Rain, Wind, and the Field

Hail pounded against our helmets, the wind forcing rain into our jackets, pants, and boots. We had to get back to base. A few kilometers into the desert, we hadn't planned to return so soon, and certainly not in these conditions. Soldiers yelled each others' names, the commanders tried to keep everyone calm and organized. It was a mess. The sand below our feet turned soggier and muddier each minute, the air harder to see through. There was a genuine worry. We persevered and pushed on. Only that morning we were so concerned about the weight on our backs of all the equipment we would take to set up camp. Now it was the last thing on our minds.

Finally returning felt like nothing else, as if we had just overcome something we were not supposed to. I had never been so cold in my entire life, my bones shaking within me. Then we saw the shelter we were seeking; our tents, half-collapsed, their walls blowing in the air like pieces of paper in the wind.

Returning back to base two weeks ago, we knew that our unit was going to be the first in Nahal to go for "Shavua Sadaut" ("Field Week"), notoriously the hardest part of a soldier's basic training in the IDF. Traditionally, it is meant to be one full week where a unit sets up camp in the middle of nowhere and learns how to operate, survive, and fight on the bare minimum. Sound tough? If only it were that simple... for us, we were told we would have two full weeks of Sadaut instead, just as the worst weather crisis in recent Israeli history was traveling across the country.

The first few days were spent getting our equipment ready. We wondered if we would actually end up going. The north of the country was covered in snow and a terrible national storm was making its way toward us quickly. But then again, we are the combat soldiers of the IDF, and we shouldn't fear a little rain.

Our first day, we went and learned all of the basics. I have to admit I was a bit nervous about going out into the desert and doing this specific training, regardless of the weather, but I was surprised to find that it was actually really interesting. Then the wind picked up and the weather dropped rapidly, black clouds covering the sky above us. A few hours later, we were in trouble and would have been putting ourselves in serious danger.

Trying to build our tents and the rest of the damaged parts of the base back up that night was extremely difficult. Morale was low, as you would expect, with all of our equipment and clothing wet and freezing. We were told we would continue the week as planned, with all of the same lessons and training being conducted as usual, except that we would stay on base. This meant we would still be eating combat rations and be held to the strict disciplinary and operational standards of being out in the field. As snow fell on the surrounding areas and the temperature held at such drastic depths, I am not sure there was any difference.

As interesting as the week was, it was extremely taxing on me. Each day we were anticipating the announcement that we would be heading back to the field, but it never came... in a way, we knew that it wouldn't. It was too dangerous. And even though we were given the "gift" of staying on base for Shabbat instead of going out into the field, the week had taken its toll. I felt weak and the conditions had impacted my mood severely. On top of that, a shoulder problem that had started for me a few weeks prior was starting to become worse. When you are injured in the army, you feel totally useless. You want to help your friends, you want to lift that stone or pull that rope, and when you can't, it is one of the worst feelings. Overall, I wasn't in the best place. Luckily, I had a friend nearby from my Garin who felt similarly, and we talked it out together and helped each other get our minds and emotions back together.

Noam and me on Hannukah. Always great to have Garin family close-by

Shabbat flew by and, as expected, we finally went to the desert for good. Although still freezing, we were just happy that the rain had gone away and the sky was completely blue. The only catch would be that because there ware some things we had missed out on because of the weather, it would all have to be compressed into the one week, something sure to be difficult on us. 

The week was full of even more interesting lessons and experiences. We learned how to take targets down in pairs and groups, camouflage, survival, and much more. The days were exhausting and the nights always full of surprise wake-ups for one reason or another. Maybe I'll save those stories for another post in the future. We also had a competition between all of the different squads on all we had learned. It was good to see everyone work together and apply the training in a fun way. It was hard to believe that the fun atmosphere we had created in what was such a challenging environment was possible, remembering how it had been the week before. 

One highlight of the week was learning how to give commands in Hebrew. Naturally, it was a huge struggle for me, and my commander ensured me that all I would have to know how to do was respond to my partner, who would be the one tasked with giving the orders. Even this was difficult, and I was nervous when we were told to demonstrate what we had learned in a drill for the samal ("sergeant"), a tough character who is very hard to please. He was completely unhappy with our first run, turned to me and told me that we had to do it again and that I would be giving the commands instead. I had nothing to say, but my body must have told him just how little confidence I had that I could do it successfully. He nodded at me and told us to start. By the end, I had done it just about as well as I could. He had a small smile on his face, and so did my commander, who was at the bottom watching. They congratulated me on a good drill and on how I had done. 

At the end of the week, we had our masa samal, a march of ten kilometers plus two with the stretchers open (someone lying on top of it) led by the sergeant, at a ridiculous pace. A lone soldier blog is full of descriptions of how difficult, yet rewarding, mascot are. Needless to say, this one was intense. Because of the situation with my shoulder, which I will have to start physical therapy on, I was told that I wouldn't have to carry any of the extra weights some people are assigned, and instead would just have to concentrate on getting through the masa, that it would be difficult enough for me. Again, I felt a bit down about it, that I couldn't do as much as everyone else. 

The beginning was fine. The first six kilometers flew by without a problem. I led the line and felt bad about it, as if I had some kind of unfair handicap. Although my back and shoulders were killing me, I knew that I didn't have the burden of extra weight to slow me down or make it harder for me. Then, it all changed. We were marching through intensely difficult land, uphills, rocks... all at a speed I wouldn't walk even in the biggest of rushes. In front of me, the pakal maim, an infamously heavy pack of many water bottles, fell to the floor, its straps broken, and the soldier who was supposed to hold it too weak to pick it back up. I followed my gut and took it, telling him to keep going. It hurt badly, but it made me feel better, like I was contributing as I should be. 

Then, the stretchers opened. The samal stopped us all with an almost evil grin on his face. He announced that three soldiers would be going on the stretchers for the thirty of us to figure out how to carry (four people have to be under a stretcher at all times, and we trade out whenever needed). Except, he added, as if he had been waiting for this all week, they would be the three biggest guys in our whole company. Panic set in... we didn't know how we would accomplish this. We didn't have time to think, though, and started going. I will never be able to describe how it feels to carry a broken water pack and a stretcher on an injured shoulder, but it was one of the best emotions I have ever had, like nothing could stop me. 

When we finished, we all felt incredibly proud. We were told we had finished one of the hardest experience we would encounter in our training, made to run a bit for good measure, and read a passage by a soldier about why he enlisted to a combat unit. As we stood there in formation and listened, tears started coming out of my eyes. It had been such a roller coaster for me those last few weeks, but there I was, standing, on the other side of it. Every reason they listed, every difficulty read out loud, I identified with and felt. It was me, my reasons for coming here, and my reasons for being a combat soldier. 

            -    Darren 

Everyone Forward!

As I touched upon briefly in the previous post, this past week was as far opposite from the previous as I could have hoped.

We trekked out to the shetach early on Sunday to prepare for what would be the most interesting week of my army service to date. The weather greatly improved (at least during the day!), we learned in depth about taking hills in pairs and in fours. After dry drills, we participated in live fire activities both in daylight and in the middle of the night. While difficult, it was the first time I actually felt like a “soldier” in every sense of the world. Moving up a mountain, commanding a group of soldiers into position and taking out the “targets” set the exciting foundation for our combat training in the future.

While the shetach was more pleasant than usual, as the temperature dropped each night, so did the mood. I've discussed the cold in depth, but it's simply something that makes everything extraordinarily more difficult.

On the last day of our shetach activities, my commander pulled me aside and informed me that I would be beginning the following week as a Kala (sharpshooter). The role has always been my preferred assignment, one that most combat soldiers hope for, and I was ecstatic to receive the news.

The catch? Three sharpshooters were chosen from my kita, and only two can remain. While next week, we'll be participating in the sharpshooter course for the entire week, one of the three of us will not receive the role as course comes to an end.

We arrived back to base on Wednesday and immediately all of the lone soldiers were taken off the cafeteria for a “special lunch.” The mayor of Ramat Gan (Tzanchanim's adopted city) as well as many donors sat and indulged with us, enjoying food usually reserved for Shabbat.

From the lunch, I went straight to sign out my new rifle! I traded in my M16 for a heavily modified Kala M4, equipped with two scopes (one with night vision technology!) and sat through my first lesson about the rifle.

My ankle far improved, I was given permission to exit on our masa the same evening, a 7+1 kilometer (the +1 indicating distance spent with an open stretcher). As with all masaot, the first half an hour is the most difficult, although in this one specifically, the feeling passed. While usually, my motivation is simply to finish, this was the first masa I felt prepared to help each of my friends, whether it meant spending my time under the stretcher or helping push friends up one of the steep hills.

I finished the masa strongly, a smile on my face and my ankle feeling strong. We received our watch covers, another addition to our pazam and headed off to a well-deserved sleep.

I woke up the next morning and dressed in civilian clothes. The reason? All of the lone soldiers left the base for a Yom Kef (fun day while the rest of the soldiers had parents' day on base). We were taken to a bowling alley, a barbecue and a spa. Sitting and relaxing in hot pools, it the perfect wind-down to a week of shetach and a masa on army time and money! As the day came to a close, we left chamshush once again (my fifth so far!) and headed off to a weekend at home.

I'll be on base early tomorrow to begin the sharpshooter course, prepared to work harder than anyone else and earn my spot! I'm looking forward to another exciting week before opening once again this coming weekend!

Also, a small side note. I find that while doing something fairly interesting in the army, I can't help but think to myself, “I can't wait to write about this.” While on one hand, the goal of the blog is to inform friends and casual readers alike as to my life and experiences in the army, it has also developed into a self-motivational tool for me.

Looking forward to an exciting week, only two more before my swearing in ceremony!

-Brett

Weathering the Storm

In the army, where as little as two hours can be polar opposites, I've just completed two of the most contrasting weeks of my life.

The first week began fairly unusually. For those of you who haven't kept up to date with the news, the weather in Israel was drastic. Rain fell torrentially, even leading to snow in many parts of the nation. The wind was brutal, making the climate difficult to handle.

Due to the strange and sudden change in the weather, our schedule was far from set, apart from the first two days: first aid. The classes were interesting, being led by a medic and a mashakit Aliya to assist with the Hebrew.

On Monday afternoon, as we completed with our classes, we were told we would be departing on a masa in the evening, the six kilometer. As we gathered before the masa, I was given the honor of being the radio man. For those who aren't familiar with the role, the radio man keeps pace with the commander at the front of the pack and relays orders to the rest of the group. When the commander wants to straighten out the two lines, for example, the radio man is responsible for sprinting to the back of the group and informing everyone of the order before running back to his spot. In addition to the difficulty of running throughout the entire masa, the weight of the radio is an unbalanced 9KG on top of all the other weight in the vest.

The masa began in the pouring rain and wind. Beside for the weather, everyone was mostly the same. Muscles in the shrir masa (hike muscles) screaming with every step and struggling to keep up with the pace. While the pace was difficult, I ran with rabak (spirit, adrenaline) and felt mostly okay. As we approached the halfway mark, I stepped in one of the many holes in the mud, falling beneath the weight of the vest and the radio.

I stood up, feeling fine and kept running, mostly ignoring the developing pain coming from my ankle. After about a kilometer, I was unable to step straight on my foot, each step twisting the ankle further and causing more pain. Unfortunately, it got to the point where I was taken out of the masa and driven off to wait for the combat medic.

While the pain itself was tough to deal with, worse than that was the frustration of being unable to finish, especially with the honor of the radio. Watching my friends complete the challenge with smiles on their faces while I sat there, unable to participate, was a gargantuan task to deal with mentally.

The trend continued for the remainder of the week. Struggling to deal with the language, the medic never came to examine me and as a result, I was unable to join my team doing the activities for the rest of the week. I felt one of the lowest lows of my life so far in the army, what's often known as shvizut (army sadness).

Towards the end of the week, we were given twenty minutes to pack for the shetach. It was known that we would be closing for the weekend and proceeding to the field the following week, so the immediate reaction was, “Oh great, we're closing Shabbat in the field...”

We rushed to pack, throwing in all of our gear and getting ready for a meeting with the company. As we all sat down, the company commander walked into the room. His first words: “I hope you're all ready to go home tomorrow.” A huge smile on my face as we found out we would actually be opening for the weekend, a precious chamshush no less, was a huge emotional swing for me, another common trend of the army.

While the week was difficult to fight through on one hand, it was an important experience to get over with on the other hand. I relaxed for the weekend and headed back to base on mekutzeret (returning on a Saturday night) for what would be a far improved week. More on that later!

-Brett

I Swear

The alunkah. The stretcher. It is heavy, it digs into your shoulder, there is no comfortable way to hold it, and even if you are the one chosen to lay on it, you hate the way it makes you feel. For something that is meant for such good, you can't help but cringe when it's brought up. It was the end of our Masa Hashba'ah, the Swearing-In March, and after seven grinding kilometers, we now had the alunkah open for a final, extra one. When it ended, many long minutes later, we stood under the stretcher and lifted it high in the air a few times with a chant. Pretending it didn't hurt!

It was the night before our Tekes Hashba'ah, the Swearing-In Ceremony at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. We had been anxious all week to get to this night, to finish the masa, and to hopefully receive, as rumored, the tag of our unit, to wear on the shoulder of our dress uniforms. We lined up in formation, the entire unit, and were given a speech about the meaning of our accomplishment and how important the following day would be. And then, as hoped, we each received the first thing to identify us as Nahlawis.

The shoulder tag of the Nahal Infantry Brigade 

The next day started with a visit back to Har Herzl, although this time it was far more of an educational experience. We were spurred on by discussions as a unit rather than left to wonder on our own. It wasn't even as shocking when tourists would walk up and ask questions about the rifle I was wearing or why my English was so good! We toured the cemetery and talked about why certain people were buried there and others weren't. We learned about Theodor Herzl himself (the obvious source of the name of the place) at his grave and discussed the State of Israel, Zionism, and what has become of Mr. Herzl's vision. Most emotionally, we discussed three fallen Nahal soldiers who were all great friends and died in the same war. Their stories, and the story that binds them, I will never forget. 

Then it was off to the Western Wall, where we practiced... and practiced... and practiced.  This meant that I got to scream, "Ani Nishbah! Ani Nishbah! Ani Nishbah!" ("I Swear!") and sang Hatikvah ("The Hope" - Israel's anthem) more than just in the real ceremony, and each time it produced a lump in my throat and a wave of very strong emotions. Of all things in the army, it was this ceremony that I had always thought of the most. What it would be like to stand at a place so special, so central to Israel and the Jewish people, and pledge to defend it. I remembered singing Hatikvah at different points in my life, like some kind of evolution. There was the little boy that went to King David in South Africa who sang it on Friday mornings in assembly, the teenager who sometimes sang it and sometimes didn't have all of the energy on Florida mornings in middle and high school, and now the tiron (an Israeli soldier in basic training), who sings it as a kind of salute to the country he has just promised to protect. 

During the rehearsals, one of the guys in my citah (my immediate squad of twelve guys) tapped me and pointed outside of our closed-in area, where I spotted Brett looking in with a big grin on his face. I couldn't help but smile when I saw him. Every one of the guys in my unit had huge families coming to visit, to support, to bring them food, and cheer their name. I had much more. I had my brother, and coming later, my Garin, my mashakiot (the soldiers who lived with the Garin and helped with the army process) and the amazing family, even, of one of our mashakiot, who we have become close to. Even old friends from inside and outside of the country had said they would be there. A counsellor of mine from a school trip to Israel in twelfth grade called me and told me he had come to give me a hug and brought family members of his! I had no feeling of being left out. None at all. I felt lucky and completely blessed. 

The ceremony itself was mind-blowing. It went by in a blur. There were the fun chants that we did as a unit before it started, the speech by the chief rabbi of the army, and songs by the IDF band. Then it was a dash toward my commanding officer, a salute with a Torah and a Tavor (the rifle we are issued), and a flood of adrenaline. This time, for real, "Ani Nishbah! Ani Nishbah! Ani Nishbah!!!" Cue Hatikvah.

For me, swearing-in means that I have made this all that much more official. I was more nervous to scream those words than to board the plane to move here. In front of this whole country, I have proudly announced that I am ready to defend it. If there was a lump in my throat just practicing, it's easy to imagine me during the actual thing. Surrounded by friends, family, and lots of love and support, I went home proud and happy, humming the anthem as I went. 

            -    Darren 

An Experience at Har Herzl

What I left out of my previous post, is that before exiting for the weekend, I was given something called a Yom Siddurim, or "day of order," with a special condition.  Brief side note: These days are entitled to soldiers, and specifically lone soldiers, in order to get things outside of the army together. In my case, it was a trip to the bank. Generally, they come once a month. End side note. The condition for the extra day to my weekend was that I would sleep in Jerusalem on Wednesday night and attend a memorial of a fallen soldier from our unit at Har Herzl, Israel's military, early on Thursday morning. I saw it as an amazing opportunity completely regardless of the Yom Siddurim and happily agreed.

These kinds of memorials happen all the time at Har Herzl. Usually on the anniversary of a soldier's death, his family will come to his grave and will always be greeted by enough soldiers from his brigade so that there is a minyan (ten adult males) in order to say the mourner's prayer, which requires one. In this particular case, the soldier had died in the late sixties, yet his sisters still came, still cried, and still stood to memorialize their brother, all this time later. We sat with the family afterward and heard a bit about his life, and it felt a bit surreal that I was a part of it.

Afterward, I made a spontaneous decision not to go home straight away and rather to look around the cemetery. Although I had been there before on school trips and programs, there was something different about the place now. After a while of going through the place and reading about the many people who are buried there, I found myself in the memorial for the Second Lebanon War and, specifically, at the grave of a famous lone soldier named Michael Levine. Michael's story is well-known and he is considered by many to be a hero, because of his determination to serve the state of Israel and to fight with his unit in the war he was tragically killed in. Although he was at the wedding of a family member at the time, when fighting broke out, he returned immediately from his trip and insisted to join his unit in operation. His grave is an interesting sight, because so many people, not even just American tourists (although they may be a large part) come to pay tribute to him and leave all kinds of things. The mixed feeling I have always had is looking at the bare graves of the soldiers on either side of him, with the very minimum to memorialize them. They may also have very heroic stories that I will never hear or know, and it is sad in a way that, as much as Michael deserves his recognition, they will never get theirs. Looking at the sight, I made a random decision to say the mourner's prayer myself. I pulled out my phone and looked it up, kneeled down, and started to pray. When I stood up, a few minutes later, I turned and saw a large Birthright group, their cameras pointing at me. They smiled, talked amongst themselves about the Israeli soldier praying at the grave. Then, they gathered around and told the story about Michael Levine. Although their coordinator spoke to me, I answered in Hebrew and didn't talk much. t didn't say anything to them.  I didn't even know what to think. It was an extremely strange moment for me to be that image, the Israeli soldier, to a tour group. No less, at the grave of someone I learned about in school and always saw as such an inspiration.

The entire journey up to the north on the bus I spent thinking about the decision I made to pack my bags and become a lone soldier. I thought about those tourists and what they thought, what I used to think, and how Brett and I had followed such a crazy goal that now is so natural to us. We are soldiers in Israel. We aren't mourning a guy we learned about at Donna Klein Jewish Academy anymore, we are mourning a brother in arms, who lost his life fighting for the same cause we have decided to stand for. Like the two soldiers on either side of him.  Like the soldier whose memorial I had been sent to attend that morning. There is a special feeling in Israel that we are all part of this together, that one loss is everyone's very painful loss. I now know what that means and to suddenly realize that I was a part of it was completely surreal.

             -  Darren

Fighting on the "Other Side"

As the last weekend in the north drew to a close, we prepared to participate in a targil chativat (brigade wide exercise).

Beginning early on Sunday, the activity was designed to utilize every unit within Tzanchanim, even the new soldiers. Finally, the equipment we laboriously stood guard over for hours during our precious Shabbat was put to good use as the chativah flexed every muscle at it's disposal.

We left as a machlakah (three teams) into the shetach once more, packing up and bracing ourselves for the cold. The shetach was one we weren't yet acquainted with, being taken up into the mountains of the north.

My kita was split into two groups on the first night, tasked with running traffic stops on a major highway to allow for mass numbers of tzanchanim to cross. We arrived to our location late at night, prepared our things and went to bed, a few of us waking up at a time to run the stops. More than anything, we basically did our best to past the time and sleep as closely as possible to fend off the cold, a recurring theme.

The next day was mostly uneventful, a lot of waiting around to find out what the rest of the week would hold for us. Towards the late afternoon, we were driven up to the peak of Mount Carmel and given our orders. We would be dressing up as the enemy, in this case Hezbollah, and waiting to ambush soldiers climbing up the mountain.

At about 9:30 P.M., we were told to get into our outfits and wait at our outposts. The soldiers “should be arriving in about thirty minutes...” As 10:00 P.M. arrived, no soldiers arrived with it. “Just a few more minutes.” We waited and waited and hours passed.

The three of us at the station, commander included, stayed as close as possible to prevent hypothermia, discussed the tactics of ambushes and how best to stay awake. Tasked with keeping conscious and healthy and tired of counting the minutes on my watch, I completely overlooked the fact that there we were on the mountain, under the night sky of New Years Eve.

As I glanced down at my watch, I noticed the illuminated LCD screen: 2:05 A.M. Shivering, I turned to the soldiers sitting next to me, one of whom was taking his twenty minute turn to sleep. “Happy New Years.” The commander cracked a smile, responding, “This is what we signed up for. Freezing next to each other, the wind of the north, waiting for an ambush, and dreaming about being with our friends on New Years Eve. This is kravi.”

...this is combat.

Finally, at 4:00 A.M., we received the order to prepare and begin the operation. While I'm not entirely sure what I'm allowed to write about, suffice it to say the operation appeared successful on all fronts. Frustratingly, however, it lasted about ten minutes. While an impressive thing to witness and participate in, waiting six and a half hours for a ten minute exercise is far from satisfying.

The following day, after an hour of sleep, we headed back to the base in the north to restock supplies and rest for a couple of hours. My machlakah was ordered back into the shetach, however I was told I would not be joining them in order to attend Darren's Tekes Hashba'ah (swearing in ceremony).

I joined another machlakah on the trip back to Bach Tzanchanim and on Thursday, left the base to the tekes. I won't delve into too much detail about the tekes itself, perhaps it would be more fitting for Darren to do so, but suffice it to say it was an emotional experience to proudly watch my brother swear his allegiance to defend the State of Israel.

Back to base tomorrow for another two weeks and already looking forward to writing again. Happy 2013!

-Brett

The Middle of a Twenty-One

After completing Shavua Sadaut, we proceeded back to base to finish the remainder of our twenty-one (three weeks on base).

Our journey back to base was done as a masa, a march designed to train us in distance walking with heavy weights on our backs. There are many masaot throughout the training period, gradually increasing in distance and intensity.

This masa was a four kilometer hike back to base. While it doesn't seem like much, the distance is hiked at the grueling pace of the mefaked and is mostly jogged. Along with the pace is the uncomfortable weight of the efod (combat vest) wrapped around your body, filled to the brim with magazines, ammunition, and the clunky helmet.

While not overly difficult, I often found myself thinking about the pain in my shrir masa (hike muscles, the shins) and hoping for the pace to slow down. As we ascended up the last of many steep hills, I saw the lights of our base, a second wind behind my back to finish. We sprinted the last leg of the masa, arriving to music and congratulatory snacks on base.

While not a feature of every masa, usually something is rewarded to the soldiers at the finish line. As we arrived at the end, we were given the cover for our dog-tags, the first addition of many to our uniforms. The masaot will eventually result in awards like a watch cover, infantry pin, unit tag, gun strap, and finally the famous red beret of Tzanchanim at the end of a grueling 55 kilometer march. Each addition slowly adds to the uniform, taking away the tzair (youngster) appearance in the army.

We arrived on base in time for Shabbat, our first closing. Shabbat on base is unlike anything I've ever seen. With no schedule (aside from guard duty once or twice), we were given the opportunity to simply relax and catch up on all the sleep we missed throughout the previous week. Snacking on sweets and joking around, the spirit and morale are raised, a necessity for the coming week.

While usually, the cheder ochel (dining room) serves food on a buffet line, Shabbat is a far more formal gathering. We arrived for Shabbat dinner, dressed in our formal uniforms and served at the table. We listened to the commander of the base deliver a powerful message followed by the kiddush by a soldier in the November draft, a moving sight before delving into a delicious meal.

As Shabbat quickly drew to a close, we got right back to work on Saturday night preparing for the upcoming week, Shavua Hagnam (guarding and kitchen duty).

I've often heard that Hagnam is the most tedious week of basic training and I can confidently affirm that to be true. The schedule is loose, as each soldier is penciled in for guard duty at a different time. Unluckily, I was most often scheduled to guard in the middle of the night, waking up and dressing in full gear.

Guarding is done in two hour shifts at various points on base. Done alone, it can often be unbearably boring, time ticking away slowly as you wait for your replacement to arrive. Despite the boredom, the first shmira (guard shift) actually held some importance to me. It was the first task done as a “real soldier,” so to speak. Weapon loaded and prepared for anything, I understood that if something were to happen in my area, I would be the one who needed to act. It's a feeling that kept me on my toes and gave me the impression that I was actually doing something worth doing. 

A friend and I after guarding.

 

Following the week, we went into our second Shabbat closing. The day before, we were told that we wouldn't be closing on our base, but rather going to a base in the north to guard over all of the equipment for an activity the following week. We trekked to the base and prepared for the weekend.

Closing Shabbat as a kita is usually an incredible experience, just celebrating with your team and enjoying each other's presence. This kita Shabbat was different, however. With three guard stations and only fourteen of us, each one of us had eight hours of guard duty, something mostly unheard of during basic training.

A bright spot of the Shabbat came when I found out that visitors were allowed on the base up north. Darren and Avi (our Garin coordinator) wasted no time in coming to visit, bringing with them some lunch and making the Shabbat one to remember.

Once again, the Shabbat ended as quickly as it began, and we got ready to head out to the shetach once more for a brigade wide activity, something I'll discuss in the following post.

-Brett

Shivering in the Shetach: Shavua Sadaut

As I indicated in my previous post, I returned to base three weeks ago on a Saturday night to prepare for what's typically known as the most difficult week of basic training: Shavua Sadaut.

While I had already experienced the shetach (field) once before, Shavua Sadaut (week in the shetach) was an entirely different experience. Trekking out on Sunday morning after packing the night before, we prepared mentally for what would be an ultimately grueling experience.

Designed to educate soldiers about life in the shetach as fighters, the week was actually an intriguing experience. From day one, we learned a wide range of things, from walking in formation in the middle of the night to telling the direction using the stars. Most of the week was spent walking in silence at some distance from the soldier in front of you, patiently waiting for his hand signal to indicate the next action and for you to pass on the order to those behind you.

Camouflaged, we learned the most common signs of a human in the field and how to avoid being noticed. Manot Krav (combat rations) of canned tuna and stuffed grape leaves quickly became close to intolerable, although hunger reigns supreme during the ten minute lunch breaks and the food was always put down fairly quickly.

Physically, the week was not overly difficult. While we also extensively practiced marching with the alunkah (stretcher) and crawling (did I mention how much I hate crawling?!), the most grueling bit was not the physical aspect at all. The hardest moments during the week came courtesy of the beautiful desert's weather.

While I touched on it briefly in the last post, the weather changes are drastic in the desert. Paired with the lack of sleep, it's almost impossible to stay fully healthy, making every other challenge that much harder. Each night, after given a few minutes to dig as big a hole as possible to sleep in, we bundled up and attempted to shield ourselves from the fierce, chilling wind and prayed that the rain wouldn't fall that night (thankfully, it didn't). As the sun came up, the heat became unbearable, the ultimate body confusion.

Halfway through the week, I crawled into my sleeping bag and prepared for my last night as a teenager, the night before my birthday. Staring up at the sky, completely clear and brightly lit by the moon and the stars, I couldn't help but think what a fitting transition the night was from one year of life to the next. Last year, I prepared to join the army, a vision still far in the future. Waiting on the arrival of the next year, I lay shielding myself from the cold, covered in camouflage getting ready to sleep with a rifle at my side.

The following day, while standing in a pluga (all of November draft to 202) lesson in the field, I suddenly heard, “Where is Brett?” from the instructors. Cautiously, I edged through the crowd of 110 to the the instructors. Before I knew it, I was being hoisted in the air, the entire pluga singing happy birthday. While it was an unconventional day, it was entirely memorable, and I look back on it as well as the week fondly.

The last bit I wanted to talk about was the apparent turning point in the dynamic of my kita (class, team of soldiers) during the week. While usually, activities are done in the setting of a machlaka (three classes together), Shavua Sadaut was done entirely with just the kita. Having to look out for each other at every point of every day, sharing food and keeping close to fend off hypothermia, creates an unusual bond. As I look back on the week, I can't help but think that the current dynamic in the team, the closeness between myself and the other soldiers, was created entirely in the field.

-Brett