Military Glory

All able-bodied Jewish males in Israel, after completing their compulsory military service, must devote one month a year to service in the army reserves until they reach the age of 50. At least that was the case when I lived there. So shortly after becoming an Israeli citizen in the mid-1970s, I received a notice to report for reserve duty.

When I arrived at my post, I was directed to the quartermaster, who issued me a uniform - pants, shirt, belt, cap, and because it was cold, a padded, hooded jacket, a "dubon," as they are called. These items had already endured serious wear and tear by regular army troops and, by the time the reservists received them, were at the last stage of usefulness or perhaps a bit beyond it. Buttons were missing, lapels were torn, the fabric was stretched to bagginess, and few items were entirely free from holes. It was the rare reservist who received anything that would fit him, so shirts would be too large or too small, and pants would be too short or too long, and although both the shirt and pants would be khaki, the shades of khaki seldom matched.

So one summer, after two tours of duty, when I had to stand in line to receive a mismatched, sad-sack uniform and, and at end of the tour, when I was eager to get home, had to stand in line to hand it back, I decided to buy a uniform of my own. I was spending the summer in America that year, and bought one at an Army-Navy store. The top and bottom matched and they required no ironing.

A few months later, on the first day of my next tour of duty, I stood in formation while the sergeant called the roll. We were not an elite unit, not a combat unit, but one that would be assigned to guard duty at various places. (The reserve's acronym, haga, is jokingly said to stand for "he was once a man.") The sergeant finished the roll call and looked us over. His eye fell on me, standing in the center of the middle row of flabby middle-aged reservists.

"Look at the man!" he cried, pointing at me. My heart sank. what had I done? He walked over to me and repeated his injunction, "Look at that man!" He paused as I waited for him to make a horrible example of me. "His shirt has all its buttons, his pants are pressed, his belt buckle is shiny. Now, that's a soldier!"