Exodus - Leon Uris [318]
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