Thanks! civilian aircraft are usually painted white...hence the odd whitewash (you can still make out the german crosses though). Perhaps this will explain a bit:
Brazil, 1947, Six days out of Tapaua :
The steady chirping of the poison dart frogs kept Lorne’s teeth on edge, the constant “neek,neek,neek” was enough to drive him insane, especially after two weeks of travel by river to meet this outpost in the middle of nowhere, South America. He swatted at the cloud of mosquitoes that formed a halo around his blond hair with indifference, what was another bite or two, to add to the welts that crossed his fair skin ? A sudden squeal rang through the forest canopy as some animal or the other became prey for yet another. The frogs were blessedly silent for a minute, and his eyes started to close…”neek.” Then, “neek-neek”. Now the whole damned chorus chimed in again, and the Doctor forced his weary eyes open to take in the dark water passing so slowly beneath the long boat, the same green scenery with scattered patches of blue sky above that had been the rule since they had left the last village.
Reaching behind him, he pulled out a bottle of the local beer and popped off the top with his Swiss knife. Warm. He grimaced as he remembered the wonderful chilled pilsners he had consumed in the commissary of the Tirpitzufer, and wondered what had brought him around the world to this place, under the “guidance” of the American university. Dr. Lorne Rottburg snorted, and took another heavy sip of the foam, and remembered exactly why…he would have been hanging on the end of a Russian gibbet had not the scientific team from the United States managed to get him out of Berlin, and onto a cargo vessel headed for the new world. He had to travel by boat, as his fear of heights precluded any possibility of aeronautical transport, the brave doctor’s knees would shake on even a short ladder.
The others on the team from Miskatonic had flown in by air, aboard a refurbished Catalina, and were probably even now studying the artifacts, and relaxing in air conditioned nissen huts, and drinking godamned cold beer. Perhaps next time, he would take a pill, maybe that would be enough.
“Doktor,” came the voice of Je’sus, the guide, “the camp, she is there.” Pointing around the bend, Lorne could make out the bright silver tops of the arced metal, already beginning to gain the patina of steady humidity and stagnant air. The Catalina floated peacefully in the shallow lagoon, starkly white and clean in this miasma of rottenness. But what was that next to it, moored to the dock?
“Lieber Gott!” The words were expressed harshly, and his once sleep tired eyes sharpened quickly to take in the shape of a German floatplane, newly painted, but showing signs of age. He knew of no expeditions to this place from his homeland, and even so, this aircraft was not capable of making that long of a voyage. It had to have been brought here. But why?
http://www.ewaldbros.com