Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  Inside the hut, the General came to a halt in front of a wooden counter. A young corporal seated behind the desk stared at the three strangers in disbelief and, although he opened his mouth, he didn’t speak.

  “I wish to speak to your commanding officer,” barked the General. Sherpa Nyima translated in a soft voice.

  The corporal quickly disappeared into a little room behind him and closed the door. It was some time before the door opened again, and a short, thin man with sunken cheeks and a battle-hardened face stepped out and glared at the General as if his private territory had been invaded. The General smiled when he noticed that the post commander only held the rank of captain. He saluted, but the Tibetan did not return the compliment. Instead, he looked directly at Sherpa Nyima and, pointing at the General, said in his native tongue, “I am the Dzongpen of the district of Phari. Who is this?”

  Once Sherpa Nyima had translated his words, only adding the final word “gentleman,” the General replied, “I am General Bruce,” then opened his attaché case and removed some papers, which he placed firmly on the desk. “These are the official permits that authorize my party to enter the district of Phari Dzong.” After Nyima had translated the General’s words, the Dzongpen gave the documents a cursory glance, then shrugged his shoulders. “As you can see,” said the General, “they have been signed by Lord Curzon, the British Foreign Secretary.” The General waited for Sherpa Nyima to complete his translation before the Dzongpen came back with a question.

  “The Dzongpen wishes to know if you are Lord Curzon.”

  “Of course I’m not,” said the General. “Tell this fool that if he doesn’t allow us to cross the border immediately, I will have no choice but to…”

  It was clear that the Tibetan commander didn’t need the General’s words translated, as his hand moved swiftly to the gun in his holster.

  “The Dzongpen says that he will allow Lord Curzon to cross the border, but no one else,” translated Nyima.

  Bruce banged a fist on the desk, and shouted, “Doesn’t the stupid man realize who I am?”

  George bowed his head and began to think about the long journey home as he waited for the Dzongpen’s response. He could only hope that the General’s words would be lost in translation, but the Dzongpen had removed his pistol from its holster and was pointing the barrel at the General’s forehead before Sherpa Nyima had completed his translation.

  “Tell the General he can go home,” said the commander quietly. “I will give my men orders to shoot on sight if he comes anywhere near this border post again. Do I make myself clear?”

  The General didn’t flinch, even after Nyima had translated the border commander’s words. Although George had given up any chance of being allowed to cross the border, he still rather hoped they might get out alive.

  “May I speak, General?” he whispered.

  “Yes, of course, Mallory,” replied the General.

  George wondered if he should have held his tongue, because the commander’s gun was now pointing at his forehead. He looked the Dzongpen straight in the eye. “I bring gifts of friendship from my country to yours.”

  Sherpa Nyima translated, and the Dzongpen slowly lowered his gun and put it back in its holster, before placing his hands on his hips. “I will see these gifts.”

  George removed the lid of the Lock’s box and took out a black Homburg hat which he handed across to the Dzongpen. The commander placed it on his head, looked at himself in a mirror on the wall and smiled for the first time. “Please tell the Dzongpen that Lord Curzon wears a Homburg to work every morning,” said George, “as do all gentlemen in England.” When the commander heard these words he leaned over the desk and peered into the box. General Bruce bent down, took out another Homburg and passed it to the commander, who in turn placed it on the head of the young corporal standing by his side. This time the Dzongpen burst out laughing, then grabbed the box, left the hut, and began to distribute the remaining ten Homburgs among his guards.

  When the commander returned to the hut, he began to study the General’s documents more carefully. He was about to rubber stamp the last page when he looked up, smiled at the General, and pointed to his half-hunter gold watch. The General wanted to explain that he had inherited the watch from his father, Lord Aberdare, but he thought better of it, and without a word handed it over. George was relieved that in his haste that morning he had forgotten to put on the watch Ruth had given him for his birthday.

  The Dzongpen was now eyeing General Bruce’s thick leather belt—then his brown leather shoes—and finally his knee-length woolen socks. Having stripped the General, he turned his attention to George, and appropriated his shoes, socks, and tie. George could only wonder when and where the Dzongpen would wear an Old Wykehamist tie.

  At last the Dzongpen smiled, stamped the last page of the entry permits, and handed them back to the General. Bruce was just about to place the documents in his attaché case when the Dzongpen shook his head. The General left the case on the desk, and stuffed the documents into the pockets of his trousers.

  The barefooted Bruce held up his trousers with one hand and saluted with the other. This time the Dzongpen returned the compliment. Sherpa Nyima was the only person who left the hut fully dressed.

  An hour later the expedition party, led by General Bruce, advanced toward the border, and the barrier was raised to allow them to enter the district of Phari Dzong.

  After checking the time on his half-hunter gold watch, the Dzongpen smiled at the General, raised his Homburg, and said, “Welcome to Tibet, Lord Curzon.”

  Nyima didn’t translate his words.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  May 4th, 1922

  My dearest Ruth,

  Having crossed the border into Tibet, we are now approaching the Himalaya—a range of a thousand mountains that surround and protect their mistress like armed guards, do not accept the authority of the local Dzongpen and have never heard of Lord Curzon. Despite their frosty welcome and cold demeanor, we battle on.

  When we arrived and set up base camp, some 17,000 feet above sea level, we saw the General at his best. Within hours the porters—down to 32—had erected the team tent, about the size of our drawing room, which made it possible for us to sit down for dinner. By the time coffee and brandy had been served, 15 other tents were in place, which meant we could all bed down for the night. When I say “all,” I should point out that the porters, including Nyima, are still sleeping outside in the open air. They curl up on the rough ground with only stones for their pillows. I sometimes wonder whether, if I’m to have any chance of conquering this infernal mountain, I ought to join them.

  Sherpa Nyima is proving invaluable when it comes to organizing the natives, and the General has agreed to raise his pay to thirty rupees a week (about sixpence). Once we reach the slopes of Everest, it’s going to be fascinating to find out just how good a climber he really is. Finch is convinced that he’ll be the equal of any one of us. I’ll let you know.

  This evening the General will officially hand over command to me until the moment we begin to retrace our steps back to England…

  “His Majesty the King,” said the General, raising his glass.

  “The King,” responded the rest of the team.

  “Gentlemen, you may smoke,” said the General, sitting back down and clipping off the end of his cigar.

  George remained standing, as did the rest of the team. He raised his glass a second time. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.”

  The General was quickly back on his feet, and joined his colleagues as they raised their glasses, while the Sherpas fell flat on the ground and lay facing the mountain.

  A moment later, George tapped his glass and called for order. Command had changed hands.

  “I should like to begin, gentlemen,” he said, “by thanking General Bruce for ensuring that we all arrived in one piece. And, to quote you, sir,” he added, turning to the General, “burly and fit.” />
  “Hear, hear,” chorused the rest of the team, a sentiment with which even Finch felt able to join in.

  George unfurled a parchment map, cleared a space in front of him and placed it on the table. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we are currently here.” He pointed the handle of his coffee spoon at 17,500 feet. “Our immediate aim is to progress to here,” he added, moving the spoon up the mountain and coming to a halt at 21,000 feet, “where I hope to set up Camp III. If we are to succeed in conquering Chomolungma, we must establish three more camps at altitude. Camp IV should be on the North Col around 23,000 feet while Camp V will be at 25,000 feet, and Camp VI at 27,000 feet, just 2,000 feet from the summit. It is imperative to discover a route along the crest or skirting the North-East Ridge, that could lead us to the summit.

  “But for now,” he continued, “we must remember that we have no idea what lies ahead of us. There are no reference books to consult, no maps to pore over, no old fogies sitting at the bar of the Alpine Club who can regale us with anecdotes of their past triumphs, real or imagined.” Several members of the team smiled and nodded. “We must therefore chart a course that will allow us to one day be the old fogies who pass on our knowledge to the next generation of climbers.” He looked up at his team. “Any questions?”

  “Yes,” said Somervell. “How long do you think it will take to establish Camp III? And by that I mean fully stocked and occupied.”

  “Ever the practical one,” said George with a smile. “In truth, I can’t be sure. I’d like to cover 2,000 feet a day, so by tomorrow evening I hope to have set up Camp II at 19,000 feet, and be back here at base camp before sunset. The following day we push for 21,000 feet, where we set up Camp III before returning to Camp II for the night. It will take at least a couple of weeks to become acclimatized to altitudes none of us has ever experienced before. Never forget: climb high, sleep low.”

  “Will you be dividing us up into teams before we set out?” asked Odell.

  “No, not yet,” said George. “We’ll remain as one unit until I know which of you acclimatize best to the conditions. However, I suspect that in the end it won’t be me who decides on the final composition of the teams, but the mountain itself.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Finch. “But have you given any further thought to the use of oxygen above 25,000 feet?”

  “Again, I expect the mountain will dictate that decision, and not me.” George waited for a moment before he asked, “Any more questions?”

  “Yes, skipper,” said Norton. “What time do you want us on parade tomorrow morning?”

  “Six o’clock,” replied George. “And that means all kitted up and ready to move. Remember, tomorrow, we must have the courage to think like Columbus and be prepared to walk off the map.”

  George couldn’t make up his mind if it was the responsibility of leadership, or the sheer thrill of knowing that from this moment on, every pace he took would be the highest he’d ever climbed, that meant he emerged from his tent the next morning some time before the rest of the team.

  A few minutes before six o’clock, on a clear morning with little wind and the sun inching its own path above the highest peak, George was delighted to find that all eight of his climbers were waiting patiently outside their tents. They were dressed in a variety of garments: woolen waistcoats—probably knitted by their wives or girlfriends—Jaeger trousers, windproofs, silk shirts, cotton smocks, climbing boots, Burberry scarves, and Canadian moccasins, making one or two of them look as if they were about to embark on a skiing holiday in Davos.

  Standing behind the climbers were the local Sherpas Nyima had recruited. They each carried as much as eighty pounds of equipment strapped to their backs: tents, blankets, spades, pots and pans, Primus stoves, and food, as well as a dozen oxygen cylinders.

  At six o’clock precisely, George pointed upward, and his men set off on the first stage of a journey of which none of them could predict the outcome. He looked back at his team and smiled at the thought of the General sitting in his warm bath at base camp having to read through endless telegrams from Hinks demanding to know how much progress had been made, and whether Finch was behaving himself.

  George set a steady pace for the first hour, tramping over the barren, stony ground that stretched along the side of the valley above base camp, regularly passing the sacred blue sheep of the Rongbuk valley, which, however hungry the local tribesmen became, could not be slaughtered. He was well aware that the real challenges wouldn’t arise until they’d skirted the North Ridge, at around 23,000 feet, where not only would the air be thinner and the temperature fall to levels few of them had ever experienced, but far worse, they would have no way of knowing which route they should take if they hoped to progress.

  As they tramped on, George became awestruck by colors he had never seen before—a faint blue light that changed to a rich yellow and seemed bent on parching their pale English skins. In the distance he could see the Kangshung face, its vast icy fangs pitted with crevasses and dark, unfathomable ridges perpetually threatening them with an unwelcome avalanche.

  Once they’d established Camps II and III, George could only wonder just how many days they would have to spend searching for a safe route on the North Col, only to find that at the end of every illusory path there would be signposts announcing No Entry, Dead End. George was beginning to wonder if it would even prove possible for a human to reach the summit. Those members of the RGS who had predicted that Chomolungma would be just like Mont Blanc, but a little higher, were already looking foolish.

  At the end of the second hour, George called the caravan to a halt so that everyone could enjoy a well-earned rest. As he walked among the team, he noticed that Morshead and Hingston were breathing heavily. Nyima had to report that three of the Sherpas had dumped their loads in the snow and headed back down the mountain to return to their villages. George wondered how many Sherpas would be standing on the dockside in Bombay waiting to claim their twenty-rupee bonus from General Bruce. “You’ll be able to count them on one hand,” Bruce had warned him, though even the General couldn’t have predicted that one of his colleagues wouldn’t even be able to do that.

  Thirty minutes later the group continued on their way, and didn’t stop to rest again until the sun had reached its zenith. During the lunch break they chewed on mint cake, ginger biscuits, and dried apricots, and drank reconstituted powdered milk before setting off once again.

  After another hour’s climbing they had to cross a stream surrounded by tufts of green grass. On its bank stood a willow tree teeming with giant butterflies that rose into the air as they approached; an oasis, the memory of which soon became a mirage as they climbed higher and higher.

  The time had come to look for a suitable place to pitch Camp II. He finally chose a piece of flat, stony ground in the middle of the East Rongbuk Glacier, among the giant pinnacles of ice, that had the advantage of being sheltered from the wind. He checked his altimeter—just above 19,000 feet. Under Nyima’s watchful eye the Sherpas deposited their loads in the snow, and leveled off the rocky debris before they could set about erecting the first tent. After unloading equipment and boxes of provisions destined for Camp III and meant to last them at least a month, they finally raised the team tent.

  George told his men over dinner back at base camp—goat stew and dumplings once again, no need for a menu, because water biscuits and cheese were certain to follow—that he thought the first day could not have gone much better. However, he still had no idea how long it would take to identify a route beyond the Rongbuk Glacier, and they must be prepared to expect a number of false dawns.

  Before George blew out his candle that night, he read a few pages of The Iliad, having just finished another long letter to Ruth. She would read it two months later, some time after the tragedy had taken place.

  George’s letters often turned up at The Holt several weeks after the news they carried had been reported in The Times. Ruth knew she would eventually receive a letter that w
ould give George’s side of the story of what had taken place on that fateful June morning, but until then she could only follow the drama in installments, like reading a Dickens novel.

  May 8th, 1922

  My dearest Ruth,

  I’m sitting in my little tent, writing to you by candlelight. The first day’s climb went well, and we found an ideal site on which to set up a temporary home. However, it’s so cold that when I go to bed I have to wear those mittens you knitted for me last Christmas, as well as a pair of your father’s woolen long johns.

  The mountain has already left me in no doubt that we were not properly prepared for such a demanding venture. Frankly, many of the team are too old, and only a few are fit enough to continue. Like me, they must wish they’d been given the chance to attempt this in 1915, when we were all so much younger. Damn the Germans.

  My darling, I miss you so much that…

  Ruth stopped reading, and knelt down beside Clare and Beridge to study the map that had taken up permanent residence on the drawing-room floor. When she drew the figure of a man in goggles leaning on an ice axe at 19,400 feet, Clare started clapping.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  June 16th, 1922

  My dearest Ruth,

  We have now spent just over a month searching for a route, which will take us beyond the East Rongbuk Glacier and I was beginning to become downcast, after Sherpa Nyima reminded me that the monsoon season will soon be upon us, and we’ll then have no choice but to return to base camp and begin the long journey back to England.