The soldier shall make use of his weaponry and power only of the fulfillment of the mission and solely to the extent required; he will maintain his humanity even in combat. The soldier shall not employ his weaponry and power in order to harm non-combatants or prisoners of war, and shall do all he can to avoid harming their lives, body, honor and property.
—The Spirit of the IDF, Israel Defense Forces official doctrine of ethics
Corporal Wolf is a creature of habit. Before he feels human he needs a glass of sweet coffee spiced with cardamom, and at least twenty minutes alone in the toilet with the newspaper. This morning he has received neither. He sits in the caged cockpit of an armoured bulldozer, M16 assault rifle across his lap, a quarter of a litre of mineral water in a transparent plastic bottle in his dirty hand. A further quarter litre sluices freely about the floor. While fumbling for a magazine in his thigh pocket, Wolf placed the open bottle between his feet with predictable results. Without the magazine his semi-automatic weapon is just an expensive walking stick. Wolf would still rather have the water than the cartridges.
Wolf's boots form black islands in the cocktail of dirty water and dried mud on the floor of the cockpit. "Hardly worth the effort", he thinks of the time spent polishing them on his bunk in the tent reeking of paraffin and cigarette smoke. He forces an oily finger into the rim of each boot, pushing into the space between the smooth leather and the wool of his socks. Feeling the slots in the lining, his fingertips stroke the rough edge of the square metal identity tags inserted there.
A delicate rain begins to fall, slowly turning the village paths to mud. The staccato drumming on the roof of the cockpit picks up pace as the weather turns harsh.
The village sits on the side of a steep hill, cut into the face like an unfinished staircase. The hill tapers out into ditches overgrown with weeds and scrub. In heavy rain, the collected detritus of the village flows out from the ditches, decorating the wire fence at the bottom of the hill with a collage of plastic bottles, cigarette packets, used nappies and chicken bones. Beyond the fence lies the main road running east and west, built to bypass the village.
Further up the hill stand clusters of two-storey houses, geometric concrete blocks with flat roofs. Through square windows women and children pull wet clothes from impromptu wire washing lines. Walls, once smooth and white, are cracked and dirty. Fallen plaster reveals bare masonry; mosaics with missing pieces.
In the piebald waste ground between houses stunted bushes barely conceal a treasure of rusted and dented finjans, oil cans with necks stuffed with rags and sand, and discarded gas containers.
Roofs enclosed by low walls create makeshift storerooms. From below you can see a broom handle pointing to the sky, or the rusted handlebars of a bicycle like the horns of a bull.
From a distance the buildings look like headstones scattered about a neglected graveyard.
Wolf swigs from his bottle and watches fearless crows pecking at the wet earth among empty cigarette packets and tin cans. He hangs his head and rubs an eye with the ball of his free hand. The crows scatter to the sky, following the curve of the main road to the west.
Mid-morning and Wolf has been at work in his bulldozer cage for several hours. The early shift provides a relief from the crush and bustle of the tent he shares with eleven other soldiers, finding their enthusiasm for the work an alien culture. "They live like pigs, so let's treat them like pigs" one said recently. Wolf had to leave the tent just to stay calm. "Pigs indeed", he said quietly. There are other compensations too: the energizing chill of damp air, the freedom to think, a chance to soar high above the village.
