by R. B. Shaw
Labourers had transported our gear across the river to the airstrip parking bay, the earth now raw after being stripped of marsden matting. We selected a campsite nearby and helped to erect the tent and radio aerial. Adrian and I boarded the plane and after a brief take-off run flew across the Ramu River. Our former salvage site was now a trampled quagmire centred around the beached Zero and a verdant new growth of kunai grass.
*
The sudden thumping on the door woke me, and the unfamiliar surroundings of the Goroka Hotel gave me a start. I opened the door still in a sleepy daze and Adrian stepped inside. “They’ve found Lance Rudd over at Bundi.”
“How is he?” I asked with genuine concern.
“They flew him in at first light this morning. Doc says he’s suffering from mild shock and hypothermia, and he’s delirious too.”
“Well, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?”
Adrian lit a smoke and looked at me. “Not the way he’s talking—he’s raving like a lunatic. You know Lance pretty well, don’t you? Could you have a good talk to him when he’s up to it? I’m afraid he switched off when I doubted his story.”
“Okay,” I said. “But let’s give him a day to rest first.”
“Right,” said Adrian. “But for Christ’s sake find out what the bloody hell’s going on and if it’s got anything to do with the other incidents.”
That afternoon I paid a social visit to Lance. He was resting and seemed very nervous, as well as suffering from sunburn, exhaustion and numerous abrasions. His feet were bandaged; his footwear had been totally inadequate and he had paid dearly on the cold rocky slopes of Mt Wilhelm. He talked briefly about his experiences, but didn’t mention anything unusual. We discussed old times and our parting of the ways to different companies. I asked for an official statement from him next morning and he agreed readily, probably glad that at last he would be recounting the episode to a friend instead of a sceptical official.
The next day, vitality was back in his pale blue eyes. His muscular build was evident as he raised his arm and brushed his wavy blonde hair. I was armed with a tape recorder and asked the nurse for a large jug of iced water and two glasses. I offered Lance a smoke. “Feeling up to it, mate?”
He nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be, Dave. You’re not going to believe some of this, but I suppose Adrian has already told you that?”
“Yeah, but it could be shock or even high altitude sickness.”
“So you don’t believe me either?” He sneered at me and delivered the ace he had up his sleeve. “You’ll have to go up and investigate the wreck, won’t you? How will you explain a bullet hole in the fuselage?”
I was caught unawares. “If that’s a fact, I’ll give you all my support.”
“The plane is upside down and the bullet entered on the left side near the static port. It went on through the headlining and cabin roof and I suppose into the ground.”
“Okay, Lance, as you can see I’m going to tape this. I don’t want you to miss a single detail, especially about the helicopter and the men who shot at you. I want you to start when you took off from Omkalai and finish when you arrived at Bundi and I’ll ask a few questions as we go.”
Lance’s statement first related how, after taking off from Omkalai, he flew the Cessna 206 up the precipitous Chimbu Gorge heading for Kundiawa. He found the gorge clouded in and so climbed to over 11 000 feet, orbited and then set out across a vast sheet of cloud stretching to the horizon. His compass was his only guide, as total visual reference to the ground was lost.
After reaching the estimated position of Kundiawa, he attempted to descend through a sparse section of cloud, only to find unfamiliar high terrain below. After a harrowing time trying to negotiate mountainous ridges, he managed to climb above the heavy carpet of cloud. Fuel was then critically low and Lance was disturbed by the inaccuracy of his compass. He found he had two options. To deliberately descend blind through the ‘candy clouds’—those with hard centres—risking ‘cumulus granitus.’ Or attempt a landing on the only terrain visible, a towering ridge of stone ahead, like an island in the sky—most likely the taller peaks of the Bismarck Ranges.
Fuel-gauge needles quivering near empty forced his decision to risk a landing in a small glacial valley. Lance survived unscathed, but the 206 had been wrecked when it cartwheeled at the end of the rough landing. He then decided to over-night and readied a signal bonfire before settling into the upturned cabin.
It was next afternoon when, in despair, he finally heard the distant rhythmic beat of a helicopter. His first reaction was to light the bonfire. It soon attracted the attention of an unmarked khaki Bell 47, which circled, then hovered nearby. But he felt uncertain, something was wrong. A figure in the Bell beckoned him to approach.
Lance paced through a surging sea of windblown kunai grass beneath the pulsing rotor blades. Suddenly there was a change in engine noise as the blades tilted and slashed faster and nearer. The helicopter turned toward him like a bulbous bird of prey in search of vermin. A landing skid scythed through the grass toward him. He turned and ran, but could hear the blades slashing through the grass like the Grim Reaper’s oversized Sickle of Death. He fell and lay prone, feeling the hot exhaust blast and hearing only the high-pitched scream of the turbo-charger. While the Bell climbed and turned for another pass, he dived into the refuge of the 206 cabin, stunned by the strange turn of events.
A feathery mist of cloud was blowing up the slope, complicating the Bell pilot’s plans. Lance glimpsed an extended arm and pistol silhouetted against the bleak sky. Two shots rang out, echoing repeatedly through the canyons, one bullet passing through the fuselage. The terrible din of rotor blades ebbed and to his relief the Bell departed. Cloud had built up quickly on the mountain, obscuring all but the nearest shrubbery.
That night Lance had decided to abandon the wreck site well before dawn rather than wake to a sunny day, the beat of a helicopter and the crash of a bullet. He was sure the mysterious assailants would return, so rather than take the obvious path down the mountain, he decided to climb the high ridge to the rear and down the other side, east toward Bundi.
He reached the ridge top at sunrise just in time to witness the approach of the helicopter, its course betrayed by the tiny shadow flitting erratically across the irregular contour of the mountain face. It dropped like a hawk to his wrecked aircraft, now a small white crucifix far below. He hurried down the steep east face. The walls plummeted out of sight, giving it the appearance of a huge ragged toothed lower jaw, gaping at the sky. He set course following a creek bed to an elongated cobalt-blue lake 2000 feet below.
It was well after noon before he passed the lake and began to negotiate a steep, dusty talus—a large conical mass probably formed from some prehistoric avalanche. Lance had by this stage forgotten some details of his trek, probably due to the shock and exposure. He did remember walking over hollow metal—the wing of a wrecked wartime B-25. The wreckage was strewn wide on the smooth face and the wing was emblazoned with a faded orange triangle. He recalled overnighting in part of the wreck, desperate for shelter, but slept badly due to a mournful howl caused by a cold wind that night.
The sound of a helicopter nearby early in the morning woke him and he moved in to investigate. It was stationary and empty, the two uniformed crew searching at the base of a distant cliff. Lance completed his statement by saying he didn’t see any markings on the Bell except a white four, but did manage to check inside for the serial number and steal a map from the cockpit. After moving on down the mountain he eventually arrived exhausted next day in Bundi. He was flown to Goroka Hospital, but couldn’t remember the flight.
CHAPTER THREE
I was deep in thought as I walked across the hospital carpark. Lance’s statement had confused me. The story was improbable, but he was definitely in command of his senses and displayed a fierce desire for revenge. Adrian had asked me to take Lance’s statement because I was an old friend. Lance, for the same reason, asked me t
o help prove his story. He had entrusted me with a battered map of PNG, scribbled with notations in a foreign language and the serial number he had jotted down.
Should I get the task of investigating the incident, Lance wanted the suspect compass intact and photographs of the bullet holes. He added that helicopter skid marks should still be in the soft ground to the west of the large avalanche spill. This region was near an old native burial ground; on the nearby slope was a lone three-branched tree. Before leaving, I assured him I would do all I could to help.
As I stepped from my car outside the Bird of Paradise hotel, the sky was dark and the air heavy with humidity. I checked my watch. By 1500 it would start raining as it did nearly every day in the Highland wet season. I went to Adrian’s room and we played back the tape and discussed Lance’s story over a cup of coffee. Adrian wasn’t pleased with the strange implications.
“Okay, give it to Alf Campbell. He can get it typed and photostated.”
“How’s Fang going with the 402 at Prinzberg?” I asked.
“He reckons he’ll need you there in a few days to do a final check-over for the flight back to Goroka.”
I decided to probe. “Who’s going up to inspect Lance’s 206?”
“Well, I’ll be tied up with this sunken barge salvage, off Kar Kar Island. So I’m leaving it to you. It’s more in your line anyway. See what you can discover about these sabotage incidents. I’d hate to lose that agency from Boyds or a customer like Tarangau.”
“I’d be glad to do it. I’ve a few leads from Lance’s story and I have a personal interest.”
Adrian gave me a sceptical look. “Personally, I think you’re heading off on a wild goose chase, but check for bullet holes or signs of a helicopter and check his compass. Anyway, it’s your problem now, Dave.”
I poured myself another cup of coffee and raised my voice to be heard over the rain thundering down outside. “Have any arrangements been made yet?”
“Alf and I have organised accommodation and transport.” Adrian rummaged through his papers and pulled out a crumpled list attached to an insurance assessment form. “You’ll fly from Goroka to Kundiawa tomorrow. See the base manager of Tarangau there and he’ll lend you a four-wheel drive Landrover so you can get to Tepsugl at the end of the road. It’s the highest and closest settlement to the crash site—8000 feet. The Mission is run by an elderly American priest, Father James La Rossa—incidentally, he was the first European into the area in early 1936.” He sipped at his coffee and continued. “I’ve arranged for Helicabs’ chopper from Fly River to pick you up there, as soon as it’s available. Fly up to the wreck, get the compass out and decide if the plane is worth retrieving, either for rebuild or spare parts. I’ll leave you to organise that side of it, if required.”
After bidding farewell to Adrian, I drove straight over to see an old friend, a lecturer at Goroka Teachers College. He led me to the library where we soon discovered that the scrawls on the map were a Malay dialect. The terminology was obscure, although obviously jottings regarding weather, fuel and distance calculation. I then visited Tarangau Airlines and despatched a few messages.
The Tarangau Twin Otter lurched as we hit a down-draught. To port was the vertical limestone face of Mt Elimbari. Chuave would be below, another few minutes to Kundiawa. Chimbu Province was the most densely populated area in New Guinea. Tribal wars still raged there and some regions were still on the restricted list. Entry was by permit only and under escort of an armed patrol officer. Chimbu Hospital at Kundiawa still treated scores of stone axe, spear and arrow wounds each month.
Kundiawa airstrip came into view; it never ceased to amaze me, appearing like a landlocked aircraft carrier. The monolith’s surface had been cleared and levelled with relative ease, as if its future purpose had been decided at the time of Earth’s creation. Within an hour, I was driving Tarangau’s Landrover along the winding Tepsugl Road, climbing ever higher through jagged and toppled limestone country.
The beech forest gave way occasionally to fleeting glimpses of the summit of Mt Wilhelm in the distance to the north, the wind picking a vaporous plume from its eastern face. The road was changing into a slippery cutting through the foliage; the greasy clay had filled the chunky tyre cleats, making traction nearly impossible even for the legendary Landrover.
Cloud was scattering across the sky when I first saw smoke from a ridge ahead; a tin roof caught the sun’s rays and I knew that this must be Tepsugl. Visiting vehicles must have been rare. It seemed like the whole village had turned out, even though light rain was beginning to fall. Dozens of native kids lined the road into the churchyard, laughing and touching the car as it passed.
A tall bulky figure emerged from the bush-material church. Father James La Rossa was remarkably handsome for his age, smooth suntanned face and straight snow-white hair with matching bushy eyebrows. His native-carved walking-stick was the only clue to a slight disability.
There could be no such thing as a private conversation here. About forty people had gathered in a tight circle around Father James and myself as we introduced ourselves and exchanged courtesies. Some of the bystanders wore European-style clothes, others were near naked, wearing warrior’s regalia and carrying spears or bows and arrows. Most of the children wore nothing at all, their dark skins shining like polished mahogany in the light rain.
Father James led me to the residence alongside the church. My room had an elevated wooden plank floor, with woven pit pit grass walls and a bamboo-reinforced corrugated iron roof. Judging by the pattering rain on the iron, the din would make sleep unlikely during a torrential downpour.
Returning to the Landrover to fetch my backpack and toolbox, I noticed three traditionally dressed warriors standing silent and proud at the perimeter fence of the churchyard. As I entered the yard carrying my gear, they acknowledged my existence only with fiercely inquisitive stares.
The rough high altitude terrain had forced their bodies over countless years of development to adapt to the environment. Except for his muscular physique, the Digendi warrior looked twice his years, heavily lined sloping brow and deep eye-sockets. The septum of his broad nose and flared nostrils was pierced by a large boar’s tusk. It hung across his heavy wrinkled jowls and wide turned-out lips.
As I returned for the toolbox, I studied the ‘bilas’—their regalia and plumage—with interest. They were completely unclothed except for a woven cane waistband supporting ‘arsegrass’ and a sharpened cassowary bone knife. Bows and arrows were hand-held and the warriors’ heads were elaborately capped with multi-hued Bird of Paradise plumes. Around their necks were strings threaded with shells, dog’s teeth, bones, and incongruously, a safety pin. My eye was particularly attracted by a three-piece metal figurine, obviously beaten aluminium roughly shaped like the letter ‘N’. The second warrior had a similar figurine, but the third, evidently the leader of the group, had the same ‘N’ elaborately cast from gleaming solid gold.
My hesitation and close scrutiny was causing some consternation and I was arrogantly ignored when I tried to converse with them in Melanesian Pidgin. They couldn’t comprehend and didn’t wish to in any case. Father James interrupted the confrontation with a quick tirade in a strange dialect and the belligerent warriors grudgingly moved away. “Charming friends you have here, Father.”
He chuckled, a touch of regret in his voice. “Some of my failures. I’ve been teaching the word of God to those Digendi for almost forty years, all to no avail,” he said, as he led me to the dining hut.
“Well, you can’t expect success every time, Father. By the way, what’s the emblem they wear around their necks?”
“A symbol of their cult,” he said. “They’re cargo cultists. It’s understandable when viewed through the primitive eye. All is lost, sickness or famine ravaging the tribes, suddenly a few white men trek to the area and carve an airstrip out of the jungle. Within days, the large silver birds arrive carrying food, medical supplies, clothing, jeeps and other items, incomprehensib
le to men of a stone-age culture. So many tribes deliberately burned their crops and belongings, buried their valuables and then proceeded to hack out a rough airstrip. They would then sit down and await the arrival of the generous silver birds. Unfortunately the planes never came.” As we sat down, Father James turned to me. “David, being at the head of the table, would you say grace?”
I was caught by surprise, so elected something basic. “Oh Lord, we give thanks for the meal we are about to receive. Amen.”
Father James echoed, “Amen,” gave me an interrogative look and we began a hearty meal.
“What does the ‘N’ stand for, Father?” My question seemed to annoy him; he swallowed some sweet potato, coughed, then cleared his throat with a glass of water.
“What ‘N’?” he said evasively.
“The one around the tribesmen’s necks.”
He responded reluctantly. “It stands for both Noah and Nopondi.”
I didn’t ask why, but my inquisitive look was enough, as Father James continued. “These tribesmen, members of the Digendi, heard me preach of the Great Flood, Noah and his Ark. It seems there is a similar Digendi legend. They believe that Noah’s Ark travelled on the Great Flood of the Wahgi Valley and came to rest on the top of Gomugomugo. It still rests there full of valuables and is protected by an evil Maselai.”
“What’s Gomugomugo?”
“The native name for Mt Wilhelm, the highest mountain in New Guinea. We’re 8000 feet up its southern slopes right here.”
“Yes, I realise that. Have you had a look at their so-called Ark?”
“I’ve climbed the mountain on numerous occasions and trekked widely across the more accessible slopes, but I’ve never seen anything resembling an ark or a boat. In fact, the only remains I’ve seen were a few unfortunate wartime aircraft, which collided with the upper saddle in thick cloud.”
I wondered if this might be one of the wrecks Lance mentioned. “So they know where it is, but they won’t tell you?”