WORLD WAR II’s MOST AMAZING RESCUE

Divided down the middle by the cloud-piercing Owen Stanley mountain range, and with dense jungles capable of swallowing entire army divisions, New Guinea is the world’s second largest island, measuring 1500 miles in length and 500 miles in breadth.  Aimed at the heart of Australia, it became obvious to the World War II Allies in the Pacific that its early occupation by invading Japanese forces made it a key obstacle to that continent’s defense. Beginning with elements of the U.S. 1^st Marine Division in which my foster brother served, Americans fought a bitter campaign there from 1942 to War’s end, suffering 24,000 battle casualties, with large numbers of enemy soldiers refusing to surrender even then. With temperatures and humidity both reaching the number 100 and average annual rainfall of up to 300 inches, it was home to malaria, dengue fever, scrub typhus, dysentery and a dozen other take-no-prisoner enemies. Altogether, it was one of the most unfriendly fighting environments faced by WW II G.I.s anywhere in the world.  And our troops serving there enjoyed neither respite nor disengagement for the duration of the war.

            With that background, it should not be surprising that more than 600 airplane crashes dotted that deadly piece of geography during that three-year period, many of them non combat-related and most of them never uncovered. (There are more uncharted crash sites in New Guinea than any other place on earth!)

            One of those aviation mishaps occurred on May 13, 1945 when a USAAF C-47 transport with 24 Army passengers aboard flew into a cloud-covered mountainside nearly two hours’ flying time away from its base at Hollandia, Dutch New Guinea. Its’ mission name – Gremlin Flight – was about to go into the history books.

             Aboard the Gremlin Special, commanded by Colonel Peter J. Prossen with Major George Nicholson in the co-pilot’s seat, were a total of nine male officers, six enlisted men and nine female members of the Women’s Army Corps (or WACs). Their intention was to fly into a newly-discovered “mystery valley” christened Shangri La by the flyers who first laid eyes on it. Nestled between 13,000-foot peaks and surrounded by dense alpine jungle growth spiked by steep rocky waterfalls, the valley – known today as the Baliem – was also home to thousands of stone-age natives suspected (quite correctly) of being fierce, warlike, and cannibalistic.

            Unable to gain sufficient altitude when penetrating a cloud bank at the valley’s far end, the C-47, - the military version of the famous DC-3 - slammed into the steep rocky escarpment, bursting into flames and incinerating most of its human cargo.  All, that is except for three: Capt. John McCollum (whose identical twin Robert perished in the crash), Tech. Sergeant Kenneth Decker and Corporal Margaret Hastings. For the three, two of whom were severely injured and burned, the most difficult part of the story was just beginning.

            While tolerating the pain of dangerously gangrenous burn damage and physical exhaustion, “Maggie” Hastings and Sgt. Decker were led by Lt. McCollum through the nearly-impenetrable jungle-clad mountainside to the valley below, where “stone-age savages” who had never seen white people in their long history provided unexpected succor, with sweet potatoes, pork and safe harbor, as Army leaders at Hollandia planned a complex and never-tried-before high altitude rescue mission.

            Two brave Philippine Scout medics parachuted into “Shangri La” and began the long process of treating the victims; dealing with gangrene that already made amputation likely in the case of the 30-year old WAC Corporal. As needed supplies were sent by daily air drop, the remaining 15 parachutists of the 1^st. Recon Group jumped into the jungle, buried the deceased crash victims and rendezvoused with the survivors to provide further support and security. (At that point, planners at Hollandia had every reason to believe the natives were a danger).

            Landing any kind of rescue aircraft in the jungle-and-rock-strewn valley was as impossible as the alternative of hiking the injured out through 150 miles of the world’s most dangerous terrain where enemy forces were still a presence.  In the end, a troop-carrying Waco glider was towed and released over the valley after much trial-and-error practice, and in three successive and seldom-used “snatch” techniques, pulled aloft by the hook of a low-flying C-47 tow plane.

            After seventy days in the Jungles of “Shangri La”, Maggie Hastings, Ken Decker and John McCollum, got to go home and to heal from their ordeal. They had all lost good friends, and the McCollum twins would never again be the inseparables they had been, but the story of the brave and dedicated men who had saved them, and the warm and friendly natives of the Dani Tribe who had befriended them would always be theirs’.

 Much has changed in New Guinea’s Baliem Valley, but a member of the Dani Tribe today looks very much like those of his people who gave aid and affection to the Shangri La crash victims 67 years ago.

The C-47, the military version of the famed Douglas DC-3 transport, often known fondly as the “Gooney Bird”, was one of the most ubiquitous aircraft of WWII in every theater. Many are still flying today.

 

 

SAYING GOODBYE TO RAINY DAY BOOKS

Looking back across 175 “Home Country” columns, I note that it was only 14 months ago that I signed off on an article titled “An Ode to the Corner Book Store” in which I wrote feelingly about my passion for one of our country’s abiding landmarks; those humble archives of local and regional lore found in the small towns and villages of America. My favorite bookish haunts embrace such diverse way-stops as Woodstock and Brandon, Vermont, Damariscotta, Maine, Cedar City, Utah and the villages of coastal Oregon. In fact, featured in the 2011 article just mentioned were photographs of “Rainy Day Books” in Tillamook, Oregon, and a description of a real rainy day visit of discovery there.

            Just weeks ago, I enjoyed a repeat visit there, and a reunion with Karen Spicer, that establishment’s devoted owner and “mother superior”. Same comfortable arm chair for book lovers; same library cat to spend time with; same shelves and table tops overflowing with titles new, old and rare. I was prepared for an hour or two of anticipated adventure.

            But there was a low-hanging cloud waiting to spoil some of that, and I could feel its presence even before I heard Karen tell my wife that the store would be closing forever at the end of this year. Business had been falling off for some time, and the dedicated owner had been facing a losing situation while exhausting her own life savings in an effort to keep things going.

            While it’s true that a sagging national economy has certainly been partly to blame, there is something more insidious at work as I see this same phenomenon taking place across the country as one by one these precious connections to our literary heart and soul close their doors. Just this week, I spent a contented hour browsing in one of the retail giants of the book trade only to notice that I was one of only a half dozen patrons doing so while others who had apparently dropped by for a coffee and sweet roll were far more numerous; in fact I had to search for a sales person to check me out.

            Recognizing that I am something of a dinosaur from a fast-fading epoch and a mere observer in what we all realize is an electronic age, (with a perfectly good electronic device sitting largely unused in a corner of my office), I am saddened to see the passing of a time when real words written on real pages in real books I can hold in my hands were prized by generations who assumed it would always be so.

            I find it is increasingly difficult to explain to those who have grown up with I-pods, blackberries, tweeters and a seemingly-endless selection of “aps” for their soon-to-be-outmoded “handhelds” why I find pleasure in a library of real books which I can see and touch and return to often and fondly and whose very presence in my place of residence helps to make a mere house a home. (I am presently reading a new book only weeks out of the print shop, and revisiting another which was a personal gift from a brother dated December 25, 1945!) I like to believe that some of the books I cherish most still bear the fingerprints of people I have known who are no longer with us, while marginal notes and hand-penned dedications testify of human connections which defy mortality.

            I know books will always be with us, and I trust that in a free country we will always have access to recorded knowledge which can’t be easily edited or deleted.  Still. . . I feel a profound sense of disquiet as a time-honored institution begins to fade. And I am sad to say goodbye to Rainy Day Books.

Rainy Day Books in Tillamook, Oregon is symbolic of small-town book stores across America.

 

“TAKING CHANCE” – A LESSON IN HONOR

It is not very often that a movie review appears in this column. Furthermore, I must apologize for seeming to be so late with this one. Originally screened for the 2009 Sundance Film Festival, it was produced and shown by HBO Films, and never released for commercial theater viewing. It was in fact though viewed by 7.5 million in its two television showings and received two important awards. Since discovering it in its home video format I have viewed it several times, shared it with family members and friends, and carried out my own research into the true story which gave the film birth.

            Lt. Colonel Michael Strobl, a Marine “mustang” and veteran himself of service in “Desert Storm”, serving in a safe, “plum” administrative position at Quantico surprises his wife and family when he volunteers for deceased escort duty.  Day after day he has seen the names of American G.I.s killed in action in a war half a world away, knowing that they are largely a matter of mere statistics to the public at large. (To date now, in 2012, as I write, there have been 5000 names on these lists).

            Restive about the relative comfort of his own distance from the field of battle, and anxious to get away from an office “cubicle”, he is surprised when his superiors acquiesce and he receives an assignment to accompany the remains of a Marine Corps. PFC – named Chance Phelps – to his home in rural Wyoming. (It is unusual for so senior an officer to fill such a slot).

            “Taking Chance” is more a visual story than one full of dialog, and for the film’s lead actor, Kevin Bacon, the whole experience of portraying the real Michael Strobl became a very personal and poignant journey. Even in the filming itself, people from every corner of the production crew and folks encountered in the process along the way were caught up in the emotional magnetism of the story.

            Death on the battlefield has been pictured on the screen often and in grim and graphic detail, and we are no strangers to what Hollywood can do with an event of warfare which many among us have actually experienced in real life. What takes place behind the scenes in how America treats its fallen warriors is a far lesser-known story – even among members of the Military; and certainly in the general population. What we see in “Taking Chance” is not only a painstakingly accurate account of the protocols and practices which are rendered our deceased “heroes”, but more, the reaction generated among outsiders who view this profound manifestation of respect in action.

            My son – a frequent business traveler – called me one day to describe something that had just taken place when the captain of a flight he had just completed came over the plane’s loudspeaker upon landing:  “Ladies and gentlemen, what you may not know is that we have a very special passenger riding with us on this flight.  His name is Sergeant _ _ _ _ _, and he died last week in Afghanistan wearing an American uniform. If you look out the right side windows in a few minutes, you will see his military escort taking him home. We would appreciate it if you would remain in your seats until that has taken place. Thank you. . . . And God bless America.”  My son said that the impact on the silent passengers was something he would always remember.

            I often tell youthful audiences that the greatest example of love I have ever witnessed took place in the triage area of a U.S. MASH hospital in far-off Korea 60 years ago.  What Lt. Colonel Michael Strobl re-learned on his journey taking Chance Phelps home to Wyoming, and what is so beautifully captured in this HBO movie, is a reminder of who we really are as Americans.

Photo Caption:  USA TODAY described “Taking Chance” as “A small almost perfectly realized gem of a movie” and the Baltimore Sun reviewer called it “. . .one of the most eloquent and socially conscious films . . .ever presented”.