is, Haifa A Twenty for Haifa Twenty. Clear at the streambed."
"Haifa Twenty," Peled said, acknowledging as battalion commander. "Post guards to cover your sector, then move up to the CP, double time." The command post was the spot near the first bus where Shimon was interrogating the prisoners. Not much of a CP, but when in doubt, the command post was where the commander was.
"Haifa A Twenty, you got it," Cohen said, identifying himself yet again as the commander of A Company, First Battalion.
Senior Captain Avigdor Cohen had been on the books as an armor and ordnance repair specialist, not a trainer—Cohen was a lousy teacher, but he was good at getting local arty back online faster and running better than anybody thought possible. Cohen was commanding the hastily improvised A Company now, what there was of it: it was more of a platoon than anything else. Resnick, who would have been Peled's first choice for a combat company commander, was dead in the first bus, along with too many of the support people.
Still, putting Cohen in charge of the company might have been a mistake. Normally, Peled would have preferred Adelberg; Stu had more infantry experience. But Avi Cohen was senior, and he'd handled himself well toward the end of the firefight. Damned if Mordecai Peled was going to jump somebody over his head—not in front of the Casas, particularly not in front of the perverted IG corps they called the II Distacamento de la Fedeltà, the Loyalty Detachment.
Fucking DFs.
As Peled and his team worked the clearing, a pair of the DFs—one male, short and skinny; one female, fat and dumpy—kept them under observation. Idiots. What did the DFs think they were going to do, run off with the bodies?
Peled didn't mind things being done wrong—war is the domain of mistakes—but he didn't like things being done stupid. Command and authority are supposed to flow up and down, not be shoved in from the side by a bunch of official kibitzers who didn't have to live or die with their mistakes.
He sighed. He was getting too old for this, woolgathering when there was work to do. The area was secured; fine. The captives had been pulled out and were up at the road under the control of Shimon and Galil—no, Shimon and Skolnick. The sharp-eyed sergeant was running Kelev for the time being; he'd be glad to be rid of that once Galil was back on his feet.
Peled still had to figure out what to do about staff.
The officer complement of a Metzadan infantry battalion headquarters was supposed to consist of six: a battalion commander, either a colonel or light colonel; an exec, generally a major, who doubled as S3, the ops officer; the deputy S3, generally a captain; and S1, S2, and S4, all lieutenants or captains. Usually there was a senior medician in the rank of a captain, but he was out of the chain of command, in general practice although not in theory. For the time being, Reuven Zucker was very much in the chain of command: he was running Company C, which was busy handling field aid and triage up on the road.
The officer complement of First Bat HQ was supposed to be six; right now, it was Mordecai Peled.
Period. First Bat was operational in theory, and it would fire back if fired upon, but it was headless.
Except for me , he thought, and God knows that I can't carry Bat HQ in my hat.
Peled needed a good battalion staff, and quick. It didn't matter that they would probably reconfigure themselves as a training regiment again tomorrow; right now, right this fucking minute, they were a goddamn infantry battalion, and that's how he had to run it.
In other armies, the senior NCOs, the men who really ran a battalion, could manage about as well without officers as with—sometimes better. But Metzada didn't do things that way, and this was supposed to be a cadre job. While the enlisted complement of the improvised Bat HQ weren't virgins, they weren't ready to run things, not if things got sticky.
Which they already had. Assuming they
"Haifa Twenty," Peled said, acknowledging as battalion commander. "Post guards to cover your sector, then move up to the CP, double time." The command post was the spot near the first bus where Shimon was interrogating the prisoners. Not much of a CP, but when in doubt, the command post was where the commander was.
"Haifa A Twenty, you got it," Cohen said, identifying himself yet again as the commander of A Company, First Battalion.
Senior Captain Avigdor Cohen had been on the books as an armor and ordnance repair specialist, not a trainer—Cohen was a lousy teacher, but he was good at getting local arty back online faster and running better than anybody thought possible. Cohen was commanding the hastily improvised A Company now, what there was of it: it was more of a platoon than anything else. Resnick, who would have been Peled's first choice for a combat company commander, was dead in the first bus, along with too many of the support people.
Still, putting Cohen in charge of the company might have been a mistake. Normally, Peled would have preferred Adelberg; Stu had more infantry experience. But Avi Cohen was senior, and he'd handled himself well toward the end of the firefight. Damned if Mordecai Peled was going to jump somebody over his head—not in front of the Casas, particularly not in front of the perverted IG corps they called the II Distacamento de la Fedeltà, the Loyalty Detachment.
Fucking DFs.
As Peled and his team worked the clearing, a pair of the DFs—one male, short and skinny; one female, fat and dumpy—kept them under observation. Idiots. What did the DFs think they were going to do, run off with the bodies?
Peled didn't mind things being done wrong—war is the domain of mistakes—but he didn't like things being done stupid. Command and authority are supposed to flow up and down, not be shoved in from the side by a bunch of official kibitzers who didn't have to live or die with their mistakes.
He sighed. He was getting too old for this, woolgathering when there was work to do. The area was secured; fine. The captives had been pulled out and were up at the road under the control of Shimon and Galil—no, Shimon and Skolnick. The sharp-eyed sergeant was running Kelev for the time being; he'd be glad to be rid of that once Galil was back on his feet.
Peled still had to figure out what to do about staff.
The officer complement of a Metzadan infantry battalion headquarters was supposed to consist of six: a battalion commander, either a colonel or light colonel; an exec, generally a major, who doubled as S3, the ops officer; the deputy S3, generally a captain; and S1, S2, and S4, all lieutenants or captains. Usually there was a senior medician in the rank of a captain, but he was out of the chain of command, in general practice although not in theory. For the time being, Reuven Zucker was very much in the chain of command: he was running Company C, which was busy handling field aid and triage up on the road.
The officer complement of First Bat HQ was supposed to be six; right now, it was Mordecai Peled.
Period. First Bat was operational in theory, and it would fire back if fired upon, but it was headless.
Except for me , he thought, and God knows that I can't carry Bat HQ in my hat.
Peled needed a good battalion staff, and quick. It didn't matter that they would probably reconfigure themselves as a training regiment again tomorrow; right now, right this fucking minute, they were a goddamn infantry battalion, and that's how he had to run it.
In other armies, the senior NCOs, the men who really ran a battalion, could manage about as well without officers as with—sometimes better. But Metzada didn't do things that way, and this was supposed to be a cadre job. While the enlisted complement of the improvised Bat HQ weren't virgins, they weren't ready to run things, not if things got sticky.
Which they already had. Assuming they
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