Lost in Shangri-la

by Mitchell Zuckoff

  The guts of the stories written by Walter Simmons and Ralph Morton were basically the same: A U.S. Army plane crashed near a lost valley in Dutch New Guinea inhabited by a tribe of Stone Age cannibals. Three of the twenty-four people aboard survived. One was a beautiful WAC. Another survivor had lost his twin brother in the crash. The third had suffered a terrible head injury. A crack squad of paratroopers jumped into treacherous terrain to help and protect them. Tense confrontations with tribe members evolved into cross-cultural understanding. Friendship, even. No rescue plan was yet in place.

  Simmons’s story began: “In a hidden valley, one-hundred-thirty miles southwest of Hollandia, a WAC and two airmen are awaiting rescue following one of the most fantastic tragedies of the war. No white man had ever set foot in this isolated paradise before a C-47 transport plane circled over it at 3:15 p.m., May 13.” In the next paragraph, Simmons disclosed that the flight’s purpose was for the passengers and crew “to see the queer, unclad people who threw spears at planes.”

  Simmons’s story created suspense by focusing on the military’s uncertainty about how the outsiders might exit the secluded valley: “For three weeks the tiny WAC secretary and the two men have been cheerfully awaiting rescue, but no plan has been definitely worked out. Several ideas have been suggested—an autogiro [forerunner to the helicopter], a seaplane which might land on a lake thirty miles away, a glider snatch, and tiny liaison planes which could bring out one passenger each trip.” Simmons pointed out obstacles to each approach, and that “an overland trek is possible but it would require weeks.”

  An Associated Press story, relying on Morton’s dispatches, focused more squarely on the natives: “The crash of an Army transport plane in the wilds of Dutch New Guinea has unlocked the secrets of a mountain-bound ‘Shangri-La’ where six-foot tribesmen live in a state of barbaric feudalism inside walled towns.” Ratcheting up the height of the mountains, and presumably the drama, the AP story claimed that the plane crashed into a seventeen-thousand-foot peak. That would have made it two thousand feet higher than New Guinea’s tallest mountain.

  Newspaper editors across the country, including those at The New York Times, ran the stories on page one. News of the war still occupied the hearts and minds of Americans—the savage, two-month Battle of Okinawa remained under way, with many thousands of dead on both sides. But a dramatic story about a military plane crash in a “real” Shangri-La, with a WAC and two male survivors, living among Stone Age tribesmen and a team of brave paratroopers, with no certain rescue plan, was war news with a new and exciting twist.

  The widespread, enthusiastic response to the initial stories confirmed what Simmons, Morton, and their bosses no doubt suspected: the story of Shangri-La was hot. Even better, the Gremlin Special crash had what reporters call “legs”—a developing plotline, certain to yield more page-one stories and more urgent calls to Martha.

  A FLOOD OF interest followed the dispatches from Simmons and Morton. Other war correspondents clamored for seats in the supply plane, all eager to write their own version of a story that, in journalistic shorthand, became known as “a WAC in Shangri-La.” Colonel Elsmore, always enamored of press coverage, happily obliged. He even arranged for a WAC stenographer, Corporal Marie Gallagher, to fly aboard the 311 to transcribe walkie-talkie conversations between the plane and the survivors’ camp.

  In one transcript, one of Margaret’s tentmates, Private Esther “Ack Ack” Aquilio, relayed a message through the radio operator. The message described Esther’s fears for Margaret’s safety and inquired about how Margaret was feeling. Margaret shot back: “Tell her to stop worrying and start praying!” The reporters ate it up.

  In another transcript, Walter described Margaret as “the queen of the valley.” He told the reporters how he and his men had limited success trading with the locals, but Margaret had collected woven rattan bracelets and “just about anything she wants from the natives.” Again the reporters pounced. Their stories called her “the queen of Shangri-La.” Major Gardner got in on the act on his daily talks with Walter via walkie-talkie, asking: “How’s the queen this morning?” The major tried to goad Margaret into speaking directly to him and the reporters. She declined.

  Walter and McCollom alternated on the ground end of the conversations, with Gardner, radio operator Sergeant Jack Gutzeit, and the AP’s Ralph Morton taking turns manning the radio on the plane. Morton couldn’t have been happier with his participation in the story. He even began taking supply orders from the ground crew. In one story—headlined “Shangri-La Gets Latest News from Associated Press”—Morton breathlessly described how he read a summary of the world and the war to the survivors.

  To avoid being left behind, Walter Simmons started to file his stories with the dateline “Aboard Transport Plane over Hidden Valley.” Within days, the Tribune offered Margaret, McCollom, and Decker $1,000 each for their “exclusive” stories upon their return. While the survivors considered the offer, Walter admitted to his journal that he suffered a pang of jealousy.

  On one flight, Decker’s cousin, WAC private Thelma Decker, came along to offer encouragement. But when she stood from her seat to approach the radio compartment, she was overcome with airsickness and felt too ill to speak.

  Another time, radioman Jack Gutzeit brought a phonograph to play Benny Goodman and Harry James records. Walter joked about jitterbugging in Shangri-La, but the music came through garbled.

  Meanwhile, Gutzeit developed an air-to-ground crush on Margaret. On his day off, he hitched a flight to Brisbane, Australia, where he bought a box of chocolates and dropped them to her by parachute. A few days later, Gutzeit got cheeky when Walter relayed a request from Margaret for “one complete outfit—shirt, t-shirt, trousers and a bra.”

  “Tell her she doesn’t need that down there,” Gutzeit said. “She can go native.”

  The drops became so routine that the supply plane began treating them like milk runs. But one flight through the valley nearly ended with the deaths of two supply crew members. When the crew chief, Sergeant Peter Dobransky, and the cargo supervisor, Sergeant James Kirchanski, opened the rear cargo bay, the wind caught hold of a door and ripped it off its hinges. Dobransky and Kirchanski were sucked toward the opening. As Walter Simmons reported in the Tribune, the two men “clawed at the aluminum door frame and managed to keep each other from falling out of the plane.” The wayward door slammed against the plane’s tail section, but the 311 remained airworthy. The two sergeants suffered only scratches and bruises, and were back aboard the next flight.

  During one supply run, the AP’s Ralph Morton wondered if Shangri-La might contain hidden riches. He asked Walter if the paratroopers had tried panning for gold in the Baliem River. Walter delivered the disappointing news: not only were there no fish in the river, there were no precious metals, either.

  Much of the radio conversation was devoted to Walter and McCollom making small talk with the reporters, Major Gardner, Jack Gutzeit, and a new pilot, Captain Hugh Arthur. Now and then they placed orders for supplies and seashells, for trading with the natives. As days passed, those orders included cases of beer, which meant that alcohol had entered Shangri-La for the first time in recorded history.

  The flights also brought regular mail from home. For Margaret that meant letters from her two sisters, “who said my father was too overcome to write.” McCollom and Decker heard from their parents, Walter from his wife, and the paratroopers from friends, sweethearts, and family. The mail drops gave editors at the Chicago Tribune an idea: they offered to have Walter Simmons deliver personal messages from the survivors’ families. Although the families could just as easily have done so themselves in letters, they took up the newspaper’s offer.

  “We are all fine at home and will be looking for you just as soon as you can get here,” said the message from Patrick Hastings. “Hope and pray you are well and unhurt. Your sisters want to say hello. It really is something to have a famous daughter. Wait till you see the papers. Thank the C
hicago Tribune for getting this message thru to you. It is a real thrill to send it. We will be seeing you soon, we hope. Love, Dad.”

  Bert Decker’s message to his son read: “We hope you are recovering satisfactorily and will soon be back at your post. Mother and I are fine, but anxious. Dad.”

  Rolla and Eva McCollom sent a message tinged with controlled midwestern sadness: “We are happy that you survived. Anxiously awaiting direct word from you. So sorry about Robert. Our love to you. Dad and Mom.” Later, McCollom responded privately in a letter in which he tried to allay his parents’ and sister-in-law’s fears that Robert had suffered or had wandered, hurt and alone, into the jungle. He wrote: “Robert was killed instantly and the body was burned completely. I was up to the wreck fifteen days after the accident and could find none of his personal belongings. Even if I could have identified him it would be impossible to get his body out.”

  Morton and Simmons filed daily stories, and soon they began straining for news. Simmons seemed to get a kick out of reporting Margaret’s one persistent supply request: “How about dropping me some panties? Any kind will do.” But when other reporters repeated the story, the request got mangled.

  “A few days later,” Margaret wrote in her diary, “Major Gardner told me with great glee that a story had been published saying I was begging for a pair of pants. That was one of the few incidents that ever worried me. I knew if my father read the story and thought I was running around in the jungle without enough clothing, he’d have a fit.” No matter how many times Margaret asked, no panties ever arrived.

  Other times, the walkie-talkie transcripts read like letters home from summer camp:

  Lieutenant John McCollom: We’re listening to the beautiful morning breakfast club. Over.

  Major George Gardner: So this is the breakfast club. What are you guys eating this morning? How about a little chatter?

  McCollom: We had a pretty good breakfast. Rice pudding, ham and eggs, bacon, coffee, cocoa, pineapple—anything you want to eat. Drop in and see us some morning, boys. The best mess hall in the Southwest Pacific.

  AS MARGARET AND Decker healed, Doc Bulatao found himself with hours of free time. Every morning, after checking on his American patients, Bulatao visited with the people of Uwambo. “Tropic skin diseases and festering sores yielded to Doc and to modern drugs like magic,” Margaret wrote. The native wars remained on hiatus while the survivors and paratroopers were at the area the natives called Mundima, but the natives enjoyed demonstrating their bow-and-arrow skills nonetheless. Once, however, a native man became the victim of friendly fire, and Doc patched an arrow wound in the man’s side.

  The medical care provided by Bulatao and Ramirez endeared them to the natives, who called them “Mumu” and “Mua.” Walter and the other paratroopers also received local names from the people of Uwambo, including Pingkong and Babikama, but which name belonged to which man was lost to time.

  While waiting to move out, Walter recorded lengthy thoughts about the natives in his journal. He was generally respectful, and some of his conclusions showed anthropological insight. He admired their gardens as “excellent examples of hard work and common sense,” and credited their homes as “well constructed and weatherproof.”

  Other observations, however, relied on incomplete data and mistaken assumptions. Because few women joined the men who visited the campsite, Walter believed there was a shortage of native women. And because he didn’t see the natives eat pig, he assumed they were strict vegetarians. Elsewhere in his journal, Walter repeated cultural stereotypes of the natives as “childish in everything they do or say.” A few of Walter’s observations might best be classified as fraternity house humor:

  Today we showed one of the natives some pictures of pinup girls. Immediately he seemed to understand that they were women and he tapped the gourd around his private parts in a knowing manner. Some of the boys goaded him on a bit, and soon the gourd could no longer contain his excitement. It appears that sexual pleasure is an uncommon occurrence amongst these natives due to the shortage of the female sex. He finally beat a hasty retreat when he found that the gourd could no longer contain or act as a covering for his state of mind. It appeared as though he was thoroughly embarrassed, to say the least.

  Walter also enjoyed a laugh at the sight of a little boy, perhaps six years old, who couldn’t quite fill his gourd. The dried shell hung to one side, exposing the boy’s not-yet-proud manhood.

  As part of his curiosity about the tribe, Walter conducted an experiment in which he drew simple pencil drawings on blank paper. He showed them to the same man involved in the pinup incident, then gave him paper and a pencil. “He then proceeded to draw many curving lines on the paper much like a baby would do when first meeting crayon and paper. He was very proud of his achievement and showed his efforts to me with a big smile.” Walter concluded: “It seems to me that these natives could be educated easily with the proper methods.”

  Interviewed over walkie-talkie by the Tribune’s Walter Simmons, Walter described the natives’ physical features, the “excellent condition” of their teeth, and their villages in great detail. Despite his impression of them as “an agile and strong race,” Walter expressed surprise that they didn’t make better bearers. He chalked it up to “the fact that they are so used to going around naked and carrying nothing.” In another interview, he said the natives “treat us like white gods dropped out of the sky.” Then he gushed: “These are possibly the happiest people I’ve ever seen. They are always enjoying themselves.”

  Two native tribesmen photographed in 1945. (Photo courtesy of C. Earl Walter Jr.)

  Later, he elaborated: “They lived well, had all they needed to eat, they had a place to stay, and they were a happy bunch,” he said. “It was a garden paradise all by itself, and nobody bothered them. They had clashes amongst themselves, but no trouble with the outside world. . . . The whole outside world was at war and here we had complete peace and happiness in this little valley. The outside world hadn’t gotten to it.”

  In one important respect, the natives didn’t acquiesce to the outsiders. Walter wrote in his journal that “they still don’t want us in their villages and this feeling persisted during our entire stay. . . . Also, we are warned constantly about being around in the same area as their women and also they try to keep us away from their camote [sweet potato] patches as much as they can.” When he happened upon a young woman, Walter appraised her more generously than he had the first woman he described: “This one was lighter than the others and quite attractive for a native girl. Her busts were large and well formed, but not out of proportion. She was without a doubt the best-looking girl we saw during our stay in the valley.”

  WALTER’S JOURNAL OBSERVATIONS reflected what he thought and experienced. But they were limited by a lack of knowledge of the tribe’s language or perspective. He had no idea that the people of Uwambo regarded him and his companions as spirits from the sky, or that their appearance had fulfilled the prophecy of the Uluayek legend.

  Their return having been foretold, the survivors and paratroopers were welcomed by the otherwise warlike natives. But there were limits. In the long-ago times recounted by the legend, the spirits climbed down the rope from the sky and stole women and pigs.

  Had he known about Uluayek, Walter might have been less surprised by how the native men behaved when he came within range of the native women.

  Chapter 21

  PROMISED LAND

  AS DAYS PASSED, Walter encouraged the reporters’ attention, viewing it as a potential steppingstone for his own interests. “Both W.C. [war correspondent] men were along again today, and it appears that this little job is making headlines all over the world,” he wrote in his journal. “All I hope is that out of this possibility we might get a combat mission.” Another day he wrote: “If this deal is getting all the publicity it appears to be, I am sure that my prayers on the future will be answered.”

  Within days of writing those words, Walter learned
that his prayers had indeed come true, up to a point. It’s unclear whether the press coverage played any role, but Walter learned via walkie-talkie that he and his men had received orders to ship out for the Philippines, if and when they returned to Hollandia. The Japanese had almost given up the fight in the islands—resistance on Mindanao was nearing an end, and General MacArthur was on the verge of declaring the Philippines “secure.” Still, Walter was as eager as ever to join his guerrilla leader father in action. “My last news of Dad said that he was okay, but still out on patrol,” he wrote after learning about his orders.

  When the excitement faded, Walter despaired that the survivors’ slow recuperation seemed to be conspiring against him. Twice Walter pushed back his target date for the return hike to the valley base camp, after Doc Bulatao declared that Margaret and Decker were much improved but still weren’t ready for the arduous trek. In his journal, Walter described the conflict he felt between responsibility and desire: “I will not risk any further infections of the patients’ wounds, possibly resulting in amputation.” Immediately afterward, he added: “The whole party is a little discouraged by this delay, especially my boys and myself, who are on orders to leave for the P.I. [Philippine Islands]. There is a war going on, and we are tired of being left behind.”

  ON FRIDAY, JUNE 15, thirty-three days after the crash, Doc Bulatao gave Margaret and Decker a thorough going-over to be sure their wounds had sufficiently healed. After the exams, he pronounced his two patients fit enough to travel. They’d need more medical treatment—Decker, in particular—but he believed that they were out of immediate danger and capable of a hike, with help, to the big valley.

  Walter couldn’t wait to strike camp and hit the trail, but he delayed their departure until noon, so the supply plane could drop extra flares and a spare walkie-talkie, in case of problems en route to the base camp.