Opening Old Chapter on War and Peace

At first, I saw only the spear. In Boga Boga, a coastal village in Papua New Guinea, the weapon was brandished at me by a tribal elder to symbolize war. But there was no danger, for the traditional rite was an essential element of welcome and, anyway, I was protected. Two other tribesmen had stepped in front of me, crossing two long poles to symbolize peace. War could find no entry.

Our team was not simply being accorded hospitality. We were also being scrutinized, for visitors were rare.

We had come to dive on an extraordinary wreck offshore, a fallen World War II B-17 bomber known as Black Jack. No one owns Black Jack today, but the people of Boga Boga must give permission to dive on it, since it came to rest in front of their village.

The villagers could not know of the irony at hand. Calypso, floating pure white above the crystal blue sea, was originally a minesweeper. She was built in Seattle in 1942, when that city produced many wartime aircraft and ships. Before my father acquired her, the vessel was known simply as J-826 and, under the lend-lease program, served the British navy in the Mediterranean. Also in 1942, Seattle turned out a B-17, No. 41-24521 and nicknamed Black Jack for its last two digits. Black Jack was commissioned by the United States for action in the Pacific.

Ship and plane left Seattle within days of each other, headed for opposite corners of the world. Our visit reunited them.

Black Jack’s mission had been clear. By January of 1942, the Japanese, intending to invade Australia, established a base at Rabaul on New Britain Island off New Guinea. To hold off the Japanese, American and Australian forces installed themselves at Port Moresby, New Guinea.

From there, Black Jack took off on July 11, 1943, to attack Rabaul. After dropping its bombs, the plane headed back to base. But two of its four engines failed. Lost in bad weather and running out of fuel, the pilot ditched in the shallows off Boga Boga.

Villagers, who had seen the plane circling weakly above, rowed dugout canoes to the plane and rescued the crew. Eventually, all crew members were picked up by an Australian float plane and motor launch. Black Jack sunk into the sea, not to be seen again until 1986, when it was accidentally discovered by divers.

The plane sits at 50 meters, just about the length of Calypso. At this depth, lest we risk problems of decompression, we had no more than 15 minutes per dive to retrace four decades of history.

Black Jack lay serenely on the sandy bottom, her wings spreading more than 100 feet, still not touching the ground--in one’s imagination, an airplane still headed home. The fabric fuselage had rotted away, but the skeleton was perfectly intact, a shrine to the engineering of the time.

Fascinated by the impeccable condition of the wreck, I explored its nooks and crannies, and pictured the craft darting through the sky. I felt the smooth round engines, all still in place. I reached into a propeller socket and found a rough brown object. It was an odd place for a coconut, but I left it where it was, for I didn’t want to alter anything in the quiet sanctum.

In the tail of the plane, I came upon something more conventional--an empty box of ammunition. Only when another team member signaled me did I realize that I was innocently, and foolishly, standing on ammunition itself.

Coconuts and bullets. In the village, a ritual dance celebrated a newborn baby. The contrasts startled me. As Black Jack spoke of the waste of battle, Boga Boga spoke of the renewable human spirit.

Little vegetation clung to the wreck, as strong currents passed, and consequently few fish fed there. Resting on the ocean floor, Black Jack was unutterably alone.

Lying only one ship’s length below its sister vessel, Black Jack seemed to become a partner of the reborn Calypso, now that both were free of battle. In the reunion of ship and plane in the blue New Guinea ocean, the ugliness of war had been rendered beautiful by peace.