Lost in Tibet - excerpts

Lost in Tibet - by Richard Starks and Miriam Murcutt

From left to right, the five airmen whose story is told in this book: William Perram, Kenneth Spencer, Harold McCallum, (an unknown Tibetan), Robert Crozier and John Huffman.

Please take a moment to preview some of the pages inside the book.

From Chapter One

The Forgotten Theater

Robert Crozier stood at the edge of the runway, sure he was soon going to die. The odds against him were just too great. It would be something small that would get him—not the weather, not the mountains, not the obvious dangers that kept the other pilots awake at night—but something small that he’d never even know was there.

Like that pilot who’d taken off from Jorhat. He had been in the air for two minutes when three of his engines caught fire, each one shooting out a whoosh of flame that trailed back half a mile or more. The pilot decided to crash, to fly his plane deliberately into the ground so that all on board would be killed that way, rather than burned to a crisp, strapped into their seats like dummies. He made a turn over the airfield, and heard the tower say, “Better get the meat wagon out, we’ve got a flamer coming in,” but then somehow managed to put the plane down, get the crew out, and bring the fire under control. It had been his sparkplugs of all things, scavenged out of another plane. Their gaps were so wide they’d let raw fuel run straight through the engines and out the turbines and there it had ignited, three burning tapers half a mile long. It was something small like that that was going to get him; Robert Crozier was sure of it.

He dropped the cigarette he’d been smoking and ground it out under his heel. It was mid-afternoon, the last day of November 1943—a cold, clear day, so he was able to see the mountains, a line of jagged blue peaks etched against the western horizon. They belonged to the Santsung Range, a spur of the Himalayas that turned south after rounding the top of India and then pointed like a dagger at the heart of neighboring Burma. The sky above them was bright, with just a ripple of cloud marking the route he would soon be flying. It looked good—better than good—and that was the problem. It looked much too good to be true...

From Chapter Two

Hitting the Silk

The storm when it hit was wholly unexpected. From Kunming, Crozier had turned the plane onto a course of two-eight-zero—almost due west—and for nearly an hour had flown through clear, open skies with the earth unrolling smoothly beneath him. For any pilot flying the Hump, this was as good as it could get: no real weight in the hold, good visibility in all directions, the serrated peaks of the Santsung Range still a long way ahead. Even so, Crozier couldn’t relax. The tension of flying lay deep within him. It was always there, in the tautness across his shoulders and his neck. On the flight deck around him, there was little in the way of conversation, just a few jokey remarks tossed back and forth over the intercom. Most crews liked to keep it that way. Light and impersonal. They didn’t want to invest time and emotion in men they might not see again, men who might soon be dead...

... When Perram heard the order to jump, he reacted with something approaching horror. Bailing out was reckoned to be the most terrifying event a flier could face—much worse than being shot down or crashing into the side of a mountain, where at least the end, while being the same, had the virtue of being quick. Some fliers refused to jump no matter the circumstances, preferring instead to go down with their planes.

The irony was that Perram didn’t even think of himself as a flier. It was true he spent long hours in the air. But at heart he was a ground person, an engineer. He fixed planes, and the best place to do that was inside a hangar or out on a runway. Yet here he was being told to step into a hole that was 20,000 feet deep. He didn’t know how to do that. None of them did. They had never jumped before, not even in training from a hundred feet up. The only instruction they had ever been given was along the lines of, “Here’s a parachute, there’s the door.” All of a sudden it did not seem much by way of preparation.

For Huffman, the order to jump was even more distressing. Like Perram, he had trained as an aerial engineer. But then, in one of those strange quirks of military thinking, he had been assigned to work in a motor pool. He had never received any training as a flier. He didn’t even know how to put a parachute on. And, of course, he wasn’t even meant to be here. He was a hitchhiker, cadging a lift home. He could have chosen any number of flights heading back to his base at Jorhat. So why did he have to pick this one?

From Chapter Four

No Shangri-la

At first, their reception was muted. Villagers gathered in groups outside their houses, standing and staring with unsmiling faces at the strange beings who had suddenly appeared in their midst. But as more “natives” emerged from their homes, the atmosphere took a turn for the worse and became distinctly hostile. The murmur of voices that had greeted the airmen became a menacing growl. Crozier saw swastikas painted in black on some of the houses, and for a wild moment thought they had stumbled into “some kind of German-controlled territory.” As the three men walked slowly on, in line abreast like lawmen in a Western movie, the villagers massed in a crowd up ahead.

The three men stopped. Crozier could see that some in the crowd had unsheathed knives hanging from their belts. For a moment, nobody moved. Then unexpectedly the crowd began clapping, giving the men what seemed to be an enthusiastic round of applause. But from the villagers’ expressions, it was clear to the airmen that the standing ovation was not one of appreciation. Without warning, the crowd suddenly surged towards them, swirling around, pushing and shoving, jostling against them. Someone grabbed Crozier’s arm and hung on. Others reached out, tearing at his clothes. McCallum became especially alarmed, as he felt himself being swept away. He pulled out his pistol and fired it once in the air, the shot resounding as loud as a cannon. The effect was immediate. The crowd fell back, with many of the villagers dropping to the ground.

The three Americans backed slowly away, edging out of the village. But as they retraced their route, running along by the side of the river, they heard voices behind, and looking back saw the crowd of villagers streaming towards them. They stopped again, McCallum checking his gun. He had two bullets left. Crozier and Spencer had seven bullets each in the magazines they carried. The three men agreed that if they were cornered, they would make a stand, “getting as many natives” as they could. They were too drained, too exhausted, to run any further...

From Chapter Six

A wholly erroneous conclusion

Unknown to the five airmen, news of their plane crash, when it first reached Lhasa, had thrown the city into a state of turmoil that, in some quarters, bordered almost on panic. The Tibetan capital was already on edge following an unfortunate incident in which a water god in the Jokhang, or cathedral, had started to drip from its mouth. Whenever that had happened before, it had been a portent of bad things to come—the death of a Regent, or even a Dalai Lama. Now, here was news of an airplane, one that had flown low over the city scaring the people who’d heard it, and then fallen out of the sky to crash and burn close to Tsetang in the sacred Yarlung Valley. There were many in Lhasa who were unsure how to interpret this latest omen, but no one doubted that it was a clear sign of troubled times ahead.

At the highest levels of the Tibetan government, however, there was widespread agreement on what the downed airplane meant. Its sudden arrival was viewed in the context of an international political storm that had been building for months—one that threatened the country’s existence, as well as the unique culture its people had developed over the past 1,300 years. The fact that Tibet’s main leaders were entirely wrong in the conclusions they drew was not to be known until long after the events they triggered had been played out in full...

From Chapter Seven

Political quagmire

On the other side of town, in a house overlooking Lhasa’s main square, news of the plane crash was being digested with equally intense—but differently motivated—interest by Dr. Kung Chin-tsung. Kung was China’s envoy to Lhasa—officially the head of the Resident Office of the Commission on Mongolian and Tibetan Affairs of the National Government of China in Lhasa, Tibet.

Since the fall of the Manchu dynasty and Tibet’s declaration of independence in 1913, China had been trying to reestablish its influence in Lhasa. In 1934, it managed to squeeze a foot in the door when it opened a small office there, using the occasion of the thirteenth Dalai Lama’s recent death. China sent a “mission of condolence,” as well as a substantial sum of money that was ostensibly intended to help construct a suitable tomb for the (temporarily) departed god-king, but was also aimed at greasing the palms of the influential abbots of Lhasa’s “three seats” and, of course, the corrupt and opportunistic Regent, Reting Rinpoche. Somehow the mission never got around to leaving again. Most of the Chinese did depart, but they left behind two representatives as well as a radio, which the Tibetans—foolishly and naively—later came to rely on as an easy way to communicate with the outside world...

... There was one other person in Lhasa who was also taking a keen interest in the plane’s unexpected appearance, and that was George Sherriff, head of the British mission there, and thus Kung’s counterpart and rival in the battle for influence over Tibetan affairs. The two men were well known to each other. They frequently met at the elaborate lunches, dinners, and parties that were the mainstay of life for the rich and powerful in Tibet, during which, among the reveling, they would scheme and intrigue while maintaining the politest of diplomatic fronts.

Like China, Britain had opened a mission in Lhasa during the 1930s. It had watched with growing concern as China reestablished a presence in the capital, and it had seen how the Tibetans were trying—unsuccessfully—to resist the Chinese encroachment. The two countries—Britain and China—were in fierce competition to gain influence with the Tibetans. Both had resorted to bribery to help sway official opinion their way, and when one took an initiative, the other immediately countered the move. The relationship between the two countries appeared to be cordial, but beneath the surface it was a far cry from that of the allies they were supposed to be in the common struggle against Japan...

From Chapter Eight

Gokar-la!

They left early the following morning, climbing still higher in the face of a wind that was blowing so hard they could barely stay in the saddle. By midmorning, they were forced to dismount and walk up the trail; it was the only way to keep their blood moving. Perram suffered the most, as he was still unable to walk properly and had to remain on his mule. The others took turns walking beside him, rubbing his feet to stop them from getting frostbitten again.

As the Americans continued to climb, their stops became longer and more frequent. They were now above 18,000 feet—a height where the amount of oxygen available to breathe was just half that to be found at sea level, and where what little air was available was hard to absorb because of the much-reduced pressure. In an ideal world, they would have been climbing no more than 1,000 feet per day, giving their bodies time to adjust. Instead, they were climbing at a rate that was three times faster than that, so inevitably the Americans experienced the physical decline that always sets in, even in someone who is fully acclimatized. All five of the airmen had trouble just eating and sleeping, and all five suffered from pounding headaches and continuous waves of nausea.

But they were most worried about Perram. Stuck on his mule, he sat still as a statue, his hands frozen like claws around his reins. He was no longer shivering, but that, they all knew, could not be taken as a favorable sign. It was, instead, an indication that Perram was suffering from hypothermia—a potentially lethal condition in which his body had become so frozen that it was now shutting down...

From Chapter Nine

“This Desolate Lhasa”

While Sherriff was at the Foreign Office, the five Americans were little more than five or six miles away, much closer than either Sherriff or the Tibetans thought. From their vantage point on top of the hill, they sat on their mules and gazed out across the Kyi River valley. It was wide and flat, with mountains rising steeply on either side, some with a thin dusting of snow on their higher slopes and ridges. But it was not the valley that gripped their attention; instead it was the city, far in the distance—the city of Lhasa. None of the men had ever harbored any ambition to see it, but now that they were here, they could not but help to be enthralled.

It was an awe-inspiring sight, one that they would never forget, not because of the city itself, but because of its setting—12,000 feet up yet on the floor of a valley—and, perhaps most impressive of all, because of the looming bulk of the Potala behind it. The Potala seemed to grow out of the rock on which it was perched, adding height to its already impressive dimensions. The palace’s walls, rising in tiers, soared above the buildings that huddled below. They leaned inwards towards the center in such a way that they created a strange perspective, making them seem even taller than they really were. Their color was a mix of maroon and white, splashed on and carelessly broken by the long slash of a stairway that cut diagonally across them. At their highest point, the walls were topped by a row of gold pavilions—the tombs of earlier Dalai Lamas—that glittered and sparkled, catching the light....

From Chapter Ten

A Chinese Welcome

Kung’s plans were proceeding well—certainly as well as he could reasonably have expected. But for the better part of an hour, his foreign visitors had been growing increasingly uneasy. Like polite guests professing not to hear their neighbors arguing next door, the American airmen had tried to ignore the clamor coming from the square outside. They did their best to pretend that the noise wasn’t there, meanwhile attempting to enjoy a leisurely sampling of the Chinese dishes, as well as the potent drinks that Kung continued to serve. They had even managed one or two additional toasts to further the friendship between the Chinese and United States governments, rising to their feet and once again saluting President Roosevelt and Chiang Kai-shek.

But now the commotion outside had reached a level that made even their hosts appear uneasy. On several occasions, one or more of the Chinese stepped to a window, looked out, and reported to Kung. Doc Bo also went to take a look, coming back a few moments later to tell Crozier that the crowd outside had grown larger and seemed to be “working itself up into a state.” At first, Crozier thought little of it. The crowd was just being rowdy. But then a rock thudded against the wall of the building. Another soon followed, and the shouts from the crowd became more insistent.

It was then Crozier’s turn to have a look. He pulled back the cloth hanging in front of a window and peered out. He was astounded to see a crowd that, by his estimate, numbered in the thousands. Certainly, Barkhor Square was overflowing with a swaying, seething mass of Tibetans. And they were not merely being rowdy. Nor were they in “something of a state.” They were, instead, enraged—to the point of being explosive...

From Chapter Thirteen

R.S.V.P.

The following day brought a new crisis. The plan called for the Americans to leave Lhasa on December 20, but before they could depart they had to comply with several diplomatic formalities. So that morning—December 17—they hosted brief visits from the representatives of Nepal and Bhutan, both of whom, besides satisfying their curiosity, offered to help the Americans in any way they could. In the afternoon, the airmen discovered that Sherriff planned a special reception in their honor, since an event such as their arrival in Lhasa could not, apparently, go unmarked—in spite of the problems it had already caused. And the only way to do that, the Americans learned, was to have a party.

Life for the average Tibetan may have been hard, brutal, and short—a basic existence scratched from a harsh and unforgiving land—but for the Tibetan elite, perched right on top of the social heap, life was rich, elegant, and relaxed. For the most part, it was centered on gargantuan meals and elaborate parties. And the Tibetan elite did love to party. They liked to dress up in fine clothes—in richly embroidered silks, finely shaped hats, sparkling jewelry, and brightly colored sashes and scarves—and then gather together for lunch, dinner, tea, a picnic, or a party. Under Western influence, they had recently adopted ballroom dancing, although a few of the more avant-garde had taken up the Palais Glide and even the Boomps-a-Daisy—the former a lively line dance, and the latter a raucous music hall favorite, which required the participants to bump hips and bottoms.

A small party could last four or five hours—or maybe stretch to eight or nine. Larger ones could continue for days. And if the Tibetans were really in the mood, they would keep a good party going for as long as a month...

From Chapter Fifteen

Christmas Eve

According to the terms of their Tibetan passports, the Americans were entitled to five fresh riding mules and six new pack mules every two days, and the village elders of whichever settlement they happened to be in were obliged to provide them. For now, that meant Pede. But when the Americans awoke there the following day, they could see no sign of any mules in the stables below. Fort Knox, with Rain and Shine, spent the better part of the morning prodding the elders with their rifles, trying to persuade them to comply with the rules.

On any other day, the delay would have been frustrating. Crozier had set a tight schedule that required them to leave every morning at first light. But that day he could not have cared less. He was cold and feverish, and even when wrapped in a bundle of blankets could not prevent himself from shivering. He also suffered from a deep lassitude, and noted that Huffman seemed to be feeling much the same way.

By the time they set out—with Crozier resigned to “looking at the north end of a south-bound mule”—it was close to noon. Water at the edge of the lake was still frozen, and a fresh dusting of snow covered the ground. When the wind got up that afternoon, it brought with it another fierce storm. The airmen turned up their collars and sank low in their saddles, hiding their faces from the shards of ice that blew against them, stinging their cheeks and threatening to blind them...

... A few miles on, the airmen stopped again to eat some rice and a little cold mutton, and then they continued to climb, passing beneath the snout of a glacier. They were now above 15,000 feet, and Crozier was again beginning to feel sick. He had also developed a hacking cough, and although unaware of it, was probably suffering not from some kind of flu, but from acute mountain sickness, or AMS, brought on by his continuing exposure to the high altitudes. The danger was that the AMS could easily transmute into high-altitude pulmonary edema—a potentially fatal condition in which bodily fluids would leak into his lungs, effectively drowning him; or it could turn into high-altitude cerebral edema—an equally lethal condition in which fluids would build up inside his brain, causing the tissue to swell until it was too big to fit in his skull.

The cure for all these conditions was simple. Crozier had to lose altitude. But on the Tibetan plateau, that was not an option. From where they were, the Americans could look ahead and see a mountain rising another 8,000 or 9,000 feet above them, its flanks streaked with permanent snow that mirrored glaciers on a similar peak to the south. That was the direction in which they were headed—to the pass that formed a saddle between the two mountains. It was still several thousand feet above them; there could be no question of Crozier losing height...

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