Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon by Barry Sadler

were well prepared, well warned, and ready and waiting when the Israeli vanguard came upon the post's outer fortifications as the sun was setting.
    "Oh, b'Jazus," Harry Russell groaned from behind the wheel as Casca's jeep topped the last rise, "this is going to be even worse than I thought."
    "Yeah," Casca grunted, "the sun is sure not going to help us too much."
    The great, golden orb was glaring directly into the windshield so that they could scarcely see their objective. The Arabs, on the other hand, had the sun at their backs, spotlighting and almost blinding their attackers while they blended into long shadows.
    Israeli ambulances were rushing back and forth to where sappers were at work, trying to detonate pathways through the minefields. From the distance Arab gunners were having a field day, pouring heavy fire onto the sappers, who were suffering enormous casualties.
    The Israeli artillery was searching for the Egyptian guns, but were probing blind without recon information from aircraft. Now fresh Arab fire opened up, reaching for where Casca and the rest of Colonel Weintraub's regiment had arrived in sight. To be sure, the shells were all falling short, but the Egyptian gunners would soon get that right. Besides, the Israelis had to advance into their guns anyway.
    "Where's our fucking air cover?" Moynihan fumed. "Feels just like 'fourteen," Casca muttered, almost to himself, "when we didn't have any planes."
    "I thought you were older than me," Harry Russell said, chuckling, "but I didn't think you were that old."
    Casca bit his tongue. Yes, he had been thinking of his time in the Great War when the only aircraft had been the rare reconnaissance patrols. Got to watch that.
    Suddenly the war was updated as a squadron of French built Vautour bombers appeared out of the Israeli sky. Flying almost on the ground, they swooped on the Egyptian guns and took the heat off the sappers.
    A flight of Mystere fighters screamed overhead, coming in, it seemed, just feet off the ground, avoiding all possible detection by the Egyptians. The Arabs heard the engines and the cannon of the Mysteres at about the same time, and the effect was devastating and demoralizing.
    One moment the Arabs had the field to themselves, plastering the Israeli sappers at will and laying down a barrage of discouragement for Casca's men. One moment more, and they were cowering amongst the wreckage of their guns.
    "Well," came the voice of Moynihan in the back of the jeep, " things is improving a bit in the air anyway."
    "But where is the Egyptian Air Force?" demanded a puzzled Harry Russell.
    "Retired hurt is what we call it in Rugby," said Moynihan.
    "Sure, but they can't be that bad hurt can they?"
    The Vautours came back in another pass, unloading another rain of death on the Arab gunners. The sappers made good use of the respite, their practiced eyes now discerning the inevitable pattern in the distribution of the mines. All mine layers strove to avoid any regularity, and the harder they tried the more clearly the pattern showed once sufficient mines were detected.
    From his vantage point atop a twenty foot dune, Casca saw the pattern, too, and discerned the safe, or anyway half safe, track through the minefields. "Let's go," he said without thinking about it further. "The sooner we get there the sooner we're through with it.”
    Billy Glennon seemed fired by the same idea and had his foot hard down on the accelerator almost before Casca finished speaking. The trucks charged forward to keep pace behind Casca's jeep.
    "Any idea where you're going?" Casca shouted to Billy. Glennon shot him a quick, worried glance, then returned his attention to what the sappers had accomplished ahead of them.
    "I thought I saw the safe line," Billy said, a tinge of uncertainty in his voice. "Didn't ye?"
    Casca laughed and hoped his voice sounded confident. "Yeah, we're going right – I hope."
    But had his seat in the jeep permitted it, Casca would have been kicking