Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

mistake of sitting on a public bench adjacent to a female who wasn’t his wife or blood relative. He wasn’t talking to her, just sitting, resting. Sometimes the Matawah sweep through American or Brit compounds looking for booze or drugs. Often, they set-up roadblocks checking the work-documents of all the Packies, Egyptians, Bangladeshies, or whoever else is in the city, making sure their work visas haven’t expired.

Suddenly, we are surrounded by Matawah. We are force marched without explanation towards the central square, across the street, near the mosque.

“Oh shit.” says Jerry. “What day is it?”

“Friday.”

“Fuck,” Lippi says, “it’s chop-chop time.”

The crowd gathers, and the Matawah make sure that all us western infidels are pushed up front, the better to watch Islamic justice. The prisoners are marched out. This is going to be my first viewing of a public execution. We all know that, except for during Ramadan, all Islamic justice is meted out every Friday, immediately following noon prayer.

The kneeling man’s eyes are fixed, as are ours, on the executioner standing before him. He is holding a long, scimitar-style sword. In the blink of an eye, the man’s head is in the basket. No one ever noticed the second executioner step up from behind and swing his sword.

Today were in for a treat. A Muslim husband has accused one of his wives of infidelity. Worse yet, as Jerry works out from the crowd, she’s been caught being unfaithful with a non-Muslim. She will be stoned to death. Lucky for her, however, Jeddah, unlike most other Muslim cities, has gone ‘high tech.’ We watch as she is lowered into a prepared pit, about 10’ x 5’ x 8’ deep. The throaty rumble of the tractor is enough to clear a path for it through the side of the crowd. We watch a front loader full of huge chunks of rock and concrete pieces lifted high above the pit. At a nod from the Imam, the tractor operator releases his load. The woman is no longer visible, buried beneath tons of rubble and dust.

“Man, it was much worse in the old days,” says Mark. They used to have the husband and his male family members and buddies just throw rocks at the bitch until she died. Took forever.”

We manage to sidle out of the crowd, and escape back into the maze of the zook, before the next beheading or hand chopping. “I’ll be more careful to make sure what day of the week it is before I zook-it again,” I tell the other guys.

“Hell,” says Jerry. “Sure keeps the crime rate low.” He’s right, but Islamic justice can be a little too arbitrary, from where I stand, as a non-Muslim (and secret Jew).

Herr Lippi asks, “know what they cater their beheadings with?”

“No, Mark, what?”

“DeCap-achino! get it? Get it?”

Dead Hadji’s I Have Known (The Wrist Watch)

“Is the gear down and locked?” screams Captain Troy Cupps, finally losing patience with our stand-in Flight Engineer, Bruce Quinn.

“1000 feet above field elevation.” I call out. “Bruce, is the fuckin’ gear down?”

No response from Bruce, a total asshole of a guy, who takes pleasure torturing new hires during ground school and sim sessions, but has frozen-up in the real deal.

“300 feet above minimums.” I announce.

“We’re going around,” announces Troy, “Flaps 20, set go around thrust,” and he blasts us up and away from our landing at Islamabad.

The Packies are screaming in the back of the plane. Apparently some of the bodies have started rolling down the aisles, as we pitch-up to our 15° go-around deck angle.

We started the ‘second wave of the Hadj’ returning the Hajjis from Arabia to wherever they’ve come from, all over the Muslim world. A Muslim (to get into heaven), must do one Hajj in their lifetime. Since most are pitifully poor, villages all over Pakistan, India and Bangladesh take up collections to send their old, sick and dying for their one pilgrimage. The rules are that if a Muslim dies during the Hajj, he automatically ascends to Heaven.

We invariably have four or five die (out of 500 Hajji’s on the 747) on the way in, during the “first wave.” However, when the millions of old, sick Hajji’s from all these countries are concentrated in the packed tent cities erected for the Hajj, then go through the rigors of the journey, many more die during the actual pilgrimage, or on the “second wave” heading home. The corpses of the already dead are taken into the plane, for the return trip home. These bodies, shrouded, are laid out in the aisles, and are prayed over by fellow passengers, who stand in the aisles, chanting.

Today, fifteen dead Pakistani’s, and 480 live ones, are returning to Islamabad, and our violent go-around has corpses rolling down the aisles, creating Islamic havoc.

Leveling off at 1500’ AGL, Troy asks me to take control. It was his leg to Islamabad, but responding that “I have control,” I am now flying the airplane.

Troy, calm now, turns to work the landing gear problem out with Bruce, while I notify Islamabad Tower Control of our “missed approach.” They vector me around in a pattern to avoid terrain and buy us time to resolve our situation.

Troy satisfies himself that all eighteen wheels are all “down and locked.” All is safe, the crisis is just an indication problem, and the inability of an inept Flight Engineer to correctly determine what he was looking at.

Troy resumes control of the airplane, we land smoothly, uneventfully and taxi up to the terminal.

We pilots in the cockpit, Bruce escaping Troy’s wrath by going down onto the ramp to do his walk around — the inspection of the exterior of the craft.

Neither Troy, nor I have said a word about the incident, each mellowing out in our own thoughts. The aircraft is now empty of all passengers, both living and dead.

One of our flight attendants enters the cockpit, a young lady so swathed in her Abaya, that I don’t recognize her. She is holding up a man’s gold watch.

“Do either of you know anything about watches?” she asks.

Abruptly pulled back from our thoughts, neither Troy Cupps nor I answer fast enough.

“Do you think this a good watch, do you think my boyfriend would like it?”

Troy and I disbelievingly catch each other’s eye, then turn back to look at this girl. In our hearts, we know that she has robbed one of the corpses. She leaves the cockpit, thoughtfully, softly closing the door.

Jeddah

Easter was approaching, and so was Father Larry Jacks.

“Uh oh,” says Wally Hudson, Al-Wahlid, as he pushes back his chair, the breakfast table clears in a hurry. Soon its only me and Father Larry, a devout Christian horse-rancher from Montana. He was wearing his only outfit. Every day, the same washed-out, yellow knit shirt. That same pair of khaki shorts, with his bony, pale legs ending in black socks and brown leather sandals.

Everybody avoided Father Larry, like a Biblical plague. He was a nice enough, decent man, but the faith was his only topic. Early on I had answered “yes,” when Larry asked if I was saved? Big mistake. Father Larry has me down as a brother now, and I don’t have the heart to hurt his feelings now.

“Stephen ,” this is in a stage whisper. We’re all alone in this immense hotel dining room, and Father Larry is whispering to me… “we’ve formed a group to conduct a secret Easter service, I knew you’d be interest.”

The Saudi’s do not permit the possession of holy books of any faith other than Islam, no Bibles, no crosses, no nothing. You would be unable to buy a cross, or to wear one in Saudi Arabia. Very tolerant people, the Saudi’s.

Apparently, Larry is a member of a Christian cabal, which meets secretly in different hotels, or homes, every Sunday. They intend to celebrate an Easter service, which is punishable by Allah knows