Paths Of Glory

This was greeted with even louder cheers, and more banging of mugs on the table.

“If you manage that, Norton,” retorted George, “I’ll abandon the use of oxygen the following day, and climb to the top in my bare feet.”

“That will be of little significance,” said Norton, raising his mug to George, “because no one will remember the name of the second man to climb Everest.”

“Howzat!”

“Not out.”

Mallory wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, or if he really had just heard the sound of leather on willow. He stuck his head out of the tent to see that a square of snow in the Himalaya had been transformed into an English village cricket pitch.

Two ice axes had been planted in the snow twenty-two yards apart, serving as stumps. Odell, ball in hand, was bowling to Irvine. Mallory only needed to watch a few deliveries to realize that bat was on top of ball. It amused him to see the Sherpas standing around in little huddles, chatting among themselves, clearly puzzled by the English at play, while Noel filmed the event as if it were a Test Match.

Mallory crawled out of his tent and strolled across to join Norton behind the stumps, taking up his place at first slip.

“Irvine’s not at all bad,” said Norton. “The lad’s only a few runs off his half century.”

“How long has he been at the crease?” asked Mallory.

“Best part of thirty minutes.”

“And he’s still able to run between the wickets?”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem. He must have lungs like bellows. But then, you have to remember, Mallory, he does have at least fifteen years on the rest of us.”

“Wake up, skipper,” shouted Odell as the ball shot past Mallory’s right hand.

“Sorry, Odell, my mistake,” said Mallory. “I wasn’t concentrating.”

Irvine hit the next ball for four, bringing up his fifty, which was greeted with warm applause.

“I’ve seen enough of this bloody Oxford man,” said Guy Bullock as he took over the bowling from Odell.

Guy’s first effort was a little short, and Irvine dispatched it to the boundary for another four runs. But his second sizzled off an icy patch, caught the edge of Irvine’s bat and George, falling to his right, took the ball one- handed.

“Well caught, skipper,” said Guy. “Pity you didn’t turn up a little earlier.”

“All right, chaps, let’s get moving,” said Mallory. “I want to be out of here in half an hour.”

Suddenly the pitch was deserted, as the village cricketers reverted to seasoned mountaineers.

Thirty minutes later nine climbers and twenty-three Sherpas were all ready to move. Mallory waved his right arm like a traffic policeman, and set off at a pace that would soon sort out those who would be unlikely to survive at greater heights.

One or two Sherpas fell by the wayside, dropping their loads in the snow and retreating down the mountain. However, none of the climbing party seemed to be in trouble, with Irvine continually dogging his leader’s footsteps despite having two large oxygen cylinders strapped to his back.

Mallory was puzzled because he didn’t seem to have a mouthpiece attached. He beckoned the young man to join him. “You won’t be needing oxygen, Irvine,” he said, “until we reach at least 25,000 feet.”

Irvine nodded. “I was hoping not to use one precious ounce of the stuff until at least 27,000 feet, but if I’m lucky enough to be selected to join you for the final climb, I want to become accustomed to the extra weight. You see, I’m planning to be sitting on top,” he said, pointing to the peak, “waiting for you to join me. After all,” he added, “it’s nothing more than the duty of an Oxford man to hammer a tab whenever possible.”

George gave a slight bow. “Fix me up with two of your cylinders tomorrow,” he said. “It’s not just getting used to the extra weight that’s important, but once we have to tackle sheer rock faces and sheets of ice, even the slightest shift of balance could prove fatal.”

After a couple of hours, George allowed the team a short break to enjoy a digestive biscuit and a mug of tea before setting off again. The weather couldn’t have been more conducive to climbing, apart from a brief shower of snow that wouldn’t have distracted a child building a snowman, and they maintained a steady pace. George wondered just how long the weather would remain so docile.

He prayed. His prayers were not answered.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

May 17th, 1924

My dearest Ruth,

Disaster. Nothing has gone right for the past two weeks. The weather has been so foul that there have been days when the relentless heavy snow has made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of your nose.

Norton, always as brave as a lion, somehow managed to reach 23,400 feet, where he and Somervell set up Camp IV and spent the night. However, the following day the two of them only just made it back to Camp III before nightfall. It took them over eight hours of downhill trekking into the driving snow to cover 2,400 ft. Think about it-that’s an average speed of 100 yards an hour, a distance Harold Abrahams covered in 9.6 seconds.

The following day Odell, Bullock, and I reached 25,300 feet and somehow managed to pitch Camp V on an icy ledge. But after spending the night there, the weather gave us no choice but to return to Camp III. When we arrived, Dr. Hingston greeted me with the news that one of the Sherpas had broken his leg, while another had suspected pneumonia. I didn’t bother to tell him that my ankle’s been playing up again. Guy and Odell kindly volunteered to accompany the walking wounded down to base camp, from where they were escorted back to their villages.

When Guy returned the following day, he reported that our cobbler had died of frostbite, a Gurkha NCO had developed a blood clot on the brain, and twelve more Sherpas had run away; on the equivalent of less than a shilling a week, who could blame them? Apparently morale at base camp is pretty low. What do they imagine it’s like up here?

Norton and Somervell finally reached the North Col after three more attempts, and even managed to set up camp despite the temperature being minus twenty-four degrees. But when they were on their way back down, four of the Sherpas lost their nerve and fearing an avalanche returned to spend a second night on the North Col.

The following morning, Norton, Somervell, and I mounted a rescue party, and somehow managed to reach the Sherpas and bring them back to the relative safety of Camp III. My bet is that we’ve seen the last of them.

If that wasn’t enough, our meteorologist informed me over breakfast this morning that, in his opinion, the monsoon will soon be upon us. However, he did remind me that, last time, the monsoon was preceded by three days of clear skies. It’s hardly a pattern one can rely on, but it didn’t stop me from offering up a prayer to whichever god is in charge of the weather.

George should have seen it coming, but he had been so preoccupied with the desire to be given one more chance that he had failed to notice what was taking place around him. That was until Norton called a council of war.

“I think it would be wise, given the circumstances, gentlemen,” said Norton, “for us to cut our losses and turn back now, before we lose anyone else.”

“I don’t agree,” said George immediately. “If we were to do that, we would have sacrificed six months of our lives, with nothing to show for it.”

“At least we would live to fight another day,” said Somervell.

“None of us is going to be given the opportunity to fight another day,” said George tersely. “This is our last chance, Somervell, and you know it.”