The Syrian leaned back in his chair and studied the boy before him. He noted that Walid’s hands shook, his uniform was filthy, and he had not lifted his gaze from the floor since entering the room. The attack last night upon the American position had been a traumatic and stunning defeat for the militia. The only surprise for the Syrian was that they had stayed on the hill after their first futile attempt upon the gate.
The American commander had played it perfectly. He had drawn Ahmud into an attack that could not possibly succeed and crippled his force. The Syrian wondered if the Americans had even suffered any casualties. The attack had cost him the loss of Farouck, his best sergeant. The explosives technician could be replaced; he was merely a mechanic. Finding someone suitable to replace Farouck would be more difficult. For the time being, and probably until his mission in Beirut was completed, he would have to see to the details personally. An annoyance, but nothing that would even remotely jeopardize the mission.
He watched the boy through narrowed eyes. He guessed him to be not more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old. No real experience to speak of, certainly nothing that would have prepared him for last night. The boy was practically in shock. He and a few of the lucky others had been selected the night before to help the Syrian crew the mortars. They had worked hard, hauling ammunition, digging gun emplacements, sandbagging the tubes in place, and firing relentlessly as the Syrian adjusted the elevation and charges. All of it had been futile. He had not been so careless as to actually fire on the militia, but none of the hundred or so rounds they had fired had done more than cause the occasional worried glance among the Marines.
“So, Walid. It seems we have suffered a setback,” offered the Syrian. “The Brotherhood has lost many and has gained little.”
Walid nodded, then mumbled a barely audible reply, “We have lost much and gained nothing.”
The Syrian paused, nodding in agreement, then said, “The Americans are not to be taken lightly in matters of arms. The Marines are noted for their prowess.” He waited for a reply and when it became apparent that the boy meant to say nothing he continued, “We are not strong enough, you and I, to take them by force. We must find other ways to defeat them.”
The boy lifted his gaze from the floor, if only for a moment, and the Syrian continued, “Even the mightiest army can be defeated, Walid. The difficult thing is to find their weakness, and all armies have weaknesses. It is an inherent characteristic, but one must look for it, and one must be wise as well as courageous. Simple courage is not enough.” The Syrian was pleased to see the boy cross to the window and slump into a chair.
After some moments of silence, Walid asked, “But what now? The Marines have beaten us. We cannot hope to drive them from the hill.”
The Syrian waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “And what of this hill? Suppose that we had driven them from it last night? What then? They would send another group of Marines and they would occupy a different hill. And then would we fight them again? For what, yet another hill? And all of these hills would be in Lebanon, would they not?”
The boy nodded, seeming to agree with the older man. “Our task is to drive them from Lebanon. Return the country to its people.” The Syrian paused, then continued, “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, of course,” answered Walid.
The Syrian leaned back in his chair and rested one foot on the open drawer of his desk. “I have been a soldier a long time, Walid. And I have seen many nights like the one you and your friends witnessed last night.”
“What do you mean?” asked the boy, staring contemptuously at the Syrian’s business suit and expensive Italian loafers.
The Syrian noted the boy’s glance, correctly guessing what he was thinking. “I have seen battles with the Israelis, most of which we lost because we foolishly challenged a stronger army.”
The Syrian repressed a smile as the boy looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain. He removed a battered photograph from his wallet showing a younger version of himself standing before a burning Israeli tank.
“The Golan,” he said, “during the seventy-three war.” He paused, “Do you remember it?”
The boy shook his head. “No,” he said softly, “but I have heard of it. Your army won a great victory.”
The Syrian again fought the urge to laugh, then said quietly, “No, Walid. My army suffered a humiliating defeat. But we tell ourselves it was a victory because, for a day, we fought well.” He noted the boy’s puzzled expression, then continued, “I was in charge of a section of tanks. We advanced rapidly the first day, taking and even passing our objectives. That first evening we found ourselves on high ground, in a virtually impregnable position. We had advanced quickly, isolating and destroying numerous Israeli vehicles and tanks. We had advanced so rapidly that we outdistanced our supply convoys. That night we watched the Syrian Air Force battle the Israelis for the sky, and when we slept we thought we would wake victorious the next morning.”
“And did you not?” asked Walid.
The Syrian shook his head slowly, smiling at the boy’s childlike questioning. “No, we did not. The next morning we woke to the sound of advancing Israeli armor.”
“But you held the better position, the heights,” protested the boy.
“It made little difference to the Israeli pilots who destroyed our air force the night before. They rapidly set about destroying our tanks, including the ones I commanded.” The Syrian said nothing for a moment, remembering the sounds of his command being destroyed as the Israeli aircraft thundered in on their strafing runs. “Do you know, Walid, that I walked back to Syria from the Golan?” The boy looked at him with a quizzical expression, as he continued, speaking in a quiet voice, “It was quite a feat, really. I moved only in the dark, always wary that I might be killed by patrols from either side. I eventually made my way to the remnants of a supply unit that ferried me back to Damascus.”
“And what became of you then?” asked Walid.
The Syrian thought for a moment before answering, “I was given a medal,” he said, a smile again overtaking his features. “A medal, although all my tanks had been destroyed, and most of my men killed or captured. It seems that by holding our position we had held open a corridor allowing other units to retreat back to Syria.”
“You were a hero,” said the boy. “The Israelis had the advantage.”
“I was no hero, Walid. My tanks were without fuel, we had no choice but to stand.”
The boy shook his head, saying in anguish, “Why do you tell me this? So that I will know that what seems an Arab victory is not?”
“No, Walid. I tell you this for two reasons. The first is that you should learn that we lost because we attacked the Israelis on terms favorable to them. We allowed them to fight on grounds that favored their strengths. Although we initially won, their superior weapons, the tanks and aircraft, were invariably to make the difference between victory and defeat for us.”
“And the other reason?” asked Walid.
“So you will realize that even the most vigilant enemy is vulnerable at certain times, and in certain circumstances, even if only for a short time. Learn to avoid their strengths, and to attack their weaknesses and you will begin to sense what it takes to be the victor, instead of the vanquished.”
“I cannot learn these things in one night, after seeing my friends die. I am not you.”
“I do not ask that you learn them in one night. No man can pretend to gain the wisdom of a lifetime in a single night,” said the Syrian, sensing his moment was at hand.
“What then,” asked the boy, obviously confused, the despair evident in his voice. “What should I do?”
The Syrian said nothing. He glanced at the boy, knowing that he was nearly distraught. “You must listen to my counsel, Walid,” he said in a soft voice. “You must avoid more foolish adventures against an enemy you cannot defeat by conventional methods. Otherwise you will have no hope of victory.” The Syrian paused, knowing that he had won. “Are we agreed on this?” he asked.
Walid shook his head. “Yes,” he said, his voice full of resignation.
The Syrian regarded him with silent amusement. It might have been worse my young friend, he thought, I might have permitted you to accompany Ahmud. He rose and crossed to the window. Touching Walid lightly on the shoulder he said, “Come, we have work to do if we are to avenge the deaths of our brothers.”
Without hesitation Walid followed him out of the room, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. The Syrian smiled, thinking that he had at last found the proper man to lead the Brotherhood.