By I.W. Fellner, U.S.A.
“Turtleneck” stood before us, barked, “Attention!” and responded with an exaggerated click of heels and a stiff posture. Here in the Haganah you had representatives of every nation in the world: “Turtleneck” had been in the Russian Army. He looked Russian, too – of medium height but broad and strong as a bull. His real name was Yosef, but we’d nicknamed him for the type of sweater he always wore. I don’t know what rank he’d held in the Russian Army, but here he commanded a company which would make him a captain. But this was before 15th May 1948. The British were still around and the Haganah was not yet the Israel Defense Force. “Turtleneck’s military title was simply company commander and he bore no rank.
The shutters were down and additional sheets of black cloth were hung over the windows. Silent figures were guarding from the roof as well as from the sides of the house. All that day everyone you met in Jerusalem mentioned that the Haganah would surely blow up the Arab house tonight. This was bad, but the plans had been set and we would go tonight. Because there had been so much talk, we had to be doubly careful of being taken by surprise by the British.
“Turtleneck” shouted, “Count off.” “One,” said the first man. “Sten gun, four magazines and three grenades,” and he moved smartly to parade rest.
All forty-odd went through the same procedure including the three Bren gun sections, the tough-looking demolition squad and the two mine-laying sections.
I said, “Thirty-two, Webley pistol, two grenades and lantern,” and came to parade rest. “Any matches for the lantern?” asked “Turtleneck.” “Yes,” I answered. “Well, say so,” he ordered.
So I came to attention, said, “And matches,” went to parade rest and everyone laughed. But he was right.
Tonight’s target was Beit Shaheen, the House of Shaheen. It was a large, solidly built building, three stories high. All that week the Arabs had sporadically fired from the top floor. One Jew had been killed and three wounded, and yet the British refused to investigate the house. Instead, they had come twice to our training base and searched the place for arms. But we were careful and they never found that single round of ammunition in someone’s pocket to give them the opportunity to throw all of us in jail. No wonder we awaited anxiously for Britain’s departure, even thought the Arab nations threatened annihilation.
Moshe called and told me to get ready to go. We were one of the two mine-laying sections which would be guarding the approach of British intervention. I checked my pistol, arranged the grenades so the pins couldn’t be pulled out by accident, and joined Moshe and the little demolitions man who made up our section. We went out into the dark hallway and silently followed Moshe up the steps to the roof. Crouching low to avoid appearing on the skyline, we crossed over to the next roof and into another dark hallway. Downstairs Moshe gave the password and exchanged a few words with a guarding shadow, and then stepped out through the door and into Jerusalem’s night. A few seconds later the demolitions man followed, and then I stepped out into the cool air. The cloudy sky covered the field with deep shadows. It was a good night if it didn’t rain. We stood there for a few minutes, allowing our eyes to become accustomed to the night and listening to the sounds. Except for the crying jackals and the barking dogs, everything seemed to sleep.
The walk to our position wasn’t very long, but caution slowed us down. Moshe halted us a few times and went on alone to investigate a suitable place to set up shop. Finally, about 200 yards down the road, he found what he wanted. Right off the side of the road was a two-story house with a backyard leading off in the direction of our retreat route. From behind the house we could see down the deserted street and yet remain hidden. A lamppost lit up the road.
Moshe took the sign printed in large red-inked letter, “DANGER MINES,” and followed by the two of us, rapidly walked down the road. About 20-yards away he placed the sign in the middle of the road while I gathered the stones to hold the sign upright. Our crude lantern – a candle in a tin can – was unnecessary, as the street light lit up the warning. Meanwhile our demolition man was loosening the pins on his home-made mine consisting of two grenades tied to a board. He attached a string to the pins to enable him to control the grenades from behind the house. Everything was set and we returned to our hiding place. The sign stood lonesome and compelling in the center of the road facing the direction of town. About 15-yards away a dark object lay on the road camouflaged by leaves and shrubs: the mine. Now we just had to wait.
Time passed slowly as we listened to the powerful droning of the patrolling British armed cars, but none approached our position. Suddenly two short bursts knifed the night and cracked off the hills. Seconds later answering shots sprayed the dark. Then quiet again. We strained our ears in the heavy silence, trying to understand what had happened. The first burst had sounded like a Bren – probably the Arabs. The answering fire was our reply. Guesses were blotted out with violent suddenness as a crashing of gunfire pounded the neighborhood, announcing the attack. The tensions of weeks of preparation and hard training were released as tracers seared the black sky like meteors searching for the enemy. Lights flashed in disjointed patterns from neighboring windows, and the few shutters which had been left open were clanked shut. The drone of the British armed cars picked up speed and became louder. Someone opened a nearby door and shut it quickly when he saw our shadows. Suddenly there was a sharp explosion.
“The door,” shouted our small demolitions man, pressing his hands together. Now the firing became more intense with the objective of getting into the house. My friends were out there, and the time crawled with the slowness of apprehension. We kept a steady watch on the road, but although we could hear the British all about, none came down our road. Moshe said they would come when it was safe.
Suddenly a deep booming shook the air, shattering our tension. Where Beit Shaheen should have been, a cloud of grey smoke was billowing upwards. We pounded each other in congratulation. The explosion had brought about a perfect silence and out of the quiet a clear strong voice rang: “Disperse, disperse.” We looked at our watches and waited an impatient five minutes. Then Moshe gave the order and the little man jerked the string. Two closely followed sharp reports crashed the night, announcing the destruction of our little mine. Then we ran.
We learned the full story the next afternoon while gazing across the field from our base to Rehavia at the mass of ruins which had been Beit Shaheen. David told how Shmuel Degan got a flesh wound in the back – our only casualty. In the evening, Dov Randel, who had led a squad, broadcast the story of Beit Shaheen over the secret “Voice of Israel” station. We eagerly ate up every word and after it was over we made fun of Dov’s stumbling and argued that half the things he told weren’t accurate. But it made us very proud.
Source: American Veterans of Israel Newsletter: Winter 1991