Among the Headhunters

by Robert Lyman

  I got to the crest of the steep slope as the first jumper floated past, missing the summit by a scant few yards. I could see the insignia of a lieutenant colonel on his jacket shoulders. He grinned at me and I shouted foolishly: “Here! We’re here in the village.” He held up a finger in a crisp gesture, like a man strolling past on a sidewalk, and said in a conversational tone: “Be with you in a minute.” Half weeping, half laughing over the wonderful absurdity of the meeting, I scrambled down the slope and slid to a halt before him as he was brushing dirt from his clothes and beginning to unwrap protective bandage from his knees. He was a slim, closely knit man of about thirty-five, with cropped hair, and vivid dark eyes in a brown, taut face. He smiled easily as we introduced ourselves. “I’m Don Flickinger,” he said. “I’m the wing surgeon. Saw you needed a little help.”

  It was a bizarre, deeply melodramatic moment, and in a heartbeat Sevareid realized that here was the man who would take charge of the party, not just bind up Oswalt’s leg. Before long they were safely in the morung, Flickinger setting Oswalt’s leg with bamboo splints by the light of a torch, surrounded by curious natives while most of the survivors lay on mats, mentally and physically exhausted by what had turned out to be an extraordinary day. In the center of the building a fire burned, villagers eating the remains of an unidentifiable animal whose remains lay on the embers. Sevareid looked around him, his composure recovered. All was well with the world—or so he thought.

  13

  MONGSEN

  One of the local men watching Flickinger set Oswalt’s leg, unknown to his visitors, was Mongsen, one of the fiercest warriors of the tribe whose previous encounters with white men had not been happy ones. He had been at the wrong end of the massed Lee-Enfield rifles of Williams’s sepoys in 1936 and Gerty’s in 1939. Now he squatted with a child in his arms, patiently waiting for the American doctor to finish his ministrations. After leaving the uncomplaining Oswalt, Flickinger needed no persuading to examine an ugly abscess under the little girl’s ear, a large growth that not only disfigured her but potentially threatened her life. Showing Mongsen how to break an antibiotic tablet in his mouth and spit it into the child’s mouth, he gently refused the egg that Mongsen offered in payment. This act of kindness easily disarmed the hostility of one potential enemy. It precipitated a makeshift surgery for Flickinger, however, as he treated the ailments of survivors and villagers alike in the torchlit darkness of the morung.

  It was in Flickinger’s nature to be generous—after all, he had just risked his life to parachute into Pangsha (although he too had no idea of the actual identity of the village or its violent history)—but he intuitively understood the need for gentle measures to win over the confidence of the Nagas, about whom he had been briefed in general terms by McKelway, and to wear down any residual hostility that might exist against the newcomers. The night had now closed in with an intensity not before experienced by those used to the pseudodarkness of electrically fueled towns and cities across America. And it was raining. The dark blue clouds Sevareid had spotted late that afternoon had arrived on cue with the onset of darkness to tip their contents out in vast torrents across the mountains. The monsoon period between April and October brought nightly drenchings of often fearsome intensity that made the men wonder that the thatched roof over their heads could contain the volume of water that fell upon them. It was cold too. At a height of 6,000 feet above sea level the temperature during the hours of darkness dropped to just above freezing. At night the villagers each wrapped him- or herself in a single blanket, which seemed the only concession they made to the cold; they spent their waking hours otherwise, male and female, apart from a tiny loincloth, entirely naked.

  Silence settled over the morung. By common agreement all—villagers and visitors alike—determined that the time had come to sleep. There would be more talk and more medical consultations in the morning, no doubt. Several of the survivors, Sevareid noted, needed no excuse, exhausted bodies lying stretched out on the mats, fast asleep, in the smoky interior of the building. There didn’t appear to be a chimney. Sevareid dozed off with the others and before long was in a deep sleep. Then suddenly he was awake again, with a start, as the sound of massed voices approached and two armed natives jumped into the morung over the sleeping bodies of those at the door. After a heart-stopping moment in which he thought they were being attacked he heard, to his great relief, Davies’s voice calling out his Livingstonian welcome. The party from Ponyo had arrived. Now wide awake, the two parties greeted each other warmly, and while the fire was restoked, all began to share their stories of what had been—for all of them—the most eventful day of their lives. Duncan Lee handed around his bottle of Carew’s gin, and they celebrated its survival along with their own. Nineteen men now shared the morung, the only two missing being Corporal Basil Lemmon and Second Lieutenant Charles Felix. Perhaps they were in the jungle, separated from their fellows. The natives most surely would find them in the morning and bring them in safely. It was after midnight before they were all able, finally, to drop off to sleep.

  The cold dawn arrived all too quickly. Shivering, wrapped in blankets, the men stirred the embers of the fire and ate an unappetizing meal of cold tinned meat from the rations dropped the previous afternoon. Before long the comforting drone of the C-47 was heard again, and it was soon circling the village, dropping bundles of supplies, swinging down under their parachutes, accompanied by the excited squealing of the children and the shouting of the men as they rushed to collect them all. With the drop came a note from McKelway: “The British political agenta is with us this morning, trying to identify your position from the air. The land party will start out as soon as we know where you are. Important that you stay where you are until we get to you. The agent is sure there are unfriendly Nagas all round you. They will have to be fixed before you can go through them safely. It may take a week or more to get to you. Let us know your needs.”

  The local political agent was headquartered in the town of Dibrugarh, seventeen miles from Chabua. It is clear that he was in communication with Philip Adams in Mokokchung.

  Understanding flooded Sevareid’s consciousness. So these were the famous Nagas! He knew of them, of course, not least from his conversations with the British tea planters at Chabua, but for some reason in the excitement of the previous twenty-four hours his mind had not registered that they might be guests of these fearsome people. Sevareid looked around him. The Nagas had been hospitable and civil so far, but how long would this last? He had already noticed some near-ugly scenes that morning as young men had fought over the bundles dropped from the skies, threatening each other with their vicious daos and scowling at Sevareid, who had attempted to assert his authority among the melee.

  The morning—it was now Tuesday, August 3—was clearly one for decisions. The first was made for them by one of the Naga leaders, a man wearing a richly woven red blanket and a red conical hat, adorned with boar’s tusks and a large hornbill feather with a black stripe. By means of sign language he demonstrated to Flickinger, Davies, and Sevareid, the recognizable leaders of the American-Chinese group, that they would have to move out of the morung and away from the village. Sevareid suspected that the Nagas were none too happy with the fact that the falling parachutes were knocking great holes in the village’s fields of maize, and it made sense that the guests move to an area dedicated to them; there wasn’t space in Wenshoyl for nineteen newcomers. Flickinger’s view (which he kept to himself) was that separation from the village made it easier for them to be attacked, if the Nagas decided to turn on their visitors.

  The man pointed to a grassy ridge back in the direction of the wrecked plane where he evidently wanted them to stay and gave a few instructions to those around him. The young men of the village rushed off to cut bamboo. Within what Davies recalled as three or four hours, three substantial shelters had been erected—Neveu estimated that each was about twenty-five feet long and twelve feet wide—one of which was allocated to the civilians and
officers, one to the enlisted men, and one to storage for the supplies. Neveu was horrified at this forced segregation but said nothing to Flickinger about it. To his mind they were all in it together, and ensuring the group’s survival meant mucking in together rather than re-creating the hierarchies of a different world. It is clear that Flickinger, who had unobtrusively taken charge, had a different view, however, believing that the structures of military discipline needed to be maintained even in a survival situation.

  The consignment received that morning had included enough lightweight M1 carbines for each man to have one, together with ammunition. At least they would be able to defend themselves in the event of an attack, either by Nagas or Japanese. On seeing one of the weapons a Naga nervously imitated the sound of a rifle report, which indicated that although the villagers didn’t possess weapons themselves, they knew precisely what they were. It was good, the Americans considered, that the Nagas now knew their visitors were armed. Although their northern neighbors did have weapons, the Pangsherites didn’t, although it was clear that they had been trying to secure them. A report from Mokokchung dated August 6, 1940, noted that two guns sent to Pangsha by the village of Ukha had been confiscated by Sangbah of Chingmei, working on behalf of the government.

  During the morning a small group of men from Ponyo arrived at Wenshoyl, distinctive because of their long hair tied in ponytails. Using sign language, they explained that they had discovered another survivor, but chopping movements to the leg indicated that he was injured. Sevareid, together with Richard Passey, Sergeant Glen Kittleson, and William McKenzie, immediately set off with the group, carrying a stretcher that had been dropped that morning. During the journey Sevareid nervously wondered whether in fact this was a trap by the Nagas to separate the group and kill the rescue party when they were away from the camp. But his fears were allayed when they arrived at the still-smoking wreck of the aircraft. Ponyo men were beating strips of aluminum from the ruins and carting away anything they could salvage. Lying next to the blackened pit was the body of Charles Felix. He had not survived the crash after all. One of his legs had been severed on impact. McKenzie and Passey dug a grave for him, and, with the intrigued Ponyos looking on, McKenzie committed him to the earth with a reading of the Lord’s Prayer. Somberly they returned to their newly built camp outside Wenshoyl. Now that the sad fate of Charles Felix had been determined, where was Basil Lemmon?

  While the rescue party was away, Don Flickinger had organized the encampment. It was clear that rescue might take some time and that it would entail walking out through the green mass of formidable mountains, which currently held them captive, toward India. In the meantime, the survivors would need to organize themselves to ensure that they remained a coherent military party. Sevareid was right: Flickinger was a natural leader and took to the task effortlessly. His right to lead the group was never questioned, and all settled comfortably under his calm authority. A bamboo fence was built around the camp (for psychological security only, as it would not have served as a protective palisade), and young men of the village were induced to cut down the long grass around the camp by the offer of the much-prized tin cans that when full contained American rations. The survivors were all given duties, and a night guard was instituted, with a man undertaking sentry duty for two hours at a time during the hours of darkness. Jack Davies was responsible for organizing the retrieval of the C-47 loads when they fell; Duncan Lee managed the supply tent and its contents; Bill Stanton would take charge of signaling the aircraft when they were overhead; Oswalt operated the radio; Sevareid was diarist and chaplain; Giguere was cook; Neveu was responsible for the guard roster. After a few days the two Chinese officers took over the cooking of the rice, which they did superbly.

  One of Jack Davies’s additional duties was to oversee bartering with the villagers. Flickinger was concerned lest bartering get out of control and create animosity or squabbles, a situation that could quickly destroy trust between the two groups and lead to hostility. Whatever happened, diplomatic relations with the Nagas needed to be maintained at a careful equilibrium. The members of the American-Chinese party were not servants or masters of the villagers; neither were they overlords or in any way to be considered a threat. They were to exist in a degree of peaceful equanimity until such time as arrangements could be made for them to leave. Already all sorts of material, much of which the Americans regarded as rubbish—such as string, waste canvas, tin cans, and the like—had become prized targets for acquisition by the Nagas. A carefully controlled trade would ensure, Flickinger hoped, that blood was never drawn in arguments over who got what and for what price. In exchange the visitors were offered firewood, eggs—many old and rotten, though something of a local delicacy—scrawny chickens, and sometimes other meat such as pig and goat. So passed Tuesday, August 3.

  On the following day Sevareid noticed a number of new Nagas in the village. Who could they be? The early-morning C-47 drop brought a new message from McKelway and the news that the local British political agent was in the aircraft.

  You are within eight miles of what is called British control territory, some sixty miles southeast of Mokokchung. There is British sub divisional officer there. Try to get word to him by the natives, but don’t leave the place you are in now. He is known to the natives as the Sahib of Mokokchung. Our land party will start from there tomorrow or next day according to present plans. British political officer flying with us advises you to be as friendly as possible with natives but not to relax vigilance. To stay together as much as possible and not to wander about singly. You know best, being on spot, but he thinks display of arms will make them suspicious and perhaps cause them to attack you. . . . Reason you shouldn’t start out before we give the word is that there are savage Nagas between you and Mokokchung who have to be fixed by the British first. . . . Try to contact the head man of Chingmei, six miles due west of you. He is said to be a good fellow, loyal to British.

  Sevareid was able to ascertain that the new Nagas who had appeared during the day were no less than the headman of whom Adams had spoken—Chingmak—together with his two sons, Sangbah and Tangbang. The message that they were to oversee the safety of the survivors had reached Chingmei from Mokokchung in less than two days, an extraordinary feat. The message had been rushed from village to village, and when it had reached Chingmei, Chingmak took it upon himself personally to enforce the sahib of Mokokchung’s wishes, knowing as he did the danger that the unsuspecting white men would be in. If the survivors had known this, it would have considerably settled their nerves. In fact, Chingmak and his sons did much more than make their presence felt in the village, which undoubtedly had a sobering effect on any hotheads in Pangsha who might have thought of taking revenge on the white men for their humiliation at the hands of Adams. They also placed protection parties of Chang warriors north and south of the village along the Langnyu River to warn of any intruders. In his diary Sevareid described Chingmak as “old man, slightly bent, not unkindly, rather intelligent face. Red blanket, white cowrie shells as ear ornaments (how did they get up here from sea?). Ornate red-feather headdress and heavy chest tattooing. . . . Squats and smiles by hour, pleased to puff cigarettes. Doesn’t seem to have any suggestions.” The red blanket was his sign of office as a British-appointed gaonbura. Sangbah, whom Sevareid estimated to be about thirty-five years of age, also wore a red blanket. Sevareid didn’t at the time realize that Sangbah was Chingmak’s son. He had noticed that Sangbah’s presence, however, had made a distinct impression on the Pangsha Nagas. Sangbah had a natural air of authority, and though he appeared to speak a different dialect than the locals, they obeyed his calm injunctions with alacrity. What is more, he understood a few words of English, and by speaking of Mokokchung—where of course he had gone to school—he was able to make Sevareid understand that he was there as the survivors’ protector. Sevareid was able to deduce his loyalties soon after meeting him when, smilingly, he pointed to the Pangsha villagers and drew his hand across his throat
.

  The days that followed began to fit a pattern as the survivors organized their existence, maintained friendly but careful relations with the Pangsha villagers, regulated the trade in bartered goods to prevent price inflation, and received regular gifts from C-47s flying south from Chabua. The intense rain that fell every night required daily repairs to the thatched roofs of their bashas, and the camp was gradually improved with benches and other structures made with bamboo. The natives seemed content to accept the presence among them—albeit in their own encampment—of these uninvited guests, and Sevareid noticed over time a variety of different Nagas who came to have a look at these strange people who had descended on them so suddenly, bizarrely floating down under canopies of white silk. Apart from those they had glimpsed during Mills’s, Pawsey’s, and Adams’s previous expeditions, these were the first white (and Chinese) men the Nagas of the Patkois had ever seen. The survivors were a little like exhibits in a zoo and accepted their status as such with good humor. A permanent gaggle of wide-eyed children sat at the bamboo fence, peering through at the fascinating and otherworldly specimens on the other side. In addition to the Changs from Chingmei, a small group of Ponyo men appeared to be in the Pangsha camp almost permanently, possibly because they were traditionally hand-in-glove with Pangsha but also perhaps because they felt some ownership over “their” small party of parachutists.