The Glory by Herman Wouk Page B

Cancel the exercise. I want to confer with him and with you. The
     Egyptians have sunk the
Eilat
with missiles. My helicopter will leave at dawn.”
    Dealing with military shock was nothing new to Don Kishote. “Many losses, sir?”
    “We’re still pulling them out of the water. It’s bad enough.”
    Speeding to the kibbutz in a jeep, Kishote found the Northern Commander on his feet haranguing the weather-beaten old-timers
     and their gray-headed wives in the dining hall, but to his surprise the rows of chairs were half-empty. Evidently the younger
     kibbutzniks, who had been clearing mines or toiling in the fields all day, preferred sleep to a pep talk by the conquering
     hero of the Golan Heights. A stout old lady in greasy overalls raised a hand, stood up, and broke into Dado’s speech.
    “Pardon me, that’s all fine, Dado, but when will it ever end? What is it all leading to? That’s what we want to know. What
     was the use of winning a war? Every night my three grandchildren still have to sleep in the shelter. My daughter says she
     can’t raise kids this way. She and her husband talk of moving to Netanya, where he has family. He’s a mechanic, he’d make
     good money. What do I tell them?”
    A murmur of agreement among the oldsters.
    General David Elazar looked at her without words. She faltered and sat down. Even in silence Dado was somewhat scary: broad-shouldered,
     craggy-faced, with tumbled black hair, heavy black eyebrows, and a wide mouth that could curve in a fierce sudden scowl. “All
     right, Esther,” he said in the warm voice he used with civilians, “I understand you, believe me. But if Jews like your family
     leave Gal-Ed because you feel life here is unbearable, we may as well disband the army and forget about having a country.
Because that’s the one enemy war aim
, don’t you see, to drive us out of our Land? Their defeats in battle haven’t changed that aim one bit. Look, we routed them,
     didn’t we? The Egyptians and Syrians were helpless after six days, crying to the Russians and the United Nations for help.
     I could have taken Damascus in forty-eight more hours. The Jordanians collapsed even before that, on the third day of the
     war, and already they’re sending infiltrators here again —”
    The stout lady interrupted from her seat with quavering bravery. “We know all that better than you. So what?”
    Dado’s voice hardened. “So last time the infiltrators paid, as you also know, Esther. We blew up their base and killed half
     of them. We’ll take care of this gang, too. We’ll make life unbearable for all your attackers. And where will it all lead
     to? To
peace
.” He struck a heavy fist on a palm. “In your time, or in your daughter’s time, or in your grandchildren’s time, but
peace
! Because for us life will go on being bearable, and better than bearable, beautiful. And for the Arabs, in the end we’ll
     make enmity unbearable. That I swear. The army will see to that. Life here on the border is hard, but this kibbutz is Israel.
     The army exists for you. So do I.”
    Kishote perceived, from the way the elderly kibbutzniks listened with moistening eyes, that this was what they needed to hear.
     Far from the victory euphoria in the cities, exposed on the farmland frontier, at least they weren’t being forgotten. Other
     questions shot at the general about better army protection, newer alarm systems, government subsidies promised but not forthcoming.
     He fielded these briskly, and made an end with a wave to Kishote. The two officers partook of cake and soft drinks with the
     kibbutzniks, and soon left.
    As they walked to the jeep and jumped in, Kishote told the general about the
Eilat
, and Dayan’s change of plan. Dado took the news without comment, leaned back in the rear seat and closed his eyes. The jeep
     reached the main road and sped northward, tires hissing on rough tar. After a long time he spoke. “Missiles. A serious escalation.
     A new