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BILLY'S DIARY: BOOT CAMP IN ISRAEL

by Billy Jacobs

I'm here with a group of men and women, mostly from Westchester, New York but including representation as well from NYC and COlorado, ranging in age from graduate school and ragbbinical students to near-grandparents; many of us have been to Israel several times in the recent past; others have not been here in a long time and two are first-timers. Only one (a woman) has had direct experience in the Israeli military, and only one (a man) has served in the U.S. military. Several of us spent a lot of energy staying out of the U.S. military during the Vietnam War and at least one escaped military service in the former Soviet Union. We're hardly anyone's idea of a "military" crowd. Our mission or goal is to spend time with the soldiers of the IDF and get to know them, become their friends, and learn more about how and why we can support them.

For the next several days, we will go through a modified "boot camp" program at an IDF base, Sayarim, in the Negev desert. We will do what the soldiers do; we will sleep where they sleep; rise at the crack of dawn as they do; eat with them; sweat with them (the temperature is just about a nice, round 100 degrees Fahrenheit here) and go through whatever training exercises they have to endure and master. I don't know much more than that, but I have been assured that the people who are in charge understand that most of us are not in the same kind of physical shape as the ordinary recruits (although one of our number is an incredibly strong and fit physical education teacher at the Westchester Solomon Schecther and at least one is training for the NYC marathon). Nevertheless, we have been warned that if we screw up, we should be ready to drop and give the drill sergeant 10 or 20 pushups. Well, we'll just see about that when the time comes...

We arrived at Ben Gurion airport near Tel Aviv early in the afternoon on Friday, Oct 22 after departing from JFK during the evening of Oct 21. Unexpectedly, we were treated to a surprise upon our arrival in Israel - we were given a private tour of the new terminal (Terminal 3) scheduled to be opened in 10 days. Terminal 3, at 2 million square feet, is a state-of-the-art facility that commenced its design phase in 1996 but has been updated substantially in the post 9/11 era (and prior to completion of major construction) to reflect the new security concerns and realities of today's world. It is in fact the latest in anti-terrorist technology, being opened by the nation in the world that has been most successful in thwarting airplane related terrorism.

After landing in Eilat's modest airport, we were hustled off to Herod's, probably the most luxurious of the hotels in Eilat. The views are remarkable, including the beautiful azure waters of the Gulf of Eilat, which touch the borders, within eye-sight, of Israel, Jordan, Egypt and Saudi Arabia.

We gathered early in the evening for a Shabbat dinner in a private dining room. The table was set for a feast. Since none of us had eaten much on the flight from NY to Ben Gurion, and all of us had eaten nothing since landing at Ben Gurion, it was a sight for sore eyes. In our tradition though, and rather than attacking the food with our ravenous appetites, we began by singing together, slowly and softly, Shalom Aleichem, as the sun finally set over the mountains west of Eilat. It was really the first Jewish activity in which we all engaged together, and it set a sweet mood. Uri Topolosky, a rabbinical student on our trip, led us in Kiddush (the blessing for the Sabbath), and I was given the honor of leading the motzi (the blessing before eating), which I did as quickly as possible within the bounds of decency.

But as hungry as we were, the best treat was not the food. As the second surprise of our trip, Jeff had arranged with the IDF to have six soldiers join us for dinner. We split them up around the table in three groups of two. They were all about 21 years old - (exactly the same age as my oldest son, Matt - a fact that stayed on my mind throughout our encounter). Four young men - Uzi, Amir, Shachar and Gilad - are gunboat soldiers stationed at the IDF naval base in Eilat. This is the base that engineered the capture of the Karine-A, a Palestinian cargo ship nabbed in the Red Sea in the act of attempting to smuggle tons of explosives and other terrorist weaponry into to Arafat's PLO not long ago (more on that later). Two young women - Chamutal and Liron - are border guards at the nearby border with Jordan. (This is an unusual position for women in the IDF - they are part of the vanguard of women who now take combat positions in the IDF - something that was actually illegal in Israel merely three years ago).

All six were shy - very shy - and had to be drawn into the conversation gently. Their shyness was a strong contrast to the fact that all six of them are "front line" soldiers who put their lives on the line every day. But their shyness was something we had to overcome - as politely as possible - in order to engage them in a conversation that would give us some insight into their lives - and that's what we had flown half way around the world to get.

Our conversations were not deep, wordy or extended. With the simplicity and elegance that is the special domain of youth, they shared their views in an understated way that conveyed volumes. We started with the gunboat soldiers and asked them what they thought of our mission. We wanted to know if they thought it was ridiculous of a bunch of middle-aged do-gooders to come to their world and take up their time. On the contrary, they said. It was very meaningful to them to know that their Jewish brothers and sisters cared about them enough to come. They touched our hearts.

We asked the gunboat soldiers to tell us a bit about their duties. They patrol the Gulf of Eilat in 36-hour shifts, aboard boats with crews of 4 to 8 soldiers. Israel is formally at peace with Jordan and Egypt (although the peace is sometimes tense) and Saudi Arabia is still in a declared state of war with Israel. We asked them if they ever have a chance to interact with their Jordanian conter-parts patrolling the same waters (which they, the Jordanians, refer to as the Gulf of Aqaba). Sure, they talk to them all the time. All of the gunboat soldiers on both sides want peace - there is no real animosity here between these soldiers. The Israeli gunboat soldiers are quick to remind us that their primary mission is to preserve human life and for that reason, the Egyptians initial refusal to accept help from the IDF after the treacherous bombing just days ago in Taba (an Egyptian resort literally just down the road from Eilat and also well within eye-sight) was extremely frustrating. I think all on our mission had the same thought: how many armies in the world take that point of view i.e., defining their core mission as the preservation of life?

We were very direct in questioning the women, asking them what they could tell us about being border patrol soldiers. Everyone in the room understood the question - their job is very dangerous, constantly facing them with the necessity to determine - in an instant - whether the person approaching them is a Palestinian mother who is just trying to get to her job, or is a suicide bomber intent on maiming and killing scores of Israeli civilians on a crowded street corner in Jerusalem. Their answer was as cogent as

it was simple: the border guards are trained to be warriors but they are just kids, they say, and when they don't know what to do, sometimes they do stupid things. (As they say this, we remind ourselves and the soldiers that sometimes they are heroes and sometimes they die when they make the wrong choice.) We also asked their about their personal feelings towards the Palestinians. Again, the answer was striking in its simplicity as well as its eloquence: One of the young women told us that she has been to Hebron as a soldier. She understands that the Palestinians who live there are angry at her. She also understands that they are angry because Hebron is "occupied." But, as much as she understands them, she cannot agree with them and, most importantly, she cannot bring herself to hate them. So the bottom line is they want to kill her but she doesn't hate them for it. Remarkable innocence, especially for a soldier in a war zone.

We silently marvel at her strength of character and begin to wonder what accounts for the fact that the most feared and successful army in this part of the world seems to be composed of shy and reluctant soldiers the same age as our kids in college?

The gunboat soldiers, on the spot, decided to call their commanding officer to ask permission to have us visit their base - their "house" as they put it - on Saturday. We eagerly awaited the answer, and were delighted that the commanding officer quickly extended an invitation to us, on the spot. The invitation was for the morning - and that of course would mean that we would not be able to sleep late - we all had been looking forward to that - but it was an invitation that was a once in a lifetime opportunity that could not be, and was not, refused.

The next morning (Saturday) we walked around the northwestern corner of the Bay of Eilat and met with the second in command at the naval base. He gave us a brief but direct overview of the naval military situation they face. It's simple:

The Gulf of Eilat is a relatively narrow bay that runs approximately 100 miles from its northern edge (which is Eilat on the western shore and Aqaba, Jordan on the eastern shore) south to the narrow Straits of Tiran that in turn lead to the Red Sea. A few kilometers south of Eilat on the western shore is the Egyptian resort of Taba (site of the recent bombing mentioned above) and the beginning of the Sinai (i.e., Egypt) and a few kilometers south along the eastern shore is the beginning of Saudi territory. The actual border lines are in the water. Access to the Red Sea is of critical importance to Israel (it is the gateway for shipping to the Far East) and was in fact one of the flash points for the beginning of the 1967 Six Day War when the Egyptians threatened to close the Straits of Tiran to Israeli ships.

Israel has peace agreements now with Jordan and Egypt that allow the Israeli naval vessels to move through the territorial waters of Egypt and Jordan as necessary to reach the Red Sea. The Israeli navy must maintain a presence that allows them to intercept terrorists seeking to swim ashore in Israel and assures the Israeli Navy the ability to stop, immediately, any attempt to block Israeli shipping lanes to the Red Sea without antagonizing the Jordanians or Egyptians. It's a delicate balance that is typical of the incredibly complex realpolitik of the Middle East.

Our tour of the IDF Naval base included an astounding view of dozens of the cargo canisters seized by the IDF from aboard the Karine-A after it was boarded in January 2002 by Israeli SEALs. At the time, as you may recall, the PLO and Arafat denied any involvement with the Karine-A and the explosives and weapons it carried from Iran. The denials were immediately refuted by Israel. For much of the world, including to some extent the United States, the clear fact that Arafat was behind the entire smuggling scheme (despite his protestations that he did not support terrorism) was the "last straw" for Arafat. At the time, I thought that was the end of the story - a bunch of rag tag terrorists had been caught trying to smuggle a few bombs and rifles into the PLO.

But as we saw with our own eyes at the IDF Naval base, it's not so simple. In fact, the canisters we saw were clear evidence of a far more sophisticated and sinister plan.

The containers were approximately ten feet long and had a diameter of roughly two feet. Each canister also had two smaller canisters attached to its side. There were at least dozens of the larger canisters (I wish I could show you a picture, but that wasn't allowed and you will just have to take my word for this). The canisters are a sophisticated bit of underwater technology designed to deal with Arafat's biggest problem in smuggling large amounts of weapons into Gaza from the Mediterranean Sea - how could he off-load terrorism weapons from a cargo ship into Gaza without being detected (and intercepted) by the Israeli Navy?

The Israeli naval officer explained that the plan was to have the Karine-A head up into the Suez Canal (which connects the Red Sea to the Mediterranean) and then head over to the relatively shallow underwater "shelf" of shallow water that extends for several miles off the coast of Gaza. Under cover of darkness, the canisters would be dumped over board and sink to the shallow bottom. Later, PLO divers from Gaza would dive down to the canisters (again under cover of darkness) and open the valves on the side canisters that would release compressed air into the main canister, floating them instantaneously to the surface where they could be retrieved by all manner of modest sized (and therefore difficult to monitor) Palestinian vessels. The weapons would then be brought to Gaza.

This is something out of a James Bond movie (the one in which Bond's arch-nemesis captures a nuclear bomber and hides it in "plain sight" under the ocean). More importantly, these canisters were not part of some rag-tag, half-baked, lame and minor smuggling operation (as I, perhaps you, and much of the rest of the world, believed). It was instead the application of sophisticated and clever technology to import tons and tons of high-end explosives and other weapons into Gaza to turn it into a terrorist shopping mall and outfitting base. Perhaps this sounds a bit fantastic to you, and frankly I don't know if I would have believed it if I hadn't seen dozens of these canisters with my own eyes. But I did see them and touch them (as did a dozen others on our trip) and it was a bone-chilling sight; each of those canisters had no purpose other than to import high tech weaponry to be used to kill civilian Jews on buses and in pizza parlors and in discothecques in Israel.

The day continued on a positive and fun note. Some of us plotzed on the beach and read and swam in the cool waters of the Gulf. Saturday afternoon, most of the group went on a previously scheduled jeep-ride in the mountains near Eilat. Once again, there were surprises - including rapelling down cliffs near Wadi Shlomo and camel riding (something that apparently the women in the group are physiologically better suited for than the men). The entire group ended the day on a high note with an Israeli barbecue high in the Eilat hills under the stars while wondering (with at least a bit of trepidation) about the four days ahead in boot camp.

General Gozal is a quiet man who smiles easily. A decorated paratrooper in the Israeli Defense Forces, there is no doubt that he has seen a great deal of action in his day and led many into battle. Several months ago, he retired from active duty and took over responsibility for the Friends of the Israel Defense Forces ("FIDF") in the United States. He is our contact with the IDF, and he is at our hotel, ready to go at 8 a.m. on Sunday. In a scene reminiscent of a 1950s movie about new recruits into the U.S. army, we straggle downstairs, most of us 15 or 20 minutes late (which, considering this is Israel, we all consider to be a decent approximation of on time), bleary-eyed and desperate for coffee. But we are all packed and ready to go, there are no last minute emergencies, no one has slept through their alarms, and we are shortly on our way.

We head up in to the hills and mountains of Eilat, climbing in a north-westerly direction. After about a half-hour drive through completely unpopulated desert and mountains, the bus stops at the top of a hill. We pile out behind General Gozal. Behind us is a spectacular view of the north end of the Gulf of Eilat, glistening and sparkling when it is hit by the sun peeking through clouds and a bit of haze in the shadows of the Jordanian hills; in front of us is barbed wire fence and a sheer drop off to a narrow ravine or waddi below.

To our left is an Egyptian guard tower - which looks like an awfully lonely place and I wonder just how much the poor fellow in there must have ticked off someone to pull this ubelieveably monotonous duty in the middle of no-where. Next to the barbed wire is a marker about 25 feet high, bearing the number 82.

Gozal explains that it is a border marker, and we are at the southwestern border of Israel. He gives us a bit of the history of the area from a military perspective and its current strategic importance.

This has begun to set the mood. We are now looking at things from a military perspective. We hop back on the bus and within another half hour are approaching Sayarim, an IDF training base in the Negev. Many of us had been trying to send last minute emails to home in the past few minutes but had lost service. As soon as we approach the base, the signal strength indicator on my Blackberry goes to 5 bars - a better signal than I ahve ever had anywhere in the U.S.

Coming off the bus, we retrieve our luggage from under the bus and start to take in our surroundings. The first thing we notice is that the heat is not nearly as bad as we expected. Gozal tells us that we are 2400 feet above sea-level. Quick calculations indicate that the temperature is therefore likely to be 7 or 8 degrees cooler than what weather.com had predicted. That's a relief, but it is still relatively hot and unbelievably dry, and we all vow to drink a lot of water.

The jokes start. One fellow asks for a bellhop for his bags. Another wonders if the canteen delivers room service and we can charge it to our bills.

The youthful sergeant Elan who greets us, a fresh-faced young man with a strong accent of South Africa, tells us that we probably can't afford the prices. We follow him along a paved path past non-descript, small buildings to a larger non-descript building with a small plaza or parade ground in front of it.

We see no buildings taller than one storey. We learn some good news in short order. First, our living quarters are better than expected - they are air-conditioned rooms set in rows of one-storey buildings just around the corner. Each room is air conditioned (thank god) and is set up for four occupants on two sets of bunk beds. The second piece of good news is that only two people are assigned to each room, so no one has to sleep on top. We also learn that the latrine has plumbing and, in fact, hot water. That's very good news.

On a personal note, I am delighted to see that the IDF actually does have boots in my size (men's 15). Truly amazing. The pants to my uniform, however, have a waist the is about four inches too big and pant legs that are an equal length too short (I need a 38" inseam).

No big deal. Some young sergeants come by to see if we need any help and ask us to assemble in front of the meeting room.

The first phenomenon I notice about army life is the impact of the uniform. It is subtle, but pervasive. It makes us feel bonded together. It is more than just the feeling of being on a team that takes its uniform off after games. This is what everyone on the base wears all the time. So you feel something in common with everyone you see. It is not a logical phenomenon - it is a feeling. It also very much de-emphasizes personal differences, such as size, height (well, at least a little bit), hair color, age, etc.

A bit of chaos emerges shortly as two events occur. First, we are told to line up in a formation of three rows of as nearly equal columns as possible. Mass confusion as this collection of senior executives, hedge fund managers, bankers, lawyers, teachers and doctors are absolutely incapable of performing this simple task within any recognizable time frame. It is silly. At one point, we decide to give ourselves numbers to facilitate a count-off, then can't decide whether they should be Hebrew or English (ultimately deciding in a burst of inclusionary thinking that it should be an individual choice leading to a count-off that is bilingual - a first, no doubt, in the annals of military history) and then have a hard time deciding how many of us actually have already arrived (which is an essential pre-requisite to deciding how we will line-up). It is funny and pathetic at the same time.

The sergeant has patiently explained to us the way the formation is to be made to take account of missing people (i.e., where the space should be in the formation for those missing - in other words, if one person is missing, the space is supposed to be in the same place no matter who it is). Frankly, it's not my peoblem and I didn't pay much attention.

Then it became my problem. I was asked to step out of the formation and position myself in front and to the side of the rest of the formation and then assume responsibility for the formation. In other words, without even having had volunteered, I had been appointed the platoon leader. Oy. Who needs this? Of course, it meant that I had to figure out this formation spacing stuff (I never really did) and, worse yet, assume responsibility for the conduct of others.

As dense as I am, it took me several hours to understand that this was part of our experience - in other words, the experience of understanding what it was like to be an Israeli non-commissioned officer.

It was an interesting experience. How do you lead people who are neither your friends, your employees nor your children? This was different than anything I had experienced at work, etc. The framework was simple: the sergeant would tell me what had to be done and it was then my responsibility to see that it happened. There wasn't time for logical discussion or friendly persuasion. Compliance is required instantaneously and without exception or argument. An example, the prime example, was getting people to the formation line-up on time. Failure to be at formation on time was usually met with the sanction of "give me 20" (pushups). At first, I tried to let the sergeant be the bad guy - he was the one who was demanding the pushups. That didn't work; as more pushups were handed out, morale declined, and the number of latenesses didn't decline. I tried methods appropriate to the work place - I would ask people to please be quiet (observing the sergeant's order to silence) while marching in formation to a meal. That was what I did at work, even with people who were clearly reporting to me. It is, after all, polite. But that didn't work well either. And every time I did say please, the sergeant looked at me as though I was beyond all help.

Then, an interesting thing happened. At the end of one formation, the sergeant said we had to be back in 20 minutes at 3 PM sharp. The sergeant then gave me a clue - he asked me what time it was on my watch. It was exactly 2:37 PM. I told him that. He told me that it was in fact 2:40 PM. I was about to argue - I knew for a fact that my watch was correct (remember, we had terrific signals for my Blackberry - there was no question as to the actual time) and then it also occurred to me that fun was fun but I really didn't need a kid the age of my son to go so far as tell me what time it was. It was clear to me that at least one fellow who had been charged for lateness and had to pay the price of pushups had, in fact, been on time for the 2:30 formation, but had been considered late by the sergeant whose watch was fast by 3 minutes.

Then, I realized - "duh" - I was in the army. I'm not supposed to argue with a sergeant. It didn't matter that his watch was clearly wrong and mine was clearly right. He was the superior and I was supposed to do what I was told without thinking about it. So, I didn't argue despite the fact that all of my decades of professional training andexperience had taught me the importance of being right.. I pretended that his watch was right. I deliberately re-set my watch to be 3 minutes fast. From then on, I was able to make sure that everyone was on time for formation. No more pushups. And, from then on, the people in the platoon realized that if they followed directions, everything went smoothly. That was all it took. Everyone followed orders.

Lunch on the first day was in the officer's mess. We sat in groups of six at tables over lunch with some officers. It was awkward. We of course didn't know them at all. We didn't want to discuss politics - the obvious topic of discussion when meeting Israelis for the first time - so we made small talk about families, etc. and enjoyed a simple but decent lunch of Israeli salads. After lunch, we assembled in the "base internet café" - a small building with only three rooms, one of which was outfitted with two computers connected to the net and a couple of extra cat-5 connections around a conference table large enough for all of us with nice office style swivel chairs. The first speaker was the bas- the camp commander who gave us an overview of who is taught what at Sayarim. Basically, Sayarim provides a two-month boot camp for new soldiers of all kinds. The larger mission of Sayarim is to train soldiers to be proficient tank warriors. Israel itself produces what is arguably the best and most technically advanced tank in the world: the Merkava Mark IV. It is fast, is powerful, it has all of the latest gadgets, it has a range of some 400 kilometers and can effectively engage in combat at a distance of 3 kilometers from the enemy. Tank warfare has often been decisive in the wars fought by Israel, and this is an important part of its advantage over its Arab enemies.

It is hard to over emphasize the importance of this technological advantage. There are six million citizens of Israel. There are over 220 million Arabs surrounding Israel in about 22 countries, several of whom have vast oil wealth and most of whom are in a declared (though temporarily dormant) state of war with Israel. The only reason Israel has not been wiped out in the wars is because of its technological advantage. As you can imagine, they are very proud of both their tanks and their even more important "proprietary" weapon - their tank soldiers and commanders.

Sarayim trains tank soldiers for the first three quarters of their training. The rest of their training occurs at another base, not far away. It takes about 18 months to train a tank commander. That compares with 4 or 5 years in other countries. The quality of their training is critical and they are equally as proud of their tank soldiers and commanders as they are of the Merkava M4. By the way, we saw a film of the Merkava M4 in operation, and we saw them parked on the base, but were never allowed to approach them.

Next, first aid training. What to do in case a fellow soldier is bleeding, not breathing or unconscious, taught by a medic. Sayarim, as it happens, is also a center for training a lot of medics. Many medics are yeshiva students who really don't want to fight but do want to find a way to make a meaningful contribution to the defense of Israel. We learn about triage assessment, how and when to move a wounded soldier, pressure bandages, tourniquettes, etc. and mouth to mouth resucitaion. Important points emphasized: no soldier is left behind, not even the dead. The first obligation of a soldier is to preserve life.

When it's my turn to give mouth to mouth to "Annie" (the practice dummies are all named Annie), I did a good job of immobilizing her neck and clearing fluids from her mouth, but nearly blew her boobs off her chest when I blew way too hard into her mouth. Oh well - that was day 28 of my new life as a non-smoker and I chalked it up to enthusiasm over newly-clean lungs.

Dinner in one of the rooms adjoining the internet caf&3acute;. Just our group. Food was fine and unremarkable. There was plenty to eat and I am sticking mostly to salads and tons of water.

After dinner, one of the young sergeants, a Paul Newman-ishly handsome young man originally from South Africa, instructs us on the virtues of the M-16 rifle. It is on its way to becoming the standard issue rifle for combat troops in the IDF, replacing the much heavier Galil, an Israeli made Kalishnikov knock-off. We learn how to load, put safety on and off, clear the chamber, load and remove magazines and learn the concepts of aiming.

Next we march off to another part of the base for training in what the soldiers call "MGs" (machine guns). Getting there requires another formation - that means I lead the platoon to an orderly transition and march. Everything is fine. No complaints, no one has to do push ups. I'm getting comfortable with passing along orders without saying please and my mates are fine with it so far as I can tell.

We arrive shortly at the MG training room. MG training is taught by Yael, a young Israeli woman who has spent a summer in California and has a charming and entertaining way of teaching and has our attention absolutely riveted on her as she stands at the front of the classroom nimbly demonstrating the loading, cleaning, cocking and firing of the machine gun mounted on a tripod at the front of the room. These are heavy machines with action slides that can easily sever a finger. Yael tosses it around on the tripod expertly and quickly, as though she was tossing chopsticks around. We are very impressed. It's a bit hard to learn the procedure, but she is patient and so sweet and vivacious in her manner that we all stick with her and learn. She also explains how one goes about aiming an MG. You don't really use the sights very much. You generally aim the MG by looking over the sights and pointing to a position in front of the target. Then you start firing and start raisin the barrel of the MG. You can see where an MG shell hits. So you are watching where the bullets are hitting and you continue to raise the barrel until you are at the right / distance for the line of targets (presumably enemy infantry) and then continuing to fire, you move the MG from left to right and back again to mow them all down. If you think about it, the pattern of bullets you have fired makes a shape of the letter "T" and the aiming system is called the T-system.

At the back of the classroom there are two dozen MG's on racks with barrels that have been blocked but actions (i.e., firing pins and slides that cock the weapon) that still work. It's our turn to try it. Yael has shown us the routine, but now we have to translate her instructions into actions: cock the action - pull it back hard and fast until it clicks into place; push the slide forward; press the trigger; flip up the top; use four fingers to clean the ammo holder: flip up the ammo holder; one finger in the back of the chamber to see it is clear; also one finger in the front and four fingers in the middle; flip down the ammo holder; insert the ammo chain, female side first; flip down the top; slam the top; cock the weapon with the right hand holding the back of the weapon with the thumb; slide the pin forward; release the safety; fire - and then she imitates the noise that the MG will make: "maka maka maka maka maka maka..."

Think it's easy to remember? Take it from me, it's not. But we all try. It's a bit scary. There are no bullets of course in the guns and if there were it wouldn't matter because the barrel is filled. But the action can easily slice off a finger or a part of a finger. So you have to be careful. The most careful thing to do would be to do it slowly, but that really is not an option or the point of the exercise. Soon enough, we are having contests amongst ourselves. We think we are not doing badly, so we ask Yael to show us. She is encourageing and tells us we are doing well. But then someone asks her to race the best of us. She blows our champion away, completing the procedure in under 4.5 seconds. We are impressed.

That's it for the night. We have to make a formation outside of the classroom to make sure everyone is accounted for and form two lines for the march back to barracks in silence. I'm thankful that there really can't be a screw up in the formation - we are in a closed space so I know where everyone is. We count off - half of us in Hebrew and half of us in English. Since no one is missing, I don't have to worry about how the formation is structured to reflect the missing person. No one will have to do push ups. We make it back to the barracks in silence and are told that we have to be in formation in gym clothes by 6:15 for physical training, followed by breakfast.

Great, except how are we supposed to wake up in time? My watch won't wake me up, and I will be up late working on emails. I ask for a volunteer, and then a backup and then another backup, all to wake us all at 5:45 a.m. All of my volunteers are confident that they will wake up. Okay - platoon is dismissed and it's time for me to get to work on the internet connection for my laptop.

That turns out to be a bit of a chore: although I can get an internet connection working fine and can receive email, I cannot send email on any of my accounts. After several hours of fiddling and imploring to the gods of the internet, I throw in the towel and hit the sack at 3 a.m. thank goodness, my barracks mate, Dan Moscowitz, has taken pity on me and moved my gear off the bed and made the bed so I can just roll in and sleep immediately. One day in the IDF over, and tomorrow is another day. Our schedule says we are going to send much of the day shooting M-16s and MGs. I fall asleep thinking of Yael, who doesn't look a day over 16, yelling "maka maka maka maka maka maka..." and hope that I won't screw up the machine gun and slice off my finger.

Our wake up system works too well. One of our over-eager recruits wakes us all up at 0524. Notice that since I didn't go to sleep till 0300. because of my tussles with the gods of the internet, I am counting the minutes. I'm not the only one annoyed at the prospect of waking up a full 21 minutes early, and many of us go back to sleep until 0545. We have at least found our first "goat" - George, the early wake up man - who is teased mercilessly but cheerfully by all as to his time telling abilities for at least half the day.

At 0615 the platoon is in formation, dressed in gym attire and counting off in our unique multi-lingual mode. We are told to re assemble in two columns and go running off in pursuit of the sergeant. We run about 10 minutes on the various paved paths and roads in the base until we reach rope climbing equipment. Real recruits are already there, and we and they are instructed in how to climb a rope using both our hands and feet. I did this when I was in junior high school. Stepping confidently up to the rope, I quickly learn that muscle memory isn't enough and give up on the rope climb, moving on to doing pushups on stones and rocks. It hurts the hands, but it's not too bad.

Then another quick run for about five minutes to an open air basketball court. On this run, muscle age is starting to result in differentiation. Some of us slow to a walk, while others trot ahead. Surprising myself (because I have never been a runner), I am among those who run all the way (big mistake - hubris gone wild - as I will learn later). Through a translator, the physical training instructor explains that we are going to do a multi phase exercise of running back and forth on the court, stopping for 20 pushups, 15 crunches and 20 deep squats. The running exercise is similar to one that all Scarsdale recreation department teams require of their kids, called "suicides." They are intended to build up stamina. We all complete this phase with some huffing and puffing, but no real problems, and then another quick jog back to the barracks where we are released for showers and breakfast.

Getting ready for the shower, I am feeling pretty good about the physical training. Two months before, I had started a new physical training regimen of my own as part of a stop-smoking plan (which has worked so far for 33 days after 35 years of addiction). I've been working out for three hours each day and I find that I am not tired at all, and not even really breathing hard. Some of the other fellows are in training for the marathon. Everyone seems to have done fine, and I silently pat myself on the back for having finally made it into the ranks of physically fit non-smokers.

After the shower, I learn just how cruelly deceptive my body has been. After tying my boot's shoelaces, I stand up quickly and feel a lightning bolt of pain in the small of my back. The curses that instantaneously pour out of my mouth are beyond repetition. I am so pissed at myself. Never having had lower back pain before in my life and fearing that I have now mortally wounded my sacro-cracker-jack or some other hard to pronounce part of my spine that will no doubt require surgery and a lifetime of pain management, I ask my roommate Dan (an ear, nose and threat specialist and a marathon runner to boot) for his opinion. He sees the fear in my pleading eyes and suggests that I only have a spasm in my back resulting from a pulled something. I venture a guess that it was doing crunches on asphalt that did me in, although that is hard to understand since I do 400 or more crunches every day. More likely it was the running on asphalt that did me in, says Dan. When his eyes meet mine, we both know, without saying it, that my ailment is really "old man's disease." Dan offers me Advil, and I gladly accept them. On the way to formation, I am cursing my fate. The neurologist in the barracks across the alley concurs in the diagnosis, which is a further relief - perhaps I won't be a cripple after all. Everyone is sympathetic, and everyone, it seems, has brought along a virtual cornucopia of pain relievers, anti-inflammatories and other feel-good medicines, all of which are offered to me generously. By the time I have actually walked past all of the barracks, I have been offered enough medication to sedate a football team - everyone has brought their favorites, and the first part of breakfast is a discussion of the merits of each of the pharmacological alternatives as well as several different yoga classes that I ought to consider. The conversation begins to resemble eerily what I imagine as early morning coffee conversation at Alter Cocker Arms old age home in Miami...

By the time I have brushed my teeth, the pain has subsided. We are told to assemble in formation in 10 minutes with our combat vests (a combination of a vest and a back pack), helmets, two water canteens filled with water and ear muffs (to protect our ears against noise on the firing range). Of course, the helmet doesn't fit and I have to find a replacement. Then I struggle with the various straps and clasps of the vest and eventually begin to feel the sense of frustration that usually was reserved for the moment just before I dissolved into a puddle of tears at age 7 when I couldn't get my Erector set to work. A kindly sergeant takes pity on me and offers to help. It actually takes him 10 minutes of tugging, pulling and looping and unlooping to get the combat vest in usable condition for me. It is way too small - fitting me more like a bra than an equipment pack, but I get it closed and carry on without complaining.

Many of us have had trouble getting our equipment organized, but all of us have been very helpful to each other. Team work has become the order of the day. And there is absolutely no whining. In fact, during the entire boot camp experience, team work was always the norm and no one ever whined.

Then we line up to receive our M-16s, and are taught the proper way to salute before and after receiving our weapons. Off we march, approx a half mile, to a more remote location on the base to firing area. I have handed off the baton to another who has become the new platoon leader, and marches are no longer stress events for me. Half of us are issued live ammo and taken to the firing range, and the rest of us are given instruction in the "instinctive" firing position. Imagine you are patrolling the streets of a city looking for terrorists and suddenly you see one 10 or 20 yards away - what do you do? Now I know. You quickly assume a position of toes pointed slightly out with knees bent and rifle up in firing position. We practice the quick transition from the position we would be in when walking on patrol. This is not hard, and it is kind of fun. Then we practice the prone firing position. This is painful because we are lying down on the unpaved ground that is completely covered with jagged, sharp rocks. But whining about hurting our hands and knees and bellies isn't politically correct, so we just do it. After a while this is not so hard either.

Let's talk about guns for a moment. When Jeff had first broached the boot camp topic, he had mentioned we would get instruction in firing actual IDF weapons. This concerned me - I was worried that this trip would attract a bunch of gun nuts. I didn't want to get involved with a bunch of gun nuts, for two reasons. First, gun nuts are just that - nuts. Second, and of greater importance, I didn't want the IDF soldiers to think that we were simply a group of over-the-hill-yiddische-Rambo-wannabes who came to the base to play with guns.

As it turned out, though, my fears and concerns were misplaced. There was not a gun nut among us. Everyone took it seriously. As a matter of fact, my youthful small game hunting experience with a .22 caliber rifle probably made me the most gun-experienced of the lot.

When it was my team's turn to come to the firing line, I was faced with a dilemma. From the age of 9, I had shot right-handed in my Catskill mountains small game hunting days. But now my eyesight in my right eye had deteriorated to the point of being uncorrectable for all practical purposes. I asked the shooting instructor if it was possible to try shooting righty but sighting with my left eye. Nope. So I had to shoot lefty.

Fortunately, we started from the prone position with a bean bag. In that position, you can stabilize your body very easily, and the difference between shooting righty and lefty was minimal. As I sighted in the targets at 25 meters, I found that at least some of my muscles were not hell bent on torturing me this day, and it all came back to me. I finished the shooting with a very tight group of five - in fact four of the shots were actually contiguous. That's about as good as it gets. Emboldened, I asked the sergeant if we would be able to shoot at targets at 100 meters. He said we would and pointed out the torso size targets already set up at 100 meters. I told him I wanted to try to shoot a smaller target at that range - something more along the lines of Coca Cola can. He told me if I could find a Coke can he would think about it. Of course, out in the middle of the desert firing range, there were no Coke cans to be found.

As the firing exercises progressed, our two teams alternated using the firing range. The team that was resting gathered in a concrete bunker across the road. It was hot and we had on full packs, so we availed ourselves of the shade in the bunker. Another sergeant came along and gave us instruction on what to do in case of a grenade attack. He explained that a grenade would likely explode approx 4 seconds after hitting the ground, and would propel the shrapnel at various angles of 17 degrees or more from the ground. So, he said, if a grenade is thrown into our midst, someone is to shout a warning and everyone is supposed to run like hell for 3 seconds and then dive forward, away from the direction of the grenade, landing with our feet behind us (i.e., facing the grenade) and our hands covering our heads.

Handy information to have, isn't it? Of course, a couple of minutes later, the sergeant tosses a rock into our midst, shouts the warning and stands back to watch the fun as we scramble. One of our number, Uri, a sweet-faced rabbinical student with his tzit tzit peeking out from under his combat vest takes off like a rocket and is about to dive for the ground when the jeep bearing lunch pulls in. Uri and the flying tzit tzit stop just in time to avoid being run over and a near tragedy is narrowly averted. Uri takes it in stride, but the woman driving the jeep seems to have lost 10 years off of her life...

My Coke can search comes up dry, but I found an empty 10 oz water bottle and shamelessly nag the sergeant for a chance to set it up 100 meters away. Gozal (General Gozal has insisted that we all call him just "Gozal") hears my pleading and suggests that we have a contest including myself, himself and the shooting instructor. This is a little more than I bargained for - Gozal has used a standard Wall St technique on me - upping the ante on me (see the story about Gutfreund and Meriweather in Liar's Poker - if you don't know the story, ask anyone on the Street who is more than 35 years old). I accept the proposition but try to improve the odds by asking for the first shots. They agree that I can have the first five shots - after all, I am an amateur and they are the pros. One of my buddies, Evan, is betting on me, but everyone else is betting on the General. Settling in on the bean bag, I take my first shot. It is short. My second shot is a bit high. Third shot is off to the right and high. Fourth shot a little more so. I focus on my breathing - breathing while you are aiming throws off your aim, and just a fraction of a millimeter of difference in the rifle's position is a foot at the target at a distance of 100 meters. I breathe deeply three times, exhale and squeeze the trigger slowly. To my amazement, the target veers over and falls on its left side! Holy cow - I won!! This is a personal best for me, and I'm thrilled to bits.

The shooting instructor goes next. This, of course, is just for fun because the contest is over. He takes one shot and misses. Then Gozal assumes the prone position, aims and fires. The bottle jumps up in the air. We are all very impressed by the retired General who is still clearly the best marksman on the range. And we are all also certain that the shooting instructor knows the importance of not showing up a general, even a retired general.

We have several more rounds of shooting at various ranges. Everyone does well - much better than the shooting instructor expects. One of our number actually hits 20 out of 20 shots on the torso targets at 100 meters - that makes him the best marksman in the platoon, and he earns a sharpshooter's medal.

Next are machine guns. This is very different than shooting M16's. Machine guns are very, very heavy, kick like a mule and spew out dozens of hot, empty cartridges per minute that can easily burn you. While we are there, Netta, one of the shooting instructors actually sustains a chest burn while demonstrating the technique for us. The lithe 21-year old blonde shrugs it off, but it must have been quite painful.

The shooting instructors guide us carefully through the mechanics of the T system we learned about the night before, and each of us has a turn with a 50-cartridge ammo belt. Holding on to and aiming the MG while firing in automatic mode requires all the hand strength we have - and our bodies are shaking. This is scary but fun.

Then one of the women, Sharon, comes to the firing line for her turn. She assumes the prone position and properly loads and cocks the weapon. But she only fires two or three shots at a time. This doesn't work. The essence of the T system is a continual stream of bullets that guide the shooter to adjust aim as needed. The shooting instructor urges Sharon to pretend that she is angry at her husband and is aiming at him. Sharon, who actually has the most calm, sweet and centered personality of all of us, points out that she is not angry at her husband. The instructor says that she should think of someone else that she is angry at. Sharon says she just isn't angry at anyone. Knowing her, this is undoubtedly the truth. For once, we see the sergeant throw up his hands and back down, knowing that his testosterone-based logic just won't work with Sharon.

We've been out on the firing range for nearly 8 hours by the time we finish. We head back to the barracks and wash up for dinner. The current platoon leader has picked up on the set-your-watch-to-the-sergeant's-watch maneuver, and formation comes off without incident. We march over to have dinner with some actual recruits.

Two others in our group and I are seated with about 6 recruits. They just don't know what to make of us, and the onus is on us to break the ice. So we do, and start to make small talk, asking them about their families, where they live, future career plans, etc. They are all about 21 years old or even less. The ones sitting with me are mostly yeshiva students who want to be trained to be medics. None intend to be career army soldiers. We get the sense, again, that these recruits might think that we are just a bunch of yahoos trying to have fun playing Jewish GI Joe while on holiday in Israel. So we make it clear to them that our travel plans have us coming to Israel just to see them and others in the IDF and nothing else. They seem to accept that. We have little time left - dinner is a brief affair - so it is time to be direct.

I tell them that I came here to be with them for two reasons. First, I want them to know that there are many in the United States who understand that they are heroes in the war against terrorism and have enormous respect for them and their courage.

Second, I want to know what message they want us to bring back to the States for them.

There is no immediate answer. Clearly, I have put them on the spot. I'm sorry for that, but we just don't have more time - dinner is about to end.

Finally, one of them says he has a message for us in two parts. He says that the first part of the message is that, fortunately, they have learned to deal with terrorism in their daily lives. I tell him that I understand what he is saying and that is why we think they are so brave.

He says he wants to make sure we know what he means. He explains that when a terrorist bombing occurs, they all now know what to do - they all have lists of people they call on their cell phones to make sure no one they love has been hurt and to assure their own friends and relatives that they themselves have not been injured. And then they go on with their daily routines as though nothing has happened. Nachon, I say (Hebrew for "understood" or "correct").

Then he says that the second part of the message is very sad - and that is that they have become people who have learned to live with terrorism in their daily lives.

He looks me in the eye and asks me if I understand what he means. It takes a few seconds for us to understand what he is saying, but eventually we catch on. Here is this young man, exactly the same age as my own son, telling me that he lives with terrorism every minute of every day of his life and, in order to survive this constant stress, he has learned to become numb to it. This is the real tragedy - that they have become people who, in order to survive, have had to learn to deal with tragedy by ignoring it. Tears well up in my eyes instantaneously. I try to speak, but my voice cracks as I try to understand what it means for an entire generation of youth to have to learn to make themselves insensitive enough to profound sadness and horror to be able to continue as though nothing has happened. I learned in college social psychology classes that this was how Holocaust survivors survived - by learning to be numb to the worst life has to offer. What do you say to this?

It takes a couple of minutes for me to regain my composure enough to tell them that although I thought I understood before, I really didn't and now that I do understand what I didn't understand before, I will carry his message back to America.

So now I've given the message to you, the reader, and it is yours to pass on to others.

I don't want to be melodramatic, but to tell you the truth, this encounter really knocked the stuffing out of me. That was it for the night as far as I was concerned - I just wanted to go back to my barracks and lie down. To hell with emails and uploading digital pictures to send home - I wanted to just absorb the meaning and pain of this encounter. But that is not the way the IDF or any other army works. In an ironic twist, I had to keep moving and doing, despite the sadness of this young but wise-beyond-his-years yeshiva student's message.

We march back to the barracks in silence and are given 10 minutes to put on our helmets, combat vests, and canteens and assemble for night patrol at 1930. After assembling, we are each issued M-16s (without ammo) and told to form up in two lines.

Our instructors review the essential skills of night patrol. First and foremost, be quiet. Sound carries much farther than you would think in the desert night. Second, when told to stop by our commander, we are each to immediately assume a kneeling position, pointing our rifles to the flank, with the right column aiming at the right flank and the left column aiming at the left flank. And then we are to count off, but this time we are each to add to the count the statement "weapon ready" (assuming that our weapons are ready and aimed at the flank).

We head off on our march under a full moon. The moonlit night desert seems like a moon-scape, with the very light sand and rocks reflecting enough light to allow us to walk confidently without any additional light. That's the good news. It occurs to us that the bad news is that a real enemy could also see our column easily in the moonlight. We are tired and the march takes us up and down hills. Every few minutes, we have to quickly stop, assume the ready-weapon position and hold it long past the time when our thighs are on fire. But no whining comes out of us and we stick with it. After a while, the instructors explain that in a real situation, the main body of the platoon would be still while an advance guard checks the terrain ahead with night vision goggles. When the way has been carefully checked for bad guys with none having been found, a green flare is sent up and the platoon will then advance. We start following this method, and the instructors give each of us a chance to look through the night goggles. It is very, very cool to look through them - the mono-chromatic, green landscape looks like a snowy meadow - and you can make out people and objects nearly as clearly as in daylight.

The march goes on for about 5 kilometers. As we finally approach the back entrance to the base, I am asked to fall out, move up and lead the platoon into the base while singing a marching song. I only know one slightly misogynist marching song and I can't carry a tune with a bucket, but an order is an order, so we go marching into the base singing a ridiculous ditty that I probably learned when I was nine years old. Coming into the base, we walk past a dozen or so Merkava tanks that are being maintained by their crews. We wave and they wave, but we don't stop. Finally, we come into an open space and we see fires being lit. The instructors have put together a little ceremony for us - complete with a burning sign that says "Boot Camp" -- and we are to be awarded our tank brigade berets. We have earned our berets by completing the shooting training and the night march. For real recruits, this is an important milestone - the uniform of an IDF soldier is not truly complete without a beret in the epaulet.

The ceremony is a bit corny, but more than we might have expected, we actually each enjoy being called up in front of the platoon and given our berets with badges and then exchanging salutes with the instructors. It's a group pride thing. We are feeling more and more like a team, and the fact that it is all a little boy-scoutish doesn't detract a bit from the bond that is forming among us and between our group and the rest of the brigade. Whether they take us seriously or not, we are earning at least a modicum of respect simply for hanging in there without whining.

To celebrate, we have apples, rock-hard pears and fruit juice - a veritable feast after a 5k march in the desert - and plot strategies to make sure George stays in bed until 0545. Afterwards, we are dismissed and told to be ready in the morning for tank instruction.

The Merkava Mark II tanks are lined up in the morning sun like sleeping dragons.

Up close, they look dusty and very, very dangerous. Our instructor, the pixie-like Netta, lifts herself up to the top of the front of the tank - easily four feet off the ground - in one graceful and fluid motion. She prances around the top of the tank, moving casually about the many nooks and crannies without ever losing her balance, as she explains the virtues of the Merkava.

One important virtue is the placement of the engine in the front of the tank. That makes it more likely that a direct hit on the front of the tank will destroy the engine. It also makes it more likely that much of the force of a direct, frontal hit will be absorbed by the engine instead of the crew, resulting in a dead tank but a live crew. That's better than the other way around according to the IDF. But not, apparently, to the rest of the armies in the world, all of whose tanks have their engines in the rear.

Netta explains more of the features of the tank. Her long blonde pony-tail swings back and forth as she demonstrates the various other features and virtues of the tank, including the scopes, machine guns and main turret, using gestures and grace of movement you might expect from a model demonstrating the features of the latest hot sports car at a car show at the Javits Center. But she is describing one of the most deadly killing machines on the face of the earth, and the irony of the contrast of her easy style and the mechanics of the Merkava is palpable.

We are allowed to climb on the tank ourselves and look around. We learn the importance of discipline for a tank crew. Quarters inside the tank are very cramped. The main cannon has a significant kick or recoil inside the tank; if you are in the wrong place when it is fired, you will be crushed. Similarly, when the turret spins around, if you are in the wrong place, you will be sliced in half. We begin to realize that there is a connection between survival in the battlefield and having to do 20 pushups for a button out of place at formation - attention to detail and discipline can and do make the difference between life and death inside one of these machines.

Later in the morning, we piled on to a bus for a short ride over to another base - Shizafon - where the best tank soldiers are trained to be tank commanders and actual tank warfare exercises are conducted. We observed troops in Merkava Mark III tanks go through live ammo exercises, with cannons and MGs.

The range of the cannons is approx. 3 kilometers and we watch in awe as the Merkavas fire at targets 2 kilometers away, on the horizon. When they miss (only happened once), we see a puff of sand and dust. When they hit the targets, which are metal tank frames, there is a bright flash of light.

At the end of the exercise, the tanks come tearing across the course, back towards the tent where we are waiting. The dust and sand is kicking up around them, just adding to the intensity of the image of these deadly war machines. They stop right in front of us, and the tank soldiers start to climb out. They are covered with dust and sand from head to toe. They are all lean and surprisingly tall. We are not prepared for what we see when they take off their helmets. We expected to see hardened faces of mature men - instead, we see baby-faces that barely shave on a regular basis. It's a shocking reminder that war is a business started by old men and finished by children.

The point is driven home when one of our group, Michael Goren (himself an IDF veteran) - is visited by his own son who is about to graduate from tank commander school in a week. Poppa is proud, and we all congratulate him and take pictures. Thinking to myself, I am happy for his pride, but also grateful that I do not have to fact the prospect of sending my own son off in a tank.

We are invited to climb in to the tanks, and I find, to my surprise, that I can fit my 6'9" frame into the tank. But the quarters are very cramped, and I get out as quickly as I get in. Jumping down off the tank, I land flat-footed and that sends yet another lightning bolt up my spine. Now I have added stupity to old man's disease. But no whining is allowed - so I pop some more Advilo and just keep walking slowly.

We finished at Shizafon by noon. The schedule calls for field exercises, preparing for an evening exercise that is supposed to involve pitching tents, patrolling in the desert and sleeping out. I decide to head back to the barracks and work on my emails instead.

Our platoon returns to base in late afternoon, and we have some time to just sit and chat with the sergeants. This is really the first time we are having a chance to just "chill" as my kids would say. The topic turns to Gaza - several of our sergeants were there a couple of weeks ago along with some of the tank soldier we had seen earlier in the day.

We've been asked not to have political discussions with the soldiers while we are in boot camp. We don't want to make them uncomfortable and it is, in any event, against regulations for them to have political conversations with us while they are in uniform. But we can talk about their experiences in Gaza.

One of the sergeants explains what it is like. He says that when they were getting ready to go, they were excited at first. This, after all, is something for which they had been training for some time. It was natural to have eager anticipation to do something you have been getting ready to do for months. But then, when you get there, he says, it is just shitty. There is nothing good about it. There is nothing to like about it. It's not exciting in any way. It just sucks. He makes it clear that he is not talking about the politics of being in Gaza, or any other issues related to being in Gaza. It is just that war sucks.

This is why I will always think of these soldiers as fierce but reluctant warriors. Their mission statement - posted on the wall of the meeting room - says they are to be fierce warriors. This, of course, isn't like the pep talk I have seen basketball and soccer coaches give to teenagers telling them to play with ferocity on the field. This isn't about wanting the ball on the soccer field. This is the real deal - ferocity in a violent sense - kill the enemy and look tough while you are doing it so any you haven't killed will be convinced that they will be killed if they don't run away, and fast.

I have no doubt these soldiers will be ferocious on the battle field. I also have no doubt that each and every one of them would rather be doing something else. That doesn't mean that they don't support what their government is doing - they do support it. They just hate war because, in a word, it is shitty.

I'm looking for a lesson; a moral point. The best I can think of is this: the IDF is, without doubt, the most effective fighting force in this part of the world, and, in fact, is admired and revered throughout the world. But it is not in spite of the fact that they are reluctant, citizen soldiers - it is because they are reluctant citizen soldiers. It is something they do because they must in order to survive. They all have career plans that have nothing to do with being career soldiers - they want to be scientists and doctors and teachers and lawyers and businessmen. They want to finish their army service and go to Nepal and Bangkok and New York and London for a holiday. They have less than zero interest in killing people - any people - Arabs or otherwise. They are focused on their tasks, not on glory or glamour, and this single-minded focus just makes them better at it. At least I can think of no other explanation.

Formation is called for 2000 hours, after dinner. Are we really going to be sleeping out in the desert? Privately, I doubt it. There is a cadence to the way things are done in the IDF - learn something, train on it, and then do it right and get it right the first time. We haven't learned about camping in the desert, so I'm suspicious. Nevertheless, we all are preparing.

This is where it gets a little bit like a re-run of an old "F Troop" episode. First, it should be noted for the record that the women were the smartest. The men are standing around debating and arguing our various points of view on whether we will be sleeping out. The women, on the other hand, are making plans. They are the ones that realize first that the single most important commodity in the desert will be toilet paper. When the men see the women gathering toilet paper, they follow suit. Keep in mind, please, that for reasons I do not know, all of the toilet paper on our base is neon-pink.

Anyway, so now picture the men running to the latrine to grab the pink toilet paper. What else can we take with us? Our packs and tents are already there. The IDF will provide food. It is rocky in the desert more than sandy. Pillows would probably come in handy. So many of us, just before formation, head back to the barracks and grab pillows.

The result of all of this is that when the sergeant comes out to review us at formation, he sees 20 mostly middle-aged Jews from Westchester standing rigidly at attention, clutching white pillows and rolls of pink toilet paper. It is too much, and Sergeant Nahari, who has maintained a straight face throughout all of our antics, just cracks up and nearly falls on the floor laughing.

We head off to the bus and ride about 20 minutes to the camp site in the desert. We go out on patrol, and it is more aggressive and demanding than our night march the night before. On the night march, we stayed on a path. Now, we are moving through the desert over hills and through gullies, taking hills, crawling on bellies, etc. etc.

Afterwards, the IDF tells us that we are not sleeping out but we will be staying for a camp fire. Uri, our bearded rabbinical student and spiritual leader, leads us in song with his guitar as does Barak, our lieutenant. Barak is tough and looks very tough. Hearing him strumming folk ongs on a guitar takes us a bit by surprise and is yet another reminder that the word for a native Israeli is "sabra" - a desert fruit that is very tough on the outside and soft and sweet on the inside.

I want to fast-forward a bit now. If you are still reading at this point, you have been very patient, and I don't want to overstay my welcome.

On day 4, we have an obstacle course exercise and personal combat training - how to deal with attacks by knife-wielding enemies, etc. One of our own, Michael Mintz, is an expert himself in some kind of martial art (I don't remember the name of the specific discipline, but it sounds like something I order for dinner on Sunday nights at the local Chinese restaurant), and he helps in the instruction.

The obstacle course results in the first serious injury to our group. Fate is fickle and unfair: Jamie Cotel, among the most physically fit in our group and one of the few who has actually had military training (she trained in the IDF when she was a college student studying in Israel, badly twists and sprains her ankle in a trench. She is stoic and insists on staying with us for the rest of our maneuvers as her foot and ankle seem to swell by the minute. When she gets back to her busy life as a practicing attorney, mother of three young girls and philanthropist, she is going to have a hard time. Nevertheless, no whining from Jamie.

Then we head back to the barracks for a round table discussion of our impressions - both the Americans and the soldiers. It was pretty emotional - by this point, we had not only formed a bond within our own group, but had also come to have strong feelings about the soldiers. We all spoke from the heart, and it really wouldn't be right to repeat here much of what was said.

The depth and intensity of our feelings surprised all of us. After all, we had only been together for 3-1/2 days. The best way to explain this intensity is to refer again to the fact that most of us on the trip are parents, and we can't help, time and again, reminding ourselves of how similar these fierce, reluctant warriors are to our kids. Martin, a successful senior exective raised in England, with Pierce Brosnan-like wit and good looks, for example, starts to talk about how proud he would be for his kids to turn out like our soldiers, but is overwhelmed by emotion and has to stop mid-way through his remarks. Trust me, this is not the sort of fellow who often loses his composure.

By the time we are done going around the room, there is not a dry eye in the house. We end our session by standing, holding hands, and singing Yerushalyim Shel Zahav (Jerusalem of Gold) - a patriotic Israeli song that achieved world-wide popularity when it was sung by victorious Israeli soldiers as they re-captured the Kotel (Western Wall) in the Six Day War, led by Lieutenant Barak on guitar.

Jeff has made an executive decision that is a good call - he invites our instructors to join us for our trip to the Meridien Hotel at the Dead Sea that evening, and on to Jerusalem the next day. When we arrive at the hotel, the soldiers, in civilian clothes, join us for a feast of a buffet dinner, drinks in the hotel lobby and more drinks and stories in Jeff's room later on. Out of uniform, and out of their military roles, the questions are going the other way. They want to know everything about us, our occupations and our families and lives. The laughter comes easily, and we have a great time just enjoying each other's company.

At the crack of dawn the next day, a few hardy souls (including, of course, George) wake up to take in a quick visit to Masada. This is George's first visit to Israel, and he is determined to take it all in. Most of the rest of the group goes to take a dip in the Dead Sea. By late morning we are on the bus to Jerusalem. We will tour Jerusalem, be interviewed by a local radio station, visit the Kotel, and have a meeting with a super-secret undercover anti-terrorist arm of the IDF at their base camp. We can't go there in our bus, but have to transfer instead to windowless vans and be driven by the undercover unit. It's an "if-I-tell-you-any-more-about-it, I-have-to-kill-you" kind of thing.

But, at mid-day, it is time to really say goodbye to the soldiers. Emotions are running even higher than the day before. We all promise to keep in touch, promise to visit with each other both in Israel and in the States, promise to write emails, etc., etc.

I hug each - as tight as I can - and ask each to make three promises: first, that you will be strong (in Hebrew: chazak); second, that you will be smart (in Hebrew: chacham); and third, that you will be safe (I say that only in English because I don't know how to say it in Hebrew).

Each readily promises the first and the second. Each just looks me straight in the eye when I ask for the third promise and smiles. I realize, sheepishly, that I have asked for a promise they want to keep but cannot make.

The news from Israel, especially the news about the IDF, will never be the same for me - my heart stops when I hear on the news today that a terrorist bomber has killed three in a Tel Aviv market. Because, you see, a parent can never learn to deal with terror or terrorism the way the young can. I can never, ever learn to do what that young yeshiva student told me about that night at dinner at the Sayarim base - I can never learn to just ignore the horror - when it is my family.

And now, and forever, despite the absence of a genetic connection, these kids, these soldiers - Ben, Elan, Barak, Yael, Rotem, Yuvall, Oded and Netta - will always be my mishpachah (family).

Please keep them in your thoughts, your hearts and, if it is in your nature, your prayers.

Thanks are due Dafna Yee, director of JWD - Jewish Watch Dog at (http://jwd-jewishwatchdog.home.comcast.net ) for sending this in. Dafna writes, "It was especially timely for me to read the diary now because my daughter started Marva last week. That is a nine-week program which gives young people the experience of being in the IDF. She called me two days ago and told me that she has her M-16 under her pillow to make sure it is right by her. She also sounded tired and I think it is amazing that Billy Jacobs managed to write his extraordinary account while he was doing this."