The IDF's "Dirty Dozen"

Episode # 15

If you recall from Episode #14…

The unit I was assigned to had quite the reputation—and it was far from good.

It’s where they dumped the problem recruits. The malcontents, kids from broken homes, or with criminals records.

It was the IDF’s version of the Dirty Dozen. Except, it wasn’t just 12 misfits—it was an entire brigade of them.

The Golani Brigade

Why it became the “garbage dump” of the IDF was never clear to me. All I knew was it was no great honor to be in Golani.

But it hadn’t always been that way.

Founded in 1948 during Israel’s War of Independence, Golani fought its way over the following decades to become one of the most decorated ground forces in the IDF.

Its assigned theater of operation was nominally the country’s north, including the Golan Heights, its namesake.

However, during war any of its three battalions could be quickly moved to another part of the country. Accordingly, Golani had fought against the Syrians in the north, the Egyptians in the south and the Jordanians in the east.

Granted, not every soldier drafted into Golani was a “problem” recruit, but there were enough of them for the brigade to deserve its unsavory reputation as a wild, undisciplined unit.

The IDF brass was certainly aware of the “Golani problem,” as was, for the most part, the rest of the country.

So by the time I entered it’s ranks, unbeknownst to me, dramatic changes were afoot.

Golani was turning around

And Zionism was the reason.

Allow me a brief but necessary digression…

After the events of Oct 7th, 2023, Zionism and Zionists became dirty words among the global left, while outright anti-semitism—the hatred of Jews— grew exponentially in strength and virulence throughout the world among the left and the right.

Yet, zionism and anti-semitism are two sides of the same coin.

Zionism, correctly defined, is the Hebrew word for patriotism—Israeli patriotism. Hence, a Zionist is an Israeli patriot—a person who loves Israel, loves the idea of Israel, wants to see her strong and flourishing, and is willing to support and defend it.

No different from any other patriot—be they American, French, Spanish, Egyptian, or any other national.

It then follows that anti-Zionism, as practised today, is nothing less than politically-cloaked anti-semitism.

The denial of the right of Israelis, and Jews who are citizens of other countries, to support and love Israel—the country and the land on which the Jewish people, the Jewish nation, arose and has lived on for more than 3,000 years.

Golani gets rebuilt

What always impressed me about Israelis is that they see each other as family, with disagreements—even heated disagreements—notwithstanding.

Recognizing that they are surrounded on all sides by enemies intent on “driving the Jews into the sea,” they understand that to survive as a people, as a nation, they need to be there for each other—to lift each other up when the other is down.

And therein lies the story of the new Golani...

Base Bezek

From downtown Tel-Aviv, I and the other new Golani recruits were shuttled by bus to Bezek in the West Bank, the IDF base were all Golani recruits did their basic training.

Located near the restive Palestinian city of Jenin, Bezek had been a Jordanian army base prior to the Six-Day War.

The first fellow recruit I befriended at Bezek was Yuval.

Yuval was a brick shit-house, as the saying goes. Powerfully built, strong, smart (and fluent in English.)

His father was a colonel in the paratroop reserves.

Yuval had tried out for the paratroops—and he made the cut. But he volunteered to serve in Golani—which shocked the hell out of me. So of course I had to ask him why he chose a shit-hole unit when he could serve with the best?

I can’t tell you his answer verbatim—but, in a word, it was Zionism.

He wanted to help rebuild Golani.

He knew that many of those drafted into Golani needed help—needed to be lifted up so they could become their better selves.

And he was far from the only one I befriended who embodied the Zionist ideal.

Even our platoon’s lieutenant had voluntarily transferred from the paratroops in order to train Golani soldiers, as had our company commander.

Golani basic training—a six-month-ball-buster!

I thought working on a kibbutz was back-breaking hard—compared to basic training, it was a walk in the park.

Golani basic training is the longest in the IDF—six months of pure hell on earth.

The first three months were mostly designed to get us physically fit. And to get it through our thick civilian skulls that as future soldiers training to defend the country—we had to obey orders and work together.

Military discipline by any other name.

It proved to be a difficult mindshift, considering the mental and emotional makeup of many of the recruits.

So, to help us reach this goal, punishing physical training was how our minds were set straight.

Foremost among our training was running.

Walking was forbidden

If our platoon, or an individual soldier, had to go somewhere—the bathroom, the mess hall, anywhere—it was done at a run.

And if a recruit was tired and stopped, or refused to run, the entire platoon was punished—which typically meant a helluva lot more running.

The only way you could stop running was if you collapsed and needed a medic to hook you to an IV to resuscitate you—and then, as soon as you were back up on your feet—you continued to run.

Those in the platoon who felt aggrieved by the punishment of more running would at some point deliver to the refusenik “street justice.”

In the movie A Few Good Men, starring Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson, it was called a “code red.”

Though not nearly as severe as in the movie, it served the same purpose.

To make clear to any prima donna, recalcitrant or laggard who makes the platoon’s already miserable existence any more miserable—he would receive a vigorous “attitude adjustment”.

Oddly, marching was not required

Unlike in other militaries we never marched.

We weren’t instructed on how to look like soldiers, marching in perfect unison and cadence, in straight rows and columns.

I guess the IDF didn’t see any benefit in it.

Instead, they wanted us, as our company commander phrased it—to fight like lions. Lions of Judah.

To that end, our platoon sergeant (another brick shit-house) relished making us run at every unreasonable opportunity—as did, presumably, every other basic training sergeant.

So for three months we ran… and we ran… and we ran…

We ran up hills, down hills. Up hills carrying jerry cans filled with water. Down hills carrying jerry cans filled with water. Running to the obstacle course, running on the obstacle course, running back from the obstacle course. Running while carrying a soldier on a stretcher (an IDF favorite). Running while carrying a soldier across our shoulders. Running, running—every day, all day and sometimes in the middle of the night.

It should be noted that our sergeant and our corporal always ran beside us, primarily to set the pace, and to show us it can be done. Plus, unlike us, they did it in full battle dress.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

And some couldn’t handle it.

A suicide

As we approached the three month mark we heard that a recruit in another platoon had got hold of a grenade… and pulled the pin.

An investigation began, and all training on the base was suspended.

It was pouring that cold winter day, and neither Yuval or me wanted to stay in our barrack. Calling it a barrack though was overly generous. It was a rickety corrugated tin-walled hut with a leaky tin roof and a dirt floor.

So instead of watching rivers of mud flow under and between our metal-frame beds, we donned our rain ponchos and sat on the steps outside the quartermaster’s building.

While we reflected quietly to ourselves about the suicide, we also wondered out loud how we were going to get through the rest of basic training.

It truly seemed a bridge too far.

We were exhausted

A few in the platoon were visibly depressed.

Yet, in a few weeks we would receive our rifles, and learn how to use them.

So the unasked question between Yuval and me was obvious: how many more of us would take the quick and easy way out.

Soon, we found out.

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Next month, I’ll tell you the rest of the story.

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