The Queen of Shangri-La

I was trying to clear my head when the screaming started. Nicholson had managed to point the nose upward in a vain attempt to clear the ridge. Consequently, the Gremlin Special had hit bottom first rather than head on. So, it didn't explode. But flames were licking through the cabin.

Adrenaline is a wonder drug. It narrows your focus to simple survival. It also blanks out trivial thoughts like - what the fuck just happened? and why am I here? I ran several yards back to the main wreckage, dropped to my hands and knees, and crawled into the relatively undamaged rear of the plane.

All I saw were bodies and smoke - lit by the reddish flames that consumed the front of the aircraft. It was like the darkest pit of Hell. Nevertheless, a few people had survived. Maggie Hastings was struggling to get out from under the corpse of the Major. She must have shot directly across the aisle into him, like a cannonball. Now she was trapped under his body.

The spunky little thing was spitting like an angry cat and loudly complaining that her dream trip to Shangri-La had been ruined. I thought that all her over-the-top anger was a product of hysteria. I discovered later on that it was just Maggie's uncompromising approach to life.

Maggie finally pried herself from underneath the Major and began to crawl toward the light at the broken off end of the fuselage, swearing like a truck driver as she passed me. I heard shrieks, as I desperately sought Laura. I literally stumbled across her in that smoking inferno, tangled with the plump one whose name was Eleanor. The two had been sitting together on my side of the plane.

I had to act quickly. I could smell burning plastic, canvas, hair, and human flesh. So, I awkwardly picked them up - one under each arm - and dragged them out of the burning aircraft. Once I got clear of the wreckage, I placed both the wounded WACs tenderly on the ground. I was turning to go back inside when the wing root auxiliary fuel tank blew. I knew that there would be no more survivors.

Then, miraculously... another person appeared from around the front side of the plane. I had no idea how he'd survived. Since that part of the aircraft was destroyed in the crash. The only thing I could surmise was that he'd been standing up and the impact shot him directly out the front window. We'd never know - since the guy, whose name was Decker, didn't have any recall of that day.

He was walking like a zombie... clearly badly hurt. Both legs and his back were burned, and he had a deep gash on his forehead. He was also holding his right arm like it was broken. He plopped down next to where Maggie and I were helping the two women, and just stared off into space moaning.

Laura and Eleanor were awake now, lying next to each other. Eleanor looked at me with pleading eyes. I offered her a weak smile, trying to hide my horror at her appearance. The fire had burned her entire body. But miraculously it hadn't touched her angelic face. She didn't seem to be in pain. But it was obvious that she wasn't going to last long.

Eleanor said bravely, "Let's sing." She was actually trying to raise OUR spirits. Maggie gave me a grim look and then turned a benevolent smile on the courageous little thing and said, "Not now, just rest."

Laura was lying next to Eleanor weeping uncontrollably. I didn't know why. There were just a few superficial burns. But there must have been serious internal damage. I dropped to my knees, took her hand, and said consolingly, "I'm here, my dear, dear friend. And I am going to do whatever it takes to help you survive."

Laura paused a second and gave me an intense glance, one that combined fear and fondness into a single heartbreaking connection. She gently squeezed my hand. Then her eyes slowly closed, and she lapsed back into unconsciousness.

I'm a guy and guys don't cry. But it was just so unbearable, and I threw back my head and wailed like a newborn baby calf. I felt no shame. I was honoring a friend, one who didn't deserve what had happened to her. I looked across at Maggie, who was quietly comforting Eleanor, and she gave me a puzzled look. It was like I'd surprised her. Then she gave me a wink of approval and comradeship. That surprised ME.

My impression of Maggie Hastings was that she was a twit... a woman just out for a good time. The Maggie consoling Eleanor in her final moments, was a strong minded, compassionate, and courageous person -- trying to give the poor heroic girl whatever comfort she could in the last hours of her life.

During the death watch - we sat and talked to the two of them about home. Neither Laura nor Eleanor could hear us. They were mercifully unconscious. But perhaps our simple reminiscences brought some solace to their tortured souls. Both of them ultimately died, Eleanor first. Then Laura.

Laura's death happened while I was holding her hand. She muttered, as if surprised, "Frederick," took a last intense gasp, and her hand went slack. I had no idea who Frederick was, or what he meant to Laura. But it was a bitter irony. This wonderful compassionate woman would have led a long and happy life if she hadn't boarded a flight to Shangri-La. It was a harsh lesson in how random and transient life is.

It was almost sunup when Laura finally died. When that happened... I let out a primal scream of agony that was echoed by a wild cry of sorrow from Maggie. Maggie was sitting next to Eleanor's body violently sobbing. I would have gone over to comfort her. But I was paralyzed by my own grief.

Perhaps a half hour passed... while we just sat there silently processing the loss. Then my practical side kicked in and I began to take stock. Decker was in a bad way and Maggie had a few serious burns on her legs. Plus, she seemed to have lost her shoes in the impact.

Maggie was fixing that little problem by taking the shoes off of Laura's feet. I looked at her with astonishment and she said bitterly, "What other choice do I have? We've gotta walk out of here, don't we?" She was right of course. But I had no idea how strong minded you'd have to be to borrow your dead friend's shoes to do it. That's when I realized that I had underestimated Maggie Hastings.

There was no way we were going to leave Laura and Eleanor's bodies out for the jungle scavengers. So, I picked up a handy chunk of aluminum, there was a lot of it lying around after the crash and started to dig. The shard was a surprisingly useful shovel. I had a four-foot-deep hole excavated within an hour.

While I was digging, Maggie had industriously rummaged in the undamaged tail section and brought out some blankets. Working together, we gently wrapped our two friends. Then Maggie and I picked up the bodies and carefully laid both women side by side in the hole. It pained me to throw that first shovel of earth onto them.

Once I had filled in their grave, I hammered the aluminum shard into the ground with a rock. Using my jackknife, I scratched on its surface, "Here lie two American soldiers, Laura Besley and Eleanor Hanna -- they served with dedication and honor-- Semper Fidelis." I didn't think the Marines would mind me using the only Latin phrase I knew, and it was damn appropriate.

Maggie stood next to me, hands folded, tears trickling down her face saying silent words of prayer. Her behaviour since the crash had been totally counter to my initial impression of her. Maggie Hastings was one tough cookie. But she also had a compassionate and tender side.

I watched with amazement as Maggie reached under her skirt, pulled down her silk underwear and proceeded to recondition it into a serviceable bandage for Decker's horrible wound. Her lack of false

modesty was one more interesting piece of information.

Now, it was time to think about survival. I was in the best shape, so it was up to me to get us out of there. Maggie could walk but she had serious burns on her legs. Decker was mobile, but his wound was ghastly.

We were miles from civilization at the top of a mountain covered by a primeval jungle. We knew that we'd have to fight our way down to the valley in order for any search planes to see us. That was perhaps ten miles away -- straight downhill through uncharted trees, underbrush, swamps, and snakes.

We struggled through that terrifying jungle for the rest of the day - making perhaps three miles. Blessedly, the humidity was low, and the temperatures were bearable. The only food we had was a box of Charms candy that Maggie had in her pocket. We also had blankets and a totally inexplicable life raft. I thought that the raft might make decent ground cover for sleeping.

There were no paths and we soon discovered that the jungle was full of clinging vines. The vines kept tangling themselves in Maggie's luxuriant hair. Every time that happened, Maggie would swear eloquently at the offending vegetation.

We finally reached an open space and dropped to the ground to rest. That was when Maggie turned to me, fire in her glorious hazel eyes, and said, "I've had enough of this shit!! I want you to use your pocketknife to cut off all my hair."

I goggled at her. Maggie's abundant honey-colored locks were one of her best features. She said angrily, "Either you do it, or hand me the knife so I can do it!" I hesitantly handed her the knife. She seized a long thick strand of her hair and hacked it off about three inches from her skull.

I yelped, "Okay, I'll do the rest." I was afraid that she would give herself the same kind of wound Decker had if I let her continue to use the knife. I gathered Maggie's luxuriant hair into a ponytail and sawed it off to the same length. Maggie shook and primped her new, rather sad looking, bob while I stood holding a silky length of lavender smelling curls. She said relieved, "That's better."

I suppose Maggie's lack of vanity could be explained by the fact that she knew she was gorgeous with, or without hair. But that clearly wasn't the reason why she had done it. Her long hair was slowing us down. So, in Maggie's pragmatic mind... it had to go.

A shallow beauty like Betty Moran, would never mar her exceptional good looks like that, even for the sake of expediency. But Maggie was a different breed of cat. Her allure lay in her innate strength and courage. It was who she was, not how she looked. Maggie Hastings was the total package.

Maggie's physical beauty lapsed into the background after you knew her for a while. Her real attraction lay in her indominable spirit. Maggie had the guts to carve her own path and she wasn't going to let something as trivial as a plane crash defeat her. Her innate qualities like fearlessness and confidence wouldn't fade over time.

I had been helping Decker by letting him cling to my shoulder - using his good arm. I'm six-two and Decker was a couple of inches shorter. But he was older and more muscular than I was. So, we bulldozed a path through the tropical vegetation as we walked. Maggie, who was a foot shorter, and seventy pounds lighter limped bravely along in our wake.

We eventually stumbled into a large clearing. Both Decker and Maggie looked blown. It was getting scary with the increasing lack of visibility and the noisy birds mocking us from the trees. Even the jungle knew we were in trouble. So, I said, "Let's camp here. We've got another day before we reach the valley, and I don't know that we'll find another clearing."

Maggie was carrying the blankets and I was toting the folded-up life raft under my free arm. The fact that Decker was even mobile was his contribution. We spread the raft on the clearing floor and Maggie laid out the blankets as the light faded. Then we were alone in near total darkness, with only the bright sky to light the scene.

Maggie and I gingerly helped Decker lie down. Because of his head wound, he had to be situated flat on his back, even though he had serious burns there too. Maggie wrapped a blanket around him, and he said, plaintively, "Thank you." She said tenderly, "Rest up soldier. We're going to find help tomorrow."

Then she turned to me and said, as if she was giving me an order, "I need somebody to hold me."

I looked astounded... WOMEN!! Then she added matter of fact, "But you'd better not try any monkey business if you want to keep your balls."

Maggie Hastings was a ferocious little critter. Her attitude toward danger was like one of those quick and insanely brave fighting mongooses that the Sundanese keep to guard against deadly snakes... small, tough, and determined to defeat anything that she considered a threat.

I laughed out loud. I said, "I'll keep that in mind."

It was clear that Maggie wanted some human contact to recharge her batteries. Nonetheless, her need to be held was the first evidence that she actually thought like a woman. In fact, most of the time she reminded me of a guy.

We lay together spoon fashion under a sky full of stars. She grabbed my free arm and wrapped it around her tiny self, carefully avoiding putting my hand on her ripe little melons. Then she snuggled her exquisite round butt into me, sighed and said, in her first truly friendly tone, "Goodnight Cowboy."

I mumbled, "I'm from Wisconsin, not Texas." Maggie's voice was drowsy, "Don't you have cows there?" I said, "Of course - we're the dairy state." She said, ipso-facto, "Well then... goodnight, Cowboy."

Okay, two can play that game... I said, "Goodnight, Squirt." Maggie mumbled her approval. It definitely fit; she was so tiny. Sleep came mercifully fast. We were utterly exhausted, emotionally as well as physically -- just as anybody who'd undergone what we had would be.

The dawn comes up like thunder in the tropics. Kipling wrote that. I discovered as the sun rose that I was lying on my side holding a superb little tit in one hand while its owner was softly moaning and moving her firm little bottom around on my raging hard-on.

I was luxuriating in the sensation. Then it dawned on me who's tit and ass I was enjoying and I rolled quickly over. I had no desire to get slapped. I reminded myself that I wasn't on a tropical holiday with the most beautiful woman I had ever known. This was life, or death, and the odds were distinctly on the side of the grim reaper.

I rose creakily to my feet, the result of being thrown around in the crash. Then I looked at Maggie's legs and there were some really nasty burns on them. She must have been in agony all day, but I hadn't heard a peep out of her.

We were lost in a jungle, 150 miles from civilization and surrounded by stone age people who were alleged to be cannibals. I should have been scared shitless. But I really wasn't worried. Most of my confidence came from my growing faith in my spirited little traveling companion.

Maggie was awake now. She woke like a cat, fully aware of her surroundings. And like a cat, she had hazel almost amber eyes. They were presently focused on me in a speculative glance. It was like she was deciding how far she could trust me.

We didn't have food, or water. So, we didn't need to make breakfast. We just folded the blankets and the raft and continued the painful trek down the mountain. We walked in silence, trying to preserve the last of our energy. The fundamental instinct to survive burned brightly in all of us. But the hunger and thirst had its insidious impact.

Four agonizing miles later we had arrived on flat land and the jungle had thinned somewhat. So, we made better progress. I could see an empty space in the trees ahead, which indicated that we might be getting close. That's when I heard a loud crash behind me. I turned startled, and Maggie was on her hands and knees crawling determinedly behind us.

I parked Decker, turned back to Maggie. I said anxiously, "What happened? Are you alright?"

She snarled, "Just keep walking, I'll follow."

I said stunned, "What's wrong with you? Why are you crawling?" Yep - I know that was a stupid question but I was utterly bewildered. She pulled her WAC uniform skirt up to mid-thigh and said angrily, "Here's why I'm crawling. My damn legs don't work anymore."

The burns on Maggie's gorgeous legs had turned into infected sores and their poison had clearly weakened her to a point where she couldn't stand upright. But no mountain was going to defeat Maggie Hastings. She would crawl down it on her hands and knees if she had to.

That did it... I said, "Both of you just sit here and rest. I am going to find out how much further we have to go." And I surged off into the jungle.

Maggie's beauty and sex appeal wasn't what was driving me at that point. It was pure desperation. The two of us, Maggie, and I, had forged a deep bond of comradeship. We both felt it. But the sores on her legs looked like the beginning of gangrene. So, I had to get this gallant woman some help fast.

I was sure that the people at Sentani would be urgently looking for us once they discovered that we hadn't returned. So, we had to get into the open far enough that search aircraft could see us. That was our goal from the beginning. I also knew that they would drop supplies once they had pinpointed us. And I assumed there would be a first aid kit in the package.

I thrashed through the vines and underbrush for perhaps fifteen minutes, maybe a half mile total, and then I broke out into a glorious, sunlit valley. That auspicious moment marked my arrival in Shangri-La. It was incredibly beautiful. But I couldn't tarry. I needed to get my friends to this place.

The two of them were sitting back-to-back when I returned, seemingly propping each other up. I said to Decker, "Can you walk?" He nodded grimly and hobbled to his feet. Then I turned to Maggie and scooped her up in my arms. It wasn't hard for me to do. Maggie Hastings weighed all of a hundred pounds.

She began to loudly protest. But we both knew that she was just bitching at me because she didn't want me doing her any favors. The woman had more pride than a Russian Grand Duke.

I kept walking, so she finally shut up and grudgingly put one arm around my shoulder to help support herself. Hence, we three motley travelers stumbled the last half mile through that nightmare jungle and out onto a soft sunny hillock.

I laid the life raft out and placed Maggie gently down on it. She said accusingly, "I could have crawled." I just laughed at her. This woman took no prisoners.

I could see why Maggie had never had a steady boyfriend, or any form of personal entanglement, romantic, or otherwise. Her independent streak kept her from forming any real attachments, even though she was a superbly good-looking woman. She didn't want to depend on any man. I wondered what it was in her personal history that had made her so untrusting.

In many respects, Maggie was just like me. I was a loner, a person who was happiest when I wasn't around people and their problems. You can call me arrogant, if you like. But I'd survived by putting out the "do not disturb" sign. It no doubt made me seem aloof. But I was a Wisconsin hick in a bizarre new land... way too self-conscious and introverted to enjoy the boisterous interactions of Army life.

Maggie's problem was that she couldn't avoid other people, even if she'd put a barbed wire fence around herself. Men are drawn to sexy women like the proverbial flies to honey and she was a shining example of the species. Her looks alone made her alluring. But she also had that worldly, challenging attitude, like, "You aren't man enough for me." It drove guys nuts.

As for me - Maggie's beauty and sexual attractiveness didn't affect me in the slightest, since I knew that she was WAY out of my league. Every man has a sense of the women they can compete for. It lets them find compatible mates. Of course... there are guys who lack the instinct. It's why nerds ask homecoming queens to the prom. But in general, most guys know their place in the social pecking order.