Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  A chuckle of nervous laughter ran through the group. That’s as good as it’s going to get, Philip thought, so turned and slipped into his pack, trying to make it look effortless as he straightened up. The three surviving members of 1st squad followed him as he walked towards the river, trying to keep his legs from trembling from a combination of weight and fear. He never liked these crossings, always convinced that here was something horrible lurking in the opaque water. Reaching the edge of the tall grass, he held up his hand.

  “Wait here. Don’t enter the water until I give you a signal.”

  He emerged onto the sandy riverbed at what he hoped would be a run, but under the weight of his pack and his weakened state was barely a jog. Glancing up and down the shore he checked it was clear and entered the river. He felt water seep into his boots, initially through the ripped seams and holes in the sole. It was rather pleasant, soothing the aches. As he waded further he felt the current starting to tug at him and as the bottom of his pack entered the water he found it necessary to turn slightly upstream in order to keep his balance.

  He walked on, carefully edging his feet forward through the water, heavy with silt. The riverbed was firm, his feet sinking in no more than an inch or so, but a couple of times his boot hit submerged debris which almost tripped him. Looking forward he realised he was already in midstream. The water was up over his waist and he walked with his revolver and map held high above his head.

  He reached the stump of an enormous teak tree that sat grounded, the current breaking around it and stopped, gratefully hanging onto an exposed root for a rest. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of trying to stay balanced. After a few seconds he pushed out once more into the current and found that the river shelved up quickly, making the going much easier. When the water was at his knees he turned and waved the rest of the squad forward. He saw them run into the water and set off determinedly towards him. He turned and waded on, soon reaching the far bank and gratefully dropping his pack into the fringe of the forest that ran down to the water’s edge. He turned to check on the progress of the men and was surprised to see them almost with him. The look on their faces was of grim determination. They hated water and seemed to have decided that the best way of crossing was to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  Looking to the far bank he signalled for the rest of the platoon to start their crossing. Almost immediately the first Gurkha appeared, scurrying into the water. He turned to the men with him, pointing at the nearest two. “You and you, I want one twenty yards upstream and one twenty yards downstream keeping watch. If you see anything, let me know. And you,” he pointed to the last man, “Recce the jungle behind. Make sure there are no tracks or houses nearby.”

  The men nodded and disappeared. Philip turned back towards the river. There was now a line of soldiers crossing, one approximately every ten yards. They bunched closer as the water deepened and the progress of the front ones slowed. He saw it reached chest level on many of the men but they still appeared unaffected by the current.

  It took the first man a minute or so to get across and when he looked at the far bank he saw that Prem was now in the water at the end of the line. He glanced up at the sky. No planes in sight, no spotters or worse still a Zero diving down to strafe the exposed men.

  “Boat!” came an urgent cry and peering upstream Philip saw the man he’d positioned there pointing to a dark spot on the river, a large white bow wave showing that it was indeed a boat and heading towards them fast.

  “Bloody hell,” he cursed under his breath, jumping up and wading a few steps into the water.

  “Get over here, at the double. Enemy boat,” he yelled, hands cupped around his mouth.

  He saw the men look up in the direction he was pointing and then try to run. The ones nearest the shore kicked up sheets of water as they lifted their feet from the river and ran. A couple stumbled and fell. Philip ran towards them, crouching as he went and grabbed them by the collar. Heaving them up he pushed them towards the bank.

  Small plumes of water were now kicking up around him, and for a moment he thought it was raining. Then the clatter of a machine gun reached his ears and he ran for the bank, diving headlong into the undergrowth. He turned, keeping low behind some tangled roots. Two bodies were drifting slowly off downstream; the muddy waters around them turned a burnished copper as blood mixed in with the silt. The four soldiers nearest the bank were lying, just their heads above the surface, crawling to safety. Further back he could see that several of the Gurkhas, including Prem, were sheltering behind the tree stump midstream. A couple had gained a footing and were trying to shoot back with their rifles.

  “Return fire,” Philip yelled, and immediately there was the crackle of rifle fire around him. The boat veering sharply towards them, making itself a smaller target and he could see the muzzle of the machine gun flashing yellow flame. Bits of bark and vegetation showered down on them as the bullets slammed home in the jungle above their heads. After a sustained burst that kept the Gurkhas pinned down, it abruptly swung towards the stranded men. Philip heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the hard teak stump and realised that as soon as the boat got down river of them they’d have no cover.

  He could see the boat clearly now. About thirty feet in length it was a local boat that had been commandeered. It had heavy wooden planking, off which their rifle rounds seem to deflect harmlessly. Inside he could make out six soldiers, two in the bow where the machine gun was set, its barrel peeping over the prow and surrounded in sand bags. At the stern three other soldiers were shooting with rifles and the last was crouched low, looking forward, steering the vessel.

  “Aim for the stern,” Philip ordered. “Go for the man on the tiller.”

  The shooting picked up and Philip smiled grimly as he saw one of the soldiers on the boat pitch backwards and disappear from view. He cursed to himself. If they hadn’t lost their Bren gun they’d have been able to return fire. When they’d been split off from the main column their platoon gun had already crossed the river, leaving them with only light arms.

  The boat passed them, firing a broadside as it did so that had them again pinned down to the damp forest floor. It smelt of decay and rot. He heard a stifled yell as a bullet hit home into one of the Gurkhas near to him. Raising his head he peered out through the tangled roots and watched as the boat turned up stream, its guns swivelling round towards the driftwood stump.

  A flash of movement caught his eye, accompanied by a crash of undergrowth and the sound of splashing water. Philip looked up in surprise, before screaming “Cover him!” and repeatedly firing his revolver in the direction of the boat. A Gurkha had burst from the trees, jumping into the shallows and was now running towards the enemy boat which had slowed right down as it closed in on the stranded soldiers. Philip saw the soldier pull the pin from a grenade and after a small pause throw it high into the air, diving into the water as he released it.

  Time slowed. Philip watched the grenade arc through the air, trying to judge its flight and the movement of the boat. It was going to fall short, he was sure of it. The Japanese had seen the grenade coming and one of the soldiers in the stern tried to swat it away with his hand. It was too low for him to reach, clipping the gunwale and disappearing into the boat. He could see the panic spread, with several of the Japanese making to jump overboard. As they launched themselves clear there was a dazzling flash of flame followed by a deafening explosion. The body of the soldier nearest to them was thrown upwards with pieces of fabric and flesh flying away. It landed with a belly flop in the river and didn’t move.

  The boat itself was ablaze, the wooden hull a cauldron of fire. Ammunition was exploding, popping in the extreme heat, and now the engine’s power had gone the current slowly took it and started pulling it downstream, gathering speed as it went.

  Philip pulled himself up and jumped into the river, splashing to where the Gurkha had thrown himself into the water. Hauling him to his feet he quickly scanned his body fo
r signs of wounds and it was only when he looked into his face that he relaxed, a large grin fixed to the man’s face.

  “That was very brave, Rifleman Balbir,” he said, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing. “Bloody stupid but very brave.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see movement from behind the teak stump.

  “Get over there and help them,” he yelled.

  Men piled down the bank and waded back into the water, assisting and dragging the rest onto the beach. Philip walked over to where Prem was sitting panting in the shallows, blood running down his face from a wound high on his forehead.

  “Two dead with me,” he panted between breaths. “And another has a bad wound in the arm.” He stared down at the fine silt of the river bed that sucked at his feet. “They were from my village. We grew up together. One was my cousin.”

  Philip nodded and tentatively reached his hand out towards the corporal’s shoulder, unsure what to say. Prem pushed himself up, composing himself, so that instead Philip quickly pointed towards the corporals own wound. It was met with a dismissive shake of the head. “Nothing. Just a graze.”

  He shoved his revolver back into its holster and glanced around at his men. They looked dazed and exhausted. No wonder. He knew that the Gurkhas were a close-knit group, but if they’d all grown up together then these deaths were going to hurt badly. Best, he thought, to keep them distracted. “Five minutes. We’ll dress the wounds and then head off. We’ll have every Jap between here and Mandalay coming this way after that little explosion.”

  He turned and walked over to where his pack lay abandoned in the jungle. Christ. Four more dead, another two injured. If it hadn’t been for the heroics of Balbir they’d have lost five more. He rubbed his face, pretending to scratch his stubble but trying to keep his jaw from trembling. He should have waited, waited until nightfall or made them cross the previous night, however exhausted they’d been. He was a bloody fool.

  Chapter 9

  Nepal, 1953

  The next morning Philip was woken at daybreak and after a mug of bed tea he got dressed and went out to join James in the small Mess tent. He was feeling rested, having slept deeply, undisturbed by nightmares. He didn’t know why, but after his evening with Lhamu and her family, it felt like a break through.

  “Nothing new,” was James reply when asked if he’d learnt anything of interest from Hunt the previous day. “I’m pretty sure he knows which of the climbers he’s going to use for the summit attempt but damned if he’ll tell me. Don’t really see what harm it could do and the climbers must know themselves by what they’ve been told to practise. I’ve noticed Bourdillon and Charlie Evans practising together so I reckon they’ve got a shot at it.”

  He paused as he finished off the last of his eggs, wiping his plate clean with a piece of flatbread. “I wanted them for the code I’ve been working on. Here.” He pulled a piece of paper from his leather notebook that lay beside him on the table and slid it across to Philip. It was a list of names and phrases. “A radio message is quick but not secure. The transmissions from Namche go to the Indian Embassy in Kathmandu where anyone could get hold of it. A bit of baksheesh in the right palm.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Even my runners might get tempted to hand over a dispatch bag if they’re offered silly money. I couldn’t really blame them as £50 is more than they earn in a year.”

  He leant across the table and pointed to a name on the list. “So, if my message contains the phrase “Ridge Camp untenable” it means that Charlie has got to the top. It is reads “Advance Base abandoned” it means that Hillary’s made it. This way, it’ll only make sense to you, Hutch and the office in London. Nobody else will be any the wiser, just thinking it’s a normal update.” He smiled at Philip. “Not bad, eh?”

  Philip nodded, running his finger down the list.

  “That copy’s for you,” James continued. “Take it with you and keep it safe. If you take it to Kathmandu and give it to Hutch then we’ll know for sure that nobody else has the code. He’ll then decipher the message and send on the real message to London.”

  Mingma entered the tent and smiled at both men. “We are ready Philip,” he said. “The equipment is packed and the porters are just leaving.”

  Philip nodded and stood, offering his hand to James. “I’ll let you know what happens when I finally catch up with Izzard.”

  “It’s been a pleasure having you here,” James replied, shaking the hand. “Hopefully next time we meet we can share a cold beer and toast the success of both the expedition and our exclusive report.”

  *

  It was a cold morning. Clouds were sitting on the mountains, keeping out the morning sun and a breeze moved the leaves of the nearby larch trees. Mingma picked up Philips rucksack and held it for him as he slipped his arms through the leather straps and secured it onto his back.

  “How long until we reach Khunde?” he asked as they walked through the village, waving as he noticed the boy Sarkey staring at him from the doorway of Karma’s house.

  “It will take about five to six hours,” Mingma replied. “You are fit now and starting to walk like a Sherpa.”

  Philip laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite that fast, but at least I remembered not to ask how far it was!”

  At the start of the trek he’d always want to know how far it was to the next camp, a concept that meant little to Mingma. He’d grown up knowing that the mountains were so vast that you could be climbing up to a ridge one day, and then dropping to a valley floor the next. The distances were the same, but the ascent took twice as long. That was why distances were measured in time.

  They passed the rough stone wall of engraved mani stones that marked the edge of the village and the trail immediately fell away on the long descent to the river far below. Prayer flags flapped in the wind and glancing back at the village before it disappeared from view he saw Sarkey cautiously raise his hand in a timid wave before turning and fleeing back down the street. They continued in silence for an hour or so, moving quickly down the well maintained path. They soon overtook Old Gompu and the porters, who’d stopped to adjust their loads to get the balance even. Without the sun it was a comfortable temperature and with the steady descent Philips thoughts wandered back to Lhamu. He’d wanted to pop in to say goodbye as they’d passed her house, but he realised that she’d be at the monastery, helping with the guests. He felt confused. He’d only met her the day before and yet already he felt at ease with her, something he hadn’t experienced towards a woman since he’d returned from the war.

  They came to a switchback in the trail where a stone ledge had been built into the upslope for passing porters to rest their loads and take a break. Leaving their rucksacks there, they stood on the edge of the trail above a sheer drop as Mingma pointed out to him the route they were to take.

  “From the bridge you can see the path climbing up towards the top of the ridge opposite.” He pointed across the valley to almost the same level as they were. “By that large rocky outcrop the trail splits. The trail to the south is the one we came along. It traverses the ridge before dropping to Namche. If you climb past the boulder to the right it leads to Khunde and the other upper villages. It’s very steep and used…”

  He stopped, interrupted by a strange noise rising up from the valley below. It came again, a hollow popping, then again and finally a burst of sound that bounced back off the mountains until it filled the valley with a continuous rumbling.

  Philip recognised it immediately. “Gunfire,” he said, more to himself than Mingma. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Is there much hunting up here?”

  Mingma shook his head. “None. We are Buddhists and do not kill animals.”

  “Of course,” Philip mumbled. “I forgot, sorry. What about a festival or a funeral? Perhaps someone’s letting off a few firecrackers?” He knew it wasn’t. He’d heard gunfire many times and even after all these years he still
knew its sound. It had been rifles; he guessed two or three of them and a then a couple of short bursts of automatic fire. He tried to think. James hadn’t sent out a courier that day so if couldn’t be anything to do with the expedition and anyway, surely the other newspapers weren’t so desperate for the story they’d kill for it? He looked down the valley, trying to fix the point from where the shooting had come.

  “It came from near the bridge,” he said at last, pointing down towards the river. “If you wanted to ambush someone then that would be the best place. Everybody has to cross the river there, there’s no other option.”

  He turned and returned to his rucksack. “Come on. We’d better go and see what’s happened.”

  They walked on in silence, moving quickly and sure-footedly down the trail. The forest had engulfed them once more so that the only noise was the gentle rustling of the leaves in the breeze and the sound of their boots kicking out loose stones as they hurried on. Even at this pace it still took them the best part of an hour to reach the bottom of the valley. Here the trail flattened out and followed the river for a few minutes, contouring along its bank as it approached the bridge.

  They slowed down, walking cautiously and keeping their eyes fixed ahead. The roar of the river drowned out everything. There was a rush of movement ahead and Philip threw himself into the thin scrub beside the trail, Mingma landing heavily beside him. Carefully raising his head he looked cautiously up and saw a yak ambling down the trail towards him, stopping occasionally to graze at the plants growing on the bank of the river. They pulled themselves up, brushing dust and leaves from their clothes. Philip laughed, a release of the tension that was racking his body. He was about to walk forward when Mingma grabbed his arm.

  “Wait,” said the Sherpa, sounding alarmed. “I recognise it. It’s one of the yaks belonging to the Tibetan monks. They set off first think this morning.”

  Philip nodded. “Perhaps they’ve stopped to rest by the river and are letting them graze…” His voice tailed away as the creature wandered nearer. As it turned to graze the other side of the trail its other flank came into view. The animal’s long, shaggy coat was plastered to its side by a large patch of congealing blood.