Paths of Glory

by Jeffrey Archer

“Could we have a word, old chap?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Norton, putting aside his sliced ham and tongue.

  “I’m going to ask you one last time,” said George. “If I were to offer you the chance to partner me on the final climb, would you be willing to consider the use of oxygen?”

  “No, I would not,” said Norton firmly.

  “So be it,” said George quietly, accepting that no amount of further discussion on the subject was going to persuade Norton to change his mind. “In that case, you will lead the first assault, without oxygen. If you succeed…”

  “Gentlemen,” George said, after calling the team together, “I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I’ve just received a message from my sister in Colombo.” He looked down at Mary’s cable. “One week, possibly ten days of good weather before monsoon season upon you. Good luck.” Mallory looked up. “We don’t have a moment to waste. I’ve had a good deal of time to consider my options, and I will now share my thoughts with you. I’ve selected two teams for the attempts on the summit. The first will be Norton and Somervell. They will set out in an hour’s time, and attempt to reach Camp V, at 25,300 feet, by nightfall. Tomorrow they will have to rise early if they hope to skirt the North-East Ridge, establish Camp VI at around 27,000 feet, and be bedded down before the sun sets. They will have to grab as many hours of sleep as possible, because on the following morning they will have to make the first attempt on the summit. Any questions, gentlemen?”

  Both Norton and Somervell shook their heads. They had spent the past month endlessly discussing every possible scenario. Now all they wanted to do was get on with it.

  “Meanwhile, the rest of the team,” Mallory said, “will just have to sit around twiddling their thumbs while we wait for the return of the conquering heroes.”

  “And if they fail?” asked Irvine with a grin.

  “Then you and I, Sandy, will make the second attempt using oxygen.”

  “And if we succeed?” asked Norton.

  Mallory gave the old soldier a wry smile. “In that case, Odell and I will make the second ascent without the aid of oxygen.”

  “In your bare feet, remember,” added Somervell.

  While the rest of the team laughed, Mallory gave his two colleagues a slight bow. He waited for a moment before he spoke again.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “this is not the occasion on which to make a speech about what being the first man to stand on the top of this mountain would mean to our fellow countrymen throughout the Empire, or to dwell on the possible garlands that would be placed on our heads. There will be time enough to sit at the bar of the Alpine Club and bore young climbers with tales of our past glories, but for now, if we are to succeed, we cannot afford to waste a precious moment. So good luck, gentlemen, and Godspeed.”

  Thirty minutes later, Norton and Somervell were fully equipped and ready. Mallory, Odell, Irvine, Bullock, Morshead, and Hingston were standing in line to see them off, while Noel went on filming them until they were out of sight. He didn’t see Mallory look up to the heavens and say, “Just give me one more week, and I’ll never ask you for anything else again.”

  George matched Norton and Somervell stride for stride as he sat alone in his tent. He regularly checked his watch, trying to imagine what height his two colleagues would have reached.

  After a prolonged lunch of macaroni and prunes with the rest of the team, George returned to his tent. He wrote his daily letter to Ruth, and another to Trafford—Wing Commander Mallory: another man interested in reaching great heights. He then translated a few lines of The Iliad, and later managed a round of bridge against Odell and Irvine, with Guy as his partner. After the last rubber was decided, Odell dug out a tin of bully beef from rations and, once it had thawed over a candle, divided the contents into four portions. Later, all the remaining members of the climbing party sat and watched the moon replace the sun, which had flickered across the snow on what had turned out to be a perfect day for climbing. They all had only one thought on their minds, but no one spoke of it—where were they?

  George climbed—the only climbing he managed that day—back into his sleeping bag just before eleven o’clock, exhausted by hour upon hour of doing nothing. He fell into a deep sleep, wondering if he would live to regret allowing Norton and Somervell the first crack at the summit. Would he be returning to England in a week’s time having captained the winning team, only to be forever reminded of Norton’s words, No one will remember the name of the second man to climb Everest?

  Irvine was the first to rise the following morning, and immediately set about preparing breakfast for his colleagues. George vowed that when he returned home, he would never eat another sardine in his life.

  Once breakfast had been cleared away, Irvine lined up the nine oxygen cylinders and, like his leader, selected the best pair for the final climb. George watched as he went about the slow, methodical business of tapping cylinders and adjusting knobs, and wondered if they would ever be used, or simply discarded here on the North Col along with their owner. Odell went off in search of rare rocks and fossils, happy to escape into a world of his own.

  In the afternoon the three of them came together to pore over Noel’s photographs of the upper reaches, searching for any new piece of information that might assist their attempt to reach the summit. They earnestly discussed whether they should follow the ridgeline and tackle the Second Step head-on, or simply strike out onto the North Face across the limestone slabs of the Yellow Band, and skirt around the Second Step. In truth, all three of them knew that the final decision couldn’t be made until Somervell and Norton had returned, and were able to pass on the first-hand knowledge that would allow them to fill in so many empty spaces on the map, and so many gaps in their knowledge.

  After supper, George returned to his tent, a drink made from powdered milk in one hand, Ulysses in the other. He fell asleep at page 172, determined to finish Joyce’s masterpiece on the sea voyage back to England.

  The next morning Odell rose early, and to his colleagues’ surprise pulled on his rucksack, gloves, and goggles.

  “Just off to Camp V to make sure the tent’s still in place,” he explained as George crawled out of his sleeping bag. “And I may as well leave them some provisions, as they’re sure to be famished.”

  George would have laughed at such a casual remark delivered at 25,000 feet, but it was typical of Odell to consider the plight of others, and not the dangers he might be facing. He watched as Odell, accompanied by two Sherpas, headed up the mountain as if he was on an afternoon stroll in the Cotswolds. George was beginning to wonder if Odell wouldn’t be the best choice to accompany him on the final climb, as he seemed to have acclimatized to the conditions far better than any of them had this time, himself included.

  Odell was back in time for a lunch of two sardines on a wholemeal biscuit—wholemeal meant whole meal—and he didn’t appear to be even out of breath.

  “Any sign of them?” George asked before he had pulled off his rucksack.

  “No, skipper,” Odell replied. “But then, if they reached the summit by midday and returned to spend the night at Camp VI, I wouldn’t expect them to be back at Camp V much before two, in which case they should be with us some time around four this afternoon.”

  “Just in time for tea,” George said.

  After a six-minute lunch, George returned to Ulysses, but spent most of his time staring up the mountain waiting for two specks to appear from the wasteland of the North Face, rather than turning the pages of the novel. He checked his watch: just after two. If they turned up now, they could not have reached the summit; if they arrived around four, the prize must surely be theirs. If they had not returned by six…he tried not to think about it.

  Three o’clock passed, to become four, followed by five, by which time small talk had been replaced by more serious discussion. No one mentioned supper. By six, the moon had replaced the sun, and they were all becoming apprehensive. By eight, they were beginning to
fear the worst.

  “I think I’ll just head back up the North Ridge,” said Odell casually, “and see if they’ve decided to bed down for the night.”

  “I’ll join you,” said George, leaping up. “I could do with the exercise.” He tried to sound as if there was nothing to be worried about, but in truth they all knew he was leading a search party.

  “Me too,” said Irvine, dumping his oxygen cylinders in the snow.

  George was grateful for a full moon, and a still night with no wind or snow. Twenty minutes later, Odell and Irvine were fully equipped and ready to accompany him as he set out in search of their colleagues.

  Up, up, up they went. George was becoming more despondent with each step he took. But he didn’t consider turning back, even for a moment, because they might just be a few feet away from…

  It was Irvine who spotted them first, but then, he had the youngest eyes. “There they are!” he shouted, pointing up the mountain.

  George’s heart leaped when he saw them, even if they did resemble two old soldiers limping off a battlefield. Norton, the taller of the two, had one arm draped around Somervell’s shoulder, the other covering his eyes.

  George moved as quickly as he could up the slope to join them, with Irvine only a pace behind. They each threw an arm under Somervell’s shoulders, and almost carried him back across the finishing line. Norton transferred an arm to Odell’s shoulder, the other still covering his eyes.

  Mallory and Irvine guided Somervell into the team tent before lowering him gently to the ground and covering him with a blanket. Norton followed a moment later, and immediately fell to his knees. Bullock had already prepared two mugs of lukewarm Bovril. He passed one to Somervell as Norton eased himself onto a mattress and lay flat on his back. No one spoke as they waited for the two men to recover.

  George undid Somervell’s laces and gently pulled off his boots, then began to rub his feet to get some circulation back. Bullock held one of the mugs of Bovril to Norton’s lips, but he was unable to take even a sip. Although George had never believed patience was a virtue, he somehow managed to remain silent, despite being desperate to know if either of them had reached the summit.

  To everyone’s surprise, it was Somervell who spoke first. “Long before we reached the Second Step,” he began, “we decided not to climb it, but to skirt round the Yellow Band. A longer route, but safer,” he added between breaths. “We traversed across it until we came to a massive couloir. I thought that if we were able to cross it, we could progress all the way to the final pyramid, where the gradient would be less demanding. Our progress was slow, but I still believed we had enough time to make it to the top.”

  But did you? George wanted to ask, as Somervell sat up and took another sip of now cold Bovril.

  “That was until we reached 27,400 feet, when my throat started to play up again. I began coughing up phlegm, and when Norton slapped me on the back with all the force he could muster, I brought up nearly half my larynx. I tried to struggle on, but by the time we reached 28,000 feet I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. I had to stop and rest, but I could see the peak ahead of me, so I insisted that Norton carried on. I sat there watching him climb toward the summit, until he was out of sight.”

  George turned to Norton and quietly asked, “Did you make it?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Norton. “Because when I stopped to rest, I made the classic mistake.”

  “Don’t tell me you took your goggles off?” said George in disbelief.

  “How many times have you warned us never to do that, in any circumstances?” said Norton as he removed the arm that was covering his eyes. “By the time I replaced them, my eyelids had almost frozen together and I couldn’t see a pace in front of me. I called out to alert Somervell, he yodelled to let me know where he was, and I slowly made my way back down to join him.”

  “Some glee club,” said Somervell, attempting a smile. “With the aid of my torch we were able to make our way back down, if somewhat slowly.”

  “Thank God for Somervell,” said Norton as Odell placed a handkerchief that he’d soaked in warm water over his eyes.

  It was some time before either man spoke again. Norton drew a deep breath. “I don’t believe that there’s ever been a better example of the blind leading the blind.”

  This time George did laugh. “So what height did you reach?”

  “I’ve no idea, old man,” Norton said, and passed his altimeter to Mallory.

  George studied the altimeter for a moment before he announced, “Twenty-eight thousand one hundred and twenty-five feet. Many congratulations, old chap.”

  “For failing to climb the final 880 feet?” said Norton, sounding desperately disappointed.

  “No. For making history,” said George, “because you’ve regained the altitude record. I can’t wait to see Finch’s face when I tell him.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so,” said Norton, “but Finch would be the first to remind me that I should have listened to him and agreed to use oxygen.” He paused before adding, “If this weather holds, I expect to be nothing more than a footnote in history, because, if you’ll forgive the cliché, old fellow, you should walk it.”

  George smiled, but made no comment.

  Somervell added, “I agree with Norton. Frankly, the best thing you, Odell, and Irvine can do is make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

  George nodded, and although they had all been together for over three months, he shook hands with both his colleagues before returning to his own tent to try to capture that good night’s sleep.

  He might even have succeeded if one of Norton’s remarks hadn’t remained constantly on his mind: If this weather holds…

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  JUNE 6TH, 1924

  AND THEN THERE were three.

  George rose long before dawn to witness a full moon glistening on the snow, making it look like a lawn of finely cut diamonds. Despite the temperature being minus thirty degrees, he felt a warm glow, and a confidence that they would succeed, even if he hadn’t made up his mind who they would be.

  Did he really need to bother with oxygen after Norton and Somervell had come so close? And hadn’t Odell proved to be better acclimatized than either of them? Or would Odell once again fall by the wayside just when the prize was within his grasp? Would Irvine’s inexperience become a liability when they stepped into uncharted territory? Or perhaps his enthusiasm, supported by those blessed oxygen cylinders, would be the only thing that would guarantee success?

  “Good morning, sir,” said a voice behind him.

  George swung around, to be greeted by Irvine’s infectious grin. “Good morning, Sandy,” he replied. “Shall we go and have some breakfast?”

  “But it’s only five o’clock,” said Irvine, checking his watch. “In any case, Odell is still asleep.”

  “Then wake him up,” said George. “We must be on our way by six.”

  “Six?” said Irvine. “But at your final briefing yesterday evening you told us to be up in time for breakfast at eight, ready to move off at nine, because you didn’t want to spend any longer than necessary perched on a ledge at 27,000 feet.”

  “Six thirty, then,” conceded George. “If Odell isn’t up by then, we’ll leave without him. And while you’re at it, young man, why don’t you do something useful for a change?”

  “Like what, sir?”

  “Go and make my breakfast.”

  The infectious grin returned. “I can offer you sardines on biscuit, lightly grilled, sardines off the bone with raisins, or the speciality of our tent, sardines—”

  “Just get on with it,” said George.

  Mallory, Odell, and Irvine, accompanied by five Sherpas carrying tents, equipment, and provisions, left the North Col just after 7:30 on the morning of June 6th. Odell had missed breakfast, but he didn’t complain. Guy Bullock was the last to shake hands with George before he left. “See you in a couple of days, old friend,” he said.


  “Yes. Keep the kettle boiling.”

  As George’s old housemaster Mr. Irving—George wondered if he was still alive—used to say, you can never start too early, only too late. George set off like a man possessed, at a pace Odell and Irvine found difficult to match.

  He kept peering suspiciously up at the clear blue sky, trying to detect the slightest suggestion of wind, the appearance of a single wisp of cloud, or the first flake of snow that might alter all his best laid plans, but the sky remained resolutely calm and undisturbed. However, he knew from bitter experience that this particular lady could change her mind in the blink of an eye. He also kept a close watch on his two companions to see if either of them appeared to be in any trouble, almost hoping that one of them would fall behind, and take the final decision out of his hands. But as hour succeeded hour, he reluctantly concluded that there was nothing to choose between them.

  The party reached Camp V a few minutes after three that afternoon, well ahead of schedule. George checked his watch and tried to make a calculation. When Hannibal crossed the Alps, he had always allowed the sun to make such decisions for him. Should he press on to Camp VI, and try to save a day? Or would that result in them being so exhausted that they wouldn’t be able to take on the more important challenge ahead? He chose caution, and decided on an early night so they could set out for Camp VI first thing in the morning. But who would he set out with? Which one of them would accompany him to the summit, and which would be accompanying the Sherpas back to the North Col?

  Turning in early didn’t guarantee a night’s sleep for George. Every hour or so he would wake, poke his head out of the tent, and check if he could still see stars few others had witnessed with such clarity. He could. Irvine slept like a child, and Odell even had the nerve to snore. George looked across at them while he continued to wrestle with the problem as to who should join him for the final climb. Should it be Odell, who after years of dedication had surely earned his chance—probably his last chance? Or should it be Irvine? After all, it would only be human for the young man to be dreaming of his place in the sun, but if he were not selected, he would still have many years ahead of him in which to try again.