Alive: The Story of the Andes Survivors

by Piers Paul Read

  ‘Me too,’ said Carlitos. ‘I felt it this afternoon. Nando and Muscles have made it.’

  The second premonition seemed to confirm the first, and most of the fourteen went to sleep that night buoyant with hope and optimism.

  The next morning, as usual, Daniel Fernández and Eduardo Strauch went out at half past seven and tuned in to Montevideo to listen to the news. The first thing they heard was that two men purporting to be survivors from the Uruguayan Fairchild had been found in a remote valley of the Andes. Eduardo was about to leap up and shout out to the others when Fernández gripped his arm. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘It might be a mistake. We must be sure. We can’t disappoint them again.’ It was he who had raised their hopes when a cross had been discovered; he did not want to do it again. The two turned their attention back to the radio and began to tune in to other stations, and suddenly the whole air seemed to be alive with the hews of this discovery, broadcast by public stations in Argentina and Brazil and by radio hams in Chile, Argentina, and Uruguay.

  Eduardo could now shout as loud as he liked, and all the boys who were out in the snow clustered round the radio to hear with their own ears the extraordinary and magnificent jabber of the radio hams. The words, once mentioned, spread over the air from one country to another until every wavelength on the continent seemed to be carrying the sensational news that two survivors from the Uruguayan plane that had crashed in the Andes ten weeks before had been found, that fourteen still remained at the scene of the crash, and that their rescue was under way.

  The moment that the boys had imagined for so long had finally arrived. They waved their arms in the air, shouting to the indifferent mountain peaks which surrounded them that they were saved and thanking God both aloud and in their hearts for the happy news of that salvation. Then they made for the cigars. There would be no Christmas in the Andes; in an hour or two the helicopters would arrive and take them away. They opened the box of Romeo and Juliet Havanas and each took one and lit up, puffing the ineffable luxury of the thick smoke into the dry mountain air. Those who still had cigarettes shared them with those who wanted them, and these were lit too.

  As they smoked they grew calmer. ‘We’ll have to tidy ourselves up,’ said Eduardo. ‘Look at your hair, Carlitos. You’d better comb it.’

  ‘What about all that?’ said Fernández, pointing to the bits and pieces of human bodies which lay strewn around the plane. ‘Don’t you think we ought to bury it?’

  Fito kicked at the surface of the snow with his boot. It was still frozen hard. Then he looked up at the drawn, emaciated faces of the boys around him. ‘We’ll never be able to dig a pit while the snow’s as hard as this.’

  ‘Why bother, anyway?’ said Algorta.

  ‘What happens if they take photographs?’ asked Fernández.

  ‘We’ll break the cameras,’ said Carlitos.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Eduardo. ‘There’s no need to hide what we’ve done.’

  Algorta could not understand what they were talking about, and the others forgot about the bodies. Zerbino and Sabella began to talk about what they would do when the rescuers arrived. ‘I know what we’ll do,’ said Moncho. ‘When we hear the helicopters we’ll go into the plane and wait there. Then, when they come to find us, we’ll say, “Hello. What do you want?”’

  ‘And when they offer me a Chilean cigarette,’ said Zerbino, with a laugh, ‘I’ll say, “No, thanks, I prefer my own!”’ He held up his packet of Uruguayan cigarettes. ‘I’ll keep some La Paz just to be able to do that.’

  Feeling that their rescue must now be near at hand, the boys prepared themselves for the outside world. Páez combed his hair, as Eduardo had told him, and even put on some hair oil that he found among the luggage. Sabella and Zerbino put on shirts and neckties. All fourteen tried to find clothes that were a little less filthy. For most of them this meant taking off both the outside and the inside layers of what they were wearing and keeping the clothes they had worn in the middle. They also cleaned their teeth with the last remaining toothpaste, squeezing it liberally onto toothbrushes and washing out their mouths with snow.

  They were ready, but the helicopters did not come. The radio continued to broadcast the news of their rescue. There was even a prayer of thanks from a station in Chile which moved them all as they listened to it, but by midday there was no sign of rescue and the boys were in some confusion as to whether they should return to their routine or not. Many of them by now were hungry, but the meat which had been prepared the day before had been thrown aside that morning in the excitement. Now Zerbino and Daniel Fernández began to look for it again. Roy Harley, who had thought he might wait for a proper lavatory, could wait no longer and went to defecate at the front of the plane, where he was laughed at by the others, who said that his fleshless backside was like the tail of a plucked chicken.

  It also became hot, and many took shelter in the plane. While they were lying there, impatient but still ecstatically happy at the prospect of their rescue, Eduardo Strauch said to the others, ‘Think how awful it would be if there was another avalanche now, just before they got to us.’

  ‘It couldn’t happen,’ said Fernández. ‘Not when we’ve come as far as this.’

  Suddenly they heard a shout, ‘Look out, an avalanche!’ They heard a whoosh and saw a mass of white approaching them. For a moment they froze with fear, but when the ‘snow’ settled they saw it was foam from the plane’s fire extinguisher, and behind it was not the sober face of death but the Cheshire-cat grin of Fito Strauch.

  It was not until after one o’clock that they first heard the two helicopters and then saw them fly over the tops of the mountains slightly to the northeast of where they were. The sound was not at all what they had imagined, which proved to the boys that what they saw and heard was no mirage. Those out on the snow immediately began to shout and wave, and those in the plane tumbled out again.

  To their dismay the helicopters seemed unable to see them. They flew away in the wrong direction, then turned, circled, and passed over them. This happened three times before the leading helicopter, shaking and rocking in the wind, came lower and circled above them. They could just make out Parrado, who was gesturing to them, pointing to his mouth and then holding up four fingers of one hand. They could also see that others in the helicopter were filming them and taking photographs. The pilot seemed unable to land. The wind buffeted his helicopter so badly that every time he came lower the huge machine was in danger of being blown against the rock face of the nearest mountain. A smoke canister was thrown out of the helicopter, but the smoke was blown in all directions at the same time and gave no indication of the direction of the wind. Eventually, however, after about a quarter of an hour, the first helicopter came so low that one of its skis touched the snow. Two packs were thrown from the open door, followed a second later by two men.

  The first of these was Andinist Sergio Díaz, the second the medical orderly. As soon as Díaz had got clear of the blades of the helicopter, he advanced on the boys with open arms and many of them fell upon him, hugging and embracing the portly university professor and pulling him over onto the snow. Not all of them greeted him in the same way. Some of them were disconcerted by this influx of strangers into their home. Pedro Algorta, seeing Fito embrace Díaz, asked him if he already knew the man.

  They were also afraid that the noise of the motors might cause another avalanche, and the two boys nearest to the first helicopter ducked under the blades and looked for a way to climb on board. It was no easy matter. García did not dare land on the snow, first because of the slope and second because he knew the snow would not bear the helicopter’s weight. He was therefore hovering horizontally, afraid all the time that the blades would touch the side of the mountain, and unable to turn onto an angle which would make it easier for the boys to climb in. The first to try was Fernández. He stretched up and was grabbed by Parrado, who pulled him in. The second was Mangino, who had hobbled across the snow to get into the helicopter and now ma
naged to scramble on board.

  With these two passengers, together with Parrado, Morel, and the mechanic, García considered that he had a full load and brought the helicopter up again, and then he hovered while Massa made the same manoeuvre, dropping two more Andinists, Lucero and Villegas, and their equipment.

  While the two helicopters were changing places in this way, Díaz extricated himself from the embrace of the boys and asked for Páez. Carlitos identified himself, and Díaz gave him two letters from his father. ‘One is for you,’ he said, ‘and one for the whole group.’

  Carlitos opened them and read first that which was for them all. ‘Cheer up and confidence,’ it read. ‘Here I give you a helicopter as a Christmas present.’ The second was to himself alone. ‘As you can see, I never failed you. I am waiting for you with more faith in God than ever before. Mama is on her way to Chile. Your old man.’ He thrust the letters into his pocket and looked up to see that the second helicopter was in position. He went towards it and, with Algorta and Eduardo, climbed on board. Behind him came Inciarte, who was helped up by Díaz, and with those four Massa had his quota of passengers and rose into the air – leaving Delgado, Sabella, Francois, Vizintín, Methol, Zerbino, Harley, and Fito Strauch with the three Andinists and the medical orderly.

  The ascent of the east side of the mountain was no less terrifying than the climb up the other side – so terrifying, indeed, that the new passengers began to regret leaving the comparative safety of their ‘home’ in the Fairchild. Fernández turned to Parrado, as the whole helicopter vibrated with the effort of the engines, and asked him if this was normal.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Parrado shouted back, but Fernández could see from his face that he was just as frightened.

  Mangino turned to the soldier sitting beside him and asked if the helicopter could cope with these conditions. The mechanic reassured him, but the expression on his face was less confident than his words, and Mangino began to pray as he had never prayed before.

  The problem which faced García and Massa was that the air at that height was too thin to lift the helicopters solely by the power of their engines. What they sought to do, therefore, was to use their machines as gliders, searching for a current of hot air which would carry them up a few feet and then hovering at that level until another current carried them higher still. It was a technique which demanded exceptional skill, but not more skill than they possessed, for at last they were over the top and speeding down the valley on the other side towards the Y and Los Maitenes.

  It took them only fifteen minutes to reach Camp Alpha, where the six newly rescued survivors leapt out onto the green ground in an ecstasy of joy and relief. They were amazed at the sudden colour all around them, intoxicated by the smell of grass and flowers. Like drunks, they embraced one another and rolled around on the ground. Eduardo lay back on a bed of grass as though it were finer than the finest satin. He turned his head and saw a daisy growing by his nose. He picked it, sniffed it, and then handed it to Carlitos, who lay beside him. Carlitos took it from him and was about to smell it too, but instead he crammed it into his mouth and ate it.

  At the same time Canessa and Algorta were embracing and rolling on the ground. In his enthusiasm and excitement, Algorta gripped Canessa by the hair. There you go again, you stupid idiot, Canessa thought to himself. Making me suffer just as you did up there.

  When this first wave of ebullience had broken, and the boys realized that they had survived not just the seventy-one days in the Andes but the terrifying trip in the helicopter, their thoughts turned immediately to food, and all six fell upon the hot coffee, chocolate and cheese that had been prepared for them. At the same time the medical team examined them and found that, while all of them were suffering in one way or another from undernourishment and vitamin deficiency, none was in a critical condition.

  It was possible, therefore, for the eight survivors who had already been brought down from the site of the crash to wait at Los Maitenes while the helicopters went back for the others, but García told Colonel Morel that since no one on the mountain was in imminent danger of death it would be unwise to return that evening with the conditions so exceptionally bad. Morel agreed that the second rescue should be postponed until the next day and the first eight survivors flown to San Fernando that afternoon.

  2

  The command headquarters at San Fernando was informed of this decision by radio and at the same time given a full list of the sixteen survivors. The radio operator who copied it down handed it over to the committee member who had taken it upon himself to type out such messages – Carlos Páez Vilaró.

  Páez Vilaró would not take it. He knew now that of the forty passengers who had set off in the Fairchild, only sixteen had survived. He did not know if his own son, Carlitos, was one of the sixteen, and when the moment came when he could have found out, his terror of the truth proved too much. Without a word he pushed the piece of paper over to Colonel Morel’s secretary.

  The short list was soon typed, and it was not long before, once again, the sixteen names were in front of Páez Vilaró. Still he could not bring himself to look at them. He covered the list with another piece of paper. Just as he did so the telephone rang; it was Radio Carve in Montevideo.

  ‘Have you got any news?’ they asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Páez Vilaró replied. ‘We have the names of the survivors, but I can’t give them out because we don’t have the authorization of the commander in chief. He’s with the helicopters.’

  The mayor of San Fernando, hearing this, told Páez Vilaró that he would authorize him to read out the list, so still holding the telephone to his mouth, the painter slowly uncovered the first name on the list in the same way as a Uruguayan looks at his hand during a game of truco. ‘Roberto Canessa,’ he said, and then repeated, ‘Roberto Canessa’. He pulled the piece of paper a quarter of an inch down the page: ‘Fernando Parrado,’ he said, ‘Fernando Parrado’. He pulled the paper a little farther: ‘José Luis Inciarte … José Luis Inciarte.’ Then a little farther: ‘Daniel Fernández … Daniel Fernández.’ Then a little farther: ‘Carlos Páez … Carlos Páez.’ Whereupon tears choked his voice, and for a moment he could read no more.

  The names, as he spoke them, were being broadcast directly into the homes of every Uruguayan who had turned on the radio and had tuned in to that station. Among them was Señora Nogueira. She had been waiting for news in the garden of the Ponce de Leóns but had found the atmosphere too tense and hysterical; now she was in her own kitchen, and when Páez Vilaró began to read the list of names her whole mind and body froze as if all the hope and terror of the past two months were concentrated on that moment. ‘Carlos Páez,’ he said again. Then came the other names: Mangino, Strauch, Strauch, Harley, Vizintín, Zerbino, Delgado, Algorta, Francois, Methol, and Sabella.

  There were no more names. Her hopes which had risen and sunk and then risen again so many times now sank for the last time. How nice, she thought to herself, that the little Sabella survived. She did not know his family but had talked to his mother on the telephone. Then she seemed so sad. Now she would be so happy.

  Harley and Nicolich, the two fathers, who had flown from Mendoza to Santiago in the refrigerated cargo plane, reached San Fernando just as final preparations were made for the arrival of the helicopters carrying the first eight survivors. The two men did not as yet know which of the boys were still alive. They pushed their way through the crowd of excited Chileans waiting outside the entrance to the barracks and joined Páez Vilaró, who stood with César Charlone, the Uruguayan chargé d’affaires, in front of three hundred soldiers of the Colchagua Regiment drawn up as on parade.

  Suddenly a cry went up from the crowd – so many of them those same men who with their feet, their planes, their radios, and their prayers had helped Páez Vilaró in his quixotic search. There they saw approaching the three helicopters of the Chilean Air Force. The sight of three crosses in the sky, or a host of angels, could not at that moment have been more moving
or miraculous than these loud and sophisticated machines which hacked at the air, hovered, circled, and then touched the tarmac of the parade ground.

  Before their motors stopped, the doors slid back and Páez Vilaró the father saw the face of Páez the son. With a cry he surged forward and would have flung himself into the swirling blades of the helicopter had not Charlone held him back. He waited, then, while Carlitos leapt down and ran towards him. After him came Parrado and he too ran towards Páez Vilaró, who, freed by his captor, went to the two boys and embraced them both at the same time.

  There were no words. For the father the weeks of stubborn lunacy had their reward in the breathing bodies he held to his own. He wept, and behind him tears poured down the cheeks of the three hundred soldiers of the Colchagua Regiment. For the son it was enough that in the solid arms of his father he was already home. The only flaw in the happiness he felt was Nicolich’s frightened, expectant face, there behind his father.

  He lowered his eyes. He felt in his joy as if his arm were raised to deliver a killing blow on the head of the father of his best friend, but when he looked up again he saw that Nicolich was talking to Daniel Fernández. The look on their two faces made it quite clear what was being said.

  3

  The hospital of St John of God in San Fernando had been warned at six that morning by Colonel Morel to expect the survivors from the Uruguayan Fairchild. The director of the hospital, Dr Baquedano, immediately formed a team of his most able subordinates – Doctors Ausin, Valenzuela and Melej – to prepare for their arrival. At that time they had no way of knowing the condition the survivors would be in. All they knew was that they had been trapped high in the Andes with little or no food for more than seventy days.