Sleep

Sleep

We sat watching the sun go down as a warm breeze swept up from the sea.
It was tranquil. For a moment, time stood still. We were exhausted from
the long trek, which had brought us to the banks of the Kineret. As the
last of the sun's light disappeared beneath the horizon, we set about
kindling a fire. We did so quietly; each man locked in his own
thoughts. Each contemplating the long day he had just completed and his
own destiny as to the next. Few words were exchanged. A few glances,
but not many, as each individual detached from the group as if a
protective veil had fallen around him, separating him from his
comrades.
Looking around at the band of a dozen or so men with whom I found
myself on that damp night, I began to play out in my mind's eye the
little I knew of each. I discovered to my surprise just how little I
really did know of the men in whose hands I would soon be entrusting my
very life. Among us the past was history: a closed book which was
seldom opened. No questions were ever asked about the past. It was
assumed that if any information were important or relevant, it would be
volunteered. We took it for granted that the rest were good men, noble
even, without any real knowledge of who they were and from where they
came.
One man I did know something of was someone who could barely be called
a man. I never quite had got around to talking to Kibo, but his story,
or at least the one I had heard, was intriguing like no other. He was
fifteen or sixteen, dark-haired and tall but by no means muscular. His
thin, lanky frame and young face may have given the impression of
innocence; but as they say, first impressions can be deceptive. A
closer inspection would reveal a deep and thoughtful individual. Look
closer still into his big brown eyes and you would see a disturbed soul
- his eyes were those of an old man, who had borne witness to things
too terrifying to imagine and too terrible to describe. He was
Hungarian and had lived in a small village near Budapest where as a
child he had been the youngest of several children. Now, only he
survived. Having managed to obtain false papers he had fled the country
and through a long and complicated series of adventures and
misadventures had ended up sitting there, opposite me on the other side
of the large flames, the intense heat of which seemed our only real
link to civilisation.
The air was moist yet cool; it had a light, barely noticeable
sweetness to it, a gentle scent of oranges from the orchards which
thrived on the Kineret's nourishing waters. It was a Friday night.
Maybe someone lit some candles, maybe not. To me it was irrelevant. I
marked the night by thinking, as I fell asleep under a carpet of
twinkling stars, of my mother lighting candles, of my father breaking
bread and of the sweet, sweet deep red wine in which I was indulged as
a boy. With this thought, I fell asleep.

__________________________

The next day we were woken at sunrise. We packed our few belongings and
set out on our way. We had to keep moving. We had to go where they
wouldn't look for us. Where they'd already looked. We had to trek to
Wadi Amud where we had intelligence that a small British convoy would
be passing on its way to Akko. The plan was to ambush them as they
passed in single file through the narrowest part of the dusty wadi.
There would be snipers scattered around the wadi's walls on either side
with two men hidden at the bottom of the wadi with explosives should
anything go wrong. Our aim was to capture supplies, weapons and
vehicles, and to take prisoners. However, we would shoot to kill.
After a long walk we arrived at the wadi and decided on the best place
for the ambush. We were each assigned a position, which we took up,
settled in, and waited. I took up my position as a sniper, at the base
of the wadi, near where the convoy would actually be passing. I set my
sten down and crouched behind a large stone, covering myself in gravel
and in the few leaves I could find. I had become quite attached to the
gun, it having been my constant companion as I carried it over miles of
wadis and mountains. I now aimed across the wadi and waited. We all
waited so impatiently for the convoy to arrive and for the sign from
our commander. The snipers hid their bodies behind stones and trees,
camouflaged themselves as best they could and waited. The bombers too
covered themselves with leaves and gravel, hid behind any protection
they could find and waited.
About an hour had passed, my bones had long since begun to ache and it
was beginning to become tiresome looking constantly in the same
direction for a signal which might not come. Just as I was about to
lose hope, it came. A hand flung up and down and my trigger finger
pulled back as if on its own. Little could be seen in the blaze of
explosion and gunfire that followed. All I knew was what I saw within
my sights. I could smell the stench of British blood. I don't know how
many I killed before I felt the cold steel of a revolver on the back of
my neck. The revolver dug into my spine. I was slammed into a small
truck and it sped away. Kibo was there. The blow came fast and unseen,
hard on the back of my head.

__________________________

It was dark. There was a window high on my right hand side. Four thick
iron bars broke up the light coming through the small aperture. More of
the window's area was taken up by the bars than by light. But the light
which managed to break in was white and sweet. The air was thick and
heavy. It was unbelievably dry and totally still, with no circulation
at all. I tried to rise to my feet. But was suddenly yanked back to the
ground by the thick chain I found clamped to my arms and legs. My head
was thumping. My vision was blurred and I could barely breathe. I sat
and contemplated my position. I heard a noise, a tapping through the
wall. It was slow, almost silent and methodical. I was bemused; taken
aback. I moved towards the wall. Tapped as hard as I could and waited.
I did not have to wait long. The tapping came back fast and furious.
With my attention turned to the wall I now noticed a small crack, an
opening to the next cell. Peering through it I viewed a dishevelled
figure. It took me some time to realise it was that of Kibo.
I crouched down on the cold floor and pressed my ear to the crack in
the wall. We tried to talk, but his croaky blood filled voice could not
endure. Instead we each took comfort in the presence of the other,
silently sitting back to back, separated by the hard stone wall. Half
an hour passed. I was weak with hunger, sweating ferociously. The door
to Kibo's cell crashed open. I could only listen as he was beaten and
dragged away. He did not resist. The door slammed shut.
I listened for anything I could hear, anything that would betray some
information of Kibo's fate. I could hear nothing. Minutes passed;
nothing happened. Hours came and went. Still I listened; still nothing.
The little light that came through my window began to fade. I sat in
the darkness, languishing on the floor. I had barely moved since they
took Kibo. Aching I crept to the small bed beneath the window.
Distraught I lay spread out over the covers. I could not think. I fell
asleep.

When I awoke I looked around at the small cell which surrounded me from
all sides. My eyes drifted to the floor. There I saw the shivering body
of a man beaten to the brink of death. He was unrecognisable. He was
Kibo. I stumbled out of bed, almost falling on him in my haste. I
looked down on his broken face, took a breath and lifted him to my bed.
His blood covered my hands. He tried to talk, but this time he could
not. Blood dribbled down from his lips. He could barely breathe, though
he was trying as hard as he could. He kept trying to say something,
forcing out unintelligible sounds and spluttering up blood. I calmed
myself, looked down at his broken young face and hushed him to silence.
I bid him to close his eyes. He did so and quietly lay in my arms
shuddering.
He was in terrible pain, fighting to breathe, to live. I inspected his
wounds. They were the worst I had ever seen. Bruises covered his
fragile body. Bones were broken wherever I looked. I tried to tell
myself they would heal. That he would survive and recover. But I had to
concede that they were fatal, that he was dying.
I knew not what to do. I had never been trained for anything like
this. I had been instructed in the proper use of various weapons. Told
to obey orders. I knew the Galilee, knew how to look after myself. But
never was I advised as to what to do when a comrade, a friend was in
such pain, in such agony. He fell asleep. I could not.
Should I have waited, prayed for a miracle to save him? Could he have
recovered? He was in so much pain, his young bones so shattered, his
blood so red, his life so dim. There was no other choice. I took the
blanket from the bed. Rolled it up into a ball. I took a last look at
his young crushed face and pushed the blanket into it. I don't remember
how long it took. But his small, tender body then fell limp in my arms.
I placed him down on the ground and for the first time in years, I said
a prayer for him. I did not sleep that night.