Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  The smoke and dust were slowly clearing, and as Philip turned to look it revealed a scene of utter devastation. Philip stood paralysed, unable to comprehend what was before him, before turning and vomiting over the legs of the dead soldiers. The retching had cleared his ears of the pressure of the explosion and the sounds of moaning and weeping swept over him. He slowly turned back, his chest so tight he couldn’t breathe. There were bodies everywhere. It looked as if the whole village had been crammed into this one hut by the Japanese, presumably to stop them slipping away to warn them of their presence.

  Looking down he saw the body of a young Burmese boy, little more than six or seven years old. His left leg was twisted back on itself at the knee. His arms were thrown back above his head with several fingers missing from each hand. Blood slowly seeping from the torn stumps and disappeared through gaps in the rough wooden floor. His eyes were still open, staring blankly up at the moon whose rays fell through the non-existent roof and caught the smoke still rising from his singed and burnt hair. Philip knelt, fearing that his legs might give way beneath him, and reached out his trembling hand gently closed the boys eyes. He felt himself going numb, his mind detaching itself from his consciousness as shock washed through him.

  Glancing around he saw the bodies of other villagers, who must have been standing directly under the blast. The bodies were a jumble, an unrecognisable mass of flesh, cloth and bone. Others sat or lay on the floor, perforated with small shrapnel wounds to their faces and necks or with splinters of jagged wood protruding from their bodies. Most bled from their ears after the enclosed blast had shredded their ear drums.

  He watched as Prem made his way through the bodies towards him and crouched beside him.

  “We’ve found Balbir. He was in a room at the back. He should be strong enough to come with us. The villagers had bound his wounds before,” he looked around, “before the explosion. He’ll be able to walk when he gets circulation back into his legs. The Japs had tied him up tight.”

  Philip nodded, trying to think. “Help him out and then get back to where we left the packs. Rana will show you the way.” He looked around the hut. “We know they’d radioed their HQ and after this I expect every Jap in Burma is heading this way.”

  Prem nodded and stood, ordering the Gurkhas out of the hut with a curt order in Nepalese. They left quickly, one of them supporting Balbir, keen to leave the carnage. They carefully lowered him off the edge of the veranda into the waiting hands of those who’d been on watch outside, before jumping down and disappearing off into the darkness.

  Philip stood alone. The flames were now subsiding and everything was fading into darkness. The villagers who’d escaped the worst injuries were starting to wander around, staring in disbelief at what surrounded them. He heard a woman cry out in anguish and run over to the boy at his feet, collapsing onto it and hugging the broken body to her. Her weeping and torrent of desperate words made Philip despair, holding his head in his hands.

  Why had he tossed the grenade? His men had scrambled to safety and he could have climbed onto the veranda unnoticed and shot through the opening. He could have joined the pigs under the hut, looking silently up from the darkness beneath to shoot through the uneven flooring at the guards. For Christ’s sake he could just as easily have killed Balbir as the Japs as he’d no idea where the injured man had been in the hut. All he could hear was silent weeping and the moaning of the wounded. It was his fault. He had to get out. He couldn’t bear to listen any longer to the consequences of what he’d done.

  As he turned towards the door he heard a small whimper of pain. Taking a couple of faltering steps, towards a pile of singed grass thatch laying in the corner, he gingerly pushed it aside. In the moonlight a beautiful young woman lay motionless, staring up at him. Her long black hair fanned out behind her head on the floor and framed the pale white of her skin. Her face was perfect, unblemished, with large brown eyes and a small, full mouth. She reminded Philip of one of his sisters china dolls she’d used to carry everywhere when still young; delicate, as if she could shatter at any moment. The eyes focused on his face and he saw the face crease with a combination of pain and fear. Glancing down at her body he could see no sign of an injury but noticed a large stain of blood spreading on the floor beneath.

  “Hello,” he said quietly, kneeling by her side. “You seem to have been in the wars. Will you let me have a look at you?”

  The woman didn’t move, only her eyes following Philips movements.

  Gently he felt the woman’s shoulders and head, trying to find the source of the bleeding. Nothing. The front of her abdomen looked fine so he carefully ran his fingers behind her shoulders and sides. As he felt beneath her upper arm he could feel the flow of hot, sticky blood, pumping rhythmically onto his fingers.

  “I’m just going to move you slightly to see where it is that you’re hurt,” he said, trying to make his voice sound reassuring and sliding his hands beneath her shoulder and waist, gently raised her up. He knew immediately it was hopeless. In the centre of her back was a hole; protruding from it a huge splinter of hardened bamboo. It was half embedded in her spine, the rest lost in a bloody pit from which blood pumped. She hadn’t moved when she’d seen him because she hadn’t been able. She was paralysed. He could see air bubbling through the wound and knew it’d pierced her lungs.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a dose of morphine, ripping it from its wrapping. He’d been trained before the campaign had started in giving lethal injections, knowing that there’d be no evacuation possible for seriously injured men and a quick end was a better than a painful, lonely death in the jungle.

  “Here we go,” he said, his voice cracking. “This will take away the pain.” A tear ran from his eye, landing on her tiny hand. Lifting the woman’s arm he searched for a vein and quickly stabbed in the drug. Throwing the empty container away he stayed, gently squeezing the woman’s hand. After a few moments she felt her weakly grasp his back. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, “I’ll stay with you.”

  The morphine acted quickly but to Philip it felt like an eternity. Finally her eyes started to lose their focus and slowly close. Gently he placed her hand on her chest and lowered his head, his eyes clamped shut to prevent more tears. He felt he should pray but had no words to use. It seemed wrong to pray for someone you’d just murdered.

  His mind lurched as a bright light flashed through his eyelids. Forcing them open he watched bemused as a thin beam of light moved around the hut, shining through the rips and holes in the shattered walls. Glancing out, he could see a wall of distant torches sweeping towards the village. Japs. He struggled to his feet, trying to think what to do. It must have been at least a couple of minutes since Prem had left with the men. He could jump down behind the hut and run for the forest. He glanced out again and realised that his chances of getting away, unspotted, were slim. Even if he did, it would take him time to work his way around the village and fields back to the rendezvous, time his men could better use.

  He glanced around the hut. He couldn’t stay here. If he fired they would pinpoint his position and god knows how many more villagers would be killed when they returned fire. For the first time in days he felt calm, certain of what he had to do to save his men.

  Moving to where the dead Japanese lay he searched the floor, groping with his hands until they felt the hot barrel of the machine gun. A quick examination showed it to be undamaged, shielded from the blast by the body of its user. Scrabbling around he found a couple of belts of ammo and slung them around his shoulders. Crossing to the furthest wall he crouched and waited out of sight behind some debris. For a moment the torches swung away and seizing the moment he leapt through a shredded wall and ran in a crouch towards the shrine, diving behind it just as a beam swept back across the clearing.

  He lay there panting, listening for any indication that he’d been spotted. When none came he clambered up onto the first ledge, then the next of the stepped structure until he was
ten feet or so above the ground. Sitting with his back to the shrines rock pinnacle he loaded the gun. It felt good to have it in his hands. After all the skulking around of the previous weeks it was a relief to finally have an enemy you could see.

  Rolling onto his stomach he slid along the ledge until he could just see around the side of the shrine. Its stone felt cool and solid, a relief after the rotting decay of the forest floor. In the moonlight he could make out a line of thirty or so soldiers walking slowly into the top end of the village, spread out every five yards or so. They all had their guns at the ready, pointing ahead. Many had torches and were sweeping them around the deserted village, looking for signs of life.

  Philip took a deep breath and clenched his fists, trying to force the shaking from his hands. If he couldn’t escape at least he could buy more time for the men. He slowly slid the barrel forward, until its tip peeped around the stone at the enemy. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply and smoothly. Taking aim at a Jap in the middle of the line he gently squeezed the trigger, slowly swinging the gun round as it exploded into life. Several of the men fell to the ground.

  His world exploded. Noise enveloped him and the very air seemed to be sucked from his lungs as the stone on which he lay started to disintegrate under the barrage of fire. Pain seared through him; something burnt into his shoulder, physically knocking him back a few inches. He laid his head down on the rough masonry, not to shelter his head but to rest. He was so tired. He’d failed his men. He’d led them into ambushes and led ridiculous river crossings. He’d killed innocent villagers. They would all have been better off without him. This was the end he deserved. At least in death he’d achieve what he’d been unable to give them alive; the chance to survive and see their families again.

  The deafening noise had left him stunned, his ears ringing and blinded by the dazzling muzzle flashes. He wasn’t sure where he was anymore. He was walking through a wood, his father beside him. They were laughing, his father’s arm draped over his shoulder with its hand up tousling his hair. He felt so proud, so grown up. He was enveloped in an embrace, warm, comforting, secure. He couldn’t see who it was but he knew it was his mother. The smell of lavender filled his nostrils, her hair tickled the side of his face. She was crying, he could tell, her breath coming in quiet sobs. They were thousands of miles away in a different world yet somehow they’d come to him, to help him through.

  It was a shame. He felt angry. There was so much he’d wanted to do, so much left to see. The silence was almost as shocking as the chaos had been, as every creature in the jungle seemed to have fallen silent in anticipation of his death. Philip tilted his good wrist and looked at the small luminous hands on his watch. Three more minutes had passed, his men should be clear, warned away by the shooting. His eyes fell on the date that was displayed on the dial. It showed a two. It was the second of April. He pushed the gun forward again and fired blindly into the night. A storm of bullets spat back out of the night at him as his strength slipped away. He’d forgotten. It was his twentieth birthday. He hoped his family found out how he died.

  Chapter 15

  Tibet, 1953

  They were up well before dawn. Despite his exhaustion Philip had slept fitfully. A combination of the biting cold, the constant ache in his feet and the rest of the men coughing and turning all night made him grateful when the time finally came to stir. There seemed to have been a constant procession of men leaving the tent to relieve themselves, a consequence of the altitude. He winced as he pushed his feet into his stiff boots, pain from his damaged toes shooting painfully up his legs. He’s slept with his boots inside his sleeping bag in an attempt to keep them from freezing, another factor in his bad night.

  The Gurkhas quickly collapsed and dismantled the tent and within minutes they were packed and heading off along the rough trail that lead down the valley. At least the wind had died during the night but the temperatures were still well below freezing and seemed to cut right through Philip’s clothing. The sky had also cleared and a waxing moon shone down at them, its light reflecting off the snow and ice of the glacier and illuminating their path in a pale, silvery light.

  Philip stopped as the person in front of him stumbled and fell, landing heavily upslope on his hip. Leaning down, he took the arm of the man, who was now struggling to get up, pulling against the weight of his rucksack. It was Tashi.

  “Thanks,” the Indian said weakly. “I seem to be short on gas this morning.”

  Philip smiled. “I know the feeling.” He stopped short as the light fell on his face. He looked terrible. His eyes were sunken and hollow, black rings dark beneath them. He could feel him trembling where he still grasped his arm.

  Tashi must’ve noticed his expression and pulled his arm free. “I didn’t sleep well,” he said defensively. “Too damn cold.” He continued down the path, walking determinedly but unsteadily.

  They trudged on, each lost in their own world of pain. Philip winced every time one of his boots caught a rock, a searing pain replacing the dull ache that emanated from his feet. His hands had gone numb again and the rough stubble that covered his chin was now encased in ice, the moisture from his breath freezing to it as it hit the icy air. Now his eyes had grown used to the eerie light he could see quite well. The moon was high overhead, bright enough for him to follow his lunar shadow as it mirrored his laboured actions on the broken terrain.

  Glancing down the valley he could see that they’d swung eastwards, turning a bend which had hidden them from the Chinese camp. He realised that they’d slowed, and mustering energy he didn’t really think he had, he moved forward along the line to the front. When he reached Prem, the Gurkha had stopped and was climbing onto a huge glacial boulder lying beside the trail. Philip followed, trying to pull himself up with his arms to save his toes scraping on its rough surface.

  Prem glanced at him as he crawled along side, lying flat on the icy surface.

  “Can you see them?” Philip whispered, scanning the valley for signs of a fire.

  “No. Their camp was only a few hundred yards on from here.” He tapped the boulder with his gloved hand. “I used this rock as a marker.” He pointed to a spur of rock that jutted far out into the valley below, squeezing the glacier into a narrow gorge. “They were using that for shelter from the wind and had a big fire going. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t keep it burning. There is enough fuel down here. I’m sure they don’t know we are following them. They were relaxed and hadn’t set any guards.” He looked up at the sky. “Even if they had let the fire die, they should be up by now making it again. It’ll be dawn in less than an hour and they will want to get down from this glacier as soon as they can.”

  There was a silence as both men peered intently down the valley. “Perhaps they’ve decided to stay in their tents until the sun rises and brings some heat?” Philip suggested but Prem shook his head.

  “Their tents have gone. We could see them from here and even in this light we should still be able too.”

  They were silent again. “Well, there’s only one way to know for sure,” Philip said at last. “We’ll have to get closer.”

  They slithered back down to the trail where Lhamu was waiting anxiously.

  “Wait here,” Philip whispered. “They seem to have moved out so we’re going to take a look. Can you tell the rest so they know what the delay is?”

  “Of course,” she said with a nod. “And Philip,” she added, catching his sleeve as he passed. “Take care.”

  Philip smiled back, trying not to wince as the ice on his face cracked and pulled at his raw skin. He turned and followed Prem, trying to keep up with the Gurkha as they quickly climbed up the steep side of the valley, gaining height over the trail as it dropped steadily down towards the camp. In a couple of minutes they were looking down onto a small area of flat ground nesting behind the shelter of the rocky spur. There was nothing there. They scrambled on a short distance until the slope from the ridge rose so steeply they could
climb no further. From this vantage point they could just see over the ridge and down towards the lower valley. There was nothing to be seen, the only sound was that of a river far below drifting back up to them.

  “They’ve gone,” said Prem, standing up and scrambling down towards the abandoned camp. Philip followed and started searching for any signs of life while Prem signalled with his torch for the rest to join them. He soon found the extinguished fire, with a pile of wood beside it, and pulling off his thick mitten, held his exposed hand to the ashes. Nothing. Carefully he picked up a piece of half-burnt wood and knocked the charcoal from the end. When he touched it to his skin there was a faint trace of heat. He turned as Prem walked over to him.

  “They must have left before we were up.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand it. Why get up at the coldest time of night when you are tired, have firewood and don’t need too?”

  Prem dropped the wood back into the hearth, shaking his head. “Perhaps they did spot us yesterday, or one of them came back up the trail and saw our camp.” He looked around at the valley walls looming over them. “They must have had a good reason.”

  Philip stood up, pulling his mitt back over his fingers. The rest had caught up and were now standing watching, moving from leg to leg, stamping their feet on the ground and swinging their arms. “As you can see, they’ve moved on, some time ago we believe.” He rubbed at his face to dislodge some of the ice from his stubble. “I suggest we keep moving to stay warm until the sun rises, then we’ll halt for some breakfast.” He looked into the group of men. “Tarun?”

  A small, squat man stepped forward and nodded. Ten years earlier, Philip recalled, they used to joke that he could track a termite in the jungle.