After the Rockets, A Scourge of Fires

"Usually I have the feeling that I can protect my public," said Nir Mariash, the police chief in Haifa, Israel's third-largest city and the place where more people have been killed by rocket attacks then anywhere else. "When it comes to things like terrorism, we've probably prevented hundreds of attacks by arresting people before they could hit us. But in this case there is nothing we can do except respond as fast as possible. Like everyone else, we hear the sirens and wait and see where they fall. It's frustrating."

Fires, the main threat to life and property besides the rockets themselves, have blackened broad swaths of once-verdant hillside across the north, consuming 35,000 acres of wilderness and more than a half-million trees, Mosko said.

They raged all over northern Israel again Saturday after an early afternoon rocket volley. Inside the firefighters' control room at Rosh Pinna airport, Yochai Brenner, a marketing executive for the crop-dusting firm, barked orders into the radio. Because of all the Israeli artillery fire coming from the nearby hills and valleys, he said, he tries to direct the planes away from active batteries.

"The war is the first time I have ever done this," he said. "But it took me a short time to learn."

The pilots call their current job more difficult than dog-fighting with enemy aircraft.

"This period is by far more intense. In the Yom Kippur War there were so many pilots, so we got some breaks. We don't," said Rosen, who said he was forced to eject over Egypt during that conflict and spent several months as a prisoner of war. "Here you have smoke and 2,500-foot cliffs and all the shooting. You have to go very low till you almost touch the fire. You better know the ability of your plane, or you'll be in a deep one."

Rosen and Berenson spent two hours Saturday over Tzfat, where by 3:30 p.m. the blaze was crackling and churning just across a narrow road from Itzak Tibi's house, his wife and three children peering nervously from inside. Tibi focused a feeble stream of water on the ground, hoping to stop the rampaging fire, he said, as the planes circled high above.

"I don't know what else to do," Tibi said. "I can't leave my house to burn."

One plane, then the other, began to dive at breakneck speed, coming within a few yards of the road. With the flames lapping at its wheels, one spewed a trail of red chemical into the blaze, soaking Tibi and a few neighbors gathered to watch.

But, despite pass after pass by Rosen, the flames kept coming, engulfing the neighborhood in a thick fog of smoke. Then the warning sirens sounded across Tzfat, signaling more rockets on the way.

Tibi ran inside and told his family to pack. They emerged minutes later, each with a little bag. Tears streamed down his two daughters' faces, from smoke or fear or both. His son was wearing only one flip-flop. They piled into a white Suzuki sedan and drove away.

A half-hour later, however, the fire's spread had been halted by the pilots' barrage. They returned to Rosh Pinna, content to let it burn itself out. Back at the airport, just before dusk, they sat in the control room, their hair streaked chemical red, their faces exhausted.

Another pilot joined them, and they swapped stories and smoked cigarettes for a while before the radio squawked again, asking for someone to make another run at a fire near the Sea of Galilee.

"I'm sorry," Rosen said, rising from his chair and grabbing his helmet. "I am to be running."

Special Correspondent Tal Zipper contributed to this report.