We should be able to manage all right.

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 224. 

I had never been to Iran either, and decided that the return journey would give me a splendid opportunity to fulfill a long-held ambition by stopping off for twenty-four hours and for a quick trip to Isfahan. Alas, when I returned to Tehran a week later I found that the local airline was on strike. It was a bitter blow; but as I was retiring disconsolately to bed in the hotel my telephone rang. It was the head—I think he may have been the owner—of the airline, whom I had met at dinner on our outward journey. “You told me,” he said, “that you had made plans to go to Isfahan tomorrow. I simply can’t allow this ridiculous strike to affect them. Be at the airport at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Heaven knows what it’ll be, but we’ll fix up something.”

I of course had even less of an idea of what he would arrange. A mail plane, perhaps, or even an army one; but certainly not what I found waiting for me—a minuscule two-seater, to be piloted by my benefactor’s sixteen-year-old grandson. Never having flown in anything other than a large airliner, I felt panic welling up inside me; but in the circumstances there was obviously nothing to be done. I clambered in behind one of the twin joysticks—taking great care not to touch it—and looked around as a tousled and rather spotty youth got in beside me. There were, I distinctly remember, no seat belts. I also remember that if I looked directly downwards I could see right through the ill-fitting floorboards to the concrete runway below.

Five minutes later we were airborne and climbing steadily. The altimeter was immediately in front of me, indicating 7,000 feet, 8,000, 9,000. . . . There was no pressurization and very little heating. At 10,000 I said to the boy “Do we have to go very much higher?” He spoke, I have to admit, quite good English. “Well,” he said, “the mountains are about 12,000 feet.” I shut up, till half an hour later a line of huge and extremely jagged snowcapped peaks loomed up ahead. By this time the altimeter showed 11,500 and I changed my tune. “Shouldn’t we be going a little higher?” I asked. “The plane won’t do it,” he replied, “but don’t worry, we can easily fly between them.”

Somehow we did, and reached Isfahan physically—though not in my case emotionally—intact. The city when I finally saw it came up to my highest expectations, but I found it hard to give proper attention to the monuments; my thoughts were only of the return journey, which would, I knew, take place entirely in the dark. This time it was the boy who, soon after we had taken off, broke the silence.

“It’s funny,” he said, “Isfahan seems to have run out of fuel. I couldn’t find any anywhere.”

“You mean,” I said, “that we haven’t got enough to get back?”

“Oh no,” he said—I thought rather doubtfully. “We should be able to manage all right.”

I looked at the fuel gauge, which showed almost exactly half full; it was obviously going to be a close thing. A few controls away along the all-black instrument panel, I noticed a single scarlet knob, above which were written the words mixture: pull for weak, push for rich. To my horror, he pulled it out, at which the engine coughed and spluttered until he pushed it most of the way back in again—a process which continued regularly every few minutes until we finally bumped down in Tehran. I grasped the lad warmly by the hand and congratulated him on his skill. He was obviously pleased. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve never flown as far as that before.”