Hinks’s delight would be short-lived.
26.
THE CEILING OF THE WORLD
In contrast to Mallory’s pessimistic letter to his wife, George Finch was cautiously optimistic about his chances on the mountain. His almost boyish enthusiasm was expressed in a letter sent with a runner to Charles Bruce detailing the success of his experiments with the oxygen cylinders and seeking formal support: ‘In view of these excellent results, after consulting with Col Strutt we are pushing oxygen for all its worth, pending your approval. The plan is to dump oxygen at the 25,000 ft camp from which an attempt on the summit can be made with some prospect of success. Provided the weather brightens up.’
And that was the key. The weather. There had only been two days of warm, benign conditions since they had arrived almost a month ago, most days beginning calmly but deteriorating by early afternoon as slicing winds and brutal temperatures struck. George had stood gazing up at the mountain for hours, studying its folds and lumps and stratified ice. It did not provide the climbing conundrums of many Alpine peaks; in fact, it was more a steep uphill walk, from what he could see. The challenge lay almost entirely in its thin air and wild, unpredictable conditions.
It was late morning on May 24 when he, Geoffrey Bruce and Tejbir left Camp III with twenty porters carrying stores and equipment, including the precious oxygen bottles. John Noel was also with them. He had taken film of the returning heroes Mallory, Somervell, Norton and Morshead and now wanted to place himself at Camp IV and photograph the progress of Finch’s men as they made their way up the mountain. George was pleased to have Noel along, not only for the photography but because he had agreed to use an oxygen set – ‘a new convert to the true faith’.
They reached Camp IV without incident and settled in for the night. The skies had clouded over early in the afternoon, the temperature plunging as the sun disappeared and a brisk cold wind set in. The men ate hurriedly and dived for their sleeping bags and tents, the inner-tent warmth countered by the fact they had been pitched directly onto the snow. George underplayed the discomfort as ‘fairly agreeable’.
John Noel felt lethargic the next morning, uninterested in his cameras as he watched, rather than photographed, the porters as they ate and packed in readiness for the first climb of the day to George Finch’s planned oxygen dump site. As the others emerged from their tents he noticed their ponderous movements, as if everything was in slow motion. Eventually someone made breakfast ‘at a ridiculously slow speed’: ‘I felt so done up that I went to my oxygen apparatus, opened the tap wide and took a quarter of an hour’s heavy breathing of oxygen. This had the most marvellous effect. I became another being. I woke up and took notice, regained full strength and felt quite myself again. Finch also took oxygen.’
George didn’t mention the oxygen fillip as he sent the porters ahead, confident that the climbers would catch up easily even though the oxygen tanks weighed more than the loads the porters carried. Instead, he regarded a second breakfast as more important, aware that the rations they would have higher up were meagre and that they needed all the sustenance they could stomach.
The skies were clear but the wind had already risen by the time they left at 9.30. They were ninety minutes behind the Tibetans, one of whom they found slumped, already exhausted, at the bottom of a small crevasse. He couldn’t go on and had chosen to wait in the sun for the others to return later in the day. He was safe enough and the trio resumed their rhythmic plod, following the tracks of the porters as they stayed on the leeward side of the ridgeline to reduce the impact of the wind.
It was nearing noon when they caught the porters at 24,600 feet, just 300 feet short of where Mallory, Somervell, Norton and Morshead had been forced to camp for the night. Although conditions were similar, it had taken George, Bruce and Tejbir less than half the time of Mallory’s group to climb roughly the same distance from Camp IV. The oxygen had already made a significant difference, as was shown by the reaction of the porters when they drew alongside: ‘They greeted our arrival with their usual cheery, broad grins,’ George wrote. ‘But no longer did they regard oxygen as a foolish man’s whim.’
A short rest, time enough for a few photographs, and George, Bruce and Tejbir were off again, outpacing the porters as they sought flat ground somewhere above 26,000 feet to pitch their tents for the night, so they would wake the following day within striking distance of the peak.
The joy and promise of the morning ended an hour later. They had climbed another 1300 feet when the wind, already sniping at them, suddenly rose to a howl, whipping the slopes above them into a frenzy of spindrift. Then it began to snow. A storm was brewing and would be on top of them soon.
George faced the same dilemma as Mallory had three days before, forced to cut short his advance and secure a camp site so the porters had a chance to get back to safety: ‘Persistence in proceeding further would have run them unjustifiably into danger. This I would under no circumstances do, for I felt responsible for those cheerful, smiling, willing men who looked up to their leader and placed in him the complete trust of little children.’
Instead of making ground George began casting around for a secure camp site, the wind now so strong that it would have been impossible to pitch the tent anywhere but behind the ridge. He climbed another 250 feet, alone, in search of level ground, but found nothing suitable. In the gloom that had now descended the only option was to secure the tent at an angle on the leeside of the ridge backbone, on a ledge with a 5000-foot drop to the glacier directly below.
With the porters gone, supplies and oxygen tanks piled alongside the tent and the sounds of Tibetan songs drifting up from below, George checked the guy ropes one last time and crawled into the tent with Bruce and Tejbir. They removed only their oxygen backpacks and boots in the tight space, huddling together to try and keep some warmth. Within a few minutes they were covered in a layer of fine spindrift as the wind, now near hurricane strength, forced snow through the tiniest fissures.
There was no respite from the violence as night set in. The men created enough space to light the Primus stove and melted snow to make tea. Conversation was muted as they sipped the lukewarm liquid and smoked cigarettes, the nicotine hit welcome. There was little to say as their individual thoughts turned from hopes of a triumphant ascent to the very real possibility that they might not survive the night.
There would be no sleep. The blizzard grew, forcing the men to remain vigilant as the wind reached beneath them like a living, clawing beast to lift one side of the tent and then the other. It took their combined weight to stop the ground sheet from being lifted completely, tearing them from their flimsy hold on the ridge and hurling them into the chasm at their feet.
It was hard to know for certain but the storm seemed to peak around 1am, the tent flaps slapping with a sound like machine-gun fire. Although huddled tightly together, the men could hardly hear one another as they shouted their warnings. Some of the guy ropes had worked their way loose, but there was no time for fear as George donned his eiderdown jacket and, without oxygen, crawled outside into the teeth of the gale to secure the ropes by fastening them around boulders on the ridge: ‘The effort was all I could manage and I returned to the tent chilled to the bone and utterly exhausted.’
As dawn approached, grey and grim, the snowfall began to slow, and there were gaps between wind gusts, as if the storm had done its worst and worn itself out. The tired men inside the sagging canvas triangle peeked out. Was it over?
The answer came swiftly and brutally; the monster was just drawing breath and within an hour had returned, more fearsome than before. The guy ropes were again loosened, but each man could only spend two minutes outside at a time in the effort to resecure them. A great hole was torn in the roof of the tent, and the flaps were stripped of their fastenings. Yet inside, the trio remained ‘cheerful’, perhaps content to let Everest decide their fate.
George sat as if in the calm eye of a cyclone. While his companions thought of sur
vival his questing mind turned to science. He had realised that breathing at this altitude was a voluntary rather than involuntary action, and that he had to continually think to take a breath, otherwise he would end up in a coughing fit as his lungs gasped for air. And yet with a glowing cigarette in his mouth, the problem seemed to go away. Why?
The answer was logical, he decided. The lack of oxygen effectively starved the body’s supply of carbon dioxide and that, in turn, exhausted the nerve centre and its ability to co-ordinate involuntary actions. There must be a component in cigarettes that stimulated those same nerves into action, as the effect of a single cigarette lasted three hours. As incongruous as it appeared, his observation would be valued by other scientists as one of the many stepping stones toward understanding human capacity in extreme situations.
Respite came just as suddenly. Shortly after 1pm, almost twenty-four hours after they had made camp to shelter, the wind dropped back to a stiff breeze, cold and yet blissful compared to the previous fury. Now was the time to make their escape and head back down the col, alive and ready to try again if the weather improved. George carefully considered the two men beside him: the Nepalese Gurkha officer who had placed unshakable faith in his leader and the stoic soldier who would not yield in the face of the improbable.
The decision was easy. They would stay clinging to the mountain for another night:
Very cautiously and tentatively I broached my wish with Bruce, fearful lest the trying experience of the last twenty-four hours had undermined his keenness for further adventure. I might have spared myself the anxiety. He jumped at the idea, and when our new plans were communicated to Tejbir, the only effect upon him was to broaden his already expansive grin. It was a merry little party that gathered round to a scanty meal cooked with the last of our fuel. The meal was meagre for the simple reason that we had catered for only one day’s short rations and we were now very much on starvation diet.
There were noises outside the tent. Geoffrey Bruce had woken with a start and prodded George Finch who was half asleep himself, even though it was still only 6pm. It made no sense and they both nestled back down, keen to catch up on lost sleep before the push to the summit the next morning. But there it was again; faint, but clearly the sound of human voices.
Pushing back the tent flap, George found six sherpas standing outside, led by a man named Tergio, with whom he had struck up a friendship. Tergio and his friends had left Camp IV that afternoon after the storm passed, carrying thermos flasks filled with tea and beef tea prepared by John Noel. It was a rescue mission; Noel and the sherpas were worried about the trio’s safety and the sherpas had come to escort the climbers back down the mountain.
The actions of these men touched George: ‘That is just one more example of the many ways the porters proved daily their self-sacrificing, courageous and truly selfless devotion. Tergio possessed a rare combination of qualities that made the little man especially dear to me.’
It took the climbers an hour to reassure the sherpas that they were strong and safe enough to stay on the ledge and to attempt the final climb in the morning. Eventually, the six men headed off into the darkness with orders to return at noon the next day. It would take them five hours to reach Camp IV, getting lost along the way and barely escaping with their lives.
Getting back to sleep was not easy, and not only because of their concern for the sherpas. As he lay down, George felt the impact of physical exertion in such extreme conditions, not to mention worry, lack of sleep and very little food. A coldness crept up his body; he felt it take hold of his heart and create a sensation he had never known. Dread. He looked over at Bruce and Tejbir; it was clear that both of them felt similarly.
A thought popped into his head. Oxygen. They hadn’t used it since making camp because they were stationary, but surely it would have a reviving effect. He retrieved a backpack and offered Tejbir the mouthpiece and watched the impact as the exhausted man’s face brightened almost in an instant. Bruce responded likewise before George sucked down on the rubber tube and felt a prickling sensation and warmth as the oxygen coursed through his body.
‘There is no doubt whatsoever that oxygen saved our lives that night,’ he wrote later. ‘Without it, in our well-nigh exhausted and famished condition, we would have succumbed to the cold.’
Still, rest was difficult. They set up the oxygen so each could sip when the need arose, but it meant dozing rather than sleeping and they were stirring before dawn, not so much eager as sensing that time was short. Their problems began immediately. George had brought his boots inside the tent to ensure they were malleable but the others had left theirs outside where they had frozen, and it took an hour over candlelight to mould them back into shape.
At least they did not linger over breakfast – there was none to be had – and the men set off just as dawn touched the sagging tent pole. It was clear, but a fresh wind cut across them as they moved upwards toward the shoulder of the ridge 1600 feet away where Mallory’s group had been forced to abandon its attempt. George and Bruce each carried about forty pounds (eighteen kilograms) in equipment, including the oxygen, cameras and tools. Tejbir carried two extra oxygen cylinders, although George only intended that he would climb as high as the shoulder where he would dump the tanks and head back to the tent to wait. George and Bruce would carry on.
Tejbir lasted barely 300 feet before slumping face forward into the snow, his endurance finally shattered. George was at first angry, but then realised the brave soldier deserved a kinder response. He could not go on, but after being revived was fit enough to get back to the tent, which they could still see from the slope. George watched him descend, ready to help if necessary, as he and Bruce rearranged their loads to carry an extra cylinder each. Satisfied that Tejbir was safe, they continued up the slope to the shoulder.
Conditions were changing quickly, the wind rising as they made their way up the relatively easy slope of broken rock toward the shoulder. The problem was not the terrain but the realisation that if they continued onto the ridge itself they would be exposed to the wind at its worst. It was simply too powerful to stand against, let alone climb along to the peak. The only option was to change direction and seek some form of shelter.
They had reached 26,574 feet, still below the shoulder where Mallory, Norton and Somervell had finished, when George saw an opportunity and signalled to Bruce that they would traverse the face of the mountain, away from the wind, and then look for a chance to climb straight up from beneath the summit itself. It was a longer and more difficult climb, but would be in calmer conditions.
At first it was relatively easy, as their path across the stratified rock angled downwards. They were losing height, but getting closer to the wall just below the summit. George was constantly aware of the inexperience of his young charge and kept him close behind. Bruce seemed to be coping, although the terrain was getting more difficult, sloping upwards now, the rocks covered in a fine powder that formed a thin, dangerous crust.
They stopped occasionally to rest, take a height reading from the aneroid barometer or unhook an empty cylinder, which they sent bouncing into the abyss, enjoying the satisfying clang of metal on rock. At least on this route the wind was less of a factor, prompting George to unrope them. It was a risky strategy and meant that a slip by either man would be fatal, but George judged Bruce to be sure-footed and it would save time.
George was buoyed by their slow but sure progress and could not help but think of his brother, Max, and their early climbs. They had planned for this moment as long ago as 1908. And here it was, happening for George but not for Max. George suddenly felt a great longing for what might have been. Geoffrey Bruce was a fine man, but he would much rather have been climbing with his brother.
They had moved halfway across the north face of Everest when George stopped again. They were now at an altitude of 27,100 feet and the peak was directly above them. They had to take a chance and head upwards, toward a spot along the ridge close to the summit.
George had gained about 300 feet and reached a ledge crowned by a stone slab when he heard a cry. Geoffrey Bruce was sixteen feet behind him and was clearly in trouble: ‘I’m not getting any air,’ he called out, grasping at the rocks to get a safe purchase. George acted swiftly, climbing back down from the ledge and reaching Bruce’s side just as he began to topple. He grabbed his companion by the shoulder, hauling him back from the edge of oblivion. Where had he found the strength?
Bruce was unconscious. George shook him awake and, calling on all his reserves, shoved him against the wall and helped him up to the safety of the ledge, clambering up after him. Both men sat heaving.
‘I’m not getting any air,’ Bruce gasped again, weakly.
George offered him his mouthpiece and began inspecting Bruce’s oxygen backpack to find the problem. Nothing seemed wrong; the tanks were unharmed and the flow meter was still pumping out oxygen at 80 fluid ounces (2.4 litres) per minute. Still, something was amiss. He took out his axe, preparing to slice off the flow meter and connect the valve directly to Bruce’s breathing tube when something made him stop. He was weakening quickly and needed a shot of oxygen. He took the tube back from Bruce, who was looking better, and took a few big breaths until he felt refreshed.
George needed to find a way for them both to breathe from the same functioning cylinder, so he inserted a spare T-tube and rubber hose that he was carrying in case of such an incident. He then resumed his search for the fault in Bruce’s equipment, now unwilling to cut the tube. It was the right decision. A few minutes later he found the problem: a glass connector tube used in the construction of the improvised masks had broken. Bruce must have bumped into some rocks. Again, George was carrying a spare and was able to replace the tube. Bruce’s oxygen supply was returned, but at what cost?
The Brilliant Outsider Page 24