Exodus - Leon Uris [323]
Foster J. MacWilliams took one look at these strange creatures, listened to the arguments in the gobbledygook lingo, uttered a short oath to Stretch Thompson and went into town and got very intoxicated.
He was awakened the next morning and carted to the airport with a horrible throbbing hangover from mixing Greek ouzo, rice wine, and Scotch. He watched the Yemenites carrying their water bottles and their Torah aboard the plane.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Foster commented on the procession.
“Captain MacWilliams,” a voice said behind him. He turned and faced a tall, well-shaped sabra who introduced herself as Hanna. She was in her mid-twenties and wore the traditional blue of a kibbutz and had sandals on her feet. “I will be flying with you and taking care of the passengers.”
At that point the trip started to become interesting to Foster. Hanna was unconcerned that he was looking her over very carefully. “Do you have any particular instructions? I mean this is our first experiment.”
“Hell, no. Just keep them gooks out of the pilot’s cabin. Of course, you are welcome to come in ... any time. And call me ‘Tex.’ ”
Foster was watching the loading. The line of Yemenites seemed endless. “Hey! What’s the score? How many of them do you think that plane will hold?”
“We have a hundred and forty listed.”
“What! You crazy? We won’t get that thing into the air. Now, Hanna, you just run up there and tell whoever is putting those people on to take half of them off.”
“Captain MacWilliams,” the girl pleaded, “they are very light people.”
“So are peanuts light. That don’t mean that I can haul a billion of them.”
“Please. I promise you won’t have any trouble with them.”
“You’re damned right I won’t. We’ll all be dead at the end of the runway.”
“Captain MacWilliams. Our situation is desperate. The British have ordered us to get them out of Aden. They are pouring over the border by the hundreds every day.”
Foster grumbled and studied the weight charts. The Israeli workers nearby held their breath as he calculated. He made the mistake of looking up into Hanna’s eyes. He refigured, cheated a bit, and reckoned with luck the old ship could rev up enough steam to get up in the air. Once up, he’d keep her up ... somehow. “Hell, leave them in,” he said, “this is my first and last trip, anyhow.”
The camp director handed him the final manifest. A hundred and forty-two Yemenites were packed into the craft. Hanna got the food and supplies aboard and he climbed up the ladder.
The stench hit his nostrils!
“We didn’t have time to bathe them all,” Hanna apologized. “We didn’t know when you were coming.”
He poked his head in the main cabin. It was jammed tight with the little people. They sat cross-legged and frightened on the floor. The smell was horrible.
Foster stepped in and closed and locked the door. Whereupon the unventilated hundred-and-twenty-degree heat began to work on the odors. He worked his way forward an inch at a time. By the time he reached the pilot’s cabin he was an interesting shade of green. He threw the window open to get air but instead got a blast of heat. He ran up the engines and as he taxied down the runway he held his head out of the window and vomited. He continued retching as he gunned the plane down the runway and barely lifted at the last inch. He sucked a lemon as he fought for altitude, and finally, with the coming of cooler air, his stomach came under control.
It was choppy and the plane bounced badly as he tried to get height. He “turned