POL

In Part 1 of this two-part story, Hugh Tells how his engineer Pol got lost in the Libyan desert.

- HUGH PRYOR

HORST AND I SET OFF before sun-up the next morning to once again try and find Pol.

We had gallons of strong coffee to keep Hypnos from sitting on our eye lids and some substantial sandwiches to feed the worms.

With the main and underwing tanks full, we had a good five and a half hours endurance. In fact closer to six, which I know is not far over the ground in a Porter. The Porter is so slow that it is reputed to be the only aircraft to have suffered a bird strike from the rear, but nevertheless, it was better for this job than a four-by-four. The only limiting factor appeared to be the size of our respective bladders and there were various ways around that problem, particularly armed as we were with the Porter’s peculiar “off-road” abilities.

We landed just the once during that day, for fuel. The other two times were out in the desert, for “comfort stops” and more cups of coffee! Our spirits sank deeper and deeper as the hours and the endless tracts of scorched desert crept past.

It was as if the very desert itself were saying to us, “Give it up! The guy hasn’t an icicle in hell’s chance out here. What’s one more desiccated little pile of bones anyway, to add to the thousands. Some, much tougher than him, are already here, which I have tortured and claimed before?.....Nothing!.....Go home!.....Go home to your comforts, your air conditioning and your imported luxuries! I shall be here when you and the whole human race have been swept away in the sand storms of time,”