At the President's Conference at the Binyanei Ha'Uma in Jerusalem, I ran into Hasson Hasson. When we last met 25 years ago, Hasson was a Captain. Today he is a Brigadier-General, and serves as President Shimon Peres's Military Secretary.

Even there, among all the political and business movers and shakers of the world, Hasson Hasson stood out, just as I remembered him a generation ago at the Officer Training School, north of Mitzpe Ramon in the Negev Desert. I saluted him with a smile. It took him a few moments to remember our last meeting, and then we hugged and agreed to get together soon.

Very early in my army career, I aspired to be an officer. After an intense year-long training course, I became a tank commander and was assigned the prestigious position of instructor in the tank commanders' course. I excelled there too, and just knew I was destined to be an officer. After six months of instruction, with outstanding references in hand, I applied for the Officer Training Course. To my shock, and to the surprise of my comrades and commanders, I failed the psychological test - twice. (In retrospect, perhaps it was because of my failed attempts to flirt with the attractive young psychologist who was examining me.)

I refused to abandon my dream of becoming an officer. Avigdor Kahalani, in his book The Heights of Courage (in Hebrew: Oz 77), describes how he was kicked out of officer training because of his supposed lack of command and control ability. He went on to serve as a platoon commander without becoming an officer, and ended up being awarded the Distinguished Service Medal for his command of a tank platoon during the Six Day War, followed by the Medal of Valor (Israel's highest award) for his conduct as commander of the 77th Battalion during the Yom Kippur War's fierce tank battles on the Golan Heights. The citation for the Medal of Valor, presented to him by then-Defense Minister Shimon Peres, read: "Lieutenant-Colonel Kahalani displayed remarkable leadership and personal courage in a difficult and complicated battle, one that changed the result of the Golan Heights battlefield."

I reasoned that if anyone would understand my dream, it would be Brigadier-General Kahalani. A young sergeant needs a lot of chutzpah to call a brigadier-general, but I did not lack for chutzpah. I called him at his home in Nes Tziyona and told him I wanted to be an officer. "Come to my house," said Kahalani in his military manner. So Saturday night I hitchhiked from my kibbutz to Nes Tsiyona. We sat in his neat living room as his wife Dalia graciously served us coffee. I said I had excelled throughout my military service and I wanted to continue to excel as an officer. I added that he, more than anyone, should know that psychological tests do not always reflect the abilities of an officer. "I'll look into it," said Kahalani, as he brought our meeting to a close. Two weeks later I was told to go to Officers Training School and join the course as a cadet.

I entered the Officer Training Scholl in the winter of 1986. Temperatures in the Negev desert can be deceptive. Although the days are usually warm, on winter nights it can become terribly cold. I remember how, during one night navigation exercise, I stood on the summit of a hill and unbuttoned my pants to relieve myself. It was so cold that my fingers froze and I was unable to close my pants again, so I had to continue navigating with open pants. Only when the blood returned to my fingers could I finally do up the buttons.

The cold was the least of our challenges. The heavy study load, the training, the discipline, and the fear of getting kicked out of the course meant that the cadets had to be tough, focused, and self-disciplined.

My platoon commander at Officer Training School was Lieutenant Hasson Hasson, who had served in the Golani Brigade and came from the Druze village of Daliat El Carmel. We cadets liked Hasson on sight. He was a professional officer, devoted to his soldiers, with a modest manner. We also knew that as a Druze, in order to reach his current position he would have needed to work harder and be more professional and determined than his Jewish comrades. 

About 10 days before the end of the course, three other cadets and I were sent to a kibbutz in the north to write the company's graduation newsletter. This was a perk for cadets who had done well in the course and also had a talent for creative writing. When I returned to the base after that coveted journalism gig, it was already the eve of Rosh Hashanah. Our company had to stay behind to guard the base during the festival, and I was immediately assigned guard duty at the firing range about two miles from the main base. I marched to the firing range wearing my battle vest and weapons, and when I got there I sat down and opened the book that would help me pass the time.

After about two hours alone in the silent, peaceful desert, I suddenly noticed a small dust cloud approaching me. When the dust cleared, I saw the on-duty instructor standing in front of me. Seeing his angry face, I knew he had not run all the way to the firing range to bring me the traditional Rosh Hashanah apples and honey. "Why didn't you answer the radio?? You abandoned your guard duty!! You'll pay dearly for this!!!" he yelled at me. I had no idea what radio he meant. Today, 25 years after the fact, I now understand that he was yelling because he was scared of the trouble he had gotten himself into, since it was his responsibility to give me the right instructions for guard duty. But at the time I did not know that, and my heart sank. I did not answer. I finished my guard duty and went back to the base with a heavy heart.

The day after the festival I was told I could go home for Yom Kippur and then, when I came back, I would face a court-martial. My mood was as low as it could be. I was scared I would be kicked out of the course. I had gone to such lengths to get into the course and become an officer - and now to be kicked out over something so stupid?! When I got home I asked the kibbutz hairdresser to shave my head, in preparation for my expected arrest. And so I returned to the base.

It was the end of the Officer Training Course. While my comrades practiced for the graduation ceremony, I waited to be court-martialed. The day of the court-martial I polished my shoes until they shone like mirrors. I straightened my cap and stationed myself at the office door of the battalion commander, Lieutenant-Colonel G.  Lieutenant-Colonel G. was unusual in the army. A member of a moshav (cooperative farm), he had returned to the regular army at a relatively advanced age after many years as a civilian. Despite explicit orders to do up all one's shirt buttons, G. went around the base with his shirts unbuttoned at the top, refusing to set a personal example in an environment where setting a personal example was considered supremely important. We did not think particularly highly of him.

Accompanied by the instructor, I entered his office and saluted. He enumerated my crimes and asked for my reaction. "I made a mistake and am willing to pay the price," I answered quietly. I had expected to be kicked out of the course, but was pleasantly surprised: although I was sentenced to three weeks in military prison, I was not kicked out. I was very happy that my wish had come true - I could continue my military career and complete the Officer Training Course.

The next day I heard the cheers of the military choir greeting my comrades at the graduation ceremony. The base was full of delighted families giving their soldier offspring food and drink, admiring the officer's pins worn proudly on their lapels. All my friends were getting ready for the coveted week-long vacation at the end of the course. I, however, remained in my room and prepared to go to military prison. But despite that I was not upset at all.  I had not been kicked out!

The next day the base emptied, leaving only me, some guards, and some clerks. No-one said a word about prison. Instead, I was told to help the base's gardener put up the

Myself with Hasson Hasson

sukkah for the approaching Sukkot holiday. I also found some comfort with a woman soldier who had been unlucky enough to be assigned guard duty at the empty base. Paradoxically, it turned out to be one of the most beautiful weeks of my entire four years in the army. At the end of the week I was told to report to Shizpon Base and join my comrades in the Armored Division Officers Course.

I had not seen Hasson Hasson since that time. When I would occasionally visit his village on the Carmel Mountain, I would ask after him and send my regards. I am convinced that he was the main reason I was not kicked out of the course and that my prison sentence was commuted to building a sukkah. And so, Brigadier-General Hasson, I dedicate this column to you, to your family, and to your past and future accomplishments.

With a salute,

First Lieutenant (res.) Sagi Melamed

Feedback to: Melamed.sagi@gmail.com

Sagi Melamed lives with his family in the community of Hoshaya in the Galilee.  He serves as Vice President of External Affairs at the Max Stern Yezreel Valley College, and is the Chief Instructor in the Hoshaya Karate Club.  Sagi received his Masters degree from Harvard University in Middle Eastern Studies with a specialty in Conflict Resolution. He can be contacted at: melamed.sagi@gmail.com. 

June 2011