With the Arabs in Jerusalem
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eclipsed by Zaki's superior political generalship, assumed command of about forty men. Bren gun in hand, he waved them
toward an embankment above a grove where sheep grazed.
But the sheep had already disappeared by the time Moustafa
and his men set up their machine-guns. He and the gang made
a terrific din, firing wildly in the general direction of Jews,
sending over ten shells to every Jewish shell. Taking advantage
of the Arabs' passion for firing off their weapons, the Haganah
deliberately provoked them to fire with all they had, wasting
their ammunition against entrenched Jewish positions. By this
and other devices, the Jews time and again succeeded in reducing the effect of the superior firing power of the Arabs.
"They are going to attack us," Moustafa yelled, excitedly,
firing another round. "We must show we are not afraid, and
have plenty of bullets."
Promptly at noon the Haganah ceased its fire, but the Arabs
kept going until their ammunition gave out. I was convinced
that the Haganah was either probing into the strength of our
Deir Aboutor defenders, or was feinting while it planned to
attack elsewhere. In a few hours the Jewish plan became evident.
We had just finished a meal of bread and cold vegetable
stew when an Iraqi courier rushed in excitedly. Moustafa faced
him. Zaki had been absent during the morning fighting; and
although he was nominally in charge, he now sat passively
while Moustafa took over. I thought of how often action exposes one's true character.
"The Jews are attacking Katamon! Every man come to
help!"
"Yalhh!" Moustafa's roaring voice rallied a rabble of several hundred Holy Warriors. "Yallah, Katamon!" About a
dozen were left behind with Zaki, including, of course,
Ismail. The Egyptians and Syrians leaped into trucks and
armored buses, and I climbed in on the heels of Moustafa,
not daring to leave his side. Off we roared toward Katamon,
a suburb of Jerusalem built on a slow-rising hill. On its crest