George was certain of only one thing. This was his last chance.
Just after four o’clock the following morning, with the moon still shining peacefully down on them, the three men set off again. Their pace slowed with each hour that passed, until it was no more than a shuffle. If either Odell or Irvine was suffering from the experience, neither gave the slightest hint of it as they continued doggedly in their leader’s footsteps.
The sun was beginning to set by the time the North-East Shoulder came into sight. George checked his altimeter: 27,100 feet. Half an hour and 230 feet later, the three of them collapsed exhausted, and mightily relieved to find Norton and Somervell’s small tent still in place. George could no longer put off making his final decision, because three men weren’t going to be able to sleep in that small space, and there certainly wasn’t enough room on the ridge to pitch a second tent.
George sat on the ground and scribbled a note to Norton to inform him of their progress, and that they would attempt the final ascent in the morning. He stood up, and looked at both silent men before handing the note to Odell. “Would you please take this back down to the North Col, old fellow, and see that Norton gets it?”
Odell betrayed no sign of emotion. He simply bowed.
“I’m sorry, old chap,” added George. He was about to explain his reasons when Odell said, “You’ve made the right decision, skipper.” He shook hands with George, and then with the young man he had recommended to the RGS should replace Finch as a member of the climbing team. “Good luck,” he said, before turning his back on them to begin the lonely journey down to Camp V to spend the night, before returning to the North Col the following morning.
And then there were two.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
June 7th, 1924
My darling,
I’m sitting in a tiny tent some 27,300 feet above sea level, and almost 5,000 miles from my homeland, seeking the paths of glory…
“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Irvine as he sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Only on the way down,” said George. “So by this time tomorrow I’ll be sound asleep.”
“By this time tomorrow they’ll be hailing you as the new St. George after you’ve finally slain your personal dragon,” said Irvine, adjusting an indicator on one of the oxygen cylinders.
“I don’t recall St. George having to rely on oxygen when he slew the dragon.”
“If Hinks had been in charge at the time,” said Irvine, “St. George wouldn’t even have been allowed the use of a sword. ‘Against the spirit of the amateur code, don’t you know, old chap,’” added Irvine as he touched an imaginary mustache. “You must strangle the wretched beast with your bare hands.”
George laughed at Irvine’s plausible imitation of the RGS secretary. “Well, if I’m going to break with the amateur spirit,” he said, “I’ll need to know if your blessed oxygen cylinders will be up and running by four o’clock tomorrow morning. Otherwise I’ll be sending you back to the North Col to ask Odell to take your place.”
“Not a chance,” said Irvine. “All four of them are in perfect working order, which should give us more than enough oxygen, assuming you don’t plan to take longer than eight hours to cover a mere 2,000 feet and back.”
“You’ll find out what a mere 2,000 feet feels like only too soon, young man. And I’d have a darn sight better chance of achieving it if you were to go back to sleep so I can finish this letter to my wife.”
“You write to Mrs. Mallory every day, don’t you?”
“Yes,” replied George. “And if you’re lucky enough to find someone half as remarkable, you’ll end up feeling exactly the same way.”
“I think I already have,” said Irvine, lying back down. “It’s just that I forgot to tell her before I left, so I’m not absolutely sure if she knows how I feel.”
“She’ll know,” said George, “believe me. But if you’re in doubt, you could always drop her a line—that’s assuming writing is still a form of communication they’re using at Oxford.”
George waited for a barbed riposte, but none followed, as the lad had already fallen back into a deep slumber. He smiled and continued his letter to Ruth.
After he’d shakily scribbled your loving husband, George, and sealed the envelope, he read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” before finally blowing out the candle and falling asleep.
SUNDAY, JUNE 8TH, 1924
“Would you like me to remove the scarf, old chum?” asked Odell.
“Yes, please do,” said Norton.
Odell lifted the silk scarf gently off Norton’s face.
“Oh Christ, I still can’t see a thing,” said Norton.
“Don’t panic,” said Somervell. “It’s not unusual for it to take two or three days for your sight to begin to recover following a bout of snow blindness. In any case, we’re not going anywhere until Mallory comes back down.”
“It’s not down I’m worried about,” snapped Norton. “It’s up. Odell, I want you to return to Camp VI, and take a jar of Bovril and a supply of Kendal Mint Cake with you, because you can be sure that Mallory’s forgotten to pack something.”
“I’m on my way,” said Odell. He peered out of the tent. “I’ve never known better conditions for climbing.”
George woke a few minutes after four to find Irvine preparing breakfast.
“What’s on the menu for Ascension Day?” he asked as he poked his head out of the tent to check on the weather. Despite being hit by a blast of cold air that made his ears tingle, what he saw brought a smile to his face.
“Macaroni and sardines,” replied Irvine.
“An interesting combination,” said George. “But I have a feeling it won’t make the next edition of Mrs. Beeton’s cookbook.”
“I might have been able to offer you a little more choice,” said Irvine with a grin, “if you’d remembered to pack your rations.”
“I do apologize, old chap,” said George. “Mea culpa.”
“No skin off my nose,” said Irvine, “because frankly I’m far too nervous to even think about eating.” He pulled on an old flying jacket, not unlike the one George’s brother Trafford had been wearing when he’d last visited The Holt on leave. George wondered how Irvine had acquired it, because he was far too young to have served in the war.
“My housemaster’s,” explained Irvine as he did up the buttons, answering George’s unasked question.
“Stop trying to make me feel so old,” said George.
Irvine laughed. “I’ll fix up your oxygen cylinders while you’re having breakfast.”
“A couple of sardines and a short note to Odell, and I’ll be with you.”
Outside the tent, the morning sun almost blinded Irvine as it shone down from a clear blue sky.
Once George had eaten what was left of the sardines, having ignored the macaroni, he scribbled a quick note to Odell and left it on his sleeping bag. He’d have put money on Odell returning to Camp VI that day.
George had slept in four layers of clothes, and he now added a thick woolen vest and a woven silk shirt, followed by a flannel shirt and another silk shirt. He then put on a cotton Burberry jacket known as a Shackleton smock, before pulling on a pair of baggy gabardine trousers. He strapped a pair of cashmere puttees around his ankles, pulled on his boots, and slipped on a pair of woolen mittens that had been knitted by Ruth. He finally put on his brother’s leather flying cap before grabbing the latest pair of goggles, donated by Finch. He was glad there wasn’t a mirror available, although Chomolungma would have agreed that he was correctly dressed for an audience with Her Majesty.
George crawled out of the tent to join Irvine, who helped him on with a set of oxygen cylinders. Once they were strapped to his back, George wondered if the extra weight would prove more of a disadvantage than not being able to breathe regularly. But he’d made that decision when he sent Odell back. The last ritual the two men carried out was to smear zinc oxide all over the exposed parts of each
other’s faces. Before setting off up the mountain they squinted at the summit, which looked so close.
“Be warned,” said George, “she’s a Jezebel. She grows even more alluring the closer you come to her, and this morning she’s even tempting us with a spell of perfect weather. But like any woman, it’s her privilege to change her mind.” He checked his watch: 5:07. He would have liked to start a little earlier. “Come on, young man,” he said. “In the words of my beloved father, it’s time to put our best foot forward.” He adjusted his mouthpiece and turned on the oxygen supply.
If only Hinks could see me now, thought Odell as he climbed the last few feet to Camp VI. When he reached the tent he fell on his knees and pulled back the flap, to encounter the sort of mess one might expect after having left two children to spend the night in a treehouse: a plate of unfinished macaroni, an empty sardine tin, and a compass that George must have left behind. Odell chuckled as he crawled in and set about tidying up. It wouldn’t have been Mallory’s tent if he hadn’t left something behind.
Odell was placing the Bovril and a couple of bars of Kendal Mint Cake on George’s sleeping bag when he spotted the two envelopes—one addressed to Mrs. George Mallory, The Holt, Godalming, Surrey, England, which he put in an inside pocket, and one with his own name scrawled across it. He tore the envelope open.
Dear Odell,
Awfully sorry to have left things in such a mess. Perfect weather for the job. Start looking for us either crossing the rock band or going up the skyline.
See you tomorrow.
Yours ever,
George
Odell smiled, and once he’d double-checked that everything was in place for the returning heroes, he crawled out of the tent backward, then stood and stretched his arms above his head as he looked up at the highest peak in the world. The weather was so perfect that for a moment he was even tempted to follow them, as he couldn’t help feeling a little envious of his two colleagues who must by now be approaching the summit.
And then suddenly he spotted two figures silhouetted against the skyline. As he watched, the taller of the two walked across to join the other. He could see that they were standing on the Second Step, about 600 feet from the summit. He checked his watch: 12:50. They still had more than enough time to reach the top and be back in their little tent before the last rays of sunlight disappeared.
He couldn’t stop himself from leaping up and down with joy as he watched them stride into a cloud of mist, and disappear from sight.
Once Irvine had reached the top of the Second Step, he clambered over a jagged piece of rock and joined George.
“We’ve got about another 600 feet to go,” said George, checking his altimeter. “But remember, that’s equivalent to at least a mile, and without oxygen Norton could only manage about 125 feet an hour. So it could take us another three hours,” he added between breaths, “which means we can’t afford to waste any time, because when we start back down that rock face later this afternoon,” he said, pointing upward, “I want to be sure I can still see several feet in front of me.”
As George replaced his mouthpiece, Irvine gave him the thumbs-up sign. Then they began the slow trek along a ridgeline no man had ever trodden before.
CHAPTER SIXTY
2:07 P.M., SUNDAY, JUNE 8TH, 1924
WHEN GEORGE LOOKED up again, it appeared as if the peak was within touching distance, despite the altimeter warning him that they still had over 300 feet to climb. So breathtakingly close, even if it had taken far longer than he had bargained for.
Once they had conquered the Second Step, the two of them chipped, pushed and pulled their way slowly up the narrow northeast ridgeline, aware that the snow on either side of them was like the eaves of a roof, with nothing below but air. They would only have to stray a few feet either way, and…
The inviting-looking fresh, untrodden snow had turned out to be two feet deep, making it almost impossible to take a step forward, and when they did, their feet only advanced a few inches before sinking once again into the snow.
Two hundred and eleven steps later—George counted every one of them—and they were finally released from the snowdrift, only to be confronted by a sheer rock face that would have been a challenge for him on a warm summer’s morning at 3,000 feet, let alone when his body was soaked with sweat, his limbs almost frozen, and he was so exhausted that all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, even though he knew that at minus forty degrees, if he was to stay still for more than a few moments, he would freeze to death.
George even considered turning back while there was still a good chance that they would be safely under canvas before sunset. But then he would have had to spend the rest of his life explaining why he’d let the prize slip from his grasp at the last moment and, worse, when he fell asleep, each night he would dream of climbing those last 300 feet, only to wake from the nightmare in a cold sweat.
He turned around to see an exhausted Irvine pulling his foot out of the snow, only to stare in disbelief at the rock face that stood in front of them. For a moment George hesitated. Did he have the right to risk Irvine’s life as well as his own? Should he, even now, suggest that the young man turn back while he went on alone, or rest and wait for him to return? He banished the thought from his mind. After all, Irvine had surely earned the right to share the spoils of triumph with him. George removed his mouthpiece and said, “We’re nearly there, old chap. This rock will be the last obstacle before we reach the top.” Irvine gave him a thin smile.
George turned around to face a vertical rock, covered with ice that never melted from one year to the next. He searched for somewhere he could gain a toehold. Normally, he would place his first step at about eighteen inches, perhaps even two feet, but not today, when a few inches would prove a mountain in itself. With a trembling hand he grasped a ledge inches above his head and pulled himself slowly up. He lifted a boot and searched for a foothold so he could raise his other arm and progress a few more inches on the vertical journey to the top of the rock. He tried not to think what it was going to be like on the way down. His brain screamed turn back, but the heart whispered carry on.
Forty minutes later, he heaved himself up onto the top of the rock and pulled the rope taut to make his colleague’s task a little easier. Once Irvine had clambered up to join him, George checked the altimeter: 112 feet left to climb. He looked up, this time to be faced with a sheet of ice that had built up over the years into a cornice overhanging the East Face, which would have prevented even a four-legged animal with spiked hooves from progressing any further.
George was trying to secure a foothold when a flash of lightning struck the mountain below him, followed moments later by a clap of thunder. He assumed they were about to be engulfed by a storm, but as he looked down, he realized that they were far above the tempest, must have been venting its fury on his colleagues some 2,000 feet below them. It was the first time George had viewed a storm from above, and he could only hope that by the time they descended it would have moved on, leaving in its wake the still, clear air that so often follows such anger.
Once again, George lifted his boot and tried to gain some purchase on the ice. The surface immediately cracked, and his heel skidded back down the slope. He almost laughed. Could things get any worse? He thrust his axe into the ice in front of him. This time it didn’t crack quite so easily, but when it did, he placed a foot in the hole. It still slithered back a few inches. He didn’t laugh when he recalled the saying, two paces forward, one pace back. He was now having to satisfy himself with one foot forward, six inches back. After a dozen such steps, the narrow ridge became even thinner until he had to fall on all fours and begin crawling. He didn’t look to his left or right, because he knew that on both sides of him was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. Look up, ignore everything around you, and battle on. Another yard forward, another half yard back. Just how much could the body endure? Then, suddenly, he felt solid rock below him, and was able to climb out of the bed of ice and stand
on rough, stony ground only 50, perhaps 60 feet from the summit. He turned around to see an exhausted Irvine still on his hands and knees.
“Only 50 feet to go!” he shouted, as he untied the rope so that both men could continue at their own pace.
It was another twenty minutes before George Leigh Mallory placed a hand, his right hand, on the summit of Everest. He pulled himself slowly up onto the top and lay flat on his stomach. “Hardly a moment of triumph,” was his first thought. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and then, with a supreme effort, he somehow managed to stand up. The first man to stand on top of the earth.
He looked across the Himalaya, admiring a view no man had ever seen before. He wanted to leap up and down with joy and shout triumphantly at the top of his voice, but he had neither the energy nor the breath to do so. Instead he turned a slow circle; the biting wind, which seemed to come at him from every direction did not allow him to move any faster. A myriad of unconquered mountains stood proudly around him, heads bowed in the presence of their monarch.
A strange thought crossed his mind. He must remember to tell Clare that the top of Everest was about the same size as their dining-room table.
George checked his watch: 3:36 P.M. He tried to convince himself that they had more than enough time to return to the safety of their little tent at Camp VI, especially if it turned out to be a clear night with no wind.
He looked back down to see Irvine moving ever closer, even if it was at a snail’s pace. Would he falter at the last step? Then, like a child who couldn’t yet walk, Irvine crawled up onto the summit.
Once George had helped him to his feet, he fumbled around in the pocket of his Shackleton smock, only hoping that he hadn’t forgotten what he was looking for. His fingers were so numb with cold that he nearly dropped his Vest Pocket camera over the side. Once he’d steadied himself, he took a photograph of Irvine, arms held high above his head as if he’d just won the boat race. He passed the Kodak to his companion, who took a photo of him trying to look as if he’d been for a bracing walk in the Welsh hills.
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