Ethiopia - United States Mapping Mission

Pvt. PAUL HELWER - October 1962 - February 1963

Mr. Paul Helwer has prepared several photo-illustrated narrative presentations concerning his time with the 64th Engineer Battalion in both Libya and Iran, and is in the process of preparing a presentation concerning his experience as NCOIC on Sudano surveys with the U.S. Army Map Service Far East (USAMSFE) while on assignment in the Southwest Pacific.

Listed below are three of Mr. Helwer's presentations.

His first presentation is titled "Who We Were" (which follows below). This tells of PFC Paul Helwer's introduction to the Topographic Engineers and gives a general overview of his "army experience”. This presentation appears again on his personal page under the Iran-Topo Training Team (TTT) main tab.

His second presentation is titled “A Fish Out of Water” (Garrison Days at Wheelus) which speaks to his time in Libya from arrival at Wheelus AFB until his departure to Tehran, Iran.

Mr. Helwer's third presentation titled "Escape From Wheelus" is a narrative written at the time it happened about a “first taste of freedom” as a resupply “shotgun” on his “virgin” trip to the "field" after being stuck in garrison for several months at Wheelus Air Force Base in Libya.

                                         WE WERE THE TOPOGRAPIC SURVEYORS

                                OF THE 64TH ENGINEER BATTALION (BASE TOPO).



Today the men of "LEVEL ONE - LONGHORN" are proud to be among the distinguished
alumni who served under the banner of “Topo Joe”. While no two of us were on the
same life path, we shared a common experience which I document in my narratives.

“Who We Were” is the background which sets the stage for the telling of our story.
As my natural point of reference is myself, “my” story becomes “our” story.

                                           Pvt. Paul Helwer    64th Engr. Bn. (Base Topo)

                                                          Tripoli, Libya   Tehran, Iran.

Fortune smiled on me when I chose the “Topographic Survey School” enlistment
option prior to joining the Army in April of 1962. With the stroke of a pen at the office
of the local Army recruiter, the wheels were put in motion by which I would eventually
become a member of an elite fraternity of topographic surveyors: the Army mappers
of the 64th Engineers, a prestigious organization of Army Engineer soldiers dedicated
and committed to the accomplishment of the challenging tasks laid before them.

The entrance requirements for topographic surveying were stringent enough. You had
to score high in math proficiency on the army’s written test, which effectively
eliminated most of the field. Nevertheless, we started out like all soldiers, as
rock-bottom privates in the Army, thrown together from all points of the compass, a
motley crew of diverse backgrounds and life experiences. Other than a demonstrated
aptitude for engineering subjects, the one big thing we all had in common was enlisting.

Thus we entered through the door to the “army experience”, which profoundly
influenced our lives and our futures. Based on my own perceptions and interpretations
of the “army experience”, I liken the U.S. Army to a “poor man’s foreign legion”,
because it matters not who you were, where you came from, or what you did. Your
fellow soldiers don’t care, your drill sergeants don’t care, and the Army doesn’t care.

It’s a totally level playing field when you start out. It doesn’t matter whether you were
a screw-up or a genius before you enlisted. It’s a “new identity”…. a new beginning.
One Army…… One country…… One allegiance.

Those of my group who ended up with the 64th had all volunteered for topographic
survey school, where after completion of basic training I found myself in the company
of these incredibly talented and gifted individuals, each an exceptional person in his
own right. We were destined to become “family” (albeit dysfunctional, at times) as we
were tried and tested in the crucible of service as topographic surveyors in the
remotest corners of the earth.

Some may say differently, but I am certain about the first thing you learn in the Army.
Unquestionably, the first thing you learn in the Army is that you can’t change your
mind. A close second would be the ubiquitous acronym perpetually on the lips of
almost everyone, and showing up as graffiti virtually everywhere you went. In jest, we
would say it stood for “fun, travel, and adventure”. The reality is that it never did.
My point is that for us (and many others) the “army experience” could be a bumpy
and rutted road at times, and I’m not one to sugar-coat the “army experience”.

But, I definitely did have high hopes for fun, travel, and adventure when I enlisted
(while putting decision making for the future on hold). The truth is, speaking for
myself, I eventually got all of that in spades, plus immeasurably more during my initial
enlistment in the Army. [Oops, did I say “initial”? Yup, I did the deed….. took
another 3 years active (an equally incredible encore), followed somewhat later by 24
years in the National Guard, eventually retiring as a Chinook helicopter mechanic.]

I can honestly say that whatever I contributed, whatever I gave….. I got back much,
much more than I ever gave. But, that’s the perspective of hindsight, 46 years after
enlisting. You take it…. the good, the bad, the ugly: I wouldn’t change an iota of it for
anything. Even the scars are a prized legacy. It’s who I am.

Some who served with the 64th may identify with portions of the preceding as “boiler
plate” for their own “army experience”. As well, some may relate to my description
of garrison duty at Wheelus, including my account of the endless mind-numbing work
details, the endless waiting for orders, and finally…. the last day. Those who
eventually shipped to Iran from Libya may likewise find my write-up on Iran brings
back the good-old memories of that great adventure.

The narratives which follow represent my personal observations and experiences, as I
offer views of the “army experience” as seen through the eyes of one individual. At
times in shades of gray, at tmes in black and white, at times in living color….. the
ordinary became the extraordinary, and the unusual became the ordinary. For me, the
“army experience” was a mix of Alice in Wonderland, Mission Impossible, and Walt
Disney’s Wonderful World of Color, coming together in a patchwork quilt of
impressions and interpretations distilled into my own personalized version of the
“army experience”.

In support of the narratives, I have relied extensively on my collection of “letters
home”, which make up a virtual diary of the 14 months I spent in Libya and Iran.
That, and a substantive library of photography, a “back up” if you will, for the
inadequacy of mere words. As they say, “Pictures don‘t lie”.   Or was it, “A picture
is worth a thousand words”? Something like that. A budding photography hobbyist at
the time, I found my tour with the 64th was the gateway to a photographer’s heaven.
During that period, I went through 3 cameras, each one an upgrade from
the last. A sampling of my photos is interspersed throughout the narratives, and I’m
hopeful of providing a power-point slide show addendum of many more.

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ARRIVAL A slick-sleeve private, I was sent to Libya in the fall of ‘62, directly from
Topographic Survey School at Ft. Belvoir, on orders for Iran. My traveling companion aboard the “Super Connie” military charter flight to Libya was survey school classmate, Pvt. Jack D’Amato. Upon arrival at Wheelus Air Base, Tripoli, Libya, we joined other graduates of our topo survey class at the HQ of the 64th Engr. Bn. (Base Topo) where some of us, but not all, were to spend several months on standby for field assignments. The lucky ones were soon given assignments with field survey parties. (Jack got lucky. I never did.) Eventually, all but one of our gang ended up shipping to Iran, which occurred several months later.

FIRST SHIRT’S ORIENTATION On the first working day after arrival, all us “newbies” were sent directly to the orderly room for the First Sergeant’s briefing and orientation. In that memorable meeting with First Sergeant Tom Harris, he left no doubt in our military minds that he was the indisputable authority in all matters relating to the country, the mission, expectations regarding our behavior, and the standards we would be required to meet while in Libya.

Thus began a chapter in our fledgling military experience that I like to think of as “Welcome to the Real Army”. As a freshly minted private, setting foot on foreign soil for the very first time, I had been looking forward to an inspirational pep talk about being goodwill ambassadors in our host country, and getting to know the people and their culture. Unexpectedly, the “pep talk” turned out to be a sobering “reality check”, as the “First Shirt” informed us that Arab “ways” were not what we were used to in the western world, and that our concept of “logic” was alien to the Arab mind.

“Don’t get put in jail!” he admonished (his bottom line), as there was no Status of Forces Agreement (SOFA) to protect us. Unfortunately, there had been occasions of U.S. service personnel being locked up (by the Libyan authorities) for minor offenses (as we would see it) and not being able to get them out. For example, selling a package of American cigarettes to a Libyan would make you a black market criminal punishable by an indeterminate stay in jail (theirs, not ours). Run over a goat with your truck, and you could end up buying the owner a lifetime supply of goats.

Looking back, 45 years later, I would have to say the First Shirt’s commentary and advice was right on target (if not prophetic). What we couldn’t know at the time, as we were embryonic new soldiers, was how fortunate we were to be serving with the likes of “Big Tom” Harris.   The “quintessential” First Sergeant, he epitomized the best of the rank and position. Some learned much later, and some never learned, that no more loyal friend did we have than First Sergeant Tom Harris.

(Tom Harris later served two tours with the Mapping Mission in Ethiopia in the capacity of First Sergeant and Sergeant Major.)

GUESTS AND HOSTS   Many of the local citizens were employed on base and with the unit. (You guessed it….no females, unless you consider the local Italian community, which was well in evidence on base.) They filled a variety of positions, and it must have been highly prized to be a Libyan on the U.S. payroll. We were on good terms with all of these folks who were our main contact with the Libyan people while at Wheelus.

Security around the backside of the 64th facility was provided by personnel of the Libyan Army, who looked as old as the WW I era bolt-action rifles they carried as they walked their guard posts.   And we would always greet the old soldiers with the little Libyan language we had just learned. You always got a friendly smile out of them.

In my letter home of Oct. 26, 1962, I noted the poverty and low standard of living I had encountered in my limited travels, and opined that, “The average Arab, the Arab in the street, would just as soon see every American leave this country.” I also noted that although most Americans on base respect the customs and people of our host country, I had already witnessed an occasion of unacceptable behavior on the part of some ignoramus U.S. forces (not 64th) toward the locals, making a bad name for all of us.

ORGANIZATION AND COMMAND   We were officially assigned to the 542nd Engineer Company (Survey Base), 64th Engineer Battalion (Base Topo) Army Map Service Special Foreign Activity. The Battalion Commander was LCOL Whitchurch. Senior enlisted was First Sergeant Thomas W. Harris. “Field First” in garrison at Wheelus was SSG Herbertson, who presided over the morning and noon unit formations. (Herbertson just loved it when the jets on fighter row would rev up their engines and blast the atmosphere with a deafening roar during morning formation.)

Survey personnel were assigned to the various field parties which were scattered to the vast far reaches of the country. Tour of duty was 18 months. R&R was supposedly available on regularly scheduled MATS flights to Naples. (what I heard was every 4 months for those fortunate enough to take advantage of it). A sufficient staff of 64th personnel was permanently stationed at Wheelus to support the field operations, including admin, supply, commo, motor pool functions, and an aviation unit attached to the 64th.

A change of command at the battalion level occurred near the end of 1962, with an in-ranks inspection being held for the outgoing Bn. Commander, LCOL Whitchurch, on November 10, 1962. The incoming commander was LCOL Daniel Hritzko, whose previous assignment had been as Chief, Military Division, Army Map Service.

Kicking off his tenure as the new commander of the 64th, LCOL Hritzko conducted an inspection of the battalion area and facilities at Wheelus about mid-January, 1963. Sure, I remember it. Paint, paint, paint. Wash , wash. Scrub, scrub.


THE BASE   Wheelus Air Base, notable as one the largest overseas U.S. air bases in the world, sat adjacent to the beautiful blue Mediterranean, with the beach on one side and a 12-foot high security wall (topped with broken glass shards) wrapping around the remainder of the base perimeter. The surrounding environment (mainly Tripoli) did not provide the amenities and services required of a large population of service personnel and accompanying families (dependents), nor was it particularly “user friendly”. Therefore, Wheelus AFB was virtually a self-contained “city”, complete with an elementary school and a high school for dependents.

Wheelus supported jet fighter wings from the European theater of operations who rotated in for gunnery and bombing range practice, and was a major hub of Military Air Transport Service (MATS). Wheelus also served as a base for aviation related cold war operations (B-52s), and provided air/sea rescue training, as well. Over a period of years, Wheelus served the surrounding areas with humanitarian support in time of floods and earthquakes.

The 64th was tucked away at the far end of the base perimeter, near the “back gate”, virtually isolated from the main base facilities and activities. However, a convenient shuttle bus ran every fifteen or twenty minutes to all points on the base.

THE TEDIUM OF GARRISON LIFE As I was already on orders to Iran, they kept me at Wheelus where I was to spend the next four months. Since a topographic surveyor in garrison is like a fish out of water, my day to-to-day work assignments (details) tended to be ceaselessly mundane and boring. The brain would just go numb.

The daily routine consisted of an unending assortment of miscellaneous odd jobs, which included painting, landscaping, manufacturing and putting up Xmas decorations on the HQ roof, remodeling/repainting the HQ latrine for the arrival of a new female (civilian) employee, and constructing a sand/oil putting “green” and sand trap adjacent to our unit “beer garden”. I wasn’t alone. We were a sizeable group of young privates, getting lots of practice with paint brushes, etc. One of my more pleasant jobs was a week-long assignment with the Aviation Section to assist with a major parts inventory. (The aviation people, I discovered, existed pretty much in a laid-back world of their own. They kept the mission aircraft flying. Nobody messed with them. And, oh yeah, there was a perceptible mutual respect (camaraderie) between all levels of their organization.)

For me, it was a disappointment not to be a meaningful part of the “mission”, i.e., out in the Libyan desert doing the surveying we had been trained for. It was a part of the “army experience” which I can appreciate now, but didn’t at the time. Not even.

THE GARBAGE RUN One of the work “details” I found myself assigned to one fine sunny Libyan morning was the “garbage run”, which consisted of accompanying a truck loaded with garbage to the Wheelus “garbage dump”. I believe the dump was located not far outside the Wheelus perimeter, as I recall the trip was disappointingly short.

At the dumpsite, like in a scene out of a Kevin Costner movie, we found ourselves entering a bizarre landscape of gargantuan piles of garbage spread out over a very sizable area (the smell was also an attention-getter). The very next thing that caught my eye was the swarm of Libyans who pounced on our load of trash/garbage as it was dumped in a heap on the ground. And everywhere there appeared to be an army of Libyans climbing all over the piles of trash/garbage, evidently bent on salvaging what they could use from the discarded refuse, trash, and garbage of the American air base.

As this was my first exposure to anyplace outside the U.S.A., I have to say, my reaction to the spectacle was a mix of shock, horror, revulsion, pity, and shame. But then, I told myself, this was all part of the “army experience”, i.e., seeing what really goes on in the world. An education not to be found in the curriculum of the college I had attended back home.

A WELCOME BREAK   I did get lucky on one occasion and pulled duty on a memorable 3-day resupply run to two field parties (Climax and Clog).   I was assistant driver (shotgun) of a 5-ton truck loaded with 50-gal drums of gasoline. Never mind that I had not been issued a 5-ton military driver’s license.   It was just so great to be getting away from the garrison routine at Wheelus, and as our two-truck convoy roared off into the desert and into the twilight zone of the “field”, an altogether new and exciting episode in the experiences of a young soldier began. In fact, it was almost more than I could mentally process, as we stopped at a local watering hole for beers all around (Amstel…it don‘t get much better than that), and one-to-go as we sped off into the countryside. Let me just say that my head was spinning with the feeling of new-found freedom and liberation from the shackles of the daily routine at Wheelus.

Our cargo of 25 steel drums had already begun leaking before we left the base, and the rough ride only made it worse. The gasoline sloshed around in the bed of the truck, and poured out through the tailgate when we unloaded at Climax Party. My memories of Climax are mainly of wolfing down a terrific dinner of spaghetti and French rolls served in the “Jamesway” (Quonset hut style tent on a wood frame) and discovering the moon all over again as I sat outside after sundown, reading a Look magazine by the light of an unbelievably brilliant full moon. In the morning I accompanied survey personnel to a water supply point (local water well) to fill the water trailer we had brought along with us.   An antiquated “one lunger” water pump did the job, but slowly.

The other shotgun driver (Sp/4 Hanson) and I spent the second day and night at Climax while our drivers went on ahead to Clog to unload the remaining gasoline drums. On the third day we departed Climax and took the long way back to Wheelus, which entailed continuing on to the escarpment which stood like a giant wall between the coastal plain and the Sahara desert “proper”. We traversed the tortuous switchbacks up the escarpment to the town of Giado, and thence to a place called Jeffron where we descended in similar manner down to the coastal plain and back to Wheelus.

Regrettably, my first taste of “freedom” was short-lived. The resupply trip was just a “teaser”, as it was to be a long wait before being assigned to a field survey party. In fact, “liberation” was on permanent hold until my next duty station (Iran).

(For the full narrative of that unforgettable resupply trip, see “Escape from Wheelus”, which follows.)

THE CHOW   My letters home indicate I didn’t care much for the Air Force mess hall chow. But if there was one really good thing I liked, it was the milk which was a reconstituted product produced at a plant on the base. I believe it was called “Sterovita” and came in the little individual cartons. If memory serves me, I was probably the only person I ever heard of who gave a “thumbs up” for the milk.

OFF DUTY   It wasn’t ALL work and no play at Wheelus. We found a variety of things to do in our time off, the most notable being time spent at the beach before winter really set in.   As our barracks were located only a short walking distance from the Med, we became regular beach bums during the remaining days of good weather.

Amenities at Wheelus included an assortment of enlisted and NCO clubs, movie theaters, library, service clubs, and all the usual recreational facilities and opportunities found on any large military installation. Located at our end of the base, just around the corner from the 64th on the “beach road”, was the Nomad Club, an intimate and friendly little establishment open to all, known for their excellent pizza. A popular spot with 64th personnel.

Situated immediately outside the Wheelus “back gate” a short ways down the “base road” from us was a favorite “off base” hangout known as “The Green Door”, owned and run by an Italian family - a place where you could partake of beer or wine while chowing down on home-cooked spaghetti. Tried it one time just to say I’d been there.

THE MIRAGE Probably the most popular eating establishment on base, the Mirage was where you went to have a real meal, or just hang out with friends, perhaps having your favorite fast food, or just coffee and a doughnut. I have vivid memories of being distracted every time I walked past the ever-present smorgasbord of raw steaks (in refrigerated glass display cases) at the beginning of the food line. Usually, I just ended up at a table with my coffee and my Winstons.

Sometime prior to my brief but unforgettable trip to the field, I discovered what a great place it was for writing letters, and made the Mirage my writing HQ. The cavernous dining area, with tables spread out from here to eternity, coffee conveniently at hand, and nobody to bother you, was the perfect environment to get lost in writing.   I would take over a table, spread out my writing paper (large yellow tablets), light up, sit back, and write for hours at a time. In addition to my prolific letter writing, this is where I produced the marathon narrative of my resupply adventure (Escape from Wheelus).

One of the experiences I wrote home about was an event which occurred right there at the Mirage.   On a certain day in January or February 1963 (I forget exactly), a contingent of Libyan Army Officer Cadets was visiting on base, taking the cook’s tour, and the Mirage happened to be on their itinerary. I was there at my usual table, writing away, as the bunch of cadets entered and walked through on their tour. Can’t remember if they sat down for refreshments, or if they simply walked in, looked around, and left right away.   Recollecting in later years, I always wondered if a certain young future Libyan Army Officer was among those cadets who visited us that day.   Could have been…. it fits.

LET’S GO, BIG RED --- LET’S GO!!!    Friday night at the football game. Just like the fall season back home.   But instead of school teams, the teams were made up from the various components of the Air Force personnel stationed at Wheelus. And the fans came from both military personnel and families of the permanent-party Air Force people. The high school kids came out in force, and provided cheerleaders for the teams.

The most fun team to watch, and my favorite, was Big Red, representing the base hospital, of course. Thanks to Google Earth satellite mapping, I think I can still just make out the location of the football field where the rock-em sock-em games were played. It’s barely discernable now, just a lifeless, empty smudge on the map, but on Friday nights, four decades ago, the place rocked. Great memories of watching the games, the crazy screaming crowds, cheering for Big Red, drinking beer, and eating hot dogs. Although, to be honest (speaking for myself), the cheerleaders and the young lady school teachers were the biggest draw.

LEPTIS MAGNUS TOUR   Eventually, everyone takes the sight-seeing trip to the Roman ruins at Leptis Magnus. So, one fine October weekend, several of us guys took the organized day trip (a Special Services activity) to Leptis Magnus. The only drawback, from my point of view, was the unavailability of beer during the trip. A dry day. And, no females on the trip, either. (Being stationed in an Arab country isn’t without its down sides.)   But, it was “seeing the world” which is what we hoped for when we signed up. We were all still Pvt. E-2’s at the time, having less than eight months in the U.S. Army.

Upon arrival at the historic site, we were greeted by a boy, about 13 years maybe. He appeared to be blind from a likely birth defect, and was asking for donations with his hand out. Another boy led him by the arm as they followed us around the bus parking area. One would assume this location was his “gig”, as the pair undoubtedly met every bus that came in.

SERIOUS STUFF   The big news toward the end of that October in ‘62 was all about the Cuban missile crisis and the blockade ordered by President Kennedy. As soldiers on active duty, we monitored the situation with more than passing interest (granted, some were oblivious). Ultimately, the Russians blinked, the crisis passed, and everyone breathed a little easier. Months before, who would’ve guessed?

THE U.S.O.    Honorable mention to the USO, which put on one terrific show at the base theater during my time at Wheelus. Basically, the show was a musical performance put on by a troupe of gorgeous young ladies. A fantastic morale booster!! Couldn’t let this opportunity go by without recognizing the U.S.O. and saying a great big thanks.

ALL GOOD THINGS COME TO AN END    Thanksgiving came and went.   Christmas and New Years came and went. At long last, after several months of nonstop work details at Wheelus had passed, it happened there was a need for a large number of replacement surveyors with the Topographic Training Team in Iran, and the wheels were put in motion to recruit them from us guys in Libya. The pool of candidates for Iran duty was to be drawn from those of us pulling the work details at Wheelus as well as from some who were brought in from the field.

So, one fine crisp sunny winter day around the end of January ‘63, all the prospective candidates formed up outside our little 64th Engrs. “beer garden”, and were interviewed one by one. The idea, as I understood it, was that every surveyor being sent to Iran was to be a hand-picked volunteer approved by the unit itself.   The screening process was conducted by a senior NCO from the unit in Iran (MSG Wilkerson), and as I recollect, the whole bunch got approved.

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    “Ahab the Arab” (sheik of the burning sands) was the title of a very popular recording on the hit parade in October of 1962.   At the time, I was a private in the U.S. Army, just out of topographic survey school.   That’s when the Army sent me to this place - a distant foreign land right out of the pages of the National Geographic. It’s no joke. I’m in Libya. Home of the 64th Engineer Battalion (Army Map Service - Special Foreign Activity). Burning sands and all.

     We’re here in Libya to map the country, an undertaking which necessitates the establishment of an independent, self-reliant organization, capable of maintaining vehicles, equipment, and surveyors, scattered in remote locations throughout the vast Libyan desert. As of this writing I am still tentatively scheduled for transfer to our advance unit in Iran, which accounts for why I’ve not been assigned to any permanent job, except handy man, detail man, and jack-of-all-trades, here at Wheelus Air Base where we maintain our Libyan headquarters.

     But that’s not what I joined the Army for……to spend my time painting rocks and watering plants. I joined with great expectations of being a surveyor in far away places. So was I ever glad to finally get a “taste” of field duty, even if only for a brief three day excursion along the fringes of the desert, within a half day’s drive of Wheelus. It was the confirmation I’d been waiting for…… that I had not completely screwed up when I joined the Army. All the seemingly endless, monotonous days of enduring the downside of the “army experience” now appear to have been “worth the wait”. In the Army, I’ve been learning (if reluctantly), patience is one of the higher virtues.

     The morning of Tuesday, January 8, 1963, dawned with no special omen of the events to follow that day. Just another day to roll out of the sack at 5:30, wash, walk the half mile to the mess hall, return, and stand the 7:30 morning formation….. the main event of the day. I already know what’s coming. After roll-call, the sergeant reads off the list of men to get shots, report to the orderly room immediately after formation, etc., and the work details for the day……. the moment I’ve been waiting for. There’s always painting to be done, special projects for the First Sergeant, equipment to be repaired, warehouses to load and/or unload trucks in, yard work (beautification of the area), and many others. The job I prefer is watering the lawns, shrubs, and trees. Mainly, because nobody bothers you, plus I can make it an all day job. My fervent hope is that one day the sergeant will announce that my orders to ship to Iran have come in, or that I’ve been assigned to one of the survey parties. So far, after three months of this, no such luck.

     But this particular morning something was different. I felt a quickening of my heartbeat as I realized my name had been omitted from the detail roster. Two possibilities came to mind: either I was getting a permanent assignment with a survey party, or it was a chance to bug-out for the day. “Helwer and Hanson”, bellowed the sergeant, “Of course you men know that you’re supposed to ride shotgun today for resupply.” And then, “Ten-hut……. fall out.” Amid the scattered confusion of men going off to their various duties, I found Hanson, a newcomer to the unit, and already a short-timer by virtue of his 2 years and 2 months in the Army. Wondering what was up, we made tracks to the motor-pool to look for our drivers.

     Entering the motor-pool area, I recognized Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, our drivers, heading toward the wash-rack in their 5-ton cargo trucks. SP/5 Sundance, I would hazard a guess, is a lifer (20-year man), while Pfc Cassidy is a draftee. Both are about age 25, and have the reputation of being the most notorious resupply drivers in the battalion. PFC Cassidy is known for always getting into hilarious scrapes, while Sundance is less high profile, not much of a talker. Out on the open road Sundance displays an alarming knack for horsing off, as I soon enough discovered, because I was to be his shotgun. Hanson went to Cassidy.

     An explanation of the duties/responsibilities of a “shotgun” is in order at this point. Preferably, a shotgun (assistant driver) has a driver’s license (I did not), but exceptions are allowed, apparently. At a minimum, the shotgun’s function is simply to “be there”, assuring that the driver stays awake and alert, etc., and in case of emergency, there is safety in numbers. So I was now a shotgun for Sundance due to a temporary shortage of resupply personnel. I might add that I was ecstatic over the prospect of finally getting to see the famous desert I’d heard so much    about.

     The entire morning was taken up by the preliminary washing, greasing, gassing of the trucks, and loading our precious cargo……. gasoline in 55 gallon drums, 25 drums to each truck. We sat for an hour in a restricted area across base, watching planes taking off and landing while the moes (G.I. talk for Arabs) filled the empty drums with gasoline. Occasionally we would move a cautious distance from the pumps and light up a cigarette (by no means the 100 feet specified in large red letters on the numerous, conspicuous warning signs).

     Then, as we made ready to depart the pump area, we discovered something which gave me the very first twinge of alarm, of many yet to come, but always quickly and summarily dismissed. Apparently, some of the gasoline drums in each truck were leaking, as there was now a steady trickle of gasoline pouring out of the beds of the trucks, directly behind the cab, spilling onto the gas tank, ominously near the open ends of the exhaust pipes.

     It was time for chow, so we stopped off at the mess hall on the way back to the area, parking out of sight of any NCOs or officers who might see our loaded, leaking trucks. Then, back at the motor-pool again, we hooked up a water-tank trailer to Cassidy’s truck, hurriedly stuffed our sleeping bags and toilet articles into water-proof bags, and signed out at the dispatch shack. Across the street an Air Policeman waved us through the gate, Sundance and I in the lead, and we were on our way.

     Once outside the gate, Sundance muttered something to the effect that, “We’re outside now, we can do anything we want, and the Army can go to hell.” Otherwise he didn’t say much else the whole trip except to check on the cigarette supply now and then, or to offer an occasional four-letter word commentary.

     In no time at all I had him pegged as the type of driver who suffers indescribable torment at the prospect of taking the full weight of his body off the gas pedal. Again the “twinge”, immediately suppressed, and I concentrated on enjoying the scenery, which wasn’t any arduous task since I’d never been past the garbage dump outside the gate before. We roared through the outer fringes of Tripoli, occasionally drag racing with Cassidy and Hanson. I was getting an eyeful of the urban living conditions around Tripoli. We passed incredible shanty towns, and passers-by would stare, sometimes waving, sometimes spitting in distain. as we blasted by in our authoritative American Army trucks.

     In less than fifteen minutes our two truck convoy was rolling through the relatively verdant countryside beyond Tripoli which extends tenaciously about 50 miles inland, where at the small town of El Azizia it peters out, and the arid desert takes over. We made it to El Azizia about 5 minutes ahead of Cassidy. Judiciously slowing down before passing the police station, we came to a sudden mysterious halt in front of a store. A shoddily clothed moe, blind in one eye, half blind in the other, and obviously an acquaintance of Sundance, appeared at Sundance’s door, and with great animation excitedly exchanged exclamatory greetings, profusely shaking hands.   After coming around to shake my hand, he proceeded to bum a cigarette off Sundance. While they conversed about this and that, a larger group began to gather around the truck. I sat uncomfortably as they chattered away, grinning and pointing knowingly at different parts of the vehicle.

     Just then, Cassidy pulled up beside us, and the appropriate greetings were exchanged all around again. At that, Sundance jumped to the ground, inviting us to accompany him across the street for a beer at the little Italian grocery. And again, the twinge. Cassidy and Hanson started across the street, and so I followed, recalling how I’d laughed at the story of one of my buddies who wouldn’t drink any beer on his first trip out.

     Evidently, our drivers were “regulars” here. We each got a tall, green, quart bottle of Amstel beer, moved onto the patio, and sat down on one of the tables. The proprietor appeared with a photo of Cassidy which had been taken the last time he’d passed through. It showed him bearded, filthy with dust, leaning against the trellis, with that famous ear to ear grin of his on full display.

     Sundance and Cassidy polished off their beers before Hanson and I were half through with ours, Sundance coming in several thirsty gulps ahead of Cassidy. Hanson offered his remaining beer to Sundance (oh joy), and we piled into the trucks, Sundance and I hanging onto our half full bottles (at his insistence).

     I now pause for a brief look at the Libyan and Army motor vehicle regulations. Libyan law specifies 30 mph as the top speed limit within “close proximity to any house or inhabited area”, and this law can be stretched to take in the most unlikely possibility. Furthermore, any Libyan policeman can make out a citation for any observed violation without the formality of stopping the vehicle. They simply make a note of the license plate and send it in to the proper authorities. The top speed limit for all Army vehicles anywhere in Libya is 30 mph. Both authorities have laws against drunken driving.

     Sundance pulled out ahead of Cassidy, narrowly missing a small group of Libyan policemen standing next to our trucks. The road forked just out of town, and we turned right, in the direction of Climax, our first destination. Out on the open road we gathered momentum, and I began to feel pleasantly relaxed from the beer.

     My first view of the now wide-open spaces was quite impressive. We were in a rolling, hilly portion of the country, with the abrupt wall of an enormously high plateau (escarpment) miles away to our left, and nothing at all except the rolling, scrubby land in every other direction. It was then that I felt the first feelings of supreme freedom and total liberation from the binding constraints of Army life. It was a fantastically up-lifting, gratifying sensation: Sundance and I, each with a bottle of beer and lighted cigarette, roaring down that narrow desert road in our behemoth 5-ton truck, with its lethal cargo of leaking gasoline drums, and the mufflerless exhaust tubes blaring out the deep sound of the engine into the empty desert.

     We passed scattered herds of sheep and camels, always tended by one or two solitary shepherds, and occasionally there would be a low-silhouetted nomad tent in the distance, or some mounds of dirt where an Arab family lived in an underground cave. The narrow paved road was disturbingly rough, and anyone who has ever ridden in an Army vehicle knows that they are bouncy to begin with. Now I understood what all those resupply drivers meant when they told stories about “shaking their guts apart” on the desert roads. It wasn’t long before I felt the urge, after that single beer, and with each jolt of the cab the feeling became more urgent. Sundance had gotten rid of his empty bottle by throwing it up and out the window, in a desperate attempt to hit Cassidy who was still directly on our tail. Then, after detouring around a washed out portion of the road, Cassidy came to an abrupt halt, and so we stopped, too. I climbed out and gratefully relieved myself.   Sundance followed suit. Cassidy and Hanson had the same idea.

     As I was beginning to learn, the desert isn’t merely, as one commonly envisions it, a wall to wall rolling expanse of sand dunes. Rather, it appears to be made up of a multiplicity of terrain and geographic features, filled with endless variety and color. The country we were going through was covered sparsely with scrubby brush. Date palms dotted the horizon intermittently, usually with some small indication of human habitation nearby. We were getting closer to the plateau, reminiscent of the walls of the Grand Canyon, rising sharply out of the desert. During the heavy rains of winter the water cascades off the plateau, causing flash floods and temporarily fills the dry river and creek beds (called wadis) to overflowing. The ground surface is mostly hard and rocky, as if once covered by the sea. Beyond the ridge of the plateau lies the greater Sahara desert. The ridge (escarpment - or “scarf” in G.I. talk) is relatively fertile for a few miles back and supports a small population of farmers and herdsmen, but beyond those hills and crevices is the barren, empty desert. Nobody lives out there except Arab nomads, oil company people, and us surveyors. Vegetation is nil save for an oasis here and there. The roads are unpaved trails in contrast to the paved road on which we were now traveling towards Climax.

     All along the way, the road was in various states of repair . We passed a gang of workmen digging holes alongside the road, building a wider shoulder. A few miles before we reached Climax it became evident that a substantive road construction project was underway. We were sidetracked to a detour, paralleling the main road. Several miles of highway lay in progressive states of construction. The only modern equipment in evidence were a single, antiquated steam roller and a few dump trucks. The moes were splitting the hard crust of the ground into rock for gravel. Piles of rocks of many different, uniform sizes lined the roadside. A tedious operation, but there didn’t appear to be any sense of hurry out there in the desert, as the moes seemed to go about their business in slow motion, barely disturbing the air about them.

     Almost every time we came to a flock of sheep near the road, Sundance would lay on the shrill airhorn with a mischievous glint in his eye, and the sheep would scatter in all directions. Sometimes, if the mood happened to strike him, he would wave in a friendly manner and nod at the sheepherders as we passed by. His true love, however, was that outrageous airhorn.

     We reached Climax a few hours before dark and were greeted by a large German Shepard dog who barked warily at us as we climbed out of our trucks. A bearded surveyor, clad in a strictly unmilitary mixture of fatigue pants, sweat shirt, and tennis shoes stepped out of the jamesway and came forward to greet us. After delivering the unhappy news that we hadn’t brought any mail, we proceeded in a group back to the trucks. Sundance climbed into his truck, and as he drove over to the gasoline storage area to unload, Cassidy took me aside and explained that he and Sundance would take the remaining truck on ahead to Clog, spend the night and pick up Hanson and me on the return trip. This was agreeable to me, and Cassidy tossed in an extra bonus: that is, we would take the long way back to Tripoli, over the plateau, or scarf, as we call it.
     As Cassidy was about to go over and gas up his truck, we noticed a generous flow of gasoline from his punctured drums pouring onto the gas tank, so he placed a funnel under the stream, ingeniously directing it into the tank. Good thinking.

    Climax, I learned, is a field classification party.  They work entirely with aerial photos, hotos,covering a large area from a single base. The classifier generally flies a reconnaissance mission in a helicopter to identify the 9 x 6 square mile area specified by his photo. He then proceeds to cover that area by truck, taking along an interpreter. He gathers data on all the names in Arabic and English spelling. Each one is pinpricked on the aerial photo and referenced. Back at the jamesway the details are completed, the photo matched up with other photos, checked by a civilian official from the Army Map Service, and then put away to be sent to the Army Map Service in Washington D.C., there to be utilized as the raw material along with data from the triangulation, traverse, and level crews, for the creation of an eventual map of Libya.

     The base of operations for Climax is located about six miles from the plateau, opposite the “scarf” of Giado (Jadu), a small town situated high on the rim of the scarf. At night you can barely make out the lights of Giado from Climax. The living quarters at Climax consist of a double row of two man “hex” tents. I was given a folding cot which I placed inside the tent nearest the jamesway, along with my duffel bag. A small oil heater and a table and chair decorated the interior of my new quarters. I unbloused my boots, pulled out my shirttail, discarded my cap, and headed back to the jamesway from which I detected the aroma of cooking in preparation for the evening meal.

     Hanson and I spent two nights at Climax awaiting the return of Cassidy and Sundance. We mostly loafed and read magazines in the relaxed atmosphere of the jamesway, and that first night I discovered the moon. By that, I mean I have never previously witnessed such a brilliant display of moon and stars. The atmosphere over the Libyan desert is exceptionally devoid of earthly impurities, and it was possible to sit outside and read a magazine or write a letter by the light of the moon.

     After two days of easy living, our ride finally showed up. Cassidy and Sundance had come back with their empty drums after spending all day Wednesday at Clog drinking beer, which accounted for the delay. So, it was about 1:00 p.m. when we departed Climax that Thursday afternoon. As Cassidy had promised, we headed in the opposite direction of Tripoli, towards the plateau.

     Our first stop on the homeward journey was to be Giado, on top of the scarf. The road which traverses the steep wall of the scarf is an unending series of tortuous switchbacks, and at each one there was a good deal of backing up and maneuvering to make the turn. Upon reaching the top we stopped briefly at a boy’s school, and then we came to a store where Cassidy and Sundance had two beers apiece while Hanson and I nervously sipped a coke. Yep, there was that twinge again. Except that now it was becoming bothersome.

     Not far down the road from Giado we came to the scarf of Jeffron. Again, our drivers stopped at a local establishment for more beer (that old familiar “twinge“ was now becoming a nagging state of alarm). This time Cassidy and Sundance had only enough money left for one beer apiece, and I joined them, feeling the need of something to keep my nerves in check for the remainder of the trip. The descent from the scarf at Jeffron and the rest of the way back to Wheelus was an amazing display of driving skill and dexterity on the part of Cassidy and Sundance. Driving at breakneck speed most of the way, with total disregard for normal safe driving considerations, we eventually made it back to Wheelus in one piece. But just barely.

     About 5 miles out of Tripoli we were cruising along at about 55 mph when, without warning, and for no apparent reason, Sundance slammed on the brakes. A split second later Cassidy slammed into our rear. It felt like a bulldozer ramming into us, and Sundance and I were hurled into the dash with tremendous force. Miraculously, we just had the wind knocked out of us.

     As the initial shock wore off, we pulled to the side of the road and surveyed the damage. The heavy duty trailer hitch on our truck was twisted into the frame, and the extra-heavy duty steel front bumper on Cassidy’s truck was bent in a perfect “U” shape. Greatly relieved that it didn’t turn out any worse than it did, we proceeded into Tripoli at a more sober rate of speed.

     About 3 miles from Wheelus we encountered the inbound convoy of six trucks from Classic (which is located about 400 miles into the Sahara). We joined the convoy, bringing up the rear, and shortly thereafter arrived back at the 64th motor pool area. It was good to be back to civilization again. A hot shower, clean clothes, a steak dinner at the Mirage, a movie at the base theater, and finally, pizza and beer at the Nomad Club before retiring to our bunks with fresh clean sheets.

     Sundance and Cassidy were asked to file an accident report because of the smashed bumper, and the story they fabricated would instill humility into the most gifted liar. The real showdown came a few days later in the resupply office with the young Lieutenant-in-Charge. There were several resupply drivers in the office that morning, and I had stopped by to have a cup of coffee with them when in walks the “boy lieutenant”. He had read the accident report already, so he asked Sundance to tell us what had happened and how it could be avoided in the future. How we all kept a straight face, I’ll never know. I kind of suspected the lieutenant knew it was a big farce, but just went along with it anyway. To his credit, he did ask a few embarrassing questions, but Sundance came through like the champ that he is (turns out, Sundance can talk a blue streak if he has to).   As for myself, I felt greatly relieved that I hadn’t been asked any questions as a witness.

     After that, it was just back to the same old boring routine of daily work details again. Don’t quite know what became of Sundance. Probably out there in the desert somewhere, pedal-to-the-metal, blasting that airhorn, about to polish off another beer. Cassidy’s days of driving resupply are over, as he ended up being assigned as permanent radio operator at xxxxx a few weeks later. Me, I’m still waiting patiently for orders here at Wheelus. Sooner or later, my time is coming.   Hopefully, sooner.