Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

  We sailed across the border on this occasion, even if we were all wearing our oldest boots and watches picked up cheaply in Bombay. However, we were still able to shower the Dzongpen with gifts from Harrods, Fortnum’s, Davidoff, and Lock’s, including a black opera cane mounted with a silver head of the King, which I assured him was a personal gift from His Majesty.

  We were all taken by surprise when the Dzongpen told us how disappointed he was to learn that General Bruce had been taken ill, as he had been looking forward to seeing his old friend again. I couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing the General’s half-hunter and chain, even if there was no sign of my Old Wykehamist tie.

  This morning as we passed over Pang La, the clouds suddenly lifted and we saw the commanding heights of Chomolungma dominating the skyline ahead of us. Once again, her sheer beauty took my breath away. A wise man would surely resist her alluring charms and immediately turn back, but like Euripides’ sirens, she draws one toward her rocky and treacherous terrain.

  As we climbed higher and higher, I kept a watchful eye on Irvine, who appears to have acclimatized to the conditions as well as any of us. But then, I sometimes forget that he’s sixteen years younger than I am.

  This morning, with Everest in the background, we held a service in memory of Nyima and the other six Sherpas who lost their lives on the last expedition. We must reach the summit this time, if for no other reason than to honor their memory.

  I only wish Nyima was standing by my side now, because I would not hesitate to invite him to join me on the final climb, as it must surely be right that a Sherpa is the first person to stand on top of his own mountain. Not to mention that it would be the sweetest revenge on Hinks after his Machiavellian behavior on the night of the memorial lecture. But sadly a Sherpa will not reach the top on this occasion, as I have searched among his countrymen and have not found Nyima’s equal.

  We finally arrived at base camp on April 29th, and to be fair to Hinks—something I’ve never found easy—everything I requested has been put in place. This time we will not be wasting precious days erecting and dismantling camps and continually moving equipment up and down the mountain. I’ve been assured by Mr. Hazard (an unfortunate name for someone with the responsibility of organizing our daily lives) that Camp III has already been established at 21,000 feet, with eleven of the finest Sherpas awaiting our arrival under the command of Guy Bullock.

  One must never forget that it’s Noel’s £8,000 that has made all this possible, and he’s filming anything and everything that moves. The final documentary of this expedition will surely rival “Birth of a Nation.”

  I am writing this letter in my little tent at base camp. In a few minutes’ time I will be joining my colleagues for dinner, and Norton will hand over the responsibility of command to me. I will then brief the team on my plans for the ascent of Everest. And so, my dearest, the great adventure begins once again. I am much more confident about our chances this time. But as soon as I conquer my magnificent obsession, I shall press a button, and moments later I will be standing by your side. From this you will gather that I am currently re-reading H. G. Wells’s “The Time Machine.” Even if I can’t press his mythical button, I will nevertheless return as quickly as humanly possible, as I have no desire to be away from you a moment longer than necessary. As I promised, I still intend to leave your photograph on the summit…

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  THURSDAY, MAY 1ST, 1924

  AND THEN THERE were eight.

  “Gentlemen, His Majesty the King,” said Lieutenant Colonel Norton as he rose from his place at the head of the table and raised his tin mug.

  The rest of the team immediately stood up and, as one, said, “The King.”

  “Please remain standing,” said George. “Gentlemen, Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.” The team raised their mugs a second time. Outside the tent, the Sherpas fell flat on the ground, facing the mountain.

  “Gentlemen,” said George, “you may smoke.”

  The team resumed their places and began to light cigars and pass the port decanter around the table. A few minutes later George stood up again, tapped his glass with a spoon.

  “Allow me to begin, gentlemen, by saying how sorry we all are that General Bruce is unable to be with us on this occasion.”

  “Hear, hear. Hear, hear.”

  “And how grateful we are to him for the fine wine he has bequeathed to us, which we have enjoyed this evening. Let us hope that in time, God willing, we will have good reason to uncork his champagne.”

  “Hear, hear. Hear, hear.”

  “Thanks to General Bruce’s foresight and diligence, we have been left with only one task, that of finally taming this monster so that we can all return home and begin leading normal lives. Let me make it absolutely clear from the outset that I haven’t yet decided the composition of the two teams that will join me for the final ascent.

  “One aspect that will not differ from the previous expedition is that I will be keeping a close eye on each one of you, until I decide who has best acclimatized to the conditions. With that in mind, I expect all of you to be up and ready to leave by six o’clock tomorrow morning, in order that we can reach 19,000 feet by midday, and still return to base camp by sunset.”

  “Why come back down,” asked Irvine, “when we’re trying to get to the top as quickly as possible?”

  “Not as quickly as possible,” said George, smiling when he realized just how inexperienced young Sandy Irvine was. “Even you will take a little time to become acclimatized to new heights. The golden rule,” he added, “is climb high, sleep low. When we’ve become fully acclimatized,” he continued, “it’s my intention to move on to 23,000 feet, and set up Camp IV on the North Col. Once we’ve bedded in, we will move on and establish Camp V at 25,000 feet, and Camp VI around 27,000 feet, from where the final assault will be launched.” George paused for some time before he delivered his next sentence. “I want all of you to know that whoever I invite to join me will be part of the team making the second attempt on the summit, as I intend to allow two of my colleagues the first opportunity to make history. Should the first team fail, my partner and I will make our attempt the following day. I feel sure that every one of us has the same desire, to be the first to place his foot on the brow of Chomolungma. However, it’s only fair to let you know, gentlemen, that it’s going to be me.”

  This was greeted by the whole team with laughter and banging of mugs on the table. When the noise had died down, George invited questions.

  “Is it your intention to use oxygen for the second attempt on the summit?” asked Norton.

  “Yes it is,” replied George. “I’ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that Finch was right, and that we cannot hope to scale the last 2,000 feet without the aid of oxygen.”

  “Then I’ll have to make sure I’m in the first party,” said Norton, “and prove you wrong. It’s a shame, really, Mallory, because that means I’ll be the first man to stand on top of Everest.”

  This was greeted with even louder cheers, and more banging of mugs on the table.

  “If you manage that, Norton,” retorted George, “I’ll abandon the use of oxygen the following day, and climb to the top in my bare feet.”

  “That will be of little significance,” said Norton, raising his mug to George, “because no one will remember the name of the second man to climb Everest.”

  “Howzat!”

  “Not out.”

  Mallory wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, or if he really had just heard the sound of leather on willow. He stuck his head out of the tent to see that a square of snow in the Himalaya had been transformed into an English village cricket pitch.

  Two ice axes had been planted in the snow twenty-two yards apart, serving as stumps. Odell, ball in hand, was bowling to Irvine. Mallory only needed to watch a few deliveries to realize that bat was on top of ball. It amused him to see the Sherpas standing around in little huddles, chatting among themselves, clearly
puzzled by the English at play, while Noel filmed the event as if it were a Test Match.

  Mallory crawled out of his tent and strolled across to join Norton behind the stumps, taking up his place at first slip.

  “Irvine’s not at all bad,” said Norton. “The lad’s only a few runs off his half century.”

  “How long has he been at the crease?” asked Mallory.

  “Best part of thirty minutes.”

  “And he’s still able to run between the wickets?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be a problem. He must have lungs like bellows. But then, you have to remember, Mallory, he does have at least fifteen years on the rest of us.”

  “Wake up, skipper,” shouted Odell as the ball shot past Mallory’s right hand.

  “Sorry, Odell, my mistake,” said Mallory. “I wasn’t concentrating.”

  Irvine hit the next ball for four, bringing up his fifty, which was greeted with warm applause.

  “I’ve seen enough of this bloody Oxford man,” said Guy Bullock as he took over the bowling from Odell.

  Guy’s first effort was a little short, and Irvine dispatched it to the boundary for another four runs. But his second sizzled off an icy patch, caught the edge of Irvine’s bat and George, falling to his right, took the ball one-handed.

  “Well caught, skipper,” said Guy. “Pity you didn’t turn up a little earlier.”

  “All right, chaps, let’s get moving,” said Mallory. “I want to be out of here in half an hour.”

  Suddenly the pitch was deserted, as the village cricketers reverted to seasoned mountaineers.

  Thirty minutes later nine climbers and twenty-three Sherpas were all ready to move. Mallory waved his right arm like a traffic policeman, and set off at a pace that would soon sort out those who would be unlikely to survive at greater heights.

  One or two Sherpas fell by the wayside, dropping their loads in the snow and retreating down the mountain. However, none of the climbing party seemed to be in trouble, with Irvine continually dogging his leader’s footsteps despite having two large oxygen cylinders strapped to his back.

  Mallory was puzzled because he didn’t seem to have a mouthpiece attached. He beckoned the young man to join him. “You won’t be needing oxygen, Irvine,” he said, “until we reach at least 25,000 feet.”

  Irvine nodded. “I was hoping not to use one precious ounce of the stuff until at least 27,000 feet, but if I’m lucky enough to be selected to join you for the final climb, I want to become accustomed to the extra weight. You see, I’m planning to be sitting on top,” he said, pointing to the peak, “waiting for you to join me. After all,” he added, “it’s nothing more than the duty of an Oxford man to hammer a tab whenever possible.”

  George gave a slight bow. “Fix me up with two of your cylinders tomorrow,” he said. “It’s not just getting used to the extra weight that’s important, but once we have to tackle sheer rock faces and sheets of ice, even the slightest shift of balance could prove fatal.”

  After a couple of hours, George allowed the team a short break to enjoy a digestive biscuit and a mug of tea before setting off again. The weather couldn’t have been more conducive to climbing, apart from a brief shower of snow that wouldn’t have distracted a child building a snowman, and they maintained a steady pace. George wondered just how long the weather would remain so docile.

  He prayed. His prayers were not answered.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  May 17th, 1924

  My dearest Ruth,

  Disaster. Nothing has gone right for the past two weeks. The weather has been so foul that there have been days when the relentless heavy snow has made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of your nose.

  Norton, always as brave as a lion, somehow managed to reach 23,400 feet, where he and Somervell set up Camp IV and spent the night. However, the following day the two of them only just made it back to Camp III before nightfall. It took them over eight hours of downhill trekking into the driving snow to cover 2,400 ft. Think about it—that’s an average speed of 100 yards an hour, a distance Harold Abrahams covered in 9.6 seconds.

  The following day Odell, Bullock, and I reached 25,300 feet and somehow managed to pitch Camp V on an icy ledge. But after spending the night there, the weather gave us no choice but to return to Camp III. When we arrived, Dr. Hingston greeted me with the news that one of the Sherpas had broken his leg, while another had suspected pneumonia. I didn’t bother to tell him that my ankle’s been playing up again. Guy and Odell kindly volunteered to accompany the walking wounded down to base camp, from where they were escorted back to their villages.

  When Guy returned the following day, he reported that our cobbler had died of frostbite, a Gurkha NCO had developed a blood clot on the brain, and twelve more Sherpas had run away; on the equivalent of less than a shilling a week, who could blame them? Apparently morale at base camp is pretty low. What do they imagine it’s like up here?

  Norton and Somervell finally reached the North Col after three more attempts, and even managed to set up camp despite the temperature being minus twenty-four degrees. But when they were on their way back down, four of the Sherpas lost their nerve and fearing an avalanche returned to spend a second night on the North Col.

  The following morning, Norton, Somervell, and I mounted a rescue party, and somehow managed to reach the Sherpas and bring them back to the relative safety of Camp III. My bet is that we’ve seen the last of them.

  If that wasn’t enough, our meteorologist informed me over breakfast this morning that, in his opinion, the monsoon will soon be upon us. However, he did remind me that, last time, the monsoon was preceded by three days of clear skies. It’s hardly a pattern one can rely on, but it didn’t stop me from offering up a prayer to whichever god is in charge of the weather.

  George should have seen it coming, but he had been so preoccupied with the desire to be given one more chance that he had failed to notice what was taking place around him. That was until Norton called a council of war.

  “I think it would be wise, given the circumstances, gentlemen,” said Norton, “for us to cut our losses and turn back now, before we lose anyone else.”

  “I don’t agree,” said George immediately. “If we were to do that, we would have sacrificed six months of our lives, with nothing to show for it.”

  “At least we would live to fight another day,” said Somervell.

  “None of us is going to be given the opportunity to fight another day,” said George tersely. “This is our last chance, Somervell, and you know it.”

  Somervell was momentarily stunned by the vehemence of Mallory’s words, and it was some time before he responded. “But at least we’d be alive,” he managed.

  “That’s not my idea of living,” responded George. Before anyone had a chance to offer an opinion, he turned to his oldest friend and asked, “How would you feel about turning back, Guy?”

  Bullock didn’t respond immediately, though the rest of the team waited for his reply.

  “I’m still willing to back your judgment, George,” he finally said, “and to hang about for a few more days to see if the weather breaks.”

  “Me too,” said Irvine. “But then, I have no qualms about turning back either. After all, I’m the only one here young enough to fight another day.”

  The rest of the team burst out laughing, which helped to ease the tension.

  “Why don’t we give it another week before we decide to shut up shop?” suggested Odell. “If the weather hasn’t improved by then, perhaps we should admit defeat and return home.”

  George looked around the group to find his colleagues nodding. He recalled A. C. Benson’s sage advice: “When you know you’re beaten, give in gracefully.”

  “So be it,” said George. “We’ll stick it out for another seven days, and if the weather doesn’t improve, Norton will resume command and we’ll return to England.”

  George felt he had won the day—or to be more accurate, seven days. But
would that be enough?

  May 29th, 1924

  So, unless the weather turns on its head in the next few days, you can expect me back in England toward the end of August, or the beginning of September at the latest.

  Please thank Clare for her wonderful poem—Rupert Brooke would have been proud of her—and Beridge for her drawing of a cat, or was it a dog?—not to mention John’s good wishes, short but appreciated.

  I’m glad that you’ve found time to visit Cambridge and start looking for a home, and thanks for the warning that it gets very cold in the Fens at this time of the year.

  My dearest, I’m looking forward to starting the new job, and to sleeping in a bed with a woman I want to hold, and not a man I have to cling on to just to stay alive. When I return home this time, there will be no crowds at the dockside to welcome Mallory of Everest, just a young lady waiting for a middle-aged man who is looking forward to spending the rest of his life with the woman he loves.

  Your loving husband,

  George

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  MONDAY, JUNE 2ND, 1924

  AND THEN THERE were five.

  George was having breakfast on a clear, windless morning, when a Sherpa arrived from base camp and handed him the cable. He tore it open, read its contents slowly, and smiled as he considered its implications. He glanced at Norton, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside him.