Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  There was little sign of life. He counted a total of fifteen huts, each built several feet clear of the ground on stout teak stilts. They were constructed of rough wooden planking and then thatched with a thick layer of dried grass. Chickens scraped at the dusty yard around them and from the dark spaces beneath several of the huts came the grunting of pigs. From the centre of the village rose a temple, a building that resembled a large stone bell about fifteen feet tall, standing on a three-tiered dais of worn bricks. A niche in one side housed the small statue of a deity, daubed with bright orange paint and garlanded with flowers.

  Philip’s eyes were drawn to a large discarded rattan mat on the far side of the clearing. It was crumpled, covering something that lay on the ground. He went cold as he made out a scuffed and battered army boot protruding out from one side. He watched as a cockerel strutted over to it and started pecking enthusiastically at its laces.

  He focused his mind. If that was one of his men, the others must presumably still be alive or they’d have been dumped outside as well. The silence of dusk was abruptly rent by a scream that echoed through the village clearing. It was followed by muffled laughter that emerged from a large hut near the centre of the clearing, a thin trail of smoke rising through its thatch. As he watched, a figure stood up from the shadows of its veranda. There was a brief flicker of light that subsided to a tiny patch of orange. It was enough. He’d seen the face of a Japanese soldier lighting up a cigarette, presumably to while away the boredom of sentry duty.

  He turned to Giri and without speaking pointed towards the sentry, drawing his other finger across his throat. The Gurkha was gone, moving silently through the village. Philip waited, hardly daring to watch. The sentry had descended the ladder – no more than a tall log with foot holes hacked into it – from the veranda and was slowly ambling around the clearing. A smudge of darkness appeared behind him and the speck of orange fell to the dirt. Within seconds Giri was back, wiping his khukri on a large leaf.

  As dusk faded, a thin line of light could be seen around the hut door. He couldn’t see any other guards in the shadows. Another scream pierced the evening.

  “OK,” whispered Philip. “We’re going in.” He checked his revolver. He advanced cautiously across the clearing, watching carefully where he trod. He could now hear muffled voices, Japanese and the occasional word of heavily accented English. It was unintelligible. He glanced at the two Gurkhas and, satisfied with their positions, slowly climbed the ladder. Every footfall seemed to echo around the village. He reached the door and slowly stooped to look through a tiny gap in the wooden planking.

  The hut was lit by a central fire and a hurricane lamp that hung hissing from a rafter. Also hanging from it was Prem. His hands were tied above his head and blood ran down his arms where the rope cut deep into his flesh. His back was raw and lacerated. Philip could see three Japs, one holding a bloody lash that hung from his hand to the floor, two others sitting on a wooden bench drinking from wooden cups. He could see their rifles leaning against the hut wall to their left. He heart was pounding so hard that his hands twitched with every beat. This was their chance. They were off guard and unarmed. He gently took hold of the latch and beckoned the Gurkhas up to his side. After a final glance through the crack he opened the door and stepped in.

  The soldier with the lash was the nearest to him but had his back turned. One of the soldiers drinking tea had just turned to refill his cup. The third soldier glanced up at him, his eyes dropping to the strange uniform and revolver which at that moment exploded and sent him flying backwards into the fire. The man with the lash turned but before he could act Philip swung round and fired straight into his face. The back of his head erupted in a plume of blood and brain.

  From the corner of his eye Philip saw that the third soldier had dived for his rifle. Everything seemed to slow. He started to swing his pistol but realised that he wasn’t going to make it in time, the barrel of the Japanese rifle was already rising to his chest. There was an explosion of sound and Philip staggered back. He opened his eyes to see the man lying prone against the wall, flung there like a ragdoll. He glanced round and saw the grim face of Tarun staring down the smoking barrel of his rifle.

  Giri drew his khukri and cut Prem down. The corporal grimaced as he took the weight on his bruised legs and gingerly massaged blood back into his arms.

  “Can you walk?” Philip asked.

  “Of course,” replied the Gurkha. “I’m not hurt.”

  Rana had released another Gurkha who’d been left tied in a corner, presumably waiting his turn to be interrogated. Both he and Prem recovered their weapons from where they’d been stacked and turned to face Philip.

  “What happened to the others?” Philip asked grimly.

  “They shot the burrif as soon as they caught us. He went in first and was told the village was clear by the headman. He came back for us but as we approached we were ambushed.” The corporal shrugged. “There was little we could do against their machine gun. Their Sergeant,” he stopped and nodded towards the dead soldier who’d been using the lash, “walked straight up to him and shot him in the head. He said he was a traitor.”

  Philip shook his head. “And Balbir?”

  “They tortured him first. I think because he was young they thought he’d be the easiest to break.” Prem shook his head. “He said nothing, which is why they thought we were alone and were not expecting to be attacked. Then he passed out. He was so covered in blood they made us drag his body to the hut next door so their uniforms stayed clean. He must be in there, but whether he’s alive or not, I don’t know.”

  “How many are there of them?” Philip asked.

  Prem shrugged. “I counted six. They seem to have been stationed here for the few days. They also have a radio which I heard them use. They will have told their HQ that we are here and will have requested reinforcements.”

  Philip nodded. “OK. Time to get moving. Keep low and spread out when you hit the ground. Make your way towards the hut you took him to. And be careful. We know there’s at least a couple more of them out there and after all this noise, they know we’re here too.”

  He took a deep breath and flung himself out of the door, to be met by the deafening evening chorus of frogs in the paddy fields, a noise disturbed only by their lumbering footfall’s and laboured breathing.

  Chapter 12

  Nepal, 1953

  Philip couldn’t settle that night. Whenever he closed his eyes he smelt blood and saw the despair in the eyes of the dying monk. When he did finally doze he dreamt of being lost in a never ending jungle, never being able to find the right path out. He was woken on several occasions by loud snoring and coughing caused by the pungent smoke from the yak dung fire. He was also aware of Lhamu sleeping on the other side of the fireplace, almost invisible in a heavy woollen blanket.

  He’d wanted to talk to her after the discussion had broken up but had been kept busy with the preparations. During one lull he’d glanced across but she’d already made up her bed on the floor and had settled down for the night. Soon after, the men returned from their search for weapons and it was obvious that it hadn’t been very successful. Philip looked at the five guns they’d manage to locate. Four were flintlocks so ancient that Philip doubted their barrels would survive another firing. The only serviceable weapon was a revolver from the Second World War. It was dirty and only had eight rounds of ammunition but at least it was more likely to kill the target rather than the shooter. When Prem had finished examining it he’d walked over to Philip, holding it out. Philip paused, looking the corporal in the eye, before nodding slowly and taking it from him.

  The Gurkhas didn’t seem at all discouraged by their lack of firepower and spent a good twenty minutes sharpening and oiling the evil looking knives they all carried. Philip shivered as he watched the dull blades glinting in the firelight. Memories came back of these very blades slashing through skin and sinew, silently dispatching enemies who’d died drowning in their own blood.
He’d rather have these men with knives on his side than any others with rifles. Where they were going, in the terrain and conditions they were going to be fighting in, with the Gurkhas knowledge and skill, they had a chance.

  He’d just fallen into what he thought was his first deep sleep of the night when he felt his shoulder being shaken. It was Mingma. He sat up in his sleeping bag, rubbing his eyes and yawning, grunting a greeting to the Sherpa. The room was dark, lit only by the fire embers and a lamp Mingma was now hanging from a ceiling hook. The others men were stirring, heading out into the dark and cold morning to relieve themselves. He glanced across the hearth and saw that Lhamu had gone, the space where her bed had been now just an empty patch of floor.

  Getting up, he quickly rolled his sleeping bag and shoved it into his rucksack. He then helped Mingma mix his own expedition food with supplies from the lodge, making twelve equal piles. When they were satisfied that they all weighed the same he picked one up and called the others over.

  “Here’s the food. Take a pile each so we have some rations with us. I don’t want to take any more as it’ll slow us down and we need to travel quickly. We’ll try to buy more as we go.”

  The Gurkhas took the food, stowing it away in their packs. When Lhamu came over Philip stepped forward and held out a small canvas bag.

  “There’s no food for you to carry as I want you to be in charge of this.”

  She reached out and tilted the package to see it better. On its side was stamped a large red cross and the words “First Aid”.

  “As I’m the one with the gun I think it’s best that I don’t carry this. They’ll most likely shoot at me first.”

  Lhamu nodded and took it, her hand brushing Philips as she did so. Their eyes briefly met before she turned and walked away.

  Blankets were folded and stowed, boots laced and a quick breakfast of boiled eggs and chapatti eaten. As the first hint of morning silhouetted the eastern peaks, they walked from the lodge out into the deserted street. Their breath blew out in front of them in white clouds as they began the climb to the upper villages in the freezing dawn air. The whole valley lay silent except for the distant roar of the river and the occasional crow from a disturbed cockerel. Philip stopped and looked back over the silent town, wondering when he’d next get to sleep under a proper roof. He could hardly believe what they were setting out to attempt, slowly shaking his head and sighing as he turned and resumed the climb.

  Everybody seemed to be thinking the same thing. The column climbed quickly and quietly towards the first ridge. It gave time for Philip to try to work out a plan for the next few days. He kept his thumbs tucked inside the straps of his rucksack, worried that he might be betrayed by his trembling hands. Old fears pushed their way into his head and he tried to steady his breathing, despite the exertion of the climb.

  He forced his mind to work as it had once been trained, to live in the present and face problems as they arose. They were going to be outnumbered and outgunned, that much was certain. Following the trade route across the Nangpa-la to Tibet was the only option. There were other passes but they were either too far away or too dangerous for such an unprepared expedition. That meant they wouldn’t be able to outflank the enemy and set an ambush for them to walk into. They would have to catch the soldiers but then keep their distance and an element of surprise until they came to a place they could either overtake them unseen or attack.

  Philip smiled grimly. If his Gurkhas got close enough they’d be able to dispatch the Chinese with their knives before they realised what’d happened. That’s how they stood a chance. In addition to himself, Corporal Prem and the nine men, he also had Mingma who would be able to supervise the cooking and camp, as well as help guide with Lhamu. He glanced up ahead but they were already well strung out and she was out of sight. They’d decided the previous evening that she and Prem would push ahead to pick up the trail of the soldiers and try to establish their exact position. They were to rejoin the rest that evening, hopefully at the snout of the Nangpa Glacier where they intended to camp. Anything they managed to learn would be invaluable.

  He estimated that, if they were careful, they had food for three days. Mingma hoped to buy some from the villages they’d pass through that day, so that might give them an extra day or two. He’d selected food that could be eaten cold if necessary. They were carrying no fuel and when they got up above the snowline firewood would be hard to find. It should take two days to cross the pass; everything depended on what lay on the other side.

  Lhamu knew of several settlements that she’d visited and stayed at on trips with her father, but the people on the Tibetan Plateau were nomads and they could have moved off if the grazing was poor this year. They’d just have to hope that they or some other settlers were there. Failing that, they would have to eke out the food out until they reached the monastery at Rombuk. The Gurkhas had, Philip thought grimly, survived for much longer on much less.

  When he’d first been told of his assignment to Everest, Rombuk had been the place that had flashed into his mind. The stories of Mallory and Irvine’s attempt to climb the mountain from Tibet had filled the boys’ adventure books he’d read when he was young; whether or not they’d made it to the summit before dying in the storms that engulfed the peak. They’d started their climb from Rombuk, as in those days Nepal had been closed to all foreigners.

  From these stories, and from his evening chatting to Lhamu and her father Karma, he knew that there was still a large monastery there, despite the Chinese persecution. They, at least, would be able to offer shelter and food if needed. Monks from Thangboche who’d been there recently had told Lhamu that there were still many monks there, with large herds of mountain sheep and yaks.

  He’d settled into a good rhythm, walking steadily and in pace with his breathing. He felt fitter now; three weeks of constant exertion had made his body stronger. Excess fat had been burnt away and muscles built up so that he felt as if he’d be able to keep up with the rest of the men who all walked these mountains for their livelihood.

  Slowly he became aware that there was somebody following behind, the occasional sound of a dislodged stone or of a boot scraping on rock carrying up to him. He thought he heard a cough and the sound of someone hacking and spitting. It was lighter now, the sun’s rays striking the very tips of the tallest mountains. As he watched it fell to the highest points of the valleys eastern ridge, bathing them in a morning light that glowed orange. Looking back down the trail he could now see the outline of a man catching him quickly, almost jogging as he sprang from rock to rock. As he got nearer and the light got brighter he recognised Tashi.

  A minute or so later the Indian caught him, nodding in greeting as he panted for breath.

  “You’re up early,” Philip remarked laconically. “Come to enjoy the sun rise?”

  Tashi stood hands on hips and shook his head with a grimace. “I didn’t want you to have all the fun,” he wheezed. “Anyway, whenever I’m not around you get into such trouble.”

  Philip shook his head, holding Tashi’s eye. “Why didn’t you say you wanted to come last night?”

  Tashi shrugged. “By the time I returned last night you were all sleeping. The police had been uncooperative so I’d thought I’d be more use in Namche, pestering away at them. But this morning, after you’d left, I changed my mind.” He paused, still breathing heavily. “I realised that those flatfoots weren’t going to take any notice of a creep like me, whatever I showed them.” He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the ring, passing it to Philip. “Here,” he said smiling. “Take this. I don’t want you thinking I’ve sold it.”

  Philip took it and stood looking at the Indian. “You do realise it’s going to be dangerous, don’t you?” he said at last. “There’s at least twice as many soldiers as there are of us and they’re all armed.”

  Tashi nodded. “Another reason for me to come. Even up the numbers a bit.”

  Philip continued. “Crossing the pass is going to
be cold and exhausting and we haven’t even got enough food to get back. If we don’t find some friendly people over there we’ll freeze and starve.”

  Tashi reached back and tapped his rucksack. “I’ve bought food for myself which I’ll either keep separate or throw into the communal pot.”

  Philip studied Tashi’s face. “Why would you want to come?”

  The Indian stood silently, considering his response. “I’ve seen some bad things in my life, many of which I’ve try hard to forget.” He stopped to compose himself for a few moments before continuing. “I’ve told you my two brothers were killed in fighting between the Chinese and Tibetans. They didn’t deserve to die. They were good men, caring and peaceful. I was too young to help them. My two elder sisters were taken and my youngest sister died on the journey to Sikkim. She froze to death. I woke one morning to find she had rolled from our blankets during the night. Her face was so peaceful I tried to wake her for a while until I touched her shoulder and felt she was solid. She was only seven.”

  He looked at Philip. “Those monks didn’t deserve to die either. My brothers were Tibetan. I was Tibetan until we were forced to India. Seems to me that this is my battle as much as anyone’s.” He rubbed his mouth. “Anyway, I speak Chinese. I learnt it as a boy and have used it many times for my work. I think I might well be of use at some point.”