14 March 1990

(IDF F-16s fly over Masada. Photo Wiki).

Back at the Tel Aviv Hilton from the Rapture Tour, we waved farewell to Svi, who served us well. We gave him a decent tip, and wished him the best of luck, which seems something good to have here.

We visited the Admin to dump our treasures and then paid a call on the VF-31 Admin, where Link and Neck were playing bluegrass on guitar and fiddle. We sing along for an hour or so and enjoyed a couple free Fighter Drinks. As midnight came on, it seemed like a good idea for the Air Wing SIX Commander (CAG) to see some local sights.

CAG is the redoubtable Fields Richardson, best goddamn pilot in This Man’s Navy, and maybe the world. He qualified in all the aircraft in the Wing, including the S-3 helicopter. Apparently there is a stabilization switch between the seats that makes the bird stay steady, and the co-pilot on the check ride thought he would give CAG some humility by turning it off while in flight.

CAG never noticed.

Anyway, Chop, Doc and I took him up the street and show CAG the blonde who is the new love of Chop’s life. We have coffee and beer and CAG confirms Chop’s excellent taste in Israeli women.

Then a stop at a strange New Wave Israeli bar under the Hotel Caravel, where the tunes are a bizarre collision of disco and Middle Eastern Wailing. There is a lot of stuff going on here, not all of it readily ascertainable without a scorecard. We listen to two endless wailing songs with an excellent beat and return to the Hotel, where the Helicopter guys insist on buying us cognac in the bar.

Later, Ouzo came in and invited us to the Thunder Admin for a nightcap, where Doc Feeks attempted to defy the laws of physics and tosses an apple and an orange from the balcony in a bid to outdistance the Olympic-sized pool ten stories far below.

“I can do it,” he vowed, and of course, gravity won. I was glad he didn’t miscalculate and hurl himself off the balcony. That would be unfortunately.

As we left, the late shift of the VA-176 Thunders rolled in and jumped on top of those unfortunates who had the temerity to try to go to sleep early. We close the door on a scene worthy of the Inferno, with partially- clad bodies writhing in the darkness.

Upon our arrival at our own Admin, we discover to our horror that there is no available floor space. There are bodies everywhere, the top mattress pulled off the double bed to permit guys to sleep on both mattress and box springs and unidentified Staff Officers slumped in the two chairs and across the couch.

There is no place to sleep so Doc suggests we go to breakfast, which isn’t being served yet. After a long talk with two young Israeli security guards, we wind up back downtown, drinking red wine and dark sweet coffee in glasses and eating what appears to be a cheese-filled bagel with an order of soft boiled eggs. We talked to some wonderful Yemenis. They really do have some of the most beautiful women in the world,,and guess what? They have stories, too.

Their presence here is derived from the “Lost Tribes of Israel” immigration initiative to keep up with the Palestinian demographics.

Good place. Not a tourist trap; more like early beatnik with poetry, and late partiers. When we rise and return to the street it is broad daylight. We talk to our cabby- he has a story, too- about the influence the United States is pressing on the Israelis to make concessions to the PLO in the current talks.

Things are getting a little strange, based on lack of sleep, raw adrenaline and alcohol, and we have got to get some rest. We are at poolside by 0800, where a couchette by the glittering blue water seems an excellent place for a quick nap. There is a photo shoot with some lovely ladies in swimsuits with the backdrop of the Wine Dark Sea, but I can’t stay awake to appreciate it all.

We are roused by 1030, it is clear that what we need is a road trip to clear the evil humors that have accumulated in our aching brains. Chop and CAGMO are going to look for diamonds for their wives, and this is supposed to be one of the best places to get them due to the connection to the cutters in Rotterdam.

So, the only other logical thing is for eight of us to set off for the Dead Sea and the mighty fortress of Masada.

CAG was in the lead car and the Deputy had his wing. After some minor confusion in getting out of town we find the four-lane and blast off toward Jerusalem. I am navigating, but the charts we have from the Defense Mapping Agency are oriented aerial rather than navigation and are not annotated with route numbers like the ones from the filling station.

I have plenty of information about the Dead Sea Scrolls but am hurting for the correct turns and guessing. We detour around the capital-we-can’t-acknowledge and head for Jericho.

We roar through blasted nothingness, passing clumps of Bedouin families living in tents, their sheep grazing on thorns on the ridgelines. It is the Badlands, Bible-style. Then off the tabletop of the plateau and we roll downhill, down through sea level, down to the lowest spot on earth by the Dead Sea. There is a stone marker indicating the bottom of the world, and nearby some enterprising Israeli has also pulled in a trailer, erected an awning, placed out some lawn chairs and opened the Lowest Bar in the World.

Lutt-man cracked: “We should open a place with a basement and call it The Scroll Lounge. Then we would really have the lowest dive ever.”

Indeed, the caves on the hills above the sea are exactly where the thousands of scrolls were written and hidden. It was eerie- like the old hermits were still looking down at us.

We stop at the marker and have our pictures taken. Then there is a right turn on Route One and we hug the shore of the Dead Sea, the water brilliant blue and the barbed wire un-weathered on the security fence. It is raw, wild, blasted country with an unearthly beauty. The higher elevation to our right is where the hermits and their

After 55 Kilometers we see an immense flat-topped mesa in the distance.

We are approaching Masada, the last refuge of the Sicarii rebels and their families in the first war of Jewish rebellion against Rome.

The fortress was built on the orders of Herod between 37 and 31 AD. The stand off between the Sicarii Jews and Rome culminated the First Rebellion of the against Rome. The only surviving account of the dramatic event was recorded by the historian Josephus, and may (or may not) be accurate. According to him, the siege resulted in the mass suicide 960 people who were determined to die rather than submit to the Roman 10th Legion- the Legio X Fretensis. In scope it was about the same size as the kool-aid suicides at Jonestown in 1978, but this has assumed a mythic place in the history of he Jewish People, ad rightly so.

The guidebook says that the 10th Legion tool their name “of the Strait,” from the time they spent guarding the Strait of Messina. That is a much more crowded place than I could have imagined until I saw it with my own eyes.

The 10th had a history as long and distinguished as our own 82nd or 101st Airborne, though they also lost their Eagle once and had a grudge to work off. Starting in 67 AD, Fretensis fought the Jews. They had some illustrious leaders in doing it. The 10th was commanded by Marcus Ulpius Trajanus, the father of the future emperor, while the supreme commander in Judaea was Vespsian, who would go on to promote himself to Emperor during the civil war that broke out after the suicide of Nero in 68 AD.

The 10th took part in the capture of Jerusalem in ’70, but the country remained in turmoil. The difficulty in swiftly crushing the Judeans was creating the impression that Rome might be weakening, so to demonstrate resolve, governor Flavius Silva started to besiege Herod’s citadel at Masada. From a military perspective, it was a pointless evolution- after all, for a modest investment in manpower, the Sicarii could be left on the heights until they starved. But an example had to be made of those who would defy Rome’s might.

The guidebook said that Masada was extensively excavated between 1963 and 1965, and had been largely left untouched for two millennia. The Roman attack ramp still stands on the western side and can be climbed on foot, if you re not really tired or hung over. We parked in the lot below and took the cable car to the summit. That is living.

When we debarked, we walked through the restored structures, including the Roman-style bathhouses. There are murals in what had been Herod’s two main palaces, and an elaborate cistern system that enabled the defenders to get water from nearby wadis and not quickly perish of thirst.

The Israeli archeologists got a lot out of the excavations, including confirming the dimensions of the ritual baths. But the main event for me was walking to the edge of the cliff and looking down. The siege lines of the 10th are plain as day from above, including the barracks. From that distance you could imagine the garrison was out on a route march. But what is truly staggering is the symbol of the determination to subjugate the Judeans. The ramp the Romans threw up methodically from the desert floor is staggering.

We stood and looked down and imagined how long it took to construct the ramp, the daily progress they made, grimly and relentlessly. It is eerie and real and tremendously moving. As we gazed down at the assault route, I confessed to CAG that as much as I appreciated the devotion of the defenders, I found myself drawn more to the solders of the 10TH, who invested the place, than to the Zealots who defended it.

CAG smiled and said softly “I was IN the 10TH Legion.”

I don’t think I have ever heard anything so wild and so true. We are the soldiers of a modern empire, but I don’t think CAG meant it as a metaphor. I just nodded.

The sun was brilliant and the breeze refreshing. Among other wonders in a day filled with extraordinary things, I walked into the oldest extant Synagogue, one that served this fort in the days of the Second Temple, before Fretensis threw it down.

The t-shirts say: “Masada shall not fall again.” F-16s roared by on low-level training flights. This is a special and holy place.

I contented myself with the shirt that says:

“Masada: I cam, I saw, I climbed.” Which I didn’t, strictly speaking, but hey, “close enough for Government work.”

On the way back, DCAG had a flat. There was some minor excitement as the professional aviators attempted to find out where the spare was hidden, but in time we blasted on. The ride back to Tel Aviv is long and I doze. When I awake, I manage to provide erroneous directions to the hotel, but eventually we make it.

We pack our bags on the run, as much has transpired in the world of work since we have been away on the Rapture Tour. Mark’s wife Trish was hospitalized with an emergency gall bladder operation; Scooter is panicked about five new action items that the embarked Battle Group Staff has dreamed up.

We have to get back to work. The ride back up north to Haifa takes an hour and fifteen minutes. We wheel into the port complex and get the car parked.

The Senior Shore Patrol immediately buttonholes CAG, and begins the litany of woes ashore from the night before. CAG changes from Dad to Captain Commanding in an instant. Boating back to Forrestal is easy for a change, and in the wink of an eye we are Naval Officers again. Up in the office we discover that no mail has arrived, and the Deputy discovered his on-again-off again orders are off again.

He is as low as I have seen him, and he wouldn’t have looked out of place on a stool at the Scroll Lounge.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
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