Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

There was a letter awaiting me at the embassy from my sister Mary. Bit of luck her husband being posted to Ceylon, because she’ll be able to warn us in advance when the monsoon season will be upon us, as it travels across that island about ten days before it’s due to reach us.

The following morning we set off on the eighty-mile journey to the border, which passed without incident. Sadly, General Bruce caught malaria and had to return to Darjeeling. I fear we won’t see him again. He took with him his bath, a dozen boxes of cigars, and half his cases of wine and champagne-but he kindly left us with the other half, not to mention all the gifts he had so carefully selected for the Dzongpen, when we present our credentials at the border.

The General’s deputy, Lt. Col. Norton, has taken over his responsibilities. You may recall Norton as the man who held the world altitude record for twenty-four hours before Finch so rudely snatched it away from him. Although he never mentions the subject, I know Norton is keen to put the record straight, and I must admit that if only he would agree to using oxygen once we have reached 27,000 feet, he would be the obvious choice to accompany me to the summit. However, Somervell is wavering when it comes to oxygen, so he may well turn out to be the alternative, as I wouldn’t consider attempting the last 2,000 feet with Odell again.

We sailed across the border on this occasion, even if we were all wearing our oldest boots and watches picked up cheaply in Bombay. However, we were still able to shower the Dzongpen with gifts from Harrods, Fortnum’s, Davidoff, and Lock’s, including a black opera cane mounted with a silver head of the King, which I assured him was a personal gift from His Majesty.

We were all taken by surprise when the Dzongpen told us how disappointed he was to learn that General Bruce had been taken ill, as he had been looking forward to seeing his old friend again. I couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing the General’s half-hunter and chain, even if there was no sign of my Old Wykehamist tie.

This morning as we passed over Pang La, the clouds suddenly lifted and we saw the commanding heights of Chomolungma dominating the skyline ahead of us. Once again, her sheer beauty took my breath away. A wise man would surely resist her alluring charms and immediately turn back, but like Euripides’ sirens, she draws one toward her rocky and treacherous terrain.

As we climbed higher and higher, I kept a watchful eye on Irvine, who appears to have acclimatized to the conditions as well as any of us. But then, I sometimes forget that he’s sixteen years younger than I am.

This morning, with Everest in the background, we held a service in memory of Nyima and the other six Sherpas who lost their lives on the last expedition. We must reach the summit this time, if for no other reason than to honor their memory.

I only wish Nyima was standing by my side now, because I would not hesitate to invite him to join me on the final climb, as it must surely be right that a Sherpa is the first person to stand on top of his own mountain. Not to mention that it would be the sweetest revenge on Hinks after his Machiavellian behavior on the night of the memorial lecture. But sadly a Sherpa will not reach the top on this occasion, as I have searched among his countrymen and have not found Nyima’s equal.

We finally arrived at base camp on April 29th, and to be fair to Hinks-something I’ve never found easy-everything I requested has been put in place. This time we will not be wasting precious days erecting and dismantling camps and continually moving equipment up and down the mountain. I’ve been assured by Mr. Hazard (an unfortunate name for someone with the responsibility of organizing our daily lives) that Camp III has already been established at 21,000 feet, with eleven of the finest Sherpas awaiting our arrival under the command of Guy Bullock.

One must never forget that it’s Noel’s £8,000 that has made all this possible, and he’s filming anything and everything that moves. The final documentary of this expedition will surely rival “Birth of a Nation.”

I am writing this letter in my little tent at base camp. In a few minutes’ time I will be joining my colleagues for dinner, and Norton will hand over the responsibility of command to me. I will then brief the team on my plans for the ascent of Everest. And so, my dearest, the great adventure begins once again. I am much more confident about our chances this time. But as soon as I conquer my magnificent obsession, I shall press a button, and moments later I will be standing by your side. From this you will gather that I am currently re-reading H. G. Wells’s “The Time Machine.” Even if I can’t press his mythical button, I will nevertheless return as quickly as humanly possible, as I have no desire to be away from you a moment longer than necessary. As I promised, I still intend to leave your photograph on the summit…

A ND THEN THEREwere eight.

“Gentlemen, His Majesty the King,” said Lieutenant Colonel Norton as he rose from his place at the head of the table and raised his tin mug.

The rest of the team immediately stood up and, as one, said, “The King.”

“Please remain standing,” said George. “Gentlemen, Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.” The team raised their mugs a second time. Outside the tent, the Sherpas fell flat on the ground, facing the mountain.

“Gentlemen,” said George, “you may smoke.”

The team resumed their places and began to light cigars and pass the port decanter around the table. A few minutes later George stood up again, tapped his glass with a spoon.

“Allow me to begin, gentlemen, by saying how sorry we all are that General Bruce is unable to be with us on this occasion.”

“Hear, hear. Hear, hear.”

“And how grateful we are to him for the fine wine he has bequeathed to us, which we have enjoyed this evening. Let us hope that in time, God willing, we will have good reason to uncork his champagne.”

“Hear, hear. Hear, hear.”

“Thanks to General Bruce’s foresight and diligence, we have been left with only one task, that of finally taming this monster so that we can all return home and begin leading normal lives. Let me make it absolutely clear from the outset that I haven’t yet decided the composition of the two teams that will join me for the final ascent.

“One aspect that will not differ from the previous expedition is that I will be keeping a close eye on each one of you, until I decide who has best acclimatized to the conditions. With that in mind, I expect all of you to be up and ready to leave by six o’clock tomorrow morning, in order that we can reach 19,000 feet by midday, and still return to base camp by sunset.”

“Why come back down,” asked Irvine, “when we’re trying to get to the top as quickly as possible?”

“Not as quickly as possible,” said George, smiling when he realized just how inexperienced young Sandy Irvine was. “Even you will take a little time to become acclimatized to new heights. The golden rule,” he added, “is climb high, sleep low. When we’ve become fully acclimatized,” he continued, “it’s my intention to move on to 23,000 feet, and set up Camp IV on the North Col. Once we’ve bedded in, we will move on and establish Camp V at 25,000 feet, and Camp VI around 27,000 feet, from where the final assault will be launched.” George paused for some time before he delivered his next sentence. “I want all of you to know that whoever I invite to join me will be part of the team making the second attempt on the summit, as I intend to allow two of my colleagues the first opportunity to make history. Should the first team fail, my partner and I will make our attempt the following day. I feel sure that every one of us has the same desire, to be the first to place his foot on the brow of Chomolungma. However, it’s only fair to let you know, gentlemen, that it’s going to be me.”