Davies had been the first to jump into space. Now standing on a steep hillside, his crumpled parachute around his legs, he looked up and saw Flight 12420 disappearing over the ridge in the distance, seemingly hightailing it to safety in India now that it had been relieved of its extraneous weight. “Damnation,” he thought, “they have unloaded us and now they are light enough to make it back to base.” He had leaped into the unknown, eyes tightly closed, with both hands locked on the pin that would pull the ripcord. Counting to ten—because he had read in novels that this is what parachutists did—he had pulled hard and after an enormous jolt found himself swinging gently under a mass of silk, the blue sky above and the green hillside below. He landed on the side of the hill without much finesse, and Captain Duncan Lee, Sergeant Evan Wilder, Staff Sergeant Joseph “Jiggs” Giguere, and Lieutenant Colonel Kwoh Li landed close by. They were none the worse for their ordeal, apart from a few bruises and strains. Duncan Lee had stuffed a bottle of Carew’s gin into his shirt before he jumped, and it had survived intact. But they were shocked, psychologically dislocated by the experience they had just been through. The time that had passed between realizing that they had to jump and standing here on a silent hillside could be measured in minutes. One moment they were safely dozing on a quiet passenger flight to Kunming, and the next minute they were, well, who knew where?
Each man stood and looked around to get a measure of their surroundings. They were high on the side of a mountain with a river running through the deep valley far below. The terrain was covered with scrub rather than jungle, with tall trees massed in clumps across the slopes. It was silent, without even the rustling of the leaves in the trees or the chirping of birds to share their shocked contemplation. Duncan, at least, admitted that he was “scared fairly stiff.” Where had they landed? Were they in Burma? Where were the nearest Japanese? Were there any natives? If so, would they be friendly? And what of any wild animals? Did tigers, leopards, and wild buffalo inhabit this wilderness? All they had to defend themselves was a Colt .45 automatic pistol that Duncan Lee had in a holster strapped to his waist.
A small stream gathered itself in a pool a little way down the hill, and, suddenly feeling the dryness of their mouths, the five men clambered down the slope to slake their thirst. Pushing their way through the bushes, they knelt down and began to drink. According to Davies’s memoirs, it was while quenching his thirst that he looked up toward the opposite side of the pool, and his eyes connected with those of another human being who was watching him intently. Looking around, he saw other faces and was relieved to record that they reflected curiosity rather than hostility. He smiled, and six or so men, virtually naked, stepped out from the bushes on the other side of the pool. “They were superb physical specimens in loin cloths and saucer-sized brass disks shielding their genitals, bearing red tasseled spears and carrying long machete-like knives strapped on their backs.” The two groups of men stood there, sizing each other up. With no nefarious intent apparent, the first challenge was that of communication. The silence was broken by Kwoh Li blurting out, in Chinese, “Where are we?” The question elicited not even a flicker of a response. The nearly naked, spear-wielding warriors a few feet away appeared not even to have heard the words, let alone understood them. The impasse was broken when Davies noticed a leech on his arm. One of the tribesmen reached over and with a tug removed it, an act that Davies interpreted as friendly. He had in one of his pockets a small notebook. He now drew it out and, standing next to the native, began to draw sketches of those quotidian things that might create a link between the two groups.aa Did the natives recognize them? A rough drawing of a train—shown with the attendant sounds—was followed by both Japanese and British flags. Blank incomprehension. The drawing of a rifle and the sounds of gunfire didn’t trigger any signs of recognition or understanding either. They looked at each other in silence. They appeared to have nothing in common, these white men in crumpled khaki who had dropped from the sky and these near-naked warriors who had emerged silently from the undergrowth in the midst of a vast green wilderness. Then the tribesmen gestured for Davies and his colleagues to come with them. Looking at each other, they shrugged their shoulders in acquiescence. There was little else they could do, and the natives didn’t appear unfriendly. Slowly they began to ascend the hill. Alarmingly, one of the natives looked at Davies and, grinning, drew his hand across his throat. Were they being led to their slaughter after all? What could they do about it, with a single .45 automatic among them? But at the same time the natives appeared concerned for the well-being of their visitors. The track went directly up the hill, and, noticing their visitors’ inability to move at their pace, the natives slowed down and waited patiently for them to clamber up. Davies thought quickly. They didn’t appear to be in danger, and they needed to adopt a calm and measured attitude toward their newfound friends. Weakness, Davies thought, or fear would be exploited and could be dangerous.
After about thirty minutes they crested a ridge, and there on its peak they saw a village, its back resting comfortably against the hillside. A cluster of houses, all built of palm thatch, were grouped together, the fronts elevated on stilts to compensate for the slope of the ground, verandas reaching across the front of each. What views of the valley below! It was a verdant paradise. But those same magnificent views would allow the villagers plenty of time to prepare if an enemy decided to attack. In this respect the village was no different from countless others across the region, where families protected themselves from the depredations of their enemies by perching their villages on the peaks of the hills rather than in the more sensible but less secure valleys. On the verandas of the houses, Davies noticed, were the village’s womenfolk, “a diverting sight with their bare bosoms festooned over the balustrades.”
At the heart of the village was what appeared to be a large communal house with a distinctive frontage—like an inverted V with elaborately carved uprights—which the men were encouraged to enter. From the veranda at its front they caught their first sight of a column of smoke rising into the sky across the neighboring mountain. With a sudden shock they realized that the fire came from the remains of Flight 12420, which had clearly been unable to make its way back to India. What had happened to everyone else? Davies hadn’t seen any parachutes other than those of the four men with him. Presumably many might now be dead, but others would have been able to get out of the plane alive. Not knowing what to think, he scribbled a message in his notebook, ripped out the page, and handed it to the man whom he had now judged to be the most senior. Pointing to the distant smoke, he pressed the page into his hands. A flicker of understanding crossed the other man’s face. The native men talked among themselves before one of the warriors was handed the paper and went off at a trot, disappearing into the bush at the end of the ridge. Davies had written, “Those who bailed out this morning should join the rest of the party at the village. The bearer will lead you. This means you, too, Eric.”
The ice now having been broken, the natives of the Naga village of Ponyo, just inside the border in Burma, lost some of their earlier inhibitions and clustered around the men, fascinated by everything they saw, fingering their clothes, boots, and items of equipment. Duncan Lee had emptied the Colt .45 of its cartridges, and the natives touched it in awe, allowing their hands to run over the machined metal. The other villagers had by this time also overcome their shyness and crowded around the men from the plane. A man whom Davies judged to be the leader approached him—singling Davies out as the head of the small group of aliens who had dropped from the sky—and with both hands outstretched offered him a sword, the handle prominent, with much careful ceremony. It was immediately understood by Davies to be a sign of peace. The sword looked to be British, which meant that some kind of contact clearly existed between the village and the outside world. It was clear to him that the natives were friendly and intended them no harm, although he knew nothing of their history or reputation. On reflection, he realized that the tribespeople must have become used to the almost daily sight of the strange machines flying high over their homes but had never seen who was in them or had the opportunity to reach out and touch these godlike beings who could travel so high in the sky—the province, it was thought before these noisy creatures were first seen, of the birds and of the gods.
In Angami territory (around Kohima), when the first aircraft had been seen only a year or two before, it had caused both consternation and awe. Noumvüo Khruomo was twenty when he saw his first aircraft. He was working with his family in the fields when he saw the airplane, and they exclaimed in astonishment at how amazing it was that they had witnessed something so spectacular in their lifetime. Neilao, a young man of the same age, first saw a plane flying above Khonoma village. He stared at it in wonder: “The others with me shouted ‘Lei, Lei, Lei, kepruo lei’ (look, look, look, a plane, look). We were so filled with awe at seeing that flying object in the sky. I thought to myself, so that is what a kepruo is. The second time we saw aircraft was when four or five planes flew over Khonoma.” On first seeing an aircraft, the villagers of Chakhesang ran outside to watch, the elders calling out, “Come, come out and see, there is a strange bird in the sky!” The “bird” then proceeded to open its belly and drop bombs into the valley below. The villagers were shocked, some calling out in surprise, “Look out! It’s defecating!” before the bombs exploded deafeningly, sending them running back in terror to their huts. The next day was declared a taboo day, a no-work day to purify the village of any ill consequences from the sighting of the strange bird and its terrifying excrement.bb
With as much dignity as he could muster, Davies took the proffered weapon. What could he offer in exchange? The four men had gathered up their parachutes and harnesses and brought them with them to the village—they might come in handy, they thought—and after handing back the sword as reverently as he could, with plenty of head bowing, Davies offered the man the great bundle of white silk from his ’chute. Taking off his watch, he offered that too, attempting briefly to explain the purpose of the strange instrument. He gave up. The headman had accepted these gifts impassively. Then the headman—who certainly looked much older than the others—dipped his hand into a native haversack attached by a strap to his shoulder and solemnly brought out a silver Indian rupee for each of the downed men, yet more evidence of the village’s contact with “civilization” and of the friendly intent of their hosts.
These ceremonies over, the five men were led to a circular seating area in the center of the village in front of the large building, which Davies assumed was some sort of guesthouse, where a fire had been lit and preparations were being made for a feast of some kind. It was for the men only, the women and children disappearing quietly from view. Rows of bamboo mugs had been prepared, filled with some unknown concoction that they would later understand to be zu, beer that was made in these parts with millet. Then, pulled by a rope, into the village struggled a scrawny goat, bleating pitifully. In a flash of understanding Davies realized now what that sinister throat-cutting motion had meant earlier: it was the sign that an animal was to be sacrificed to celebrate the arrival among these unknown people of their guests from the sky. There is no doubt that if these five men had known among whom they had fallen that day—the Nagas of Ponyo village, close allies of Pangsha—their terror would have been real and justified. But on this occasion, ignorance was bliss. Davies, as befitted the leader of the heavenly visitors, was offered a large dao: it was evident that he was expected to remove the head from the nervous, bleating ruminant. He demurred and nodded instead to Evan Wilder. “With a visible lack of enthusiasm,” Davies recalled, “the Texan grasped the knife and, as three braves held the uncooperative goat, hacked off the beast’s head.” Then, head removed and blood spurting from the stump, the body was passed from man to man for each to take a mouthful of the warm liquid. They did so for the sake of fraternity, unwilling to upset their hosts, for whom this ceremony was clearly of some significance. It wasn’t the most pleasant experience of his life, Davies thought—the warm blood tasting “rather bland, something like unchilled tomato juice without Worcestershire sauce and lemon”—but the day was now accumulating a long series of new experiences, and there seemed plenty of time for more. The blood-drained carcass was then thrown on the fire, without being skinned or gutted, and slowly cooked, innards and all.
Whatever ceremony was then planned Davies could not say, for at that moment in the far distance could be heard the distinctive and miraculous sound of a twin-engined C-47 Skytrain, the military version of the famous DC3 Douglas airliner, known in British usage as the Dakota, flying low. Some of the tribesmen rushed to the outskirts of the village, gesturing excitedly at the sky. Sure enough, lumbering majestically across the valley a few miles away was the most comforting sight the five men had ever seen. Excitement overcame them, and they began jumping and shouting somewhat foolishly, Davies later admitted, vainly hoping to attract the attention of their colleagues several miles away. The aircraft turned out of sight at the end of the valley without any indication that their village had been seen. Nevertheless, they continued to hear it for some time to come. The smoke from the crash site had disappeared by now, but the C-47 was apparently searching the ground, as it circled among the hills in the neighboring valley. Eventually, however, the sound of aircraft engines disappeared, and the party settled down around the fire to tear strips from the now-roasted goat. The morale of the four men had risen dramatically as a result of the welcome apparition they had just witnessed.
The party was well under way with the sun into its decline nearly three hours later when up to the circle came running the messenger they had sent earlier with Davies’s scrap of paper. The man solemnly handed Davies another piece of paper in return. It was a note from Eric Sevareid and read, “Dear John—Eleven men here—two have bad legs—supplies dropped here, plane will return here—rescue party on way—please come here—we are about one mile south of wreck. Eric.” The decision was made: they would join Sevareid’s party and to do so would need to set out before it got dark. Somehow this plan was understood by their hosts, and with much bowing and exchange of felicitations the five men set off, accompanied by the man who had carried the message and four of the spear-carrying men from the village. In normal circumstances, Davies recognized, the tribesmen would have jogged, but instead they “accommodated themselves to our stumbling gait.” It was soon dark, but somehow—he could never understand exactly how—the men cut down rushes from the side of the path and lit a spark from a flint to transform the rushes into brightly burning torches. They were soaked on their way by a sudden downpour, but the rushes miraculously continued burning. Soon they were tired and stumbling, although the sure-footed natives were careful to guide them through the worst of the track. After what Davies imagined to have been four or five hours—he no longer had his watch—their guides began to call out in the darkness. They came to a wooden stockade through which they were led to a large house in the middle of a village that was a replica of the one they had left. Saturated by the rain and exhausted, they stumbled inside. There, most of them asleep, were their compatriots. Eric Sevareid was sitting up, awakened by the sudden disturbance. Davies recalled their Stanley-and-Livingstone-like meeting: “Dripping wet, I greeted him, ‘Dr. Sevareid, I presume.’”
