Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  All our thanks were hidden in my shirt in the toolbox. Unfortunately, the one man who might have been able to assist our search, the village chief, lay dead at our feet. We bid farewell and headed for the airstrip, our pace quickening as we moved out of sight of the village. Once again we erected our tent and, in its privacy, studied our rich find. We had a fortune in our possession and we were all sure it was just the tip of the iceberg. Fang related that he had shown the guilder coins to some of the villagers. Apparently they were genuinely surprised—none showed any suspicious signs of recognition.

  The Ramu expedition had served another purpose: it relieved the pressure from Adrian to resolve the other sabotage attempts on Tarangau aircraft. I continued to feed him dubious misinformation to indicate we were still investigating, but not enough to make him suspect our secret interest. It was good to settle back in at the mess, but I felt lonely without Jan, and so decided to get right into our research.

  When Lance arrived that night, he reported no sightings of ship or plane wrecks around the Ramu. Fang and I excitedly explained the latest developments and showed him the gold bars from Nukara. Lance was jubilant at this first tangible reward and later read the Jap pilot’s letter with renewed interest.

  “The Jap’s statement seems plausible, but we need clues to the location of the bullion ship,” he said.

  “Yes, I need to talk further with that Jap pilot. I’m going to write to him. As you said, he might be aware of operations in the Ramu around that date.”

  “Do you think it has much bearing?” said Fang.

  “He might recall attacks on shipping in the Bismarck Sea or up the Ramu. If we could find the crash site of one of the Dorniers, it may have a search map or other clue on board.”

  Lance took up my lead immediately. “According to the Jap pilot, one of them crashed high in the Bismarcks on the north side. I’ll check it out whenever I’m flying over that region.”

  “Can you organise a spare seat, Lance?” I suggested. “I could scan the slopes while you concentrate on your flying.”

  “I’ll see if I can set it up.”

  Fang interrupted: “We still haven’t got enough information on this Dornier air combat, Dave. That letter to Yoshiro Naguro should have top priority.”

  “I’ll get it away tonight.”

  “While you’re in the writing mood,” said Lance, “Contact Jan in Sydney and ask her if the Dutch Embassy had more information about the surrender and evacuation of the Dutch East Indies.”

  “It’ll be quicker to phone. I’ll call her tonight.”

  The impromptu meeting eventually disbanded and each of us drifted back to his own room. I phoned Jan in Sydney, and related our exploits at Nukara and the finding of the gold bars. After answering a stream of excited questions, I asked about her research regarding wartime shipping, the Dorniers and the Dutch East Indies around March 1942.

  Jan had pre-empted our plan to contact the Dutch Embassy. She explained that she had no luck, most details apparently being destroyed following the Dutch scorched earth policy in the Indies evacuation. They had put her in contact with a Dutch East Indies military expert and historian who now resided in Los Angeles.

  As she was about to depart to the US west coast on travel industry business, Jan decided to visit the historian personally.

  “Are you travelling via Hawaii?” I queried on an impulse.

  “Yes, a two-day stopover,” she said.

  Quickly I informed her of the contents of Yoshiro’s letter regarding the Ramu conflict and its possible implications for our search pattern. I arranged for her to obtain a detailed statement from Yoshiro in exchange for his old log book.

  On hearing that the former pilot was now a Honolulu hotel manager, Jan said it was a simple matter to pre-arrange the meeting utilising her travel trade connections. Her idea was good, so I said I’d despatch Yoshiro’s log book air express next day to her in Sydney. Enclosed would be a long list of pertinent questions regarding Yoshiro’s actions on 8 March 1942.

  Jan related that she had checked on the PRW and found that it was an Indonesian Pro-Communist guerilla group. They were based in former Dutch New Guinea and were fighting for Independence of the Mollucas and Irian Jaya. Tharis Naranjunga had been a General in the Indonesian military since before the war, but was dishonoured and went underground when an attempted coup failed. It was also rumoured he was financed by a mysterious Dutch plantation owner and a former Naval officer from Batavia.

  After discussing the implications of the General and the Dutch Naval officer, we talked of personal matters and Jan told me she planned to leave Sydney and return to New Guinea. The idea had my heartiest approval and I told her of possible developments before reluctantly hanging up and busying myself with the investigation paperwork.

  *

  A fortnight later, we were still scanning our altered search area on the strength of Yoshiro’s letter. “Isn’t there a group in Moresby who record all the known wreck sites in Papua New Guinea, wartime or otherwise?” queried Fang.

  “I’ve already contacted them. They’re posting me a copy of their map and details of each wreck, but they pointed out that over thirty per cent of these are unidentified.”

  Lance clicked his fingers. “That wreck we saw on Mt Wilhelm, it might be connected with all this?”

  I’d already thought of the wreck and shook my head. “It definitely had American Cyclone engines, but there are others in the Bismarcks—we’ll have to check each one out.”

  A few days later, we received the map and index to the known aircraft wrecks of PNG. To my surprise, our search area was littered with wartime aircraft of various types and nationalities, but there were none of Dutch origin listed. At least nine wreck sites were classified as ‘unidentified—beyond recognition’; sometimes a hint might be added, such as ‘thought to be Japanese.’

  Lance set about the task of photographing the sites from the air, diverting off course when necessary while on routine flights for Tarangau. It soon became obvious these wrecks hadn’t been discovered from the air; Lance only managed to find four sites and photograph them. Each was an almost obliterated mass of aircraft fragments, interwoven with matted vines and undergrowth. The others must have been obscured by top foliage, the wreckage hidden below dense jungle.

  The aerial search for the bullion ship was also a total failure and we seriously contemplated the purchase of a helicopter and launch for a more thorough search of the Ramu. No matter how we considered it, a ground search and investigation of the Ramu and each individual wreck seemed inevitable.

  After weeks of disappointing aerial observation, we were only able to discount one unidentified wreck. We studied the photograph minutely and spotted a burnt tyre on a battered wheel. The Dornier, being a seaplane, carried no undercarriage. This simple discovery eliminated this sole wreck from our search program.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Lance, those two lakes on Mt Wilhelm above Tepsugl, how high up are they?” I asked.

  “The Pindaunde Lakes? The lower one’s about 11 500 feet and the other about 11 800. Why?”

  “I was wondering if it’s possible to land a float plane on one of them?”

  “Impossible. Too small and the approaches are restricted. At that extreme altitude it’d be a miracle to ever get off again with the reduced engine power.”

  I pondered Lance’s comment, somewhat deflated. “A helicopter would be perfect for our search—along with a launch—but there’s a four-month waiting list for new choppers. There’s no second-hand ones on the market, and none of the operators are interested in a long-term lease. Fang saw an amphibious 185 floatplane advertised, going cheap. Due for engine overhaul and major inspection, but we could handle that. If there’d been a lake up there to operate from, it would be ideal. Better than a launch for a search of the Ramu River system. Just land and take off where we want to.”

  Lance was deep in thought. “There’s that other lake we both passed above the steep slope, n
ear the plane wreck and the sacred area. It’s about 11 000 feet up.”

  “You’ve got the float plane endorsement. Is it feasible?”

  “Not in a standard 185 amphibian. You’d need some drastic modifications and even then it’d be tricky. That lake’s wide open on approach, but a sheer cliff face at the end. Being a cirque lake, it’s completely sheltered from the wind except in the afternoon. Remember the surface—smooth as glass.” The memory of the mirror reflection of starlight on the lake flashed through my mind. “I thought smooth water would be beneficial?”

  “It’s a common belief, but it causes suction on the floats and lengthens the take-off run. A chop’s better to unstick and get airborne quickly.”

  “I was going to fit a STOL wing conversion, strip all unnecessary weight and fit a turbo-supercharger.”

  “That would definitely improve the situation, but you’re still limited to minimum fuel on take-off, and then only in perfect conditions.”

  Was Lance trying to help or hinder? “What if I had Fang fit a bigger 300 h.p. engine?”

  “Better. Maybe two persons off the lake on minimum fuel and no load.”

  “So we’d have to do small shuttles to set up a camp.” This was more positive.

  “Sure, but load won’t be as critical flying in.”

  “Short of a helicopter, we’ll invest in the float plane. I’ll leave Fang and Jake to arrange the purchase and modification.”

  I offered Lance a cigar and changed the subject as we lit up. “Everything still okay for Saturday’s flight?”

  “Yeah. Early morning take-off, no passengers, just yourself and a load of truck parts for the road works up in the hills. I’ll take on extra fuel before we leave, so we can stooge around the northern slopes of the Bismarcks—enough to give us two hours of search time.” He paused. “Now that this float plane business has eventuated, we’d better have an aerial inspection of the lake on the mountain. It’s not far off our course.”

  The Wau-Bulolo goldfields were played out; the gold dust retrieved now was insufficient to cover costs. The gigantic crawling dredges had long since ground to a halt, but there were still many desperate men involved in black market gold. It was through one of these, a contact of Fang’s, that we managed to cash in the filed gold bar. Fang made no attempt to disguise it, but simply disfigured the Royal stamp and serial number with a hammer. The price we obtained was terrible, but only to be expected under the circumstances.

  By Friday night, Fang had obtained enough cash to buy the Cessna amphibious float plane, a reconditioned 300 h.p. engine and all the extra fittings we required. Two weeks unremitting labour would be needed to adapt the aircraft to our requirements.

  It was early morning, cold and quiet, the dense fog shrouded Goroka airstrip and stifled conversation under a morbid, opaque canopy. Fang and I watched the feverish activity about us, as aircraft were loaded and traffic officers busied themselves with manifests and load data sheets. Lance was over at the control tower making out his flight plan. But the preparations increasingly seemed to be in vain—the fog wasn’t thinning and probably wouldn’t clear for hours. Then, just as I was about to give up, a gentle breeze began motivating the moist vapour, the movement barely perceptible.

  Lance leaned through the terminal door. “A bit of blue sky visible, Dave. We’ll give it a go.”

  Coincidentally, the Tarangau aircraft was a single engine Cessna 185, similar to the aircraft which Fang was now on his way to inspect in Madang.

  As we walked toward it, a traffic officer rushed over to us. “Some mail for you blokes. Came in late yesterday.” We hurriedly stuffed the letters into our pockets and wished Fang luck with his purchase of the 185 float plane.

  As we taxied out, Lance warmed the engine and checked its operation, then pointed behind us. “As you can see, I haven’t cluttered up the cabin, so you can move around and take photos of possible wreck sites from any window. Stay up front here for the take-off and once we get to the search area, you can sit on that small bench seat at the rear of the cabin. You can see out of both sides from there without moving very much.”

  “Where’s your cargo then? Is that all?” I indicated a pile of truck axles and springs under a cargo net behind our seats.

  “I got the loaders to put most of it in the cargo pack underneath, so we’d have more space up here.”

  We took off into the thin mist and lifted through the top into dazzling radiant sunshine, the floor of the Asaro Valley and Goroka lost from sight. The only terrain visible was the ring of rocky peaks which surrounded the valley. They stood above the fluffy mass of cloud like lonely sentinels on guard duty. Lance levelled out the climb at 8000 feet and altered course slightly for the Asaloka Gap. This low point in the northern ranges was an exit to the vast lowland expanses of the Ramu Valley.

  Just above the layer of cloud we entered the Gap, the dense beech forest reaching toward us on either side. The Ramu seemed to be clear of heavy cloud and visibility was unlimited. As we encountered the new air-mass, the aircraft bucked and buffeted alarmingly. Lance pointed out his window. I was amazed. In effect, the gap was a pouring lip on the massive crucible of the upland Asaro Valley. Cloud poured from the lip like a mammoth but sluggish waterfall. It tumbled thousands of feet down the heavily forested cliff face before dissipating. The effect was awesome and I watched transfixed as the strange phenomenon slowly fell astern.

  We banked left and Lance selected a slight climb configuration, thus enabling the aircraft to follow the northern slopes of the Bismarcks. Conversation was almost impossible in the noisy cabin. Lance indicated by sign language that I should take up position in the aft bench seat, ready for our surveillance. I moved back over the stack of truck components and a litter of unused seat belts and settled on the narrow squab. I began taking random snaps of the high terrain to our left through a telephoto lens. We were not yet at the intended 11 000 feet, but I had many rolls of film. Some cloud was below us again, the shadow of our aircraft flitting across the ruffled surface, surrounded by a rainbow-coloured halo.

  I recognised the towering monolith before us as Mt Wilhelm and, as we drew closer, at 12 000 feet, I could distinguish the picturesque twin lakes of Pindaunde.

  Lance turned and shouted. “I’ll climb in an arc over the peak at 15 000 feet. Get my attention if you need oxygen.”

  I indicated with circled fingers I should be okay and studied the bare, sheer slopes and rugged chasms with field glasses, taking photos regularly.

  The small Cessna was making a good effort in the rarefied air. We were now close to the angular ribbed peak, reminiscent of a crumbling spire on a forgotten Gothic cathedral. Lance let the nose down slightly and I detected our increased airspeed by the louder hiss of the slipstream. We were following the saddle ridge between Mt Wilhelm and 14 000 feet Mt Herbert, the naked pinch of sharp terrain often described as a razorback. Lance pointed down to our left and I saw the small valley in which he had crash-landed. Down to our right was the elongated cirque lake we hoped to use as a landing area for the float plane.

  The aircraft banked and dropped sharply toward the cirque and then lined up on a mock landing approach. Three hundred metres from the lake, Lance applied power and banked steeply away from the rising ground. Once safely clear, he turned and gave me the thumbs up signal.

  Without warning, the aircraft lurched violently to the right and I saw Lance, head lowered, peering to the right around the dipped starboard wing.

  “What’s the matter?” I shouted at the top of my voice.

  Lance shouted in return. “Helicopter!”

  As we levelled out of the turn, I saw the tiny shape of the chopper well off on our starboard quarter. Lance was heading on an interception course. We moved stealthily behind the olive-drab Bell 47 and Lance reduced power accordingly, to keep pace with it. Lance was talking into the radio microphone and hurriedly selecting different channels.

  It was now possible to talk without shouting, owing to the decrease in en
gine noise, and Lance turned back to me. “They can’t have their radio turned on. No answer on HF or VHF and no reaction to my calls for them to identify themselves. I’m going alongside. Get your camera ready!”

  Lance throttled the 185 forward and we crept up to the surprised occupants of the Bell. The pilot was helmeted and wore sunglasses and was now making his passenger aware of our presence. There were no registrations or markings on the khaki exterior, except a large white ‘4’. I could tell by Lance’s expression and agitation that this was the same helicopter used in the attempt to kill him on Mt Wilhelm.

  We flew along as though in formation. As I put the zoom lens to the window, I focussed on the muzzle of a sub-machine gun poking through the perspex storm window, nausea and shock made me drop the camera. The armed passenger was manoeuvring for a clear firing arc past the pilot in the cramped confines of the perspex bubble. I suddenly felt totally unprotected, armed with a puny camera in the face of this unexpected threat. “Lance, take her up quick!” I screamed.

  There was an unmistakable clatter as Lance wrenched savagely back on the control column. Heavy g-forces crumpled our stance, dimmed our vision and clamped our bodies firmly to the seats as we climbed to safety above the rotor disc of the helicopter. Lance stall-turned and dived away, towards the distant Ramu River.

  “That bastard fired at us,” I shouted. “Lucky we climbed. He couldn’t shoot through his own rotor blades.”

  Lance was shaking his head in disbelief. “Those Indo’s certainly mean business! We’ll drop the search for now and head for Aiome.”

  I was glad of his decision—Lance could be a hot head and I was surprised that he hadn’t retaliated one way or another, even a token gesture. We continued on our course for Aiome at reduced speed, keeping watch for the chopper as we crossed miles of trackless jungle. Soon the ground was again obscured by a layer of cloud. Our circled shadow danced back and forth on the brilliant white field below.

  After gazing down on the featureless cloud bank for a while, I became torpid, mesmerised by the darting shadow, the only moving detail in view. Hence, I nearly missed the second shadow, which moved slowly over the cloud bank into my field of vision. The wraithlike shape was gradually overtaking us from directly astern.