Ramu

By C.J. Cronin

“Ramu” In 1949 the son of a WWII fighter pilot, shot down over New Guinea, launches an expedition to recover his father's remains. With him from Baltimore is his pretty and strong-willed young wife, Mary. They secure the assistance of a local patrol officer and a legendary crocodile hunter, Tom Cole. Little do they know the terrifying force they are about to unleash as they near the forbidden valley. 88,000 words

Plus: “Ramu II” The exciting sequel to “Ramu”. Casey Solstein is a brilliant young paleontologist with the Boston Museum. Her specialty is large carnivores. She also collects old science fiction magazines. While at a market she stumbles upon magazines containing a series about an impossibly big crocodile in the jungles of New Guinea. Only trouble is, the science is too exact for such an old publication, and so bears further investigation. 108,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C.J. Cronin
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311380975

C.J. Cronin

The author of 42 feature films, 5 television series, 4 plays, 11 novels, 2 novellas, & 3 non-fiction books. Directed and narrated the documentary “Treasure the Gulf of Thailand Incident". Authored and designed the concept and function of the seven electronic games in the electronic book “Seven” in association with the Acme games company. Invented and designed the concept and function of the electronic component of “Slip Slap”, an indoor game and exercise invention.

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Ramu © C.J. Cronin

88,000 words

Copyright. Smashwords edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, C.J. Cronin, his agent, or a properly authorized officer bearing a written authority from C.J. Cronin to that end, excepting brief quotes used in connection with reviews written specifically for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, internet article or on any form of multi-media book show.

For my mother,

Shirley Cronin

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Back to Contents

CHAPTER 1

It begins at the Ramu. The Ramu is the region of a mighty river flowing from the New Guinea highlands and emptying into the Bismark Sea.

Royce Palmer clenched his jaw. Toying with his fears, he nudged the joystick forward until he was all-but skimming the wide river, so low that the thrust from the Lightning’s propellers ruffled the water a hundred yards in his wake.

The old man perched on his pen, teetering, waiting on inspiration. Finally, seeking and finding an alternative, he dropped the pen into the binding seam and reached for some GI dogtags nearby. They were worn, badly weathered. He rotated them in the weak light, trying to make out the name stamped into the metal, but his old, blue-rimmed eyes failed. It was of no consequence, he knew only too well what it said: ‘Royce Palmer’. He laid the tags down gently, almost deferentially, and picked up the fountain pen once more.

It scratched noisily across the old ledger book, ignoring the faded bookkeeper’s guides. Like a typewriter return it was conveyed quickly back to start the new line. The scratching was the only noise in the room, aside from the soft percussions of the writer’s lips as they expelled daubs of smoke, sucking, savoring and puffing a pipe.

Royce played his deadly game a few minutes longer then eased the joystick back, climbing just enough to miss a ridge that forced the river’s meander. He allowed speed to come off as the plane rose gently in the air, and with gravity on his side undid a catch, causing the canopy to slide back with inertial weight.

I have left it late in my life to reveal this tale. With any luck, I will not live to see it complete. The doctors say I have not long now. It would seem my malaria has won the day.

It was a dark, musty room, lit only in one corner by the yellow candescence of a 50’s desk lamp and filled with dry-rotted memorabilia of decades past. Books were everywhere - on shelves, stacked in piles, some scattered on the floor. There were primitive wood carvings from Melanesia - gope boards, highland spears, Hagen axes. In pride of place on the old teak desk was a black and white photograph of Mary, his wife. She was on her grizzly hunt. The grizzly hunt, the only hunt Mary ever attempted. Posing over the carcass of a small black bear she had remarked on her return that the reason they called it a grizzly hunt had nothing to do with bears. She vowed never to do such a cruel and wasteful thing again. Mary was so young then, beautiful in a natural blond, clean way. Her expression in the photograph was typical of her, conveying a sultry sexiness, oddly mixed with modesty. This contradiction most men found appealing.

The image of one such man, a man who had not attempted to hide his attraction to her, was housed in an ornate silver frame alongside Mary’s. The man’s name was Tom Cole. He was standing before a huge strangling fig in the middle of the jungle and in his left hand was an enormous, bird-eating spider that he had just plucked from a large web. What was of interest was not so much the incredible spider, nor the charismatic Tom Cole, but in the distant background there stood four New Guinea natives, four murderous head-hunters who were later to cause them so much grief and hardship.

Royce took off his wedding ring and with little consideration dropped it onto the cockpit floor. His dogtags were thrown down in equal disregard. On the instrument panel there was a photograph jammed at its edge by the altimeter housing. It was of himself and his teenage son, Harry. For a long moment he looked at it, recalling and longing for those halcyon days. He kissed his fingertips, reached out, and touched his son’s image.

Without further reflection or a moment to compose himself, he unbuckled his seatbelt, hoisted himself up, and threw himself from the plane.

"It all began with the discovery of a warplane by some native hunters in 1949. In that year drought had come to New Guinea. The ocean current we now know as ‘El Ninio’ was having its way, and many of the highland and lowland tribes were close to starvation. A party of six men from the village of Keneobatu, not far from the white settlement of Madang, had ventured into the Ramu. This was unusual, ‘Ramu’ literally meaning, ‘the valley of death’. It was a taboo area with no tribes living or going there. It had been that way for as long as the oldest elders could recall. No one knew why this was so but it had become a strictly observed tradition.

Hunger, though, does not pay homage to tradition, and so in secret one day the six men from Keneobatu set out to forage for food.

They agreed from the outset they would not go deep into the Ramu, but would simply travel toward it. It was not just the Ramu they were afraid of. Headhunting was still very much one of New Guinea’s less savory customs. Although the coastal villages, which now fell under the control of the Australian Colonial Administration, had ceased to practice cannibalism, many of the highland tribes still dined on human flesh, especially that belonging to trespassers from other villages.

So the Keneobatu men agreed they would not tell anyone where they were going. They concocted a story about going to Madang to speak with the local patrolman, a man called Godson, who might find them laboring work on the copra plantations along the coast.

The loss of six good men from a small village like Keneobatu, though, would be a disaster for their families and the village as a whole. So it was agreed they should tell just one trustworthy soul of their plans. Tumu Rono’s son, Kila, would be that person. At fourteen, he had recently undergone the first rites of passage into manhood and everyone liked and trusted him.

Before telling the secret, Tumu made Kila aware of his great responsibility, that he must tell no one, or be forever cast from the society of men, to be treated with the same disrespect given menstruating women. But if the men did not return after a week then he could assume the worst. The secret would then be invalid and he was released to tell what he knew. Tumu also impressed upon Kila that he was not to come looking if they did not return. If six of Keneobatu’s best men could not survive the hunt, then Kila would be needlessly sacrificed in a vain search for them. If they did not return, then Kila must bide the lesson, tradition should be observed.

And so without ceremony, as if seeing only to a chore, the men left. From the outset things had not gone well. Twice they had to hide when foraging parties from other tribes crossed their path. The lowland tribes were very active, desperately searching for food themselves and quickly emptying all areas of wildlife and edible plants. After three days the Keneobatu men had found little: some yams, a turtle, three bird eggs, a bush pig, and a tree kangaroo. Although this was welcome food, between six muscular men traveling ten miles a day it was merely enough to fuel them, and insufficient for the needs of their families.

But at last they came to the Ramu Valley. There, they found game. The river fed the area and life in all its versatile forms proliferated. Drawn on as though taken by greed they pushed further into the Ramu, further than they had intended. They made shallow pits, lined them with leaves and buried the food, their intent to collect each cache on their way home.

But it was now the fifth day, the day after they planned to turn for home. It was on this day they found the plane.

It was lying, tipped partially toward them among a tangle of trees and vines. Directly beside it was a small clearing of sand, deposited years before by the nearby Ramu River in one of its endless meanderings. Both wings were torn off and the tail section was decapitated.

Tumu approached first, recognizing the plane from those he had seen in the sky during the war. He had helped the Australian troops turn back the Japanese onslaught on the infamous Kokoda Trail, helped carry their sick and dying back over the treacherous Owen Stanley Range to the first aid stations at Owers' Corners. He knew the symbol of a US fighter plane - a star, with horizontal stripes each side.

Tumu jumped up onto the remains of a wing and looked into the cockpit.

The hunters gathered in the clearing, wondering what he was seeing. Tumu reached into the cockpit.

He jumped down and showed the others what he had. They looked at the strange metal plates, looked at the markings on them and wondered what they meant. Tumu explained that they named the man flying the plane. Not all soldiers wore them. The Australians and Japanese did not, only the Americans. This man was an American, and he flew the plane to fight in the sky against the Japanese.

It was then that something more horrible than can be imagined came upon those poor souls.

A shadow fell across them. The creature casting the shadow was very big, and black.

They looked around.

In seconds, all six Keneobatu men were dead."

The old man paused his pen and blinked several times, staring at the last word he had written. He was so tired, so all-consumingly tired. The little he had written had wearied him. He swallowed hard, wondering if he would have the strength, and in a way, intrigued to know if he would survive to finish his tale. He told himself he did not care, but knew deep down, deep in his soul, that he wanted to tell it. He wanted others to know that he had not lied, and most of all, he wanted them to be warned.

Back to Contents

CHAPTER 2

The first thing you notice about New Guinea is the smell. It smells like no other place. When the plane door opens and you step into the light, it is not the greenness, not the heavy hug of humidity, not the clarity of light you find so amazing. It is the smell. Perhaps ‘smell’ is the wrong word. You can lick the air in New Guinea and swallow it. It is a musk of nature, filled with blood and sex and violence and myriad strange passions. It is evolution at its operative peak, not a subtle theory thought up in studious, quiet rooms, but a kaleidoscope before your eyes, a shout beside your ear, a gorge to your gut. It is ‘livingness’. It is the pink of young flesh with the deep red of blood and slashed with the yellow of organs. It is the purple of kings and the green of wealth and the umber of solidity. It is the fetidness of rot, and the freshness of birth, and the wetness of tears and juices. It is the heat of desire and comfort of knowing there will always be much more.

Harry Palmer smelt nothing. His pipe dominated even the redolence of New Guinea. Even though not lit at that moment, the black plug tobacco he favored sanitized his approach, clamped by his teeth, and filling his nostrils with hometown-customary smells as he stepped through the DC3 hatch and into a new, strange world.

Mary followed, her hair white-yellow like fluff on a peach and seeming as dewy-fresh clean.

They were both weary. At last, Madang, finally they had reached Madang.

The romantic anticipation of foreign travel had long since fizzled on the journey from Baltimore. By virtue of tedium, it was dead and buried on American soil somewhere along the seemingly endless city-hop to the West Coast. This was followed by even longer hauls to Hawaii, New Zealand, and Australia. In Sydney they rested for a day and took in the sights of the harbor, but then on to Brisbane, Rockhampton, Townsville, Cairns, following the heat up the Queensland coast. Finally, they saw the shores of Papua, sister province to New Guinea.

Port Moresby was a disappointment, a flat dustbowl of heat and flies and gusting winds, lethargic natives and starving dogs, the opposite of what the tropics should be. But as depressingly bland as Moresby was, Lae was startling by contrast.

Verdant and ripe it was splashed daily by north east trades whether the rest of the land was in drought or not. Its airport seemed almost eager for violation, lying wanton before a gang of aggressive thrusting peaks of breathtaking proportion. On disembarking from a plane the sight to new arrivals produced sexual gasps in the women and led men to swell their chests in postured affinity. The Palmers had been no exception.

Then Madang, a jewel in frizzy hair, a butterfly pinned with a slither of bamboo and surrounded by turquoise-blue. Beautiful reefs and coral shoals and arching palms that dipped frond tips into white sand and pure, glassy seas.

But among so much beauty, and even from the air, the unsightliness of war was still apparent. The emperor’s subs lay drowned in the bay, cannons were capsized and part buried, tanks were ruptured and rotting. Madang had been touched by the rising sun and scorched and scarred by its passage. It was surprising, though, when logic was applied, the wrecks of war appeared so old when they should not be, a mere four years beyond the war. But the tropics attacked quickly, here, life moved relentlessly on.

The heat from the tarmac was like a blast furnace. It was still winter, unbelievably. Harry had worn his double-breasted suit. Mary was more comfortable in a light summer frock and slip-on low-heels. She knew Harry was conservative and did not question his clothes, though she was sure he would listen if she insisted. She guessed that an accountant’s thoughts seldom strayed to fashion or the practical implications. He was a creature of habit.

The converted hanger that was the Madang ’drome was no relief. The curved tin roof was more like a lens focusing heat. Unable to stand it further, Harry Palmer loosened his tie. He was surrounded by brawny white men in shorts and mostly wearing singlets. Some were even bare-foot, just like the natives he had seen unloading the luggage on the half-melted bitumen outside. So when a tall man in clean, starched kaki and long cotton socks appeared, he was noticeable by virtue of contrast.

The man smiled pleasantly, Hello, there. John Godson. Good to finally meet you, Mister Palmer.

Palmer was surprised. How did Godson know who he was? Was he so obviously American?

Yes, hello, he returned, plucking the pipe from his mouth, Same here. Please, call me Harry.

They shook hands but realized quickly they were ignoring Mary. Both turned to her.

And this is my wife, Mary.

Really?!

Godson looked surprised and delighted and Palmer wondered why. The mystery was immediately solved.

Well, this is a turn up. My wife will be thrilled. We don’t get many white women out here, you know. Come on out to the house and we'll have some pink lemonade.

Clasping her elbow, Godson was already tugging Mary toward the terminus door.

Oh, the bags, called Palmer, undecided if he should follow.

Oh, the boys’ll bring them, Godson sounded unconcerned and kept walking with Mary.

Palmer followed but wanted to shout urgent questions - What boys? How will they know my bags? What if they steal them? How will they know where you live? How do they know I’m with you?

*

The cassowary walked past the plane wreck. It was a stately bird with a regal line to its strut, and royalty further implied via the high top-crest, all ornately framed by purple and red flesh along the elongated neck. Its large, ochre eyes, plying apart overly-long lashes, blinked imperiously as it stared at the plane, knowing it was not a natural thing but also not concerned that it presented danger.

It was strolling through the sandy loam of the old river bank, browsing for food. Not finding any and scenting the faint odor of water nearby, it moved into the undergrowth leading to the river, and quickly disappeared from view.

For a long moment all was still.

But suddenly the shrubs shook.

The massive black head that tossed the bird back into its throat flicked up for only a brief second.

The little clearing was immediately calm once more, as if the cassowary had never existed.

*

They followed the bay and it was altogether pleasant. The discomfort of the hanger had been replaced by a small zephyr angled at the back seat through the butterfly windows. The whistling breeze along with the tuka-tuk-tuk of the Volkswagen’s rear motor made conversation difficult and so mostly the Palmers just watched, enjoying the wonder of cultural discovery. Godson pointed out landmarks and areas of interest as anyone might, but mainly the journey was its own prize.

Godson appeared a man of some contradictions. He was tall, bordering on lanky, but with large forearms and big hands indicating he was physically powerful. Even so he had a scholarly mien; the indulgent but cautious stoop of a Catholic Priest agreeing to sample Protestant wine. It would be hard to imagine him, in the brief time they had been acquainted, as a man capable of violence. Palmer could see that if there was trouble a man like Godson would be ideally suited. Aside from being physically formidable, Godson somehow appeared diplomatic, both factors neutralizing any desire to attack. He had a fatherly grace and gentleness, seeming one of those rare individuals embodying progressive civilization; reasoning first, brute force as a last resort, but capable in both measures.

Although dressed in military attire he was in fact a policeman and at that mainly a native policeman. Patrolmen in New Guinea quickly became much more than their office, a cross between low level governor, magistrate, cultural attaché and law enforcer. Considered in those terms, Godson looked and acted perfectly within the role. He seemed a graying athlete with a private education moved on to affable school principal. The only thing that betrayed him as a cop was a head that restlessly swept and an eye that endlessly dusted.

Ah, here we are, Godson concluded, interrupting Palmer’s thoughts, and swung the car into a small, neat yard.

The house was low-set on short concrete stumps and clad with fibro exterior walls. It was obviously his home for its color perfectly matched his uniform, and besides, there was a sign: Patrol Officer HQ.

As they got out of the car Palmer could contain himself no longer, John, how will the boys at the airport know to bring our bags here?

Godson grinned, seeming to assume Palmer was joking. He guided Mary inside.

*

Mary’s grin was tight and she adjusted her hand on what was definitely a warm, pink lemonade.

The big, snotty-nosed baby opposite pursed its lips in a hard sneer and continued studying her.

He's a beautiful baby, she offered, trading hypocrisy for propriety.

She, corrected Nancy Godson.

Mary was astonished, but rallied, Oh, sorry. I thought because he was, I mean, she was dressed in blue...

Nancy shifted her weight in the cane chair and did not disguise a sigh of irritation. That, plus the creaking of cane suggesting her limbs made the sound, comprised an emphatic rebuff. Mary could feel herself blushing and it was made worse by a blank mind incapable of inventing placation.

Nancy Godson was a big-boned woman and the child was her infant replica. All that was added to the copy was the stream of running snot. Nancy would never see forty again and no doubt had long since missed the complimentary attentions of men. Mary wondered if she had ever been attractive for her bigness suggested masculinity. Nancy was no doubt irritated because the privations of a patrolman’s household meant she could not color-code her child correctly.

Mary felt betrayed by John Godson. He had misled her as to his wife’s pleasure at another woman’s company. Still, there was a generational gap that Godson could not be blamed for. Nancy was certainly middle-aged and had considerable grey in her hair.

At that moment Mary wished she was a man. Clearly, in the antipodes and particularly here, women were not afforded the same automatic stature they enjoyed in the States. At home it would be unusual and bad-mannered for men to dump women together like children expected to play, while they withdrew to another room to pursue more adult conversation.

Mary sighed and studied her drink, which she really did not want, and tried to hear what the men were saying through the open doorway nearby.

*

Well, as I mentioned in my letters the Ramu is not a safe area. I don't want to alarm you but Ramu means 'valley of death'. Even the natives avoid it. Taboo. Lot of disease. Hope you brought plenty of Atebrin and quinine.

Palmer puffed his pipe, feeling at ease now in the sanctuary of an office. There was a rickety fan batting heavy air toward him and he had even taken off his tie. As yet the coat was an emotional hurdle.

Yes. Ah, this taboo, is it to do with the monster crocodile that ate those men?

Godson looked doubtful, Oh, I very much doubt it's a monster. Probably no bigger than fifteen feet. That’s if it exists at all. Besides, it would probably be a ‘freshy’.

Freshy?

Fresh water croc. The ones you really have to worry about are the salt water kind, ‘salties’. They can get very big, eighteen feet or more, but of course that's extremely rare these days. But the ‘freshies’ aren't normally man-eaters. You have to remember the boy who found the dogtags was only fourteen. He was exaggerating of course, obviously about the deaths of the hunters as well. Haven't bothered to confirm his story. Terrible liars, the blacks.

Palmer wondered if Godson’s racial condescension hid bigotry or if he was simply divulging a fact gleaned from long experience.

I've sent for him, went on Godson, Should be here soon.

The boy?

Yes, his name is Kila, Kila Rono. His village is about ten or fifteen miles.

Palmer was surprised at Godson’s efficiency and apparent power, that he could whimsically summon a lad so far and be sure his bidding would transpire.

Wouldn't fancy my chances of outfitting boys from anywhere ’round here, by the way, went on Godson, This story has them spooked. Superstitious, the blacks.

There it was again, condescension sounding like fact.

Well, how should we get up there?

Godson blinked confusion, We?

Palmer nodded, thinking his meaning obvious, Mary and me.

Godson looked him up and down and raised his voice, You're not taking your wife?!

Yes.

Godson smiled politely, but combined with a little bow this time it was clear condescension aimed at the uninitiated, Ah, I don't think you quite realize how dangerous and difficult the terrain is up there. You are aware that headhunting is still common in the highlands?

What?

Godson was already handing him a ‘National Geographic’ from his desk. Palmer gazed down at the famous yellow frame and saw it encased the face of a less than hospitable black man. He had black-yellow, glaring eyes and a boar’s tusk through his nose. There was a Ulysses swallowtail butterfly of black and turquoise mounted in his frizzy hair. The jagged barbs of a fishbone-tipped Kabasi fighting spear intruded into frame and the heading read, The Head-Hunters of New Guinea.

Palmer felt a sinking in his stomach. If Godson said it was so, it might be taken with a grain of salt, but ‘National Geographic’...

Just last week, continued Godson, gilding the lily, I received news that two German missionaries got themselves eaten up near Winepee. That's not far from the Ramu. I have to go up there to investigate next week.

Do you think it's true?

Of course. Didn't like that couple much anyway. Lutherans.

The way he stated ‘Lutherans’ was almost comical and consequently chilling, as though one could not expect any better end for people of that faith. Alternately, did it mean that Godson expected they should be cannibalized for daring to be German? Got themselves eaten? Further ruminations on the point were interrupted by the appearance of Godson’s houseboy at the outside doorway. He was accompanied by a young boy, naked except for a pair of torn and very worn boxer shorts.

Ah, Kila, said Godson, beckoning him inside with a jerk of his head. He lapsed immediately and naturally into pidgin, "Em Bos Palmer. En pikinini bilong man i bin stap insait long balus long Ramu."

Palmer gathered he was being introduced and came forward, extending his hand, Pleased to meet you.

A small discouraging sound from Godson attracted his attention and he caught the slight shake of the head. The boy had made no move to accept his hand.

Palmer was confused as to what he should do next, not wanting to breach local protocol, Does he speak English? he asked, realizing the question was redundant.

Pidgin. Just ask a question, I'll translate.

Palmer wondered what he should say, then seized upon the obvious, Will he take me to my father’s plane?

"Inap bai kisim em go long balus we yu bin kisim doktek?"

The boy, who had not yet raised his eyes to them, made a quick glance at Palmer then spoke in a soft, almost girlish voice, "Nogat, Bos, plis. Bikpela pukpuk i stap long hap. Mi les long go bek gen long hap."

He had shaken his head and clearly looked unsettled.

Godson looked at Palmer and gave the answer he was expecting, He says, no, he's too scared.

Palmer realized quickly that what he said next would be pivotal, the boy was the only real link he had going for him, especially given that Mary and he had traveled so far.

Well, he tried to sound polite for the boy’s sake, will he at least take me close to it?

He hoped the compromise would work.

"Inap bai yu kisim em go clostu tasol," said Godson.

Palmer squinted, picking up English sounding words here and there, especially ‘clostu’, and guessed Godson was translating faithfully.

"Bai mi kisim em go arere long long maunten tasol, replied Kila, now looking at Godson. He lowered his eyes again and commented almost sullenly, Man ya mas longlong ya."

He said he will take you to the Ramu Valley but after that you're on your own. He also added you must be insane.

Palmer glanced around, pleased he seemed to be making progress, even though he was being called insane. He caught sight of Mary standing in the doorway and was encouraged by her presence.

I can tell you this, Harry, Godson added with a tone of paternalistic caution, none of the boys will go anywhere near the Ramu unless you at least have a croc hunter with you. Even then, you'll have to recruit from tribes that don't know about the Ramu.

Well, do you know any good croc hunters?

Godson snorted a laugh and looked away. Palmer wondered what the reaction meant and stole a glance at his wife. She was also watching Godson, waiting for an explanation.

I didn't mean you actually should seek out a hunter, replied Godson, In fact I meant the opposite. I don't know what you've heard about croc hunters, but they're nothing like your Mr. Hemingway.

Meaning?

Godson looked around, surprised Mary was there and had entered the conversation.

He sighed, but kept his tone even, They go barefoot. Sleep on the ground. They stink worse than the crocs. In town they're drunk for weeks, then one day they're gone again. In short, I'd rather trust a crocodile. He looked directly at Mary and added pointedly, "...and