Lost in Shangri-la

by Mitchell Zuckoff

  The following day, Walter sent Caoili and Javonillo on another search mission for the crash site, but they had no better luck. Walter knew what he needed: someone who’d been there before. Finally, McCollom led a group back up the mountain toward the wreck, navigating by the river and a few landmarks he remembered. McCollom knew they were close when he spotted wispy strands of light-brown hair tangled in vines and shrubs. He recalled how Margaret’s long hair had snagged in the brush when they’d left the crash site for the clearing, and how he’d used his pocketknife to give her a jungle cut. McCollom and the paratroopers followed the trail of Margaret’s hair directly to the burned, broken remains of the Gremlin Special.

  As they entered the area where the plane had mowed down trees and carved a hole through the canopy, McCollom hung back. “There it is,” he told the paratroopers, pointing the way. He’d already seen enough. He didn’t need to see the remains of his brother; his commander, Colonel Peter Prossen; and his friends, colleagues, and fellow passengers.

  Later that night, McCollom relied on reports from the paratroopers who’d hiked with him to describe the situation to Walter. “Lieutenant Mac’s report on the wreck is very disheartening,” Walter wrote that night in his journal. “Only three bodies are identifiable—Captain Good, Sergeant Besley and Private Hanna. The last two are both WACs. The rest of the bodies are in a cremated jumble. Still not decided on disposition.” Several days later, Walter received his orders via walkie-talkie: return to the crash site with the grave markers and shovels.

  They started out just after dawn and reached what was left of the Gremlin Special in late morning. Joining Walter were the five paratroopers who’d accompanied him from the big valley. McCollom wouldn’t join the burial patrol, and Margaret and Decker were too hurt to help. Even with McCollom’s instructions, the jungle was so thick that at one point they came within twenty yards of the Gremlin Special without knowing it.

  When the paratroopers reached the wreck, they buried Laura Besley and Eleanor Hanna side by side in an area they called the cemetery. “After that,” Walter wrote in his journal, “we buried Captain Good and made a common grave for the eighteen unidentifiable persons.”

  As he recounted the day’s events, the tone of Walter’s journal shifted. He and his men had jumped into the valley for the adventure of a rescue mission. Now they were on grave duty, and the tragic reality hit home:

  Those eighteen were all mixed up, and most of the bodies had been completely cremated by the intense heat of the fire. It was the best burial we could give them under the circumstances. All of us had to use gas masks, as the odor was terrific. I don’t mind dead women, but dead women in the nude is something different. Also the bodies were almost a month old. After the burials were completed, I took some camera shots of the wreck and the graves. God only knows how anyone got out of the plane alive. It is without a doubt the most thoroughly destroyed aircraft I have ever seen.”

  One of the crosses erected by the burial crew near the wreckage of the Gremlin Special. (Photo courtesy of C. Earl Walter Jr.)

  After covering the graves, Walter and his men pounded the crosses and the Star of David into the damp earth, draping each one with a dog tag. Their labors took until late afternoon, and by then the sun was setting, its last rays reflecting off mountain walls. The nightly mist slithered into the jungle.

  As Walter and his men worked, circling overhead was a U.S. Army plane with two chaplains. One, Colonel August Gearhard, a Catholic priest from Milwaukee, was a hero in his own right, having received the Distinguished Service Cross, second only to the Medal of Honor, for bravery in World War I. The other was Lieutenant Colonel Carl Mellberg of Dayton, Ohio, who conducted the Protestant service. One of the chaplains also spoke Jewish prayers for Belle Naimer and, unknowingly, Mary Landau.

  “Out of the depth I have cried unto thee, O Lord,” prayed Father Gearhard, as the service was broadcast over the walkie-talkie to the cemetery area and the survivors’ campsite. Chaplain Cornelius Waldo, who’d earlier dropped Bibles and prayer books to the survivors, later told a reporter that the scene “seemed to whisper a peace more living and beautiful than any spot I’ve ever seen.”

  Margaret wrote in her diary: “From that plane, over the radio, came the saddest and most impressive funeral service I have ever heard. We sat around the camp radio, silent and very humble as a Catholic, a Protestant and a Jewish chaplain in the plane read burial services for the dead on the mountaintop. We were very humble because we have been saved where so many had perished. Lieutenant McCollom sat with his head bowed, his usual controlled self. But Sergeant Decker’s and my hearts ached for him. On one of those white crosses up that cruel mountain hung the dog tag of his twin brother, Lieutenant Robert E. McCollom, from whom only death could separate him.”

  The burial team hiked back toward the campsite, stopping along the way to bathe in the creek. They cleansed themselves, but without heavy-duty soap and hot water, they couldn’t wash the stench of death out of their uniforms. Later, Walter would ask the supply plane for replacements, so they could throw away the clothes they’d worn for the burials. After their baths, the enlisted men had a late lunch, but Walter settled into a contemplative mood and skipped the meal.

  That night at the campsite, McCollom kept to himself. Walter, Margaret, and Decker fell into what Walter called “a long discussion on the world at war.” Decker gave up after a while and went to his tent, but Walter and Margaret kept arguing deep into the night about politics and the military. “She seems to have it in for the Army, will not listen to any logical reasoning,” Walter wrote. “Man, but she is really stubborn.”

  Still, he respected her. “Margaret was a true blue gal,” Walter said later. “She had a lot of gumption and a lot of guts. It might have been that she was the only woman surrounded by a lot of men, and she had to hold her own. But she would never listen to anyone trying to tell her anything!”

  The bickering kept the camp from sleep. Rammy called to them that it was past midnight, and the debate ended. Walter wrote: “Off to bed we went with nothing at all settled.”

  THE PEOPLE OF Uwambo watched as the creatures they thought were spirits made repeated trips to the top of the Ogi ridge. The natives, who cremated their dead, didn’t comprehend the burial rites. With no religious symbols of their own, they also didn’t understand the meaning of the crosses and the Star of David.

  “When they climbed the mountain,” said Yunggukwe Wandik, “we all thought they wanted to know if they could see their homes from there.”

  BY THE TIME the funeral was complete, the U.S. War Department had sent two dozen telegrams to the next-of-kin of the crew and passengers of the Gremlin Special. All but three began with some variation of the standard military death notice: “The Secretary of War deeply regrets to inform you . . .” Upon receipt of those formal condolences, twenty-one hopeful blue-star families became twenty-one grieving gold-star families.

  Margaret Nicholson of Medford, Massachusetts, the mother of Major George Nicholson, received condolence letters from three of America’s top generals: Douglas MacArthur, Clements McMullen, and H. H. “Hap” Arnold. Although pilot error might have been suspected, Nicholson’s full role in the crash wasn’t known; even after it emerged that he was alone at the controls, the Army Air Forces never fixed blame for the wreck of the Gremlin Special. Talk of an investigation fizzled, and vague suppositions about sudden downdrafts remained the presumptive cause in the official record.

  Hap Arnold, commanding general of the Army Air Forces, described Nicholson to his mother as having died “while he was flying in the service of his Country.” McMullen, Fee-Ask’s commanding general, wrote: “You may well be proud of the important part which your son took in forwarding the mission of this command.” MacArthur wrote: “Your consolation for his loss may be that he died in the service of our country in a just cause which, with Victory, will give freedom from oppression to all peoples.”

  For the McCollom family, the offici
al notices highlighted the twins’ permanent separation. A condolence telegram went to the young wife of Robert McCollom. Her in-laws, who were listed as John McCollom’s next-of-kin, received a different letter altogether. Theirs was the embodiment of answered prayers. It echoed the letters received by the parents of Ken Decker in Kelso, Washington, and Margaret Hastings’s widowed father, Patrick Hastings, in Owego, New York.

  On May 27, 1945, three long days after he received the initial “missing” telegram, Patrick Hastings opened a letter from the U.S. Army saying that “a corrected report has now been received which indicates that your daughter was injured in a plane crash . . . and that she is safe instead of missing in action as you were previously advised.” The letter promised updates on rescue operations and Margaret’s condition.

  A follow-up came twelve days later, in more human terms, from the Hollandia chaplain, Cornelius Waldo: “Notice has reached you by now that your dear daughter Margaret has had a very miraculous escape in a plane crash. Due to the fact that the survivors are in a rather inaccessible spot, it will be some time before she will be back at the base to write you herself. I talked to her on the radio the day we dropped supplies and paratroopers. She is quite all right in spite of her harrowing experience.”

  Waldo didn’t mention her burns, her gangrene, or her other wounds, or the fact that the military still didn’t know how to get Margaret, her fellow survivors, and their rescuers back to Hollandia.

  Chapter 20

  “HEY, MARTHA!”

  AFTER THE BURIALS, the jungle recuperation camp fell into a routine of medical treatments, meals, reading, card games, and bull sessions, punctuated by near-daily supply drops and encounters with the natives. Eager to get moving, Walter radioed Major George Gardner, who oversaw the supply runs from aboard the 311, to request a helicopter transport from the jungle campsite to the valley. That way, Walter figured, they wouldn’t need to carry Margaret and Decker or wait until they were well enough to travel by foot.

  Walter’s request for a helicopter could be chalked up to wishful thinking, lack of aviation expertise, fatigue, or all three. If a helicopter could have flown over the surrounding mountains to ferry them from the jungle campsite, it presumably could have flown them out of the valley altogether, even if only one or two at a time. And if a helicopter had been a viable alternative, Colonel Elsmore and the other rescue planners in Hollandia might not have needed Walter, the medics, and the other paratroopers in the first place.

  The most likely explanation for Walter’s wish for a helicopter—expressed several times in his daily journal entries—was his desire to hasten his return to Hollandia. He thought he could parlay success in Shangri-La into a combat posting, and he was keen to play that card with the military brass.

  The “headquarters” tent at the jungle clearing, with (from left) John McCollom, Ken Decker, Ben Bulatao, and Camilo Ramirez. (Photo courtesy of C. Earl Walter Jr.)

  While Walter waited for answers from Gardner on a helicopter, and from the medics on the survivors’ ability to move out, the young captain’s growing impatience seeped into his journal:

  May 29, 1945: Decided to straighten up our kitchen, so Don [Ruiz] and I went to work on it, then waited around for the plane. Finally it came, a new plane and new crew. . . . They dropped one bundle two miles from us and it fell apart. They must think this is a tea party we are on. I blew my top and the plane took off for Hollandia. . . . All clothes for Hastings. She has enough now for a trousseau. No medical supplies. What a snafu bunch is running this show. . . . Here’s hoping on the helicopter.

  May 30, 1945: Waited for the plane but it did not come. We have plenty of food but our medical supplies are very low. . . . Spent the afternoon in the sack reading and shooting the breeze. What a life. Certainly wish the answer on the helicopter would come through. Or at least that the patients would get well enough to travel. . . . Rain came early so we are all in the sack and most of the boys are reading. Spirits are fine and we are only wishing for some excitement. . . . God only knows what is going on in the outside world.

  May 31, 1945: Up a little later this morning as there was nothing in particular to do. After breakfast I sent Caoili and Alerta out on a recon for a shorter route to the valley. . . . The plane came over early this morning . . . and the helicopter is out, so that is that and we hike out. I certainly hope the three survivors can take it.

  June 1, 1945: This is really going to be hell, just sitting around, waiting to get out of here. . . . Patients’ recovery is all I am waiting for.

  June 2, 1945: The plane came over at ten-thirty with our supplies and mail. We certainly needed the medical supplies and I received eight letters, which certainly helped the old morale. They gave us a brief resumé of the world news, and it is certainly encouraging. After lunch I read Bedside Esquire and then we got ready for dinner. . . . Certainly hope the recovery of the patients speeds up a bit.

  June 3, 1945: What a morning. Slept till eleven-thirty. First time that has ever happened to me without a hangover involved, at least on Sunday anyway. Had some cereal and then waited for lunch. . . . This is quite a life and getting damn tiresome, but can’t do anything till I am sure that the trip to my base camp will not hurt the patients. Oh well—it’s a good rest.

  June 4, 1945: In the morning, I fired a few rounds with the carbine. That is an excellent way to waste time. After you are through, you have to clean the weapon so it takes up a little time. Dinner tonight was really something. Prepared by Dongallo and Bulatao. Casserole of bacon, corned beef, sweet potatoes and peas, with rice on the side. Last but not least peaches for dessert. Weather still bad and no plane today. Morale is excellent.

  June 7, 1945: . . . Sat around and talked about home.

  June 8, 1945: Well, one year ago today I said goodbye to my wife Sal. It certainly seems a hell of a lot longer than that. I miss her more than ever up in this place, and that is going some. Don [Ruiz] woke me up this morning telling me that the plane was overhead. . . . Two war correspondents were in the plane, so I imagine this damn show is getting plenty of publicity back in the States. I hope so, as the men have worked plenty hard on this show, and maybe it will open a few people’s eyes to the possibilities of my future plans. The two were Mr. Simmons of the Chicago Tribune and Mr. Morton of AP.

  THE “SHOW”—THE CRASH, the survivors, the natives, and the rescue mission in Shangri-La—had indeed reached the United States and beyond. After a nearly three-week news blackout, Colonel Elsmore let out word to the press that something remarkable was happening in the heart of New Guinea. Several reporters took the bait, but none more avidly than the two reporters Walter mentioned in his journal.

  Walter Simmons of the Chicago Tribune was thirty-seven, a native of Fargo, North Dakota, whose father sold patent medicine. After two years of college, Simmons signed on as reporter for the Daily Argus-Leader in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Ten years later, in 1942, he moved to the big time with a job covering the war in the South Pacific for the Tribune. Beneath the gruff exterior of a grizzled war correspondent, Simmons showed a flair for rich images and tight, well-turned phrases. “The dawn comes up like thunder every morning and this is how it goes,” he began a story about the daily life of American troops on Leyte Island. “Suddenly there is a sound like a giant hand beating a carpet. ‘Whomp, whomp, whomp’ it goes. It is a 40 mm gun battery signaling a raid alert. Soldiers and civilians leave their beds.”

  In the weeks before Simmons hopped aboard the supply plane over Shangri-La, he’d kept busy feeding red meat to Tribune readers. Reporting in May 1945 from the Philippines while traveling with a division of the Illinois National Guard, Simmons wrote stories whose persistent theme was reflected in their headlines: “Midwest Yanks Fight Way Out of Jap Ambush,” “Chicago Yank’s Penknife Ends Fight with Jap,” “Yanks Harvest Crop of 19 Japs in Rice Garden,” and “Midwest Yanks’ ‘Banzai’ Charge Wins a Jap Hill.” In addition to appearing in the Tribune, Simmons’s stories were distributed by the Chic
ago Tribune News Service, which had more than sixty newspapers as subscribers, and also by Reuters, the British news service.

  Simmons’s colleague and competitor, Ralph Morton of The Associated Press, reached an even wider audience. Like Simmons, Morton was thirty-seven and a reporter who’d reached the big leagues after years in the minors. A native of Nova Scotia, Morton had worked as a reporter for the Halifax Herald, the Canadian Press news service, and the Protestant Digest. He joined the AP in 1943 in New York, and early in 1945 was promoted to war correspondent and the wire service’s Australia bureau chief. The AP served more than fourteen hundred newspapers during World War II, and the wire service also provided news to radio stations across the country. With the wire service’s enormous reach, Morton’s voice was amplified many thousand times over.

  After flying over the survivors’ campsite, Simmons and Morton filed stories that lit up newsrooms around the world. Every editor worth his or her salt recognized that the two war correspondents had found a humdinger of a story, known in the trade as a “Hey, Martha!” The phrase took its name from an imagined exchange between a mythical couple, long married and not necessarily happy about it. The husband, call him Harold, would be relaxing in his easy chair, his nose buried in a newspaper. Upon reading an especially surprising and interesting story, Harold would break his customary silence and loudly proclaim to his long-suffering wife, “Hey, Martha, wait ’til you hear this!”