Chapter 1: HEADLINES

Erez had the worst headline I had ever read. 
            His sister had set him up with her friend Hadas one weekend in early 2006. Erez and Ha-das spent an entire night walking through Tel Aviv, then sitting on Gordon Beach, listening to each other and to the sounds of the dark Mediterranean water caressing the sand. He only kissed her; that’s how much he liked her. His team was forced to stay on base the next weekend, so Hadas visited and brought him a picnic lunch. The following week, in Nablus in the West Bank, a Terror-ist shot Erez. The bullet entered Erez’s thigh, changed trajectory, and shot through his intestines, right lung, and throat, killing him. His newspaper headline read, “Hadas’ Tragedy: Two Boy-friends Dead in Six Months.”
            Turned out Hadas had had a two-year relationship with a fighter-pilot who crashed and died during a training exercise only six months before she met Erez. The image on the front page of the newspaper was of Hadas crying over Erez’s grave. In the upper right corner was a smaller pic-ture of Erez next to a picture of her fighter-pilot boyfriend. 
            With all due respect to the fighter-pilot, he had already received his headline and should not have shared Erez’s. And with all due respect to Hadas, she had known Erez for two weeks and they had only kissed. But headlines sell newspapers, even I understood that. When I mentioned it to Erez’s father after the funeral, he shrugged. I realized the headline didn’t matter to him. It only mattered to us.
                                                                                                       ***
We were Team Ethan, an operational crew of eleven Shayetet Naval Commandos, the Israe-li equivalent of U.S. Navy SEALs. We were an organic team, which meant we had started and fin-ished training together, then became operational. We were all roughly the same age, 22. 
            On March 4, 2007, our team was having a quiet evening on base in Atlit, eighty kilometers north of Tel Aviv. Some of us watched Kill Bill in the rec room, a few guys were playing ping pong, others read or listened to music in their rooms. Goldberg and I were snorkeling in the bay, a pastime that had been a favorite of ours since we were kids growing up in Ramat Aviv, a Tel Aviv suburb near Tel Baruch Beach. The beach had been our second home.
            We heard a sharp whistle and saw Yair on the shore moving his finger in a circular motion. Our unit’s hand signal for “Hurry the fuck up.”
            We swam in, threw on our uniforms, and joined the team in the classroom for the briefing. Ethan, our commander, stood in front of a projector and pointed with a laser to a satellite photo of a house in southern Gaza. He was calm as he went over the mission: to arrive by sea, reach the house, and arrest the Terrorist responsible for the Eilat bakery bombing that had killed three Israelis in January. It had taken Intelligence three months to find him. Now it was our turn.
            We sprinted to the equipment room, where we each had our own mesh cage with the gear we needed for any given mission. I laid my vest on the large wooden table that took up most of the middle of the room, then got my seven empty magazines and loaded each with twenty-nine 5.56-millimeter bullets. 
            “So who’s it gonna be?” Goldberg asked as he blew grains of sand out of his M-16 with the air pressure machine.
            We smiled. As soon as the mission had come down, each of us had come up with what our headline would be the next morning. It was called, “The Headlines Game.” And whoever had the best headline was the one who’d be killed that night.
            Yair checked his flashlight. His heart was as tender and good as his body was massive and strong. We called him The Gentle Giant or Fezzik, after Andre the Giant’s character in The Prin-cess Bride. 
            “I booked a cabin up north for Meital and me this weekend,” Yair said. “‘Meant to Surprise Wife with Romantic Weekend, Instead Surprised Her with Funeral.’”
            Benny cackled. “Points off for butchering the headline.”
            “I’m not a journalist,” Yair said, “let them come up with the catchy wording. I’m just providing the story.”
            “Uh-uh, here’s the winner,” Avishai said as he changed the batteries of his night vision goggles. “My parents are in London and the airport is on strike. ‘Son Dies, Parents Can’t Get Back for Funeral.’”
            “Okay,” I said. “There’s potential there.” I glanced at Goldberg, knowing he had a shot at being that night’s winner.
            “Potential, but not a winner.” Goldberg stopped packing his vest and looked at us. “I bought Rona a ring.”
            The guys hooted and slapped Goldberg on the back. 
            “‘Soldier Dies Day Before Proposing.’” A low whistle. Goldberg took a bow. We nodded our heads as we imagined the headline in big red letters against a black background. The newspa-pers would probably print Rona’s picture under it.
            “Yeah, yeah, yeah, congratulations Goldberg, but save your bows,” Benny said with a grin. “It’s me this time.”
            “Let’s hear it.”
            “Tomorrow’s my dad’s memorial. Check it out:” he raised both hands for effect. “‘Mother Meant to Attend Husband’s Memorial, Goes to Son’s Funeral Instead.’”
            The room erupted. Benny had come up with the game and we could always count on him for a good headline, but that was the best any of us had heard, with just the right combination of poetry and tragedy. 
            Benny raised his arms in the air and sauntered around the room. “Are you not entertained?” he yelled in his best Russell Crowe impression. Avishai smacked his ass and Benny put his fists to his face, bobbing and weaving, mock boxing. Benny went back to his gear and shook his head, the small smile on his face disappearing as he fastened his knife to his vest. 
                                                                                                       ***
With time to burn before the mission, we had an early dinner and then hung out in the rec room and waited for the green light. The mood was relaxed, as it tended to be before routine missions. Yair napped, Avishai played Snake on his Nokia, I read, and Goldberg, sitting next me, listened to mu-sic. The CD case beside him was Blood Sugar Sex Magic by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was the only one who knew that the CD he actually kept inside that case was Avril Lavigne’s debut album. Goldberg’s taste in music was usually similar to mine. The Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam were our favorite bands. We had gone together to see Aerosmith play at HaYarkon Park when we were eleven. But Goldberg’s guilty pleasures were Britney Spears and Avril.
            Ethan came in and told us the mission was a go. We grabbed our gear and jogged to the beach, then down the 30-meter dock that protruded from the shore. The dock was made of cement and was wide enough for John Deere tractors to pull our Morena boats to the end of the dock. 
            The Morena was Shayetet’s American-made, eleven-meter Naval Special Warfare raiding boat. Its V-shaped bottom was made of Kevlar and fiberglass. In the front of the boat were five seats for the boat operators; in the back were six more for passengers. Its sides were encompassed by a hard, inflatable rubber tube so it could safely bump and attach to other surfaces like ships and docks. Fast and silent, it could reach within twenty-five meters of shore after sailing hundreds of kilometers. Perfect for covert operations in enemy waters.
            The tractor detached the Morena at the end of the dock next to a massive crane. Goldberg and I grabbed the crane’s four thick yellow straps and attached them to each of the Morena’s cor-ners, then got off and stood to the side as the crane lifted the boat.
            “Have you decided how you’re gonna propose?” I asked.
            “What do you think about skydiving?”
            “You think if Rona believes she’s about to die it’ll make her say yes?”
            “I just want it to be special.”
            “The minute you ask, it will be,” I said. I meant it. I was happy for them both, even though I didn’t understand the rush. We were so young. I had told him as much when he had revealed his plan to buy her a ring a couple of months before when we celebrated his birthday.
            “We don’t have to get married tomorrow or next year or even five years from now,” he had replied. “I just want the world to know that she’s mine. And I’m hers.”
            I imagined it had something to do with Rona finishing her service. She had served on base with us and had been discharged a month and a half before. He would never admit it, but I thought Goldberg was worried about Rona starting Tel Aviv University and having a world so different from ours open up to her. 
            Either way, they were my best friends; Goldberg since we were nine years old, and Rona since I met her on base four and a half years before. I had always assumed they would get married, I just hadn't expected Goldberg to buy a ring so soon.
            The crane swung the Morena toward the sea and lowered it. The boat stopped when it was level with the dock and Goldberg, Yair, Avishai, and I got on. We were wearing black onesies that zipped up from the front and black mesh shoes that were good for both swimming in the sea and hiking long distances on land. We had on our black vests that had inflatable linings to help us swim, and attached to it were diving fins, waterproof flashlights, knives, and a pen-like fireworks gun that could pop off a powerful red light into the sky if we ever needed to disclose our position. Whatever wasn’t waterproof, mainly our M-16s and ammunition, we kept in a sleek black duffel-like bag, the size of a gym bag, that we clipped to our vests. 
            The crane lowered the boat onto the water and Yair started the engines as the rest of us un-hooked the yellow straps. I inhaled a deep breath through my nose. If Shayetet missions had a smell, it was diesel mixed with sea water, and I was addicted to that odor.
            Yair sped the boat within the bay to make sure the engines were in working order. The rest of the team were on two other boats, and everyone seemed ready to go. But then one of the More-nas returned to the dock and let someone off. Goldberg took the wheel and sped to the dock to see who it was. Benny, gear in hand, was walking back to shore.
            “Benny!” Goldberg yelled. “What the fuck?”
            Benny shrugged and flashed his sly, mischievous smile. “Ethan decided I should stay and go to my dad’s memorial first thing in the morning.” He put his hand on his heart. “It pains me to miss this, it really does.” Then he threw his head back, and with a loud, exaggerated laugh, gave us the finger. I smiled and shook my head.
            Goldberg laughed. “You fucker! You’ve got the best headline. If you don’t go, I’m the one who’s gonna get it!”
                                                                                                       ***
Ethan’s boat led us west as he reported over the radio, “Ain x-ray”—we were leaving the bay. It was my second-favorite part of any mission (my favorite was returning to the bay after a success-ful mission). There was something about the calm before the storm, these small moments that we shared as all the preparation for the mission faded to the back of our minds and we could enjoy the simple pleasure of being on a boat with friends, sailing three miles toward the setting sun, before turning south toward Gaza. The sunset that evening was especially beautiful, and as I stared toward the horizon, Goldberg leaned over and said to me, “If you believe in God, that’s where he is.” I smiled. 
            Two and a half hours later, in the darkness, we reached southern Gaza. We slowed the boats and turned east, then passed around a tube of black operational face paint and applied it to our faces. Two-hundred meters from shore, we stopped. With no words, just a hand signal from Ethan, we sat on the edge of the Morena, unclipped our diving fins, and slipped them on. We slid into the water, our vests helping keep us afloat, and held our waterproof bags with our weapons in front of our chests. Our unit’s unique mode of transportation was by fin swims. It had been a big part of our training. With fins on our feet, we lay on our backs, our ears in the water, and with straight knees we moved our thighs up and down swimming in the direction our head was facing. During training the idea was to swim as fast as possible. But operationally, as we did that night in front of Gaza, we swam in a straight line, moving slowly with our feet always under water so as not to splash any white water that could arise suspicion to someone looking from shore. With only our darkened faces above water, we were invisible.
            By land, it would have taken hours to get to our target, which was a few kilometers from the Israeli border. To sneak all that way without being noticed would have been almost impossible; Gaza was incredibly dense and crowded. The other option would have been to enter with armored vehicles which meant relinquishing the element of surprise. To enter Gaza by sea without anyone realizing was an ability that was unique to Shayetet. It dawned on me while we swam, as it often did during missions, that there were no other soldiers in the Israeli Defense Forces who could do what we were doing that exact moment.
            We swam until we were close enough to shore so we could stand. We took off our fins and clipped them to our vests, tying the fin blades behind our backs so they wouldn’t swing and inter-fere. Exiting the sea and coming to shore was the part of any mission where we were most vulner-able. The sea provides cover and safety, but once on shore we were visible to anyone looking. And with our M-16s still in our waterproof bags, we were incredibly vulnerable. While it only took us a minute and a half to take out our weapons, fold our bags, and tuck them away at the back of our vests, those ninety seconds always felt longer. Part of the solution was that Elon and Avishai al-ways carried AK-47s, which weren’t as effective as M-16s but were waterproof and didn’t need to be put in a bag. Elon and Avishai came out of the sea first and took their positions on the beach about twenty meters apart, covering opposite directions. That way, if anyone approached us while we were taking out our weapons, Avishai and Elon could open fire. 
            Once they were situated, the rest of us slunk out of the sea, crouched on the shoreline in a line between Elon and Avishai, and took out our weapons and ammunition as fast as we could, hoping for the best. Once ready, we left the beach and crouched along the streets of Gaza, careful not to make noise. Almost two years of training and endless operations had accustomed us to being in a constant state of wet. We walked wet, we fought wet; it was second nature. It’s what we did.
            Our target house was in a neighborhood half a kilometer away in a more rural part of the city. Gaza was built low and compact, with short rectangular concrete buildings and houses. There was no warmth. The streets were empty. Walking through the quiet city in the black of night felt like putting a hand on a sleeping dog’s stomach, feeling his rib cage rise and fall, both excited and frightened by the possibility of his waking.
            We reached and surrounded our target, a square, one-story concrete house. Goldberg and I took the three o’clock side on the west. I took the left and Goldberg went two meters to my right. We lay down on our stomachs and pointed our rifles at the house. Everyone was in position. 
            My ears rang. I was on my back. I heard shooting so I rolled onto my stomach and shot at the house without seeing any targets. Ethan ordered us to number off. Yair yelled, “One!” Avishai yelled, “Two!” Goldberg was three. But there was silence. Avishai yelled even louder. “Two!” Nothing. I looked to my right and instead of Goldberg there was an explosion of earth. A shallow grave without a body. Elon yelled, “Four! Three is missing!” I yelled, “Five! Three is missing!” The count ended with Ethan at eleven, everyone accounted for except for Goldberg. 
            Ethan shouted, “Where’s Goldberg?”
            Goldberg was in a tree.
            The explosive charge he had lain on blew him straight into the tree above us. Under cover, Avishai and I got him off the tree and onto a stretcher. His face was splattered with blood and his eyes were open. When I looked at him, he seemed to be looking back. 
            “Goldy?” I asked. “You okay?”
            He didn’t blink. His eyes were lifeless, but they were still a piercing green.
            “Where’s his fucking leg?” Avishai yelled.
            I looked down toward his waist. That’s when I saw his entire leg was missing, torn at the thigh.
            I fumbled with my vest, trying to find my tourniquet. Avishai put his hand on mine and shook his head. I looked back at Goldberg’s face. His eyes, still pointed in my direction, hadn’t moved.
            The dog had awoken and we needed to leave. The Air Force was waiting for us to give them the green light to strike once we had evacuated back to sea, but we told them to wait. We weren’t leaving Goldberg’s leg there to rot.
            We spent an hour and a half under fire searching for that leg. Avishai and I finally found it two hundred meters north of the tree where Goldberg had been. It was sticking out of a thorn bush, covered in mud. The pants and skin had been burned off, leaving charred flesh, though the boot was still laced around the foot.
            I wrapped my arm around the leg and pulled, almost falling backwards. It was lighter than I had expected. We put Goldberg on a stretcher and covered him with a blanket. I slipped the leg in underneath next to him. The boot stuck out from the bottom and I stared at the still perfectly-done laces as we ran with the stretcher back toward the beach, the rest of the team providing fire and cover. We reached the sand, took a minute to put our M-16s back in our waterproof bags as Av-ishai and Elon kept shooting with their AK-47s. We swam to the boats and sped away as the Air Force bombed the house. The Terrorists who planted the charge in the ground were either in the house and dead, or escaped and alive. I didn’t care.
                                                                                                       ***
In an instant, Goldberg had become a statistic; a monument; a memorial. A picture on a wooden log at our base; a shrine in the corner of his family’s home; a toast to raised glasses; a story told with tear-glazed eyes at gatherings with family and friends. In an instant, I lost my oldest and very best friend, the person who was so much a part of me that I no longer knew who I was without him.
                                                                                                       ***
I knew Goldberg had died eighty-five minutes before his family was notified and two hours before Rona found out. Goldberg and I had shared so much in our fifteen-year friendship. He knew things about me no one else did and vice versa. Now the deepest thing we shared was those fifteen seconds when no one else in the world except him and me knew he had been killed. That’s the most intimate I have ever felt with anyone.
                                                                                                       ***
Goldberg didn’t get his headline. His Mom was the only one except for us who knew about the ring, and she was in no shape to talk to the press. The newspaper printed a dignified, though con-ventional and overused: “Defended his Country with His Life.” They used a nice picture and men-tioned Rona only in passing. It wasn't ideal, but the headline could have been worse. It could have been like the one they gave Erez.