The Benghazi Report by Richard Mason

Two green, inexperienced Americans taking their first flight to of all place, Benghazi, Libya. Riots in the street, roaring sandstorms, and screaming crowds of Libyans. Landing on one wheel on a windswept runway after being in the red sand desert for 23 days. Listening to President Kennedy’s funeral via short wave radio and candle light. Driving for hours across a trackless desert to see the Lady Be Good a WW II B-24 bomber that was lost in the desert, and then becoming lost!  

Benghazi Journal: Benghazi Journal--a BLOWOUT!

Benghazi Journal: Benghazi Journal--a BLOWOUT!: I’ll be leaving Libya after two more assignments in the desert. Today, I’m back on Santa Fe rig #2, where a good friend, Clyde McFarland...

Benghazi Journal--a BLOWOUT!

I’ll be leaving Libya after two more assignments in the desert. Today, I’m back on Santa Fe rig #2, where a good friend, Clyde McFarland, is the tool-pusher. We’re getting near our main objective, the M-10 Zone, and I’m keeping a close watch on the drilling. The last sample of drill cuttings I examined is beginning to have a show of oil. I’m stepping out of the mud-logging trailer to tell the mud-logger to catch another sample, wash the mud off, and bring it to me—and hurry.

            “Jim, as soon as we drill another five feet, tell the driller to stop drilling and circulate. Check the lag time and catch a sample of what we have just drilled. I think we’re in the top of the M-10, and I don’t want to drill any deeper in the zone until I see what the next sample looks like.”

            Jimmy Pearson, who’s in charge of the monitors in the gas detection trailer and works for me, is up on the rig floor when Clyde McFarland walks up.

            “Richard, we’re getting a drilling break. Last two feet drilled at two minutes a foot.”

            “Sounds like we are in the top of the M-10,” I reply. “I have Jim catching another sample. After I take a look, we may want to stop and run a DST.” A DST, which is an abbreviation for Drill-Stem-Test, is a procedure to test a formation to see if it contains oil or gas.

            As I wait on Jim to wash the sample, I notice the drill-string is dropping quickly.

            “Hey, that last two feet drilled a minute per foot!” Clyde yells. He’s looking at the geolograph, which marks each foot drilled. We are in what we call an excellent drilling break, indicating the bit is drilling a soft, friable, and porous sand—a very good sign, especially with the show I spotted in the last sample.

            “Clyde, tell the driller to circulate while I check the samples from that drilling break.”

            Clyde signals the driller, who sets the brake and stops drilling. Mud is still being pumped down the drill pipe, and it will circulate up the cuttings. (Ground up sandstone or limestone)

            “We might have something here… Whoa!” My mouth drops open as drilling mud kicks halfway up the derrick.

            Clyde screams at the driller. “Shut it in! Shut it in! Blowout! Blowout!”

            The driller heads for the automation shut-in leaver, but slips in the drilling mud that is splashing on the rig floor and falls down. Only seconds have passed since the well started unloading, but the well is already blowing mud and gas through the top of the draw-works. In about 10 seconds, it sounds as if a half-dozen freight trains are coming through the location. We have a full scale blowout on our hands.

            Clyde runs toward the substructure of the rig as the entire crew of Libyans dash past him running for their lives. That’s when the steady hand of an experienced New Mexico tool-pusher earns his money. He runs past the fleeing Libyans and heads under the substructure of the drilling rig to manually close the blowout preventer as the natural gas flow increases until the shrieking is so loud it pains your ears.

            I’m about to join the fleeing Libyans because the gas and condensate (a natural gasoline) is beginning to settle around the rig, and I know if a rock from the spewing well hits the iron substructure of the rig and causes a spark, we’ll be consumed in a huge blast of fire in seconds. The driller must have hurt his knee because he’s limping around trying to get in the doghouse to kick in the blowout preventer.

            I see Clyde under the rig floor manually turning the big wheel that operates the blowout preventer as condensate rains down on him. I literally hold my breath as the valve slowly closes and the gas flow stops. A few more seconds and Clyde has the well shut-in, and in a few minutes more, he kicks in the mud pumps to force heavy drilling mud down the drill pipe to kill the gas flow.

Benghazi Journal: Taking in a movie in Benghazi

Benghazi Journal: Taking in a movie in Benghazi: Benghazi, Libya---1964 .....Two nights ago, we went to an American movie in the town’s movie theater. It had Arabic subtitles, and I thi...

Taking in a movie in Benghazi

Benghazi, Libya---1964

.....Two nights ago, we went to an American movie in the
town’s movie theater. It had Arabic subtitles, and I think we were
the only Westerners in the theater. All movies in Libya have an
intermission, and during that intermission there was a clip of the
radical Egyptian leader Gamal Abdul Nasser, making a fiery anti-
Western speech.
We’re leaning back, not paying any attention to the film clip
until we begin to hear shouting and cheers. Soon the place is
bedlam. Every person—but us—is standing—some on their seats—
chanting, yelling, and screaming at the top of their lungs.
We are in shock, and I take one look at Vertis, and whisper,
“We need to get out of here. Just follow me, and don’t run or act
as if you’re afraid. Smile and nod your head in a positive manner,
if you make eye contact.”
I stand up, and with Vertis hanging on my belt, I gently push
my way up an aisle full of shouting Libyans. I nod, smile, and
occasionally clap my hands seemingly in support of the speech. It
is the longest 20 yards I have ever walked, but we are not having
any problems leaving the theater. Several times, as the Libyan men
look at us, I shake my head vigorously, smile, and yell out, “Yes!”
in Arabic. That’s always enough to elicit a handshake and even a
couple of hugs.
I’m sure that if I understood what Nasser is saying, I would
be furious because he is known for his anti-Western rhetoric. We
make it to our car before either of us says a word. Finally, I smile
and say, “Damn, we missed the last half of the movie.”
Vertis gives me a shove and says, “Go on back and catch a
ride home. I’ll take the car.”
“Well, actually, it wasn’t that good of a movie,” I reply,
crawling behind the wheel.

Benghazi Journal: Benghazi Journal---coming soon

Benghazi Journal: Benghazi Journal---coming soon: Coming Soon! Benghazi Journal Benghazi, Libya, June 1st, 1964   In the spring of 1964 I took a transfer from Exxon USA to Esso Li...

Benghazi Journal---coming soon

Coming Soon!

Benghazi Journal

Benghazi, Libya, June 1st, 1964

 In the spring of 1964 I took a transfer from Exxon USA to Esso Libya. My new position was to work as a well-site geologist, assigned to the Benghazi, Libya office. When my wife, Vertis, and I moved to Benghazi, we were only two years out of college, and neither of us had ever traveled or lived outside of the southwestern United States. Our time spent in Libya was immediately prior to the overthrow of King Idris’s monarchy by Colonel Omar Gadhafi. The impending coup was evident to us as we interacted with Libyans on a daily basis, and observed the unrest in the country. Before we left Benghazi there were riots in the street, and one night we were caught up in a wild, screaming demonstration in a movie theater. I managed to push my way through the crowd, and pull Vertis out of the theater unscathed.  We lived on the economy. Our next door neighbors were the English Consulate’s daughter and across the street lived an Iranian family. Trying to communicate with our family back home, other than letter writing, was almost impossible. My job required me to fly 150 to 250 miles every two weeks into the Libyan Sahara Desert and spend sometimes as long as three weeks on a drilling rig before returning to Benghazi.  I was one of several geologists who were responsible for determining if oil was present as the wells were drilled.  During one of my many drives across the road-less desert, I became lost in a sandstorm for the better part of a day and night, and a few weeks later, I was on a drilling rig when the well blew-out. For a short time it scattered everyone, and there were some very anxious moments before the crew got it under control. I also supervised the testing of a giant discovery oil well, which later produced over 10,000 barrels of oil a day. But the highlight or maybe the lowlight of my time in Libya happened in mid-July during the last month of my two year assignment.  I traveled over 800 miles southeast of Benghazi to a remote French drilling rig near the Algerian border. It was located in the Red Sand Desert of Libya where, because the red sand traps solar heat, a world record temperature of 138 degrees had been recorded very near where the well was located. When we flew down from Tripoli in an old DC-3 to the location and tried to find the drilling rig, we encountered a huge sandstorm. After circling in the sandstorm for several hours---which was living hell---we, tried to return to Tripoli. As we approached the runway we had to make an emergency landing. We ran out of gasoline as we landed. The next morning the sandstorm had abated, and we flew down to the rig, and twenty-three days later, I finally flew back to Benghazi. During my time in the desert, I dodged some of the three million land mines left over from World War II, traveled cross-country to the home of the World War two British Long Rang Desert Group’s wartime camp at Kufura Oasis, and journeyed farther south to the Lady be Good, an American B-24 bomber, which because of a navigation error, had landed deep in the desert. The remains of the crew were found in 1959. They died trying to walk out of the desert. Vertis and I made friends with a number of Libyans, and interacted and worked with others during the two years we lived in Benghazi. This book is an account of those two years. It is a window into how life was in Libya before Gadhafi, and before the more recent revolution sent a once peaceful country spiraling into chaos.