Leon Uris (93 page)

The fact is, the Palestine fellaheen were victimized by men who used them as a tool, deserted them, and are victimizing them again. Kept penned up, fed with hatred, they are being used to keep Arab hatred of Israel at the boiling point.

If the Arabs of Palestine loved their land, they could not have been forced from it—much less run from it without real cause. The Arabs had little to live for, much less to fight for. This is not the reaction of a man who loves his land.

A man who loves his land, as the Arabs profess, will stand and die for it.

The Arabs tell the world that the State of Israel has expansionist ideas. Exactly how a nation of less than a million people can expand against fifty million is an interesting question.

The Arab people need a century of peace.

The Arab people need leadership, not of desert sheiks who own thousands of slaves, not of hate-filled religious fanatics, not of military cliques, not of men whose entire thinking is in the Dark Ages. The Arab people need leaders who will bring them civil liberties, education, medicine, land reforms, equality.

They need leaders with the courage to face the real problems of ignorance, illiteracy, and disease instead of waving a ranting banner of ultranationalism and promoting the evil idea that the destruction of Israel will be the cure for all their problems.

Unfortunately, whenever an enlightened Arab leader arises he is generally murdered. The Arabs want neither resettlement of the refugees, alleviation of their plight, nor do they want peace.

Israel today stands as the greatest single instrument for bringing the Arab people out of the Dark Ages.

Only when the Arab people get leadership willing to grasp the hand extended in friendship will they begin to solve the problems which have kept them in moral and physical destitution.

BARAK BEN CANAAN

A voice crieth in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength: they shall mount up with wings as eagles.

Isaiah

NOME, ALASKA

LATE 1948

The entire flying stock of the Arctic Circle Airways consisted of three army-surplus cargo ships purchased on credit by Stretch Thompson.

Stretch had served in Alaska during the war. He had won renown as a young man with a fertile mind and unlimited imagination when it came to devising means of avoiding honest labor. The nights were long in Alaska and they gave Stretch Thompson much thinking time. Most of this thinking time was devoted to exploiting the untapped riches of Alaska and avoiding honest labor. The longer the nights became, the more Stretch stretched—and thought. And one night he hit it.

Crabs!

The entire coast was lined with virgin beds of Alaskan king crabs, some sixteen inches in diameter. Why, with a little enterprise he could train the American public to drool for king crabs. In a year he would make them a delicacy equal to Maine lobsters, Maryland terrapin, or cherry-stone clams. He could fly the giant crustaceans down to the United States packed in ice. Eager dealers would snap them up. He would be rich. He would be known as Stretch Thompson, the King Crab King.

Things did not work out exactly as Stretch had planned. It appeared that the human race was not advanced enough for his king crabs. The cost of a plane, gas, and a pilot seemed, somehow, always to come out to more than what he could get for his crabs. None the less, Stretch was not a man to say die. With deft bookwork and glib tongue he kept the creditors off his back and he did have an airline, such as it was. With bailing wire, spit, and chewing gum he was able to keep the three crafts of Arctic Circle aloft. Just when things looked the darkest, along came a pay load to keep him in business.

Stretch’s one bit of continued good luck was his chief, and sometimes only, pilot, Foster J. MacWilliams, known as “Tex” for the usual obvious reason. Foster J. had flown the Hump during the war and was, as Stretch put it, “The best goddam chief pilot any goddam airline ever had.” Such was Foster J. MacWilliams’ prowess that no one in Nome would bet against his setting down a C-47 on the tail end of an iceberg in the middle of a blizzard—drunk. In fact, on various occasions Stretch tried to raise enough money to make the bet worth while but something always happened ... either the blizzard slackened or Foster couldn’t get drunk enough.

MacWilliams was a tramp. He liked flying. He didn’t like the fancy stuff of flying over set routes or with a schedule or with first-class craft. Too dull. The risks of flying Arctic Circle suited him fine.

One day MacWilliams came into the shack at the end of the runway which served as office, operations headquarters, and home for Stretch Thompson.

“Goddam, Stretch,” he said, “it’s colder than a well digger’s ass out there.”

Stretch had the look on his face of the proverbial canary-filled cat. “Foster,” he said, “how’d you like to go to a warmer climate and get
all
of your pay in one bundle?”

“You always did have a gruesome sense of humor.”

“I kid you not, Tex. You’ll never guess ...”

“What?”

“Guess.”

Foster shrugged. “You sold the airline.”

“That’s right.”

Foster’s mouth dropped open. “Who’d buy this pile of crap?”

“I didn’t ask their life history. I found out their check was good and that was all she wrote.”

“Well, I’ll be a sad bastard. That’s fine, Stretch, because I’m getting tired of this chicken kacky up here, anyhow. How much you figure you owe me?”

“With the bonus I’m giving you, about four grand.”

Foster J. MacWilliams whistled. “That will buy a lot of first-class tail. I can stay drunk and laid from here to South America. That’s my next stop, Stretch. I’m going to latch onto one of them South American outfits. I hear they pay big dough hauling dynamite over the Andes.”

“There’s a hitch ...” Stretch said.

“I figgered as much.”

“We got to deliver the three planes to the new owners. I hired two boys to run the number one and two ships over ... I can’t find another one.”

“You mean I’m the only one fool enough to fly the number three ship. Well, that’s all right. Where do I deliver it?”

“Israel.”

“Where?”

“Israel.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I was just looking for it on the map, myself, when you came in.”

Stretch Thompson and Foster J. MacWilliams searched high and low on the world map. After a futile half hour Tex shook his head. “Stretch, I think somebody gave you the rub.”

They went into Nome and asked around the bars where Israel might be. One or two people had heard something or the other about it. Stretch was beginning to perspire in the cold when someone suggested they get the librarian up.

“It’s Palestine!” the irate librarian said, “and midnight is no time to pound on my door.”

After another search on the map they finally located it.

Foster shook his head. “Goddam, Stretch,” he said. “It’s smaller than a big iceberg. I’m liable to fly right over it.”

Three weeks later, Foster J. MacWilliams landed the number three plane of Arctic Circle Airways at Lydda airdrome. Stretch Thompson had flown over a week earlier and was there to meet him. Foster was ushered into an office which bore the words:
PALESTINE CENTRAL AIRWAYS, S. S. THOMPSON, GENERAL MANAGER
.

Foster J. MacWilliams smelled a rat.

“How was the trip, old buddy? I’m sure glad to see you.”

“Just fine. Now if you’ll give me my back pay, old buddy, I’ll just shuffle off to Paris. I got my hooks on a real goer and a month before I hitch a ride to Rio D.”

“Sure, sure,” Stretch said. “Got the check right here in the safe.”

Stretch watched Foster MacWilliams’ eyes bug out. “Four thousand, five hundred and no zero zero’s!”

“The extra five bills is to prove that Stretch Thompson ain’t no hog,” Stretch said.

“You’re a big man ... always said that.”

“Y’ know, Tex, this here is an interesting place. Just about everybody around here is a Jew. Been here a week and I can’t get used to it.”

Foster was reluctant to ask why Stretch was here—but he did.

“Name on the door tells the story. Palestine Central Airways. I thought of the name myself. You see, these guys here haven’t had too much experience running a first-class line, so they induced me to stay. First thing I told ’em ... boys, I said ... if you want a first-class operation, you have to have a first-class chief pilot and I got the best goddam chief pilot any goddam airline ...”

“I’ll see you around,” Foster said, standing up quickly.

“What’s the fire?”

“I’m on my way to Paris.”

“I got a deal for you.”

“Not interested.”

“Do me the courtesy of listening.”

“I’ll listen but I’m not buying. I’m going to Paris if I got to swim there.”

“Here’s the pitch. Like I said, everybody around here is a Jew. They bought out the old Arctic Circle so’s they could haul more Jews in. Man, I hear they got them stashed everywhere in the world, and they all want in. All we got to do is bring the bodies in. Can’t you see it? Every load a pay load. Cash on the line ... per head. This is dream stuff, Tex boy. Stick with me and you’ll be bathing in it. You know me, Tex ... I ain’t no hog.”

“I know what I’ll be bathing in. I’ll drop you a card from Rio D.”

“O.K., Foster ... been nice knowing you.”

“Now, don’t get mad, Stretch.”

“Who’s mad, who’s mad?”

“We’ve had our times in Nome.”

“Sure ... sure ... well times. I froze my butt off.”

“Well, put her there,” Foster said. Stretch shook his hand halfheartedly.

“Now, what’s the matter, Stretch? You act like I’m putting a knife in your ribs.”

“Going to level with you, Foster. I’m in trouble. We got a hot flash that a bunch of these Jews are sitting around and waiting to be picked up at a place called Aden. I had some pilots but they chickened out on me.”

“That’s tough titty. You don’t con me. I’m going to Paris.”

“Sure,” Stretch said. “Go to Paris. If I was you I’d go too. I don’t blame you. Those other pilots ran like striped apes when they heard there was danger of the Arabs firing on them.”

Foster was on his way out. He stopped and turned around.

“You’re right, Foster. No use getting your brains blown out. This is a real rough run ... even rougher than flying the Hump or running dynamite over the Andes.”

Foster J. MacWilliams licked his lips. Stretch went into some more dramatics but he knew that the bait had been swallowed.

“Tell you what I’m gonna, Stretch. I’ll make this run for you just to help you off a spot. By the time I’m back you’d better gotten your hooks on some pilots. Just one run. Now where the hell is this Aden?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Well, let’s get a map and look for it.”

As Foster J. MacWilliams, American tramp pilot for Palestine Central, nee Arctic Circle, took off from Lydda airdrome he opened a twentieth-century fantasy out of the pages of the
Arabian Nights
.

He flew toward the British protectorate of Aden at the bottom of the Arabian Peninsula, moving right down the Red Sea.

The story actually began three thousand years before Foster’s time in ancient Sheba. In the time of the Queen of Sheba, the southern part of the Arabian Peninsula was a land of richness. The people had learned the art of constructing spillways and dams and cisterns to trap and conserve water and, with it, created a garden.

After the Queen of Sheba had made her visit to Solomon, some of Solomon’s people left Israel to go to Sheba to establish trade routes through the desert, along the Red Sea, and begin a colony. These Jews came to Sheba in Biblical times, hundreds of years before even the fall of the First Great Temple.

For centuries the Jews in Sheba prospered. They colonized well with their own villages; they integrated into the complexities of tribal life. They became leaders of the court and the most prominent of citizens.

Then came the horrible years when the sands slowly and cancerously ate away the fertile land; the wadis dried and the rains disappeared into parched earth. Man and beast wilted and withered under the unmerciful sun, and the fight to conquer thirst was the fight for life itself. Fruitful Sheba and the neighboring states broke up into jealous and hate-filled tribes which warred upon each other constantly.

When Islam first swept the world, the Jews of the ancient religion were given respect and freedom in their ways. Mohammed himself wrote the laws, which all Moslems were to follow, prescribing the kindly treatment of Jews.

This equality of the Jews was short-lived. As in all Moslem lands, all citizens other than Moslems became scorned as infidels. In their own way the Arabs had grudging respect for the Jews, and in their own way granted them a reasonable amount of tolerance. Arab massacres of Jews were never the calculated genocide of Europe, but rather the flaring of a sudden spark of violence. The Arabs had become too busy plotting against each other to be much concerned with the docile little Jews in the land now known as Yemen; centuries of suppression had removed any warlike qualities.