dry lips moved up and down, but I couldn’t make a sound.

      Agonizing pains squeezed my chest. A bayonet of white-hot steel pierced my lungs, twisting cruelly in the wound. And then dozens of sharp knives stuck into me, cutting my living, quivering flesh—cutting, twisting, and tearing. With the last of my strength, I tried to escape the sharp points. But I couldn’t. They cut me angrily, devoured my flesh. Devoured me limb by limb . . .

      Tired. No strength left. My chest and lungs swelled up with the blood that flooded them. My hands were weak and soft. My heart beat slowly. The arteries were empty: the streams of burning blood had flowed out. A drowsy fatigue enveloped me, and I felt myself falling asleep, sinking into a redeeming slumber. I knew that I was going to die. Soon I wouldn’t feel anything. I sank quietly into a dark, cool cave. Fell down and down. My head felt dizzy. Everything was dark and black. Only one small spot of light glistened above my head. There was the mouth of the cave. But I was going far away . . . far away . . .

      I was only eighteen, and already departing from life. Going . . . I saw the misty shapes of my mother and father. They approached me with hesitant steps. Their trembling hands were held out toward me. Their faces were lined with sorrow, and their backs bent with mourning. They pleaded: “Come back, son, come back!” They begged me. They were crying.

      I continued falling and receding from them. I waved to them wearily, trying to say something to wipe away their tears. But I couldn’t. My voice had gone. I loved them, and wanted to comfort them. I was sorry for them. I was tired. I drew away from them and sank still further. Sank down . . . sank . . .

      The single spot of light over my head had also gone. Complete darkness surrounded me. I could hear a weak, soft wail somewhere. A long wail, the sound of a trumpet. A wailing trumpet.

      Everything was blurred. All falling to pieces. The darkness lost its black color and became hollow. It wiped everything out, this darkness. But the shadows were stronger than it. Figures came out of the dark mist, blurred figures. Quivering clouds reminded me of something. But what? Who?

      Who was I?

      The events of my life flashed in front of me with giddy speed: faces, like the reflection of a small, laughing boy. His black hair waved in the strong, wailing wind. The trumpet moaned. His blue eyes laughed.

      The images changed. Came and hurried on. A boy in his teens. A smile of compassion playing at the corners of his mouth. Everything was going around and around. Faces of people in the whirlpool . . . people . . . human beings . . . my own face.

      What was I doing here? . . . The war . . . the war . . .

      The visions chased one another. Everything was happening so quickly. The war . . .

      Chapter 2

       The Camp

      “This war isn’t going to last long,” Yehuda said. “It’ll soon be over. You can take my word for it.” His eyes glittered with enthusiasm, and there was a hint of derision in their corners. Was it aimed at me? Because I was stuck there in the training camp, far from the places where the real fighting was going on?

      “You really think so?” I asked hesitantly.

      “What a question!” Yehuda gave me a knowing wink. “We’ll finish them off right away!”

      His confident voice made me feel ashamed. I wanted to open my mouth, to protest. But he stopped me with a decisive gesture. “In general I’m fed up with training greenhorns. This training camp isn’t my line.” I nodded in agreement. “I’m going to the front,” he added. “Must get a few shots in before the whole thing’s over.”

      “Yes, you’re right,” I muttered. “I’m also fed up.”

      “I’m leaving camp tomorrow,” he snorted proudly.

      “Has the camp commander agreed?” I asked, taken aback.

      “Listen to me,” he retorted with a swagger. “That Old Ramrod cuts no ice with me. I just forgot how to train the men. I lost my memory, get it? So, he had to get rid of me.” My astonished look only increased his flow of words. “Look, chum,” he went on, “I wasn’t born yesterday!” His eyes rested on me for a moment while he savored his triumph. It was almost as if he was asking me, “Aren’t I terrific?”

      “You certainly know the ropes,” I said with envy. “I just haven’t got the courage to get away with tricks like that. The only thing I can do is to ask Ramrod for a transfer to a combat unit . . . Think I’ve got a chance?”

      “Huh!” Yehuda snorted. “You’re just wasting your time. You’ve got to be smart, on the ball—like me. Else you’ll stay right here. The OC will keep you in camp until the war’s over.”

      “Rubbish,” the platoon commander, Arthur, chimed in. “You boys are just looking for trouble.” And he added, in a strict tone, “What do you need it for? Do what you’re told to do, and don’t poke your nose where it’s not wanted.”

      “He’s