Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

George set a steady pace for the first hour, tramping over the barren, stony ground that stretched along the side of the valley above base camp, regularly passing the sacred blue sheep of the Rongbuk valley, which, however hungry the local tribesmen became, could not be slaughtered. He was well aware that the real challenges wouldn’t arise until they’d skirted the North Ridge, at around 23,000 feet, where not only would the air be thinner and the temperature fall to levels few of them had ever experienced, but far worse, they would have no way of knowing which route they should take if they hoped to progress.

As they tramped on, George became awestruck by colors he had never seen before-a faint blue light that changed to a rich yellow and seemed bent on parching their pale English skins. In the distance he could see the Kangshung face, its vast icy fangs pitted with crevasses and dark, unfathomable ridges perpetually threatening them with an unwelcome avalanche.

Once they’d established Camps II and III, George could only wonder just how many days they would have to spend searching for a safe route on the North Col, only to find that at the end of every illusory path there would be signposts announcing No Entry , Dead End . George was beginning to wonder if it would even prove possible for a human to reach the summit. Those members of the RGS who had predicted that Chomolungma would be just like Mont Blanc, but a little higher, were already looking foolish.

At the end of the second hour, George called the caravan to a halt so that everyone could enjoy a well-earned rest. As he walked among the team, he noticed that Morshead and Hingston were breathing heavily. Nyima had to report that three of the Sherpas had dumped their loads in the snow and headed back down the mountain to return to their villages. George wondered how many Sherpas would be standing on the dockside in Bombay waiting to claim their twenty-rupee bonus from General Bruce. “You’ll be able to count them on one hand,” Bruce had warned him, though even the General couldn’t have predicted that one of his colleagues wouldn’t even be able to do that.

Thirty minutes later the group continued on their way, and didn’t stop to rest again until the sun had reached its zenith. During the lunch break they chewed on mint cake, ginger biscuits, and dried apricots, and drank reconstituted powdered milk before setting off once again.

After another hour’s climbing they had to cross a stream surrounded by tufts of green grass. On its bank stood a willow tree teeming with giant butterflies that rose into the air as they approached; an oasis, the memory of which soon became a mirage as they climbed higher and higher.

The time had come to look for a suitable place to pitch Camp II. He finally chose a piece of flat, stony ground in the middle of the East Rongbuk Glacier, among the giant pinnacles of ice, that had the advantage of being sheltered from the wind. He checked his altimeter-just above 19,000 feet. Under Nyima’s watchful eye the Sherpas deposited their loads in the snow, and leveled off the rocky debris before they could set about erecting the first tent. After unloading equipment and boxes of provisions destined for Camp III and meant to last them at least a month, they finally raised the team tent.

George told his men over dinner back at base camp-goat stew and dumplings once again, no need for a menu, because water biscuits and cheese were certain to follow-that he thought the first day could not have gone much better. However, he still had no idea how long it would take to identify a route beyond the Rongbuk Glacier, and they must be prepared to expect a number of false dawns.

Before George blew out his candle that night, he read a few pages of The Iliad, having just finished another long letter to Ruth. She would read it two months later, some time after the tragedy had taken place.

George’s letters often turned up at The Holt several weeks after the news they carried had been reported in The Times . Ruth knew she would eventually receive a letter that would give George’s side of the story of what had taken place on that fateful June morning, but until then she could only follow the drama in installments, like reading a Dickens novel.

May 8th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

I’m sitting in my little tent, writing to you by candlelight. The first day’s climb went well, and we found an ideal site on which to set up a temporary home. However, it’s so cold that when I go to bed I have to wear those mittens you knitted for me last Christmas, as well as a pair of your father’s woolen long johns.

The mountain has already left me in no doubt that we were not properly prepared for such a demanding venture. Frankly, many of the team are too old, and only a few are fit enough to continue. Like me, they must wish they’d been given the chance to attempt this in 1915, when we were all so much younger. Damn the Germans.

My darling, I miss you so much that…

Ruth stopped reading, and knelt down beside Clare and Beridge to study the map that had taken up permanent residence on the drawing-room floor. When she drew the figure of a man in goggles leaning on an ice axe at 19,400 feet, Clare started clapping.

June 16th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

We have now spent just over a month searching for a route, which will take us beyond the East Rongbuk Glacier and I was beginning to become downcast, after Sherpa Nyima reminded me that the monsoon season will soon be upon us, and we’ll then have no choice but to return to base camp and begin the long journey back to England.

However, the breakthrough came today, when Morshead located a route beyond the Rongbuk Glacier that curves around Changtse and onto the other side of the North Col. So tomorrow Norton, Somervell, and Morshead will return, and if they can find a large enough platform, and assuming the wind-gale force up there, Morshead warns me-allows them, they’ll try to pitch a tent and discover if it’s possible to spend a night under canvas on top of the North Col, some 6,000 feet below the summit.

If it is, Norton and Somervell will make the first attempt on the summit the following day. I know 6,000 feet doesn’t sound much-indeed, I can hear Hinks telling the committee that it’s not much higher than Ben Nevis. But Ben Nevis doesn’t consist of pinnacles of insurmountable black ice, or temperatures that fall to minus forty degrees, and a wind that insists that for every four strides you take, you will only advance a single step. On top of that, we are only breathing one-third of the oxygen you are enjoying in Surrey. And, as coming back down will undoubtedly be even more hazardous, we can’t take unnecessary risks just so Hinks can inform his committee that one of us has climbed heights no man has ever reached before.

Several of the team are suffering from altitude sickness, snow blindness, and, worst of all, frostbite. Morshead has lost two fingers and a toe. It would be worth two fingers and a toe if he’d reached the summit, but for the North Col? If Norton and Somervell fail to reach the summit the day after tomorrow, Finch, Odell, and I will try the following day. If they do succeed, then we’ll be on our way home long before you open this letter. In fact I might even arrive ahead of it-let’s hope so.

I have a feeling that it may be Finch and I who end up sleeping in that tiny tent some 27,000 feet above sea level, although there’s one other member of the team who has matched us stride for stride.

My darling, I write this letter with your photograph by my side, and…

Once again, Ruth joined her daughters on the drawing-room carpet, only to find that Clare already had her thumb firmly planted on the North Col.