Aviv

On July 21, 2006 I was called up by Tzav 8 to fight on the Northern front. I was in a middle of exams in my University and took it as a perfect excuse to get away from it all and go defend my country. I am an ACO (artillery coordination officer) of the 401 Regiment – armored units in the field. My responsibilities include coordination of battalion commander orders with the real situation in remote artillery batteries, in everything to do with their ability to defeat targets, provide a smoke screen for rescue missions and so on. After my fixed term of service I stayed in 13 Golan Regiment and on the reservists training was appointed to serve in the 603 Engineer Regiment. I loved what I did and was proud of turning from a soldier into an officer, fighting on the front line, using all my knowledge and enormous firepower of artillery forces.

Upon arrival into Golan Heights where our regiment was to be located, I found the place in a state of chaos – everyone was preparing for an order to begin an offensive in the next few days. It turned out that my 603 Regiment was not there and I could not work out why I had been sent here. I noticed there were mostly not armored units around and even recognized some familiar faces – my friends, 13 Golan Regiment platoon commanders, who were already in charge of companies. They had also been added to the regiment for the mission as an infantry battalion.

Having found out that Golan Regiment’s ACO has not arrived yet, I had managed to convince my and Golan’s commanders to allow me to take his place, thus once again becoming a 13 Regiment artillery coordination officer. To me it simply felt like home. The same store attendants from my time were still there, so I got good ammunition and can not join now those who criticized our army poor supply after the war.

As far as I can recall things had been pretty chaotic. We spent days and nights planning: targets analysis, access routes, preparing maps, test shootings, plans approvals, making changes and starting from scratch all over again.

Battalion completed a few missions, some on Lebanon territory, but neither of them resulted in any significant gains. Everyone was keen to prove the battalion is able to contribute to army efforts, especially after recent heavy casualties on all front lines.

Despite constant changes in plans, missions being put off all the time, and apart from a severe lack of sleep, it was life as usual in the battalion. Then we entered Markhava. First, on Saturday rumors started to spread that we are going to move into the village. I was with Ioav, battalion commander, when in the middle of the night, at 2 AM we received an order to cross the border from Israel to Lebanon, enter Markhava village on foot, take hold of the eastern side of the village and stay there for the next 48 hours providing a safe passage for our main troops.

We were hungry for actions and indeed, easily took control over all houses we needed to seize, but from that point it went downhill. During the day we had absolutely nothing to do and stayed inside taken houses, but at night regiment commander felt obliged to aimlessly move our battalion around the village from place to place for no apparent reason.

I felt frustrated myself, considering the fact that everyone knew where in the village all terrorists had been hiding, but there was still no order to open fire. Every day I had to aim all our cannons and mortars at some old junk, used to be called cars. To add to my frustration I suffered from asthma.

I was mobilized with medical condition 72 because of asthma. Never suffered too much from it before and have learned to live with this annoying decease. I usually only have asthma attacks when there is some wild vegetation around, like grass on Golan Heights for example. Airways get blocked straight away and I need an inhaler. They were obviously aware of my condition in Hezbollah and planted an outrageous number of thickets in South Lebanon just before the war. As a result I could not part with my puffer, even after a special asthma treatment in Gibor camp.

In the village I found myself unable to cope even with the puffer, my breath sounded like a brass solo from the Raanana Symphonette Orchestra. When this happens the only thing that can help is a Judgment Day weapon – steroids (in tablets or injections), which I did not carry around with me on a regular basis. On a second night I felt completely exhausted. Somebody called a doctor and that is how I met late doctor Igor Rotshtein. I remembered him despite being very week at the time, desperately looking for at least a bit of oxygen.

I can also recall the first time I noticed him, on Golan Heights before that, when I was just quickly passing by a basketball hall turned into a tent camp for soldiers, and saw him there pedantically arranging his outfit. I remember smiling, thinking to myself: “Look at this eagerness – the guy is obviously new to this place.”

Igor started to ask questions, helped me to take off my heavy bullet-proof vest and a portable radio unit. I hated that moment – there were a few dozens of us soldiers in a typical arab living room, sitting on a floor up against the walls, all staring at me – poor little thing, who could not even breathe. I wanted it to be over, wanted Igor to leave me alone. “Have you got any steroids?” – I asked firmly. “No, we were supposed to stay here for just 48 hours, so I only took the essentials” – apologized Igor. I remember he had been kind to me despite the way I behaved myself. At some point he said: “Tomorrow I will try to arrange for you to come back to Israel when the army supply arrives. There is no point in staying here like this.” I exploded: “No way! Do not even think about it! Just give me what you have got there and I will be fine, I know myself long enough.” I was annoyed, wanted to end all this as soon as possible, could not stand feeling miserable. Igor did not have any steroids on him but promised to take hold of some, and repeatedly suggested I should be evacuated. Instead of steroids he gave me a shot of another drug, which had worked just as well, and in a few minutes I was already able to breathe normally, whispered “Thank you” and gradually fainted into a deep sleep.

Next morning I already felt much better. We stayed in the house "killing time to make room for a future", using the Kaveret lyrics. For that night the regiment came up with a new useful task for our battalion: to take control over houses on the other side of the village. That is when I discovered I was in a bad shape, actually worse then I thought. We got into one of the houses, a huge well-maintained villa. In the dark I followed guys from the battalion commander headquarters and finally found myself in a children's room. By that time all I could think of was how to find a place to sit down and get some air. I lied down on one of kid's beds. It was quite in the house. I knew I was going to have to come back to the house we came from, which meant there was still a long way back ahead of me. Suddenly I heard a voice, could not even tell where it was coming from - Igor's voice: " Where is ACO? Where is artillery coordination officer?" That was completely out of the blue. How could he find me? He was not connected to our squad in any way. I have still no idea of how he had managed to find me in that big house, but I felt huge relief. "Over here" - I raised my head and saw his fit slim figure. That had already made me feel better. "I have got steroids for you" – he announced cheerfully as if giving a lollypop to a child. There were just two of us in a room and probably that is why I let myself be more easy-going this time. As he was reaching for his wonder-medicine we started a little chat. "You are a reservist, aren't you?" - he asked with enthusiasm. "Yes, I am. So what?" - I replied. "Me too. We are the only reservists in our battalion. Did you know that?" So we talked for a few minutes. It is a shame I do not remember much. It is a pity we did not talk a bit more.

Yet again the injection proved to do miracles to me. Almost straight away we had to come back, but this time I had enough oxygen and I hoped that the next day we would all get home safe. That did not happen.

We still waited for supplies we ran out of after 48 hours in the village. Almost 24 hours we spent without food, drinking tap water in seized houses - less than 3 kilometers from the Israeli border. My health situation was not getting better, but the battalion did not seem to have any intentions of leaving the village. On the fourth day's morning after a long internal struggle I had finally approached battalion commander and asked to be evacuated with supplies unit that was due to arrive that night and bring a new ACO to replace me. That day just after midday, peace in the village was disturbed. An anti-tank missile had been shot at one of the houses with our soldiers and only by miracle no one was hurt apart from some minor injuries.

At night a decision was taken for the battalion to go into the lion's mouth - a group of buildings in the Markhava’s centre, supposedly occupied by terrorists (a place we did not have an order to fire at because of the alleged "school" there). The goal, that even today still sounds bizarre, was to "move in, make a lot of noise and retreat back to the outskirts of the village". The assisting company was to work with the battalion commander headquarters squad. I joined a company that took control over other houses, where supplies were supposed to be delivered to together with my replacement.

Operation had begun and for a while it looked like everything was going without a hitch. I was in a basement bringing my substitute up to date with the situation. As it turned out there was no radio reception in the basement and the battalion radio unit could not get a signal. Suddenly a mobile phone call came through from another battalion and someone asked me: “Those guys, that went into trouble, are they yours?” “What trouble? What are you talking about? It is all quite down here” – I assured him. But then I started to feel uneasy, realizing I did not hear anything on the radio already for a few minutes. And then it struck me – no signal in a basement! I ran up to the ground floor, where several soldiers had gathered around the battalion radio. There were voices coming from the radio. It sounded like hell. It took awhile for me to understand what I was hearing. I could make out a commander’s voice demanding a chopper to evacuate wounded. A sense of helplessness was eating me away from the inside. How come, when something happens I am not there? What the hell am I doing in this bloody house?

For a long time I just listened trying to put together what had happened. I figured out there was a fight, gun shots at the background could be heard all the time. On the radio and outside on the street. Ioav was asked about the condition of wounded, and if he needed an extra doctor. And then I heard him saying a code phrase: “On duty oleander”. I felt absolutely horrified. The doctor is dead? Igor? No way! I prayed it was a mistake.

From that point on all my memories of that day are like scenes from a bad movie. I could not make up my mind whether to stay or go. Finally one of the officers took me to a tank that was going back to Israel. I was sitting there, holding a bunch of rifles collected as a trophy during our time in the village. Then I remember getting out of tank on Israeli side and a big number of troops there. A chopper could not pick up all wounded in one go, and two bodies had traveled with us. I recognized him from a distance, his slender body lying on a stretcher. A voice in my head cried: “Do not come any closer! You do not want to see this!” But I did, and stopped in front of him not able to believe my eyes. There was my guiding angel, doctor who had saved me, lying there dead. This picture stays with me every day.

Three years on I am finally able to put it on paper, things I had to go through in Markhava. No matter how difficult it is, I think people who knew Igor and were not with him in his last days, should know this other side of him I got to know. I will always remember him insisting on evacuating me, and doing all in his power to bring me steroids so I could breathe. All this time I could not help feeling bad about the way I treated him in the beginning, about being ungrateful, about the fact that I had left and he stayed and got killed. I would like him to know that I am grateful, and not a day passes by that I do not ask for forgiveness.

Thank you, Igor, for everything that you have done for me. You are my guarding angel.

Aviv