Walter and Cann became fast friends. The captain soaked up the wisdom and the lessons that Cann had learned from what Walter called "experience and hard knocks." They spent hours talking, playing poker, swimming in the river, hiking around the valley, and arguing about sports figures and military policies. Cann believed that the military shouldn't censor reporters' stories from war zones. Walter disagreed, vehemently. "I like to get a man like that riled up," Walter wrote in his journal, "as I can then really learn something." Walter paid his highest compliment to Cann, declaring him "one h.e.l.l of a swell egg."

With Cann's arrival, the camp that Walter renamed "United States Army Outpost at Shangri-La, D.N.G. [Dutch New Guinea]"-"Camp Shangri-La" for short-reached its full and final complement of fifteen people: commanding officer Captain C. Earl Walter Jr.; ten enlisted paratroopers; three crash survivors; and one Canadian-born engineer-turned-actor-turned-jewel-thief-turned-sailor-turned-war-correspondent.

Alexander Cann filming in "Shangri-La." (Photos courtesy of B. B. McCollom.) They settled into a "pretty little city," in Walter's phrase, spread out in the shadow of the mountain wall, on a mostly flat area of the valley floor. The three sergeants who'd stayed behind organized the camp as a cl.u.s.ter of canopies and tents, including a red one for supplies and a pink one for a mess hall.

The camp also featured an improvised pigpen made of rough-cut branches, filled with seven pigs that Abrenica, Baylon, and Velasco had "purchased" from the natives with cowrie sh.e.l.ls dropped by the supply plane. One pig was a runt, "cute as a b.u.t.ton," Margaret wrote. The sergeants named it "Peggy" in her honor.

"Peggy must have thought she was a dog," Margaret wrote. "She followed everyone around, and the moment any of us sat down, climbed on our laps. The paratroopers scrubbed Peggy every day until she shone."

The most elaborate structure was a pyramidal tent outfitted as VIP and officers' quarters. One section, part.i.tioned off for Margaret's privacy, had a deep bed made from dried, golden valley gra.s.s, over which hung a canopy made from a yellow cargo parachute. Artfully arranged mosquito netting completed the fit-for-a-queen decor. Lest her feet touch ground without shoes, empty parachute bags became a bedside rug.

"I was so touched I wanted to cry," Margaret wrote in her diary. "Everything about the camp was deluxe, including a bathroom! The three sergeants had even made a tub of empty, waterproof ration cartons. They had dug a well nearby, and filling the tub was very easy work."

Young warriors from different worlds. The Filipino-American soldiers are (from left) Camilo Ramirez, Custodio Alerta, Don Ruiz, and Juan "Johnny" Javonillo. (Photos courtesy of C. Earl Walter Jr.) As officers, McCollom and Walter were a.s.signed bunks on the men's side of the pyramidal tent. But Walter insisted that his bed go to Decker, to speed the sergeant's ongoing recovery. Walter and his men strung up jungle hammocks, amusing Margaret with the sight of the oversize captain pretzeling his frame into the hanging sack.

On the first full day that all fifteen of them were together at the base camp, the paratroopers celebrated by roasting two suckling pigs in a Filipino lechon lechon feast, slowly turning them on spits until they were golden brown. Margaret made sure that "Peggy" was spared that honor. The meal reminded Walter of his boyhood; almost a decade had pa.s.sed since his last feast, slowly turning them on spits until they were golden brown. Margaret made sure that "Peggy" was spared that honor. The meal reminded Walter of his boyhood; almost a decade had pa.s.sed since his last lechon lechon. "After making a pig of myself (on pig), I staggered over to the supply tent and laid down in agony," Walter wrote in his journal. "The boys are really great cooks."

The following day, the survivors and paratroopers indulged Alex Cann in his role as filmmaking auteur. Although he was supposed to be making a fact-based doc.u.mentary, Cann wasn't above a bit of Hollywood staging. He'd missed the survivors' entrance into base camp, yet he wanted the arrival as a plot point in his film. He persuaded everyone to re-create the last leg of the journey. No one wanted to lug a seventy-five-pound backpack up and down the mountain, so they filled their bags with empty ration boxes that gave the appearance of bulk without the weight.

This time they skipped the Kotex pads.

Chapter 23

GLIDERS?

AFTER THE INITIAL exhilaration about the discovery of the survivors wore off, Colonel Elsmore and his staff at Fee-Ask struggled to devise the best way to empty Shangri-La of U.S. Army personnel and, now, a filmmaker for the Dutch government. exhilaration about the discovery of the survivors wore off, Colonel Elsmore and his staff at Fee-Ask struggled to devise the best way to empty Shangri-La of U.S. Army personnel and, now, a filmmaker for the Dutch government.

Throughout their deliberations, the planners' top priority was safety. Fifteen lives depended on their judgment. More, really, taking into account the risk to pilots, crew, and anyone else who took part in the operation. Yet the planners also must have known that success or failure would affect their own lives as well, personally and professionally. They cared about the survivors and the paratroopers not just as soldiers but as individuals, and they were responsible for Alex Cann. Also, they knew how the military worked: there'd be h.e.l.l to pay if the widely publicized story of Shangri-La ended tragically because of a poorly planned or executed rescue effort.

Elsmore and his team debated numerous possibilities, rejecting one after another as impractical, illogical, impossible, or just plain doomed to fail. After crossing off rescue by blimp, helicopter, amphibious plane, PT boat, and overland hike back to Hollandia, they briefly debated dropping into the valley members of a U.S. Navy construction battalion-the Seabees-with small bulldozers to create a temporary landing strip. That plan foundered when Elsmore decided that landing a C-47 at high alt.i.tude on a short, improvised airstrip, then trying to take off again over the surrounding mountains, carried too great a risk of becoming a Gremlin Special Gremlin Special sequel. sequel.

Next they discussed using a small, versatile plane called the L-5 Sentinel, affectionately known as the Flying Jeep. Used throughout the war for reconnaissance missions and as frontline airborne ambulances, Sentinels had what the army called "short field landing and takeoff capability." That meant they might be useful on the b.u.mpy ground of the valley floor, without the need for a Seabee-built runway. But Sentinels had drawbacks, too.

One concern was that a flight from Hollandia to the valley would take a Sentinel approximately three hours and consume all its fuel. Cans of fuel would have to be parachuted to the valley floor for each return trip. Also, each Sentinel could carry only a pilot and one pa.s.senger, which meant that fifteen round trips would be needed, with each flight carrying the same risk. Still, the planners kept the L-5 Sentinel under consideration.

As Elsmore weighed the Sentinel's pros and cons, he sought advice from an expert: Henry E. Palmer, a thirty-one-year-old lieutenant from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Palmer, a lanky country boy nicknamed "Red," had extensive experience with Sentinels and other light aircraft. He was stationed nearby, at an airstrip on the tropical island of Biak, off the northern coast of New Guinea.

Elsmore arranged for Palmer to fly low over Shangri-La in a B-25 bomber to a.s.sess the situation. One pa.s.s convinced Palmer that the Sentinel was wrong for the job. He had another idea, involving another type of aircraft altogether. Like the Sentinel, it was designed to land in tight s.p.a.ces, on rough terrain. But Palmer thought this other type of aircraft had a better chance of safely clearing the mountains with pa.s.sengers aboard. Plus, it wouldn't require a drop of fuel.

When Palmer returned to Hollandia, he walked into the planners' headquarters and headed for a blackboard. With chalk dust flying, Palmer drew what must have looked like a child's ill.u.s.tration of a mother plane and a baby plane, connected by an umbilical cord.

The sketch, he explained, depicted a motorless aircraft being pulled through the sky by a twin-engine tow plane. Lieutenant Henry E. Palmer had just made a case for the highest-alt.i.tude and downright strangest mission in the history of military gliders.

THE FIRST MOTORLESS flight is credited to Icarus, whose mythical journey ended with melted wings and a fatal plummet into the sea. Military glider pilots, an especially wry bunch, considered Icarus a fitting mascot. Their aircraft seemed to have been designed for crash landings, too. In the words of General William Westmoreland, "They were the only aviators during World War II who had no motors, no parachutes, and no second chances." flight is credited to Icarus, whose mythical journey ended with melted wings and a fatal plummet into the sea. Military glider pilots, an especially wry bunch, considered Icarus a fitting mascot. Their aircraft seemed to have been designed for crash landings, too. In the words of General William Westmoreland, "They were the only aviators during World War II who had no motors, no parachutes, and no second chances."

The Wright brothers and other aircraft pioneers experimented with gliders on the path to motorized flight. But after the Wrights' triumph at Kitty Hawk, gliders became almost-forgotten second cousins to airplanes. During the early decades of the twentieth century, gliders were used primarily for sport, by enthusiasts who competed for distance records and bragging rights. Still, glider aficionados built larger and more elaborate craft, capable of carrying multiple pa.s.sengers and soaring long distances once in flight with help from motorized airplanes.

In the 1930s Germany became a leader in glider technology, largely because after its defeat in World War I the country was banned from having a motorized air force. Hitler overturned that ban in 1935, but he didn't forget about German glider pilots. His generals began plotting possible uses for them in war. German engineers designed gliders that resembled small airplanes without motors, able to carry a pilot and nine soldiers or a ton of equipment. They could land on rough fields in the heart of combat zones, as opposed to the manicured runways needed by planes. Equally appealing to the n.a.z.is, manned gliders could be released from tow planes many miles from their destinations; once freed from their tethers, they were silent in flight.

The Germans saw an opportunity to test their quiet war machines in May 1940, nineteen months before the United States entered the fight. Poland had already fallen, and Hitler wanted to sweep through Belgium into France. Standing between him and Paris was Belgium's ma.s.sive Fort Eben Emael, on the German-Belgian border. Dug deep into the ground, reinforced by several feet of concrete, the newly built fort was considered impregnable. A traditional a.s.sault might have taken weeks, and success was hardly a.s.sured. Even if the Belgian fort fell, a long, costly battle would have spoiled the Germans' hope for a blitzkrieg, a surprise lightning invasion. Helicopters might have speeded the effort, but the incessant thwomp-thwomp thwomp-thwomp of their rotors would have alerted the fort's defenders long before the German troops' arrival. The same disadvantages applied for planes delivering paratroopers, who would have been sitting ducks as they floated under their parachutes to earth. of their rotors would have alerted the fort's defenders long before the German troops' arrival. The same disadvantages applied for planes delivering paratroopers, who would have been sitting ducks as they floated under their parachutes to earth.

Gliders provided a stealth answer for the Germans' invasion plans. On May 10, 1940, tow planes from the Luftwaffe pulled a small fleet of gliders aloft into the skies approaching Belgium. Once released from their tow planes, the gliders, each carrying nine heavily armed German infantrymen, soared silently through the predawn darkness. Ten gliders landed on the "roof" of the dug-in fort-a gra.s.sy plain the length of ten football fields. German soldiers poured out of the gliders in full attack mode. Though badly outnumbered, they overwhelmed the stunned Belgians, deployed heavy explosives to destroy Fort Eben Emael's big guns, and captured the fort within the day. Columns of German tanks rolled past on their way to northern France.

Though the United States still wasn't at war, the Belgian disaster at Fort Eben Emael was a wake-up call. It suggested that gliders might play a significant role in future combat. An American military glider program began in earnest immediately after Pearl Harbor, with a sudden call to train one thousand qualified glider pilots, a number that within months rose to six thousand. Design work on military-grade gliders got under way at Wright Field in Ohio, where two young flight engineers, Lieutenants John and Robert McCollom, were soon stationed. The McCollom twins weren't directly involved in the glider program, but they watched with interest as it took shape.

The American aircraft industry was already at full capacity, trying to build enough planes to meet the military's growing demand. Consequently, the glider program took a more entrepreneurial approach, and government contracts for motorless flying combat and cargo aircraft went to a mix of unlikely bidders, including a refrigerator manufacturer, a furniture company, and a coffin maker. Eventually, the military settled on the fourth version of a cargo glider made by the Waco Aircraft Company of Ohio, called the Waco CG-4A, or the Waco (p.r.o.nounced "Wah-coh"), for short.

A Waco CG4A glider in flight. (Photo courtesy of U.S. Air Force.) Waco gliders were more fowl than falcon-clumsy, unarmored flying boxcars made from plywood and metal tubing covered with canvas. Wacos had a wingspan of eighty-three feet, eight inches, stood more than twelve feet high, and stretched more than forty-eight feet in length. Each glider weighed 3,700 pounds empty but could carry a payload greater than its own weight in cargo and troops. Guided by a pilot and copilot, a Waco glider could transport up to thirteen fully equipped soldiers, or a quarter-ton truck, or a serious piece of rolling thunder such as a 75mm howitzer, complete with ammunition and two artillerymen. Most were towed into the air by thick 350-foot-long nylon ropes attached to C-47s, though some were pulled aloft by C-46s.

Before the war was over, the U.S. military would take delivery of nearly 14,000 Wacos. Ironically, for a motorless aircraft, a major supplier was the Ford Motor Company, which built the gliders for about $15,000 each. For the same price as one glider, the government could have bought seventeen deluxe, eight-cylinder Ford sedans.

Wacos got their first taste of combat during the July 1943 invasion of Sicily. A year later, gliders delivered troops in the Normandy landing on D-Day, though scores fell prey to ten-foot-high wooden spikes that German field marshal Erwin Rommel had ordered placed in French fields where he thought Wacos might land. Gliders also partic.i.p.ated in Operation Dragoon in southern France and Operation Varsity in Germany. They delivered supplies during the Battle of the Bulge and were used in a variety of other combat missions in Europe. They also served in the China-Burma-India theater of operations, and in Luzon, in the Philippines.

A major advantage of Waco gliders as troop-delivery aircraft was that, if the pilot braked hard enough on landing, he could stop quickly-within two hundred yards of touchdown-on uneven ground. Not infrequently, however, the glider came to rest with its nose buried in the dirt and its tail in the air. More than a few flipped over completely. Yet those landings were relative successes. Many others missed their intended landing zones entirely, as a result of weather, broken tow cables, pilot error, and other mishaps. Even when everything worked perfectly, Waco gliders made slow, fat targets for enemy antiaircraft guns.

In short order, Wacos earned the nicknames "flak bait," "bamboo bombers," and "flying coffins." Glider pilots were known as "suicide jockeys" who made oxymoronic "controlled crash landings." When they gathered to drink, glider pilots saluted each other with a mordant toast: "To the Glider Pilots-conceived in error, suffering a long and painful period of gestation, and finally delivered at the wrong place at the wrong time."

In September 1944, a young London-based reporter for the United Press named Walter Cronkite was a.s.signed to fly in a Waco glider during Operation Market Garden in Holland. Years later Cronkite admitted, "I came close to disgracing myself" by refusing the mission. He ultimately agreed only to save face with his fellow reporters. "I had seen what had happened to the gliders in Normandy. The wreckage of hundreds of them was scattered across the countryside." Cronkite landed safely, but he never forgot the experience: "I'll tell you straight out: If you've got to go into combat, don't go by glider. Walk, crawl, parachute, swim, float-anything. But don't go by glider!"

During the early phase of the war, Waco gliders were regarded as almost disposable-once they landed and discharged their troops or supplies, they were abandoned. But as costs mounted, efforts were made to retrieve Wacos that hadn't been reduced to kindling. However, because most touched down in areas far from conventional airstrips, their tow planes couldn't simply land, reconnect their tethers, and pull the gliders aloft. As a solution, engineers developed a retrieval system in which low-flying aircraft-low, as in twenty feet off the ground-could zoom past and "s.n.a.t.c.h" a Waco glider back into the air.

Nearly five hundred glider retrievals were executed from battlefields in France, Burma, Holland, and Germany, with nearly all the gliders empty except for the pilots. But in March 1945, two Wacos retrofitted as medevac aircraft landed in a clearing near Remagen, Germany. Twenty-five wounded American and German soldiers were loaded aboard the two gliders. C-47s s.n.a.t.c.hed the Wacos off the ground, and soon afterward they landed safely at a military hospital in France.

Now, three months after those successful s.n.a.t.c.hes, Lieutenant Henry Palmer wanted to borrow a page from that mission, albeit with a much higher degree of difficulty.

PALMER'S SCHEME WAS a plan only the military or Hollywood could love. Fortunately for Palmer, it just so happened that both had representatives in Shangri-La. a plan only the military or Hollywood could love. Fortunately for Palmer, it just so happened that both had representatives in Shangri-La.

As Palmer envisioned it, the operation would begin in Hollandia. A C-46 would pull a Waco airborne and tow it a hundred and fifty miles, into the skies over the valley. Once safely through the mountain pa.s.s, the glider pilot would disengage from the tow plane and guide the Waco down to the valley floor, where pa.s.sengers would board. At such a high alt.i.tude, at least a mile above sea level, the glider couldn't carry its usual load. Only five people would clamber aboard for each trip, with priority going to the survivors. Then the glider and its pa.s.sengers would brace for the s.n.a.t.c.h.

The basic premise was that a C-47 would fly over the glider and, using a hook extending from the fuselage, pull the glider back into the air. Tethered together, the tow plane and the trailing glider would fly up and over the surrounding mountains and soar toward Hollandia. After separating, both pilots would make smooth landings and enjoy a celebratory welcome home, ticker tape optional.

That's how it worked on Palmer's blackboard. In practice, several dozen potential malfunctions or miscalculations could turn the gliders into free-falling kites, the tow planes into fireb.a.l.l.s, and their pa.s.sengers into casualties. Beyond the usual dangers that came with gliders, an attempted s.n.a.t.c.h in Shangri-La carried a host of added perils.

No previous military s.n.a.t.c.h had occurred a mile above sea level. The thinner air at higher alt.i.tude meant that, even if the s.n.a.t.c.h was successful, chances were increased that the C-47 would be slowed by the glider's weight to the point where the plane might stall. Depending on the C-47's alt.i.tude at that point, the glider might become the oversize equivalent of a paper airplane on a full-speed collision course with the valley floor. The same fate might befall the C-47.

Even if the plane didn't stall, no one knew whether a C-47, pulling a loaded glider in thin air, had the horsepower to climb to roughly ten thousand feet quickly enough to make it through the pa.s.s that led out of the valley. In addition, the pilots of both aircraft would have to contend with the low clouds and the shifting winds that made getting in and out of the valley a challenge. Although the daily supply flights to Shangri-La made the trip seem routine, no pilot involved in the mission would forget that mistakes had cost twenty-one lives aboard the Gremlin Special Gremlin Special.

To top it off, if the first s.n.a.t.c.h succeeded, the rescuers would have to repeat the feat twice more, each time with the same dangers.

As Colonel Elsmore considered the idea, three factors played into its favor. First, Elsmore knew of no better or safer rescue option. Second, Palmer boosted confidence in the plan by volunteering to pilot the first glider himself. Third, Elsmore was a sky cowboy with a flair for the dramatic.

If it worked, they could count on hugs from Margaret, backslaps from the men, page-one publicity, featured roles in Alex Cann's movie, and possibly medals. Maybe Elsmore could even repeat the glide-and-s.n.a.t.c.h routine to make his own long-awaited visit to the valley. On the other hand, if it failed, Palmer likely wouldn't be alive to take responsibility, so Elsmore would shoulder all the blame.

After consulting with his fellow planners, balancing the risks and rewards, Colonel Ray T. Elsmore announced that Waco CG-4A gliders would be used to extract the fifteen temporary residents from Shangri-La.

ELSMORE'S DECISION SET in motion a scramble to find pilots and qualified crew members for the tow plane. He also needed several other glider pilots to work with Palmer, a.s.sorted maintenance personnel, and hard-to-find glider pickup equipment. Gliders were used less extensively in the Pacific than in Europe, so the specialized gear was scattered all over the region, from Melbourne, Australia, to Clark Field in the Philippines. in motion a scramble to find pilots and qualified crew members for the tow plane. He also needed several other glider pilots to work with Palmer, a.s.sorted maintenance personnel, and hard-to-find glider pickup equipment. Gliders were used less extensively in the Pacific than in Europe, so the specialized gear was scattered all over the region, from Melbourne, Australia, to Clark Field in the Philippines.

The mission struck a piece of good luck when news of the planned glider pickup reached Major William J. Samuels, commander of the 33rd Troop Carrier Squadron based at Nichols Field, in Manila. At twenty-nine, a former Eagle Scout from Decatur, Illinois, Samuels had been a pilot with United Airlines before the war. More important, he'd been a glider s.n.a.t.c.h instructor at Bergstrom Field, in Austin, Texas. As far as Samuels knew, he was the most experienced glider pickup pilot in the entire Southwest Pacific. When Samuels volunteered to oversee equipment collection and crew training, as well as to pilot the s.n.a.t.c.h plane, Elsmore was so pleased that he turned over his own quarters to the major.

If everything went as hoped, Samuels would execute the first glider s.n.a.t.c.h from the c.o.c.kpit of a C-47 known as Louise. Louise. The plane, an "old bird" in Samuels's phrase, was borrowed from a unit that seemed glad to be rid of it. The engine nearly quit on the flight from Manila to New Guinea, and Samuels had to make an emergency landing en route for repairs. He renamed it The plane, an "old bird" in Samuels's phrase, was borrowed from a unit that seemed glad to be rid of it. The engine nearly quit on the flight from Manila to New Guinea, and Samuels had to make an emergency landing en route for repairs. He renamed it Leaking Louise Leaking Louise for its tendency to spray engine oil all over its wings. for its tendency to spray engine oil all over its wings.

The headquarters Elsmore chose for glider s.n.a.t.c.h training was tiny Wakde Island, a two-by-three-mile speck of land a hundred miles off the coast of Hollandia. Wakde's most notable feature was a runway that ran almost its entire length. Another advantage was its isolation. If a glider fell on a deserted airstrip and no one was there to witness it, chances were excellent that it wouldn't make a sound.

Days pa.s.sed with little progress. The effort seemed snakebit by delays caused by torrential rains, missing equipment, and a three-day case of dysentery suffered by Samuels. The delays gave glider pilot Henry Palmer plenty of time to think about what he'd gotten himself into. Eventually, he dubbed his Waco glider the Fanless f.a.ggot Fanless f.a.ggot, not as a slur but for its missing motor and its resemblance to a rough bundle of sticks.

To get a better idea of what they'd volunteered for, Samuels and his copilot, Captain William G. McKenzie of La Crosse, Wisconsin, flew over the valley to pick a spot for a glider landing and pickup strip. Neither liked the looks of Shangri-La.

"What do you think, Mac?" Samuels asked.

"Well, Bill, we'll never know 'til we try," McKenzie replied.

Samuels looked back to their crew, staring dubiously out the windows, a.s.sessing their chances of success, not to mention survival.

WHILE THE GLIDER work crawled along, the three sergeants who organized the valley base camp, Abrenica, Baylon, and Velasco, laid out a landing area to Samuels's specifications. They cut and burned brush-leaving it no more than one to two feet high-in a relatively flat area some four hundred yards long and one hundred yards wide. They outlined the field with red cargo parachutes and used white paratrooper parachutes to make a center line for the landing strip. Appropriately for a make-do operation, they laid out toilet paper in the shape of giant arrows that pointed the pilots toward the airfield. work crawled along, the three sergeants who organized the valley base camp, Abrenica, Baylon, and Velasco, laid out a landing area to Samuels's specifications. They cut and burned brush-leaving it no more than one to two feet high-in a relatively flat area some four hundred yards long and one hundred yards wide. They outlined the field with red cargo parachutes and used white paratrooper parachutes to make a center line for the landing strip. Appropriately for a make-do operation, they laid out toilet paper in the shape of giant arrows that pointed the pilots toward the airfield.

On Wakde Island, much of the preparation was devoted to the most treacherous part of the operation: the s.n.a.t.c.h. When all the gear reached the island, crews installed equipment in the Leaking Louise Leaking Louise that looked and functioned like a giant fishing reel, complete with line and hook. The reel, bolted to the cabin floor, was a huge winch, an eight-hundred-pound mechanical device the size of a washing machine. A crew member would use the winch to let out or pull in the line attached to the glider. The line, wrapped around the winch's drum, was one thousand feet of half-inch steel cable. The hook, attached to the end of the cable, was just that: a six-inch-long steel hook. that looked and functioned like a giant fishing reel, complete with line and hook. The reel, bolted to the cabin floor, was a huge winch, an eight-hundred-pound mechanical device the size of a washing machine. A crew member would use the winch to let out or pull in the line attached to the glider. The line, wrapped around the winch's drum, was one thousand feet of half-inch steel cable. The hook, attached to the end of the cable, was just that: a six-inch-long steel hook.

When the time came to attempt a s.n.a.t.c.h, crewmembers on the Leaking Louise Leaking Louise would unspool the cable. They'd feed it hook-first down a wooden pickup arm, sometimes called a boom, that extended below the C-47's fuselage. The hook would be set at the end of the pickup arm, to hold it steady. would unspool the cable. They'd feed it hook-first down a wooden pickup arm, sometimes called a boom, that extended below the C-47's fuselage. The hook would be set at the end of the pickup arm, to hold it steady.

Meanwhile, the glider would be towed to the valley by another plane. After releasing their Waco from the tow plane and landing in Shangri-La, the glider's crew would erect two twelve-foot-high poles, set some twenty feet apart. From the top of one pole to the top of the other, they'd string a section of an eighty-foot-long loop made from inch-thick nylon rope. The result would resemble a pole-vault setup, with a section of the nylon loop as the crossbar. The remainder of the loop would hang down from the poles and be laid out neatly on the ground. Another nylon rope, about 225 feet long, would be attached to the ground end of the loop. Its far end would be fastened to the nose of the glider, parked fifty to one hundred feet back from the poles. When the setup was complete, the loop of nylon rope hanging from the two poles would be attached to the nylon tow rope, which would be attached to the glider.

In a successful s.n.a.t.c.h, the C-47 would swoop low over the pickup site. The steel hook at the end of the pickup arm would catch the nylon loop at the top of the poles. The C-47 would fly onward, with the pilot leaning hard on the throttles to gain alt.i.tude with the added drag of the glider. The winch operator inside the C-47 would consider speed, glider weight, and other factors to judge how many feet of steel cable to pay out from the reel to prevent the nylon rope from snapping. If he misjudged, the cable would rip off the glider's nose, snap its wings, or worse. Glider pilots described the sensation at the moment of the s.n.a.t.c.h as comparable to being shot out of a giant slingshot.

As the C-47 climbed, the glider would be jerked into the air from its parking spot within three seconds. It would be airborne within sixty feet, and its speed would go from zero to more than one hundred miles per hour within seven seconds of the s.n.a.t.c.h. When the glider was airborne, the winch operator on the C-47 would reel in cable to draw it closer to the tow plane, so it trailed the C-47 by about 350 feet. The two aircraft would fly in graceful tandem, connected by the nylon-and-steel tether. In sight of Hollandia, the glider pilot would release his craft from the tow plane, and the Waco and the C-47 would make safe, separate landings.

That's how the planners envisioned it. In practice, the first trial runs of the Leaking Louise Leaking Louise and the and the Fanless f.a.ggot Fanless f.a.ggot on Wakde Island were plagued by injuries, ruined equipment, and growing doubts about the wisdom of using gliders to escape from Shangri-La. on Wakde Island were plagued by injuries, ruined equipment, and growing doubts about the wisdom of using gliders to escape from Shangri-La.

Chapter 24

TWO QUEENS

AS JUNE 1945 wound down, so did the war. wound down, so did the war.

After the bloodiest battle of the Pacific, the Allies took Okinawa. Its capture on June 21-after the deaths of twelve thousand Americans and more than one hundred thousand j.a.panese-provided a staging area for an air and land attack on the main islands of j.a.pan. That is, unless Emperor Hirohito could be persuaded to surrender. Secretly, America's leaders thought a new weapon, a bomb of unimaginable power, might accomplish that goal without sending troops to Tokyo. The bomb would be tested within weeks; if it worked, President Truman would decide whether to use it. Already, though, much of the world seemed eager to look beyond war. While the outsiders in Shangri-La awaited rescue, envoys from forty-four countries landed in San Francisco to sign a charter creating the United Nations.

WHILE THE GLIDER crews worked, Camp Shangri-La played. Before an audience of natives, Decker shaved off six weeks' growth of beard. McCollom got a haircut from Ben Bulatao, but he and Walter kept their nonregulation whiskers. Walter told the crew of the 311, "We want to look like we've been someplace after we get out of here." They ate communal meals; explored the valley; posed for Alex Cann's camera; talked about their families; and read books, magazines, and letters dropped by the supply plane. One supply drop included a book on jungle survival techniques; it arrived so late the survivors were certain it was someone's idea of a joke. crews worked, Camp Shangri-La played. Before an audience of natives, Decker shaved off six weeks' growth of beard. McCollom got a haircut from Ben Bulatao, but he and Walter kept their nonregulation whiskers. Walter told the crew of the 311, "We want to look like we've been someplace after we get out of here." They ate communal meals; explored the valley; posed for Alex Cann's camera; talked about their families; and read books, magazines, and letters dropped by the supply plane. One supply drop included a book on jungle survival techniques; it arrived so late the survivors were certain it was someone's idea of a joke.

A native man whom the paratroopers called "Joe" oversaw daily swap meets between the natives and the outsiders. When the market was up and running, five cowrie sh.e.l.ls could be exchanged for a stone adze, the most sought-after souvenir. Walter established a going rate for other native weaponry, exchanging eighteen sh.e.l.ls for sixty-two arrows and three bows. At first, a pig could be had for as little as two to four sh.e.l.ls, but inflation crept in, and the price rose to fifteen sh.e.l.ls. This proved costly when the pigpen built by the paratroopers collapsed and eight plump, fifteen-sh.e.l.l swine headed for the hills. So many sh.e.l.ls changed hands that McCollom worried that the survivors and paratroopers were ruining the local economy.

IN FACT, THE outsiders' use of cowrie sh.e.l.ls as a kind of coin represented the natives' first tentative step toward a money-based economy. Although they had long traded sh.e.l.ls with people from outside their villages to obtain twine, feathers, or other goods that weren't readily available, the natives didn't treat sh.e.l.ls as a universal currency among themselves. In their communal villages, there was nothing to buy from each other. They used sh.e.l.ls and sh.e.l.l necklaces primarily to cement social bonds. At a funeral, for instance, mourners would briefly drape the dead body with gifts of sh.e.l.l necklaces. As a highlight of the ceremony, a village leader would redistribute those necklaces, creating obligations to him and shared remembrances of their previous owner. outsiders' use of cowrie sh.e.l.ls as a kind of coin represented the natives' first tentative step toward a money-based economy. Although they had long traded sh.e.l.ls with people from outside their villages to obtain twine, feathers, or other goods that weren't readily available, the natives didn't treat sh.e.l.ls as a universal currency among themselves. In their communal villages, there was nothing to buy from each other. They used sh.e.l.ls and sh.e.l.l necklaces primarily to cement social bonds. At a funeral, for instance, mourners would briefly drape the dead body with gifts of sh.e.l.l necklaces. As a highlight of the ceremony, a village leader would redistribute those necklaces, creating obligations to him and shared remembrances of their previous owner.

A Dani tribesman tries on a uniform. (Photo courtesy of C. Earl Walter Jr.) McCollom's worry about the local economy was only the half of it. By tossing around sh.e.l.ls as though their only value was as a means of trade, the outsiders risked undermining the glue that kept the community together.

Although most natives were willing to provide pigs, adzes, bows, and arrows in exchange for sh.e.l.ls, some felt trepidation about the deals. "We'd never seen so many sh.e.l.ls. Our parents were telling us to be careful, don't take the sh.e.l.ls," said Lisaniak Mabel. He and his friends heeded the warning. "The white guys got frustrated that we were rejecting the sh.e.l.ls they were offering."

ONE DAY, THE native trader the paratroopers called Joe brought three women to the camp. Confused at first, Alex Cann and the paratroopers concluded that they were being offered the women in exchange for sh.e.l.ls. native trader the paratroopers called Joe brought three women to the camp. Confused at first, Alex Cann and the paratroopers concluded that they were being offered the women in exchange for sh.e.l.ls.

"Walt, you've got to be careful," Cann told Walter, "because he wants to sell you the women."

"h.e.l.l, I've got enough trouble," Walter replied. "I don't want a bunch of women running around!" Walter's men cracked up when they heard that.

Walter wrote in his journal: "He [Joe] is quite a money monger, and by the looks on the women's faces, they were little impressed by us." The feeling was mutual. Walter wrote that it would take him "a few years, plus the realization that we would never get out of here, plus a ton of soap, before they would be even presentable as far as I am concerned." Walter waved off the deal.

THE MAN THE outsiders called "Joe" was Gerlagam Logo, a son of the chief named Yali Logo and a warrior with a fierce reputation. Many years later, tribe members remembered Gerlagam as having been friendly with the outsiders. But they doubted that he ever tried to sell them women. Gerlagam had a wife and two daughters. Perhaps, they said, he wanted his new acquaintances to meet his family. outsiders called "Joe" was Gerlagam Logo, a son of the chief named Yali Logo and a warrior with a fierce reputation. Many years later, tribe members remembered Gerlagam as having been friendly with the outsiders. But they doubted that he ever tried to sell them women. Gerlagam had a wife and two daughters. Perhaps, they said, he wanted his new acquaintances to meet his family.

EACH DAY WHEN the supply plane flew overhead, Walter and McCollom placed orders for food and provisions. Sergeant Ozzie St. George, a reporter for the U.S. Army magazine the supply plane flew overhead, Walter and McCollom placed orders for food and provisions. Sergeant Ozzie St. George, a reporter for the U.S. Army magazine Yank Yank who covered the mission alongside civilian journalists, made a sport of tracking the cargo drops. Among the items he recorded were: twenty pairs of shoes; three hundred pounds of medical supplies; fourteen .45-caliber pistols with three thousand rounds of ammunition; six Thompson submachine guns; knives; machetes; tents; cots; clothes for the survivors; seventy-five blankets; camp stoves; gasoline; canteens; water; seventy-five cases of ten-in-one rations; rice; salt; coffee; bacon; tomato and pineapple juice; and "eggs that landed unscrambled." St. George claimed that Margaret received "scanties," but she insisted that the underwear never arrived. who covered the mission alongside civilian journalists, made a sport of tracking the cargo drops. Among the items he recorded were: twenty pairs of shoes; three hundred pounds of medical supplies; fourteen .45-caliber pistols with three thousand rounds of ammunition; six Thompson submachine guns; knives; machetes; tents; cots; clothes for the survivors; seventy-five blankets; camp stoves; gasoline; canteens; water; seventy-five cases of ten-in-one rations; rice; salt; coffee; bacon; tomato and pineapple juice; and "eggs that landed unscrambled." St. George claimed that Margaret received "scanties," but she insisted that the underwear never arrived.

Walter continued his amateur anthropology. He searched for signs of religion, with no luck. "They're believers in mankind and that's about all the religion they seem to have," Walter told Major Gardner by walkie-talkie.

While hiking with his men and some natives near the Baliem River, Walter arranged a footrace on the riverbank to test their speed. Earlier he'd recorded his disappointment with their potential as porters, complaining in his journal that they tired more quickly than the Filipino bearers he recalled from his boyhood. The race did nothing to improve his view. "Natives not very fast," he wrote, "as we outran them with equipment on." He didn't record whether the Dani men might have been amused, confused, or both by the notion of running full speed when they weren't chasing a lost pig or escaping a deadly enemy.

During one hike, Walter and the survivors found corpses from recent warfare. "One warrior had been shot through the heart with an arrow," Margaret wrote. "Another had died from a spear driven through his head." Separately, Walter and McCollom found the skeleton of a man they thought must have stood more than six feet tall and weighed more than two hundred pounds. It was the closest they ever came to seeing one of the "giants" they'd heard so much about.

Captain C. Earl Walter Jr. and Lieutenant John McCollom examine a native jawbone they found on a hike. (Photo courtesy of C. Earl Walter Jr.) After a walk with Alex Cann, Walter estimated the valley's population at five thousand and concluded that the natives belonged to "a dying race." He based that a.s.sumption on his observations of few children and some overgrown sweet potato fields. In fact, Walter's population estimate was about one-tenth to one-twentieth the actual number, and he didn't know that the Dani people left old fields fallow to regain their nutrients. However, Walter was onto something about children. Because Dani women abstained from s.e.x for up to five years after childbirth, the birthrate wasn't as high as in some other native populations.