The Rupa Book Of Great Escape Stories

by Ruskin Bond

  Altogether, Lyapidevski made thirty-six unsuccessful attempts to reach the camp during the next few weeks, and was each rime turned back by blizzards. On February 13 he received a radiogram, 'Chelyuskin smashed up. One hundred persons on the ice.' And two days later another, 'Take all measures for rescue of expedition and equipment of Chelyuskin: A hurricane was raging; the local Choukchis had buried themselves in their huts. It was the bitterest moment in the young airman's life.

  On March 5 his patience was at an end. He decided to make the flight, whatever the weather. Fortunately this turned out good. 'We kept a look-out, but there was no camp, only an endless sea of pack ice,' he reported. 'We kept on moving about and staring till our eyes ached.' The machine was flying over the limitless spaces of a desert of ice. The calm was eerie. An ice peace of the ages. The machine seemed to be just dangling in the air. Then suddenly he saw the smoke signal of the camp.

  To the men and women enduring that living death in the interminable silence of the ice, it seemed as if a miracle had happened. Rushing out of their primitive dwellings, they shouted a hysterical welcome, throwing their fur caps in the air.

  But Lyapidevski was circling round anxiously over the landing ground. It was only one hundred and sixty feet wide, and he was used to a width of five hundred feet. Moreover, it was banked by ice ridges a yard high. To his intense surprise he made an easy landing, and was soon shaking hands with Professor Schmidt.

  There was little time to spare for mutual congratulations. The ten women and the two babies were quickly assisted into the huge twin-engined plane, for the first rule of rescue, 'women and children first,' was not forgotten. In eighty degrees of frost, the machine rose into the air and set off on the hazardous return journey. It was accomplished safely, and the astounding news flashed through the world that the first rescue of the Chelyuskin survivors had been effected without mishap.

  Lyapidevski made further attempts on March 10, 11, 12, and 13 to break through the snowstorms but was forced back. On March 14 he crashed in the ice field. He and his crew were unhurt, but at first they wished they had been killed, for death by cold and starvation seemed their certain fate. They left the aeroplane and set out over the ice. All at once they saw a Choukchi. By an amazing stroke of luck the plane had come down near the Choukchi settlement at Lolycouchin Island, and they were saved.

  Other planes were meanwhile fighting their way northwards over the Siberian wastes. Doronin and Vodopyanov led one detachment. At Cape Gadikan they ran into the tail of a typhoon from Japan. The aeroplanes began to toss badly, and were forced down. The aerodrome was large, but covered with ice, and the anemometers showed that the wind velocity was twenty yards a second. Nevertheless, all the machines landed safely.

  Bastanzhiyev, another airman in this detachment, was separated from the other planes, and flew alone at six thousand feet over the Pau-Pau range of mountains. The snowy mist was so dense that he lost altitude and crashed, wrecking his machine utterly. Luckily he and his mechanic and engine-man were unhurt. But for two days their only shelter from a terrific blizzard was the wing of the plane. They crawled under it, covered themselves with snow, and made a hole in the snow for air.

  At Anadyr, the detachment was delayed for five days by a blizzard which buried their machines in snow. The snow even got through the tiny holes through which the control cables passed. Both Doronin and Vodopyanov battled their way to Schmidt Camp and rescued more of the Chelyuskinians.

  Kamanin and Molokov, in another detachment, were caught in a fierce blizzard over the dread Anadyr range of mountains, at seven thousand five hundred feet. The fog was so dense that in an attempt to get below it they dropped to three thousand three hundred feet—and found it worse than ever. 'We thought we should go nose first into the mountains,' said Kamanin later. 'It was like plunging through a sea of ink: I could not see the wings of my machine.' By great good fortune they passed unwittingly through a gap in the mountains.

  Molokov and Kamanin both reached Schmidt Camp on April 7. A list of names had been drawn up by Professor Schmidt of members of the marooned party, in an order corresponding to their physical condition. Schmidt had inflammation of the lungs, verging on pneumonia, but he refused to be taken off before the last.

  Though Molokov's machine was intended to hold only two persons, he squeezed four behind him in the cockpit. Then he actually lashed two more beneath the wings in the slots intended to hold the parachutes. These two men were wrapped in the parachutes to protect them from the terrific cold of the return flight.

  Meanwhile the ice floe was breaking up, fissuring into lanes and channels of water. Rescue became more and more urgent if the marooned men were to be saved from drowning. One crack went right through the wooden hut: it collapsed like matchwood.

  On April 4, a rumble like distant guns at sea, warned the little party that the ice was beginning to pack again. The broken floes crashed together now with tremendous shocks, a case of matches falling between two flared like a torch. By April 9, a gigantic ridge of ice floes was bearing down on the camp, now grinding and whining, now topping over with crashes like thunder. The destruction of the tiny community was imminent.

  But almost every day now, an aeroplane was snatching another human batch from the jaws of death. Would there be time to rescue everyone?

  Molokov alone had made nine journeys over the ice in awful weather, and had rescued thirty-nine men. The last man he brought back was Professor Schmidt, lying ill with a temperature of one hundred and two degrees. Moscow had wirelessed an imperative order that he was to be taken off the ice against his will, immediately.

  Slepnyov and Levanevski were actually sent by the Soviet to the United States to buy big American planes. They flew from Fairbanks, Alaska, through blinding snow over the Bering Strait, and along the coast to Wellen. Slepnyov took part in the April 7 flight to Schmidt Camp, when he slightly damaged his machine. Later, when his plane was repaired, he brought ten men to the mainland on April 10.

  Bobrov, Schmidt's assistant, had taken over command at the camp since the departure of his chief The dawn of April 13 brought the last trio of rescuing aircraft, piloted by Molokov and two others. The last of the stores and equipment were loaded on board. Then Schmidt Camp sent out its last radio message to the world, April 13. Radio stopping. In half an hour, I, Captain Voronin and Wireless-Operator Krenkal will be the last to leave the camp, where the Soviet flag is flying.—Bobrov.'

  Every man and woman had been saved. Even the dogs were rescued. All the scientific apparatus and indeed everything of value was brought back to the mainland.

  Such is the epic of the Chelyuskin rescue, in which wireless and aviation played greater parts in saving human life than ever before. Yet these marvels of our age would have been useless without the skill and gallantry of the airmen, each of whom was awarded a special decoration by the Soviet Government.

  Every minute of those three long months of rescue was a race against overwhelming odds. The heroic airmen arrived just in time. Another ten days, and they would have been too late. A few strands of wreckage, crushed in tumbling ice, would have been all that was left. Instead, every human being on that drifting ice floe in the Arctic lived to bear witness to one of the greatest adventures of modern times.

  TRAPPED BY WILD BOAR

  Ross Salmon

  ne night in the jungle several of my cowboys and I were squatting round a camp fire singing a Spanish cowboy song, about the girls we left behind us on another ranch. We had rounded-up a hundred head of catde that day; and some of the cowboys were riding herd duty on them nearby. The rest of us were going to ride herd for the second half of the night, and after our evening meal and a little sing-song we planned to turn in.

  We had slung our hammocks and mosquito nets from the trees at the edge of the jungle, and our horses were tethered nearby. If the herd-riding cowboys had any trouble we could be out of our hammocks, on our horses and out on to the prairie in a flash.

  'One more song before we
turn in,' cried Pito, one of the youngest and most exuberant of my men. 'Look at that perfect clear sky. How about Cielito Undo (beautiful sky)?'

  'One moment,' commanded old Jimenez, holding up his hand for silence. 'Listen.'

  I could hear nothing, and judging by the mystified glances of the others neither could they. Old Jimenez fell on to his knees and pressed one ear to the ground, then jumped to his feet and looked around fearfully, as though he were seeking a way of escape.

  'Cerdo del monte (pig of the jungle),' he announced gravely, moistening his lips. 'They might be headed this way. We must prepare.'

  'Oye,' wailed Pito miserably. 'I once had an encounter with wild pigs of the jungle (wild boar) and I never want to see another as long as I live.'

  'What is the best way to attack them?' I asked Pito.

  'Do not attack them at all, Mister,' he replied. 'Get up into the trees and stay there.'

  Then I heard them approaching. A faint rumbling noise, gradually increasing in volume, coming nearer—nearer. The earth started to tremble beneath our feet.

  'Come, to your horses, men,' I shouted. I could see the cattle stampeding in front of this rumbling herd of wild boar. I knew that, if the worst happened, we could always escape on horseback, because there was a large stretch of open grassland in front of us.

  We rode out to join the cowboys riding herd. The rumbling was getting nearer all the time, reverberating through the jungle and across the prairie. The cattle had been lying down peacefully sleeping, but now they were all on their feet, milling about and bawling.

  'Here they come,' Jimenez shouted.

  'Stand by to run if they come straight at us,' I cried.

  Then I saw them in the bright moonlight, charging across a patch of naked dust. There must have been fifty of them in line abreast about six deep. They were heading almost straight for us.

  I suddenly remembered how Payo, my Motilone Indian cowboy, had turned a stampede of cattle once. He had galloped to one side of the herd and shot the leading steers on the left, so that the cattle would swing to the right, a desperate measure, which had succeeded.

  I could do the same thing with this stampeding herd of wild boar. I could shoot at the boars nearest to us, and divert the herd away to the right.

  I drew one of my six-guns and took aim at the leading boars.

  'No, Mister—caramba—don't shoot,' Pito positively screamed at me. He raised his stock whip and lashed out in my direction. The leash flicked round my wrist and Pito tugged hard. My six-gun spun out of my fingers.

  'What the blazes!' I exploded, but the deafening roar of six-guns blazing drowned my voice. I saw the boys firing into the air and whooping like mad.

  The charging herd of boar started to veer a little. At the crucial moment two excited steers broke loose and charged towards them, making the boars veer a fraction more, and we watched them thundering by within yards of us.

  It reminded me again of the soldier ants, though this time it was a solid wall of boar-about twenty tons of it, the dark grey bodies rushing by at an amazing speed on their stumpy legs We watched them disappearing into the distance, as we sang to the milling cattle to pacify them.

  I was just about to ride off in search of Pito to raise the roof' with him when he appeared at my side.

  'I am very sorry, Mister, very sorry indeed,' he began I had good reason for doing such a thing, as you can imagine. Will you at least let me tell you my story before you dismiss me from your cowboy gang?'

  'That is just what I am going to do, so your story had better be good,' I told him.

  We returned to our camp fire, and the other off-duty cowboys joined us.

  Pito is going to tell us a good story,' I said. So stoke up the camp fire and gather round. Go ahead, Pito.'

  'It was nearly two years ago that I was out hunting in the jungle quite near here,' Pito began. 'I was following a white- tailed deer along a river bank. I was determined to shoot it with my bow and arrow and take it home for the family stewing-pot Food had been scarce in our house recendy, and my father had given me several good beatings when I returned empty-handed from my hunting trips. I desperately wanted that deer.

  'It was trotting along slowly enough, because I had been following it all day, and it was no longer very frightened. Pretty soon I would get close enough for a shot.

  'Suddenly the deer stood stock still for a few seconds, then quivered all over and raced off along the river bank into the jungle. Immediately I thought of a jaguar or a puma, and I was on my guard. I kept spinning around and looking about me, bow and arrow ready for instant action.

  'Presently I heard a faint rumbling, just as we did tonight. It grew louder and louder, and then the earth began to shake. I was terrified. I could not think what it was. I had never seen wild boar before.

  'The only thing I could think of was to escape somewhere, somehow. I decided to climb a tree. I was about twelve feet up in this tree when it began to shake so violently that I grasped the nearest thick branch, heaved myself up on to it and hung on tightly.

  'A few minutes late a herd of boar came crashing through the thick jungle below. Only they were not charging as they were tonight, because the jungle was too thick at that point. They had their heads well down and the leaders were bulldozing and ripping a path through the undergrowth. They were almost in single file this time.

  'With their sleek, grey-black bodies and spindly legs they were something like a slim version of our own pigs. I though they would make good eating. I had missed my deer, but any wild animal would do to take home so long as we could eat it. By the time I had decided to shoot one, the single file had almost passed me by. As the last one in the line came level I took aim and ... fired. My aim was good. The arrow pierced his heart and he rolled over dead. The rest of the herd just went on unconcernedly. This was easy!

  'I saw them reach the river and spread out along the bank They chased a few scampering iguana lizards and trampled them to death, fighting to get a bite of the dead bodies. A fifteen-foot-long water-boa had been disturbed by them and it started to slither back towards the river. In a flash the boars were on it, and trampled the writhing snake into mincemeat in no time. For half an hour they hunted reptiles and wallowed in the shallows. Then the single-file procession started back along the trail heading towards my tree.

  Then I made my costly mistake. I was greedy. I decided to shoot another one for my friends. It had been so easy before. This time I took aim at the first in the line, so that I should have plenty of time for another shot if my first one did not prove fatal. I fired an arrow.... The leader dropped.... The boars stopped something was wrong this time. My mouth went dry.

  'Suddenly the boars went wild. They started rushing around frantically, working their ugly jaws up and down and clicking their teeth together like castanets. The noise was deafening with the snorting, thumping, clicking and the ripping of the undergrowth.

  'They were looking for the aggressor.

  'Then they saw me, and rushed at the foot of my tree, clicking and snorting more furiously than ever. I took a firm hold of the branch. They were so raving mad that they would have torn me to shreds if they could have reached me. Thank goodness they cannot climb trees, I thought, at least I am safe here. But I was not safe, not by any means. When I tell you what the boars did you may not believe me, amigos, but it is true.

  'The wild boars actually started to eat the bark of the tree! Some of them gnawed at the tree; others shoved and pushed it. There was no doubt that they meant to bring it down. I was trembling with fear. I could not climb out along the branch and reach the next tree without running a great risk, because the boars were shaking the tree so much. And it was not a particularly large tree!

  'All that afternoon they gnawed at the tree, but I could not see what progress they were making. For all I knew the tree might come tumbling down at any moment, and pitch me into that seething, angry mob of boars.

  'Night came, and I still there clinging to my branch, but the b
oars gave me no respite. A number of them stayed with me, occasionally attacking my tree, while the rest went off hunting or slept. They did not mean me to escape.

  'During the night, while I was being bitten by hundreds of mosquitoes and attacked b vampire bats, their attention was only once distracted. One of their number started squealing frantically in the jungle not far away. I guessed that it had been attacked by a jaguar or a puma. Presently the squealing stopped and the boars returned to attack my tree. In the morning they redoubled their efforts. I was absolutely parched with thirst and very hungry, and hours later, when the scorching tropical sun burst through, I was almost beyond caring what happened.

  'It was then that I heard voices shouting in the distance. They came nearer, and I recognised the special shout of my father-the shout that he used to summon his family to a meal. So I knew that it was he with a search party looking for me. The boars seemed to take no notice.

  'When the search party came within earshot I called out and warned them to beware of the wild boars surrounding me. There was silence for a few minutes. Then they shouted that they were coming through the trees towards me, bidding me to keep shouting so that they could locate me.

  'Half an hour later they were in the trees all round me.

  '"Hold on, son," my father shouted. "We shall have to shoot our way out of here. Did you by any chance shoot or harm the leading boar?"

  '"Yes, father, I did," I confessed.

  "You utter fool," my father replied. "You shot the king. Now we shall have to shoot every single boar here. They will never leave, now that you have shot their king."

  'My father issued a command, and arrows started swishing out of the trees and landing among the boars. One ot the men had a six-gun and as he fired it the boars started dropping one by one, some killed by arrows, some by bullets.

  'Just as my father said, we had to kill every single boar. The last one alive was still attacking my tree!'

  Pito turned and looked straight at me, still overcome by the memory of his experience.