Island in the Sky

by R. B. Shaw

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Fang paddled Lance out to the aircraft and again the placid lake was disturbed as the ungainly floatplane took to the air, heading for Goroka. It was too late for Lance to return before dark, but, weather permitting, he’d be back just after first light next day. We spent the rest of the day scrutinising the shallow edges of the lake, but could not find a single aircraft part and certainly no fuselage.

  We settled into camp early. Again it was bitterly cold and the wind steadily increased, bringing with it heavy cloud that drifted across our camp like dense smoke. There seemed no possibility of detection by Indonesian helicopters, so we permitted ourselves the luxury of a large fire beside our tent and warmed our frozen bodies as the sky darkened into night. After our evening meal, the temperature dropped even lower. We all trembled violently, despite the extra clothing we donned before crawling into our sleeping bags.

  As we lay listening to the wind howling outside, our imaginations ran riot. Again the shrill sounds of unidentified pipes seemed to rise and fall with the violent gusts of wind. I had heard the enigmatic overture in this area numerous times and wondered what kind of unusual structure could cause such weird but melodious acoustics. Jake had withdrawn completely into his sleeping bag; there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that the Maselai was on the prowl and voicing his anger at the trespassers on his sacred ground.

  It was a freezing morning; I would have enjoyed lying in a while longer, but I knew Lance would be on his way. I was frozen to the bone, my face was covered in a rime of frost, and the slightest breath caused a cloud of condensation. The wind had dropped, leaving a silent cloudless world, eroded and cleansed by the abrasive onslaught of the previous evening. It was still deathly cold, the coldest I’ve known. I looked up in awe at the heavy white mantle of snow which softened and obscured the rugged reality of Mt Wilhelm’s lofty heights. The knee-high grass was frozen hard; laden with crystals of frost, it crackled like twigs when crushed underfoot.

  Jan trudged to the lake for more water but returned with a dejected expression on her face. “We’ll have to wait,” she said. “The surface of the lake has frozen.”

  The implication of her statement suddenly caught my attention “Frozen! How the hell can Lance land? We’ve no way of letting him know.”

  I ran to the lake and moved gingerly out over the slippery surface. It wasn’t quite firm; the swing of a large rock easily punctured the icy layer. When the floatplane touched down, it would break through, and probably capsize, putting Lance in grave danger. We had to warn him. Then it struck me—the spare fuel! I grabbed a drum of Avgas and a sleeping bag and carried them carefully out on to the frozen surface.

  Forty minutes later, we heard the distant drone of an aircraft and saw the tiny shape approaching us from the east. Lance did not intend to circuit, and lined up for a straight-in approach. He reduced speed and lowered flaps. It was time to move. I spread the sleeping bag, picked up a flaming timber from the camp fireplace, and moved to the fuel drum. Standing upwind, I kicked the drum over and it rolled along, spilling fuel over the cloth. I tossed the flaming torch at the fuel-soaked sleeping bag and fled. There was a loud thud as the Avgas ignited and hurled a tumbling orange ball of flame into the sky.

  As I ran back to the camp, I waved frantically at the still approaching floatplane. I was relieved as the engine noise built up to a crescendo as Lance aborted the landing. He retracted flap and turned steeply away, almost a stall turn, to avoid the rising terrain surrounding the frozen azure lake. There was a loud roar and the floatplane was thrust away from the fingers of rock by a jet of flame from the JATO unit. The aircraft easily cleared the mountain, trailing a plume of smoke.

  The lake was safe for a landing late next day. Lance returned and as he overflew the scree slope, I signalled that the ice had melted. We left the dinghy in the water, Jake rowing animatedly to indicate that the lake had thawed. We were soon unloading the floatplane and preparing the scuba gear. Lance had wisely replaced the expended JATO unit while waiting in Goroka. The water was still extremely cold, so Fang donned a wet-suit, ready to dive should the sonar detect metal below the surface. We rowed the rest of the afternoon in a pre-determined pattern, with ten metres between grids. Finally, late in the afternoon, the sonar indicated that a large metallic object lay beneath the dinghy.

  Fang dropped into the water with a muttered oath, and slipped beneath the surface. In less than a minute he returned, dejected. “I’ve found another engine, but that’s it. There’s nothing else around this area anyway.”

  “Okay, Fang, it’s getting dark. We’ll finish the search tomorrow. We’ve confirmed the two aircraft theory; we’ve seen five engines now and the Dornier had only three.”

  Fang was shivering uncontrollably as we rowed back to camp. Jan and Jake had a large smoke-free fire blazing undercover and warm cups of coffee waiting for us.

  We spent another two days scanning the lake and kept returning to the known position of the engine to re-check our equipment for malfunction. Though the fuselage of the Dornier was composed mainly of non-magnetic alloys, the small amount of ferrous metal used in the construction should have been sufficient to give a flicker of the needle. The gauge needle never left the zero stop, giving me the impression it was jammed. I continually tapped the glass face in disgruntled disbelief.

  On the third day, we gave up searching the lake, concentrating our efforts on the terrain surrounding the water. It was frustrating to again cover ground which we had already examined. That night we sat and talked about our progress and debated the possibilities.

  “Dave,” said Lance, “That ice on the lake the other day. Suppose the Dornier did attempt to land on the lake and touched down on ice, what do you reckon the result would be? My guess was it would’ve torn the bottom out of it and then sank. But judging by the results of our lake search, it couldn’t have happened that way.”

  “He may have impacted in such a way that he bounced or skidded off again, shearing away the engine we found in the lake as he did so. Tomorrow, I think we should sift through the trail of wreckage below the lake, trying to identify sections of the fuselage other than the tail.”

  Next day we studied the numerous fragments of metal on the steep conical slope, always moving carefully, fearing the real possibility of a landslide. It wasn’t long before we established that the underwater hull section of the flying boat had passed this way. This fact was proved by the discovery of small portions of metal skin, riveted together by special hi-seal rivets. These were only used on areas which were subject to constant immersion. This was a major breakthrough, indicating that the bulk of the fuselage was further down the slope. It was possible that the Dornier’s fuselage was well into the heavy forest far below.

  We elected to split up and search individually. Lance would cover the forest to the east, Fang the west, while I penetrated the vegetation centrally below the lake. Jake would scour the bare ground and kunai grass, in an arc between the scree slope and the vegetation line, taking in the deep river gully. Jan remained in camp, armed with a pistol, to warn us of intruding helicopters.

  We all moved steadily down the edge of the talus, and crossed to the kunai slopes beyond, before dispersing to our allotted areas. We passed the lower edge of the talus cone and the unusual lone tree, three dead branches pointing straight up to the sky. Around one o’clock, our task was made hopeless by a strong dust-laden wind, blowing straight up the slope. In the end, we moved back to where Jake was searching for clues in a waving patch of tall grass.

  “Let’s get back to camp,” I suggested.

  Fang nodded. “It’s a dead loss so far. Reckon we’ve covered more ground than Moses’ exodus!” Fang hesitated briefly, before adding: “What’s the matter with Jake?”

  “I don’t know, why?”

  “He’s gone all sullen; shiverin’ like a dog shittin’ razor blades.”

  Jake had seemed okay the last I’d seen him. “It’s very cold, especially with this wi
nd blowing, but he may have another attack of malaria. Remind me to check him back at camp.”

  Lance and Fang moved ahead, swirls of dust obscuring the area around us. I lost sight of them as I moved out on to the loose rubble above the gully and began climbing, Jake close behind. I stopped and listened. That mysterious tune again, the weird whistling sound that changed tone irregularly, the same haunting sound I’d heard a few nights before.

  The wind blew harder and the mournful melody became louder. It came from across the loose gravel, somewhere to my right.

  “Jake, I’m going out onto the slope to see where that noise is coming from. Tie the end of the rope around you and follow me out, but stay well back in case I slip. If I go, dig your heels in and grab something.”

  I moved cautiously across the slope, each footfall causing a minor disturbance of gravel. The dust was picked up by the wind and thrown back in my face.

  Vaguely I could see the dead tree ahead—the trunk could support me while I surveyed the area. The disturbing banshee howl was louder than ever, worse than the buffeting wind itself. A few more paces and I was able to grasp the tree trunk. The whistling now drowned out all other sounds. I reached for the closest of the three branches and my watchband struck the support, giving out a hollow ring. Metal! Smooth, straight and streamlined! Aircraft wing struts, torn open at the top end. There were bullet holes in the hollow struts and the action of the strong wind coursing through the bullet holes was creating the weird, mournful tune: mad music from gigantic flutes. I tried to work one of the struts loose from the ground, but it was solid. So were the other two.

  Slowly it dawned on me. Unbelievable, but there was no doubt; I was standing on top of the object of our search, the lost fuselage of the Dornier, buried by a landslide. I looked around for further proof—but saw nothing. The wind made scrutiny difficult, but I did see another stick protruding from the ground five metres away. It was the barrel of an Oerliken cannon, sticking up from the rubble. It too was firmly mounted, probably to the upper rear turret position on the back of the fuselage.

  I’d found the wreck! The wind seemed to howl more loudly; the pipes screamed their demented dirge as though reluctant to give up this hidden prize. A shiver ran down my spine as I realised that as well as untold treasure, it represented the last resting place of crew members whose bodies almost certainly were entombed there. I crouched, mouth open, dumbfounded by the sudden end to our search. I forced myself to speak.

  “Jake, hold that line and tie it around these uprights. I want to have a look in the gully.” I moved down from the struts and tried to peer into the gully beyond. Dense dust clouds prevented me from seeing anything at all.

  “Jake!” I shouted above the wind noise, “Did you follow this gully all the way up from the kunai slopes?”

  Jake was silent, nervous and non-committal. “Well, did you?”

  “No,” he said reluctantly.

  “Why not?” I demanded.

  “It is a place tambu, the place of the Maselai.”

  I was about to vent my rage on him—but to what purpose? I had found the Dornier. Now we had to find a way into it.

  “Okay, Jake, let’s get back to that side trail. I’ll go down and follow the river gully back up to this point. You go and tell the others where I’ve gone and that we’ve found the lost fuselage.”

  Finding a shallow slope, I slid down to the bottom of the gully and moved upstream, staying to one side of the boulder strewn watercourse. The water tumbled past, forming clear swirling pools. The gully narrowed to the width of the stream, the walls high and steep. I struggled through knee-deep water as it opened into a wider chasm where the main stream clung to the far wall.

  Before me were crossed arrows and a skull on top of a stone cairn, near the base of the higher bank. I understood now why Jake had not completed his search in the gully. His cultural instinct was stronger than all the teaching modern civilisation could offer. He simply was not to venture beyond the hideous symbol and thus trespass on the sacred ground of the Maselai. It was a pity Jake hadn’t told me of the symbol—valuable time had been wasted.

  I hesitated, then moved on alone through another grotesque graveyard of bleached broken bones and primitive rotting weapons. Incongruously, here and there among the repulsive remains were corroded hand grenades, probably from the buried Dornier. Retaining the grenade clips were the familiar ring-shaped pins. Fang was right—the ring had been a grenade pin. Some detached pins lay on the ground amidst the gruesome human remains. Here and there, ragged shrapnel fragments were grim evidence that some of the grenades had been detonated.

  This was no ritual battleground, but the sacred place tambu described in the Digendi legend. The fearless but primitive warriors had climbed the mighty mountain, discovered the wreck and then hurried off with their pillaged valuables, thinking the grenades were spirit stones. In their excitement, some of the warriors must have tampered with them and inadvertently dislodged the detonator pins, ignorant of the inevitable catastrophic consequences. Ten seconds later, the invisible Maselai struck, tearing men limb from limb with devastating violence.

  The gully became quite steep as it meandered snake-like down from the lake. The water fell, at times, in small waterfalls and rapids. Scrambling hand-over-hand across the broken ground, I was reasonably well protected from the wind and dust. My inner tension grew as I moved up and around a bend in the gully. Suddenly there it was! Noah’s Ark. So it would have seemed to the primitive eyes of the Digendi, especially after hearing the story read to them from the Bible by Father James La Rossa at Tepsugl decades ago.

  The natives of the Digendi had never seen a flying boat before. To them, the exposed forward section of the fuselage hull projecting from the avalanche of rock would have looked like the prow of a large boat. The flared bow was damaged and torn from its sliding impact. The escarpment which supported the fuselage formed the higher bank of the gully and was, originally, the result of a huge avalanche.

  The haunting rhythm was now loud and mournful. Higher up the slope, the three wrenched struts were visible above the wreck. From this angle, they roughly formed the letter ‘N’, the sacred symbol of the Digendi tribe, representing Nokondi and their strange version of Noah’s Ark. With this final clue to the puzzle, everything now fell into place. The flight of the Dorniers from Hollandia, the aerial combat with Yoshiro’s fighters, the crash landing on the mountain triggering a landslide that partially buried the aircraft: all these circumstances led to the Digendi legend. I trembled at the thought of entering the wreck, wondering if I would find a gilded cargo, or empty boxes ransacked years before by Digendi and Ramu tribesmen. Surely the sacred warning had protected the treasure.

  It was easy to understand how we had so often overlooked the concealed fuselage. It was not visible from above or below, obscured by the banks of the gully. Even from an aircraft, the corroded fuselage would have resembled more grey rock protruding from the embankment. There were shouts from the valley.

  “Up here,” I called and soon Jan, Lance and Fang came around the embankment. Seeing the battered Dornier hanging out over the stream, they stood motionless and speechless. The only sound was the mournful dirge of the wind in the pierced wing struts.

  “Have you been inside yet?” asked Fang anxiously.

  “No. Give me a leg up!”

  I stood on Fang’s shoulders, leaned against the rock wall and grabbed hold of the hull chine, heaving myself onto the side of the fuselage and gradually moving to the side cockpit window. To my horror, I seized hold of a skeleton. The hand and arm bones separated and crumbled, falling to the floor of the battered cockpit. A skull peered at me through the window, the skeleton supported by a rotting seatbelt. The faded clothing was in tatters but still recognisable as a naval uniform.

  The pilot had sat at the controls of his lost aircraft for nearly half a century. I cut the belt webbing and at last he was relieved of his command—the frail structure collapsed, disintegrating into a heap of bon
es and dust. Beyond the cockpit confines was the dark and cavernous rear fuselage, reminiscent of an inclined mine-shaft.

  “You got a torch down there?”

  “Cigarette lighter do?” Fang offered.

  “Better than nothing. Toss it up!”

  I moved along the aisle, stumbling over scores of hand grenades scattered throughout the cabin. Hideous claw-like hands protruded from the compacted compartments of the radio bay. The bones of the skeletal hands were still held together by stringy scraps of rotten flesh and blackened mummified skin. The occupants here had been crushed when the load broke loose and crashed forward. Another dusty skeleton lay on the floor, dressed in a faded khaki uniform, its skull crushed.

  A large galvanised box was open and contained row upon row of pistol cartridges covered in dust and green mould. Still another box lay on its side, half full of hand grenades. There were other boxes with seals still unbroken, except for one which had been forcibly levered open. From this, I lifted out a smaller box and found a pistol inside, greased and wrapped in wax paper. The Luger automatic was perfectly preserved and serviceable.

  It was an uncomfortable and eerie experience in the confined fuselage, especially in the dim half-light cast by the cigarette lighter. I felt like a trespasser as I stepped over the skeleton on the floor and moved aft. Here were a large number of galvanised iron boxes, still securely fastened behind a heavy bulkhead. Behind the boxes was the upper gun turret, and further aft the torn-off fuselage had filled with rubble from the avalanche. Each box was elaborately sealed, marked and locked.

  “Lance, where’s Jake?” I shouted.

  “He wouldn’t come up the gully,” Lance replied. “What have you found?”

  “Sealed boxes. Tell Jake he can make himself useful by getting me a torch, hammer, chisel and a crowbar.”

  “Dave, I’m coming in,” said Fang as he scrambled up the side of the fuselage and showed Jan where to grab supports. I knew she couldn’t resist the temptation to follow.