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.

Ani Nishbah: I Swear!

A tanach resting against my heart, my hand at a salute on my rifle, I stared proudly at a wind-blown Israeli flag against the backdrop of the Kotel. The words of the “Hatikvah” left my lips following those swearing my loyalty to defend the nation I now call home. After the physical and mental challenges of the previous week, my Tekes Hashba'ah was the perfect contrast.

As I returned to base at my typical late arrival time on a Sunday morning, the buzz of our coming Tekes Hashba'ah was everywhere. The cancellation of the original event only made everyone more excited for the actual date, directly leading the first two days of shooting ranges to move by at a snail's pace.

Even more trying was the bad news I had received from Darren in the beginning of the week: his commanders were not letting him out to come to the ceremony. Absolutely gutted, I took the maybe inappropriate action of approaching one of my officers and asking him to make a phone call for me. I found out the following day that each one of my commanders and officers took it upon themselves to call their counterparts in Nachal, those they knew from commander or officer school, in order to try pull some strings for Darren to attend. Whether or not it had any connection, I found out late the evening before the tekes that Darren would be given permission to come.

The way the situation unfolded gave me the sense that the commanders and officers charged with turning me into a warrior were out for my best interest in every possible way. Despite their hard-line attitudes and discipline methods on a daily basis, these men are really caring individuals, willing to go beyond their job titles' in order to see their soldiers happy. It was a special moment for me and really made me look at my superiors in a new light.

Finally, Tuesday came around and we boarded the busses to head out to Jerusalem. After some initial touring, following the path of the 1967 Paratroopers who captured the Kotel, we had some time to meet family and friends before the ceremony began. I was enormously pleased to see my Garin Rakaz and mashakit had come. Another added treat was seeing my brother there as originally planned, as well as two friends who had come as a surprise. When you see all of your army friends' families gathered to celebrate with them, it's an incredibly heartwarming feeling to have your brother and best friends come be there for you.

And then it began. Standing there in the chilly Jerusalem breeze, marching towards the wall chanting songs of pride for the unit before finally swearing in my loyalty to the Jewish nation...the personal importance of the ceremony to me was enormous. I passionately gave my “Ani Nishbah!” as loud as my voice would allow, no less effort being afforded to the Hatikvah.

The night was not one I will soon forget.

My unit shoulder tag. Still surreal to wear.

As quickly as it had come, the ceremony had also come to an end and after some goodbyes, I was on a bus back to base. As I mentioned once before, the days following the ceremony were supposed to be chemical and biological warfare education activities. As we woke up the morning after our ceremony, we were filled in on another unscheduled army development.

“You're now sworn soldiers, here to defend the Jewish nation.” my mefaked said to us, “Pack your bags, we're spending the night in the territories guarding.”

While I'm not sure I'm allowed to detail exactly where I guarded and for what reason, suffice it to say that a trek into less-than-friendly territory had many interesting moments in store for me. This was the first time I felt like I was really doing something real as a soldier, actually put into a situation in the civilian world and given a job to do.

I guarded for eight hours on no sleep that night, standing there in the less-than-pleasant weather (more rain and cold). Still, I couldn't help but appreciate the magnitude of the situation for me. Some moments, like the one where a car driven by a very religious Jewish man stopped next to me, his passengers handing us chocolates as a “thank-you” before driving off, made me proud to be a soldier. Others, like the one where my group of three was skipped over for our short break leading to four hours straight of standing in the cold, made me frustrated to be a soldier. With everything taken into account, this was an important, meaningful point for me in my army service.

The Woes of the Weather

As I grasped the safety ring of a grenade, mentally and physically prepared for what I was about to do, I found myself unable to shake the disappointment I was feeling. After days of excitement and practice for my Tekes Hashba'ah (swearing in ceremony), knowing that all of my friends as well as my brother had received off from the army to attend, I stood there with the deepest frown on my face. The tekes had been cancelled.

Wednesday morning had started brightly. I opened my eyes, smiled widely and said to the kita, “tomorrow is our tekes, tomorrow we're going home!” All was cheer around base. We'd been shooting throughout the week and we'd be heading out the shetach to throw live grenades before leaving on a masa in the evening. Things couldn't get better.

There we stood in the shetach when word trickled in that the tekes had been cancelled. I wouldn't believe it. Refused to believe it. A mere twenty-four hours before the tekes with no way to contact Darren and the rest of my friends and they had called off the ceremony due to an awful patch of rain and cold throughout the country.

Moments before throwing a live grenade, an experience I never thought I'd see, and I couldn't think of anything but the utter disappointment I was feeling. While the experience itself was interesting, tossing an actual grenade after learning about it inside and out, I left the shetach feeling absolutely upside-down.

As we arrived back to base, I rushed to my phone to contact everyone and let them know the news. In addition to the tekes being postponed, the masa had been called off. We wouldn't be marching to earn the Tzanchanim shoulder tags. We wouldn't be going to Jerusalem. We wouldn't be swearing our allegiance to our country in front of friends and loved ones. Not this week.

I woke up the following morning, knowing that in another world, this was the morning we would would want to remember. Instead, it was a morning we could only hope to forget. After carrying all of the equipment to the shooting ranges, the rain came in force, leading to the order to carry everything right back to base. Back on base, soaking wet, the rest of the day was filled with time-wasters, the mefakdim simply trying to think of what to do with us.

We were told that our masa had been rescheduled to that very evening, despite the awful weather. While the decision being up and down the throughout the day, it was eventually finalized and we prepared to go.

The masa marked our first real “big” march, not only in terms of distance (10+2), but also due to the fact that it was done in the capacity of a pluga (battalion) and not simply a kita (team). Hundreds of soldiers lined up in the brisk cold and off we marched.

After five minutes, the cold is no longer an issue. The rain seemed to have taken a break and the only thing left to worry about was the powerful pain of the shrir masa (hike muscles in the shins). The first thirty minutes of every masa are marked by that very pain, seemingly the only possible thing to think about. In this masa specifically, the pain was magnified due to the deep mud, every step being harder to take than the last.

As always, once the initial period of pain has passed, your legs slowly become numb (or maybe you just get used to the feeling) and you become like a zombie, simply walking and trying to pass the time. I thought back on the week, the disappointed I felt and how difficult and draining the army can be sometimes for a combat soldier. More positively, however, I thought to myself about the experiences I've done that I had only ever seen in the movies.

Where else could I have forced myself through an hour of kriya savlanoot? Where else could I have undergone training to successfully hit targets at high long distances in the darkness of the night? Where else could I throw a live grenade and hike twelve kilometers with the men who I train with to defend the Jewish nation? While often taxing and at times impossible to deal with, these experiences become the ones I look back on, happy and proud of the decision I've made to leave everything behind for something I so strongly believe.

After ten kilometers of marching, we reached the point to open our stretchers and continue on to base. Being the middle of the night, with darkness and mud complicating the process, we stood there waiting twenty minutes for all of the stretchers to be opened and the sandbags to be placed. While breaks usually bring down your body temperature, especially with your shirt wet with sweat, this was different. The very moment we stopped, the rain began to pour, our bodies began to freeze.

Worried, the commanders asked the madasnikit (sports trainer) of the base to come and go through various exercises to do while waiting in order to fend of hypothermia. The cold was bitter, though it was almost a fitting end to a bitter week. Finally, as the last of the stretchers were opened, we bolted off through the last two kilometers, running more often than not doing our best to heat up our bodies.

The feeling of finishing, as with every masa, was an unparalleled jolt of happiness and pride. While we didn't receive our tags, the rumor is we will be receiving them before our ceremony. We went off to an overdue hot shower and a decent night sleep, knowing the following day would mean home. As I woke up the next day and put on my madim aleph (dress uniform) to head home for the weekend, I thought back on the ups and downs of the week. This was a week to forget, though the type of week that builds you as a soldier and as a person.

My tekes has been rescheduled to Tuesday and if things stand, Darren will still be able to attend. Just a few more days until I am sworn in to defend the nation, hopefully this time for real!

Off to base tomorrow for chemical and biological warfare week, capped off by the tear gas tent! It should be an interesting week, hopefully a better one at the least.

-Brett

Down on the Range: Shavua Pakalim

Under the crisp breeze of midnight in the Israeli desert, my eye remained fixed on the cardboard target through the green glow of a new scope. I patiently waited for the command to fire, my shoulder fatigued by kickback, my ears fatigued from the boom. There I was in the middle of what felt like the longest week of my army career: Shavua Pakalim.

Towards the end of tironut, soldiers are chosen for specific roles within the kita and are sent to a special course of training, taking on a position for the rest of their service. I arrived on base early on Sunday morning, eager to begin and make the best possible impression on my instructors (as I mentioned briefly before, I was competing for a spot).

As soon as I was changed and ready to go, I lugged the equipment for the shooting range onto my shoulders and trekked off to begin Course Kalaim, the sharpshooters course. For the rest of the week, we shot thousands of bullets from the wee hours of the morning into the dwindling minutes of the night. Standing, sitting, laying down, and propped on a table, we managed to calibrate and learn our new rifles, becoming competent kalaim.

While the repetitive nature of the week makes it difficult to talk about, a few things stick out in my mind as memorable throughout the duration of the course.

I've mentioned before how the chemistry and dynamic of the kita has changed since beginning tironut in two months ago (a period that seems like a lifetime!). This has never been more evident than it was throughout the course of my training. Due to the fact that I slept in a different room and spent every day with the sharpshooters of the pluga (battalion), I rarely saw the rest of my kita. Despite doing interesting and often fun things, the moments of shavuz (common army depression) were strong and plenty. The logical explanation was the fact that I wasn't with my friends, the group of guys with whom I've developed a bond I could never have imagined before joining the army.

The appreciation I have for my team grows greater every day. I know understand more than ever how these friends become lifelong friends, the fighters you would trust with your life in the heat of battle. While the week was tough to get through, one of the most intensive to date, the last day made everything worth it. Seeing the team after being away from them the entire week, reliving new stories and jokes made things seem right once again.

During the course, I also completed the most difficult physical challenge of the army (and consequently my life) so far. After hundreds of shooting exercises, we were told we'd be going into the most infamous of them all, Kriya Savlanoot (patient kneeling). After receiving five bullets, we lowered into matsav kriya (kneeling position), seated on our back foot with our eyes focused on the target. We were told to wait for the order to shoot one bullet and keep the rifle completely still.

It's difficult to explain the discomfort and pain of matsav kriya. Besides for the aches and pains in your back and arms, your back foot struggles to hold the weight of your body, your knee restricting the blood flow to the rest of your leg.

Matsav Kriya: Notice his body weight resting on his back foot.

The first twenty minutes were the most excruciatingly painful twenty minutes of my life. I'm not ashamed to say I was close to tears (many had passed that point), every muscle of my body screaming for a break. As the first twenty minutes passed, my leg slowly began to lose feeling, almost a blessing. At one point, I fell out of the stance and onto the floor. Being unable to feel my leg on it's own, I had to wait for the shooting instructor to place my foot back into it's proper position for me.

Eventually, after what seemed like a lifetime, we were told to fire our fifth and final bullet and stand up. Fifty five minutes after the start of the exercise, we all found ourselves struggling to stand, no feeling whatsoever in our legs. While a torturous experience, I look back on it with a smile, shocked and amazed at what the body can deal with when there is no choice.

I can't say I wasn't pleased for the week to end. I performed well enough on the tests (both shooting and written) to earn the spot I was competing for in my team (!!!) and am now a trained sharpshooter.

I made the long trip home for a relaxing weekend before returning back to base for what would become amongst the more disappointing weeks I've had. This trend of a good week being followed by a bad one is becoming old, to say the least! More on that in the next post.

-Brett

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