Israeli by Day, American by Night

Masa Kumta - Beret March

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 07:54:00 +0000

Writing a blog entry about a march that begins at 7:30pm and ends the next day at 6am is probably harder than the hike itself. What can I say about it? I guess I'll just give a little background...

The masa kumta (beret march, essentially) is the final hike in a long series of hikes that begin in the first month of basic training, and end, at least for certain infantry units, at the end of advanced training. That means that for the duration of your entire training period you have to face these marches. The purpose of a masa is clear: you do them in combat. Not every battle is found right outside your barrack's doors. Sometimes you've gotta hike a few miles out there, or a few back. Why do we open stretchers and load them up and hike miles and miles with them? Because at the end of most battles you've gotta get the wounded out, and there are always wounded. Of course, the masaot also build teamwork, esprit de corps, and give training a sort of backbone - not to mention a clear finale.

What is a masa? Two single file lines. Usually at night. Complete silence. Full gear (combat vest with all related equipment, personal gun, light machine gun, heavy machine gun, water packs, stretchers). Very fast pace (6 to 10 km/h). Steep inclines.

And what is the masa kumta? This is when you earn your brigade's beret, which is simply a different color from other brigades.

OK, is everything explained well? Good, so let's get personal now. You want to know what it was like? It sucked. Everyone was in agreement: it was twice as bad as the "machin masa kumta," which is the 'preparation masa' for the masa kumta. That means it was the one right before this final one. They were the same pace, of course same gear and all that, but the machin had more inclines, meaning it should have been much worse. However, I remember laughing and smiling and singing to myself the entire machin masa! It was good times! "ONLY ONE LEFT!," I thought happily.

The masa kumta, however, brought me no such joy. I don't think I even dreaded it. I don't think I was nervous or anything. I was ready to get it over with before we started, but I did want to do it. I often have thoughts like, "I wish I could just do this blacked out, wake up during the final two minutes for the joy of finishing, and that's it." But I wasn't thinking that about the masa kumta. I wanted to say I did it with a clear mind, suffered as necessary, and finished strong.

I don't know what to tell you, mainly because I don't know myself. Why was it so hard when it actually should have been easier than that machin? I have no idea. Strange. Despite the torture that this was, I am extremely proud of myself for stepping it up with the gear. You see, we have extra gear that we have to carry the entire march - stretchers and a water pack. The stretchers aren't anything but obnoxious to carry on your back, but the water pack... the water pack is tough.

The pack we have holds 11 one and a half liter bottles, I believe.* That's 16.5 liters according to my calculator. Now, according to the infinitely wise Internet, a liter of water weighs 2.2 pounds. So, let me crunch some numbers... 36 pounds. You may be thinking that that's not too bad, it's not 100 pounds, but you try humping 36 pounds at 8km/h for even one hour. Don't forget your gun and your combat vest loaded with ammo, either.

No one ever wants to grab the water pack. We switch off just about every hour, but it always takes a long time to get someone to grab it. Usually the uncomfortable silence of no one stepping forward ends with the commanders yelling at people, and then they grab it. I took the pack the second hour, then after an hour passed it off per routine. Long story short, I was carrying the water again closer to the end, once we had opened the stretchers, despite there being numerous people that hadn't had the joy of lugging it. For the next nearly three hours I had it. No one offered to take the pack, and I didn't ask anyone to. That's 1 hour plus almost 3. Let's say 4 hours with the pack. Can't complain, though - I'm not the MAGist (heavy machine gunner).

For 7 months I dreaded masaot because of that pack, so I wanted to finish strong, with the water pack on my back, and the stretcher on a shoulder. There were guys in the back stumbling along, just trying to keep up, but about 10 of us were giving 100% so we could say we finished with everything we had. Waterpack on my back, stretcher on a shoulder, we ran to the finish line, a full sprint. I thought I was going to fall, but we went right on through to the end - 100%.

That's how you finish this crap.

How did I feel? Anti-climatic. I wasn't tired at all, like most of the guys. They were sleepy, but I don't know, I just kinda felt like I had something to do. I finished everything, the final step in the final masa had been taken, but there I stood. What next? I thought, "Well ok, we can do another one. It's not like that was my physical limit, really." It was hard and all, but why couldn't I do another 10k? Trust me, I don't want to, but after you spend 7 months going from masa to masa, it's weird to think that it's all over.

You know when you have a word on the tip of your tongue? The word is just past that little mental barrier, whatever that barrier is. You can feel it! UGH, what's that word?! Well, I felt like I had joy or relief on the tip of my tongue. Not the word, but the feeling. I could sense those emotions right there, but there was some kind of mental/emotional barrier holding me back from feeling it. Surely it's just because I've been waiting for this masa for so long, and it was bound to be anti-climatic.

Either way, I'm happy. I got through it with the help of tons of junk food stuffed into my pockets and vest (advice: sunflower seeds). Tons of pictures were taken by my commander, who grabbed my camera 5 minutes in and didn't give it back until the next day. The physically intimidating yet mentally weak French kid quit halfway through, as predicted. The weather was great. Everyone had the worst שפשפת ever (don't ask). And there was an awesome breakfast afterward.

All's well that ends well, no?

* - There are many water packs. Don't harp on 'giving away military secrets' here. It's not important.

Here's a couple pictures:

The start

You'd think this is a bad picture, but it kinda says
a lot about what a masa is like.

Breakfast - can't beat a tower of chocolate milk

A friendly blood blister. Not me, thankfully.

The kid's foot is literally coming apart here. The skin

just peeled and got pushed upward. Look at the yellow
flaps up there under the toes. That's skin bunched up.
Awesome.

My Silly Daydreams

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 11 Jun 2009 13:22:00 +0000

Someone recently complained that this blog hasn’t been personal enough, that I’ve only discussed what I do, and not really why. I agree with that assertion, and this post is in no way my idea of being personal, but I noticed something that got the old brain athinking, and I figured I’d share. I’ve got nothing but time at the moment (couple days off from the army).

I just walked by the King David Hotel in Jerusalem. This is one of, if not the most, expensive hotels in Jerusalem, and maybe even Israel. It is the de facto political meeting ground for everybody from diplomats to ambassadors to presidents of all countries. If an American president is here, from Bush to Clinton to Obama, he stays, along with the entire entourage, at the King David. It’s the Camp David of Jerusalem, I guess.

Anyway, someone from the Prime Minister’s office is having a meeting with someone from the European Union (EU) at this very moment. All these awesome cars are parked at the front entrance, blocking the way. Bulletproof limousine Volvos, jacked-up Chevy Suburbans with all types of armor on the outside, as well as the EU’s Landcruiser, which looks like it could be thrown into the harshest African terrain and 4x4 its way to the other side of the world. Serious rides for serious VIPs.

OK, the point of all this. All my life, like so many rough and tumble boys, I dreamed of being some James Bond kind of figure. The CIA, FBI, NSA, U.S. Marshals – all of these organizations hold my dream job, a dark, shadowy career with state secrets and manila envelopes with “classified” stamped in red, block letters across the top.

Seeing those vehicles at the King David brought me such fascination. I would be lying if I denied that this lifelong desire to work in the security industry, national or private, had nothing to do with me joining the Israeli military. I’m not sure that even being an IDF infantryman, a prestigious position in this society, would qualify me for anything, but I find myself dreaming all the time.

Maybe some Hollywood type would want a tough sounding foreign military bodyguard? Or a paranoid millionaire needs a head of security? Or maybe a military adviser for movies? Or a security analyst for this or that government? Best of all, a secret agent. Anything up this alley, really...

You see, at the end of college when I started to think seriously about a career, I glumly realized that none of those elite government bodies would ever take me. For various reasons not worth mentioning (nothing criminal, I promise), any real security clearance in America was out of the question. I felt a little despondent knowing that what I imagine to be the perfect jobs for me are entirely off-limits. FBI special agent? CIA undercover? Not even a pie in the sky chance.

But Israel! What a fresh start! I could come here, be in the military, and then who wouldn’t want to take me? The Mossad certainly could use a big, tough, smart guy with an American passport, right? I remembered reading just a little while before how some of their agents got busted with fake passports in Canada. Well, I’ve got the real deal!

I secretly entertained these thoughts for a solid two years. Totally doable, I thought.

And then I got into the military and found out that all these other immigrants had been interviewed by the Mossad while applying to the IDF. Not me. I was never called in for some super-sketchy interview by a guy in civilian clothes in a random office in a blank building on a non-descript military base. He never asked me seemingly innocuous questions about my social life, what I think about this or that, and so on. Not me.

Oh well. I guess I’m just not what secret governmental bodies are looking for. I mean, I am writing on the Internet about military stuff, so it makes sense. Not that I would ever do this if I had any real intention of being a Mossad agent, but still. And as I tell anyone who I reveal these thoughts to, it’s not like I’m actually that qualified. They could take any Shayetet (SEALs) or Sayeret Matkal (Delta Force) uberwarrior they wanted.

But there’s still the private sector. That’s where I put my backup dreams. More money, too! More leeway, less bureaucracy! Less conformity! Job flexibility (it’s not a ‘once you’re out, you’re out’ thing)! Varied ‘clients’ (celebrities, business execs, African or South American revolutionaries)!

If you couldn’t tell, I’ve got big dreams. I just don’t know what to do with them. You wanted a little insight into who I am, what drives me, my fantasies and abstractions, etc...

I’m just a kid that watches too many movies and plays too many videogames. Just listen to some of my favorite titles: Metal Gear Solid, Splinter Cell, Max Payne, Ninja Gaiden, Call of Duty, Ghost Recon, and of course, Hitman. What revealing names! Damnit, I hate being so cliché.

And if these career paths don’t work out, I could just write thriller books. That’d make my mom happier, anyway. Too many options, too many options.

(P.S. – Please don’t question my loyalties, either. I adamantly qualify all this secret agent business with one stipulation: I would never spy on either of my two countries, not even one for the other. Israel spying on America, or America spying on Israel is out of the question.)

Done & Done!

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 09 Jun 2009 18:36:00 +0000

Masa Kumta (Beret March) - Check

Various Pains & General Inability To Walk Straight - Check

Happiness & Celebrations - Check

Brown Golani Beret - Tomorrow

This Week

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 15:50:00 +0000

Well, eight months of the army has come and gone, seven of those in Golani Brigade infantry training. Time - what an inexplicable factor of mortality! Either way, events are going to transpire this week that I thought would never come, and honestly, I even believed at times that I wouldn't have the guts or ability to live through them. Silly, silly doubts.

On Monday, this very Monday, we have our masa kumta. If you are just stepping into this blog right now, I can't explain it to you the way you deserve, but let's just say that a masa (journey) is a massive hike at a very fast pace with full gear, and stretchers. The last one we did was about 40 kilometers, and the last 10k was with open, loaded stretchers, and the last five of that was climbing one of Israel's taller mountains. The word is the same used for the Israelites 40-year journey in the desert after the Exodus from Egypt. And we remember how bad that was.

After I finish this feat, we have a ceremony on Wednesday to receive the Golani beret. For the past eight months I've had the army's basic green beret, a true sign of 'youth' in the army. The brown Golani beret, so colored because this brigade was originally composed of kibbutznik farmers, is a holy item in Israeli society. It symbolizes the greatest sacrifice for the country. If anything historical is still cherished in this changing, modern country, it is the Golanchik's color. At least this is the way we think of it in the army, and in my first-hand experience, I regularly receive encouragement and even thanks from civilians when they see the Golan tree on my shoulder tag.

For eight long months me and my fellow soldiers have been itching, just plain yearning for this moment. We've been trained, we're fully combat rated, we're ready for whatever the army needs us for, we've completed every single test thrown at us, and now it's time we receive our prize. We've earned it.

Last week was hell on earth, War Week, but we won't even discuss that. What passed passed, and I'm stronger for it.

But this next week, despite the physical strain to come... it will be something good to dwell on. Wish me luck, though I hope I only need determination. Funny how all things come in their due time, even when it seems they never will, no?

Sorry, But I Had To Share

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 10:46:00 +0000

Sorry for this totally unrelated post. I just was blown away by this, so I had to share.

Here's the original

NEW YORK (Reuters) - An owner of a New York store thwarted a robbery only to take pity on the perpetrator, who claimed he could not feed his family, and gave the man $40 and a loaf of bread, a video of the incident showed.

A video posted on Tuesday by the Newsday newspaper on its website www.newsday.com showed a masked man wielding a bat as he entered a convenience store in Shirley, Long Island, just after midnight on May 21 and demanded money.

But when the store's owner, identified by the local Channel 12 TV station as Mohammad Sohail, pulled out a rifle, the masked man dropped to his knees and appeared to beg for forgiveness.

"He said 'I am sorry, I have no money, no job, my family is hungry,'" Sohail told the TV station. "Then I feel bad for him ... I take $40 for him."

Sohail said he was not planning to press charges.

Golani Soldiers Get Hot Girlfriends?

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 02 Jun 2009 10:12:00 +0000

I've been wanting to post about this one guy in my unit and his girlfriend for, oh I don't know, maybe about four months now. Forever ago we were on a bus heading to a different base to do some training, and he used my cell phone to access an Israeli version of MySpace or Facebook. He wanted to show me pictures of his girlfriend. "OK, I thought. This'll be interesting."

Now, this guy is very nice. He's quiet and kind and well-behaved. He doesn't get a temper over every little thing, and he knows how to talk to people calmly. In short, he's basically un-Israeli. He's a good seed. However, his beauty is, how would you say, found on the inside. Don't get me wrong, he's not ugly by any means. I've seen him shirtless, and he may not be Brad Pitt, but he's in shape. He's an average looking person.

So when he loaded up the photo album of his girlfriend, I was expecting an average looking girl. It would be fair to say that I was speechless when I was shown about 50 pictures of a drop-dead gorgeous female. She's probably about 5'8, dark skin and dark brown, curly hair, a cute little nose that sits perfectly between tastefully prominent cheekbones. He showed me some bikini shots (relax), and this girl is fit! She not only has a beautiful face, but she also has an athlete's body.

My speechlessness turned into suspicion. I asked him if he was rich, or if maybe she was crazy, and even if he was lying. I apologized for my insolence, but I told him that this girl was out of both our leagues, combined. He swore that she was his real-life girlfriend, and that he could prove it. He went to another album, and there were all the cheesy, corny, bf/gf pictures that 18 year olds take. Hugging, cuddling, kissing, etc.

I secretly harbored the notion that she could be a hired model, or maybe a slightly morally debased cousin. He put all the suspicions to rest, however, when he recently showed me some more risque pictures. Nothing too serious, of course, but no cousin outside of West Virginia or Kentucky would be caught in a photo like that. And if she's a hired model, well, he really knows how to keep up an act.

So, the real impetus for this post came just this morning when another guy showed me pictures of his girlfriend. This guy is nice and all, but he's a major mooch sometimes, yells like everyone else over every little thing, and simply isn't the angel that our first example is. Looks-wise, he's just normal. He's definitely not fat now, but he was, and he's by no means the type to envy. He's just average, or even a little less... (not trying to be mean here, just making a point).

OK, his girlfriend is pretty much a model too. She's actually pretty similar in that she's dark-skinned with dark, curly hair. I guess I can't really describe a face that well, but let's just imagine a Sephardi Jewish chick that you'd easily introduce to your ubercritical friends with pride. And did I harbor suspicion? No, I didn't. By now I've just kinda grown used to Israeli girls having bad taste.

But honestly, can someone help me figure this out? I know Israeli guys are totally into blondes, mainly because that is more of a rarity here, but are dark-skinned, dark curly haired girls so abundant that even the gorgeous ones are stuck with mediocre partners? If that is the case, which I'm seriously entertaining the thought of, why haven't I met any on a personal level? Not that I'm looking, and not that I'm immodestly comparing myself to these two guys (I am), but come on, at least let me encounter this apparently bottomless pit of dark Jewish girls.

I think that Israeli girls are just better looking than Israeli guys. Or these guys are really good liars.

R&R For Israeli Infantry Units

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 28 May 2009 14:36:00 +0000

"You're going home for the weekend to rest. Go out and have fun.

Drink a beer or two with your friends. Share stories. Eat too

much food. Look for girls. You should feel like kings."

Everyone seems to always ask me how much time I get off from the army. I really wanted to quote what my loquacious company commander once said before letting us go for a weekend, so I figured I'd just explain this part of an infantryman's service for some context.

First of all, your typical IDF soldier gets to go home a lot. Jobnikim, non-combat soldiers, who are a vast majority of the army, can have any manner of schedule allowing them to go home often. Here are some of the schedules that typify why combat soldiers sometimes hate jobnikim:

-Shavua Shavua ("Week week") - Someone that has shavua shavua is on base for a week, and then home for a week. That's their service. Week on, week off. Week on, week off. And so on.

-Chamshushim - I don't think there's a translation for this word, but it comes from Thursday in Hebrew. Essentially, you're on every week, no whole weeks off, but you get off just about every Thursday. So, you'd be on Sunday through Wednesday, and leave early-ish on Thursday.

-Yom Yomot - You go home every day like a nine to five job. And according to one of my friends that had this, he went home well before five many, many times. Often, even. Jerks.

Those are the basic on-off schedules for jobniks, with many others either putting them on base for much more or much less, depending sometimes on their financial or family/personal circumstances. I fully understand that not everyone can have the schedule of a combat soldier, who literally puts his life into the IDF's hands.

An IDF infantry soldier lives a one-dimensional life, and that dimension is the army. During basic training I got off tons of Shabbatot (weekends, let's say), but still closed plenty on base. Advanced training, which I'm finishing now, has found me on base much more for the weekends. However, at this point we're still getting to go home about half the weekends. You could say I'm on base for two weeks, off for a weekend, on for two weeks, and so on. Generally.

(Side Note: All this depends on your company commander, I think. Another battalion in my induction class closed 21 days, got 1.5 days off, and then came back to close 28. That's brutal. Right now they're closing another 21.)

I've been told that in the battalion, once you're finished with all your training, where I'm heading now, you do 17-4. That's 17 days on base, 4 days off. To know you're doing 17 straight is pretty rough, but 4 off sounds great! That's plenty of time to have a personal life, right? I'm really looking forward to it. I mean, they get their 17 days worth of work out of you, don't think otherwise for a second, but more than our current 1.5 days off constituting a "weekend" isn't anything to sneeze at.

But, you see, nothing is really set and determined in this army. For example, I'm writing this post at home because we were given a fluke weekend off. During Israel's independence day my company go to go home for three days of the week, but my platoon was sent up north to Tzomet Golani (Golani Junction) to do guard duty and perform the ceremonies at the Golani Brigade Museum there. You can imagine that we were jealous. If you think that soldiers value meaningful ceremonies over time off... you weren't a soldier before.

Anyway, we've been talking for the last month about whether or not they were going to let us off as a sort of compensation for closing that week. I had accepted the belief that we just got the short end of the stick, and that was that, but the rest of the guys kept up the hope. Lag B'Omer, a Jewish holiday, came and went, and we stayed on base. I was beginning to forget our inequity.

But then, this past week, we went up north to do advanced urban combat training. Shavuot, another Jewish holiday, was coming up on a Thursday, and then Shabbat comes in right afterwards to make it a nice three-day weekend. All the guys got so excited with the speculation that this would be the perfect payback. So much so that our platoon commander came marching right over, yelled for quiet, and then made it clear that he wasn't happy with all this talk of going home. That's weak, you know.

"If I hear anybody talk about Shavuot, I'm giving them Shabbat on base!"

They continued talking quietly about the matter all week, trying to forget how hot it was with frag jackets and combat vests on in the blazing sun as we ran from house to house, doing drill after drill. Through thorns and randomly placed barbed wire they continued the chatter that I thought was so worthless, never letting the possibility go.

Wednesday came, and by mid-afternoon we had finished our drills. After we had packed all the gear away in the convoy truck, we threw our personal gear onto the bus and took our seats ready for the peaceful two-hour ride back to base. All of a sudden the staff sergeant burst into the front entrance and screamed for everyone to get off the bus, twenty seconds or else!

The platoon commander walked aggressively over to us, standing before our U-shaped formation. "Everyone, matsav shtayim (pushup position). NOW."

We dropped down to the dusty ground for the first time, as I thought at the moment, for probably a month. This is basic training-style punishment. I didn't have a clue what we did.

"Who didn't understand what I said?" I didn't, and thought about asking what the hell he was talking about. "The next person to talk about Shavuot, I said, would get Shabbat. Now, every time I say a word, you go down and up, one pushup. Repeat after me: WE."

"WE!" Down, up.

"WON'T"

"WON'T!" Down, up.

"ASK"

"ASK!" Down, up.

"ABOUT"

"ABOUT!" Down, up.

"SHAVUOT"

"SHAVUOT" Down, up.

"BECAUSE"

"BECAUSE!" Down, up.

"TOMORROW"

"TOMORROW!" Down, up, but at this point we all were looking around smiling.

"We're going home for the holiday!"

Everyone jumped from the pushup position to about ten feet in the air with excitement. All the commanders were standing on the side, huge smiles on their faces, and not just because of our happiness. They have girlfriends and families too, you know. The atmosphere was the lightest I'd ever seen in my 7 months of service, all for a three-day break. We still had tons of work to do to get ready to leave, but no one cared. We smiled through it all.

So, to answer the question of how much time an IDF infantryman gets off: not enough!

Almost There

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 23 May 2009 21:22:00 +0000

This is just a little short excuse of a post to tell you two things:

A) Sorry for a coming lack of posts in the next two weeks;

B) It's because this is the hardest month in an infantryman's training.

That being the case, I haven't had the time or the energy to write any new posts. Also, I'm getting off much less, so I just don't have the computer time to physically write. I have posts in my head, don't get me wrong, but I am just plain exhausted. This month has consisted and consists of the worst of the worst, a veritable hell-month. Here's the schedule.

1) "Platoon War Week" - A week of non-stop movement, fully geared up, helmet on for 23 hours a day, drill after drill after drill, two hours of sleep here and there, on and on and on. About 80 kilometers of movement in three and a half days. (Finished)

2) "Beret Masa Preparation" - The second to last masa, the last being the one where you earn the coveted brown beret of the Golani Brigade. This preparatory masa was 38 kilometers. At the end of every masa, you take out the stretchers, load them up (at first with people, now with many sand bags), and continue on. We started way back when doing 1k, then 2, on and on until this masa, which was 10k. For the last 4 or 5 of those kilometers, however, we climbed a mountain. It was literally so steep that you had to have two guys up front pulling the arms of the guys under the stretcher, and at least two behind pushing them. It was so hard for me, so awkward, and I was so exhausted pushing and pulling, that I just grabbed one of the heavy sandbags and threw it on my back, trudging up in that manner for a solid couple kilometers. (Finished)

3) "Tarpal" - Company-wide battle movements. This is the culmination of half a year of training in how to move in battle, starting at doing it alone, and ending here. This honestly is the most important thing, besides urban combat, that you learn. It also sucked, physically, considering you're charging mountains. (Finished)

4) Advanced urban combat training. Self explanatory, no? (This week)

5) Company War Week - The hardest thing an infantry soldier will ever do in training. It's like the platoon war week, except that you go about 120 kilometers, and of course it's company-wide, making it all the more complicated. (Next week)

6) "Masa Kumta" - Beret masa. (First week of June)

OK???!!!!

Swapping War Stories

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Wed, 20 May 2009 18:51:00 +0000

(Knowing that I wasn't even going to have a post this week, I typed this up on my phone and am posting it here. I hope it's satisfactory enough. The event itself was extremely impacting.)

Today a former company commander in my battalion came to tell us about the Second Lebanon War. My company commander was a platoon commander of his at the time. He's currently studying in university, and then he's going to return to a prestigious assignment in the army. Officers often do this.

He started talking and was telling a story of his company going to capture a village in south Lebanon. I looked at my comp. commander, who was sitting on the ground with the rest of us. His face was illuminated with no small amount of respect and reverance. Here was his old commander that led him into battle, a very dimunitive guy, and my beefy comp. commander looked mesmerized! It was hard to believe, at least until I heard the story of the battle.

I guess I can't really write any of this, for one because I'm no war journalist, and secondly because you really can only hear it from the guy who lived it.

In short, it was a story of relentless gunfire and confusion. Being pinned down and using countless smoke grenades to move just meters. Numerous RPG attacks from Hizbullah, and combat helicopter strikes on our part. Observations on the unbelievable speed of passing time in combat. And even Fear and the loss of a friend. This last topic was terrible, and he told the story indepth with misty eyes. Can you imagine?

The craziest thing he said? While approaching a house, in crouching position, he heard an airy wsssh over his head and to his right. An RPG went right over his head, and another almost hit the guy's leg next to him. He turned around and watched them explode. Minutes later, an RPG struck in between him and a commander as they were snaking along a house. It hit one meter from him. One meter. No injuries.

I sat there and couldn't help but absorb his knowing words:

"Guys, war is not what you see in movies. It's not like some Bruce Willis killing half the world."

He ended on a positive note, praising our comp. commander, praising what he heard of our hard work, and so on. He straight out talked for a couple minutes about how there aren't any better people than us in the land, because people aren't ready to give of themselves like Golanchikim. We live in a "me society," he claims. Golanchikim are still willing and desirous of the highest service.

I tried not to buy into the propaganda, but when you're faced with the reality of what he described, that reality being the same combat I could find myself in someday, you need some blind feeling of strength. You have to believe in yourself, even if it's of the corny, hyped-up variety.

What'd I take from this speech? War is scary, there is no glory in it, but if it's a necessary one, faith in your comrades, yourself, and your mission can sustain you.

Sweating Bullets

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Mon, 18 May 2009 13:54:00 +0000

It's so hot out right now that they keep giving us 20 minute breaks to cool down. I think I underestimated the Middle Eastern summer in uniform.

How do those guys in the infinitely hotter Iraqi desert do it?

Hanging Out At The Bank

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sun, 17 May 2009 15:26:00 +0000

During Pesach (Passover) our unit was sent into the West Bank to guard various Jewish settlements found near Arab towns and cities. I was stationed with a handful of guys on top of a mountain at a highly religious community built by students of the famous Mercaz HaRav Yeshiva. On the hill across from us was Ramallah, the administrative capital of the Palestinian Authority.

It was an awesome week. To start off, a large army supply truck made its way up the road to the trailer we were stationed in and dropped off a new refrigerator, two microwaves (milk and meat based, for kosher reasons), and enough food to feed me alone for a couple months. Here's the fridge section, full of cheeses, yogurts, chocolate milk sacks, only a small selection of the fruits and vegetables we got by the crates, eggs, a whole chicken pre-cooked, packaged deli meats and sausages, hummus, and typical Israeli stuff like matbucha.

And here's the fridge, packed with pre-cooked breaded chicken breasts (schnitzelim), hamburger patties, and dozens of hot dogs.

Better than all the food was the lax commander assigned to our group. Upon arrival and after settling in, we had a meeting where he told us the plan for the week, which included running every day, practicing shooting positions and gun jams (which suck and are totally necessary and we do every day and always involve crawling on unhappy surfaces), educational lessons on the area, and of course the point of being there, guarding the village.

Well, we ended up running every day, but his pace was so ridiculously slow that I probably could have walked briskly and been at the front. Our educational lessons lasted about five minutes before we started asking all about his four months of guarding in Nablus, a topic he gets particularly animated about, since it's his lone 'combat' experience. We heard some great stories, so that was fun. And the shooting positions and gun jam practices, and the inevitable crawling? Not even for a second.

The week was full of a blasting iPod in a portable jukebox, jubilant storytelling, delicious food brought by the family of a kid who lives nearby, a day of outdoor grilling, sleeping to your heart's content (a major rarity these days), reading, drinking instant coffee, and of course, guard duty at all hours of the day and night. The guarding was great for me, mainly because this village, as I said, was on the top of a mountain. You could literally see from Gaza, to Tel Aviv and the shimmering sea, all the way up to Mount Carmel of Haifa in the north! All this from the eastern portion of the country.

It really was a breathtaking place, tragically quiet and peaceful and beautiful. The hills were green and gently sloping, the trees spread fully with the end of the rainy season, and the residents, despite their obvious ambivalence towards a group of mainly secular kid-soldiers, were kind enough and smiled if smiled at. I personally had a great time playing with the ineluctable profusion of young children.

And maybe the best part? I thoroughly destroyed the political ideology of my very smart, very well-educated, social elite, politically aspiring guarding buddy in the course of a two hour shift in the middle of the night. I threw around all the fancy theories and scholars I could remember from countless readings I hardly did for classes I begrudgingly attended. To my great surprise and joy, he slumped down with a defeated whimper, declaring that he was now utterly confused. Victory. William & Mary Government Department: 1.

Worst part of the week? See for yourself.

Bottled gefilte fish

But seriously though, this village is absolutely one of those outposts that the international community is condemning for its very existence. I won't make any political comments, but I can say that I felt quite strange feeling so peaceful in such a controversial place. From our village we could see the lay of the land: Arab village on one hill, Jewish village on the next. On one hand it doesn't make sense why this is a problem. These residents live quiet, religious lives inside their self-imposed gates, not interacting at all with neighboring Arab populations. On the other hand, I'm a realist and I know that the tension in the air isn't superficial. There is a history of violence going back nearly a hundred years between some of these very communities.

But when you're there, just enjoying a tranquil day looking out at the orange sun disappearing into the sparkling Mediterranean, all that senseless violence between neighbors seems too remote to consider. It's just not what's on your mind. Why should it be? It doesn't make sense there. There's tons of space, that I can say confidently. Nothing is moving and the only sound you hear is the muezzin five short times a day.

Honestly, I don't know if that community will be there for the long run, but those people are building real lives there. I enjoyed my stay...

IDF Jackets

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Wed, 13 May 2009 18:12:00 +0000

What is a simple fleece jacket? You can buy a North Face one for $150. Walk across the street into Old Navy and pick one up for $20. I remember early in high school when fleeces became really popular, and everyone had one, including me. In fact, I had a couple.

But among all the stupid little things you have to earn in the army, among which another couple posts are to be made, probably the most practical is your fleece. Especially prominent among infantry units, the IDF gets their soldiers double layered, green/gray outside, black inside, soft fleeces meant for winter. Typically there is a logo on the front breast of the brigade's symbol, battalion number and name, and the induction class.

For many months I hoped and prayed that our fleeces would be this awesome gray shade that the August 2008 guys from my battalion got. More so than praying for that gray, I silently begged fate to not give us the November 2007 bland dark olive green that some of our commanders had. I would've been happy as a pig in you know what to get anything with a Golani tree slapped on the front, but sometimes beggers find themselves choosing.

Fate, or more likely our RASAP (a combat commander doing logistics), made a compromise that suited me just fine. After our brutal 28k masa, our staff sergeant called us to the center of the barrack's plaza to receive our reward. I watched with open mouth as one by one the guys went in order and took in their hands yet another piece of integration into the IDF and State of Israel. Finally they too had a fleece with a combat unit's insignia on it, rising them just one notch above the dreaded status of young, or green.

Unfortunately, we didn't get the gray I was hoping for, but ours are a much lighter and easier on the eyes shade of green than those Nov '07 guys. Most importantly, our fleeces are thicker, fuller, fluffier, and less scraggly looking. The cuffs are broad and bulky. In short, they're not only prettier, but also warmer. As the guys would say, they've got more wahsach (pimped-out factor).

The downside is that the print on the front doesn't have our induction class month and year on it, as most of these things have. At this point, considering we are very 'young' in the army, it's actually something that many of the guys were happy about, not wanting to shout their undesired status every time they point on the fleece. But in two years when they're still wearing these...

By any account, I'm very happy with it all. And the cherry on the top? My staff sergeant was uncharacteristically nice to me when he handed me mine, assuring me three times that he got me one of the half a dozen or so extra larges available, despite there being other big guys in the company who would be getting larges. He even went so far as to show me the peel-away sticker tag, as if I didn't believe him.

Can't you see my joy in that picture?

Junk Food Helps

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 09 May 2009 04:21:00 +0000

Lately I've been getting an inordinate amount of emails from guys in America looking to join the army before, during, or after college. I suppose they search the net to see what it's like in the IDF, find my blog, and want to ask their questions. I can understand that. If I would have found a blog like mine two years ago, I think the author would've had to end up blocking my emails! I would've driven him crazy.

And so, I've been finding myself lately thinking of all the advice I'd like to give to anyone considering the army. Sometimes I think I should tell them to not worry about getting in shape before joining, since you're going to be forced to push yourself past your limits anyway. But to counter that, I then realize that running and pushups and the like might help relieve the stress and anxiety inherent in such an adventure.

I think about advice for the language, the culture, the work ethic. I think about advice on shoe inserts, socks, and even what type of underwear is best for long marches. I mean, the last thing you want is a wedgie for a 25-mile march.

But then I realize that the only real advice I should give is the one bit that I have fully learned to take to heart myself. And here's the gem of wisdom I have to bestow:

On your time off, eat like a pig.

Three weeks ago I was stationed way up north, basically on the Israel-Lebanon border, and for some reason I found myself longing ravenously for all the food in the world except for the battle rations we were eating. For some reason, tuna and corn wasn't cutting it for me. Every second of guard duty was spent dreaming of hamburgers and soda and Red Bull and on and on, ad infinitum. I knew I was going home for the weekend, and I made a shopping list of what to get.

And true to form, I did just that. In a daze I got off the 440 bus from Tel Aviv into Jerusalem, went to my apartment, changed, and then headed straight for the grocery store. I decided to walk the 20 minute route to the supermarket in Talpiyot in order to really build up the anticipation of a great gorge fest. As I started walking I could feel a change come over me. My aches and pains, the stiffness of my legs and back all dissapeared. Slowly my cognizance was retreating. Images of glorious calories and smiling tastebuds crowded my vision. I was now on a mission, a blind mission, like some drunken traveler in need of shelter. I was now a zombie for comfort food.

This zombie plodded down Emek Refaim Street, and without intention or plan he found a Holy Bagel shop. He shoved a piece of paper across the counter and mumbled that he wanted two everything bagels with cream cheese. And then he realized he needed something to drink.

"XXXL ice coffees are only 14 shekels," the bagel guy said.

The bagel guy could just tell the affirmative answer by the drool running down the strange customer's chin and the blank, zombie stare in his bleary eyes. "Give me milkshake coffee," this zombie-soldier intimated. He sat outside and scarfed down the unplanned and unnecessary meal, enjoying the little slice of Americana while it lasted. Two bagels don't last too long around a zombie-soldier after two weeks of urban combat training, you know.

And he was on the move again. Nearing closer to the supermarket, he happened to spot a Burgers Bar. The mid-level chain hamburger joint is a favorite of a meat-deficient zombie, and he has often been known to dream of it at 4am while staring out at silent, green fields, shifting the weight of his combat vest, wondering when he'll be home again to eat such delicacies. Again without intention, the zombie stumbled into the shop and threw his arms on the counter.

"350 grams, burger!" he blurted.

"Ugh," the cute worker mumbled to her manager, "another Golanchik home for Shabbat."

Once the hamburger was ready, the zombie-soldier ambled with his tray to a nearby table. Ketchup squirted from the bottle of Heinz messily across the fries and onion rings ordered on the side. Only minutes later, the last bite was taken, hardly chewed, and swallowed nearly whole. The zombie soldier gazed blankly, saw no more food that he wanted at Burgers Bar, and rose ungracefully from his seat due to a slowly expanding belly. Forward to the SuperSol, he marched.

Not wanting the security guard to slow him down with a routine search for weapons, the zombie flashed his military ID and brushed past the pre-Shabbat line crowding the entrance to the large, fully-stocked grocery store. He hastily made his way past the exiting customers, past the cashiers and rows of shoppers waiting to unload carts. Without warning he stopped dead in his tracks. As if a bright beam of Heavenly light blinded him, he instinctively threw his forearm before his face to block the overwhelming radiance shining forth. The zombie squinted to dampen the inundating luminescence. Struggling to identify this unexpected glow, he screwed up his eyes and peered out through his fingers.

It was the holy grail itself. He stood before all the aisles of food known to man, packaged handsomely and sitting invitingly on neat shelves. It was as if they stretched as far as the eye could see, from floor to ceiling. His gaze fell from aisle to aisle, row to row, vainly trying to spy the end of this unreality. Only hours before he was in the army, longing for this moment like a man stranded on a desert island. And now he stands, a free man for a weekend, a zombie overcome with a desire to dine.

Ambling through the Garden of Eden, he plucked any treat or delicacy from the various trees that caught his eye. Frozen pizza, Doritos, sugary cereal, and sour gummy worms. Corn dogs, Pringles, Coca-Cola, and flavored yogurts. Chocolate chip cookies, pita and hummus, and pre-stuffed raviolis.

And then the loaded zombie, who forgot to grab a shopping cart and was too engaged to return to the front, arms full of his precious goods, chanced upon a beam of light shooting forth from the dairy section. As if divine inspiration had settled upon him, the zombie found the final missing key.

Chocolate milk

I'm Working On It

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 08 May 2009 10:25:00 +0000

I apologize for the lack of posts of late. If you thought that tax season, or finals in a tough academic college, or a bad relationship were stressful, you'd never believe what the last month of advanced training is like for an IDF infantry soldier. Proof is in the pudding: I can barely walk at the moment, and I'm not even injured.

At least I have the ideas for what I'm going to write! Let's just hope I can muster the strength.

Crazy Eyes At His Best

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sun, 03 May 2009 09:45:00 +0000

I promised myself that I wouldn't talk about basic this long after it, and also that I would let my old commander, Yonni (Crazy Eyes), leave the blog gracefully. But, during guard duty at 3am the other night I was talking with the guy who was posted with me and we got to the topic of that old commander. We shared our favorite stories, commiserated a little, and then he explained to me something that I wondered about a long time ago.

You see, Crazy Eyes and all the other guys tend to do things that just seem ridiculous. Every time it happens, I'm pretty sure there must be a reason and that I'm just missing it. Well, this was one thing that I definitely didn't understand, and there was a reason. I've said a few times that the commanders like to have fun with us, and all the more so when they think they're attacking weakness. Here's the best example I can give:

One normal day at the shooting range a kid named Liav complained about a pain in his knee. The day before, Liav had received a sheet of paper which stated that he had permission to not put too much stress on the knee. So, during a long break in shooting where we had to stand in formation without moving, without talking, Liav raised his hand and said that he needed to sit down.

"Yonni," Liav called out, "I need to sit down. My knee hurts."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I have permission from the medic."

Walking over to Liav, Yonni put his hand out and asked for the bettim permission.

Reading out the sheet, Yonni said in a clear, declaratory voice, "Liav has permission to sit for 10 minutes out of every hour." Yonni handed the sheet back to Liav, and turned around with his head down. He walked back inside the shooting range concrete shelter, and we all heard the staff sergeant's gearbox open and close. A few seconds later Yonni walked out with a smile on his face. A sly smile.

A piece of rope was in his hand. He pointed to a rock the size of a volleyball. Liav went over to the rock as instructed, strained to pick it up, and then huddled back to Crazy Eyes with the weight between his legs.

"Liav," Crazy Eyes began. "You'll get your sitting break every hour, but you're going to earn it." He then proceeded to tie the heavy stone to the back of Liav's vest, where he carried it from the rest of the day.

It was pretty much the funniest day ever.

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 01 May 2009 07:03:00 +0000

Happy birthday, Mom!

A VERY Big Gun

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 10:24:00 +0000

All my life I heard from my great-uncle about his time during World War Two onboard a PT boat. PT boats were smaller, high speed and heavily armed ships meant to quickly attack larger ships. They were cheaper, easier to navigate, and easier to produce than larger ships, and so they were given quite a bit of action in that war. For example, PT-41 was used to rescue MacArthur. JFK became a legend because of his service on a PT boat.

Besides being amazed at stories of their prodigious speed, and his servicing the triple 12-cylinder, nearly 2,000 horsepower engines (the fastest Ferrari has 650hp, and your average car probably has 150hp or even less), my uncle was very fond of mystifying the "twin fifties." The twin fifties were the 50 caliber Browning M2 machine guns. The M2 is one of the world's most widely used American weapons. Developed during WW1, the Browning is a heavy machine gun that has to be mounted on some type of vehicle.

When I say "heavy" machine gun, I do mean heavy. First of all, it weighs an ungodly 130 pounds. Secondly, it can be used as an anti-aircraft weapon. Finally, it fires a .50 caliber round. Here's a comparison picture from another blog, showing the bullet:

It's on the far left. My Tavor, and the M16, shoots the one

second to the right.

OK, now that you have an idea of just how huge and powerful and scary and "heavy" the Browning Machine Gun is, let me tell you why I'm talking about it anyway. Earlier this month we were at a training base where you learn all about heavy weaponry. One of those heavy weapons was the Browning .50, which is a key tool in any modern army. I'm not giving away any secrets whatsoever when I say I was drooling over the .50s mounted on tops of Hummers and APCs and the like.

IDF guys firing the M2 Browning .50 cal (wiki)

You see, all my life I always thought about the army, in some way or another. My great-uncle the PT sailor, and especially my grandfather, a POW lead B-24 bombardier in WW2, incessantly told me stories about their experiences. My childhood was shaped by the notion that the army is, in some way, what great men do. Grandpa Brothers was a hero to me, a man who owned life and did with it as he wanted, and his war stories are easily the thing I remember best of my childhood. My great-uncle and his stories of all-out combat on the high seas were right up there too.

So many of those stories were centered around heavy firepower, too. The twin fifties. And now all of a sudden I find myself in an army, beyond all expectations, and here I am, lugging around the very same machine gun that was the protagonist of some of my favorite childhood stories! I realize it may seem terrible to glorify a vicious tool of war, but one can't help the fantasies of youth creeping into the reality of adulthood.

So as I struggled to move this behemoth block of steel from one area of the base to another, I was magically transported to the Pacific Ocean, blowing diving kamikazes out of sky, shooting down German Messerschmitts, and strafing Nazi airfields. I guess it felt kind of good to feel like an "army man," as I envisioned those that dealt with tools like these. I think I felt a little bit like my heroes.

But then again, would I have the guts to do what they did? I really don't think so. They were a part of the greatest generation, and their use of such machinery was spurred by a true quest for freedom against tyranny.

But to feel like your heroes, even for a moment...

I will refrain from posting pictures that might exist of the author with said machine gun.

Google Search: Israeli Army

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 16:50:00 +0000

Looking to see where Israeli By Day stands under a Google search for the keywords "Israeli army," I was surprised to see the Google Images return, which happens to be at the top of the page. As of me doing this search, March 28th, those few select images aren't of dead Palestinians, or Gaza on fire, or soldiers seemingly pointing a gun at a child.

Instead, they are of hot IDF female soldiers. Is that what you see? Here's the link.

Almost as strange as the keywords by which someone found Israeli by Day. Pretty sure it was one guy:

As a matter of fact, I've also questioned whether the
hummus has anything to do with Israeli girls'
physical...er...build.

Good luck my anonymous American visitor...

"Breaking Distance" With The M"M (Platoon Commander)

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 16:44:00 +0000

Near the end of shavua machlaka (platoon week), where you do drills taking an open field as an entire platoon, our platoon commander opened up to us and “broke distance.” I suppose I have a few things to explain here.

1) Shavua Machlaka is the product of a few other weeks. Essentially, infantrymen have the role of battling in fields and mountains and forests, and that mode of combat involves a very specific set of movements. Field movements, I guess it’d be called. As such, you have to build up from doing those live-fire drills alone, all the way to doing it as an entire company. The platoon week is the last week of this training before company-wide movements. In short, it’s tough and complicated. The platoon commander leads it all.

2) A platoon commander is your second lieutenant (the lowest rank of a commissioned officer). Since he’s a CO, there is major ‘distance’ between him and the soldiers.

3) “Distance” is emotional and personal space between you and the commanders. For example, you call them by their role and not their name, which you officially don’t even know (“Attention, Commander!”). At first you can’t even say things like “good morning” to your squad commanders. Et cetera.

So, now that you have a little background, I can explain to you the importance of our platoon commander (M”M from now on) breaking distance.

After making us sprint to a tree in the distance for seemingly no reason, an activity typically reserved for punishment, the M”M and staff sergeant had us sit down in the shade on the side of a dirt road. After smiling and rubbing his beard, a trait we’ve mimicked secretly to great laughter, the M”M began to speak.

“It’s come the time to break distance with you all. We’re getting close to the end of our time together, and you should know my name and where I’m from. My name is Noam, and I’m from Netanya.

Any questions?”

I looked around to see if anyone would have the guts to ask something really personal, and I was happy to see everyone smiling, nervously, right along with the M”M.

“Do you have any siblings?”

The M”M rubbed his face again, and glanced over at a guy from my squad.

“Shmuel,” he said, “you probably know it all. You’re not allowed to talk right now.”

Shmuel had told me all about the M”M’s sister, who was in his grade. It’s a small enough country that many of the kids had some type of knowledge of our commanders, in some way, before or during the training. From Shmuel, I knew that the M”M had a sister who happened to look exactly like him... in a bad way.

“Any other questions,” the M”M asked.

Shachar, a small Russian kid, raised his hand and asked, “I heard you were in Oketz at first.”

“Dog breeders? No way! Golani, kavod. Respect.”

At this point the M”M shut down the conversation, with many questions left unanswered. Because we like him so much, we wanted to know everything. But, instead, “breaking distance” was limited to name and hometown.

Noam from Netanya. That’s it.

It wasn’t much, but do you have any idea how strange it is to actually call this officer by his first name? We’ve spent so many months being on our best behavior around him, even after being total jerks towards and around our squad commanders. The second the platoon commander walks in, it’s like we’re different people. We sit straight in our chairs, or straighten our shirts, and make sure hundreds of other details are in order. When you respect and fear an authority, it can change your whole act.

But now all of a sudden he is Noam. Still an authority figure, but Noam none the less.

“Hey Noam,” we ask, “Am I doing this right?”

“Yeah, Danny, that’s ok.”

Strange.

And what’s even better is that just a few days ago we finished a week of being split up into separate groups, where the M”M was in a town away from my group. After we all met back up, there was lots of backslapping and sharing stories. I guess we kinda missed each other. I saw the M”M, and I kinda missed him.

So as I found him standing next to me waiting to get on the bus, I asked him how his week was. That’s pushing the buttons on the whole “distance” thing. He gave his typical smile, a restrained affair because of his rank where he looks to the side, maybe puts his hand over his mouth to cover it, and then gives you a short little answer.

“Good,” he smiled to me sideways. And then he slapped me on the back quickly and walked away, crooked grin and all. I wish I had the creative talent to describe his movie-quality deep voice, awkward beard stroking, and a signature smile I can only pathetically describe as enthusiastically 'restrained.'

You just have to see it. I guess you just kinda have to be there to know what I mean. Let’s say that this whole army experience isn’t what you see in movies, with stiff-lipped commanders who seemingly aren’t even human. Instead, your CO might just smile nervously too!

Taking Orders From Real Youngsters

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 15:09:00 +0000

In a post from early March, soon after the start of Advanced Training, I talked about my unit losing one of our commanders. You can read it here. In short, he was tough but great, and I miss him very much. He was just about as veteran as they get within the three-year compulsory service, and even had a Lebanon War pin on his chest - he was in training still, but helped in logistics during the war, as did all the non-combat ready infantrymen.

And as Commander Crazy Eyes left, as I called him, he was replaced, as well as another veteran commander that left, with two guys from the November 2007 draft. Now, remember, I am from the November 2008 draft. That means these guys have been in the army for just one year more than me. Basically, they finished their training and then went straight to my group. They did half of kav (border guard duty), and then went to the commander course. Now they're leading us.

Don't get me wrong, these guys know what they are doing. They obviously know the army well, know what they're teaching, know the weapons and battle tactics we learn - all of it. They are good guys, I really do like them. One of them seems very smart, even though he is pretty meatheadish, so that's interesting to see. The other is obviously very in love with his girlfriend, so I like to pick on him when he's secretly texting her all day long. Truthfully, I got two good guys.

But having Crazy Eyes telling me what to do, and bossing me around, was something I could deal with. He was drafted way back in 2006, before I even knew if I wanted to move to Israel, much less do the army. In fact, and don't tell anyone in Golani this, but if you asked me then what I would do in the IDF, I would have said the spokesman unit!

The true mark of a 'veteran' currently in the army is whether or not he was drafted in 2006. Crazy Eyes was, and he really is a veteran. These new guys, on the other hand, are truly kids. How young are they? Let's put it this way: If I wanted to, I could have been in their induction class. In my book, that means you're tzair (young - green). So, when they give me five minutes to do this or that, I can't help but grumble to myself and give them the evil eye. I think, "Hey! Kid! Respect your elders!"

I guess I just trusted Crazy Eyes more. I listened to him as an authority figure. When I looked at him, I saw someone with experience and perspective. When I look at the new guys, I see two people who just happened to go to the army before me. That's a big difference when you realize that they are literally running your life.

These are the moments where you notice your age in the army, and all of a sudden 24 years old is old man age. But, as I said, at least they know what they're doing.

Here's old Crazy Eyes himself nonchalantly dishing out some pushup punishment:

I wish I could show the kid's face. He was smiling. Sometimes
Crazy Eyes would have fun with us, and we knew it. If you zoom
in you can see his Lebanon War pin.

Clarification Of Previous Post

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Tue, 14 Apr 2009 08:14:00 +0000

I feel like I need to clarify my previous post. I talked about being tired of training, essentially, but I didn’t mean that exactly. What I mean is that I am so excited and mentally prepared to finally get into the meat of this IDF matter that still being on a training base is kinda getting me down.

Don’t worry, I’m not upset or depressed or sad or disappointed. Everyone has to put in their time. I’m really not tired of the training, either. How could you be tired of jumping out of a moving armored personnel carrier while the machine gunner lays down heavy automatic cover fire? It doesn’t get much better than that, and besides actual war, that kind of experience is limited to your training cycle.

And moreover, I just heard from a very reliable source that our tekes kumta, or beret ceremony, which marks the end of our training base phase and off we go to the real deal, is going to be held on June 10th. Take a look at your calendar.

The hardest is still in front of me, in terms of training, but the timeframe is looking better every day. It's all about perspective.

Still Waiting For Something Real

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Mon, 13 Apr 2009 11:35:00 +0000

Maybe this is premature of me to say, but I'm feeling a bit stymied in my motivations in the IDF. The training done on base, and in the field, before you do anything remotely real is six months. In terms of armies, I don't think that's abnormally long at all to change a civilian into a professional soldier. But, for me, it's seeming to take years, not months.

I'll be honest with you. Before I was drafted, I don't think I really considered just how long and intense the training for infantry is. I thought of what it meant to be in combat, to do checkpoint duty, raids in the West Bank, arrest operations, border duty, and so on. I didn't think about the masaot, or the obstacle course, or the massive company-wide attack drills. I didn't consider the months and months of having to use my stopwatch to time my every action.

The way the army system works is that when you are entering one phase of your training, the group previous to you is entering the next phase. Pretty common sense. So, I'm in the November induction class, which is now in Advanced Training, and the previous draft, August, is now doing border duty (kav). Golani's kav is a certain sandy locale, right now.

I tried very hard to get into the August draft with a friend of mine from ulpan (intensive Hebrew course), but the army didn't take me. That draft date is commonly packed, and so due to having too many people, they delayed me to November. I was pretty disappointed to not go into Golani with him, but I figured it all had a purpose. Well, we both ended up in the same battalion and everything (12 - Barak), so it has been great having him tell me about what I'm about to do before I do it.

Why am I talking about this all of a sudden? As I said, Golani is guarding a contentious zone right now, and that means my buddy is there too. Recently I talked to him for quite a while, asking all my questions about Advanced and kav, and him telling me what it's like being out there. During a pause in the conversation, after him telling me about a certain stake-out he was in, I had an unexpected rush of admiration for him. I told him that "he had finished all the crap, did all the masaot, ate the dirt... and now he has his brown beret and is finally doing what he came to do." He accepted my compliment, and told me to stay strong and I'll be there before I know it.

And that's just the point. I came to the army to be where he is, to guard Israel's borders, even if that means being in some pretty scary places. I just can't wait to get this training over with and do something. I feel sometimes like I'm just waiting. During college I felt an intense feeling that I was waiting for something to happen, waiting to do something... and that's probably just one reason why I decided to move to Israel and join the IDF.

I mean, being in a constantly engaged army like the Israel Defense Force is doing something, right? I know I have to do this training, and as I say to my friends in my unit, "I'm ready in my head and heart, not my body." But that doesn't mean it isn't hard knowing that my buddy is out there actively defending Israel, and I'm still on base.

Two and a half more months...

Druze/Beduin Soldiers In The IDF

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 13:32:00 +0000

While down south at a training base for all infantry units, I sat down to eat dinner in the dining hall next to some guys from Givati. Givati is one of the few infantry brigades, and on my list of the best brigades, I'd rank it number two. It was my number two choice, but that's like someone saying Yale is their #2. It's an awesome unit.

One of the reasons I love Givati is because it is, as far as I can tell, the place that many or most of the Druze and Beduins serving in infantry go. If you don't know, Druze is a religion that branched off from Islam a thousand years ago, they speak Arabic, and they have an Arab culture. Their ethnic makeup is varied and complex, and I'm certainly no expert. An unknowing observer would, however, probably just classify them as Arab.

That being said, there are over 100,000 Druzeim living in Israel. The majority of these residents are full citizens of the State of Israel, a fact which is based on a tenet of their religion (so I've been told) saying they must give support to the country in which they live. Furthermore, being that they are citizens, boys that reach 18 years of age are automatically conscripted into the IDF.

The Beduins have a similar story in that they are Arab, or essentially Arab, and many of them are found in the IDF among the regular Jewish makeup.

So, as I was saying, I sat down to dinner next to some Givati guys. Dinner happens around 6pm, and after waking up at 5am every day, I'm generally exhausted by this time. I didn't notice until I heard a strange language that I was sitting next to five Druze infantrymen. I listened intently to their conversation, not understanding a word, but trying very hard to hear their unique accent. They speak Arabic, but there is a clear difference between their version and the Palestinian one.

I wish that I could tell you that I struck up a conversation with them and asked them all about their lives, where they live, what their families do, what they think of this or that political situation, if they were in Gaza and what was it like to fight their co-nationalists, and on and on. But, I saw how happy they were, chattering away, laughing with full mouths of food, obviously teasing one of their friends but then telling him they loved him, just being kids and having a good time at it; I saw all that and didn't want to interrupt.

I sat quietly next to them, eating my mashed potatoes, and glanced at their faces and then the IDF symbol on their chests. Purple berets sat naturally on their shoulders. The new Tavor assault rifle rested on their laps. They are very much not Jews, but these young men are Israeli warriors, fighting for our shared vision of freedom and peace for all the residents of this country - Arab and Jew alike.

My admiration for the Druze and Beduin serving in the IDF, especially those that volunteer for combat units, knows no bounds. These are people that could easily get out of doing anything dangerous, and in my speculation could get out of serving at all. I've also read that not a few of them face discrimination or backlash from their communities for serving in these units, especially considering that "combat" means engaging Arab targets.

I was sitting next to young men who know what it means to sacrifice for something greater than themselves. My entire journey to the IDF is one of ideology, a desire to contribute to the security of this state. And here are boys who no one expects to do any such thing - and yet they serve with great pride.

What I'm trying to say is that my 30 minutes sitting next to five Druze soldiers from Givati was more meaningful to me than all the ceremonies I've had, the times I've sung the national anthem in uniform, and inspirational speeches combined. What this really reveals about me, in my own opinion, is that I truly want peace for Israel. I don't care who fights for that peace, as long as there are young men and women out there who are willing to give everything for it. And to see Druze and Beduin soldiers giving themselves for peace only inspires hope.

Because, after all, they don't have to fight for that peace! No one is attacking the Druze. They can sit back and just live in the land they've lived in for a thousand years. No one is going to push them out, or target their children, or blow up their villages. Why would they?

And yet, they fight for peace. I felt pretty good sitting next to those Druzeim that night. I wouldn't mind serving next to them no matter where I find myself in the field. And maybe all this is pretty naive, but I noticed my Jewish Israeli co-fighters displaying the same respect for these non-Jewish protectors of our state.

Yet Another Masa Post - Bear With Me

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 17:54:00 +0000

(Believe it or not, those are black/gray socks. They were muddy and soaked and worthless, pushed down around my toes)

I once complained to a friend who was finishing advanced training, while I was in basic, that our double digit kilometer masa (big long hike with full gear) was torturous. He said to me, "Wait 'till you do one in the twenties. That's when they get hard." At the time I realized that 20 some kilometers would be murderous, but our 12k was still painful enough.

Well, now that we've done our first masa of advanced training, 21k, I can tell you just how right he was. The two other platoons in my company all did the hike two days before, and seeing them all limp around and talk wildly about the water-filled muddy trail was disheartening. Everyone told the same story, of the 'rivers' you had to run through every half-kilometer, instantly being soaked from the waist down. 21k with soaked legs and shoes and socks.

My group didn't start the hike until after Shabbat at about 10pm, so thankfully I had that free day to rest up. A solid 45 minutes into the hike I was still waiting for the rivers. It hadn't rained for two days, so I figured that maybe all that water had dried up and we would luckily avoid the unnecessary obstacle. But, as luck has it, I too had the joy of encountering slippery conditions.

Just before our first break at the end of the first hour, we had to jump off a section of the trail that was washed away by the week's downpours. We jumped right off into a stream that went up to my calves, with freezing cold water instantly stinging my toes deep inside my otherwise water-proof boots. I tried not to think about it, but during our little break I couldn't help but wonder how in the hell I'd get through another few hours like that.

If I only knew. At the end of each hour you have a very short break, a necessary cooling down and hydration time, and it also serves as an extra gear swap. We have to carry stretchers and water packs, a few to each platoon, so that extra weight has to be switched around. As I've written about in that above linked-to post, the water pack is by far the worst of all the gear, so no one really wants to grab it. I take it for about an hour on each hike, though, a fact I always dread.

So, at the start of the second hour I was strapped up with the water pack. Stupid. It turned out to be the worst section of the hike, with all the uphill parts of the road. I am quickly realizing while writing about these physical tests that I just don't know how to explain them to anyone. How can I write here in this blog and tell you what it felt like at 50 minutes, knowing that another break was just 10 minutes away, to see a massive uphill stretch in front of me, with an unbearably heavy pack on my back?

I can't! Add to that already impossible scenario the fact that I had just fallen twice on each shoulder and elbow, hard, because of the constantly muddied road that was really just uneven trenches from the Jeep driving in front of us. I am writing this post three weeks after the hike, and both my elbows still hurt. Essentially, my legs were going one way, my upper body another, and the water pack a third. The mud was unbearable. I was doomed.

My watch clean

After the masa. If you can see, note the hour

But, like all things, the second section passed and so did the water pack. The trail dried up a bit, the knee-deep water became something I looked forward to since I felt like I was burning up at about 120º, and finally we opened up the stretches with 5k to go. We struggled mightily with our light machine gunner and his full combat vest with Rambo-esque ammo belts on one stretcher, but we finished. We did it, though it wasn't pretty. Despite serious cramping in my legs during the last hour, I finished strong.

It was past two in the morning, we hiked for four hours, but we did it. You know how bad it was? The next day, even the platoon commander, who leads these things, was limping. And check out my friend's heel. Both of them were like this:

I guess I kinda made it out OK! Until the next one...

Haaretz Article On Yours Truly

dannybrothers@gmail.com (Danny Brothers) — Sun, 05 Apr 2009 03:51:00 +0000

Israeli By Day has caught the attention of a journalist from one of Israel's leading newspapers, Haaretz (The Land). Raphael Ahren contacted me some time ago about interviewing me for the Anglo File section of the English version of the paper, and I excitedly agreed. It turned out to be more of a struggle than I realized, being interviewed properly and what not, but eventually we wrapped it up.

Here is a link to the Haaretz article on the net.

And if I may, I'll post the article again here:

American blogger shares insider angle on IDF service

By Raphael Ahren

Serving in an elite combat unit makes moments of respite both brief and precious, yet Danny Brothers, an American immigrant, devotes most of his free time to his blog. In "Israeli by Day, American by Night," Brothers writes about throwing grenades and breathing in tear gas as part of his training, but also describes what it's like to celebrate holidays in the army or to miss a commander. Lengthy explanations about the brigade's inner workings take turns with tidbits about "memorable moments," such as the time a commander barked at a soldier: "Tuck in your shirt and straighten your uniform like an officer in the German army!"

Although Brothers, who immigrated at age 24 in September 2007, only had to do six months of compulsory service, he volunteered for a year and half so he could enter the Golani Brigade. He soon came to the conclusion that Anglo servicemen are much less grumpy than their native Israeli counterparts.

"It may sound weird, but I am surprised at how much these kids complain," Brothers told Anglo File about his comrades in the IDF's premier infantry unit. "I thought Israelis were supposed to be tough, that they never showed weakness. Well, all they do is complain. We work hard, don't get me wrong, but not before trudging through some whining and requesting exemptions for this and that. I feel like the Anglos are much more willing to just shut up and moan inside, as I do all the time. You think I like crawling through thorns? No, of course not, but I didn't come 7,000 miles to get out of the army experience. The Anglos are generally the most motivated group, in my estimation."

Comparing draftees with ideologically-driven volunteers may be problematic, but Brothers is used to saying things on his blog exactly the way he sees them, without always analyzing the deeper context. Right after he completed basic training, for example, he wrote: "Do you have any idea how relieved I am to be done with the high-level discipline crap?"

Brothers grew up in rural Virginia. He graduated from William & Mary in 2007 and was on his way to law school when he came to New York for some interviews and sat down for lunch with a friend's father. During their conversation, Brothers revealed that he wasn't sure whether to proceed with his applications or follow his inner voice and move to Israel.

His father's friend made the decision easy: "He's a successful businessman who had made aliyah long before and returned to America," Brothers said, "and he was really pretty dismissive of the entire [idea to skip law school]. His single-mindedness in building a career really put me off. I ended up canceling all of my interviews and made up my mind to make aliyah."

His army experience has also enjoyed some lighter moments. In a recent post, Brothers described how a sergeant "rewarded" his group, which had worked in the kitchen all day, by sticking a chocolate bar between their teeth and commanding them to go into push-up position.

"'LISTEN UP,' the commander [shouted], 'each up and each down is a mouse bite! What does that mean, you ask? Every time I tell you to go down, you go to the lower push-up position and take a tiny, A TINY BITE! UNDERSTOOD?!' 'Yephss, Cophamnder!' we shouted, or rather garbled loudly. 'Down!' Nibble. 'Up!' Nibble. 'Down!' Nibble. 'Up!' Nibble. Fifteen push-ups later I had finished nearly half the bar, hardly able to continue because of the intense laughter none of us could hold back. The sergeant stood up from his seat and walked in front of us, still on the floor with candy in our mouths. 'Enjoying your treat for hard work?' he asked. 'Aphbsoluthly, Szerghent!'"

Currently, fewer than 150 readers surf to israelibyday.com every day, yet Brothers' texts are well prepared and eloquently written. While in the base, he keeps a journal and takes notes. Once he gets to his computer, he expands on them, working hours on each post. "I wanted to write the blog in the first place to show my audience that we have a normal but unique life here," he told Anglo File. "You know when a person is obsessed with something and can't help but singularly talk about that thing? That's me with Israel, so I had to get it out of my system and tell people why I chose to live here instead of the easy luxurious life I had in America."

While the title of Brother's blog indicates that he'd focus on his dual loyalties, most articles deal with day-to-day army life, without dwelling on his special status as a recent immigrant. Yet he's "totally convinced that the commanders treat me better because I'm American," he said. "I don't know if it's because I'm an immigrant, or if it's because I work really hard to make up for my weaknesses" - such as not being fluent in Hebrew and unfamiliar with Israeli culture - "but I think I get better assignments, better guard duty hours, nicer personal treatment and so on." That doesn't mean that they don't believe the IDF is heads and shoulders above the U.S. Army, Brothers added. "I'm not so sure, but I avoid that conversation like the plague."