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On Christmas Eve the few hundred Christian oil workers and their
families gathered to see the Nativity. We were on the Dhahran
ball field huddled in the bleachers. There were fires, and desert
wood smoke seasoned the air. Camels, goats, sheep, and donkeys
lent their authenticity and occasionally their unruliness. A black
Bedouin tent framed the scene and directly overhead shone a small
star, fixed just so, its rays projecting down toward the child,
parents, wise men, shepherds, and attendants. A Dhahran singing
group performed in grand style, their voices riding on the evening
breeze. It seemed heavenly. It was the most beautiful Christmas
pageant I have ever seen. We walked home in the darkness, because
in 1949, Dhahran had almost no street lighting.
In the following years, George Lincoln came back from Beirut.
I think he was at the American Community School then. He was my
hero. He was so calm. He built model airplanes and one particular
afternoon, he carried a new one to the ball field for some fun.
We helped him string the control lines and after the engine was
started one of us held the tail while George ran to the center
of the field. Grasping the u-control handle, he signaled for the
release.
What a sight! The model, metallic maroon,
hopped once and sped skyward, trailing an exhaust rich in methanol
and caster oil. Round and around it flew. The noise was ear splitting.
After a few level circuits, George began loops, figure eights, and
then the dangerous wing-overs. After a round, he would take the
plane right over the top; as it sped down, plummeting toward the
grass, he would deflect the elevator with the thin tether and the
plane would pull out inches from the ground. Higher and higher he
flew and then disaster! At the top of a wing over, the model buckled
and cart-wheeled to the turf.
What had happened? Everything was working so perfectly. The model
was a twisted mass of splintered balsa and parts. The outboard
wing showed a dent in the leading edge near the tip, a peculiar
dent created by something narrow, like a wire. We looked up and
there, swaying gently from the collision, was the wire that had
some time before held our Nativity's Star of Bethlehem.
Undaunted, George took the pieces home and in a few days he was
back. We watched him put the model through its paces. This time,
however, George gave the wire wide berth. |
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