But whatever our weapons, our allies, our plans or our training, the ultimate determinant of success or failure in October would be morale. Of that I was certain. 

Restoring the morale of a defeated army is hard enough under any circumstances, and is doubly so when no truthful inquest has been allowed into the reasons for defeat. After 1967, all was confusion. The political leadership blamed the armed forces; the high command discreetly put it about that the politicians bore the blame for denying our air force the first blow. (Personally, I thought we were heading for defeat even if we did strike first; and for that state of affairs both politicians and high command were to blame.) In their confusion and distress, the Egyptian people vented their feelings on the ordinary soldier. Anyone in uniform was ridiculed in the streets. Morale fell to near-suicidal levels. 

By the time I took over as Chief of Staff, much had been restored. Even the War of Attrition had provide its victories. In August 1967, Egyptian commandos had defeated an Israeli force at Ra's-al-`ishsh That October, the Eilat had been sunk. Our commando raids into Sinai had achieved some success. The shooting-down of ten enemy aircraft in July 1970 had been a tonic. But much remained to be done. 

Morale is an intangible; it is the sum of hundreds of factors which we barely comprehend. But its core is self-confidence; and in the nurture of that, I am convinced, three elements outweigh all others. Every soldier must be given the chance to extend himself to the limits of his capacities, until he himself finds and recognizes those limits, and is proud of what he can do within them. (A soldier who does not know his limits will destroy himself and others with him.) A commander must know his men's limits and compare them with the enemy's to assess strengths and weaknesses. He must help his men by giving them the best his country can afford. He may then ask of them no less than their best-and no more. Finally, a soldier must be given confidence in his superiors. Confidence in their technical ability is, of course, essential; but more important is the soldier's confidence that his superiors respect, rather than exploit, him, and ask of him no hardship or sacrifice they do not ask of themselves. 

The key to the first is knowledge. The keys to the second are companionship and mutual respect. The key to the third is example. In my 31 months as Chief of Staff, I tried unremittingly to spread knowledge. My papers tell me I had 26 of my monthly meetings with staff and field commanders down to division level. The last meeting was on September 22, 1973, only a fortnight before our assault. I ran 18 command exercises in the Liberation series. I issued 53 directives: 48 before the war, four during it, and the fifty-third after the cease fire. (The first to be issued during the war was Directive (49: War Experience in Dealing with Enemy Tanks). issued it on October 15, the day after the battle in which we lost 250 tanks.) My last directive was issued on November 30, 1973. I wrote those eight pamphlets for the ordinary soldier. I arranged hundreds of demonstrations. I even had GHQ scientific department circulate a monthly digest of the latest military inventions and research.[1]

To help our men evaluate their own capacities against the background of this knowledge, I encouraged in every soldier I met-and especially among my staff and immediate subordinates-the habits of frankness, plain speaking and self-criticism. (Unfortunately, it proved harder to instill these habits into my superiors, as the progress of the war was to demonstrate.) 

As for companionship and mutual respect-the second keys-they cannot be ordered, they can only be earned. My task was to ordain circumstances that fostered them. Adventure training was one. It was aimed specifically at cementing ties between those thousands of young platoon and company commanders and their men. Sport was another. Sport had been suspended in the armed forces since 1967; one of my first orders as Chief of Staff was to resurrect it. I gave units and formations six months to train and choose their teams, and in January 1972 it started: a knockout athletic competition between all 14 commands that included football, volleyball, basketball, handball, boxing and swimming. Over 1,000 enthusiastic and emotional gatherings of officers and men resulted, at which the ice was broken, little or no ceremony was observed, and esprit de corps was rampant. 

The last key is example. Looking back, my whole military career has in a sense been an effort to instill idealism into my men; and that, like example, can only be set from the top. Soldiers judge a commander by what they see and feel of him: only if he passes that test will they then listen to him. 

When I went as Commander of the Red Sea District in 1970-71, a general's villa was waiting for me. It was stupid. How could I then have demanded anything of anybody? I chose instead a dugout, six feet by twelve feet, one of the shelters-our engineers had assigned to captains. No subordinate of mine ever complained of hardship. 

As Chief of Staff, I used the symbol of the blood bank. The armed forces blood bank used to buy blood from soldiers. Inevitably, it was the poor who sold their blood. I found this disgusting. I stopped it, ordering instead that every soldier and every officer under 40 should, during his years of service, give two bottles of blood (as long as his blood test was satisfactory). I had a slogan: "Soldiers do not sell their blood. They offer it to their country."  My own advanced years-I was 50-exempted me. But when the campaign opened on March 31, 1973, I thought it right to be first in line. 

There is no magic to building an army. It merely needs commitment. I have described the guidelines I followed, the methods I adopted. By the eve of the October War I had no doubt that, if for once given the chance to fight on fair terms, the Egyptian soldier would prove to be one of the best in the world.

( to be continued)
 

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