Mercy Flight

by Colin Woodward

"When any urgent medical, flood relief or evacuation flight you are undertaking, to save some person from grave or immediate danger, seems likely to involve irregular operations, you must declare it a mercy flight. However, if such a flight can comply with the applicable regulations, you must not declare it a mercy flight but you may, nevertheless, request priority or special considerations from ATC, if necessary, for any part of the flight in controlled airspace. You must not undertake a mercy flight when:

A) an alternative means of achieving the same result is available, or

B) you, your crew and the other occupants of the aircraft are exposed to undue hazard, or

C) Relief or rescue can be delayed until a more suitable aircraft or more favourable operating conditions are available."

So the Department of Civil Aviation in Australia sets out the conditions that enable a pilot to accept or refuse a mercy flight. And so, frankly, you are as much in the dark as if nothing had been written. Full well you know that if the flight is successful nothing more will be said; but should it be unsuccessful, the outcry will be heard from Darwin to Adelaide - or, more correctly in my case, from Kavieng to Adelaide. The litter of provisos constituting the directive exists merely to permit the unsuccessful mercy flight captain to be admonished. Then bureaucracy will not be tarnished with blame for permitting a difficult and dangerous flight to be attempted and, possibly, aborted.

Kaintiba is a strip dug out of the side of a mountain 60 miles north of Kerema, which is on the Papuan coast at the north-eastern end of the Papuan Gulf. It is the wildest country in the world. Largely unmapped, it is occupied by the Kukukukus - tiny creatures who continually kill and eat each other, among the precipices and peaks of the Kukukuku Ranges. Frequently, in the recent past, these minute warriors have savaged Kerema, leaving a reputation for cruelty and courage among the coastal towns.

Never trust a Kukukuku it is said, since he will never trust you. He barely speaks enough words to constitute a language, and he spends his few years of life in savage conflict with the terrain, the elements, his gods, and his own fellow creatures. There is no one to whom he can unburden his soul and from whom he can learn a way out from the cruellest environment on earth. These people are the dammed: they are the Kukukukus.

Occasionally, patrol officer's venture among the Kukukukus, to show that somewhere there is a white authority that needs to display its particular flag in all areas of the Territories of Papua and New Guinea. Some of the Kukukukus have met these officers, and know they hold the power to bring a balus, or big bird, out of the clouds to carry people from Kaintiba to a strange and wonderful world beyond the mountains. Occasionally, they even bring their troubles to these officers. On one such occasion the patrol officer radioed Port Moresby; "Require medical emergency to evacuate urgently three critically ill children."

The time of receipt of the message in Moresby was 14.15 hours.

Ted spoke as though he would like to be allowed into the strip, but not be too unhappy if he were refused the privilege of doing so. "Kaintiba is 1200 feet long. It is a private and restricted strip. The weather will make it dammed difficult to find. It has a 17-degree slope. I'm not endorsed to fly into it; in fact I've never seen it although I've flown over it a number of times, but I've heard it's a bitch of a strip."

My tone must have convinced Ted that I had no wish to see the strip: "Why are they asking me to do the flight? I don't know the area at all, let alone Kaintiba airstrip."

Ted put an edge to his voice that I did not like: "You've a clearance for everywhere in the Territories, and they haven't been able to locate anyone who knows the strip. So they asked me to see if you would do it. They say they would leave it until tomorrow, but that might be too late."

I had long ago acquired the habit of assessing possibilities quickly. The story would get around, if I refused. The resulting loss of goodwill among the Australian community, who have strong ties with their own outback folk at home, would be too great to bear. If we got moving we could venture into the mountains and then decide how far we could afford to push our luck.

There was no one else; so there was little room for manoeuvre or refusal. "Right," I said, "Check the performance charts. If they are alright get the aircraft ready. Be as quick as you can, because we are likely to run out of daylight in those hills." And I plonked down the phone.

By the time I had changed and got to Jackson's Aerodrome seven miles from the centre of Moresby, Ted had filled the Cessna with fuel, and pre-flighted her. He had declared a mercy flight, and had persuaded Moresby Control to accept us without a flight plan; so we were clear to go.

Five minutes later we gave our time of departure as 15.32 hours and, having set the engine at 25 inches of boost and 2,500 revs, climbed initially to three thousand feet.

The weather report was bad. Low cloud over all high ground, with rain and strong winds. I didn't believe the strong wind bit, because of earlier experience of flying in Papua, although I knew there was a chance they were right. At three thousand we levelled off, using 23 inches boost and 2000 revs, which gave us 120 knots indicated. The Owen Stanley Mountains paralleled our track, 30 miles to starboard, with Mount Victoria topping 13000 feet; the lowest ground over there was 7000 feet.

We could not see the mountains, as they were souped in from the coastal plains up to thirty thousand. Heavy rain hung in huge curtains and formed patches of white stratus in front of the black cumuli; it all looked very menacing. The cumuli merged into the medium cloud at about twelve thousand feet and this covered the rest of the sky.

By the time we were over Gulley Reach, 30 miles northeast of Moresby, the medium cloud was down to eight thousand, but the visibility along our track was good. Gulley Reach marked the end of the swamps, until they started again towards Kerema. It is a wide stretch of water, pushing fifteen miles inland from the coast and fed by the Vanapa, the Brown River, and others, which drain the water off the Stanleys. We used it to give us a ground speed check, first on Kubuna, 20 miles further on, and then we confirmed it on Maipa, another 25 miles beyond Kubuna. The whole area is covered with thick rain forest, stretching from the coasts to the tops of the highest mountains, relieved occasionally by small patches of open country near the coast. Kubuna has a short airstrip, cut out of the forest in a bend of the Kubuna River, and Maipa is similar. At low level in bad weather those places can be difficult to locate, because the rivers change their meandering and are unreliable to follow, while the tall timber hides the narrow strips.

The Cessna trundled along nicely so Ted and I discussed our plan of action. We should be at Kerema at 16.28 hours. From there we would fly due north on a timed run for twenty miles, to place ourselves between two mountains, then cut between them on a course of 045 degrees, which should bring us into the valley running up to Kaintiba. From then on, with low cloud and rain to contend with, we would need our share of luck.

Some of the mountains around Kerema are quite high and oddly shaped. The topography is that of a balloon which has been blown tight for a long time and then deflated, the less elastic nature of the ground sharpening the ridges and peaks. The Saw Mountains rise two and a half thousand feet, just like a saw blade, with blunt, tree covered teeth spaced regularly along the extended ridge.

The Pimple and the Nipple are other aptly named peaks, seven and eight thousand feet high, further north. When they are under an open and clear sky they look menacing enough, rising out of a scrambled heap of their lesser brethren. When souped in with heavy cumuli, their bases form a menacing threat as you approach to try and get through. Many a pilot and plane have been swallowed by those mountains particularly when operating out of Bulldog during the war.

Bulldog is a small wartime strip, 30 miles east of Kerema, situated in swamps surrounded by mountains, at the foot of the ten and a half thousand foot Mount Lewes. Nowadays when we lose a plane we seldom find it, but usually uncover a dozen old wrecks of aircraft that were long since victims of Territory weather and terrain. Bulldog is closed now, half covered with coconut trees and jungle, but still recognisable. I never pass it without a feeling of respect for the American crews who used it to tangle with the Japanese from Lae: and for the Japanese. Both sides had to fight a tough and merciless adversary, and then return to base through mountains and weather, which never forgave any error, misdirection or indiscretion.

We turned on to course from Kerema and called base: "Moresby, this is Delta Foxtrot Quebec. Kerema time wun six niner. Tree tousand. Victor Fox Romeo. Setting course Mount Eruki. Climbing to seven tousand. Visibility deteriorating. Will call setting course from Eruki to Kaintiba. Over"

Moresby came back: "Delta Foxtrot Quebec. This is Moresby. Copied. Request endurance. Over."

After a quick calculation we transmitted: "Moresby. Delta Foxtrot Quebec. Wun eight zero minutes." And Moresby terminated with: "Delta Foxtrot Quebec. Roger."

Looking into the hills from Kerema the chances did not appear good. The cloud was down to about seven thousand and there was light rain. Our route took us straight into the murk. Ted was flying from the left-hand seat and I was navigating - so far as the map would allow. It was a relatively unmapped area, with mountains of uncertain height and position. When the cartographers lacked information they simply left the map blank, giving the impression that the mountains were widely spaced and separated by low flat country. Looking down at the vertical cliffs, deep ravines and foaming waterfalls made the lack of realism of the cartographer's presentation all too apparent.

I knew Ted's ability. Although I had been in the Territory for only six months, I had been responsible for some of his training. No youngster, he must be in his forties. Not a lot of experience, but a good pilot and anxious to be better. He held the Cessna on a steady course, still cruising at 120 knots, just below the base of the stratus. Fortunately the base was reasonably flat, coming down a little when the drizzle got heavier and around the highest peaks; but we were able to maintain height. By the time we neared Mount Eruki many of the peaks were in cloud. We reported to Moresby, asking for a listening watch and stated that we would report "Operations normal" every 30minutes.

Moresby accepted this. There was no other traffic, which was fortunate because we could concentrate on what we had to do without having to listen to a lot of communications garbage, which may or may not have been for us.

At Eruki we turned starboard about forty-five degrees. Straight-ahead was a tunnel of ground and cloud. The mountains on either side dropped almost vertically, until they met their opposite numbers in a tight crevice of valley filled with a narrow torrent of water, racing past soil-denuded rocks and boulders, and frequently disappearing beneath the blanket of engulfing rain forest. Most of the precipices were completely covered with trees.

In any other setting some of the trees would have been beautiful, with their brilliant flower-massed foliage, but now the reds, whites and yellows served only to emphasise the sombre dark green, almost black, carpet of forest. Just occasionally there was a white streak down a dark face of rock, either where water jetted out and then tumbled vertically hundreds of feet, or where a strip of limestone was exposed by a rock-fall or landslide. We came close to one such limestone face, far larger than any other, set at the far corner of a narrow valley, which went off to the right, into the murk. Its top entered the cloud, and after a hundred feet or so downward it became reclothed in forest: but it was large and almost square, and it became a friendly signpost to us in that maze.

Ted was convinced that the valley branching to the right was the one we needed. "It goes off at just the right angle," he said. "I've been over the top on a clear day and it was pointed out to me as leading to Kaintiba. It's no good looking at that map; it was put together by stupid types who don't have to fly in this god-dammed country, and who don't give a hang for those who do. You might as well chuck it out." He was fourth generation Australian and characteristically dogmatic.

My reply was less defeatist: "It's no good pressing on without some reference. The map at least gives an idea which way the valleys go, and we need to fly some distance yet before we turn off. Press on, Ted, and let's see what's ahead." He did not argue even though he seemed convinced I was wrong.

So, we pressed on. The ground rose steadily and the valley walls closed in. There was not much wind, not nearly the strength that had been forecast, but it was sufficient to bring the cloud down a couple of hundred feet and to intensify the drizzle. It took about eight minutes' flying to make it evident that, if this were a blind valley, we had little time left before it would become too narrow to get out.

Ted had edged as near to the right wall of the valley as possible, and birds, lifting out of the trees, swung in panic flight past the aircraft. Then Ted gave me a quick glance. I stuck my thumb up and he banked hard over to the left, pulling back sharply on the control column and at the same time applying full revs and power.

The Cessna is a high-winged monoplane, and I detest it for manoeuvring in mountainous country. When the wing went down it blanked off completely the area into which we were turning. With poor visibility and the unbroken carpet of trees there was no external reference of any value and Ted pulled the aircraft almost to the stall, with his eyes glued on the instruments. The emergency break is not often taught in civilian flying schools, but I was glad that I had included it in his instruction and that he was good at it.

I can't say how long it took to get round but it was not more than several seconds. I kept looking up from the instruments to watch trees streaking past the nose. Getting my head back, in an effort to see what we might be turning into, made me lose orientation and I had to fight off vertigo. It was a great relief at last to see the valley wall falling away and the lighter horizon down the valley appear, as we rolled on to the reciprocal track.

"What's to do?" Ted asked. He was not altogether happy, and my decision to take that particular valley had something to do with it. "Let's get back to the limestone face and have a go at your valley," I replied. I was disappointed. No matter how reasonable a mistake my decision may have been, it was a mistake. Still, I didn't brood on it. We were still stuck with a job to do and our progress so far had not been good.

It was easy going down the valley, with better weather ahead. We knew the run, having just been over it and conditions were not too turbulent to allow a brief period of relaxation. We called Moresby, telling them we were trying another valley further south. This was sensible, because it gave them a vague idea of where we might be if things went wrong later. Also, it would be a help not to have to take time out to call Moresby if the going became difficult. Moresby fell in line with this, and kept to themselves any questions they might be asking.

When we reached the limestone face we were using as a pinpoint, it seemed as friendly as Ted's valley looked unfriendly. We went close to it before turning into the valley. I could see the water streaming from the fissures in the face, and could pick out every detail of the few small bushes struggling for survival there. When stressed, it is surprising how even the smallest details attract. It was on a corner between the two valleys and emphasised the darkness of the tunnel of cloud and ground into which we flew.

As soon as we entered the valley it began to lead to the right and did not fit at all into the alignment I considered the Kaintiba valley should have. If anything, the weather was worse.   Once again Ted edged the Cessna over to the right, to keep the manoeuvring area on his side. He lost height steadily to keep below the wispy fragments of stratus that hung below the main cloud base, and the ground rose as steadily. Our tunnel was closing in on us. Ted's face was set as he strained to see ahead, while checking his flight condition repeatedly from his instruments.

I felt a measure of satisfaction even then when I saw this. It is something you stress continuously to pupil pilots. But they don't often get conditions like this to demonstrate its worth. Also, it was comforting to know that I could leave the flying safely to him while I concentrated on looking ahead into the murk.

Ted died in those hills: some three years later.

Suddenly the murk ahead took on a solid look: it had vague streaks and dark patches in it. By the time I had my hands up to the control column the aircraft was already rolling left: then the nose pitched up hard and I was stuck to my seat by the turn, trying to peer over the top of the panel. Trees were again streaking past the nose and Ted must have gained height because we shot into a dark piece of stratus. It looked solid as we hit it and, under the circumstances, was not good for our nerves.

When we cleared the status we were already on a reciprocal course and several years older, if adrenalin has an ageing effect. We did not speak until we reached the end of the valley. When younger, I used to laugh off such experiences; but both Ted and I were beyond the age group that needs to create a reputation for sang-froid. So we sat quietly, cooling off, trying to decide what to do next. I had a compelling urge for the comforts of home.

"Shall I call Moresby and tell them we are returning?" I could tell by Ted's tone that, now the adrenalin had worn off, he was disappointed that his valley, too, had proved to be the wrong one. We had tried the only two valleys that bore any similarity to the map alignment of the Kaintiba valley. In the case of my choice, the valley bore too far to the left: in Ted's case, too far to the right. In both cases it had closed up when it shouldn't. We were on course for home and comfort, but very empty handed and frustrated.

I stirred out of my reflections and placed hands and feet on the controls. "OK, Ted, I've got her. Call Moresby. Say we are trying the valley again which heads 045 from Eruki. We'll call if we abort, or within 15 minutes."

He looked at me for a long moment, then seemingly shrugged his shoulders without moving and did as I asked. Why I took over I don't really know. If I was going to endorse Ted into Kaintiba he should handle the aircraft all the time. Maybe I felt that Ted might not approve the idea of trying my valley again and would abort before I would. Maybe I felt he needed a rest. Maybe I felt that I would be a little more comfortable if I had control. Anyway, I think Ted was relieved.

Back at the limestone face my valley looked worse than before. We turned from the lighter horizon around Eruki, towards the heavy cloud covering the mountains. As we flew into the valley I edged hard into the right-hand wall, much tighter than Ted because it was on my side. As we flew past our pinpoint I felt a deep wish to be seeing it again soon, but there was no thought of turning back yet. I had a feeling about that valley of mine, which was considerably reinforced after reflecting on the alignment of Ted's valley.

The ground and cloud closed in. By the time we had reached our old turning point we were pushing our luck, but I kept going. A quick glance at Ted left no doubt how he felt. He didn't like the situation one little bit, but he couldn't do anything about it. It would have been suicidal to distract the pilot under such circumstances.

I knew that should we come to a dead end from then on we would not be able to turn out. Ted knew this, which explained his haemorrhoidal expression. What he didn't know was that I intended, should it be necessary, to pull the aircraft up vertically into the cloud and stall turn to the left. Doing this, I would turn onto the reciprocal in little more than the width of the aircraft, at the sacrifice of some height. I had done plenty of aerobatics in cloud and felt I could make it, should I have to: but hoped fervently that it would not be necessary. I had never stall turned the Cessna and did not know its peculiarities.

It seemed like an hour: but we had flown only two minutes longer than before when the ground below stopped climbing towards us and the valley suddenly began to turn right. Another 20 seconds or so and the drizzle began to clear, so that we could see along the valley ahead. The overlying cloud made it look dark, but we could see enough to know it was safe to press on. The valley floor was falling quite rapidly and the sides moved out to a respectable distance. Relief began to surge in our veins.

Then Ted claimed that he could see the landing strip. I looked to where he pointed and could see a reddish brown streak down the mountainside ahead. It might have been anything. Ted spotted the marker cones at the beginning of the strip. I had to watch what I was doing with the aircraft, so I cautioned him to be quite certain. The valley closed to a vertical wall behind the strip and we would not be able to get out if we had to abort the approach to land. He was quite definite, so I dropped half flap and the speed fell to 80 knots. Selecting fine pitch I completed the pre-landing check. We called Moresby: "On finals Kaintiba." Moresby seemed relieved as they came back: "Call Moresby on departure. SARwatch terminated. Out."

A shoulder of rock projected to the edge of the strip at the touchdown end and this tended to distract. The ground came up to meet us and yet the VSI showed no rate of descent. A 17-degree slope is quite sharp, and it almost caught me out on the round out. We arrived hard: but safely.

Sorry about that," I said. But Ted was feeling magnanimous: "Any landing on a strip like this, which you can walk away from, is first class." It was an old tag, but it comforted.

While we talked, the aircraft was slowing up as though lassoed, and I had to open to full power to keep moving up the strip. At the top end a seemingly level square of earth had been dug, and we turned side-wards on this because we could not trust brakes or chocks on a slope so steep. We stopped, brakes hard on. Ted got out and chocked the wheels immediately I switched off, and before I moved from the controls. Then I got out.

It was a great relief to be on solid ground, even though it was a mountainside in the middle of nowhere. We heard the birds call, and the crackling of the engine as it cooled down, but nothing else. We looked around and the place was still.

Looking down the strip, we had a mountain on our right, which disappeared into the cloud not far above our heads. Straight ahead, beyond the strip, we looked down a tunnel of cloud and ground falling away towards the way we had come. We had not much time. To pick our way out would be easy now, but murder in the dark.

To the left, a col bridged the steep drop to another mountainous wall three or four hundred yards to our left. Nothing happened. We began to experience doubt. I believe a shadow of a smile crossed Ted's face. Could there be another strip? We waited, occasionally looking at each other, the way out, or our watches, in silence.

After five minutes of increasing uncertainty we noticed a movement among the bamboos and trees covering the col. Then two European patrol officers stepped onto the strip - thin, bearded, unkempt. Laconically they strolled up to us and gave greeting: "Stripes, mates, we'd given you up. Damn glad to see you. The Kukus will be here in a minute."

Even as he spoke the Kukukukus came out of the undergrowth. They were tiny. I would estimate less than four feet tall. Hooded and cloaked from head to feet in bark clothing, they carried spears and bows and arrows. Six were paired up to carry litters. The others, by their deployment and weapons, were warriors. The litters consisted of long poles linked with bark material, which almost touched the ground, and they could have been empty.

On moving toward the aircraft the Kukukukus began to chatter and moan. As they placed their litters on the ground there was a slight skirmish round one of them and a tiny figure staggered back into the dense vegetation. One or two warriors moved as though to give chase, but decided that the aircraft held greater interest and returned to the others.

It was getting dark and I was impatient to move out. It appeared that one of the children had run away in fear of the balus - the big bird that would take them away into the unknown. I indicated that we would take the other two. Both parents wished to travel with the children but I insisted on taking only one, so the father was chosen. The mother wailed and cried but I was adamant. Somewhere in the bush there was a frail scrap of humanity needing help, so she had to stay. With benefit of hindsight, I know I should never have left her.

The two children we loaded aboard were quite naked: animated skeletons. They were bald and huge brown eyes peered from their sunken sockets. They had no strength and no hope: their life must have been a pitiless hell, and nothing could worsen it. The sight brought to mind the comment of a certain lady radio panellist who claimed that all poverty is relative. She could not have been more wrong. Here, and in other places I had been, it was absolute. Anything worse and suffering would have ceased.

As the children were lifted out of their litters and placed near the aircraft their limbs collapsed around them, as do marionettes': Life had virtually ceased to pull their strings. They were just rejected scraps of humanity, yet had a value greater to me than all the rest of the animated group around them. Perhaps it was their eyes, or the utter contrast between active life and approaching death. For what reason had they to die? They were lifted into the aircraft and the man placed himself between them, while the woman howled.

I pulled the chocks away and Ted started the engine as I climbed in. I strapped the passengers in the rear seats and indicated to the man that he was to hold on to the children, who were sagging grotesquely. What was in their minds on being strapped inside this creature with wings I could not guess. There was now no apparent fear: just amazement as they kept their eyes fixed on my every movement, on my face as I smiled at them or placed their limbs more comfortably, and on the back of my head, I guess, when I turned to watch the take-off. We gave a wave to the patrol officers and then to the Kukukukus. Ted turned the aircraft so that it pointed down the strip, made sure the nose wheel was straight, and then gave full power.

The slope was so steep it seemed that we must drag the tail, but we didn't. The aircraft left the ground in a third of the normal distance, and we were soon heading down the valley in the half-light.

We arrived back at Moresby after dark. The return was uneventful, except for the small grimace of a smile I managed to coax out of the little girl after repeated attempts. The boy had partially hidden himself behind the man, and I could only see his eyes. The man, after the initial ten minutes of flight, had decided there was nothing to fear and was ingratiating with his nods and grins.

At Moresby they had an ambulance waiting and we transferred the family into it. I lifted the girl into the ambulance. There was no weight in her. I leaned subsequently that she was not recovering, whereas the boy improved rapidly. . The physician said that they had never managed to adjust to the solids available to them in their clan area, but he was talking through his hat.

They gave up the struggle to save the girl and pronounced her beyond hope of recovery. Then, one day, an attentive Papuan nurse watched after placing food so that the man, who was billeted in the hospital grounds, could feed the girl. After the nurse left, and while she watched from a window, the man ate the girl's food. I can only imagine the anguish in those brown eyes. The child was removed immediately from the other two and placed on her own. The Papuan nurse then dragged her back from death: slowly, painfully, but successfully.

Our flight was only partially successful. I still think of the other small creature starving in the Kukukuku Ranges. He could not expect pity from his tribe or his mother, if she was his mother, and the Gods would never send another balus for him.

October 1967

This Article was published in "Flight" Magazine in February of 1968