Leon Uris by The Haj Page A

The balance of Haj Ibrahim’s militia deserted over the next few days, fleeing back to their own villages.
    The next week the muktar of one of Tabah’s neighboring villages was found decapitated in his fields. The defense of Tabah fell into the hands of a badly frightened and inept group of peasants. Although Ibrahim knew he was on the Mufti’s death list, he refused to cross the highway to seek help from the Haganah in Shemesh Kibbutz or from his friend Gideon Asch. Only Haj Ibrahim’s personal courage and all-night vigils kept the villagers from mass flight.
    The next week was hellish for Tabah. Mufti raiders hid safely during the day deep in the caves of the Bab el Wad a half dozen miles up the highway. Under cover of night they came out and finessed their way around the Tegart fort at Latrun to the edges of Tabah’s fields. The Mufti’s Mojahedeen stalked their prey, picking off stray guards and howling terrifying obscenities. When villagers fled their posts they left their own fields and livestock naked for looting.
    By the time a British patrol could be dispatched from Latrun, the raiders had slipped back into the wilds of the Judean hills. It was a land so fiercely rugged it had perplexed the legions of ancient Rome for years in trying to flush out Hebrew rebels. The deep ravines, impassable hills, and buried caves had given centuries of protection to hero warriors, smugglers, and thieves alike.
    The British installed a token of permanent protection for Tabah, with roadblocks and frequent patrols, but they were thinly manned and could be easily bypassed. The British garrison had simply been stretched beyond effectiveness. The inevitable big raid to stampede Tabah could not be long in coming.
    Gideon Asch had been assigned as the Haganah liaison with the British. His contact was Colonel Wilfred Foote, an old Middle East hand and close aide to the commanding general. Fink’s, a zany little eight-table affair of a restaurant in downtown Jewish West Jerusalem, was the favorite place for British officers and a natural listening post for the Haganah. Fink’s was one of those open secrets, a rendezvous and mart for exchanging information. David Rothschild, the proprietor, who often complained, tongue in cheek, that he was no relative of another family of the same name, nodded to Gideon Asch as he entered.
    Gideon made his way up a squeaking stairs to a private room where Colonel Foote was waiting.
    Rothschild delivered a tray of schnitzels and beer and closed the door behind him as he left.
    The main concern today was the critical situation in Tabah. Gideon had informers in the village whose main job now was to not let Haj Ibrahim out of their sight. If Ibrahim were assassinated, there would be little hope of keeping the peasants of six villages from taking wing.
    At meal’s end, Foote poured coffee, lit cigars, and changed the subject. ‘So far, no Jewish settlement has been in serious trouble,’ he said, ‘but those rascals are getting more brazen by the moment. If Kaukji were to knock over a single kibbutz, the recruiting lines in Baghdad would be a mile long the next day. I share the Jewish Agency’s faith in the Haganah, but we are starting to run the risk of seeing the Mufti turn this thing around.’
    ‘If you stopped using the energy of the British Army in chasing down immigrants, you’d be much more effective against the real enemy,’ Gideon answered. It was the perennial Jewish complaint.
    Foote blew a ring of smoke, perplexed. ‘So would twenty thousand more troops help,’ he said. ‘You know that General Clay-Hurst has his hands tied. He can neither get more forces, nor can he formulate political policy.’
    ‘What we want to know is,’ Gideon said, ‘if things get worse, will you keep the Arab Legion over there in Trans-Jordan?’
    ‘If we allow Abdullah to cross the Jordan River, I daresay he’ll never leave Palestine. It’s also in Jewish interest to see that he stays put. As good as the