The Lady-Be-Good
Midnight, Aug. 15, 1964.
I’m 26 years old and in a hell of a mess. I’m lost in the middle of the Libyan Sahara Desert.
I steady myself on the top of my Land Rover, and look out over a barren wasteland from the crest of a 100’ tall sand dune and pray I’ll see something to point me in the direction of the camp at Rig 2, I left 12 hours earlier.
Surely to God, I’m not lost, flashes through my mind. But now, as the dusty blackness closes in around me, I know I’m lost. Not only am I lost, but I am in the middle of a sandstorm, and all I have with me is a canteen of water, a sandwich, and my Land Rover is about out of gas.
How did I let myself get in this mess? I have been driving across this desert for month.
I think back on a day without a hint of a problem. Up at 5 o’clock and head to the drilling rig to look at the samples. The driller hollers at me, “Ain’t seen nothin’ but old black shale.”
My work for the day will take 20 minutes, and that’s when an idea crosses my mind and I walk over to talk with Clyde McFarland, the tool-pusher.
“Hey, Clyde! How far is it to Kufra?”
Kufra is an oasis in the Desert, and it was the staging point for the British Long Range Desert Group in the World War II. I’ll be a tourist and see if the Brits or Rommel left anything of interest.
Clyde yells back, “’Bout two hours—due east, but watch out for land mines. Last week one of ‘em got an Italian Jeep and killed the geologist drivin’ it.”
“Yeah, I heard about that. I’ll watch out when I get close to the oasis.”
“Well, you’ll be okay once you get to the oasis… Shoot, if you get to Kufra, you oughta go see the old Lady-BeGood, the World War II, B-24 bomber that got off course after a bombin’ raid and landed in the desert.
“How far is it from Kufra?”
“”Bout an hour south. You won’t have no trouble findin’ it.”
I set my compass, and soon I’m driving east toward Kufra across open desert. As I get closer to the oasis, I drive by stacks of land mines are piled up on the edges of the landing strip. They aren’t even rusty. Before the War, a tribe would move from place to place with the elders leading them. After losing a few elders to mines, the tribes started sending the camels and women out front.
I continue past the airfield toward the oasis, where I park near a group of men sitting near a water well.
“Kaifa al-haak?” I say as I walk up. That’s one of the few Arabic phrases I know; a greeting that means, “Hello, how are you?”
The men all stand and greet me, spewing out Arabic that I don’t understand. Finally, one of the younger men steps forward and speaks in fairly, good English.
After a few pleasantries, I ask directions to the Lady-Be-Good. As soon as I say, Lady Be Good, everyone points south and chatters away in Arabic. But before I can get in my Land Rover, a lunch invitation comes from the young man. I look over across from the well where there’s a tent, and a steaming pot over a low fire. They have made an invitation I can’t refuse. It will be an insult to the tribe if I turn them down.
“Na-rhan, shukran,” which means, “Yes, thank you,” and I follow the men over to a steaming bowl of couscous that has been spiced up with chopped lamb, camel, and parsley. Then we all sit on the ground cross-legged around the bowl, everyone takes flat bread, and we reach into the steaming bowl of couscous, dip, and begin to eat. Finally, after we finish, everyone accompanies me to my Land Rover, and I head south following some obvious tracks.
In a little over an hour I top a rise and there, sitting in front of a low sand dune, is one of the strangest sights I have ever seen. An American B-24, World War II bomber, the Lady-be-Good, is sitting there looking as if it has just landed. The plane, which looks intact from the outside, is completely stripped inside of anything that can be unbolted or prized off.
After a few minutes of walking around the plane, I climb into the cockpit, then look into the interior, and I’ve seen all there is to see. I think about what the men faced when they scrambled out of the plane. In 1959, they found the remains of the crew. They had tried to walk to Kufra.
I set my compass northwest, and after an hour of driving, I know the rig should be 20 miles ahead, but the wind is picking up, and soon it is blowing some 30 mph. It is a giblie as the Libyans call these sandstorms, and the sand and dust drops the visibility to zero. Hours later, it’s dark, and I still haven’t found the rig, and I began to worry about running out of gas. I drive up a big sand dune and climb up on the top of the car. I’ve been standing on top of my Land Rover for about 15 minutes, trying to see a glow in the night sky, which would be the gas flares at Zelten, the ESSO Camp.
What am I going to do? crosses my mind as I yank the door open and settle into my seat.
This is one of those moments, when you wonder how someone from Norphlet, a small, oil-field town in South Arkansas, winds up lost in the Libyan Desert. The fate of the The Lady Be Good crew flashes in my mind again, as I lean back in the seat to wait out the giblie. The wind is rocking the Land Rover and in a few minute I’m asleep. It seems as if I’ve been sleeping for several hours when something happens, and I sit up startled. No wind! I jump out of the Land Rover, and the first thing I see are the Zelten flares. I’m less than a mile from the ESSO Camp, and the burning gas is so bright it’s like daylight. I can’t believe I was so close to Zelten, and couldn’t see the flares. In a few minutes I’m at the camp to spend rest of the night in the crew quarters.
Morning comes quickly, and I soon I’m driving across the desert again to be back to rig two for my morning report.
“Mason here, Gerhard; Rig 2 report, ninety eight seventy-five T. D. made 365’ Heira Shale, black shale, no shows. Over.”
“Mason, where the hell have you been? George was about to send out search parties. Over.”
“Went over to Zelten to pick up some supplies and got caught in a giblie. Over”
“….Okay,… but keep in touch better. Over.”
No, I don’t think Esso needs to know the details.
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.