Storyteller - Colin & Anne Brookfield (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📗

the circling scout planes closed in on one another. As they did so, each pilot raised a revolver upwards ritualistically on an outstretched arm – and the dual began. Far in the distance another German Fokker biplane was slowly closing the gap to the combatants.

Airborne battles with revolvers were more a matter of boyish bravado; they had never brought down an enemy plane. This was set to change, as one of the reckless 45mm bullets from the British revolver, shattered the Fokker’s wooden propeller blade, and caused the plane to stall and spiral downwards.

The British pilot was jubilant, but also circled downwards out of camaraderie concern for the other pilot. He saw the damaged Fokker land heavily before impacting against a tree. The British pilot was about to waggle his wings and depart when he noticed the inert figure of the German pilot still in his cockpit, whilst smoke snaked upwards from the damaged engine.

There was now another witness to the events; the other German biplane had arrived and was circling high above. These were surreal times, and its pilot seemed not in any way surprised, when he saw the British pilot speedily land and drag his injured adversary clear of the fire-engulfing wreckage. The observing German pilot then swooped low and banked, so that their eyes met. They saluted one another.

Before returning to his idling aircraft, Tim Edwards scribbled on a piece of paper.

“Sorry old boy, I hope you get well soon. I’ll try and miss next time.” He signed it and put the note in the man’s pocket.

It was almost a week later in the make-do Officer’s Mess, when glasses were again raised to Tim for being the first pilot to down an enemy aircraft. The wreckage was often seen by the other pilots as they flew back and forth on photographic missions over the enemy entrenchments. His fellow junior officers had all agreed that Tim had done the right thing by getting the German out of the burning wreckage.

“After all,” said Charles, a fellow pilot, “this helps to maintain officer chivalry amongst pilots on both sides. However, keep it under your hat, or Headquarters will have you cashiered for it.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the others.

“By the way...,” Charles continued, “there is a sense of reciprocity about this business with the German. I’m referring to your mishap three years ago in the International Canoe Championships. If I remember rightly, you had been trapped underwater in the backwash beneath a river waterfall, and more to the point, it was a German competitor – a Curt von Schneider, who risked his life on the end of a rope to rescue you. I read about it in The Times.

The momentary silence that followed was rudely interrupted, as a German plane zoomed low from out of a cloudy sky, sending the British ground staff and mechanics scuttling away from the parked aircraft into the trenches. Then a small parcel floated down, landing on the grass.

“Got a little present here with your name on it sir,” said an out-of-breath orderly who had just rushed into the Officer’s Mess; “The Bosch dropped it and scared the living daylights out of everyone. The CO said he would appreciate it if you use the conventional postal service in future, like the rest of us.”

“Well?” came the chorus of impatient voices, “are you going to keep it to yourself?”

Tim opened the wrapper and the distorted remains of a 45mm pistol bullet fell out. The accompanying note in perfect English went on to say:

 

“I thought you would like your property back. It ruined the best plane we had. Seriously though, thank you for my life.”

It was signed: Curt von Schneider.

He Who Dares…

At the age of twenty two, Robert was now an educated, modern Western young man with a successful business of his own. He had trained as a commercial pilot and now shared ownership of an aircraft with his business partner. Some of their income came from training free-fall parachute enthusiasts, and other allied activities at their base north of Rio de Janeiro.

There was however, a deep dissatisfaction in his life. As a child he had never known his first given name, and without it, felt he could never know who he really was. A name could be the only connection to the parents he no longer remembered. It was for this reason he would have to take the journey back to his origins.

Perhaps Robert’s dream to discover his past would have remained just a dream, had it not been for that aerial photograph taken from above Brazil’s Alto Purus National park; he had found the full colour picture in a geographical periodical. What he saw had jogged a deep instinctive memory. The aerial photograph showed a densely forested area, with its myriad of glittering streams snaking their way towards the Rio Purus.

The point that first caught Robert’s attention in the photograph was the unusual ‘dog-leg’ shape in the river, and the way in which the adjoining streams related to it. This invoked memories of childhood sketches he had made long ago, but there was a disparity concerning this photograph, because Robert’s childhood sketch had shown a large flat-topped triangular rock, jutting out of the waters within the ‘dog-leg’ section. He rushed to find a magnifying glass and held it over the aerial picture. It revealed that there was indeed a flat-topped triangular rock feature in the correct place.

He wondered what he should do next. It was impossible to envisage anything remotely sensible that could offer a solution. Instinctively though, he knew that emotional yearnings are often deaf to common sense, and can go their own precarious ways.

When Robert explained his plan to his friend and business partner, it was received with astonishment.

“You’re bloody mad!” he said. “I knew you had this obsession over your origins, but for goodness sake take some advice and let it go – otherwise you are going to your certain death.”

Several weeks later however, Robert said farewell to his thoroughly unhappy friend.

“I’ll be back!” he said “I’m a survivor.”

It was fortunate that Robert’s four-wheeled drive vehicle was designed for rough terrain. The highway withered away at times into rough tracks only to appear again many miles further on. Although the vehicle was large, its adequate sleeping space had almost disappeared under jerry cans of spare fuel and water. There was a large tool kit, spare tyres, enough cooking utensils and food to feed a family for a month or so.

Many hard driving days elapsed, before he eventually arrived at the Porto Velho junction, where it intersected the Trance Amazonian Highway. This was as near to his ultimate goal that the vehicle could take him, so he followed some instructions previously written down, that would take him to a local address.

On arrival, he was greeted enthusiastically by his old school-friend Michael, who wasted no time in trying to dissuade Robert from his planned suicidal enterprise.

“I’m beginning to see what you mean by suicidal,” remarked Robert as his eyes scanned the dilapidated aircraft in front of him. Its hangar was more like a large tin roofed car port, held up by corner posts. The aircraft runway was also quality co-ordinated with everything else; it was just hard baked earth with a few undulations along the way which would make taking-off and landing interesting, at the very least.

Michael’s house restored a teeny bit of confidence; it was very neat and spacious.

“My wife is visiting her sister for a few days,” he said. “A pity really, she would have liked to have met you.”

Several days of planning and discussion passed before the final morning arrived. Robert checked the contents of his heavy backpack and parachute; this was a well tested revolutionary design of his own. Also, to reduce the landing impact on his body during descent, his back-pack would be attached to him by a long rope, so that it would land ahead of him. The pack contained as many survival items as he could safely cram into it, including chlorine tablets for drinking water and some antibiotics.

“Too late to change your mind now,” said his friend gruffly, as the bucking aircraft roared along the undulating ground. After that, there was only silence between them whilst the hours of featureless rainforest passed beneath.

Robert’s mind slipped back to things he had been told concerning his childhood. He had been found drifting in and out of consciousness in the bottom of a Periperi reed boat. It was not known how many days he had been adrift in the Rio Purus, but fortunately the boat was intercepted by a native canoe. The only thing about that event that had stayed clearly in his memory, were the deep wounds of jaguar claw marks on the young native’s shoulder and arm, as he had gently lifted him out of the boat.

He eventually discovered that just beyond the place on the river where he was found, were the head waters of a deep descending gorge, that would crush any boat unlucky enough to be sucked into its maw, so it seemed that he was not intended to die that day.

Further memories then came to mind about first hearing his new name, and having awoken amongst people whose skin colour was much lighter than his own. Whatever he had been lying on, was soft and white, which they called a ‘bed’. There were other beds, lined up and spaced apart either side of the large covered place he was in.

During those infant moments, he had been convinced he had died, and the carers around him were the Great White Spirits who would guide him on to meet his ancestors. For several days, he had lain recovering with the help of his ‘White Spirits’, and was getting used to his new name, although it was nearly a week before he realised that he was not dead.

It was thought that he was about two years old, and had been identified by tribal markings as having belonged to a tiny nomadic group that had never been contacted by modern man. So it appeared to them that the unconscious boy must have been transported several hundred miles down the fast moving river, away from the area of Alto Purus on the Peruvian border.

In most cases, isolated native groups had little more than rudimentary language. However, by using native Yanomami interpreters and hand signs, they finally managed to give him a vague idea of what was happening. He could not be returned to his family, because their whereabouts would not be known, but deep in his young mind were signs, places, images and scents of a place he once called ‘home’.

As the years would prove, his journey out of the natural world into one of amazing new sights and innovations, had been much more remarkable, than any modern mind would find possible to conceive.

The plane juddered slightly, bringing Robert back from his reverie. He was also aware of the quick, anguished side glances from Michael from time to time.

“We’re almost there, according to the aerial picture,” he eventually yelled above the noise of the plane. “For God’s sake, it’s not too late to turn back. If you jump, I will be complicit in your death and I