Benghazi, Libya, May 1964
The Beaver has just dropped me off at Santa Fe Rig 2. It’s a new location only 10-miles from the new Esso port of Marsa Brega, and I’m not wasting any time hanging around the rig today. They won’t even start drilling for another 24 hours, so I’m heading down to the coast to see some of the German fortifications left over from World War II.
I just passed a little ridge overlooking the main coast road, and there are at least three fortified, sandbagged areas where German machinegun placement have been, and there are stacks of land-mines and jerry cans everywhere.
It is about 3 o’clock and I am about to turn around and head back to the rig when I see something strange on the side of a low cliff. As I get closer, I realize it is the remains of a biplane. It had crashed and burned, and as I look at the wreck of the old World War I Biplane, I’m guessing it’s Italian, and then not twenty yards away I see a German Jerry can. The history of the country sometimes overwhelms me.
It’s late in the afternoon, and I decide to stop by the Esso camp at Marsa Brega for dinner. Yeah, there’s the dining hall. I walk up to what looks like a dining hall, and poke my head in. Hey, there’s Sidney Sorenson one of the Aussie Pilots. I’ll join him.
“Hi Sid. Mind if I join you?”
“Have a seat, Mate. What are you doing here in Brega?”
“Oh, I’m on a rig about ten-miles up the road, and I thought I’d get some decent grub before I drive back. You’re usually not in Brega, either. What are you flying?”
“They switched me off Beavers to that DC-3 out on the runway. I’ll be in and out of here nearly every day for a while.”
The waiter has just placed a nice steak in front of me. I’m thinking how good it is, and about to leave, but something just crosses my mind. I turn back and sit down beside Sid.
“Sid, do you ever have any extra room on the plane?”
“Yeah, every day, mate. We never have more than a couple of guys. The plane is mostly for cargo.”
“What if a young lady just happened to be at the airport a few days from now? Do you think you might give her a lift?”
Sid is smiling, and I know those risk-taking Aussies won’t turn down something like that.
“Well, sure, but how are you going to get the word to your wife?”
“If you have a few minutes, I’ll write her a note, and tell her to meet you at the dispatcher’s office next Monday. What time do you leave Benghazi?”
“Just a little later than the Beavers you guys fly in and out of the desert— around eight-thirty.”
“Great; I’ll tell her just to get on the DC-3, with you, and no one will ever know—or care.”
“You got it, Richard. Write the letter.”
A few minutes later, and Sid has an invitation to Vertis.
“Here Sid; the dispatcher will get it to her.”
“Okay, will do, and when we’re in the air, I’ll radio you an ETA. Pick her up out on the runway. No sense in having the folks in this office wondering what a woman is doing here.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be by the radio Monday morning waiting for your call.”
The first week of this assignment is dragging because I have Vertis’s visit on my mind, but it’s Monday, and now she should be on her way. I have just left the communication’s trailer, heading for Marsa Brega, after Sid gave me an ETA of 9:32. I’m dropping down toward the coast now, and I can see the two dozen scattered houses. I guess about 50 people live here year-round, loading the tankers and serving as a supply point for rigs in the desert.
I stop at the edge of the runway waiting on the plane, and start looking for the DC-3. There it comes, crosses my mind, as see a DC-3 dropping like a rock for an approach. Yeah, it’s Sid all right. I start my Land Rover and get ready to drive out on the runway. Is she going to be on the plane? Of course, Vertis knows it’s against company policy for her to even fly on the cargo plane, and it sure is against the rules for her to accompany me to a remote camp in the desert and spend the night at one of the drill-sites.
I’m waiting on the edge of the airstrip in my Land Rover with the motor running, and I watch as Sid pulls up short of the hanger, and the side cargo door opens. Yes, she’s on the plane! I roar out to the runway, and Vertis hops out of the DC-3, just as I pull up.
“Hey, need a ride?” I yell. Vertis jumps into my Land Rover, and we head for the desert. I’m sure the folks waiting for the plane to pull up to the unloading dock wonder what’s happening.
“Richard, I can’t believe you pulled this off,” Vertis says as we drive along. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get in trouble?”
“Naaaa, they need geologists in the worst way, and true love sometimes does some unusual things,” I say back.
“You mean true lust.”
We both laugh, and since we are almost newlyweds, we don’t even think about the consequences of violating company rules. Heck, I’m thinking, they won’t fire me. They need wellsite geologists—but it will be a written reprimand—won’t look to good on my record—ah, forget it.
“How was the flight down?” I ask.
“Not bad; a little bumpy, and Sid made me nervous when he dipped in and dropped like a rock to the runway.”
“Yeah, that’s the way Sid always comes in. He was an Aussie carrier pilot before he started flying for Esso Libya.”
“One other little thing; I fastened my seat belt when we took off, and after we landed I stood up and the belt came with me. It wasn’t attached to the plane.”
We pull up to the rig, and Vertis, with her long, blonde hair, causes quite a stir among the crew, but the tool-pusher and other Americans on the rig are my friends, and everyone thinks it’s a fun thing to do. I even take Vertis to the dining hall that night for dinner, and she is literally the belle of the ball. It is after dinner now, and we’re going to have a romantic reunion in my trailer.
It’s the next morning, and we’re heading back to Marsa Brega where Vertis can catch the DC-3 back to Benghazi. Sid taxies out to the end of the runway and kills the engine on the side of the plane where the cargo door is located. That’s my signal to drive out to the plane and deliver Vertis. A quick kiss, Vertis hops on the plane, and I’m smiling as I stand there beside the Land Rover.
Richard H. Mason of El Dorado is a syndicated columnist and author and former president of the Arkansas Wildlife Federation and the state Pollution Control & Ecology Commission. He may be reached by email at richard@ gibraltarenergy.com.