Benghazi Journal---1964

.....“I’m heading back to Tripoli. We’re low on gas—but we should be able to make it.”

            Should be? But as we pull up into smoother air I get some relief and figure Don is just pulling my leg by saying that. After we gain a little altitude, the flight back to Tripoli is smooth as glass—at least compared to flying in a Giblie.

            We are getting close to the Tripoli airport when Don yells back some disturbing news.

            “Damn! The Giblie has moved north and the Tripoli airport is reporting visibility at less than a hundred meters!”

            My gosh, just thinking about dropping down into that sandstorm again has me nervous as a cat.

“What are you going to do?” I yell.

“We have to land—we’ll be out of fuel in about three minutes.”

            Out of gas and in the middle of a sandstorm with almost no visibility? Yeah, I’m praying, and my nose is stuck on the window looking for the ground—and I’m really praying now that I will see the runway.

            “Hang on, we are going in—I see the runway—damn—there’s a bitch of a crosswind! Ohooooo, shit!”

            Two thoughts flash through my mind: Well, we shouldn’t burn when we crash—we are out of gas—and then I think. I wonder how hard that cargo door will be to open. I look up and glance out the window, and I see the runway. Yes! Yes! I’m elated, but now I feel the plane tilting, and I can hear Don cursing as he tries to level it out before our right wing hits the runway.   I know I should be crouching down covering my head, but I keep looking out the window, waiting for the plane to touch down. Finally, I feel a wheel hit the runway—but it is only the right wheel of the landing gear.

            Oh, God! Oh, God! We’re going to crash! I’m watching out the window as we do a wheelie down the runway with our right wing inches from hitting the asphalt. Finally, Yes! We bounce over and the left wheel hits so the plane goes into another wheelie. It is another 50 yards before the plane settles down and Don guides it up to the hangar, as the engine coughs—out of gas.

            I’m off the plane now, and I want to kiss the ground I am so glad we didn’t crash. But Don has just calmly lit a cigarette, and as he walks up to me he says, “Be back in the morning at nine, Mate, and we’ll give it another go.” ....