country as Israel, and not understanding Hebrew, you not being Jewish
The words were not meant unkindly, but all conversation stopped abruptly
and the Brig looked up, frowning swiftly, quick to sense an unkindness
to guest at his board.
David was aware of Debra staring at him intently, as if to will words
from him, and suddenly he thought how three denials finalized any issue,
in the New Testament, in Mohammedan law, and perhaps in that of Moses as
well. He did not want to be excluded from this household, from these
people. He didn't want to be alone again. It was good here.
He smiled at the cousin and shook his head. It's strange, yes, but not
as bad as you would think. I understand Hebrew, though I don't speak it
very well.
You see, I am Jewish, also.
Beside him Debra gave a soft gasp of pleasure and exchanged quick
glances with Joe.
Jewish? the Brig demanded. You don't look it, and David explained, and
when he was through the Brig nodded. It seemed that his manner had
thawed a little.
Not only that, but he is a flier also, Debra boasted, and the Brig's
mustache twitched like a living thing so that he had to soothe it with
his napkin while he reappraised David carefully.
What experience? he demanded brusquely.
Twelve hundred hours, sir, almost a thousand on jets. Jets? Mirages.
Mirages! The Brig's gold tooth gleamed secretly.
What squadron? Cobra Squadron.
Rastus Naude's bunch? The Brig stared at David as
he asked.
Do you know Rastus? David was startled.
We flew in the first Spitfires from Czechoslovakia together, back in 48.
We used to call him Butch Ben Yak, Son of a Gentile, in those days. How
is he, he must be getting on now? He was no spring chicken even then.
He's as spry as ever, sir, David answered tactfully.
Well, if Rastus taught You to fly, you might be half good, the Brig
conceded.
As a general rule the Israeli Airforce would not use foreign pilots, but
here was a Jew with all the marks of a first-class fighter pilot. The
Brig had noticed the marvelous man and thrust which that other
consummate judge of young men, Paul Morgan, had recognized also and
valued so highly. Unless he had read the signs wrongly, something he
seldom did, then here was a rare one. Once more he appraised the young
man in the candlelight and noticed that clear and steady gaze that
seemed to seek a distant horizon. It was the eye of the gunfighter, and
all his pilots were gunfighters.
To train an interceptor pilot took many years and nearly a million
dollars. Time and money were matters of survival in his country's time
of trial, and rules could be bent.
He picked up the wine bottle and carefully refilled David's goblet. I
will place a telephone call to Rastus Naude, he decided silently, and
find out a bit more about this youngster.
