Part 1

Hugh Pryor

In 1986, I was, surprisingly, quite pleasurably employed in Colonel Gaddafi’s Libya. I was flying for the leading Utility Aviation Company in the world at that time, on contract to an oil field service company, called Schlumberger.

The pre-GPS flying was challenging and the people I was flying around the desert were fun. Their speciality was to tell you what was down the hole that the drilling boys had dug for you, in your search for oil…if that was the business that you happened to be in at the time.

The equipment they used to do this was built out of expensive metals, like titanium and gold. These tools were designed to withstand the enormous formation pressures which you find hidden at the depths where the hydro-carbons lurk, under the ground. They were right on the cutting edge of sophistication…unlike the aircraft which I had the great pleasure to fly for them.

By no stretch of the imagination could the Pilatus Porter be accused of being sophisticated. Boxy?…yes. Angular?…yes. Eccentric?…most assuredly. Beautiful?…Well, if you were lost in the desert and you had finished the last of the water yesterday and the Grim Reaper was fluttering in and out of your consciousness like a ravenous vulture…very possibly. Loveable?…for me, a definite ‘Yes’. But sophisticated?…a decisive ‘No’.

You probably don’t remember, but it was in April that year that that Ronnie and Maggie tried to ‘get’ Gaddafi, in revenge for the Lockerbie bombing of the Pan Am 747. I was in Libya at the time and, since a lot of the bombers came from the United Kingdom, I felt fairly exposed to any official, (or unofficial, for that matter,) reaction that the Libyan Government might feel it appropriate to take against British subjects, if they could lay their hands on them.

The most extraordinary thing to me about the American raid was that almost the only aircraft which was not destroyed during the Benghazi attack, was the old Pilatus Porter which I had taken there from the desert, for a one-hundred hour inspection. The F-27 to the right of the Porter was burned out and the old expired Caravelle on the other side had one wing broken by the bomblets.

The apron was covered in little fan-shaped excoriations where the bomblets had bounced and then exploded, firing minute shards of shrapnel into the apron. The Porter, however, was not even scratched. I have seen a photo taken from an SR 71, the following day, from flight level God, and you can quite easily pick out the Porter sitting innocently in amongst the wreckage.

A couple of nights after the raid, I was convinced that I had been targeted by American Special Forces. I was sleeping at the Schlumberger base at 103-Alpha, back down in the desert again, after the inspection. They had put me in the comfortable old Maltese-built trailer, set aside for visiting guests and pilots. It had been an early night, after some discussion of our immediate future, in the aftermath of the American raids.

I was abruptly woken, at one o’clock in the morning, by a massive explosion. The initial crash was followed by the thump of falling woodwork and the tinkle of broken glass. I cowered under my flimsy bed linen, expecting the roof to collapse in on me at any moment. A fat lot of good those sheets would have done me, if it had! I even framed the first words I would hurl at the assault troops, as they stormed through my door. “DON’T SHOOT! I’M BRITISH!” A fat lot of good that would have done me too, in the circumstances, but I didn’t have any other offensive weapons to hand, at the time.

Then my nose picked up the pungent and unmistakable aroma of freshly-brewed beer. The threat of attack instantly receded and the cause of the explosion revealed itself. Ralph’s potent ‘Tripple-X’ brew had proved too strong for the ‘Bengashia’ mineral water bottles into which it had been decanted. Unbeknownst to me, the guest trailer had been designated as a cellar for the storage of the illicit liquor and when two of the crates decided to blow, they took the cupboard doors with them. Powerful stuff, Ralph’s brew!

All this excitement meant that it became more and more difficult to dig out crews who were prepared to put their heads into the Libyan noose. So the company became more and more reluctant to grant leave to the crews who were already on the gallows, so to speak. Eventually, I had been extended for three months over my normal four week tour.

Then I discovered something which made my guts shrivel. The authorities had lost my passport. You cannot leave Libya without an exit stamp. You cannot get an exit stamp without a passport. You cannot get a new passport without an embassy, and Britain had closed up their embassy in Libya, when a young police woman had been shot and killed outside the Libyan Embassy in London. Later investigation established that the bullet had originated inside the embassy itself and so diplomatic relations between the British and Libyan governments were broken off, and the Libyan staff were fairly politely asked to leave.

After the raid, I thought my fate was sealed and that I would be gleefully and probably sadistically arrested, to spend the rest of my few remaining days in the Black Hole of Benghazi, en-celled with the other luckless Brits. There would be no room to sit down until the first hundred or so had demised and their pitiful remains been dragged out to feed the packs of mongrels which skulked around the dungeon, waiting for human tit-bits. What a way to go.

For a time I seriously considered absconding with the Pilatus. The problem with that course of action was that the Pilatus Porter takes for ever to get anywhere. Also, it doesn’t carry quite enough fuel to get you within walking distance of where you would want to go anyway, and because that’s the other side of the Mediterranean, the last bit’s going to be rather wet, unless your initials begins with JC. So another cunning plan would have to be hatched.

Meanwhile I decided to keep my head as low to the ground as a sand viper and hope for the best. Unfortunately, that wasn’t low enough to avoid Sergeant Abdullah, our burly local policeman.

One evening, we were on our way back from the Dowell camp, round the back of the Occidental production facility. We ate with Dowell and slept at the Schlumberger camp. We had enjoyed a comparatively sumptuous dinner, which was lucky, because Sergeant Abdullah stopped us enroute and demanded to see our Desert Passes. The pilots never had Desert Passes, because we were on one-month Business Visas in order to save our company from paying Income Tax on our salaries. To obtain a Desert Pass you had to be in possession of a Residence Permit, and in order to get that, you had to pay Income Tax. So, in other words, all the pilots were flying around the Libyan desert illegally. I was more illegal than most, because, not only did I have no Desert Pass, but my one-month business visa had expired three months before. I had no replacement pilot, so the company could not give me leave, without jeopardizing the contract. Anyway, my passport had disappeared now, so I could not extend my visa, even if I had wanted to.

“No Desert Pass, Mr. Pryor?” said Sgt. Abdullah, exercising the fluent command of the English language which had got him the job in 103-A. I couldn’t help noticing that he was gently rubbing his hands in anticipation.

“You know I don’t have a Desert Pass, Abdullah.” I said, confident that the crate of home-brewed beer which we had delivered to the police station last Thursday, would ensure my immunity.

My confidence was unfounded. “Then I shall have to detain you, pending regularization of your status, Mr. Pryor.”  The teeth gleamed triumphantly beneath the neatly-trimmed moustache. “ Be so kind as to drop Mr. Pryor off at my police station, on your way back, would you, Mr. Marvin?” Marvin was the Party Chief and this evening’s designated driver.

Sgt. Abdullah was the proud proprietor of one detention cell, at ‘his’ police station. This facility was unique in that it had a thriving population of bed-bugs, even though there was no actual bed. A pillow was provided, but, to be honest, I wouldn’t have even touched it with yours. As for food…let’s just say I was glad to have dined so well at Dowell. My next problem would be when the waste products wanted relief.

It wasn’t my first experience of Abdullah’s hospitality. I had had the pleasure on one previous occasion and bail had been paid in beverages, after a couple of days. So presumably the same rules would apply this time, and they did. Abdullah managed to drag my sentence out for three days on this occasion, but finally I was released, just before the Dowell Dinner demanded deliverance.

A couple of weeks later, on our return from the Dowell Diner, Abdullah’s stocks had obviously become depleted and he ambushed us again. This time Marvin tried to negotiate the bail without the custodial sentence, but Abdullah wasn’t having it. “You must drop Pryor at my police station, Mr. Marvin. We will discuss his future with you in the morning.”

This sounded rather ominous to me, and my fears turned out to be justified. After Abdullah had closed and locked the cell door, he paused and turned to me. ”Mr. Pryor,” he said, leaving a prolonged gap for dramatic effect, “I will not be putting you in jail again.”

“Oh, thanks, Abdullah.” I replied, a relieved smile spreading across my face, “Great news?”

“I’m afraid not Mr, Pryor.” Abdullah bowed his head, as if to emphasize the gravity of the situation. “On three occasions now, you have flouted the laws of the Socialist Peoples’ Libyan Arab Republic.” He raised his head and fixed me with a withering stare. “You have become a habitual criminal, Mr. Pryor, and if this infringement of the Desert Pass Regulations occurs again, I will have to refer your case to the Central Criminal Court of the Peoples’ Committee in Tripoli.”

I suddenly realised Abdullah was deadly serious. “The last expatriate who appeared before this committee, for a similar offence, was sentenced to ten years imprisonment. He got out after six, but he was not the same man who had entered that jail six years before. His mind was gone, after the years of deprivation and depravity. He died within two years of his release.”

This was seriously scary stuff. I decided to throw myself on Abdullah’s mercy.

“Abdullah,” I put on my best pleading voice. “We’ve known each other for some time now. You know that I am not a criminal. You know that I am really putting my neck on the line here, in order to help the economy of Libya. It is my company and the demands of the People of Libya which cause me to have to be flexible with the Desert Pass Regulations, not my own personal gain.” I was actually skirting round, pretty close to the truth, in fact. Personal gain had ceased to be part of the equation a couple of months back, even before the American raid, and my flying career would most certainly not be advanced by ten years in a Libyan jail. “What do you suggest that I should do?”

“I suggest, Mr. Pryor, that you go to Tripoli tomorrow morning and sort out your situation before it is taken out of your hands.”

“Thanks for the tip, Abdullah. I will most certainly take your advice.”

Obviously the client was not too happy to have a pilotless, instead of a Pilatus Porter on his hands, but there was no alternative. I scrounged a lift on the Occidental Twin Otter, the next morning and arrived in the Schlumberger office in Tripoli, just in time to call our office in Zürich, before lunch.

“’Morning Eddie.” I greeted our Chief Pilot.

“’Morning Hugh!” came his cheerful reply.

“I’m in Tripoli.”

“Very good, Hugh. How’s everything in Tripoli then?”

“Not very good Eddie. I’m in Tripoli, but the aeroplane is down in the desert.”

“You can’t do THAT, Hugh! Who’s flying the plane?”

“Nobody, Eddie. You have to get someone down here to replace me.”

“No Hugh, I’m afraid that’s not an option at the moment. We have no replacement for you as yet. So you will just have to soldier on for a bit longer.”

“Sorry, Eddie. I have been advised that if I go back to the desert without a Desert Pass again I will be arrested as I have already been three times now, and my case will be referred to the Peoples’ Committee here in Tripoli. I was told that, in all likelihood, I will not then reappear in public for ten years, if ever, and that our company would probably become Personna Non Grata in Libya. So you will HAVE to get someone to replace me anyway.

Eddie paused for some serious brain-storming. “Right, Hugh. I will see if I can get down there myself, tomorrow, and take over from you.”

“That’s my Boy!” I thought out loud, but the task of finding my passport and getting the visa extended without incurring the wrath of the Peoples’ Committee seemed an especially daunting task, particularly in light of the recent American raid.

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