Imun and Injury

Hours into a now routine walk through the shetach, I begin to limp once more. The familiar weight of gear on my back digs deeply into my shoulders, pressing down on the injured right foot and gradually slowing me. It's not long before I'm separated from the rest of my machlaka. Within the night, the doctor orders me back to base. For my health, I cannot finish the targad.

As we arrived in imun kayitz (summer training), excitement was in the air. We were all finally lochemim (warriors) of Tzanchanim and despite being loaded with all of the less-than-glamorous jobs due to our status of Plugat Maslool, we had “arrived.”

As I touched upon briefly, the imun is basically many weeks of shetach, a refreshment course in the basics of war. The weeks, like on the bach, begin small with a simple week of excercises in the kita, before building up to the notorious and dreaded Targad, essentially a war week involving the entire brigade of 202.

To rewind just a little bit, the masa kumta pushed everyone to the point of injury in some form or another, whether it be muscle strains or something more severe. A few days after the masa, I found that I was taking longer than most of my peers to recover, a nagging injury in my right foot being the culprit.

The injury was not new to me, being one I hadn't been entirely forthcoming about before from fear of missing the masa. What had changed was the pain, which was certainly worse now than it had ever been. With all that in mind, I decided to see the doctor before the imun and was told that I was suffering from a stress fracture in the foot and that only time would heal it. I was placed on bettim (army ordered exemptions from strenuous activity) until further notice.

And now to fast forward back to the imun:

Being on bettim, my days in the beginning of the imun were fairly monotonous. Charged with watching equipment while the rest of the soldiers were off training got very old fairly quickly. After about three weeks of rest, I began to feel deeply shavuz. Seeing your friends return from the shetach, despite being battered, bruised, and tired, while knowing you weren't there to take the beating with them and further bond with them can really affect you as a soldier. I was shocked by actually WANTING to go back to the shetach.

Feeling left out and mostly useless, I decided to give up on my bettim and hope for the best. I returned to regular activity despite not really knowing if my foot had healed or not. The first few weeks back were difficult, to say the least. Constantly thinking and worrying about my foot drove me insane. I went through odd phases of shvizut, due to the fact that I was still not healthy and most likely further injuring myself, though knowing that the alternative would be sitting on the side, a glorified security guard.

A depression truly came some time into the imun upon hearing the news that a good friend from the Garin was rushed to the hospital from the army in very serious condition. Times like these in the army are the most trying, when you wish you could be anywhere but where you are at that very moment. When you wish you could be there by the side of your loved ones. The sacrifices we make to be here are often harsh, and this was another clear sign of that.

Never one to argue with superiors or army authority, the circumstances had brought a totally different side out of me. For two weeks, I fought with commanders who refused to let me out to be by the side of a best friend. Trying times can bring upon our darkest of states and this was certainly true for me. The reason behind the rules keeping me on base just were not so reasonable to me. I became familiar with a side of me I had never known.

I've mentioned it before and I'll no doubt mention it many a time in the future; The biggest thing you gain from the army is seeing yourself in a thousand lights you've never been able to look at before. Thankfully, to their credit, the commanders understood that it was mostly brought on by distress and frustration and they were very patient with me.

Thankfully, after two of the roughest weeks I've ever had, the news came down that my absolute warrior of a friend made a miraculous recovery. Feeling blessed and motivated, my spirits were lifted and it was back to work.

Everything seemed to be sorting out health-wise until the dreaded targad finally arrived. The targad is essentially the most expensive week for an infantry batallion, with the gdud usually exercising every resource at hand to make the week an authentic simulation of war. Known to be harder than most “War Weeks” in many cases, the targad surely lives up to the reputation.

Walking close to thirty kilometers per day, the difficulty of the task at hand was gargantuan. After thirty-six hours, I was fully certain that my injury was back and with a vengeance at that. At the end of each walk, I found myself at least a kilometer behind, struggling to carry along the equipment with all the weight on one foot. Letting nothing in his sight go unnoticed, my officer sent me immediately along to the doctor.

He glanced at my face, his eyes quickly recognizing me. The discussion was short before soliciting the response, “If you want to give yourself a decent chance of staying in this unit as a fighter and being able to have normal use of the foot again in your life, I'm ordering you to leave the targad right now.” And that was it. That was the end of my imun.

With a month-long visit home approved for the following week (more on that later), I crossed my fingers that over thirty days of rest would allow me to heal fully and return stronger than ever (spoiler alert: this story has a happy ending).

I understand this isn't exactly a post about the imun. One can only write about the same weeks of shetach so many times before the topic gets a bit jaded. Rather, this is a post about injury and the struggles that can come along in the army when you least expect them. Things aren't always as we plan them to be, but we play the cards we're dealt.

More posts to come.

-Brett

Life After The Bach

I would like to preface this post with a quick apology:

As my army service progresses, I have found myself busier and busier each step of the way. The increased pressure on time, especially during those precious weekends off from the daily grind, can often cause a bit of procrastination (or a lot in my case). I've certainly fallen victim to this, having not posted in over a few months. For that, I apologize, and hope to be quickly forgiven by all my readers. The blog holds a very special place in my heart and I will be working on updating it more often throughout the next phases of my life in the army.

Without further ado, back into it!

After completing the grueling masa kumta, the lone soldiers of Tzanchanim were invited back to the training base for a two week ulpan. With no complaints over the two weeks of relative calm and relaxation after our insane eight months, we arrived back on the bach, the red berets displayed proudly on our shoulders.

It's a bit strange to explain the first time walking on the training base with the beret. Shedding blood, sweat, and tears for the eight long months ahead, the one thing that always kept us motivated throughout our time as trainees was looking in awe at the red fabric on our commanders' shoulders. I constantly looked so desperately into the future, thinking just how long it would be until I had one of my very own. Arriving onto the base to the longing eyes of the current trainees as you walk by, after knowing that you were giving that very look so soon before is simply an unreal feeling.

The two weeks of jokes and laughs (and also a bit of Hebrew!) flew by and before long, we were reunited with our unit on a base in the north to begin “Imun Kayitz,” summer training. Yes, right after our basic and advanced training, we were taken with the rest of the Paratroopers Brigade to yet another training regimen.

The detailed explanation of our imun will be dedicated to the next post. In this post, I'd like to give a detailed explanation of how life works after the bach:

Within each gdud of the brigade, there are four different plugot (companies) which each have a different specialty in combat. The draft ascending from the bach is the plugat maslool, or training company. Being the only company without a specialty, the job of the plugat maslool is essentially to put to use everything learned on the training base for the first time on the kav, sort of an on-the-job training.

The entire draft stays together during this period, including most of the commanders and officers. After a period of three to four months, after the end of our maslool in the army, the plugat maslool is broken up into the vatikot, or older, specialized companies. The company a soldier is absorbed into becomes his home for the rest of his service, with an entirely new group of commanders and officers unique to that company. The three possible companies are the Palchod, Mesayat, and Mivtzayit companies, each with a different specialty, though that's not entirely important for now.

Based on the draft being released from the army at the same time as mine being absorbed into the vatikot, the two possible destinations for me were the Palchod or the Mesayat, but more on that later.

Now, moving on to what the companies actually DO during the service.

Infantry units, Tzanchanim included, serve the borders of Israel in rotation. Each deployment on the border can last anywhere from four to nine months. Between each border is a specialized training regimen specific to the upcoming assignment and lasting anywhere between one and three months.

Having just finished up a six month deployment on the Gazan border, Tzanchanim would be heading into a three month imun for our next assignment, the northern borders. The imun is very much like many of the weeks of advanced training are. The schedule is loaded with time in the shetach, working in kita, the machlakah, and even “War Week”. More dreaded than “War Week” is the targad, basically a war week for all of the companies of 202. As you can imagine, I was less than pleased to be hearing that after eight months of training, we'd be headed right back into it.

Having explained all the small details, the next few posts will detail life in the imun and beyond.

Keep reading!

-Brett

Marching to the Red

Wearing shirts soaked with sweat after only twenty minutes of marching, my comrades and I beamed with pride. We had finally just begun our masa kumta, the march for our red berets. The smiles would soon vanish, only set to reappear at the end of the hardest sixteen hours of our lives.

Throughout the days leading up to the masa kumta, it was easy to notice the different attitude around the base. Smiles and laughter helped us through even the most tedious tasks of scrubbing down our company's rooms, knowing full well that at the same time the following week, we would be fully-fledged fighters in our unit. We would no longer be trainees. We would be warriors with the famous red berets and the elation was contagious.

Finally, the day arrived after a restless night sleep. We gathered our equipment and bid our farewells to the base we had served faithfully for eight months. We boarded the busses and departed to the starting point of the masa.

There we stood, ready to begin the sixty last kilometers of training. The culmination of eight of the most grueling months of our lives. The test of all tests. Our final masa.

We began at 7:30 P.M., our spirits at an unusual high. Smiles were wide and laughter filled the air. We all knew what we were doing and we all felt entirely invincible.

Carrying the stretcher on my back, I proceeded along with my peers, noticing ahead the mountain I feared would be ours to climb. I was proven right and up we went, our eighteen first kilometers digging deep within ourselves to force our bodies up the incline. The smiles quickly disappeared. The sky grew dark, the muscles tired, and the weather chilly.

While it's not unusual for muscles to cramp, they usually only do so towards the thirtieth or fortieth kilometer. Due to the incline and weight on my back, my calves chose to do so after kilometer eight. Physically shattered already, I was in worse shape mentally, wondering just how I would be able to walk over fifty more kilometers with cramped legs. I worried that even after the torturous eighteen kilometers, we still wouldn't be anywhere close to finishing. With no other option, I clenched my teeth and pushed forward, forcing myself not to think about. After only a few hours, it had already become the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life.

Throughout the black of the night, the trend for everyone seemed to be just trying to make it another kilometer and not think about the unbearable pain in all parts of the body. When the sun came out, the mood shifted a bit.

We battled our injuries and moved ourselves forwards and up and down until we finally spotted the hills of Jerusalem in the distance. While we had been desperately dragging ourselves forward until this point, the end was in sight and it gave everyone a major boost in needed motivation.

A few hours later, we finally reached the entrance of the city. We marched forward, cars honking their support and civilians clapping as they marched alongside us. This was a special finish to an unbearably difficult sixteen hours.

The memory of arriving to Ammunition Hill, the location of our impending beret ceremony, is a bit of a blur to me, the exhaustion taking it's toll. The memory of hugging my peers a short few moments later to celebrate, however, is absolutely vivid.

We finally sat down, our legs screaming for rest, closed our eyes for a long overdue nap and simply waited until finally being called for the ceremony to begin.

I limped gingerly into place, not really knowing if I was still dreaming or if I was actually standing to receive my red beret, the realization of the very same dream. I looked out into the crowd and spotted my family and friends from the garin. The ceremony began and my tears welled in my eyes. Somehow, after years of imagining this very moment, I was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the greatest individuals I know, ready to receive the beret of the Israeli Paratroopers.

When the kumta was finally placed on my head by my commanding officer, the shock and disbelief were replaced with a pride and emotion I've never known on such a scale. As the ceremony ended, I ran (well...limped at snails pace, I should say) to my guests, the smile still fixed upon my face. This was it, everything I have ever dreamed about, and it's something I will never forget.

I'd like to finish this post in mentioning the lessons reinforced once again by the masa. Despite the seeming impossibility of a task based on its sheer difficulty, the mind time and time again proves to be more powerful than the body. Friendship and teamwork prove to be more powerful than over-independence. The belief in something proves to be more powerful than the fear of the unknown. And the pride felt as you realize that you've learned one of these lessons is simply indescribable. After eight months of training, these are the things I will take with me for the rest of my life.

The next post will detail the next step in my army service, exactly what I've been doing since the ceremony and the end of training. Sorry for the delay, I've been very busy, but more on that in about two weeks.

Signing off for the first time in red!

-Brett

The First Year

This past week marked exactly one year from the day I boarded a plane and said goodbye to my old life, making aliya to Israel.

I still don't quite believe that writing this post, to be completely honest. I remember carefully planning out the post I wrote the night before my flight, having gone over every detail in my head hundreds of times. I could never have planned out this post even if I tried, having just finished one of the most unpredictable, crazy, amazing years of my life.

Looking back on my first year in a new home, the highlights seem unreal to me. I've done things this past year that I could never have imagined doing in a lifetime:

I moved to a new country, absorbed into a new culture, and learned a new language.

I enlisted in a foreign army, trying out for the unit of my dreams and earning a spot.

I've shot rifles hundreds of times, thrown grenades, been tear-gassed, climbed mountains and done multi-brigade level combat exercises.

I've walked hundreds of kilometers, in the capacity of masaot and training weeks in the field.

I've jumped out of planes five times on my own, two of the jumps being at night, earning the wings of the Israeli Paratroopers.

Finally, on Wednesday this week, I will be marching to earn the red beret I've dreamed of for years, the true culmination of this past year.

It's hard to describe how it feels to watch the first year come to a close. Along with the accomplishments, I've dealt with struggles far beyond the ordinary, homesickness, physical and mental stress beyond explanation, and the general challenges of living independently. All of the struggles have only proven to have made me a stronger person, a stronger soldier, and I hope to be better off for them.

While many people ask, I don't know if I've changed. On one hand, I'm still the very same person who boarded the plane one year ago. I like the same foods, I laugh at the same jokes, I get along with the same friends, and generally live the same way (with the exception of the whole army thing!). On the other hand, I think it's very difficult NOT to change in some way after going through some of the challenges of training and being exposed to life in the army, even if it's just in life perspective.

I've learned to trust a group of guys my age on a level I've never known, as well as have their trust in me that I will protect their lives at all costs. I've witnessed the love a country has for it's soldiers, evidenced by civilians who consistently make everything worth it; from the cab driver who refuses a soldiers fare to the man at the gas station who comes up just to say thanks. If trust and the pride and love of serving a nation are the only changes I've seen in myself, I can't complain.

I look back on the year with the fondest of memories, with pride for what has passed and motivation for what's to come. I'm looking forward to see which new highlights I'll add in the next year. If it passes by as fast as the last did, I could be writing the year two post sooner than I expect.

The next post I write will be after the Masa Kumta, the march to earn our berets followed by the ceremony in Jerusalem. This is still very surreal to me, just how quickly everything has happened.

I want to conclude this post with a quick thank-you to all of you, the readers. Whether you read the blog occasionally, regularly, have glanced by once or twice, left comments, or have any other connection to these posts, thank you. I can't count on two hands the number of times I've struggled through serious challenges in the army, pushing myself through by looking forward to writing about it. While the blog is obviously a tool to inform friends, family, and strangers alike about my life and experiences in the army, it's also become an introspective tool for me. The reactions from all of you and simply knowing you're out there reading and supporting us helps keep me going.

Once again, a big thank you.

Until next time for the first post in red!

-Brett

The Longest War Week(s) in History

Battered, blistered, bruised, and exhausted, three hundred other Paratroopers and I sat on the thorn-covered dirt as the magad (officer in charge of the base) spoke, “I hope you're all enjoying your Shabbat and resting well. Sleep tight tonight...War Week is far from over.”

No, it wasn't our first Shabbat in the field. It was weekend number two. It was day nine and we had just been informed that it was becoming the longest brigade level War Week in IDF history. Little did we know, we weren't even close to the end.

We arrived to base not knowing when and how War Week would be sprung upon us. Unique to the week, a culmination of everything learned in training, is the fact that the commanders and officers are also left out of the “know,” unlike other shetach weeks in training. With that in mind, our first week back was one of preparations for the impending hakpatzah (emergency call-up) to “war.” Filled with packing combat bags, checking equipment hundreds of times over, patching up all of the existing injuries from training, everyone was constantly on edge.

Thursday night came around and along with it came the idea that perhaps we'd be going home for the weekend after all, War Week only to come the following week...

...and then there was the hakpatzah.

Gathered in a chet, our commanders walked around with camouflage face paint. Delivering pump-up speeches along the lines of, “this is it, we're going to war...in two, three weeks, we'll stand here beaten-up but victorious after finishing this together,” they did their best to excite the soldiers. And it worked.

Although disappointed not to be heading home for the weekend, we hoisted our equipment on our backs, smiled and chanted the songs of our unit, warriors headed to “war.”

Of course, the excitement only lasted until our first long walk with the gear. With each of us carrying close to 60% of our body weight in equipment, the inclines, uneven surfaces, and long hours of the walks in the shetach all slowly chipped away at the initial good vibes.

The first week followed a very specific pattern: long walks ranging from eight to twenty-six kilometers with all of our gear, a company-wide combat exercise, repeat. And repeat again.

While we struggled with the abnormal distances covered on foot and the virtually non-existent hours of sleep, we did our best to keep our spirits up and laugh. We pushed forward, always assisting each other in fighting the urge to quit and fighting through the injuries until the second weekend, our time to recover.

We had to earn the second Shabbat, working tirelessly throughout the week which culminated in another jump. As I touched upon earlier, our fifth jump was scheduled for War Week and as the end of our first week came, we found ourselves sitting on the runway of an Air Force base once more, boarding the Hercules and launching ourselves out at 1200 feet in the pitch black of night.

While similar to the last jump, this time we jumped “commando style” (combat vests on us underneath our parachutes) and with all of our gear in the sak haze (equipment bag). When I say all of our gear, I'm not just talking about a gun and vest like the last time. This gear included everything we were carrying for two weeks; clothing, water, food, etcetera. The weight was unbearably painful to lift, and that was almost enough to make me want to throw myself out of the plane and into the weightlessness of thin air!

Another difference was the fact that the entire plane jumped in one go, as opposed to the pilot flying rounds. Once landed (safely with two feet together, thankfully!), we all gathered and began a nineteen kilometer walk over the sand dunes of the desert to our next combat exercise the following morning and finally Shabbat.

We slept, ate, prayed, and recovered on Shabbat. As quickly as it came, however, it ended and we were thrown right back into the grind of War Week. The ending of the second Shabbat was a personal low point for me during the week. It got to a point where we all knew no regular brigade had ever been in the field for so long during training. We had done everything we had been asked and we had absolutely no idea when we would be going home. Two weeks is a long time to go with no connection to the real world. I was close to breaking, but like the physical walls in the army (in War Week and in everything else), the mental walls have to be overcome.

After a few more days of the tiring routine, we were finally told that we had finished. It had been fourteen days and we were exhausted. Fourteen days of walking, fighting with tanks, helicopters, drones, and some other “secret” units. Fourteen days with little to no sleep and plenty of injuries. And then it finally ended.

I want to mention that while it was the most difficult thing any of us had ever done, it was also one of the most fun experiences for many of us in the army. Obviously we would be absolutely defeated throughout our days, but during those odd minutes of free time during the heat of the middle of the day or during Shabbat when the jokes came out, so did the smiles and we had no choice but to enjoy in the company of each other and our commanders. It was a unique experience.

True to our commanders' word, we arrived back to the chet two weeks later, beaten-up but proud. Nothing could take that away.

I wanted to mention that during the week, we dealt with our first truly “classified” activity, something that gave us a sense of accomplishment and advancement in the army. We've reached a new point where we are trusted to do things at a higher level than the simple trainees we were for the past seven months. While I'd obviously love to write about every experience as well, I hope you'll forgive me if I occasionally need to leave a thing or two out!

The end of War Week also marks the end of our training. We are now considered “warriors” by the army and if there is ever a conflict, we can now officially be sent in by the army, a bit of a crazy thought to consider.

Ending training also means that our time on the beautiful base we've called home for seven months is coming to a close. This coming week, we will be turning in all of our gear and preparing to move bases (something I'll touch upon in a later post). The only thing that remains is our grueling 60 kilometer Masa Kumta this coming week.

Sorry for the length of the post, doing my best to catch everyone up!

-Brett

One More

Pain searing from the arch of my foot through the side of my shin, I limped gingerly behind the stretchers. Desperately pushing myself to keep up until the finish, I clenched my teeth and forced myself forward, willing myself to complete the masa on two feet. It was the last masa before before the big one, nine hours of walking a daunting 42 kilometers.

For some reason or another, the Masa Mechin Kumta (preparation for the beret march) was amongst the most difficult things I've done since drafting. I suppose everyone has a bad day physically every now and then in the army and mine happened to come on the day of the march.

Keeping in line with the policy of close to 40% added body weight in the Mechin Kumta, I departed with the stretcher on my back. For 25 kilometers, I lumbered the added weight on me without complaint, giving every bit of effort I had to push my way up the inclines and balance my speed during the declines.

The problems came after I offloaded the stretcher, however. I've heard that marathon runners often hit the proverbial wall at some point during the run. It was fitting that this masa was the exact distance of a marathon, because my wall came after that 25 kilometer point. The pain began as a dull irritation at first, gradually increasing each step until it was no longer ignorable.

While usually I find myself helping others during masaot, lending a hand pushing someone up a hill or grabbing the stretcher, I quickly found myself on the receiving end during this masa. It's important to mention that in the army, you're not always the hero there to save your friends. Sometimes its your friends who come to your aid and while I certainly didn't feel proud of it at the time, there's absolutely no shame in it.

I learned a valuable lesson during the masa; even on the worst of your days in the army when everything counts against you, you still need to find the finish line. In those moments, you can count on the individuals you've shed blood, sweat and tears with to come to your aid and help will you to that finish when you need it the most.

I finished the masa on my own strength, though with a renewed faith in many of the men I've learned to fight for and with.

Though finishing was a challenge and I wasn't entirely in the best mood at the end, one thought kept coming back to me.

The next time I do this is for my red beret.

It was the penultimate masa. I couldn't stop thinking about our upcoming and final march, the Masa Kumta. Only one more time would I be lugging the equipment on my back and bolting through the fields at a rocket's pace for hours on end. The reward would be the greatest one yet.

The Mechin Kumta was not the only penultimate task of it's kind this weel. It immediately followed our second-to-last week of shetach, the last being war week. This was also not lost on me and certainly made getting through the week much easier.

It was definitely one of the tougher weeks I've had up until this point, but the theme of “one more” certainly resonated with me until the finish. The red beret we've all been looking forward to for so long is inching closer every day.

More posts to come!

-Brett

P.S. As of May 22^nd, I have been in the army for six months, meaning I am now a corporal. While the increase in rank doesn't really mean anything, it's certainly fun not to be at the bottom of the ladder. Until next time!

Landing Feet First

I sighed a breath of relief, my back against the ground as I stared up at the star-lit sky. I briefly looked over my still-in-tact arms and legs, a smile on my face; I had safely landed my final jump of the IDF jump course.

The rush of excitement the first time jumping out of a plane is difficult to explain. From the pre-flight jitters sitting on the runway when the massive Hercules arrives to taking your seat on one of the benches lining the inside of the aircraft, my memory of my first jump is one I'll always hold close.

Seated shoulder-to-shoulder next to your best friends as the aircraft ascends from the runway, the butterflies start to flap their own wings in your gut.

I can't believe the only way out of this airplane is jumping out that door.

The order comes in to remove your seatbelt and attach the cord of your parachute to the steel cable running through the plane.

Left door, attention! Nervously, you stand up, gripping the cord as your row of paratroopers slowly edge towards the gaping door. Step-by-step, you sense what's coming and have absolutely no idea what to expect.

The light next to the door turns green and bodies start flying out into the open. Soon, it's your turn as you stand centimeters away from nothingness. “Kfotz! (jump!)” comes the scream of the instructor to your left as his hand slaps your back. Without hesitation, you launch yourself out the door.

For three seconds, your body is pulled like a rag-doll horizontally through the air. You gasp, doing your best to catch your breath. Then, like a gift from above, you hear the parachute folding open above you and your body smoothly evens out. Glancing up to check for errors in the chute, you say your thank-you that everything is okay and you enjoy the view.

For one minute, you glide seamlessly through the air, gazing over at the shoreline of the Mediterranean and the skyscrapers in the distance. As the ground comes closer, you estimate your direction of landing, hold your legs tightly together and hope for the best.

Boom! Unexpectedly, you crash into the ground with enough force to shake you up. A rough landing perhaps, but you're safe and that's the most important thing.

Such was the routine of each one of my four jumps during the jump course. Each one was unique in it's own way, the first being the only jump done without any combat gear, the following three done with the sak haze (equipment bag).

I thoroughly enjoyed the course. From the adrenaline rush to the views to standing at the door (being the second one of the plane) waiting for a full two minutes for the order to jump into the pitch black of night during our night jump, the course was the most memorable week I've had to date in the army.

It's worth mentioning that the week did have a negative aspect or two to it. The first jump is certainly exciting due to the unknown, but I can speak for everyone who jumped when I say that each jump afterwards is gradually more scary. Knowing how hard the impending landing will be and seeing friends get injured due to the jump leads to a fear that's difficult to explain, though the adrenaline quickly sees off the anxiety.

The injury bit leads me to the second negative aspect of the week. After each jump, there were always a few who had been injured, sometimes seriously. From broken legs to torn shoulders to small sprains, improper technique or even simply bad luck led to some very unfortunate injuries, ending the combat careers of many soldiers, an awful sight to see. I, along with all of my friends, thankfully made it through the week in one piece.

While usually five jumps are included in the course, only four were scheduled for us (the fifth being scheduled for a later point, but more on that in a later post!). After safely landing for my fourth time in the dark of the night, I knew that the following morning I would be receiving something I had always dreamed about: the Paratrooper wings of the Israel Defense Forces.

Receiving the wings was honestly a dream come true for me, a moment I had always imagined and couldn't believe had arrived. It capped off a perfect week for me in the army, cementing my place as an Israeli Paratrooper and fueling my motivation to push forward towards the end of training.

After jumping, we returned to base for a week of urban warfare before embarking on a 25+5 KM masa, one I actually happened to find quite easy. While spanning over six hours, I finished strongly with a smile on my face, receiving the gun strap of my unit at the finish.

It was amongst the best two weeks I've had since drafting, certainly a shift in morale as the end of my time on the base draws closer.

More posts to come very soon!

-Brett

Jump School

“Holes in the parachute! Fix the error,” came a voice from below as I yanked the pin of the reserve chute, zip-lining closer to the landing point. It was another routine drill after a long, fascinating week of training at the Israel Defense Forces Parachuting School.

After a week of mostly uneventful guard duty in the West Bank, we packed our gear on base and departed for two weeks of jump training. Five grueling months of training later, the moment we had all been looking forward to had arrived.

Throughout a week of eight hour training sessions each day, we've all become physically and mentally more prepared for our impending jumps. Each day consisted of learning about the plane, the parachute, the proper techniques of exiting the plane and landing safely on the ground, and finally the appropriate time and method for opening reserve parachutes.

With each new piece of information, we were sent to practice. Each one of us spent numerous hours suspended by ropes in the air, jumping off of platforms into the proper landing technique, rolling in the dirt and doing it all in full equipment. My body is fatigued to say the least. The typical aches and pains from the course (rope burn on the neck, sore muscles, scrapes and cuts) are a small price to pay to learn how to jump safely and in one piece, however!

Thinking back to family visits or school trips in Israel, I'm still shocked to think that I once looked at the wings of Paratroopers, in awe by the experience they all went through to earn them. Even more shocking to me is the fact that I'm now one of them. This time next week, I will have jumped out of a perfectly good airplane at 1200 feet and earned wings of my own. Like many experiences so far in the army, this one can be perfectly described as surreal.

Nervous and excited, I go into this week ready to finish my jumps (with two feet firmly together!) and see out the rest of my training. We have about a month and a half left, three weeks of which being shetach weeks before we finally receive our red berets and officially become a part of the Tzanchanim family. Things have been moving really quickly and although it will be difficult, the final push to the end of training will arrive with the wings.

It's a short post for today. I'll be returning to base tonight in order to be on time tomorrow for the craziest few days of my life. Wish me luck!

-Brett

The Flame Has Been Lit

Generally speaking, the Americans who make aliya to join the Israeli army are an extremely passionate, idealistic group of people who strongly believe in what they're doing. With that said, through the difficult times in the army, it's very easy to forget the ideals and beliefs which brought us here. Reminders are scarce, but when they come, they make an impression. I've just had the most powerful weekend of my army life so far, one of these very reminders that will me to move forward and become a better a soldier.

After completing a fairly simple week on base (a competition against the other four infantry units), I was promised I could leave for the weekend, despite my unit closing. About three weeks ago, I received an e-mail from the director of the “March of the Living” southern region, a man with whom I have a strong connection from my time on the trip in 2010. He informed me that this years region would be here on the weekend and that he'd love to have me come speak to the participants.

After begging my commander and explaining the significance of the trip, he pulled some strings and arranged for me to exit for the weekend.

I met with the group on Friday night at the Kotel, recognizing may familiar faces from my days in high school, and meeting plenty of new faces, educators and Holocaust survivors alike. I spent the evening with them, catching up and hearing about their stories from Poland. On Saturday afternoon, we were invited to form a panel of alumni from the program currently living in Israel to explain or decisions and answer questions from the students.

Standing there in front of a room full of eager, newly proud and passionate students who had just seen the hell of what remains from the Holocaust in Poland, answering their questions about the army and what it takes to be in the army was entirely surreal. It brought me right back. It brought me back to that very room, when I was the newly motivated student listening to soldiers speak to me about why they made the “crazy” decision to move overseas and fight in the army.

For those of you who have been keeping up with the blog from the beginning, you'll know that my trip to Poland was a major factor in my decision to make aliya. Talking to these kids and seeing how strongly they felt about everything now, how strongly they appreciate the country and how strongly they want to get involved made me remember exactly how I felt when I was in their shoes. I was the most empowered I had ever been in my life when I was sitting in their seats, and speaking to them now lit that very flame in me once more.

I was privileged to be given Sunday off as well, a Yom Siddurim, and therefore joined the group on a tour of Ammunition Hill, a symbol of the reunification of Jerusalem and a personal symbol of victory for the Paratroopers. Not five minutes would go by without someone I had never met coming up to me and telling me thank-you for my service and how much they appreciate what I'm doing.

It's important for me to note that I'm not the type of person who likes too much attention, and I'm certainly not doing any of this for the praise of others. With that being said, however, the fact that these strangers all took time to tell me how important what I was doing for them really made me remember the reasons I'm here. It inspired me to become a better soldier.

As the day drew to a close, I was honored and privileged to have met Michael Levin's parents. For those of you who are not familiar with Michael Levin, he was a lone soldier who drafted to the Paratroopers at the age of 19. While on leave in the United States, the Second Lebanon war broke out and he cut his leave short in order to fight with his unit. During a battle in Lebanon, Michael gave his life for the state of Israel.

His story has become widely-known in the Jewish community around the world. His documentary, A Hero in Heaven, has touched me time and time again, and was even shown to us by our commanders during our first month in the army. Meeting the parents of a personal hero of mine, parents who paid a huge sacrifice to our nation and gave away their only son, yet continue to keep him alive with their words every day, was simply an honor for me. I have never been so inspired.

I'm on my way back to base now, invigorated and renewed as a soldier, ready for what lies ahead. The flame has been lit, so to speak, after having one of the most incredible weekends of my life.

This week, we spend some time in the West Bank before moving into an air force base on Thursday to begin our jump course, something I'm ecstatic about. There are some great weeks ahead and I'm looking forward to writing about them.

-Brett

P.S.

I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that today in Israel is Yom Hazikaron, Israel's memorial day. In this country, memorial day is certainly not about a sale at the local mall. Memorial day is about the entire country coming to a stand still to reflect on and remember the 23,085 lives lost defending our right to be Jewish in a Jewish homeland. May their sacrifice never be forgotten.

Masa Samal Number Two

I clenched my teeth, my shoulders shaking under the weight of the radio and the heavy machine gun, each muscle in my leg clinging to itself after nineteen long kilometers. Only four more to go...

After finishing our Passover weekend on base, we were given Sunday and Monday to relax as the holiday drew to a close. This was fantastic. We had gone weeks now without any serious work...a weekend and a half of relaxing in bed, our bodies turning to mush. What could go wrong?

Before we could even come to grasps with it, Monday night came around, and with it came the Masa Mem Mem (march led by the platoon commander). After recovering from the initial shock that we'd be headed out on a masa, we were all actually rather excited to be getting back into the swing of things. As the night grew later and later, the weather starting to take a dip and a case of the yawns starting to set in, the excitement faded a bit, but nonetheless we prepared ourselves for the long night ahead.

It was revealed to us before we left that the platoon commander was injured and would not be joining us for the masa. Instead, our samal would be leading us once more. Great, this was going to be masa samal number two. Furthermore, since the samal would be leading the group with his radio man, my commander filled in to close the group and needed to choose a radio man for himself.

“Brett, put the radio in your vest. You're coming with me.”

Great, more weight on top of everything else. Plenty of running to be had. Last time I sprained my ankle!

I heaved the outdated radio onto my back and as we lined up ready to go, I knew it would be a long night. The first hour, as per usual, was unbearably painful. Muscles that you never knew you had scream at you as powerfully as they can. While that faded after some time, the unbearable pace of the samal and the sprints up and down being ordered my commander stayed very constant.

Hours later, we had lost soldiers due to injury along the way, covered the most difficult terrain to date, and saw the lights of the base in the distance. Only four more kilometers to go. At that point, one of my closest friends, the heavy machine gunner, was struggling to finish under the weight of all his equipment. Doing what was necessary for him to catch up to the group, I took the mammoth weapon off of his shoulders and placed it on mine, beginning the most difficult hour of any masa to date.

I hobbled along, the weight of the radio, my weapon and the heavy machine gun attempting to will me down until the end. As with everything in the army, the masa ended and I had reached a personal high along the way. As a reward for finishing the grueling challenge (over six times the length of our first masa, and only about a third of what's to come in our hike for the beret!), we received the coveted fighters pins for our berets, a symbol that shows we are warriors.

As quite the opposite of a reward, we were told that we would not be sleeping and would be trekking down to the shetach the following day for activities as a kita. Exhausted, we prepared our bags for the rest of the week in the field, grumpy but motivated.

The following day dragged on in classes until we were ready to move down the field. This week, unlike any to date, was entirely operational. That mostly meant for us carrying much heavier weight in much bigger bags down to the activity areas. The week itself was difficult, though not as bad as the previous week in the field.

With very few hours of sleep on the week, our bodies fatigued to the fullest extent, we found ourselves back on the base on Thursday, ready to relax at home for a much overdue free weekend.

-Brett

This Year in Jerusalem: Pesach

The past few weeks have gone by quicker than most in the army. As you all can tell by the reduced frequency in which posts are going up, things have become a little bit more difficult in the army and time is quite a bit tougher to come by. With that in mind, I hope to maintain a normal pace in keeping you all informed in what's going on, a pace faster than I've been able to recently.

When I returned to the army a few weeks ago, I was told to report to another base in the country. Being one of only three soldiers in my entire pluga not on my week-long vacation, I had no clue what I'd be going to do.

Upon arrival, I was told by event organizers that before the week of Passover, I would be there to assist a group in preparing packages for families from an extremely low socio-economic background. Despite going into the week thinking I'd be guarding for two hours a day and sleeping the rest (something entirely rare in the army), I was pleased to be afforded the opportunity to be doing something productive before the holiday.

The group of soldiers there worked with an amazing attitude from pre-dawn until post-dusk, smiles on our faces understanding that the work was going to a family who otherwise wouldn't be able to have a holiday meal. When all was said and done at the end of the week, we were personally responsible for 10,000 packages of food...10,000 families. It was amongst the most rewarding weeks of my life, certainly the most rewarding of my army service. It's important to realize that even with it's own work to do 24/7/365, the army is always willing to lend an extra hand to an organization that needs help, and that to me is simply inspirational.

I closed the weekend on base before leaving for the pesach seder, spending the holiday with Darren and the incredible family of our Garin Tzabar Mashakit that we've become incredibly close with.

The first seder in Israel was a powerful experience for me. I specifically remember sitting at the Passover table this time last year, enjoying in the company of loved ones, yet knowing that “next year in Jerusalem” would not just be a mantra. Being here, now a part of the army, now defending the freedom we swear to protect while chanting about the suffering of our people as slaves under the hand of the Egyptians, it's a difficult feeling to explain. Overwhelming, exciting, moving, or all of the above, it was an experience unlike any other.

Pesach on base was more or less like any other week, despite the food being entirely free of chametz. We had another week of guard duty around the base as the holiday continued before closing the weekend more and welcoming in another difficult week of advanced training (more on that later).

-Brett

The Transition

I stared down at the dim green glow of my watch through the fogged lenses of an old gas mask. “2:32 A.M.” Will this week ever end? My legs begrudgingly churned up an uneven hill under the weight of the stretcher. This was the perfect end to the hardest week of my life.

At the beginning of the week, instead of arriving on base, I was told to arrive at a synagogue in Jerusalem for a lone soldier event. Not one to complain about a later than usual Sunday wake up time, I began the week with a smile on my face, completely oblivious to what awaited us.

The lone soldier event, like all, was not short of food and jokes with English-speaking friends. This event was different, however. In attendance were the three paratroopers from the famous image of the unit staring up at the newly captured Kotel in 1967. I stood in awe, in disbelief that the subjects of the image I had come to know so well were there in my presence. The most well-known contributors to the most well-known contribution in Tzanchanim history were standing in front of me. I was inspired.

With reignited motivation, I returned to base late that night, prepared for a week in the shetach. We woke up the next morning and immediately went to lessons about the tear gas tent, something I had been personally dreading for weeks. When the moment finally came to walk to enter the tent, I suppose I was as ready as I could have been.

After some sprints and push-ups (a measure to make sure we breathed in the gas!!!), I entered the tent. Immediately, despite the straps of the gas mask tight around my head, my face began to sting. This wasn't supposed to happen until AFTER I took my mask off. I did my very best in half-choking, limited Hebrew to explain to the instructor that gas had entered the mask. I took it off upon her order and stood there for the requisite time, naturally forgetting to close my eyes. After finally being told to leave, I ran out, choking and unable to open my eyes once I shut them.

It's difficult to explain the pain of tear gas exactly, but suffice it to say, it's a truly awful substance. The training and experience made me realize how unpleasant and dangerous potential chemical weapons are, if nothing else. Certainly a scary concept to think about.

Despite the uncomfortable morning, we were told that we would be leaving on our Masa Samal (sergeant's march) that evening. From what I had heard, this masa specifically is one of the hardest a soldier will do in his training, being that it's led by the stone-faced, disciplinary sergeant. I can confidently say it lived up to it's notoriety.

The first kilometer was done without the samal in a pace slightly faster than usual. We arrived to the top of an incline about one kilometer later, already out of breath. Suddenly, a smoke grenade went off, blocking our view. The samal appeared through the thick, white cloud, staring us down. “You've all annoyed me this week. When you go home this weekend limping and your mothers ask you what happened, feel free to tell them that you pissed off your sergeant so he broke your legs.” On that pleasant note, he ran off into distance, leaving us to catch up to him.

The pace was almost unbearable. Despite being short on numbers and almost all of us carrying an extra item on our backs, we finished the first six kilometers in a blazing forty minutes (the usual pace for six kilometers being an hour). The speed simply did not let up, even after arriving back to the base after fourteen torturous kilometers and hearing the samal inform us, “We're back at base. We're not done. Open the stretchers, we have another three kilometers to go.” And out we went into the shetach once more before finally finishing later that evening.

Crawling into bed was a gift, even with the knowledge that we would be heading into the shetach for combat exercises the following morning. When we woke up, we lugged all the equipment on our backs and trekked out on foot into the shetach for the first time (having exited on shuttles all previous times).

The week itself was fairly difficult, the commanders taking every opportunity to make someone “fall injured” and be carried around the entire day by the rest of the team. Though difficult, it was tolerable until the final night. We crawled into our sleeping bags after a long day of work, exhausted and ready to return to base. And then there was the hakpatzah.

A hakpatzah (emergency wake-up) is a soldiers worst pre-sleep nightmare. The idea is to go from a state of being completely unprepared (sleeping) to being ready for battle in a matter of seconds. This time was different, the commanders throwing in the lovely addition of gas masks. For the next hour, we crawled over rocks, ran up mountains with stretchers, and sprinted, all with masks restricting our breathing and vision, making things nearly impossible.

“2:32 A.M.” Forcing my body to continue up the hill one last time to get to our sleeping bags and finally go back to sleep. Struggling for breath and strength, carrying an “injured” friend on my shoulders without being able to see the rocks bushes waiting for me in my path. I've heard that advanced training is difficult and the first week of it proved to me that I had heard an understatement.

I left the base the following day, after a painful trip back carrying roughly 60% of my body weight, to begin an early regila. A regila is a week-long vacation given to combat soldiers twice a year. Volunteers were needed to take the week early and miss the education week in order to watch over the company once everyone else was gone. I volunteered and enjoyed every minute of my week at home, doing my very best to re-energize for what lies ahead.

I've just completed another guarding and toranim (base errands) week and am home on a Yom Siddurim, despite the fact that I am closing a 21 at the moment. When I return to base tomorrow, I will be one of only nine at the company, the schedule being mostly non-existent making for a very relaxing week.

As I mentioned before, we are now finished with tironut (basic training) and have moved on to advanced training. We will mostly be in the shetach, doing unbearably difficult things, though we are now really being groomed as fighters ready for battle. They say advanced training turns a soldier into a warrior and it's certainly not going to be an easy transformation.

-Brett

Breaking Distance

The last two weeks have been an absolute emotional roller coaster for me in the army, a trend I'm still unable to get used to.

Upon returning to base from guarding after the Tekes Hashba'ah, I was sent home on hamshush (Thursday exit) to spend time with my mother who had come to visit from South Africa. After not having seen her in over eight months, the week was an absolute treat for me.

Spending the week in Tel Aviv with my mom and brother could not have been a more enjoyable break from the stresses of army life. Unfortunately, every good thing must come to an end, and this was no exception.

While Darren had returned to base the previous day, I accompanied my mother to the train station, her trip to the airport and mine back to the army just beginning. While I had anticipated the shvizut (army depression) to an extent, I certainly wasn't expecting what came upon me. From the moment I sat down on the train and then again on the direct bus to the base, I was not in a good place.

Sitting, cold on an empty bus headed back to base on a Wednesday night to close the weekend is bad enough. Coming from a week in which I had spent quality time with family, something enormously difficult to come by these days...it was unbearably tough.

If one thing is plentiful in the army, it's time to think to yourself. Whether it's a two hour guarding shift in the middle of the night or a bus ride home, time to think is always readily available. As I sat and waited for the bus to stop on base, the self-reflection began. When you take a real, honest look within yourself, you don't always like what you see. This was one of those moments.

When I finally got back to base, I simply was not myself. I found it difficult to get back into the groove of things, the general army shtuyot (nonsense), despite the best efforts of my friends who genuinely missed me and cared about hearing details of my time off.

The reality checks that let us know it's not always smiles and cheers in the army can often hit hard, and this specific one hit the hardest. Despite the less-than-ideal attitude, I did try to make the very best of the remainder of the week. It was made easier by a surprise barbecue for my company before Shabbat, a bit of a morale booster for everyone.

Shabbat on base actually happened to be a refreshing break, giving me time to simply relax and enjoy being with friends. As soon as the sun set on Saturday and the week began once more, we were given more good news.

We are now one foot in the door of advanced training, being done with all of the tironut (basic training) weeks and beginning our advanced weeks of training. With that in mind, we were told that the basic training rules had been dropped for us and we would no longer be treated like new trainees. We now call our commanders by their first names, are not timed for every minuscule task, no longer sprint to the dining room, and are generally just treated in a more respectable manner.

The week itself was advanced shooting for the company, meaning advanced sharpshooting for me. Once more, I was at the shooting range for insane amounts of time each time, though this time it flew by much faster due to the change in attitude and rules.

Another pleasant surprise came towards the end of the week when my commander informed us that he had been chosen to leave to officer school. A tradition in the army when a commander leaves his soldiers is called “breaking distance”, the moment where he takes off the mask and talks to his soldiers like a normal person.

It was unusual at first to see the man who had been ordering us around and punishing us for three months suddenly joke around with us and talk to us like a normal nineteen year old. It's easy to forget that behind the job title, these guys really are kids my age who go through the same things as we do.

The light-hearted attitude around the company throughout the week certainly helped make things better for me throughout the week. I shook off the shvizut as best I could and by the time we were doing impressions of my commander to his unhidden laughter, I was actually enjoying being back and with my friends.

As Thursday came around, I left hamshush once more (now reaching an unheard of number for a combat soldier!), to a reunion with my Garin. It really was one of the best weekends I've had since enlisting in the army, seeing my “family” all together for the first time in months and celebrating Purim together. Things are certainly looking up.

I'm now heading back to base refreshed and reinvigorated, ready for the coming week in the shetach. A happy Purim to all those at home.