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a textbook photo of weapons used in the 1940s during the War of Independence. No one really thought we would ever use them to stay alive. I knew what Meirav was saying was just a pose, and she knew I knew. But I also knew what she meant. In the end, a weapon was a thing that was designed to hurt, to kill, and it demanded respect.
    Few inspections went by when she didn’t pick my weapon to inspect. Sometimes I wondered if Orit told her to pick on me, because she only inspected three or four weapons each time, so it was sheer perversity that made her constantly choose mine.
    Lieutenant Meirav nearly always found a trace of oil in a tiny crevice that I had somehow missed. For a brief second, her face would light up in a cold smile. She hid it in a frown of disgust and disappointment, but I knew she was glad that she’d found something wrong.
    Each time I failed inspection, my stomach dropped and my afternoon would be shot, wasted on re-cleaning and extra duty for failing to clean the weapon well enough in the first place.Twice, though, I did it perfectly. Meirav wanted to find something wrong, but she looked and looked and finally walked away without saying a word. I couldn’t stop grinning for half an hour.
    When we weren’t on the field, we were in the classroom learning about enemy positions, equipment, strengths and weaknesses. In military strategy we memorized battle plans of past wars. Not particularly grueling; not particularly interesting either.
    I had a harder time with the firing range. I both loved it and dreaded it, and unlike my mother, I was not a crack shot. On the one hand, it was oh so cool to be lying in the dirt, eyes squinting at the man-shaped target. It fit with the image I had of myself as a tough soldier … a deadly, dangerous woman to be reckoned with. On the other hand, it was scary because there were no dividers between each shooter and I always worried that the girl lying next to me would lose control of her weapon, have it skid sideways, and accidentally shoot me. Perhaps my habit of keeping an eye on the shooter on either side of me kept me from hitting my target as often as I would have liked. One eye to the left and one to the right didn’t really leave you with much to look straight ahead.
    Each time, the range Makit would shout the command to drop down to shooting position. We’d all drop down to the dirt lying on our stomachs, one arm extended along the length of the barrel, gripping the handle, the other curled around the trigger. I’d wait until I heard “Cock your weapon. Aim.” I’d close my left eye, sighting down the length of the barrel, thetarget fuzzy in the distance. My heart would start beating faster. Then the range instructor would call out, “The targets are before you, fire at will.” I shot quickly and sloppily, my target speckled with the occasional hit, my ears ringing from the noise. We were given earplugs, but they only muffled the sound.
    It was always dusty, and I was usually sweaty and grimy. But I never looked forward to the showers because they had no curtains. At first I tried to figure out some way to shower without anyone seeing anything, but that was impossible. It took me a while before I could strip and shower without feeling my skin crawling with invisible eyes. But after a while, the sight of a bunch of naked, soapy butts stopped bothering me and I just didn’t care who saw my boobs. I probably stopped caring because I was so tired. By law, we were required to get six hours of sleep a night. Our Makit made sure that’s about all we got.
    In boot camp they wanted me to overcome the overwhelming urge to hide, duck, take cover, and disappear. Instead, I was taught to stand up, take action, grab a rifle, and shoot. Our basic training took place in a mini-base inside the perimeter of a “real” base. We had our own perimeter to patrol and our own “safety hole” where bombs could be detonated.
    On my first few patrol duties, I was fully alert, my