“He seems a reasonable enough bloke to me,” Hutch stated, collapsing comfortably back into the depths of a sagging leather armchair. “I guess the last thing he wanted was a journalist tagging along.” He chuckled. “Especially one who’d never even been on a bloody mountain before.”
Another man spoke up. “James will be all right. Your editor made a good choice in sending him.” It was Colin Reid, special correspondent of the Daily Telegraph. “I see his runners have already started arriving with messages from the mountain.” He paused, glancing up at Hutch. “They must be doing well?”
Hutch laughed. “Nice try, old man.” He wagged a finger in Reid’s direction. “You’ll have to get me drunker than this if you want any free information. You’ll just have to spend more time on that radio receiver of yours, seeing if you can intercept the Embassy transmissions.”
Reid shook his head. “It’s useless. There’s so much chatter going on I can’t understand anything that’s being said.”
“What sort of chatter?” Hutch asked, raising an eyebrow. “There’s hardly enough electricity in this country to run that light bulb,” he pointed towards the ceiling, “let alone a transmitter.” He paused. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything from Izzard have you?” he asked, shooting a glance towards Philip.
Reid shrugged. “I don’t think so but, to be honest, it’s hard to make anything out.” He stopped, rubbing his eyes as a billow of smoke rolled into the room from the narrow chimney. “It’s certainly not English but it doesn’t sound like Nepalese or Hindi either. More like Mandarin, but the Himalayas should, in theory, block out any broadcasts from Tibet.” He paused again. “Sometimes it’s so weak I can hardly make it out through the static.”
The conversation lulled, each lost in thought and relaxed by the warmth and whiskey. The expedition should be camped at the foot of Everest by now. Another runner from the base camp was due any day. Philip closed his eyes, enjoying the luxury of being still after all the travelling. In a few days he’d be out in those hills, looking for Izzard, no doubt cold and tired.
“So Armitage,” Reid asked, pulling Philip back from his daydream. “What’s your plan?”
Philip sipped his drink. “First thing tomorrow I’m meeting a man who’s going to sort me out. Apparently he helped James arrange his trip.”
Hutch nodded. “I know the one, seems very good. Poor old James had to organize all his own staff and food for the whole trip as Hunt didn’t want to add his stuff to the expeditions.” He chuckled. “Should have seen him when they set off, it looked as if he was going to climb the mountain himself. He’d got two men just to carry the money with which to pay all the rest!”
They laughed. “I intend to travel lighter than that,” Philip continued. “I’ll need to travel fast if I’m to catch up with Izzard.” He yawned. “I also have to call at the Ministry to pick up my permit to get to Everest. Without it the authorities won’t let me out of Kathmandu.” He pulled himself wearily to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, it’s been a long day.”
He walked slowly down the dark corridors to his room, guided by a young Nepali holding a lantern up in front of them. When they reached his room door he was presented with the lantern and the man vanished into the shadows. Philip unlocked his door with an impressively large key the size of a serving spoon. After quickly changing and splashing his face with some scalding water that clunked its way out of the tap, he climbed into a creaky wooden bed that sagged badly in the middle. His body ached from the travelling, but his body clock hadn’t yet adjusted and he found sleep was slow to come. His stomach tingling at the prospect of heading into the mountains of this mysterious Kingdom he’d heard so much about but had never expected to visit. Only a few hundred westerners had ever been given visas to enter Nepal and of them, only a handful had been allowed to leave the city.
He turned, pulling the thick covers up to his chin against the cold night air. It had been strange hearing Nepalese again, listening to snippets of conversation at the airport and hotel. It had brought back memories, phrases and words that had once been so familiar and which for years he’d tried to forget.
Chapter 2
Burma, 1943
Philip tried to concentrate, but the smell of blood was making his mind wander. Its rich, salty odour flooded his mind with the image of rare roast beef. He forced the thought away and looked down to where their right hands were clasped together, wondering whether the trembling was coming from him or the injured man.
He looked him in the eye. “We’ve left you a chagal with about two pints of water in it and some chocolate. I’ve also left one of the letters in Burmese explaining that you need help. We’ll push on but in an hour or so the burrif will go into the village and tell them where to find you.” He paused, forcing himself to maintain the eye contact. “I’m sure they’ll come and get you.”
The wounded man nodded weakly, his head scarcely moving.
Philip waved his free hand towards the thick layer of flies that covered the blood-soaked dressing, but they didn’t pause from their frenzy of feeding. He could see fresh blood oozing from beneath it, dripping half-congealed onto the sodden ground.
“Anyway, good luck,” he said, trying to sound confident and giving the hand a final squeeze before placing it on the prostrate man’s chest. “You can tell me all about it when we next meet up in Calcutta.”
The man smiled up at him, his eyes revealing the futility of the words.
“Thank you, Sir,” he whispered, a soft bubbling coming from his lungs. “Get the men home.”
Philip stood and looked down at the broken body of the man he’d relied on for the last few weeks. It had always seemed indestructible, never showing fatigue or hunger, always in control. Always clean and tidy, for Christ’s sake, even in this hell hole.
Sergeant Gurung had been injured two days before, in a fleeting skirmish with an enemy patrol. No one had realised he’d been injured until there was too much blood to miss. A bullet to the upper chest that they’d initially thought, or at least hoped, had passed through and missed anything vital. That morning he’d coughed up blood and they’d known it hadn’t.
It’s what Philip had dreaded most from the start of the operation. Any injured man who couldn’t walk was to be left in the care of local villagers. He hadn’t told the men at first, he and the other junior officers had thought it would be so bad for morale; it was best for them not to know. Word soon got out, however, but the Gurkhas had taken it in their usual stoic way. No fuss. No discussion.
Philip walked back to the small streambed where the rest of the platoon was waiting. He looked around until he saw the burrif. “Maung,” he called in a low voice. “Here please.”
The small, squatting Burmese stood up and scurried over.
“Go and sit with Sergeant Gurung. Keep a look out and try to keep him comfortable.” He looked at his watch. It was ten past three in the afternoon. “Give us until four and then go into the village. If it’s clear, find the headman and lead the villagers to Gurung. If there are Japs about, you’ll have to wait until the coast’s clear.” He scratched irritably at a swollen insect bite on his cheek. “You know the bearing we’re taking. We’ll expect you after nightfall.” He looked at the small man. “And don’t get followed by the bloody Japs.”
The man nodded and disappeared silently into the bush, a legacy of his upbringing in the Karen tribes of Northern Burma. Every platoon had been assigned a local guide to act as liaison with the local population, and Philip counted his blessings that Maung was still with them. It was a dangerous job as the Japanese shot any they caught as traitors. He was replaced by the squat, muscular frame of Corporal Prem who saluted him crisply.
“Corporal,” Philip acknowledged irritably, having wanted some time to get his thought together. “I’m going to be relying on you now that Sergeant Gurung is … indisposed.” He chose his word carefully, wanting to appear calm in front of the experienced Gurkha. “We’re going to h
ave to work together if we’re to get out of this.” He nodded towards the resting men. “Fall them in, we’ll move out in five minutes.”
The Nepali turned and headed off, and Philip watched as the Gurkhas roused themselves as Prem walked past, preparing themselves for the march. They’d been out for six weeks, the same routine every day so that now they knew what to do without thinking. But there’d always been Gurung there before, chiding them on, encouraging them. He’d have to see how things went now he was gone.
The terrain was straightforward at first. Their bearing of north-west took them up the stream course they’d been resting in. It meandered slowly up into the hills but was much quicker than trying to cut a straight path through the jungle, especially with the men so weak. Beyond the hills lay the Chindwin River and India.
Philip felt the sweat running down between his shoulder blades, viscous trails that plastered his shirt to his back. Reaching behind, he caught his water bottle and pulling it round unscrewed the top and took a long draught, savouring the sensation despite it being as hot as tea and tasting of purification tablets. How things had changed. Only a year ago he’d been sitting in the snug bar of the Coach and Horses in Cambridge, a pint of Adnams in front of him, warming himself by a log fire.
He’d been on leave, the last he was to have before shipping out. It had all seemed so exotic and exciting. Off to India to take up a commission in the Gurkhas. He’d just completed his first year at Cambridge University when he’d received his call-up. His friends had joked that Ancient History was hardly an essential profession and at heart he was pleased to be going.
He’d loved archaeology ever since his father had taken him to a lecture by the great Egyptologist Howard Carter, returning in triumph to his childhood town of Swaffham, with golden statues and treasures from the tombs of the pharaohs that had dazzled his ten-year-old mind. When he’d discovered his posting he’d been even more pleased, imagining opportunities to explore the ruins of the great Indus civilization and the forts of the Moguls.
It hadn’t worked out as he’d hoped. He’d only been in India for a couple of weeks when his Regiment, the 2nd Gurkha Rifles, has been assigned to special operations. For months they’d trained in jungle survival, river crossing and, worst of all, mule handling. Rumours abounded as to what they were being trained to do.
It was generally agreed that they were to spearhead a counter offensive against the Japanese in Burma, who’d routed the allied forces there the previous year. Then, at Christmas, they’d been told that they were going to be operating deep behind enemy lines, sabotaging railway and road links to the Japanese front line. Three months later and here he was. He glanced back at his men and felt a surge of pride. Their faces were pinched with hunger, uniforms that had fitted perfectly a few weeks before now hung loose around them, often ripped and holed by the sharp undergrowth they spent most of their days cutting through.
The pride was replaced by a wave of hunger, followed by a weakness that threatened to take his legs away from under him. They hadn’t had a food drop for five days and he’d already put the men on half rations. They’d managed to buy some rice from a local village a few days before, storing it in their spare socks, but with so many men to feed it was soon eaten. He reached into his chest pocket and took out a packet of acid drops. He hated them. His face winced as he popped one in his mouth, its sourness making his mouth tingle painfully, but he felt some strength return as the sugar ran down into his stomach.
The streambed was now down to single file, and turning a bend he saw one of the scouts standing at the foot of a small waterfall. He held up his hand to halt the column and the men disappeared instantly into the undergrowth on either side.
He looked up at the waterfall. It was about twenty foot high, its rock face rounded and polished from the flow of water that must rush down it from the hills at certain times of the year. Now only a gentle trickle fell from its lip, which seemed to have vanished in a fine spray by the time it reached the bottom.
Philip drew a deep breath and momentarily closed his eyes. It seemed endless. Rivers, swamps, impenetrable jungle, mountains, snakes and insects. Whenever they seemed to be making progress something always stopped them and that didn’t even include the enemy who harried them constantly.
“Is there a way around?” he asked, his eyes wearily sweeping along the low cliff.
The rifleman nodded. “Yes, sir.” He pointed. “If we follow the ridge north for 100 yards we can get up.”
Philip wiped the sweat from his face, squashing a mosquito and rolling its body between his fingers. He turned and signalled the men. They re-emerged and walked wearily forward. Philip looked at his watch. It seemed to be getting dark but was impossible to be sure under the thick jungle canopy. It was time to make camp if the men were to have time to find fodder for the mules and firewood for themselves. He turned to Prem who was at his shoulder.
“Follow the scouts up and then make camp at a suitable place up stream.” He nodded towards the waterfall. “This’ll give us some protection if we’ve been followed. Station a sentry up there tonight.”
The Gurkha nodded and moved out, signalling the platoon to follow. Philip watched as they passed. He could see hunger and fatigue etched on their faces, and yet many smiled as they passed before disappearing into the undergrowth.
At the rear came the mules, driven on by their handlers who walked silently behind. They were sorry looking creatures, heads down and little more than skeletons. They hadn’t had any hay for weeks, surviving on freshly cut bamboo when it was available and foraging for anything else they could find. At least their weakness had solved one problem. In the beginning their angry braying had constantly threatened to give away their position to Japanese patrols. Now they were silent, trudging resignedly along behind the men.
Once they’d passed, Philip stood for a few moments looking back down the streambed. It all seemed quiet. The sound of the crickets and frogs had returned, and looking up he could see a small patch of evening sky just starting to glow orange as the hidden sun sank lower.
He turned and felt his spirits sink as he was swallowed once more by the damp, darkness of the jungle. The six weeks they’d been there felt like a lifetime; slashing through the undergrowth, lacerated by branches and bamboo. Uniforms so rotted by the humidity that pieces are left hanging on brushing twigs. The constant smell of corrupted flesh and loose bowels, flies swarming on open sores and mosquitoes and ants tormenting their nights. He sighed, wishing again he was at home, on a crisp, winter morning, walking over frosted meadows with the dogs playing and friends laughing. God it would be good to feel cold.
It only took a few minutes to reach the place Prem had chosen to camp and he glanced around approvingly, the men having already lit several small cooking fires. Now that dusk had fallen their smoke wouldn’t be seen so they were busy boiling water drawn from the small stream. The flow was weak but it was moving, as their training had instructed them to leave all stagnant water alone. He smiled grimly to himself. Whoever had written that would’ve been shocked if they’d seen where they’d drunk from during the last few weeks.
He checked the mules, finding them hobbled and chewing unenthusiastically on some tough looking bamboo that had just been cut. Walking through the camp he tried to give a few words of encouragement to the men, before arriving at his own fire where he gratefully dropped his pack on the ground. He untied his groundsheet from where it hung and unfolded it, collapsing down onto it and leaning against the trunk of a large teak tree. Reaching across to the pack he unstrapped a side pocket and pulled out a tattered map, dropping it by his side as he unlaced and removed his boots. As his feet slipped out he groaned with relief, peeling off worn and bloody socks and exposing his feet to the air. They were white and shrivelled, the result of weeks of being wet, with painful blisters on each heel.
A quick inspection revealed only two leech bites, thin trails of blood still running from them. The leeches crawled into his boots through th
e lace holes, latching on and gorging on his blood until they were too fat to escape. Philip always knew when one had popped, a warm sticky sensation on the sole of his foot as the blood oozed out of its ruptured body.
Picking up the map he laid it across his drawn up knees and carefully worked out their position, taking into account the bearing they’d been on and the length of time they’d marched. It was six days since they’d initially tried to re-cross the Irrawaddy River, a night of total confusion that had seen them cut off from the rest of the column. The crossing had started fine. The burrifs had found some local fishermen who’d been willing, in exchange for silver rupees, for them to use their boats. They’d only been big enough for twelve or so men to cross at a time so after three hours they’d still been at it when a Japanese patrol had turned up.
All hell had broken loose and as a result Philip had found his platoon, who’d been operating as the vanguard, stuck on the wrong side of the river. He’d been the only officer left but at least he knew the orders from High Command. The mission was over and they were to return to India but they were now marooned with the enemy searching for them. He’d head south, hoping the Japanese would least expect them to move away from the rest of the column.
The Japanese had ordered all local craft to be moored on the west bank to prevent their use. If they hadn’t stumbled on a battered old dug-out canoe hidden in some elephant grass next day they might still be walking. As it was, under the cover of a dark, moonless night, they’d managed to cross over, four men at a time, with the mules swimming behind. They’d almost lost some men when a mule had panicked and hooked its hoof over the canoe’s side, struggling to get out of the water. It had taken the sharp blade of a kukri to dispatch the animal and prevent three nervous Gurkhas from joining it on the riverbed.
At least, Philip thought, they were still largely together. If half of the platoon had already crossed when the attack had come on the initial crossing it would’ve been a disaster. The Gurkhas had a bond that gave them an almost telepathic understanding of each other, working seamlessly as a team that only men who’d grown up from boyhood together could have. If they’d been ripped apart and this intuition destroyed Philip dreaded to think what their chances of survival would have been. They were grim enough as it was.
Sacred Mountain Page 2