Retreat: It's not just for the French

I spent the last couple weeks trying to figure out what to write about.  I was thinking of talking about airsoft celebrity and Youtube famous- but there were a couple things standing in my way.  First- I didn't want to end up talking shit about people I haven't met.  Second and more important (Because if I say something about someone here, I will say it to their face should they show up with a sock full of quarters.) is that I don't really know how it works.  I know Youtube is monetized and people with popular channels get cash for views- but that's not what I'm hazy on.  I'm not sure how sponsorships are structured, how admission to larger events goes, how much time is spent editing video- and most importantly, do they get paid enough for it?

So I'm not talking about that today.  Maybe in the future I'll write a, "View from the cheap seats, this is how I see it," column.  But not today.  Today I'm going to talk about a skill that separates experienced players from newbies and is one of the times when I will tell the team lead talking in my ear, "No.  Not unless you tell me why, and make it good.  Also make it fast."

That is when it's time to retreat.  Generally speaking, no one likes giving ground.
 "I fought for it, I kicked the other team off of it, or I hauled my ass across the field to get here, you can dig me out of this position."

Well, that's not always the best use of time and resources.  I'll illustrate this with two scenarios.

First:
I was at a pickup game at River City Airsoft.  I had flanked to an advantageous position in some trees and took out 2-3 of the other team.  It was now time to fall back.  Why fall back?  Because those enemy players were heading back to respawn and they knew where I was.  By falling back, I deny them the easy kill should they get the drop on me from multiple angles- which would have been simple for them to do.  If they wanted to come after me, I was making them chase me into an area further from the rest of their team.  Further from support, further from respawn and into a potential ambush.

Bottom line:  If they know where you are it's probably time to move.

Second:
This takes a bit more set up.  It was the final hour of an OP at Penn Yan Airsoft.  The enemy team was to attack a succession of friendly positions.  As my teammates were hit, we were supposed to fall back to a village, re spawn and defend it against the oncoming assault.  Each of our positions was essentially a speed bump.  We were essentially told to hold in place for as long as possible, get hit, then fall back to respawn.  For my group- that didn't happen.

After initial contact was made- we fired off a few bursts, then fell back about 75 feet.  We continued that all the way back to the village.  I'm convinced that doing so slowed the other team down way more than all of us digging in and putting up a stiff- but short fight.  Falling back in good order slows the enemy more because people tend to be a LOT slower to advance into an area where they know someone's hiding waiting to take a shot at them.  The suspense is killer.  For both sides, honestly.  It's just more fun!


Now, "In good order," is the key phrase there.  In airsoft, it simply means that people don't move without telling someone, they don't move so far they can't support team mates, and at all times someone has a weapon facing the guys chasing you so they can't just all rush up while you have your back turned.

Notice I didn't once complain about people camping.  To my mind, there's nothing wrong with holding an advantageous position for your team.  (At least nothing wrong with it a Nerf rocket or Thunder B can't fix.)  But ask yourself this, "Am I more valuable to my team here, where the other guys know where I am?  Or somewhere else, where they don't?"  Mobility is fun.  Get yourself moving, make the other team sweat trying to catch you. 

Back at it.

Well, this has been quite a while, hasn't it?

Why so long?  Well, simply put, a lot happened.  When I thought about posting, I got distracted.  For the last couple years I've only barely been involved in airsoft due to other things in my life.  I've focused more on my job and career.  I'm not single anymore.  I haven't been for a while.  I went to Israel for another stint with Sar-El.  This time, with my father- though he couldn't so Sar-El with me.  I didn't bring a netbook, and haven't found the time or inclination to transcribe my notebooks.  I'd end up editing myself anyway and I think that would defeat the purpose.  I'm a small businessman- whihc means that I am effectively working two jobs- one of which, outside of a ton of useful experience, has yet to pay me.  (Buy a T-shirt!)

I've also changed my schedule to that of normal people.  For the first time in almost 9 years, I work during the day.  That means that I have more time for my relationship, family, business, and airsoft.  I can have a work-life balance.  Part of that life, is once again going to include skulking through the woods looking for n00bs to pwn. 

But a lot has happened in the last couple years.  I used to be part of the "inner circle," senior membership, ruling cabal, (Buy a T-shirt!) or whatever of the old Western NY Airsoft League.  That's gone.  The guys who did that with me, by and large don't play anymore.  Too much work, too much BS, too much other stuff in life. 

We used to have one field to play at.  Now there are easily a half dozen within a 2 hours drive of me.  There are a lot more players too.  What does that mean for me?  (Buy a T-shirt!)  I'm right back where I started in 2006.  Except this time I'm not on a team.

I'm going to try holding myself to a once a week update so I can get some things out that have been rattling around my head like bb's in a hicap.

First off, is the airsoft arms race.

Since Polarstar and other HPA guns have come on the scene, I've definitely been feeling the pressure to pay out for the performance.  Believe me- there is no small part of me wanting to.  I'm an adult damn it- if I want the cool toys I can buy them for myself! 

But here's the thing- I'm not in it for the kills, wins, etc.  I'm in it for the experience.  I always have been.  And shelling out a hell of a lot of money (Don't tell me how affordable it can be or how much better than an AEG it is unless you're willing to give me one at no cost.) (Buy a T-shirt!) is not going to improve my player experience nearly enough to justify the cost.

But it's not just the HPA users, it's also the new crop of high end AEG's.  You do get what you pay for in terms of looks, fit and finish and a performance boost.  Is it worth it to me?  If I weren't setting aside money for experiences that aren't airsoft- then maybe it would be.  But I want those other experiences.  (Buy a T-shirt!)

I feel like I'm justifying my frugality here- and I suppose I am in a way.  On the other hand- the flask I have that fits conveniently into a dual M-4 magazine pouch?  There will never be cheap whiskey in it.  BUY A T-SHIRT.  (I'll make it worth your while for reading all this stuff.  Free shipping with the discount code: 6MIL.)

Written Oct 12

I’ve now been home over two weeks. It’s taken this long to feel like I’m part of America again, instead of an un-declared Israeli on the wrong continent.

The first few days back were rough. It wasn’t the jet-lag. The flight back was an overnight one. Take off in darkness, land in darkness. It’s weird enough flying that long. Now add having zero horizon reference except for the city lights you see for the first two minutes after takeoff and the last minute or two before the wheels hit the ground. It took me a while, but I finally found the combination that lets me get a good amount of sleep on a plane:

Get up at 7AM.
Run around an army base for a few hours trying to find something worthwhile to do.
Come up empty.
Pack, repack and re-repack all your bags, making sure everything is in it’s optimal position and you have room for last minute souvenirs.
Clean your barracks. Wander aimlessly. Take off your uniform for the last time. Strip the bed. Put everything into matching piles. Shirts, trousers, belts, sheets. Carry it over to the supply room to turn it in.
Shower.
Check and recheck the barracks for personal items. Mine and other people’s.
Hugs, handshakes, salutes and goodbyes with the soldiers.
Get on the bus.
Wait, quietly stressing as other volunteers make the bus stop three times in Haifa apparently thinking it’s their taxi service.
Talk with the few that are left as the bus starts to make time to Tel Aviv.
Get depressed as I see familiar landmarks pass wondering when and if I’ll see them again.
Hit Tel Aviv traffic.
Get off about 4 blocks from the bus station. Walk there to kill time. Be forced by security to open every compartment of every bag I have. Find the army store in the bus station. Buy stuff. Share dinner with an attractive French volunteer who’s unfortunately dating a childhood friend. (Unfortunate for me. Possibly for the two of them as well. It would suck if the relationship went south and the friendship with it. But c’est la vie.) Get lost in the bus station. Get found again.
Walk five blocks to the train station.
Get on the wrong train.
Take a train back to Tel Aviv, wait for the right train, have to run up and over because they switched platforms. Get on the right train.
Get to the airport. Clear security with suspicious ease.
Walk around the terminal.
Get a grilled cheese sandwich with mushrooms, olives and hot sauce.
Walk down each terminal concourse and back at least once. Look at the pretty airplanes.
Get on my plane.
Eat dinner. Order the pasta instead of the chicken. Red wine (complimentary) to drink.
Use the lavatory.
Plug into the classical music playlist.
Close my eyes.

I got around 6 hours of sleep give or take. Pretty good for me on a plane. So jet lag was not the issue. Neither was the time change. It was something much more personal. It was my bed. It took me a week to get used to my own large, soft bed. Up until this weekend I was sleeping on a 2.5 foot wide section of mattress, rolling within my own width. When my eyes opened the first image I saw before I read my surroundings was that of my last base.

The open window letting light and a cool breeze onto my feet, the long axis of the room taken up by bunk beds, the pile of folded cots in the near corner. I could almost hear the sounds of the five other guys I’d lived with for a week and a half. Well, not all the sounds. The snorer in the bunk below me was absent in sound, but I could still feel his presence. Then a second would go by and it would all be gone.

That’s weird. You wake up sensing this place where you became comfortable, these people you trusted with your life, the fastest friends you ever made. The fist second you open your eyes they’re right there with you, the next second you blink and they’re gone. You’re in your home and you don’t feel like you belong there. That’s a hell of a way to start the day. Now do it every day for a week and see how you feel.

So on top of going to a fairly solitary, albeit comfortable existence after two months of nearly solid social interaction my activity level felt like it went from Sixty to Zero. Not really, it just felt that way. I still went to the JCC to work out, and I had a hell of a lot of running around to make up for being away for so long. Friends, family, coworkers, meeting, greeting, making deals, hoisting drinks, playing catch up, editing photos- all the while thinking, “What the fuck am I doing here? This is not my world anymore. I should never have left Israel. I can make it there, I belong there! I don’t want to fall back into my routine, spending hours watching shows on Hulu, reading internet forum posts, hitting the refresh butting hoping that when the page reloads there will be new posts or a new webcomic strip. I didn’t miss any of it for a second, and now I’m back to it? Fuck that! I’m not some soft cubicle mouse keyboard jockey! I’ve looked into Fatah-Land and seen the face of the enemy! I’m hard! I’m strong! I’m...very,very confused.”

I wondered how it was that it took me about twelve hours to feel like I belonged in Israel and I still don’t completely feel like I belong in America. I almost feel like the Stars and Stripes has one too many colors for my liking. I kept telling myself and other people in ratios how close I was to being inclined to make Aliya. I started the trip 50/50. Then it was 60/40- in favor. 75/35, then back to 50/50, then 40/60. Eventually I got up to 90/10. I never got to 100. I never will. I’m just not a 100% kind of guy when it comes to this. However much I feel drawn to something, however much it sucks me in, catches my interest, makes me love it, makes my heart pound for it, there is always a part of me going the other way.

“Hold it. Even if this is what you really want...Why? Why do you want it so bad huh? What are you running from in the States that you won’t bring with you? Not running from something, right? Running to something? Towards what? What are you in a hurry to do Mr. Herzl mark [really big number]? You gonna be a cause head now? Found something worth risking it all for? Why so eager, Mr. Wannabe Hero?”

Yeah, that last 10% of my is a real asshole. People ask me why I put myself down and I’m not putting all of me down. It’s just that Cpt. Buzzkill, nagging bit of doubt, reason injected into an emotional response that I hate. I know he means well, but he just kills my fun. If it wasn’t for that jackass I’d probably have gotten laid way more.

So I spent a lot of my first weeks back reenacting the War of Attrition in my head. I think there’s an armistice now. I still don’t know what the final answer will be. I don’t feel quite right in the USA. I’m looking at a lot of challenges, but things still seem awfully easy here. And if nothing else, I like the fact that security guards at the shopping malls here are only concerned with shoplifters. Imagine that. They’re worried about thieves. It seems so quaint, and amusing to me. The macho rent-a-cops will let anyone walk in without a second look, but if their pockets have a tag sticking out- then it’s go time!

On the other hand, there was the experience which finally made me look at the flag flying from a building and feel something again. Some “Good Old Fashioned American fun!” I went out to a farm owned by a friend, rode an ATV for the first time. Without any protective gear. Yeah, kind of reckless, but we weren’t going all that fast. The guy I was with had his 2 year old with him, so he wasn’t going to do any crazy stuff. And, I was given the best quad they had. Push button ignition and breaks. Rock on. We rode around on those through some gently rolling farmland, apple orchards and some beautiful woods. Still mostly green even though the leaves are starting to turn. Then on to that most American of activities: the discharge of firearms on private property out in the middle of nowhere. And I’ve got to say, obliterating a clay pigeon on the first try on my first ever shot with a shotgun was really nice. Of course it was beginner’s luck and I missed all the other shots but the very last one.

Before I brought out my old monster I got to shoot a few other weapons. A Colt .45 that dated to the 1940’s, a couple shotguns, a lever action .22 rifle and a single action .22 revolver. I made a holes of various sizes in some old soup cans. One of them even went spinning a couple feet in the air just like in the old movies. I guess I hit it just right. Then it was time to hit the cardboard target out in the woods about 150 yards. The spotting scope was out and the my old Swiss mountain beast was locked on. Not a great grouping, but fun and lethal to that cardboard cutout.

I missed the turn I was supposed to take to get home fast. I didn’t mind. It was magic hour, I was up by the lake and the sun lit up the broken clouds. I drove past farms, orchards, ugly cookie cutter housing developments and I really enjoyed America for the first time since I got home. I still don’t know if I’ll make Aliya. But until I figure it out, letting that dilemma run my life is just about the stupidest thing I can think of.

I still haven’t put up my last couple journal entries from Israel. When I do, I know I’ll edit the hell out of them. There’s a lot in there that seemed good at the time, but looking back probably would just make trouble if it saw the light of day. Then again, why be afraid? Any drama’s going to be 6,000 miles away from me, right?

I went over with a few missions for myself:
1) Have a vacation with my friends. Party, chase girls, get drunk, catch fish.
Success. Not as much partying and girl chasing as I would have liked. And the biggest fish got away. This is described in detail in previous entries. Overall, 95% mission accomplished.
2) Play more airsoft with the Israelis. Act as a goodwill ambassador between the WNY and Israeli airsoft scenes.
Accomplished big time.
3) Visit the Israeli branch of the family.
Done and fun.
4) Successfully complete all tasks associated with the scheduled Sar-El programs I was participating in. (Many of these tasks involved interpersonal stuff rather than the labor component.)
Done.
5) Determine if I can “Hack it,” in Israel if I decide to make aliya.
Done. I think I can, I think I can.
6) Decide whether or not to make aliaya.
Mission scrubbed. Decision postponed pending the outcome of living my life.

Photos are up.

Well, the photos are just about all up. There are not as many as I'd like due to the dual concerns of security and the fact that if I'm photographing, I'm not working. It's just so hard to find balance sometimes.

Enjoy!

Yipes! Stripes!

I'm completely exhausted. I didn't get all that much sleep last night. Partly I got to sleep late due to the Slichot service (I'd have fallen asleep standing up if not for the shofar blowing.) and my usual getting up in the middle of the night to piss. Keeping hydrated has it's price. Being on the top bunk and having to put on some pants also tends to complicate the early morning bathroom runs. Every night as I sit there I wish I'd just snagged an empty water bottle and had the balls to use it.

I woke up this morning from a dream about zombies (I was just loading my rifle- oddly enough it was in the closet from my room as a kid.) when I woke up. It was the sound of an engine. Coming, going, coming going, a propeller engine. A UAV? They don't move like that. do they? I got to the window at my feet and managed to see a little yellow crop duster. An old ag-sprayer working the kibbutzim in the area. It was 0700. I climbed down, dressed in my stretched out, stinking, work t shirt. I didn't see the point in keeping it washed or wearing a fresh one. (I also wasn't that picky about my underwear. When working here I wear two pairs, alternating. I change them when I shower, saving the clean stuff for trips off base and weekends. The times when my stench might be noticed.) After brushing my teeth I sat down with an energy drink, granola bar and my copy of Beaufort. I got though the granola bar, the energy drink and about a chapter before I looked at my watch. Five minutes to flag raising. I tied my boots, bloused my trousers, tucked in my shirt and grabbed my much hated Sar El hat.

I hate the Sar El hats. First of all, they look like they have been designed for old men. Wear one of these in Florida, hail a cab and they'll ask you which nursing home you're going to. It's also a lousy hat. Especially for work here. The material doesn't breath. There is nothing to cover your ears or the back or your neck. And, on top of all that, it's WHITE. That's a lousy color for a hat you're going to get dirty in.

Hatikva, breakfast at 0800. Finished by 0815. Top off the jerrycans with ice and water. Fill my Camelbak. Organize the tools where people can grab them for the bus at 0830. We also loaded fresh Made in the USA camo nets. Somewhere in there I managed to get two safety pins from another volunteer. The pins Ehud had wanted last night.

Hezbollah 0, IDF 1

Yesterday Hezbollah took a shot at an Israeli patrol along the border. They fired a missile at the IDF patrol vehicle. Either they missed or the vehicle armor held. No Israeli soldiers were killed, they returned fire and killed one of the attackers. We weren't told how near or far that was from where we've been working. I found myself wondering how well those missile fences at our outpost work.

I gave the pins to Ehud who pocketed them for later. We dragged our tools and camo nets on to the bunker complex at the border. As we worked I heard the familiar WHAM of an explosion. (Familiar to me from my last base which had an artillery range.) We didn't see anything at first, but then a couple miles away there was a dust cloud on the border fence. There was no additional alarm. I scrounged some angle iron for us to secure a cammo net and when that was done Ehud sprung his surprise on me. He had Madrid and Winnipeg each grap one of my arms and hold them out. Then there in the sight of g-d, the United Nations UNFIL and Hezbollah he pinned the three bars and felafel of an IDF staff sergeant (Samal Rishon) onto my sleeves. I don't remember what I said. I know he and I have gotten along since moment one, but I still can't figure out how I earned these. But damn if I'm taking them off without someone ordering me to.

A few minutes later there was another boom at some point. I heard a Huey, but didn't look. Apparently it was actually a two ship of Cobras. The story Ehud gave use from his LT was that some combat engineers were detonating mines along the border fence. The UN was checking to see exactly what was on whose side of the fence and we were essentially getting pulled off the outpost. (It was lunchtime anyway.) As we were waiting for the bus a UN SUV pulled up to the gate and demanded entry. As we grabbed a few photos of ourselves in front of the gently fluttering Israeli and Golani brigade flags, an Italian and Spanish officer, each in a blue beret went into the outpost to do whatever it is they do. I highly doubt we'll ever find out who exactly planted those mines, but the UN seems more concerned by Israel's blowing them up than by whomever planted them.

After lunch we were told to report to the common area in our barracks wearing swim gear. Were were spending the afternoon at a kibbutz swimming pool. Usually I'd protest the lack of working, but not today. I wanted some me time. I also wanted to see Liege and Paris in bathing suits. (Worth it.) There was a men v. women water basketball game in which Paris turned out to be a sniper sinking every shot. It also turned out that two of the guys couldn't make shots from 3 feet away. I dunked a couple times, but in the end we were beaten by two baskets.

I finally made my decision on Eilat. It's been moved to the top of the list for next time. One full day just isn't enough, and this Sar El group is as close to perfect as it gets. I can't leave it. In the course of deciding I called dad. This is one of the kinds of decisions I've always had problems with and he knows how I think at times like this. I ended up telling him where I am. If he's worried (I'm betting, “Yes, but he's not losing any sleep over it.”) he hid it well. He was less than surprised as well. He just cited my Sar El pattern. Border with the West Bank near a hot spot from the Second Intifada. Base quite close to Gaza and the Egyptian border. It just made sense. We're starting to think of how we'll do things next week when I get home. To be honest it's one of the furthest things from my mind. As ready as I was to go home last week, now I feel like “Home,” and my life back in the 'States is as far away emotionally as it is physically.

UPDATE: It turns out the new radiator for Ron's Jeep is still stuck in customs. It looks like Eilat was off the table anyway. With luck I'll be able to get some trigger time in at the range before Yom Kippur. Why do they call it a "Fast," when it seems to go forever?

A View to a Kill

What a view. From the base, I can see the Med. From our work site a mile or two and around a thousand feet higher I can see Haifa. And the UN. And some guys who are probably Hezbollah.

I've fallen back into my green routine with ease. It took a day or two for the routine to really get going. Our first madricha had to bail on us because when she met us at the airport she was already fighting a throat infection which was only getting worse. The base medic took one look and told her to go home. She still stuck it out until another madricha arrived. I really admire her dedication to her job. Even though madrichot have what a lot would consider real soft duty, all these girls are real soldiers and every once in a while they show how tough they can be. Romi didn't quit her post until properly relieved.

Usually she would just leave us with the other madricha until another could arrive, but our other madricha is brand new. We're her very first group. I think she lucked out big time. If she got a group full of teenagers it would probably drive her into an Israeli version of a Section 8. Starting off after peak tourist season is probably a good way to ease her into the job.

I mentioned my friend from Spain, I'll call him “Madrid.” He and I continue to become really good friends, swapping photos of each other raising the flag, working together and talking about all kinds of things. His family goes back to before the Spanish Inquisition, after which they became conversos and hid their Jewish roots. In recent years some of his family has embraced their Jewish roots, converting back, while others remain Catholic. I think Madrid's out to find out more about his roots, and as he said, “Do honor to his blood.” Tonight I'm going to a service at the base synagogue one of the soldiers has been trying to get me to attend. Madrid's coming too.

At my previous bases it took the soldiers about a week to warm up to us, and another to really get close to us. The joking, poking fun and horsing around kind of closeness. The Band of Brothers kind of thing. It feels like here that's gone into fast forward. One of the soldiers who's been working with us, a Yemeni combat engineer named Ehud and I have become pretty close. We talk a lot as we work and at night. We even have a trick we play on some of the Golani soldiers we work with. Ehud prettends to be Argentine, Mexican or some other nationality and that he doesn't speak Hebrew. Since he does not wear his rank (3 bars and a felafel- Staff Sergeant) on his work uniform he just passes off his combat engineer stuff as souvenirs from another base. So far at least three soldiers have gone for it hook line and sinker.

On a more serious note, I've had some great conversations with those Golani guys. Today I talked a lot with a recent immigrant from the US- Manhattan actually about a range of things as he surveyed the border with binoculars in his bunker with a Tavor and a MAG machine gun. It was an odd sensation working on repairing an anti-sniper net (The outside of the net is white, the inside black. The end result is the person inside can see out, but no one can see in from a distance.) crawling underneath to attach it to an overhead cable and looking right down the barrel of a belt fed machine gun. It was even more serious because at that very spot a soldier had been killed by sniper fire during the Second Lebanon War.

OK, let's back up a bit. I found out last week I'd be going North. I mentioned that to my father in our last conversation. He said, “I just hope you don't get put on the Lebanese Border.” Here I am, working less than 50 feet from the border, Hashem only knows how many Hezbalonchiks looking at me through binoculars, cameras or worse. The soldier I was talking to today was wondering how the hell we were even here. This is one of the most dangerous borders on the planet. Especially with Iran's leader, Mahmoud Ahmadinijad visiting Lebanon RIGHTNOW things could get hot in a second. The soldier then pointed out a house occupied by the Lebanese army, “They probably have a bunch of rockets in there,” and two stopped trucks about a mile away. There was a guy in what looked like Jeans and a black shirt standing there looking right back a us. “They're not used to seeing people crawling all over this place. They're probably trying to see what you're doing, maybe taking pictures.” Shit man, that's my job.

I noticed bullet holes in the outpost's anti- missile fences. (A steel structure extending 50 feet in the air covered with several layers of chain link. The idea is to detonate a missile before it reaches the outpost.) I was on a direct line with the holes. I suddenly felt a chill and not just from the breeze on top of this mountain. I was waiting for the whistle of a bullet, for all hell to break loose, deciding which was the quickest, safest way to hard cover. Hey, there wasn't a whole lot else I could do aside from freaking out.

Yesterday I talked to another soldier who told me he'd lied to his parents about where he was posted. I asked if he thought they'd figured it out and just didn't let him know. He said they believed it, but I''m not so sure. Parents always figure that stuff out. That's why I'm just not telling mine where I am until after the fact. Sorry dad. I know you're reading this and I know you'd be worried for me if you knew right now. But right now, this is exactly where I belong.

There's so much that I've seen and thought of in the last two days. It all blends together. Ehud lighting the powder from a 7.62 NATO bullet on fire in full view of of the Lebanese border. The group learning to sing Hatikva so tomorrow at flag raising we can all belt it out at the top of our lungs when the music plays. The beautiful morning and evening bus rides from the base where we live to the border outpost where we work. One of those rides being spoiled by the driver pointing out rocket damaged homes and the spot where Ehud Goldwasser and Elad Regev were abducted. The way my brain's record skips whenever the girls I call “Paris” and “Liege” speak. That accent, man oh man. And they're pretty cool to talk to as well. Paris is Jewish, but she's got a gentile boyfriend at home. Maybe I can get her playing for our team. Probably not with me, but I think she's already thinking about it.

I'm not really sure what I'm doing after this weekend. I might be going to Eilat with Ron, or returning to the group. The thing is, the group will only have one more full day of work after this weekend. There is a possibility it may extend, but short of a war starting, my departure date is set. So there's no confusion, I've decided that if a war starts, I will stay here and volunteer for the duration. Ｉ　ｒｅｍｅｍｂｅｒ　ｈｏｗ　Ｉ　ｆｅｌｔ　ｄｕｒｉｎｇ　Ｏｐｅｒａｔｉｏｎ　Ｃａｓｔ　Ｌｅａｄ．　　Ｉ　ｃａｎ’ｔ　ｓｉｔ　ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ　ｏｎｅ　ｏｕｔ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　Ｓｔａｔｅｓ，　ｓａｆｅ　ａｎｄ　ｓｏｕｎｄ　ｗｈｉｌｅ　ｍｙ　ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ　ｆｉｇｈｔ　ｆｏｒ　ｔｈｅｉｒ　ｌｉｖｅｓ，　ｔｈｅｉｒ　ｈｏｍｅｓ　ａｎｄ　ｔｈｅｉｒ　ｆａｍｉｌｉｅｓ．　　Ｓａｒ　Ｅｌ　ｉｓ　ａ　ｈｅｌｌ　ｏｆ　ａ　ｌｏｔ　ｓａｆｅｒ　ｔｈａｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｒｅａｌ　Ａｒｍｙ，　ｂｕｔ　ａｔ　ｌｅａｓｔ　ｉｔ’ｓ　ｄｏｉｎｇ　ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ　ｒｅａｌ．　　Ｎｏｔ　ｊｕｓｔ　ｈｉｔｔｉｎｇ　”Ｒｅｆｒｅｓｈ，”　ｏｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｎｅｗｓ　ｗｅｂｓｉｔｅｓ　ｔｒｙｉｎｇ　ｔｏ　ｆｉｇｕｒｅ　ｏｕｔ　ｉｆ　ｍｙ　ｆｒｉｅｎｄｓ　ａｒｅ　ａｌｉｖｅ　ｏｒ　ｄｅａｄ，　ｉｆ　ｔｈｅｉｒ　ｆａｍｉｌｙ　ｉｓ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｓｈｅｌｔｅｒ　ｂｅｃａｕｓｅ　ｏｆ　ｒｏｃｋｅｔｓ．　　Ｗａｉｔｉｎｇ　ｆｏｒ　ｔｈａｔ　ｅｍａｉｌ　ｏｒ　Ｆａｃｅｂｏｏｋ　ｐｏｓｔ　ｓａｙｉｎｇ　ｔｈｅｙ’ｒｅ　ＯＫ．　　Ｎｏ，　ｉｆ　Ｉ　ｃａｎ　ｂｅ　ｈｅｒｅ　ｗｏｒｋｉｎｇ　Ｉ　ｗｉｌｌ　ｂｅ．　　Ｅｖｅｎ　ｉｆ　ｉｔ　ｍｅａｎｓ　ｔｕｒｎｉｎｇ　ａｒｏｕｎｄ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｄｅｐａｒｔｕｒｅ　ｇａｔｅ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ａｉｒｐｏｒｔ．　　Ｉ　ｈｏｐｅ　Ｉ　ｄｏｎ’ｔ　ｈａｖｅ　ｔｏ．　　Ｂｕｔ　ｔｈｉｓ　ｐｌａｃｅ　ｉｓ　ｗｏｒｔｈ　ｆｉｇｈｔｉｎｇ　ｆｏｒ，　ａｎｄ　ｉｆ　Ｉ　ｃａｎ’ｔ　ｃａｒｒｙ　ａ　ｒｉｆｌｅ　Ｉ　ｃａｎ　ａｔ　ｌｅａｓｔ　ｓｗｉｎｇ　ａ　ｈａｍｍｅｒ　ｏｒ　ａ　ｐａｉｎｔｂｒｕｓｈ．

Again- sorry about the font there. I really don't know what's going on with my little netbook sometimes.

Getting to second base

Second base, day one.

Last night was Alex's birthday party. I was kind of disappointed really. I expected the party to go until dawn. It's probably for the best that it didn't. I think 1.5 liters of beer was plenty considering I had to get up to catch a train to meet my new group.

I woke up right about the time I was supposed to be leaving the house. Not good. Especially because no one else was awake. After a couple minutes of my rushed morning routine, I checked my Cellcom phone. It read an hour earlier. What? I slapped the battery into my Verizon phone and it read the same as the Israeli phone. What the? Oh, right. Daylight savings. I was mostly dressed so I just lay back and went back half asleep to match my half- dressed state.

I got the train in the middle of the Sunday morning soldier rush. All the soldiers on weekend leave going back to their bases, made even worse by the fact that this was the Beer Sheba train. The same one I'd used two weeks before, and just like then, it was packed.

Our group formed up at the airport. We are the definition of a diverse group. Ages range from an 18 year old girl from Liege Belgium to a 73 year old man from Greenville SC. So far my best friend is a 42 year old Spaniard. We spent the trip up to the base mapping our progress on his map. Pam, the Sar-El coordinator gave us a brief lowdown of our base, saying that it was “Very nice,” and located between Tiberias and Haifa.” There was just something in her facial expression and vocal tones that prompted me to whisper to myself, “You're not telling us everything...”

As my new friend and I were tracking our progress I mentioned my suspicion that we were in fact going further north. I figured all the way to the border. I knew from Mark Werner's book, Army Fatigues that they took groups up there. It was also keeping with my Sar-El tradition of being right on the thin line between “Us and them.” It turns out I was right. About 20 minutes out from where we were supposed to go the mini bus made some unexpected turns and out madricha made the announcement. “Called it!” I shouted.

It's amazing how much little things can matter when you're deprived of the comforts you're used to. For instance, at this base, I got a correctly fitting uniform on the first try. My trousers are actually long enough for me to blouse them- a Sar-El first for me. Our room has no air conditioning, but the windows get a decent cross breeze as we are on a mountain. So far, there have been no bugs to speak of in sharp contrast with the ants, beetles and scorpions of the last base. It also seems that work will be more abundant too. The soldiers here are all kravi- combat soldiers. They seem to be opening up to us much faster than I've seen previously. It's a good thing too, because we only have a week together. I'm not sure what work we'll be doing, but I feel like it will make a good impact.

One more word about the group- we are about 14 people and the majority of the group are gentiles. Granted, it's a narrow majority, but a majority none the less. Also, most are from Europe, which is developing quite a reputation as being anti- Israel. Score one for the good guys.