By the end of the third day, John Childs could barely walk, and the militants seemed to be heading deeper and deeper into the mountains. They were, in fact, just walking in circles, dodging Indian military. To keep himself from sinking into despair, Childs devoted every waking moment to planning his escape. He knew the militants’ sole advantage was their incredible mobility; without that, it would be only a matter of time before they were discovered by an army patrol. Which meant that if any of the hostages escaped, the militants wouldn’t be able to waste too much time searching; they’d have to look quickly and then get moving again.
“My first objective was to get fifty meters away from them,” Childs says. “And then five hundred meters, and then five kilometers. I knew that every bit increased the area they had to search by the square of the distance. And I knew there was no way this guy Turki was going to scatter his crew all over creation looking for me. He couldn’t afford to look for me for more than six hours, so if I could stay away from them for that long, my only problem would be not being seen by the nomads.”
That meant hiding during the day and traveling at night, which strongly favored an escape after dark. That was fortunate, because Childs had one iron-clad reason for getting up over and over again during the night: Dysentery was still raging through his insides. The militants always posted a sentry after dark, but the hostages weren’t tied up when they slept, so the sight of Childs getting up to relieve himself was by now routine.
In contrast with Childs, the other hostages seemed to be doing fairly well. The two Brits, Wells, twenty-four, and Mangan, thirty-four, were depressed but physically strong, and Hutchings was fully in his element. When Mangan came down with altitude sickness, Hutchings had him pressure-breathing and rest-stepping as he walked; when the group got lost in a whiteout, he took charge and told them which way to go. At one point Wells muttered how he would like to grab one of the hand grenades and blow all the militants away, but Hutchings was always personable and helpful. “It’s a lot tougher to kill a smiling face,” he said. Hutchings had years of psychological training; if anyone could manipulate the situation, he could.
It wasn’t until the fourth day, as they were crossing yet another valley, that the militants made their first mistake: They visited a familiar place. It wasn’t much, but it was all Childs had.
“We were in the valley that the pilgrims take to Amarnath Cave,” Childs says. “And Don knew where we were; he’d been there before. He said, ‘Okay, down the valley is Pahalgam, and up the valley is the cave.’”
Childs thought about that for the rest of the day. He wasn’t going to be able to keep up with the group for long, and Turki wouldn’t hesitate to have him shot. Not only would that free up the group, but it would also send a message to the authorities, who obviously hadn’t given in to the militants yet. If he were going to escape, he’d have to do it soon.
“So, are we going to spend the night here?” Childs asked Turki that afternoon, as they were taking a break. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what Turki had to say. “No, too much danger,” Turki replied, waving his arm down the valley: Indian military. They wouldn’t dare spend much time searching for someone, in other words.
That night the militants made camp along the east branch of the Lidder River, sleeping in a cluster of stone huts generally used by pilgrims on their way to Amarnath Cave. Childs, rolled up in a horse blanket, lay on the dirt floor of a hut and considered his possible avenue of escape. The camp was at the mouth of two huge valleys that fed into the valley leading to Pahalgam, and Childs’s plan was to escape by climbing up, in the opposite direction of what the militants would expect. He’d hide in the snowfields before dawn, stay until dark, and then start down toward Pahalgam. It was a three-day walk, he figured; he had no food, no bedding, and the valley was filled with nomads who might report his location to the militants. It was, at best, a long shot, but it was better than the odds he had now.
Then, exhausted by four days of forced marches, Childs fell asleep.
“There had been other opportunities to escape, but of course you never know if it’s the right time,” says Childs. “It’s not a movie, where you know when it’s going to end. You keep asking yourself, ‘Is this the best time, or will there be a better time with less risk?’ It took a huge effort to focus my thoughts and say, ‘Okay, you’ve got to do this now. You’ve got to do it when you’re tired and not feeling well.’”
Childs woke up in the middle of the night. It was quiet except for the sound of people snoring and the crash of the river. The dysentery was rolling through his system, so he fumbled in the dark and grabbed his hiking boots—knocking over a metal grate in the process—and crept out of the hut. Ordinarily the sentry would greet him and escort him out of camp. But this time no one stirred—the sentry seemed to be asleep. Childs walked out of camp, relieved himself, and then stole back into bed, wondering what to do.
“You can be passive and not make a decision that may save your life,” he says, “or you can accept death as a possibility. That was the crux of the whole thing.”
Childs lay in bed for an hour, preparing himself, and then he got up again. He decided that if anyone stopped him, he’d just claim he was having another bout of dysentery. He thought about waking up the other hostages, but there didn’t seem to be any way to do that quietly; the others also lacked his pretext for getting up. Childs stepped out of the hut and waited for someone to say something; silence. He edged out of the firelight into the darkness beyond the huts; more silence. There was always the possibility that someone was watching him surreptitiously—or even had a gun trained on him—but that was a chance he had to take. He stood motionless for a moment, frozen at the point of no return, and then he started to run.
“I thought I was in their cross hairs the whole time,” he says. “It was like a dream where you run and run and you’re not getting anywhere because your feet are bogging down. I kept expecting to hear a ruckus behind me, but I never saw any of them again.”
Childs took off straight up a ridge between the two valleys. He was in his stocking feet, and all he had on was long underwear, Gore-Tex pants, a wool shirt, and a pair of pile pants wrapped around his head. He walked and ran as hard as he could until the ridge got too steep to climb without boots, and then he put them on and kept going. He knew the militants would wake up early for morning prayers, and he had to get as far away as possible before then. He hammered upward for the next three hours, and when dawn came, he crept into a cleft in a rock, drew in a few stones to conceal himself, and settled down to wait. As it got lighter, he noticed that anyone walking along the ridge would stumble right into him, so he violated his rule against traveling during the day and continued higher up. He was in the snow zone now, really rugged country; the next hiding spot he found seemed perfect, until it became apparent that he was resting on solid ice. He wound up moving to a small patch of moss on a hillside. There were glaciers and peaks all around him, and he was sure no one would follow him up that high; he was at least at twelve thousand feet.
By midmorning a drizzling sleet had started to fall, and Childs endured that for a few hours—resting on the moss, dozing from time to time—before starting out for Pahalgam. He was almost down at the bottom of one of the side canyons when he heard a helicopter. The sound of the rotors faded in and out, then seemed to head straight toward him. Since he hadn’t heard any aircraft in five days, his first thought was that there must have been a negotiated release of the hostages and now he was stranded in the high mountains with no food and no way to call for help.
“I stood there kind of dumbfounded,” he says, “and I started waving my pants around over my head. The pilot circled, and I could see there was a soldier in there; he had his gun pointed at me. I was a mess by that point. I hadn’t bathed in five days and had mud smeared all over me and looked like a wild man of the mountains. The pilot landed on one skid, I ran up, and [a soldier] said, ‘Are you German?’ I said, ‘No, I’m American. I
just escaped from the militants.’ He said, ‘It’s a miracle from God,’ and hauled me on board.”
The militants, as Childs had thought, had searched down valley when they realized he was gone. They didn’t find him, but they stumbled across two other trekkers, Dirk Hasert of Germany and Hans Christian Ostro of Norway. They were subsequently reported missing and were, in fact, the people the helicopter crew had been searching for. Rebel sources in Srinagar say that Ostro was belligerent toward the militants from the start, telling them that what they were doing was cowardly and un-Islamic; they also claim he was armed with a knife and had tried to use it. That is impossible to verify, but suffice it to say that Ostro succeeded in sticking out in the group.
Childs was brought back to Srinagar in triumph and immediately debriefed in the presence of British and American embassy officials. It was the first of endless debriefings over the next several days. “I spent more time in captivity by the State Department than by the militants,” he said later. Childs was then taken to a secure guest house, where he was introduced to Jane Schelly. For Schelly, the chance to talk to someone who’d seen her husband only hours earlier was a relief beyond words.
“Do they have enough food and drinking water?” she wanted to know. “Do they have enough clothing? Do they know that the women are okay?”
Everything Childs had to say about the hostages was positive: They’d suffered no abuse, and the situation seemed similar to the peacefully resolved kidnappings of a year earlier. The current hostage team—referred to as G-4 because the governments of four Western countries were involved—had no reason to believe that this case would be different. While Indian security kept up a steady dialogue with Al Faran, the G-4 team continued to pressure Pakistan to intervene with HUA. (Pakistani officials were stubbornly claiming that the incident had been staged by India to make them look bad.) A rescue was deemed to be too risky; even Indian Army patrols were warned away from areas where the militants might be. Everyone, including the hostages, was worried that a surprise encounter could erupt into a firefight.
Childs flew back to Delhi two days after his escape, speaking to reporters at the airport despite the efforts of officials to bundle him into an embassy car. A few days later, he stepped off an airplane at Connecticut’s Bradley Field, and news crews taped him sweeping his two young daughters up into his arms. He’d gone from the mountains of Kashmir to Hartford in the space of a week, and it rattled him. “Had circumstances been a little different, I’d be dead,” he says. “You expect to live out your normal life span, but it could be over in a second. At the time I thought I’d never see my kids again. Now every breath I take is something I didn’t expect.”
While Childs was facing the news cameras back home, Jane Schelly was still in Srinagar, working frantically for the release of her husband. “Please let Donald go,” she sobbed at a press conference, holding on to Keith Mangan’s wife, Julie. “In the name of God, please let our loved ones go.” Al Faran responded by passing along a statement that said they had let Childs escape on purpose, but that they would resort to an “extreme step” if India didn’t release the HUA rebels. They also sent a photograph of the five hostages sitting on pine boughs in a stone hut, their hands tied behind their backs, their eyes downcast. On an accompanying tape, Don Hutchings said, “Jane, I want you to know that I am okay. But I do not know whether I will die today or tomorrow. I appeal to the American and Indian governments for help.”
The G-4 team decided, for security’s sake, to move Schelly, the German woman, and the two English women back to the British embassy’s guesthouse in Delhi. Negotiations remained deadlocked, and one week later some very bad news came in: The militants had supposedly run into an Indian Army patrol near Pahalgam, and two hostages had been wounded in the ensuing gunfight. The Indian government denied that the encounter had taken place, so Al Faran released some photos showing Hutchings lying on the floor of a house with his abdomen wrapped in bloody bandages. There was no blood on his pants, though, and he seemed to be refusing to look into the camera—refusing, perhaps, to cooperate with the deception. The consensus at the U.S. embassy was that the photos had been staged, an opinion Schelly shared.
On an audiotape sent with the photos, Hans Christian Ostro asked the Indian government to give in to Al Faran’s demands, pointing out that it was tourist officials in Delhi who had misled him into thinking Kashmir was safe. “I even went to the leader of the tourist office in Srinagar, and he gave me his card and said that if there was anything, I could call him,” Ostro said at the end of the tape. “Well, Mr. Naseer, I’m calling you now.”
Another week passed, and still there was no breakthrough in the negotiations. Britain’s Special Air Squadron and Germany’s elite counterterrorism force, the GSG-9, had by now joined the U.S. Army’s Delta Force in Kashmir, even though an Entebbe type of rescue operation was unlikely; the authorities had no idea where Al Faran was, and there were also delicate sovereignty issues to work out with India. The feeling among the G-4 negotiators was that, as with the previous kidnapping, Al Faran would eventually give in.
They didn’t.
On August 14, 1995, “we were at the German ambassador’s residence, having lunch with the other families,” recalls Schelly. “And during the meal several embassy people were called out of the room, and then more people were called out, and I didn’t think anything of it. The German ambassador was called out just prior to dessert. We were eating cherries jubilee, and the next time I looked over, his ice cream had melted all over the place. And then I began to wonder.”
While the families retired to a sitting room for coffee, a group of embassy officials talked somberly in a corner. Eventually one of them came over and reported that the body of a Caucasian man had been found in the village of Seer, outside Srinagar, but they didn’t know if he was one of the hostages.
In fact, they did know, but they weren’t saying. Cars came to pick up the families, the Ostros’ car arriving first. After they had pulled away, the German ambassador put his arm around Schelly and said, “It’s not your husband.” It was not until that moment that Jane Schelly finally accepted the possibility that she might never see her husband again.
The body was that of Hans Christian Ostro. The guerrillas had cut off his head, carved “Al Faran” in Urdu on his chest, and dumped his body by an irrigation ditch. His head was found forty yards into the underbrush, and a note in his pocket warned that the other hostages would suffer the same fate if the HUA prisoners weren’t released within forty-eight hours. The families of the remaining hostages were told that Ostro’s chest had been carved after he was dead, that he had been “peaceful” when he died, and that he hadn’t been killed in front of the other hostages—though how the officials could know that is unfathomable. However peaceful Ostro’s death, though, he may have known it was coming: Medical examiners found a good-bye note hidden in his underwear.
The G-4 team—now down to G-3—responded by demanding proof that the other hostages still lived. The militants passed along a photograph of the four holding a dated newspaper and also arranged for a radio conversation between Donald Hutchings and the Indian authorities. At ten forty-five on the morning of August 21, a negotiator raised the guerrillas on a military radio, and Hutchings was put on:
“Don Hutchings, this is one-zero-eight. When you are ready, please…tell me ‘One, two, three, four, five.’”
“One, two, three, four, five.”
“The first message is…from your families. Quote, ‘We are all staying together in Delhi and we all send our love and prayers. We are helping each other. Be as strong as we are.’ Over.”
“Okay, I have the message.”
“Now, Don Hutchings, there [is] a set of questions for you. You’ll have to provide me with the answers because I don’t know them…. Am I clear to you?”
“Yes.”
“What are the names of your pets? I repeat, what are the names of your pets?”
“My pets’ names are Bodie
, B-O-D-I-E, and Homer.”
Hutchings’s existence was confirmed. The negotiator continued with personal questions for each of the other hostages and then signed off, telling Hutchings to “have faith in God and strength in yourself.” Within days of the radio interview, Al Faran began renewing their threats to kill the hostages, and their tone was so antagonistic that members of G-3 privately admitted that they thought the odds of the hostages’ surviving were only fifty-fifty. September crawled by, and then October, and the winter snows started to come to Kashmir. Reports of frostbite and illness among the hostages began to drift in. And then, on December 4, the inevitable happened: Al Faran ran into the Indian Army.
The guerrillas were passing through the village of Mominabad early in the morning when a patrol of a dozen Indian soldiers spotted them from the marketplace and someone opened fire. According to Indian military officials, there were no hostages with them—they were presumably being held nearby—but that’s impossible to confirm. The militants jumped a barbed-wire fence, splashed across a shallow stream, and then ran through a patch of scrub willow. They headed across a dry rice paddy, machine-gun fire hammering behind them, the villagers diving into their mud houses and slamming their doors shut. The militants made it across the paddy and took a stand farther upriver, near the small village of Dubrin, and the Indian patrol called for reinforcements. Soon dozens of troops were firing on the rebels, who held off the army for six hours until dark fell, when they left their dead and ran.
Turki was killed, along with four other Al Faranis. Three days after the gunfight the British ambassador in Delhi received a phone call from a man claiming to be with Al Faran and offering new terms of release: $1.2 million in ransom and safe passage to Pakistan. “You know, you know, we have been treating [the hostages] as our guests for the last five months plus,” he complained. “You can expect that we have spent lots of money.” The ambassador demanded proof that the hostages were still alive, but the man never called again.
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