by R. B. Shaw
“Everything seems okay, except the tips where they hit the ridge. Went out of balance, nearly shook the controls right out of my hand. Just as I was clearing the ridge, I glimpsed something beyond. I’d swear I was about to collide with another chopper, but it could’ve been my shadow or an eagle.”
“What do we do now?” I asked wondering to myself if he had seen another helicopter.
“I’d better declare an incident,” said Derek. “I’ll get Goroka tower on the radio and ask them to send a rescue chopper.”
Derek called the tower, told them of the rotor strike and gave directions so they could find us. We then sat and waited for further instructions. The news from Derek wasn’t promising. “We’ll have to overnight on the mountain,” he said regretfully.
“Nearest chopper is in Rabaul and couldn’t get here before last light. It could pick us up tomorrow afternoon. DCA have declared an emergency and are sending a Tarangau plane to air drop food and supplies.”
Once again, I watched as a Cessna prepared to do an air-drop, but instead of the comfort of Tepsugl, we were marooned high on the mountain. We moved down to the 206 wreck-site where the well-trampled grass and discarded wing and wreckage would be obvious to the pilot. It was a tricky drop site and the Tarangau pilot chose to make a single descent down the slope, rather than try to out-manoeuvre the rising terrain at the head of the valley.
The large bundle burst on impact with the muddy ground and scattered numerous smaller packages over a wide area. About one quarter of the food supply had been pulped on initial impact. However, they had deliberately overstocked us with food, so impact loss had obviously been anticipated. The Cessna 206, a sister ship of Lance’s unfortunate aircraft, increased power and accelerated away towards Kundiawa, racing against failing light as evening approached. I was glad the drop was successful; this wretched alpine valley had already claimed its share of aircraft.
As the sound of the plane’s engine faded, an uncanny silence prevailed amidst the bare wet rock that towered above us, tumbled and jumbled like the parapets of a once-besieged medieval castle. Stone spires and steeples still bravely reached skyward, mocking nature’s eternal erosion of the primordial strata. A familiar noise, the distant beat of helicopter blades, pervaded the canyon and then mysteriously faded. Probably a lingering echo from the Tarangau drop aircraft, or was it Lance’s supposed adversary?
The sleeping bags and tents hadn’t been damaged, so using the mangled wing of Lance’s 206 as a windbreak, we set up a comfortable campsite sheltered from the cutting breeze. We were now quite warm with a briquette fire heating our food, the rosy glow reflecting off an iron sheet and into the tents. At twilight, we finished securing the tents in case a stronger wind should blow up during the night and once again heard the mysterious sound of a distant helicopter. The ground had frozen with the lower temperatures of evening. The only way the steel tent pegs would penetrate the ground was to pre-heat them in the fire. A minor argument developed between us when I announced that I intended to follow Lance’s trail over the mountain at first light.
“The worst thing we could do is split up,” said Derek.
“The rescue chopper won’t be here till late tomorrow,” I persisted. “It’ll only have time to take one of us off the mountain before nightfall, so two of us will probably have to overnight a second time anyway. I’ve still got an investigation to do and I also have a personal interest in this case. Besides, I’d rather have a look around while I’m up here, instead of sitting on my arse all day.”
Derek still argued his point as I packed my rucksack, but to me the subject was closed. Hints of rogue helicopters were now at the top of my list. I explained the plan to Jake. He didn’t like the idea of going over the ridge higher up the mountain, but disliked being with strangers even more. After concentrating for a few moments, he nodded and replied in Pidgin, “If you go, I’ll go, but I don’t like the talk I heard in Tepsugl about the evil Maselai of the mountain.”
I dismissed the Maselai legend. “It’s rubbish talk, Jake.” Jake didn’t seem convinced but said no more.
After an early night, Jake and I had little trouble getting away by 1 am, hoping that by starting early, we’d be back before the rescue helicopter arrived, later that day. The chilling air stung like a polar wind, but the climb was easy in the final rays of a sinking full moon. As we neared the top of the ridge, ice crunched beneath our feet. The moon vanished below the distant horizon, the pre-dawn inky blackness closing over us like a sombre blanket. At this altitude, the astral display was astounding; we could find our way by starlight alone. Myriads of stars flared like brilliant pin-pricks in a muted void.
Large fluorescent mounds could vaguely be seen ahead; these proved to be sparse, ice-hard snow drifts. We reached the top of the ridge both panting heavily, even though our extended time working on the mountain had conditioned us to the rarefied air. There was no problem finding the lake Lance described, for below us appeared a fallen sector of the sky. Like a sparkling diamond in a black velvet jewelbox, the lake’s surface mirrored the twinkling starlight to perfection.
As dawn approached, the star-studded indigo faded to a translucent glow in the east. Footing was now treacherous, torches essential for the descent. The ragged black skyline emerged, starkly silhouetted by a scarlet horizon and gold corona. Above, a lemon aurora faded as it bordered the deep blue emptiness of space. With new light, we moved about in search of Lance’s trail, the rocky ground, however, bearing no trace of those who had passed before. A rippled carpet of purple cloud lay before us, its monotony broken only by a huge billowing anvil. The lower surfaces were lit with a fiery orange fluorescence, the crown smeared and plumed in pastel hues. In silent awe, we moved ever downward. The sun rose as a hazy glare and bleached the colours from the eastern sky.
Ferns abounded in the muddy ground around the lake. Already shoeprints were evident and crushed foliage indicated Lance’s trail. We headed straight to the waterfall which flowed from the lake and negotiated the steep drop nearby onto the massive scree below. As Lance had said, one slip would be fatal, so Jake and I secured a length of rope between us. Should one fall, the other might have time to ‘dig in’. Lance’s trail down the slope was obvious, the smooth but dusty surface scarred by his descent, deep imprints and slides meandering downward out of sight.
Wafts of mist continually obscured our view beyond the slope as we came upon a wide expanse of footprints and heard a hollow sound under us. It was the wing of the wrecked B25 Lance had mentioned in his statement. The only identification mark on the surface was a faded orange triangle with a black border, probably a squadron or unit insignia. Nearby was a battered radial engine. The force of impact had wrapped the mutilated prop blades back over the cylinders. Without looking at the identification plate, I recognised the engine as a Wright Cyclone.
The slope was littered with corroding aircraft fragments, barely discernible against the rocks. One mangled propeller stood on its tips like a gargantuan three-legged spider. The rear fuselage and tail section was upside down near a jumbled wall of limestone, with the tops of the buckled twin fins buried in the scree. The far-end of the buried tail-turret was occupied by a grotesque dismembered skeleton. Jake was anxious to leave the skeleton behind, so once again we followed the track down the slope to a gorge where a flooded stream cut through the talus.
Three straight branches protruded from the rubble. Lance had mentioned the lone dead tree, so we were still on the right track. A light breeze swept up through the tawny carpet of grass below us. Strange whistling notes came from behind us somewhere on the mountain. I hesitated, listening intently to the whimsical erratic melody, but couldn’t distinguish its source. Probably the wind acting on an odd rock formation. Jake quickened his pace; in his opinion, it was the banshee howl of the Maselai.
Lance’s trail was evident by the trampled path in the kunai ahead. I stopped, horrified, and Jake nearly knocked me over, as we entered the burial ground Lance had spoken of. S
keletons were littered in piles about us, the remains torn apart, skeletal limbs dismembered or broken, skulls decapitated and holed. Bows, broken arrows, spears, and axes revealed that it may have been a tribal battleground, the fury of this last conflict evident by the proximity of the combatants. Every scrap of flesh had gone, the bones bleached like rust-stained ivory. Jake stared and moaned. “Dave, this is a place no good.” I couldn’t have agreed more and quickly moved along an obvious path through the grass.
Not much further on, I saw a rusty steel ring on the ground near Jake’s feet, a double loop of wire with a protruding pin. I picked it up to examine it. Jake asked me to discard it, but to prove I wasn’t afraid of Maselais, I dropped it in my backpack pocket as we climbed up a small wooded spur. With Jake breathing down my neck, I seemed to have no choice, but to walk hurriedly.
A grotesque symbol now lay before us, two crossed arrows embedded in the ground and a skull centred beneath. Jake’s skin went a dirty grey, his eyes wide and staring as sweat beads coated his forehead. For a moment, he was transfixed; then suddenly he leapt around the arrows and faced the skull. “Quicktime Masta Dave, you come!” I stepped around the symbol as Jake requested. He explained we had been on the sacred ground of the Maselai and were now safe. In the Digendi legend, as was universal, the death’s head symbol was a warning of danger.
Lance’s prints were showing up again and I wasn’t surprised to find the flattened circle of grass where he had seen the helicopter. We headed for the spot, but only found more aircraft fragments from the wreck beyond the spur. The parts were spread wide and I thought, as Lance had, that the aircraft had broken up in mid-air. Jake reckoned it had collided with the mountain high on the sheer limestone face to our right. We moved directly to the swathe in the grass, where we found helicopter skid marks that further confirmed Lance’s story.
Time was critical if we wished to return to the crash site before dark, so we headed back. Jake, in an extremely stubborn mood, was adamant that he would not pass through the sacred grounds again. No amount of argument could convince him otherwise, so I agreed to walk up to the lake across the high spur. Our trail led through the area of scattered aircraft parts, most surrounded by footprints from our mysterious visitors.
My theory of the B25 was in doubt when I came across a second and third engine, both burnt and battered masses of rust. It may have been a four-engined aircraft, the fourth somewhere in the vicinity. I made a mental note to check which warplane had four Wright Cyclone engines and twin fins.
After a steep climb to the top of the spur, we trudged down a rough timbered track. Jake was somewhat happier now that we had by-passed the ‘sacred battle grounds.’ But as we walked around the perimeter of the lake, Jake heard an approaching helicopter, then I too could hear the distant but unmistakable sound. I realised what it would be, so I told Jake to hide in the long grass while I readied my Colt Woodsman automatic. One thing was for sure, if those bastards started shooting at us they could expect a few shots in return. I could see the chopper now, slowly descending the face of the ridge we had crossed early this morning. Pistol in hand, I slowly rose to look at the Bell. It was obviously searching low over the lake; relief flooded through me as I saw the familiar yellow scheme of Helicabs instead of olive-drab.
We made our position obvious and the Bell landed in a level patch of ferns about one hundred metres distant and waited for us. To my surprise, Derek was the pilot. Conversation was limited in the noisy bubble cockpit, but Derek explained his original machine was under repair and he was instructed to complete the salvage contract with this replacement machine.
I noticed that we were flying down the mountain instead of up over the ridge. Derek explained he would drop Jake and our backpacks at Tepsugl. He and I could then fly back to Lance’s crash-site and, in two shuttles, complete the salvage job we had started yesterday. Nothing would remain on the mountain except discarded parts and, unfortunately, a useless fuselage.
We stopped briefly at Tepsugl; Derek didn’t even cut the engine as Jake stepped out, struggling with our backpacks. Within a minute, we were air-borne again over Tepsugl. Fang saw us and waved as he lashed the 206 parts on the back of the yellow Chevy Blitzwagon. By late afternoon, Derek and I had shuttled everything out without further incident. Back at Tepsugl, Derek refuelled and bid us farewell, then lifted off to fulfil further contract commitments.
Fang was inquisitive about the helicopter accident and I explained briefly the circumstances that led to the prang. I decided not to tell him about my high-altitude journey and its implications until I had carried out further research.
“The truck’s loaded up and ready to go. I was hoping to head for Goroka at sparrow fart.” Fang sounded anxious to leave the teetotal mission station.
“Okay, Fang,” I said. “You and Jake in the Blitzwagon, I’ll follow to Kundiawa in the Landrover. After leaving it at the airstrip, I’ll join you and Jake in the truck.”
“We’ve got an extra passenger,” Fang said. “Jan wants a lift to Goroka.”
“Okay, no worries.” This was a pleasant surprise; the journey would be less boring with Jan on board.
“Fang, you may know enough about wartime aircraft to identify that wreck Lance saw up there. Twin fins, tailgun, obviously American—I found three American Wright Cyclone engines, but it probably had four.”
“The only one that fits that description is the B24 Liberator. I think it had Cyclones. Maybe it was a twin-engine B25 Mitchell transporting a spare engine.” Fang scratched at his chin. “Anyway, what’s it matter? More importantly, I’ve been thinkin’ about this bullion ship. I think it’s about time we teamed up and planned a search. Just you, me and Lance.”
“Why Lance?”
“He flies into these Ramu strips regularly and could ask a lot of questions on site. Keep his finger on the pulse so to speak.”
“If they ever give his licence back. But I agree, Fang. Sounds like a good idea, though we must investigate Lance’s incident as well. I believe there’s a tie-up between the Dutch ship, its gold and the blokes in the khaki helicopter. If I come in, then I want Jake in too. His services could be invaluable if we have to do some probing in the Ramu villages.”
“Hey, good thinking, Blossom. Jake would be perfect at tribal level. He could check their villages unhindered and establish where the gold is coming from.” Fang pondered his own statement briefly before continuing. “What about we pool some money and send Jake on a little holiday touring the Ramu villages. He could ask a few innocent questions while buying up a few samples here and there. We might get a clue from the appearance of the gold.”
“Let’s see what Lance and Jake think first. If they agree, we’ll do just that.” Now that Fang had made the first move, I decided to show him the clues and explain the happenings on the mountain. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out a small cigar tin.
“What do you make of these?”
Fang inspected the mushroomed bullet. “So there were bullet holes in the wreck?”
“No, but there had been. Someone had deliberately chopped them out—covering up. I found the bullet in the ground by following the trajectory of the shot.”
“So you believe Lance’s story?”
“All of it,” I said without hesitation.
“So do I, then. Fill me in.”
I began telling him of our findings as he dropped the bullet back into the tin.
“It certainly backs up Lance’s story. I wonder what’s going on up there.”
“Hard to say, unless someone with a stolen helicopter is doing some unlicensed mineral exploration. But they’d have to be extremely desperate to kill any witnesses. There must be a link with this Dutch gold.”
Fang lifted the strange ring out of the tin. “A hand grenade pin. Where the hell did you get that?”
Caught by surprise, I was suddenly staring at Fang. “Are you certain? A grenade pin?”
He laughed. “You mean after spending three years in Vietnam, you do
n’t recognise a ‘pineapple’ pin?”
“I spent most of my time in maintenance and rescuing downed airmen. But now you mention it, it does look familiar.”
“Well, take it from me, Blossom. That’s a grenade pin.”
Jan returned, asking me about the salvage and our trek over the mountain, but I answered her questions half-heartedly, my mind fathoming the significance of a grenade at 11 000 feet on a deserted Mt Wilhelm.
CHAPTER SIX
Jan and I chatted in the Landrover and watched Fang ahead of us. Skilfully, he nursed the aircraft-laden Blitzwagon through the gaping Chimbu River Gorge, negotiating the numerous hairpin bends with ease. The sun was rising as we reached Kundiawa, handed back the Landrover keys and clambered aboard the Blitzwagon, bound for Goroka via the Highlands Highway.
The road meandered over the rugged Daulo Pass, the lowest point through the ranges. At 8100 feet, it was higher than Australia’s tallest peak, Mt Kosciusko. Except by aircraft, there was only one arterial link through the upland valleys from the coast. The Highlands Highway, as it was ludicrously termed, was reasonably maintained considering the saw-tooth terrain it crossed, but it wandered rather aimlessly, attempting to follow the contours across the steep ridges. Landslides were frequent, nature continuously obliterating the puny scars of man’s development. It was a country plagued by earthquakes, a land betrayed by rivers that changed course overnight, leaving expensive bridges isolated and useless.
The Asaro Valley came into view. Often termed ‘the land of eternal springtime,’ this refreshing oasis of cool mountain ambience was nestled a mile above the steaming humidity of the lowland jungles. The valley floor was thirty kilometres long and fifteen kilometres wide, with open grassland reminiscent of the South African savannah ‘veldt’ country. A sprinkling of buildings under a smoky haze to the east indicated the frontier town of Goroka. Beech-forested mountains completely enclosed Goroka and the valley, the Bismarcks to the north towering to 15 000 feet.