Year Of The Tiger

TIBET 1959 2

Chavasse wore a sheepskin shuba wrapped closely around him, sheepskin boots and a hat of some indeterminate fur, flaps down over his ears. He cradled a British Lee Enfield rifle in one arm and allowed the hardy mountain pony to find its own way. He thought he heard a plane at one point, but could not be sure as the sound faded rapidly.

The Land of Snows the Tibetans called this part of the border area, and it was well named, a living nightmare of a place with passes through the mountains as high as twenty thousand feet. It was not uncommon for mules in the caravans in the old days to die of asthma and for their masters to get pulmonary edema as their lungs filled with water.

An ironic way to die, Chavasse thought, to drown while standing up. Of course, it didn’t matter these days. There were no more caravans to India, by Chinese decree.

It started to snow again lightly and he paused to check the ground ahead. The sky being blanketed by low swollen clouds, there was no snow glare. He had spent the previous night in a herdsman’s cave, sheltering from a sudden blizzard, and had started again at first light. Now, the pass between the peaks emptied onto a final slope that ran down towards the Indian border. In fact, in the far distance there was a flicker of colour, obviously a flag, and Chavasse urged his pony forward.

The border post was quite simple. A large stone hut, no barbed wire, no defence system. Half a dozen Indian soldiers stood outside wearing white winter combat uniforms, the hoods pulled up over their turbans. There was a jeep painted in white camouflage, and the young man leaning against it smoking a cigarette came forward and looked up at Chavasse.

“Mr. Chavasse? I am Lieutenant Piroo. We heard over the radio from Tibetan freedom fighters that you were coming.” He smiled. “I’m surprised that there are any left, if the reports we get of Chinese reaction are true.”

Chavasse heaved himself out of the saddle and a soldier led the pony away. “Oh, they’re true all right. They’re killing people by the thousands, wiping out whole villages.” Piroo gave him a cigarette and lit it for him and Chavasse continued. “No, I’m afraid this time they intend to wipe out Tibetan resistance once and for all.”

“Which is why the Dalai Lama has fled?”

“Yes, he hopes to continue the struggle from India. Do you think Prime Minister Nehru will accept him?”

“Oh, yes, that has been made quite clear. But come, Mr. Chavasse, my boss is waiting to see you at Gela. That’s about ten miles from here.” He smiled. “And only sixteen thousand feet.”

Chavasse got into the jeep and Piroo slipped behind the wheel. “And who might your boss be?”

“Colonel Ram Singh. Very correct and old school. Even went to Sandhurst.” Piroo, in spite of the jeep sliding from side to side on the rough track, found another cigarette and lit it one-handed. “I thought the CIA were to do great things? Help the rebels and so on?”

“They dropped in a certain amount of arms,” Chavasse told him. “Mostly British, because they didn’t want the Chinese to make an American connection. Other than that, they haven’t done much.”

“But you have, Mr. Chavasse. British intelligence still functions, it would seem.”

“So they tell me.”

“I understand you were told by the Indian government not to cross the border, but went anyway?”

“That’s true.”

“And Major Hamid went with you?”

“Also true.”

Piroo shook his head. “Crazy Pathan. They’ll court-martial him for this.”

“No they won’t. He’s behind me right now with the Dalai Lama. I only came ahead to confirm their arrival time. Hamid will be an instant hero to every Indian on this continent.”

“Perhaps not, my friend.”

“And what do you mean by that?” Chavasse demanded.

“Oh, that’s for my boss to tell you.”

Chavasse sat there, frowning, and they came over a rise and saw a number of Nissen huts below beside an airstrip. The aircraft parked at one end had twin engines and was painted white.

“A Navajo,” Chavasse said. “What’s that doing here?”

“A quick link with the lowlands. Supplies, communications. The Airstair door means we can get stretchers in.”

“And why the white strip?”

“So that if I stray over the border it will make it more difficult for the Chinese to shoot me down.” Piroo smiled. “Oh, yes, Mr. Chavasse. I am the pilot. Indian air force, not army,” and he drove down the track.

It was warm in the Nissen hut as the four officers and Chavasse leaned over the map on the table. Colonel Ram Singh was small and fierce with a thin moustache, the medal ribbons on his shirt making a fine show.

“Not good, Mr. Chavasse, not good. I can tell you unofficially that Prime Minister Nehru and the Indian government are prepared to receive the Dalai Lama. Piroo here was to fly him out as soon as he arrived.”

“Which isn’t likely now, I’m afraid,” Piroo said. “I made an overflight – quite illegally, of course.” His finger touched the map. “Here is the Dalai Lama’s column. I’d estimate by now about fifteen miles to go.” He indicated again. “And here, twenty-five miles behind them, a Chinese column coming up fast – jeeps, not horses. Certain to catch them before the border.”

Chavasse examined the map carefully. “When did you see all this?”

“An hour ago. Not much more.”

Chavasse nodded. “I came that way myself. The terrain is terrible. Even a jeep is lucky to cover ten miles in an hour. Rough ground and boulders everywhere.”

“So?” Ram Singh said.

“That means the Chinese are still on the other side of the Cholo Gorge. Hundreds of feet deep. There’s an old wooden bridge there. It’s the only way across. Destroy that and they’ve had it. The Dalai Lama will be home free.”

“An attractive idea, Mr. Chavasse, but if you are suggesting that Lieutenant Piroo should somehow bomb their bridge, I must say no. Chinese territory, that is what they claim, and we are not at war with China.”

“Well I am.” Chavasse turned to Piroo. “You carry parachutes on that thing?”

“Of course.”

Chavasse said to Ram Singh, “Meet me halfway, Colonel. You’ve already allowed Piroo to fly over there. Let him volunteer again. You find me some explosives. On the way in we drop a message to the Dalai Lama’s column to alert Hamid as to what’s going on, then I’ll parachute in at the bridge and blow it up.”

“But what happens after?” Piroo demanded. “You’ll be all alone out there on foot.”

“Hopefully Hamid will ride back for me.”

There was a long silence as all the officers exchanged glances. The colonel looked down at the map, drumming his fingers on it. He glanced up.

“You would do this, Lieutenant?” he asked Piroo.

“My pleasure, Colonel.”

“Madness,” Ram Singh said. “Total madness.” Suddenly he smiled. “We’d better get cracking, Mr. Chavasse. Not much time.”

Ram Singh said, “A very simple explosive, Mr. Chavasse.” He opened an army haversack and produced one of several dark green blocks. “We get it from the French army.”

“Plastique,” Chavasse said.

“Totally harmless until used in conjunction with one of these timer pencils.” Ram Singh held a few up. “Five-