The lieutenant held the sheaf of papers in his hands and tapped them firmly on the top of the Formica desk. They were all in order, typed and waiting for the major’s signature. Oh hell, why not forge them himself.
“That ape could hardly write anyway,” he thought, humming away at Seitz’s second violin concerto.
Besides, the commander was on his way to Ramat Aviv, six hours to the north, for three days of conferencing. “Three days of stuffing his fat face with hotel food,” the young lieutenant reckoned, admiring the crisp crease in his own uniform trousers.
Now was the time to square away this awful desk and get the paperwork done. He’d have this shack looking pristine and military as it should be. And with any luck, the colonel would pop in on a surprise visit, and then they’d finally know up at division just who was keeping the place running so smoothly.
Pity is, it was set on stilts overlooking the Red Sea. He would have liked it better if the IDF Liaison Office were in the newly built stucco border crossing facility. At least they had the sense to put air conditioning in there and not just an old ceiling fan. This dried-out wooden shack, surrounded by palm trees facing the sea, was just in the spirit of the modern Israeli army.
He slammed closed the windows and pulled the blind shut, muffling out that awful sound of waves crashing to shore, blocking the view of the sharp granite mountains cascading into the azure sea. He had work to do, and he was the boss now.
He’d pulled out the backlog of weekly reports and tufted. They’d been scratched down by the two operation sergeants, Shirli and Michal, between their bouts of computer games and ceaseless gossiping on their mobile phones. He ceremoniously dismissed them shortly after the major departed, saying they were a disgrace to the military’s pride – spending their days vegging out, preferring to work on their tans and catching every band that rocked up at the local Three Monkeys pub instead of concentrating on getting their chores done properly.
“Out, you little whores. Go resume your hunt for action and other meaningless pursuits of life,” he had told them. “You’re both a disgrace to the uniform.”
“Oh, you don’t mean it,” chimed Shirli.
“Isn’t he wonderful,” Michal sang teasingly. “Don’t you want to join us? The major’s out of town now.”
“When the cat’s away, the mice will play,” Shirli smiled. “Don’t be such a square.”
LT. MANOR backed away, pulled out his comb and started nervously running it through his thinning hair.
“Now, now, just get out and let me finally get some work done,” he insisted, but leered at the giggling soldiers as they sashayed down the beach to their quarters, eyeing their fatigues tight on their marvelous rears. He gulped.
He returned to the major’s desk and was sorting through reports. Lt. Manor was the one who really ran the office. He was the only one who really knew where every file went, he told himself. The few reports written by the major were clear evidence the Israel Defense Forces officer selection was flawed. Oh sure, the major was good at the backslapping and extended salutations with the natives – but that didn’t keep the army running, of course.
There was a time when the border with Jordan was active with infiltrations or wayward tourists wandering over the frontier. But things had quieted down lately. The daily practice shooting on the patrol boat’s 50-caliber machine gun was the only real event that shattered the tranquility of this Red Sea resort.
He had just finished the report about last week’s inspection of wells number 17 and 18 up in the Arava Valley when the telephone rang.
It was the red telephone. The red telephone never rang unless it was an emergency with the Jordanians or Egyptians.
“Oh s***!” he blurted out loud.
“IDF Liaison. Leftenant Manor speaking,” he said in proper English.
“Ahalan, lieutenant. This is Major Rayed,” the voice on the phone said.
“Ah…. Yes. Yes?!”
“Peace unto you.”
“Ah… you … eh you also?”
“May Allah grant you long life.”
LT. MANOR swallowed. He was never any good at this sort of native banter. He would often watch the major naturally engage in it, and he would smirk. And now the Jordanian liaison officer was on the line. “Oh, why doesn’t he just get to the point?” the Israeli junior officer thought.
“Yes, lieutenant…?”
“Leftenant Manor.”
“Where’s the major?” the Jordanian asked, his voice a little stiffer and demanding now.
“The major is indisposed. I am in command at the moment.”
“Where. Is. He?” Major Rayed said, his tone growing more intimidating by the second.
“Why… why don’t you just tell me what the matter is, major,” the young officer said.
“Look, lieutenant, an urgent matter has come up, and I need to speak to the major. Now get him.”
“The major is currently on his way to Ramat Aviv,” he winced, not sure if he was giving out classified information to the “enemy.”
“Kuss achta,” the Jordanian swore into the phone.
There was no alternative. The major would have to rely on this officer twit.
“Look, Lieutenant …Mana. The palace had just called. Do you understand?”
“The palace, of course I understand,” the lieutenant said with indignation. Who did this Bedouin take him for?
“His majesty has a craving again.”
His majesty? A craving?
“And soo? What exactly is the Israeli Defense Forces supposed to do about his majesty’s craving?” Lt. Manor said haughtily.
“Has the major not briefed you?”
“No,” he admitted, reaching for his comb and then muttering, “He never tells me anything.”
KING ABDULLAH the Second was the first son of an ill-fated marriage by the Hashemite King Hussein to an English telephone operator from Ipswich. Abdullah was a chunky lad who was educated in the United States. In America – in Monterrey to be exact – the prince developed a craving for McDonald’s hamburgers and fries.
What can one do? Alas, back in Jordan there was no McDonald’s.
Now Abdullah, who became king when his father died in 1999, would occasionally rest in the palace in Aqaba. Jordan didn’t have any McDonald’s, but the fast food chain had reached Israel in the 1990s. One was located in the mall in Eilat. Its golden arches were brightly lit on the roof of the strip.
Occasionally the young Americanized monarch would look out of his palace and see the big yellow arches, and his mouth would water at the mere sight. He couldn’t resist it. What was peace for if you couldn’t just order a McRoyal meal from a few hundred meters away? Eh? So he’d put in an order.
It was one of the best-kept secrets in the intimate relations between Israel and Jordan. Indeed, if word ever got out that the Jordanian king was getting fat on Israeli hamburgers, smuggled over by the Israeli army, rioting could be sparked. That could lead to police action and bloodshed. And bloodshed for this ruling minority king could easily become revolution. But he craved the burgers.
The Jordanian informed the young lieutenant that his majesty was a benevolent king, and he couldn’t just put in an order for himself. He would have to feed all his bodyguards and servants and the entire palace help. That meant he needed 100 McRoyal meals.
“You know, the last time the king had a craving,” Major Rayed said, “your major telephoned the manager at McDonald’s. They locked the doors, brought in extra staff, and packed the 100 meals in Styrofoam boxes to keep them warm, and then rushed them in an IDF jeep to the Arava crossing, where the king’s personal chief bodyguard picked them up and sped them away to our waiting majesty.”
“So, maybe I could talk with your commander in general headquarters?” Major Rayed inquired.
“No,” the young officer said. Here was his chance to prove his mettle. “I’ll handle it. Consider it done. Please inform his majesty that the IDF will be proud to deliver up to him 100 McRoyals.”
The lieutenant hung up the phone and looked at his watch. It was Saturday. The Sabbath. McDonald’s was closed on the Sabbath.
Based on a true story, though some liberties were taken.