Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  For half an hour, we scanned the many photos without result. Finally, I found I was returning to one particular aerial shot, the graceful lines of the sleek and handsome Dornier captured admirably just after lift off, the well-balanced shot a credit to the photographer. The markings and engines seemed familiar. I thumbed back to the photo of the Naval officer and took a close look at the centre engine in the background above the cockpit. I was then certain the engines were American-built Wright Cyclones. Then with a physical shock, I remembered where I had seen the fuselage marking on the Dornier. I glanced at the aerial shot and scrutinised the black-bordered inverted triangle decorating the side of the fuselage—obviously the Dutch wartime military insignia.

  I remembered traversing a high mountain slope and treading on hollow metal, an aircraft wing, a wing emblazoned with a faded and inverted orange triangle, bordered in black. Nearby had been a battered Cyclone engine and a severed rear gun turret and tail with two fins. I stood spellbound, tears of excitement welled in my eyes. My skin crawled as if blasted by a polar wind.

  “Lance!” I called meekly, the photograph trembling in my hands.

  “What’s up? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I haven’t seen one, but I think I’ve found one!”

  Lance hesitated momentarily, then caught my double meaning. “Where is it?”

  “That bomber on Mt Wilhelm is not a B-25!”

  Lance stared at me, then laughed. “You’ve been in the bush too long.”

  I thrust the photo in front of his face, stabbing my finger at major clues. “Three American Cyclone engines, tail gun turret and twin tail fins … and the insignia, a black-bordered inverted orange triangle. We’ve both seen it, for Christ’s sake!”

  Lance was silent and stunned. Without a word, he turned and looked to the south as if he could see the distant Bismarcks and the wreck through the dense foliage. A sullen mood hardened his features and he was mumbling softly to himself. “That gold’s been waiting up there since 1942. Destiny must have taken me to the site, but somehow I missed my opportunity. I won’t miss it next time.”

  I snapped Lance out of his gilded dream. “Let’s not get too carried away, pal. We’re still not out of this mess yet. If we ever do get back up there, keep in mind that the wrecks have already been pilfered by Ramu tribesmen from the north. They’ve probably been seen by the Digendi tribes from the south, even though protected by that ridiculous maselai legend.”

  Lance was hostile. “Don’t you forget who first stumbled onto all this business!”

  We were both overwrought after our trek and witnessing the abominable savagery about us, so I changed the subject. “C’mon mate, let’s bury these bodies and get moving?”

  Lance erupted. “Bullshit, let ‘em rot, if those bastards had their way it’d be us spread out here!”

  He snatched up the briefcase full of documents and strode off toward the wall of vegetation. “Which way’s south west?” He snarled and then stopped mid-stride and swore loudly.

  I followed and saw the two faces at the edge of the clearing, another grim reminder of the gruesome fate of the helicopter crew. The two heads were placed on stakes, a metre above the ground. The skin had been slit and roughly restitched from the nape of the neck over the scalp to the forehead, as were all the facial apertures. The flesh beneath the skin had been scraped out and the space so created between skull and skin had been stuffed with pulped or masticated grass, stretching the olive skin to a shiny pallid grey.

  The enlarged and lumpy shapes were placed strategically in a patch of sunlight, evidently a means of curing the hideous souvenirs. Without further comment, we both trudged out of the clearing and headed south-west, following the easiest path through the tangled web of foliage. To add to our misery, the sky darkened and within minutes a torrential downpour slowly moved like a wall of water toward us. We were drenched in thirty seconds, but continued our battle with the mud, always heading basically south-west.

  The heavy rain ceased abruptly, leaving just a light drizzle. We rested on a section of high dried mud, chewed on some sugar cane and washed it down with the last of our present supply of water. We concluded our repast with a cigarette, from what seemed to be an endless supply which Lance carried. I threw my butt into the water and made ready to continue our trek.

  “Dave, look at that!”

  I watched the cigarette butt move ever so slowly on the foul brown water, away from us, and suddenly realised what Lance meant. There was no breeze and yet it was moving.

  “There’s our direction finder from now on. Let’s just follow that current—it’s still heading south.”

  An hour later, our decision was proved correct; the water movement was now perceptible. Channels were beginning to form, deep in the centre and shallow on the edges. We stayed continually near the line of mangroves in waist deep water. On one bank, we saw our first crocodile, still as a log and less than two metres long. He was obviously far from full grown. Having seen the tracks of many crocodiles, we also began to find the footprints of humans. We decided to stay out of the water whenever possible now, but found this difficult without the use of our bushknife to clear a path.

  Progress was slow due to the agony of ‘Kerema crotch’, after our long immersion in the filthy water. Luck was with us though; the flowing waters were definitely channelling into a slow-moving stream contained by reasonably firm banks. We were soon rewarded by the sound of a distant fast-flowing river. We urged our ailing legs onward, hoping to be confronted by the wide Ramu River, a tribal highway in its own right. To our disappointment, the river was obviously not the Ramu. Another flow joined the stream we had followed for so long, the two then forming a deeper watercourse flowing west.

  “Let’s have a break here and then find a trail,” I suggested. “The best spots to look are on ridge tops, low saddles between hills or alongside rivers, especially where two streams meet.”

  We eventually found a reasonably wide and much tramped pathway. The foliage was cut back, and we could plainly see the tracks of wild pigs and humans as we moved along the trail towards the Ramu. It soon became evident that we were being watched by people in the nearby foliage. They easily kept pace with our painful progress and made no secret of their presence, crashing noisily through the jungle and jabbering loudly to each other. I halted and called to them in Pidgin, but to no avail. They suddenly went quiet and, when approached, fled deeper into the bush.

  We could see naked natives peering at us and waved to them, hoping to inspire confidence. Gradually eight dirty and dishevelled warriors competed with each other to move closer. Their main adornment was a long pointed penis gourd, tied up to a cane waist band. Each of them had a dog’s tooth necklace and carried a bow and arrows bunched in hand, so I assumed they meant us no harm. Again I attempted to talk to them, but it was soon evident that none of them spoke Pidgin.

  An arrogant-looking warrior stepped forward as though challenging us. I noticed that his grotesque necklace was made up of human finger bones. I made hand gestures, indicating that we were hungry, thirsty and tired. The uncomprehending warrior flashed a brilliant toothy smile and laughed. He turned to his comrades, who in turn burst spontaneously into contagious laughter. Then I noticed one of the natives carrying a steel axe-head mounted on a stake and assumed previous European contact.

  Lance attempted a charade indicating with his hands that we had flown over in a plane and crashed in the jungle. Once again, there was an outburst of laughter and thigh-slapping, probably not connected with our serious plight, but more likely at our humorous miming efforts. The leader pointed downstream and made a mock eating gesture, then moved off briskly. At least they seemed jovial enough, and we followed them along the trail which must surely lead to their village.

  Laughing children greeted us and aped our bandy-legged gait. Skin infections were rife, especially grille; many of them were afflicted by the insidious disease. Their chalky grey skin was split and revealed large dry wound
s deep into the flesh beneath, a direct result of poor diet. Their village was typical of New Guinea, though the stilts under the huts were taller than usual. Obviously the area was subject to inundation whenever the river broke its banks.

  At last we were able to talk to someone who spoke Pidgin; he was the Government representative and led us to a dry area free of mud. He soon organised a delicious feast of bananas, sweet potato and gloriously sweet pineapple. After our meal, we asked many questions and soon found that the village was aware that an aircraft was missing with two men on board—they thought the search was nearer the mountains. We were also informed that the Ramu was less than a two-hour canoe ride down the river. Another three hours would find us in Prinzberg and safety. I mentioned the name of Bill the Patrol Officer from Prinzberg; they all knew him well. I could hear the words ‘Masta Bill’ being murmured approvingly by the attentive bystanders. It was later made clear to us that we would overnight in the village, before setting out early next day by canoe for Prinzberg.

  That afternoon while washing in the river, I saw a group of figures, sitting cross-legged outside a grass humpy. They were staring into space, trembling violently, hideous broad grins frozen on their faces. I recognised the symptoms of kuru, ‘the Laughing Death’, a nervous complaint which paralysed the victim until he died. The unintentional grin would remain locked into their pallid features, so giving ‘the Laughing Death’ its unofficial name. There was no cure for kuru, one of the rarest diseases in the world, said to be transmitted only by eating the brain of another kuru sufferer. It is sad but true, that ritual cannibalism is still to be found in the more remote primitive tribes of Papua New Guinea.

  That evening, we slept the sleep of the dead and were awakened before the sun had risen. By afternoon, we could be in Prinzberg and possibly in Goroka by nightfall. Lance wanted a souvenir of the village and asked our interpreter if one of the warriors would part with a penis gourd. When the request was translated, there was an outburst of wild laughter, but one of the warriors relented and said he would swap his spare gourd for our ‘cookpot’, the aircraft spinner. Lance agreed, slipping the gourd into his briefcase.

  We boarded the unstable canoe and paddled into midstream, waving goodbye to our primitive hosts. The paddlers settled into a rhythmic action to the beat of a mournful chant. The combination of sun and the pulsing of the paddles soon lulled us into a deep sleep. When we reawakened, we were moving swiftly along the broad Ramu River toward Prinzberg. Lance and I spent the remaining hours of our journey making sure our statements would not conflict in any way.

  From my previous salvage job, I recognised Prinzberg and the small wharf. Luckily, Bill the Patrol Officer was not out on patrol, but to my surprise, he didn’t recognise me. He stared at the two bedraggled figures before him disbelievingly.

  “I recognise your voice, but that’s all, Dave. They’ve been searching for you for days. Sit down, I’ll get the Landrover and go send out a call for a plane.”

  Later in Bill’s kiap hut, I looked in a mirror and was totally shocked—no wonder Bill had not recognised us. Our beards were wildly matted, red eyes sunken into puffed sunburnt flesh covered in insect bites and weeping sores.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Our aircraft taxied off the Goroka runway where a waiting ambulance was surrounded by a crowd of inquisitive spectators. The doctors were worried by our condition, especially with Lance who had lapsed into unconsciousness. I was extremely tired and close to collapse. I raised my head and was rewarded by the sight of Jan, her white skin and slim elegant beauty incongruous amid the naked dark warriors. Suddenly she broke through the crowd and ran toward me. There was worry in her topaz eyes. “What are you doing here?” I asked, secretly glad of her company again.

  “I flew back as soon as I heard you were missing. Now sit down in the ambulance while they get Lance out of the plane.”

  The kiss and caress that followed made me happy to be home, but now, home was a person, not a place. Later, Lance and I were questioned separately on the circumstances of our accident. Civil Aviation officials were suspicious of our statements concerning the loss of the Tarangau aircraft, even though Lance and I had so carefully correlated our story.

  During the following week, we slowly recuperated in hospital, greatly assisted by Jan’s visits. We had many visitors in this time and took the opportunity to secretly disclose to our own group the true sequence of events which led to our enforced survival trek and amazing discoveries. Fang said the Cessna 185 float plane was now legally in our possession. He had worked every spare moment to bring the float plane to the standard we required for the high altitude lake landings and take-offs. He had spent the last few days making alterations to ensure the engine was capable of the critically high rpms required. The reconditioned 300-horsepower engine had been modified drastically, with the incorporation of a special Hoffmarr three-bladed high-altitude paddle prop. A turbo-charger was also fitted, the overhauled airframe stripped of unnecessary weight.

  Fang became serious. “I’ve decided to chuck in my job and work at this business full time,” he announced.

  “People might get suspicious,” I replied. “The salvage work made a good front.”

  “I’ve arranged another front, while you and Lance were missing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve registered a new company, a Mission in fact, to cover the use of the floatplane. Sorry to go ahead without checking with you and Lance first, but we thought the Indos had wiped you out. After all, the gold is still out there and we agreed to carry on. Even Jan eventually approved, though she never once doubted that you were alive and kicking.”

  “Sounds fair enough. I would have done the same. What did you call the company?”

  “Scripture Aviation!”

  I burst into laughter. “That’s beautiful, Father Fang. What’s our motto? We’re here to do good and hope to do bloody well?”

  Jan interrupted our conversation. “Glad to hear you’ll be out tomorrow, Dave, but I’d better warn you, Adrian arrived in town today, accompanied by two fellows from Boyds’ Insurance Company. Adrian’s not too happy and the insurance men have been asking a few questions around here regarding your crash. They plan to interview you at the mess tomorrow, so get your facts straight before then. Now for the real bad news—Lance has been sacked from Tarangau. Two aircraft lost in as many months was too much for them. I’ve just come from his room now.” Jan then turned to Fang. “I hope you’ve mentioned the establishment of Scriptair to Dave?”

  Fang nodded and added, “We’d better get Lance officially signed on as a pilot for Scriptair.”

  Next day, Jan dropped me at the mess lounge where I found Fang in conversation with the two English insurance men. After being introduced, I recognised their type immediately; they were what Fang and I cynically termed ‘smiling pythons’. I noticed with dismay that the younger man was drinking scotch from the penis gourd Lance had souvenired. The youth caught my stare and laughed, nodding at Fang. “Chris here offered us the rare honour of drinking from a ceremonial drinking horn. Something to brag about when we get back to the old ‘Star and Garter’, eh, Roger?” The chubby red-faced elder gave his approval as I glanced quickly at Fang and caught him grinning smugly. The senior official commenced business by pulling a sheaf of papers from a briefcase. “Shall we get on with this, Mr Stark?”

  Lance and I had checked our statements, but there were details we had overlooked and the insurance agent soon found a few weak points and deliberately hammered them. The investigators knew their job and had torn our story to pieces. I didn’t care, they couldn’t prove a damn thing and my mind was on gold high in the Bismarcks. Just then, Adrian Foster entered and we exchanged greetings. He was an obviously troubled man.

  “I’m sorry, Dave, but under the circumstances I’m forced to suspend you, pending an enquiry of Avmar by Boyds Insurance.” He glanced at the two gloating Englishmen. “Avmar has lost the Boyds Agency. This 185 write-off will be t
he last case, if paid at all.”

  The investigator was listening, but kept writing. “I think we have enough here, Gerald.” I was glad when they flashed their artificial smiles and moved out to Adrian’s waiting car.

  Adrian turned to Fang. “While Dave is suspended, Chris, I’m putting you in charge here temporarily.” He pulled out a folded envelope. “This is confirmation of your promotion and a wage adjustment.” Fang, as always unpredictable, gave Adrian a cool stare. “There’s butter in the fridge, grease your letter, then jam it up your arse and in case you didn’t get the message, I just quit!”

  Adrian kept pretty cool. “Okay, if that’s the way you want it, but it’s a shame to end such a profitable operation this way.”

  “Well, why did you bow down to those two pommie bastards and suspend Dave?”

  “I had to give way to pressure from Boyds in London. We need that agency.”

  “Bullshit! You know that agency was nothing compared to the salvage profits in marine work alone. You made the split, pal, I just drove the wedge in!” Fang grinned. “Dave and I were considering letting you in on a deal which would have been really profitable, but you’ve shown your true colours now.”

  “What deal?”

  Fang’s hot-headedness was getting us deeper into trouble, so I butted in. “It’s not important, a good price on that rare Japanese warplane we found at Prinzberg.” I hoped the story satisfied Adrian’s aroused curiosity. He gave a snort, stepped outside, and turned as he was about to enter the car. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to come to your senses.”

  After Adrian left, Lance arrived back at the mess in a bad mood after a tangle with the manager of Tarangau. He still didn’t look well after his release from hospital, but seemed to become more interested as Fang explained the work being carried out on the floatplane and the role he would play on the lake. No amount of persuasion could change Fang’s mind about his resignation from Avmar, so we elected to have a meeting of our group that afternoon to discuss the future operations of Scriptair. We voted unanimously to go ahead with the floatplane flights to the lake and to begin the search for the lost Dorniers and their cargo of gold. After Jake followed Fang’s example and resigned from Avmar, Jan enlisted his assistance to procure camouflage nets, tents and a rubber dinghy.