The fiery killer

The IDF calls you, honey!

The IDF calls you, honey!  
Recruiting for the military was supposed to be traumatic for us. As members of a wild rock band who fought from an early age against their parents and teachers for their long hair, throwaway clothes, and nonconformist image, we probably had to take an example from some of our older musicians, who took a distance from military service and swore allegiance to guitar and drums. But that didn't happen. It couldn't have happened to us. Beneath the Rockist look, we were good kids who got Zionist education and Trumpeldor brainwashing. "Good to kill for our country" - was the Killer version.
The social climate at that time did not allow us to mobilize. It was clear to us that this was a stage in life that we had to go through, and also our debt to the state. For a moment we did not hesitate to enlist, even if not enthusiastically. We were troubled by other problems: How would the band survive under such conditions? Will we be able to rehearse and perform? And the question - how the hell can we give up the hair changers for three years ???
We feared the Samson effect - that without the hair we would lose our power of attraction, our identity, our uniqueness. And ... the fans.
Ahead of my recruiting, in August of 77, I began to cut my hair independently. Every few more inches, so the shock wasn't too great. I was influenced by horror stories about the military books that mow down the scalp with electric shavers, and put a bowl on the head and shave everything around. On the Saturday before recruitment, I went on a festive farewell tour with the extended family, and my uncle, the late Nissim Goldenberg, designed the rest of the refuge for a logical haircut.
On 10 August, I got up early in the morning. Before the trip to the recruiting office, I was photographed with the guitar in my room, with Mark Bolan's drum and poster system as the backdrop for me. Until I left home, I played a murderous volume of Ramones songs to draw energy, and then my parents drove me to the bureau in the Hadar neighborhood, where the buses of the UCM already waited.
The recruitment went without special traumas. Along with me was also the keyboardist Shlomo Rosinger, who played with us at that time, and we received subsequent personal numbers. The recruiting bureau then conducted an experiment on new vaccine efficacy against jaundice. Couples received a vaccine, the spouses constituted the control group and the injection was spared. To my delight the injection skipped me. I couldn't guess so it would cost me dearly later.
After a few days at Kokum, we were sent to B'Tselem 13, the military police training base in Kedum. I quickly adjusted to the early set-up, the nightly bounces, the grueling footsteps, the military food, the silly commands, the dumb soldiers between us, the bastards, the cleaning and tidying, the tents and sleeping bags, the ranges, the tyrants, the dirt, and the filth.
It wasn't much fun. The various flies and insects have done me death. August's heat and sun scorched me and dried my mind. I hate the Israeli summer. It comforted me that these were relatively short recruits, and it was nice to spend that time with Rosinger.
On our second Saturday at the base, his parents and mine came to visit, bringing food and sweets with them. Shlomo and I posed for a souvenir at the entrance to the base, holding rifles