One of the events in a person’s life that will be remembered forever is that bitter moment when they are informed of a death in the family.

Wednesday, March 14, 1973.
We set out on a special operational voyage. Three Dabur patrol boats were on a route to circle the Newport buoy at the southern entrance approaching the Suez Canal. A show of territorial presence, as the orders called it.

It was the month of Adar Bet, about half a year before the Yom Kippur War. The sector was quiet — maybe too quiet for some commander’s taste. There was no sign, not even a thought, of a possible war.

I was the commander of Dabur 873, the lead boat in the formation, and the squadron commander was sailing on my vessel.

We departed from Sharm el-Sheikh hugging the coastline and maintaining radio silence, aiming to surprise the Egyptians when we suddenly appeared at Ras Masala. We made the journey even during the early morning daylight hours, with the sun in the Egyptians’ eyes. By Thursday at noon, we had arrived, all in one piece with intact propellers, near Ras Sudar, and tension rose a little.

To our surprise, we were called over the radio to approach the Ras Sudar dock to receive a message. As we drew closer, a small dingy rubber boat came out toward us, and I immediately recognized Captain Goldatzki standing on the boat with a rope in his hand. He approached and called the squadron commander to the stern. They spoke quietly.

The squadron commander then came up to the bridge, approached me and said:
“Your father has died. You’re now to disembark to the dingy. There’s an arrangement on shore so you can attend the funeral tomorrow.”

I felt like I had been hit in the head with a sledgehammer, and the air was knocked out of my lungs. After that, I didn’t feel anything.

The habit of following orders took me to the stern and into the rubber boat — just as I was, in my Class B uniform and a “jockey cap” (as we called the baseball-style cap). I didn’t think about the military police, or really about anything at all.

At the base, I boarded a canteen truck, and had to listen all the way to the idle chatter of the canteen workers about Tempo (a drink brand), chocolate covered wafers, and sex. I couldn’t understand a word of it.

After a few hours’ drive, we reached an armored corps base in the middle of the desert. It turned out that the late brother of Dudu Ayber was a senior officer in that armored unit, and he took on the mission of getting me to the funeral on time. A place to sleep was arranged for me, and I was told that at 6 a.m. a jeep would depart to the Bir Gifgafa airfield, where a seat and a flight ticket were reserved for me. I was assured I would be awakened in time and that I should rest. I didn’t manage to sleep for even a minute that night, and at the appointed time — nothing happened.

No one came to wake me up. I got up and went to check if the jeep was warming up. I found no one awake at the base. I went to the guard post, where the soldier was sleeping soundly, and woke him up with the question: “Has the jeep left?”
He woke up in a panic and ran to wake the driver and the other passengers. No one thanked me or said a word.

We set off on a long drive toward the airfield. The jeep drove along a straight, endless road stretched between nothing and nothing.

I had no problem getting on the plane and arriving at Lod Airport, despite being worried about my attire. They probably assumed I was a reservist or just someone who’d ended up there by mistake. I’m sure that whoever looked into my eyes saw nothing.

I arrived at the funeral on time. Neighbors and family were all around.
I wasn’t surprised to find that there was no representative from the Navy, the squadron, or even a rear unit.
To me, he was my father.
To them — maybe he was nothing.

My Father, Yehudah Liyb Bogatch