A woman friend named Kay arrived. I asked her to stay outside while my mom and dad and I parted and, of course, it was the same as when I left for Vietnam. On my part, anyway, there were tears shed. The pain I felt in my heart was a very deep and rending one because I could not say when I would be back. It was not a situation where I could say to Mom and Dad: “Well, I’m going off on a bit of a trip and a little bit of a vacation. I’ll be back in a few months.” I knew that I might not be back for years. At the same time I knew I was embarking on one of the greatest adventures of my life.

Mom and Dad held back their emotions as I walked out the door. They were true to their generation, strong and stoic in every respect. Kay drove me to the airport and I bid her goodbye. We had had a few beers on the way to lighten the mood. Why did I have someone else take me to the airport? Well, after having had my mom and dad take me to the staging area for departure to Vietnam in 1970, I did not want to experience that kind of parting again. It was very difficult for me to control myself.

Having checked in I walked into the departures terminal. When the aircraft took off I started to feel better. I began to feel a sense of freedom – my life was going to change very radically, as of right now!

We flew to O’Hare airport in Chicago, Illinois, and changed planes for Heathrow, London, England. At Heathrow I went through customs. When I got out of the airport I started walking, in no particular direction other than out of the airport. I had been walking in the rain when a fellow in a Mini pulled up alongside me and said, “Do you need a lift?” My first thoughts were: “Is there something wrong with this guy, is he queer?” I decided that whether he was queer or not, it was damn cold and wet out, so I’d take a ride. I was heading for London because it was all I really knew of England. As we were going down the road I said, “Which way is London?” to which he replied, “Oh, London is that way, you are on the wrong motorway.” I asked him where he was heading, and he said he was going to his family in Cardiff, South Wales. He invited me to come along and stay the night, and said he would show me some of the sights, including some Roman ruins. I accepted the invitation, as I did not really have any particular direction. I was on a one-way ticket with $300 in my pocket. That was all I had, plus what was in my pack.

We made it to South Wales through the English countryside. I can remember that it was staggering to me to see everybody driving on the opposite side of the road. This was a shock! The countryside, with all the old buildings, was beautiful and I was getting a sense of history that I had never seen before. There were real ruins – it was history, and we have very little of that in the United States.

Once in Cardiff, we went to a couple of pubs, then some Roman ruins and then we went to Tiger Bay, which at one time was the roughest seaport in Europe. I remember all this very clearly because it was my first night overseas, and I was on my own. I was footloose and fancy-free! We went back to the man’s house and I had a very good night’s sleep. The next morning he took me to one of the highways leading to North Wales.

I remember knocking around various places in England during that month. I went to Scotland and clearly remember one adventure I had in Blackpool. I was looking for work there, possibly washing dishes in one of the hotels in the resort area. All this brings to mind a joke that was going around at the time. “Why does Blackpool have all the donkeys and Liverpool all the Paddies?” (Irishmen.) The answer to that one is: “Because Blackpool had first choice.”

In Blackpool I went from hotel to hotel and from pub to pub to find a position washing dishes, or whatever. I wasn’t having any luck. In one, a fellow came up to me and said: “Listen mate, you look like you could do with a pint of beer!” Well, a pint sounded pretty good to me, so we sat down and started drinking. It came out that he was a tradesman of some kind and on vacation on his own. He seemed likeable enough. We got chatting and he bought me another pint. I told him that I should leave. He disagreed, and said he would treat me because he had nobody there. One pint led to another, and eventually it was time for the pub to close for the afternoon break.

We went off somewhere, got of a couple six-packs of beer, went and sat down in an alley and started drinking. By this time we were really getting drunk and then it was time for the pubs to open again. The six-packs were gone by then. I hadn’t eaten since the previous day.

We rolled back into the pub and one beer led to another. I remember there was some dancing going on in another little section of the pub and we ended up there. I can’t remember what happened to my new friend at this point – the events are a little blurry. I remember an attractive young woman, but then in my state anything would have been attractive! I went up to her and asked her to dance. I am sure I was trying to be polite but I don’t know how I came across. She did not accept my invitation to dance: in fact she said, “Why don’t you just get the fuck off away from me, you make me sick!” At that point I thought I would really make her sick, so I stuck my fingers down my throat and threw up a gallon of beer all over her dress. The next thing I knew, I was being knocked all over the place – by whom I don’t know. I obviously could not help myself, so I found myself out in the middle of the street. I looked around and my pack hit me right in the face, so with my wounded pride I staggered to my feet, put my pack on my back and wandered off into the rainy night.

What happened next is pretty blurred, but I remember walking down the street and coming upon a Peugot car. It looked pretty inviting, so I fished around the doors and sure enough, one was open. Now this was England and maybe people don’t steal like they do in other places in the world. I crawled in and passed out. The next thing I remember: it was daylight and there was a bobby tugging at my foot, saying, “Come on, man, out you go.” I got out and there was a family standing around the car, looking at me. I had mud all over my boots, so obviously there was mud on the seat. The car must have smelt of musty beer. “What were you doing in there?” the bobby asked. I told him it had been raining the previous night and it seemed like a good place to sleep, especially as I didn’t have a lot of money. He told me I was going down to the station with him, and the first thing I thought was that it was still early, and possibly I would get a nice egg and bacon breakfast. At the station, he filled out a report and I said. “Well, it’s time for breakfast,” to which he replied. “Oh no, it’s a bit late for that, mate.” “Tell you what,” he said, “We could put you inside for 24 hours, but perhaps another suggestion would be better. Would you be willing to leave Blackpool?” I said I would, because I didn’t see much of a future in the town for myself as a dishwasher. We drove to the outskirts of town, and he pointed the way to London. I hitched all the way that day, and ended up sleeping in Hyde Park that night. From London I headed for a place called Bournemouth, on the south coast. It was a vacation area, and I had heard in London that it was a good place to go to find work.

I got a job in the Durley Dean Hotel. I was finally a dishwasher. I worked from morning until dark with a room and food provided, so naturally I was gobbling like there was no tomorrow. There was a very nice waitress employed there whom I walked home at night. We went to a discotheque and I remember seeing some of the British nightlife. It was quite fun – plus I wasn’t drunk and in trouble.

After weeks of working, I made enough money to go skydiving. I heard that there was a drop zone at Thruxton aerodrome, which is several miles north of Bournemouth. When I arrived on the Friday it was raining pretty hard. I met some British soldiers from the Red Devils. They are the equivalent of our Golden Knights US Army parachute team. We all started boozing it up in the pub all Friday night and Saturday – we slept there side by side. It was all very good camaraderie from one to another. The fact is that we were all soldiers and soldiers have a feeling for one another that is not generally shared by civilians.

Sunday morning dawned, bright and clear. I had drunk up most of my spare money, and was getting ready to hit the road. The Red Devils said, “No way, mate, you are not going anywhere without making a couple of jumps with us.” They paid for two jumps. All in all, we had a grand time, except we all ended up lying under the trees because the spot was bad.

That afternoon I bid farewell to all and made my way to London, where I stayed with Joe, an Irish fellow that I had met at the drop zone. He took me out for some fish and chips. I had been warned in the past about the fish in London, and – wouldn’t you know it? – I got food poisoning. Joe, one of the funniest men I have ever met, was never short of a joke. His red face would light up after telling a good one. At the sight of another person laughing, he would laugh harder. He lived with his mother.

There was a cemetery at the end of their street. He took me out there and showed me the grave of his late wife. This explained the sadness that I always saw behind the humor. After a few days convalescing I bid a sad farewell to Joe and Mrs Gallagher, and headed for Dover and the Continent.

I made my way across the English Channel on a Sealink ferry to Ostende, Belgium. I arrived late in the evening, and started walking out of Ostende. It was raining very hard, I had not changed any money, and I was hungry. Food on the ferry was way too expensive for me. I found an old abandoned house and thought I would go down to the cellar because the doors were open. I will never forget the growl and the pair of mean red eyes that I saw down there. I don’t know what it was, but all I could think was that it was a demon. I had not been drinking either! I got the hell out the cellar very quickly and decided I would sleep up in the house, which was leaking from one end to the other. The rats were noisy as they scurried back and forth through the old house.

I made my way down to Germany. Hitchhiking was terrible in Europe, so I got a train to Italy and knocked around there a while. The weather was much better there than it had been further north. The trains were so cheap I couldn’t believe it. I took a train all the way through Italy to Sicily, then I went back to Rome. I had enough money left to fly from Rome to Israel. I might add that before I flew out of Rome, I rented a moped and went all over – the catacombs, the Coliseum –wandering around on my own. I was on my own tour, with my own little handbook. I saw the Vatican – I will never forget going into the Vatican! It was such a massive thing, and it was the most staggering building I have ever been in in my life. It was artwork that verged on infinity. To say the least, I was finding out that I was not much of a tourist. For me to go from one interesting place to another is not attractive. Plus it is expensive!

From Rome I flew to Israel and arrived there on August 24, 1974. I had made it to the Holy Land, my destination. As to what was to happen here, well it was anybody’s guess!

I arrived on Shabbat and everything was closed. Shabbat, or the Sabbath (Saturday) is a holy day of rest in Israel. This is the first commandment given to man by God. Jewish Sabbath symbolizes the creation of the world by God, and the Biblical commandment is to sanctify this day and not work, following God’s act after the completion of the Creation in six days. Shabbat is not only used for rest and refraining from work: from Biblical times it has been seen as a day of holy joy.

I made my way to a fleabag hotel down Allenby Avenue in Tel Aviv. I had arrived in Israel with only $20 in my pocket and I drank that up that night, in celebration for arriving in Israel. The next day was Sunday, the first day of the week and I went to the Sochnut (the Jewish agency which operated to help the return to Israel of more than 3,000,000 people, founded over 450 communities throughout the country, taught more than 300,000 children (youth Aliyah), and has established more than 1,500 educational and cultural institutions). The agency assigned me to a kibbutz out in what is known as the “Ramot Menashe” (ramat meaning hill) area. Ramot Menashe was the land of the tribe of Manasseh. It is the strip of rolling hills separating the southern part of the Carmel ridge, on the northern slopes of Samaria. The region (located between Yokneam and Kibbutz Gilad, the most beautiful in our country), has recently been declared by UNESCO as a Biosphere Reserve – a space that maintains a perfect balance between man and nature for future generations. This is one of two reserves in Israel where there are many springs and a number of perennial streams, such as the river Justice.

The kibbutz was called Ramat Hashofet. Ramat Hashofet is the Hebrew for “The Hill of the Judge.” I managed to get down to the bus station with all my gear: the Sochnut had provided a bus ticket to the kibbutz. I thought we were going quite far north because the trip took about two hours, but in fact there were just a lot of stops in between. I arrived at the kibbutz and will never forget the sight that greeted me. The view stretched across the valley of Israel to Nazareth.

I checked in with the head of the volunteers, a woman named Goldie, who was a concentration camp survivor. I was to be on an ulpan, which is a school that teaches Hebrew. This meant that I would have to work so many hours a day, and learn in the school how to speak Hebrew. The class had already been in progress for a month and I am no academic whiz (as I’ve established earlier in this book), so I got stuck in the very next day, trying to catch up.

We worked in the mornings and had classes in the afternoon. The work I was doing was in what they called the minsara, or the wood factory, where we made orange crates. It was there I met a friend that I have to this very day, a fellow named Peter Koff. Peter was tall, lean, well educated and very liberal. He was handsome, with curly black hair, gray intelligent eyes, and sharp Semitic features. Peter was from South Africa. We were at the end of a big machine where the boxes came out and were being cut in half with a great saw. It was very noisy. We would stamp the end of the box on to the main body of the box, and throw it to the next guy, who would stamp the other end on, and then he would throw it to the guy at the bottom of the steel table, who would stack them together, wire them up in stacks of five and off the table they would go. This was not very stimulating, especially when everyone pictures being in Israel working in the fields. After about an hour the drudgery and the boredom of the job set in. This is what we did for four hours per day for one week and six hours per day the following week. Sometimes to give us a break, Pete and I would jam the machine. The kibbutznik mechanic would come and have to unjam it, this putting him in a bad mood, because he suspected foul play. After hours we also had our study time. The national working week in Israel is six days.

Now as far as learning Hebrew is concerned, I learned the alphabet and certain parts of grammar, but I never caught up with the class. To say the least, most of the kids there had some type of college background, which I had not, so I was kind of the odd man out. They were all naïve liberals, and I was very conservative.

I did my best to learn on my own after hours, and a few of the kibbutzniks were helpful with my learning of Hebrew, but in general most of the Israelis were selfish about the Hebrew language. They did not want to speak Hebrew because they wanted to learn English and did not care less about anyone else’s Hebrew. If a person was from a country in South America, say, or a European country where English was not the first language, they learned Hebrew quite quickly, because that was the language everyone used. But if a person spoke English as a first language, it did not work in your favor.

We worked in the minsara until January, when the ulpan finished. During that time I had been making enquiries about immigrating, the army, etc, and had been coming up fairly blank. At one point, when I went down to try and join the army I was told I had to become an Israeli citizen before I could enlist. Now being a non-Jew and trying to do something like that is very difficult. I then went to Misrad Hapnim, the immigration bureau, and what followed was all quite interesting.

This was in Afula, where the Misrad Hapnim for our area was located. The man completed all the papers but asked for proof of my Judaism. I told him a story of having served in Vietnam, that my mom and dad did not want to see me in the army in Israel, so they were not prepared to help me in any way and would send no proof over that I was Jewish. He then asked why I looked like an Irishman and I told him my father was Irish and my mother Jewish, which still makes me Jewish. At the time I was very convincing.

I would go back to the offices every other week to see what progress had been made, but the officer always asked for proof of Judaism. That is when I blew my cork. I used reverse p...