The two small craft with the spindly masts seemed out of place in the vastness of the naval base in Cherbourg. They flew no flag, displayed no names, and bore no armament.
The vessels were the sixth and seventh in a series of twelve ordered by the Israeli navy. The first five had sailed for Israel since the sinking of the Eilat fourteen months before. But the small Israeli naval mission posted in Cherbourg was becoming increasingly pessimistic about the chances of the remaining boats being permitted to leave after their launching. An embargo on arms shipments to the Middle East imposed by President Charles de Gaulle on the eve of the Six Day War had not initially been applied to the unarmed boats being built in Cherbourg. Few people outside Cherbourg knew of their existence; in Cherbourg the local press deliberately refrained from mentioning them for fear that employment at the shipyard might be affected if the boats’ ambiguous status became a public issue. However, with Paris’s new pro-Arab orientation becoming increasingly blatant, the fate of the Cherbourg boats was clearly endangered. Captain Hadar Kimche, the head of the Israeli mission, had begun seeing to it that freshly launched boats waiting for completion of sea tests had enough fuel to get away if an embargo seemed imminent.
Now, in the last days of December 1968, that moment seemed to have come. Israeli commandos had raided Beirut Airport three days after Christmas and destroyed thirteen planes in retaliation for an attack on an El Al plane in Athens by Palestinians a few days before. No one had been killed in the Beirut raid, but the Israelis in Cherbourg feared Paris’s reaction to this blow at the dignity of a country that had been a French mandate.
The feeling of unease was shared by Admiral (ret.) Mordecai Limon, a former commander of the Israeli navy now serving as head of the military purchasing mission maintained by the Israeli Defense Ministry in Paris. With his extensive political contacts, Limon had reason to believe that De Gaullian wrath might now be extended to Cherbourg.
Telephoning Kimche on Wednesday, January 1, 1969, Limon relayed rumors he had heard that action might be taken against the Israeli boats. “Things are getting warm here,” he said. Boat Number Six, launched in November, had completed its trials and was scheduled to sail for Israel in a few days. Boat Number Seven had been launched only a few days before and had not yet been tested at sea. Speaking elliptically, Limon made it clear to Kimche that if Boat Number Six could leave that night, it would be a good idea to do so. Kimche indicated his assent.
Assembling the crew and going aboard Boat Number Six to prepare it for sailing, Kimche left to his deputy, Commander Moshe Tabak, the delicate task of getting clearance from the French navy to leave port without revealing to them that the boat would not be coming back. At the operational level, this involved arrangements for opening a swing bridge that would let the boat out of the arsenal, as the French naval base was referred to. At the quasi-diplomatic level, it was much more awkward.
Before the departure of each boat for Haifa, the Israelis would notify the French naval authorities in Cherbourg. At a ceremony in naval headquarters in the arsenal, Kimche would present the captain of the departing craft to the French admiral commanding and there would be mutual toasts. The Israelis had requested anchorage facilities in the naval base while the new boats were being tested for fear of a possible Palestinian attack in the unguarded civilian port in the weeks between their departure from the shipyard and their departure from Cherbourg. The French had generously obliged, even providing living quarters for the crewmen and support facilities. To delude them now and run off with Boat Number Six under false pretenses was an unsavory act for the Israeli officer, who had developed warm personal relations with his French counterparts. But Tabak accepted that his own feelings were of little consequence in the matter.
Telephoning Commandant Sardas, the French liaison officer with whom the Israelis dealt, Tabak said that the crew of Boat Number Six would be taking the vessel out again in the evening for a running-in exercise. This time it would be a long-distance test that would last forty hours. Captain Kimche would be joining the boat and there was a chance, if the weather was good and the test produced no problems, that the boat might continue on to Israel, rather than return to Cherbourg and risk bad weather on its scheduled date of departure the following week.
“Oh, no, Commandant,” said Sardas. “How would I explain that to my superiors?”
“If you want,” said Tabak, “I’ll explain it to them.”
The boat’s preparations were nearly completed when darkness fell. Its captain, Lieutenant Commander Yaacov Nitzan, told his radioman to inform the arsenal that the boat would be leaving at 7:00 p.m. and to request that the swing bridge be opened at that hour. Tool kits left behind by shipyard workers who had been putting finishing touches on the vessel were still aboard when it slipped through the arsenal exit into the harbor.
High seas pursued the boat as it raced south at thirty knots. Nitzan had been assured that the boat would be easy to handle, but he could barely control its movements. The waves were moving at the same speed as the vessel, which was behaving like a bobbing cork. Hoping that increased speed would afford the boat a better grip, he moved up to thirty-seven knots, but the boat heeled over so sharply as it skidded down a wave that he feared it was going to broach. Nitzan throttled back to twenty-one knots and found that the boat responded well.
Nearing Cape Vincent at the southern tip of Portugal on the second night, Nitzan was informed of fifty-knot headwinds awaiting him if he turned the corner into the Mediterranean. He chose to wait out the storm in the shelter of the cape. Dropping anchor close to shore, he ordered the galley to prepare a hot meal for the exhausted crew.
The premature departure of Boat Number Six had taken by surprise Lieutenant Commander Shabtai Levy, designated as captain of Boat Number Seven. Each of the Israeli boats departing Cherbourg normally carried the captain of the boat that was to follow so that he could familiarize himself with the boat’s handling during the six-day run. Levy, who was in London when the boat left, boarded a commercial flight to Gibraltar to intercept the vessel at its first refueling stop.
The same storm that had forced Nitzan to seek shelter was battering Gibraltar’s airport when the British airliner carrying Levy approached. The pilot announced over the loudspeaker that because of the weather the plane was diverting to Algiers. The Israeli naval officer, who was wearing civilian clothes, asked a stewardess to speak to the pilot urgently. Upon learning Levy’s identity, the pilot agreed to brave the storm and land at Gibraltar rather than risk having his passenger taken into custody by the Algerian authorities.
Meanwhile, shipyard workers in Cherbourg who found the boat gone expressed their disappointment to Tabak at having been deprived of the farewell cocktail party that preceded the departure of each Israeli vessel.
“You haven’t missed out on anything,” he assured them. “We’re going to have the party Friday on Boat Number Seven.”
That vessel was still covered with an untidy clutter of cables and unfastened equipment, but tables for the celebration were set up in the boat’s largest cabin. In a brief speech, Tabak praised the workers for having finished Boat Number Six on schedule. “As you know, the boat has gone out for testing. Captain Kimche has decided to continue with it to Israel. He reports all the systems functioning perfectly.” Raising a glass, Tabak offered a toast: “To the life of the boat and to those that will come after it. May they reach safe harbor.”
In the spirit of bonhomie, a foreman announced that he would come the next day to install heating on the bridge of Number Seven, which was to begin its sea trials on Sunday. Tabak’s aversion to cold was well known in the shipyard. “I don’t normally work on Saturdays,” said the foreman, “but I will do it for you — providing, of course, that the boat will still be here.”
Tabak joined in the guffaws. Gesturing at the exposed cables, he said, “Do you think we would sail three thousand miles in this?”
“Do I know?” replied the foreman with a Gallic shrug. “You people are capable of anything.”
The frantic week was not quite behind Tabak when he arrived home that evening. He put in a call to Gibraltar to make certain about fueling arrangements for Number Six, called London to confirm Levy’s departure for Gibraltar, and contacted Haifa to inform Israeli naval headquarters of the latest developments.
These chores completed, he could at last turn to that snug harbor in which the Jewish people have ever been able to find brief solace in a stormy world — the Sabbath. Unlike most Friday nights, this time there were no guests for the Sabbath meal. His enjoyment of the quiet family meal with his wife, Esther, and their infant son was heightened by the prospect of a solid night’s sleep that lay ahead.
He was still sleeping the next morning at eight when the phone rang. “It’s Mocca,” said Admiral Limon, using the nickname by which he was known to intimates. “Do you remember the vacation in Israel that you asked for? Well, they’ve approved it. I’d be interested in your leaving as soon as possible.”
Tabak had asked for no vacation but, groggy as he was, he understood that Limon was telling him to get Boat Number Seven away to Israel. The two had discussed a few days before the possibility of having to escape with Number Seven if an embargo seemed imminent, but in view of the boat’s condition they had spoken only of taking it across the Channel to get it out of French jurisdiction.
“Are you sure they want me to take the vacation in Israel and not England?” Tabak asked.
“No, no, they want you to go to Israel, as you requested,” said Limon. “You’re needed there. Can you leave today?”
“I’ll have to check some things — tickets and flight schedules. I’ll try to make it today. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
Hanging up, Tabak wondered if he had understood Limon correctly. However, as his mind focused, he decided that he had. He telephoned an aide and told him to get to the crew’s quarters immediately and make sure no one left for the weekend. Dressing swiftly, he made his way to mission headquarters, the task before him unfolding in his mind. The boats were normally tested hundreds of miles before being sailed to Haifa and serious problems were often uncovered. Boat Number Seven would be risking winter storms on a three-thousand-mile journey with no testing at all. It would have to sail with only a crew of twelve — all the crew members remaining in Cherbourg — instead of the normal complement of thirty, and its captain, Lieutenant Commander Levy, had flown to Gibraltar to join Number Six. Furthermore, it had a handicap none of the other boats had had. In order to test the boat’s stability when armed, an unwieldy seven-ton dummy cannon had been secured to its deck.
On the street, Tabak saw a car carrying his chief machinist and two other sailors. He flagged them down.
“We’re going to Paris for the day,” said the machinist.
“Your plans have just been changed,” said Tabak. “Get back to the boat and get it ready to sail. We’re leaving today for Haifa. The French aren’t to know about it.”
Remaining behind to mind the shop would be Lieutenant Haim Shachak, the mission’s supply officer. Tabak told him to get food aboard Number Seven and, if possible, to get customs clearance so that, legally at least, the boat would not be a runaway. The one legal requirement before departure, the Israelis had learned, was customs clearance, which attested that the foreign parts imported to France for the boat, like its German engine, were aboard the boat when it sailed. Informing the French navy of departure was merely a courtesy.
It was raining heavily when Shachak rang the doorbell of the customs officer’s home on the outskirts of Cherbourg.
“Oh, Commandant, what wind has brought you?” asked the Frenchman in surprise, ushering him in.
Shachak apologized for interrupting the official’s weekend and said that an emergency had occurred. “You’ve probably heard about the raid on Beirut Airport,” he said. “There’s a lot of tension now in the Middle East, and the boat is needed there. We want to sail today and would like clearance. We need your help.”
“But the boat is unarmed,” said the customs officer. “What could you do with it?”
“We’ll put a gun on it and patrol.”
When Shachak quoted a passage from Jonah to reinforce a point, the customs officer’s wife, who had joined them, responded enthusiastically. She was the daughter of a minister and was delighted at the opportunity to exchange biblical quotations with the Israeli visitor.
“Listen, Jacques,” she said to her husband. “The commandant has come especially for you. Go with him.”
The official dutifully put on his coat and accompanied Shachak.
There remained the vital task of obtaining a weather map of the treacherous Bay of Biscay. Tabak assumed that Limon had understood that to be the meaning of his remark about checking timetables. Intent on avoiding Commandant Sardas because of the embarrassment over Boat Number Six, he went directly to the office of the arsenal’s weekend duty officer, instead of going through the liaison officer. As he entered the room, Tabak was startled to see that the duty officer behind the desk was Sardas.
“What are you doing here?” asked the Frenchman warily.
“I’ve come to apologize,” said Tabak, recovering quickly. “I heard you were duty officer.”
Sardas’s tense demeanor relaxed a bit. “You don’t know how angry they were with me in Paris,” he confided. “I was rebuked.”
The two men chatted awhile, and then Tabak said, “We’re having trouble with the propeller of Number Seven and want to test it. Can I get the weather?”
“No problem,” said Sardas.
He went out to the meteorologist’s office down the hall and returned with a large map of the region. Tabak pretended to study the Cherbourg area, but out of the corner of his eye he carefully noted the barometric readings for the Bay of Biscay. He was relieved to see no troublesome lows.
Still missing from his weather picture was the area farther south, around Cape Vincent. For this he radioed Boat Number Six, which was still anchored there. Kimche reported that the wind had dropped sufficiently for his vessel to get under way for Gibraltar. Tabak hinted that they might be seeing each other sooner than expected.
Shortly before noon, the boat’s chief petty officer informed Tabak that it was impossible to fuel the boat because the shipyard foreman and two assistants had arrived to install the heating system on the bridge. There was nothing to do but wait. The foreman would immediately have understood what was afoot if he had seen the boat being fueled for a long journey. Fortunately, the workmen were done in less than an hour and fueling could begin.
As the day wore on, Tabak was increasingly troubled by a sense of unease over the operation. Contacting Haifa, he expressed his misgivings and asked whether the urgency was real. “If you’re sure about the boat’s seaworthiness,” headquarters replied, “go.”
By midafternoon, preparations were complete. Attempts to pry loose the dummy gun had failed and the boat would have to sail with it aboard. Tabak telephoned Limon in Paris. “I’ve got my tickets and I’ll be leaving Cherbourg by train at 4:30.”
Limon wished him a good journey.
Tabak returned to the boat to find a new French duty officer taking a keen interest in the unusual Saturday afternoon activity around the Israeli vessel. Tabak introduced himself and informed him that they were going out in order to test the boat’s propeller. Could a sailor be posted to open the bridge at 4:30? The duty officer assured him it would be taken care of. The bridge swung open at the designated time and Tabak conned the boat out through the narrow opening.
The boat ran well across the relatively calm Bay of Biscay. With the excitement of the departure behind him, Tabak was again seized by doubts. Had the escape really been necessary? Had Limon perhaps overreacted? By running off for the second time in three days — deceiving the French naval authorities again — were they not endangering the boats yet to be built? Ten hours out to sea, Tabak received a message from Haifa congratulating him on his rapid organization and departure. It eased his mind to know that headquarters was pleased. Presumably they knew something he didn’t.
Limon had not overreacted. He had been informed on Friday by a senior French official that de Gaulle had decided to declare a total embargo in reaction to the Beirut raid. An order was to be sent later in the day from Paris to all customs offices to halt clearance of war materiel destined for Israel. The directive was being issued before a public announcement of the embargo in order to forestall any last-minute flight of materiel that Israeli machinations might contrive. Limon was able to persuade a French official to have the message to the Cherbourg customs office misaddressed to a district customs office in Normandy and dispatched only late on Friday. The directive would not be rerouted to Cherbourg until after the weekend.
Tabak was unaware of this as he rounded Cape Vincent and entered the Mediterranean. The sea was mountainous but the wind was behind him. Low clouds were thick around Gibraltar. Entering the harbor, he tied up alongside Boat Number Six and stepped down from the bridge for the first time in forty-nine hours. Kimche was on the quay to greet him.
Leaving the two boats to sail on to Israel the next day under Tabak’s command, Kimche flew to London and took the cross-Channel ferry to Cherbourg to face the French wrath.
“Oho, are they looking for you,” said Commandant Sardas when Kimche telephoned him. Donning a dress uniform for the confrontation, the Israeli officer was ushered into the office of the admiral commanding the arsenal.
Flanked by aides wearing severe expressions, the French officer remained standing and did not offer Kimche a seat. The Israelis had not acted “avec honneur,” said the admiral. They had violated the French navy’s hospitality and he was therefore obliged to ask them to leave the premises of the arsenal within twenty-four hours. Kimche was asked if he had anything to say.
“What would you have done in my situation?”
“That is not a question I am obliged to answer,” said the admiral.
The tension eased somewhat as the admiral accompanied Kimche to the door, the official message having been delivered. As they parted, the admiral shook hands and said, “In the same situation, I might have done the same.”
Outside the door, French officers were waiting to make arrangements for the transfer of Israeli property from the arsenal. Kimche asked for a twenty-four-hour extension which was readily granted.
The punishment was far milder than expected. The Israelis had feared banishment from Cherbourg and possibly a halt in further construction of the boats. They had been willing to risk it to ensure that at least Boats Six and Seven were in hand because of their critical importance.
The boats of Cherbourg were not the conventional patrol boats they seemed. They were in fact among the most unconventional vessels afloat, platforms for a technology and method of warfare almost a decade ahead of any Western navy’s. Israel was gambling the future security of its sea frontier and maritime lifeline on these frail-looking craft. They were the realization of a revolutionary concept that had emerged eight years before in Israeli naval headquarters in Haifa almost as a passing thought.