We were going to friendly territory and get Van to a hospital. We turned for Cyprus and the navigator began working in earnest.

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We were right in the Turkish Mountains, busy transferring fuel, when all four engines cut out at the same time. I damn near died! We had only about 1,000 feet of clearance, and there wasn’t a flat spot within 50 miles big enough to park a [Stinson] L-5 in.

Van couldn’t jump, and we weren’t about to jump without him. I figured I’d have to put it down somewhere, the best I could, and take our chances. But with a roar and a lurch, those good old Pratt and Whitneys took hold again. Just as we shared a big smile, all four engines died again.

Dave Shattles moved faster than any man I’d ever seen. He jumped down into the bomb bay and switched gas valves to break the air lock in the lines. And this time those wonderful engines roared back to life, as we scooted between peaks and resumed our course to Nicosea Airport on the island of Cyprus, which was still 300 or 400 miles somewhere to the south of us.

Our nerves were sure taking a helluva beating. We’d been in the air for 10 hours already. Now we were all alone, over rough, unfriendly terrain, even if it wasn’t the enemy. And now we had to sweat out our gas supply. Mendy called to tell me we had just run off the edge of his last, good Air Corps map. From now on, we would have to figure by time, distance, compass, and dead reckoning.

Nobody bothered us as we flew over Turkey. At least they didn’t hit us! So we made it to the seacoast and wondered if we would be able to find Cyprus. It was getting late in the afternoon, haze was forming, and our only map was an old, schoolbook Mercator map.

We finally reached the blue water of the Mediterranean Sea. I looked longingly at the flat sand beaches of the Turkish Coast. I considered plunking her down there, but I wanted to get medical help for Van…and I knew none of us wanted to be interred in Turkey for the length of the war. Anyway, I thought if we failed to find Cyprus, and if we had enough gas, we could come back and find a nice soft beach to set her down on. A big if…as I looked at the needles of the gas gauges hovering near zero.

I headed for Cyprus. Mosco was taking good care of Van. We swung out over the water, squeezing every mile out of every drop of gasoline. We were flying slowly to save what little gas we had left. But still, it shouldn’t have been this long until we saw some solid land out there. Cyprus was a big island, but we couldn’t find it!

‘Mendy, let’s turn in on our E.T.A. Maybe it’s just off to our right, in that haze,’ I said. So we turned and, holy smokes! There it was. Just off our left wing. We made a direct course for Nicosea. Our gas gauges showed we were on our last 100 gallons. Ten precious, gas-eating minutes went by and still no Cyprus! It had suddenly disappeared–10 minutes wasted chasing a mirage. Our ‘Cyprus’ had been nothing but cloud shadows, and now we were really lost to boot.

We listened to our radio, hoping to get in touch with the air base at Nicosea, the only airport on the island. We could hear other planes in distress. One was going down near us, into the sea, but we couldn’t help.

We continued on, looking for land–any beach or piece of good solid dirt. A B-24 doesn’t ‘ditch well’ if you have to put her down on water. It breaks up, and you don’t have much chance of getting out.

I wanted to land at Nicosea Air Base. It was growing dark when I finally saw the airport beacon. There were three other planes milling around the area, trying to find the field and get up enough nerve to go in and land, in their damaged condition.

I gave the tower my call letters with ‘wounded aboard’ and was immediately cleared to land. The gear came down ok. Then the flaps came down without faltering. Props OK. Turbos OK, all controls working fine. It was getting dark, but I could still make out the runway, so I lined up and sailed in.

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