Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

And then there were two.

June 7th, 1924

My darling,

I’m sitting in a tiny tent some 27,300 feet above sea level, and almost 5,000 miles from my homeland, seeking the paths of glory…

“Don’t you ever sleep?” asked Irvine as he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

“Only on the way down,” said George. “So by this time tomorrow I’ll be sound asleep.”

“By this time tomorrow they’ll be hailing you as the new St. George after you’ve finally slain your personal dragon,” said Irvine, adjusting an indicator on one of the oxygen cylinders.

“I don’t recall St. George having to rely on oxygen when he slew the dragon.”

“If Hinks had been in charge at the time,” said Irvine, “St. George wouldn’t even have been allowed the use of a sword. ‘Against the spirit of the amateur code, don’t you know, old chap,’” added Irvine as he touched an imaginary mustache. “You must strangle the wretched beast with your bare hands.”

George laughed at Irvine’s plausible imitation of the RGS secretary. “Well, if I’m going to break with the amateur spirit,” he said, “I’ll need to know if your blessed oxygen cylinders will be up and running by four o’clock tomorrow morning. Otherwise I’ll be sending you back to the North Col to ask Odell to take your place.”

“Not a chance,” said Irvine. “All four of them are in perfect working order, which should give us more than enough oxygen, assuming you don’t plan to take longer than eight hours to cover a mere 2,000 feet and back.”

“You’ll find out what a mere 2,000 feet feels like only too soon, young man. And I’d have a darn sight better chance of achieving it if you were to go back to sleep so I can finish this letter to my wife.”

“You write to Mrs. Mallory every day, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied George. “And if you’re lucky enough to find someone half as remarkable, you’ll end up feeling exactly the same way.”

“I think I already have,” said Irvine, lying back down. “It’s just that I forgot to tell her before I left, so I’m not absolutely sure if she knows how I feel.”

“She’ll know,” said George, “believe me. But if you’re in doubt, you could always drop her a line-that’s assuming writing is still a form of communication they’re using at Oxford.”

George waited for a barbed riposte, but none followed, as the lad had already fallen back into a deep slumber. He smiled and continued his letter to Ruth.

After he’d shakily scribbled your loving husband, George, and sealed the envelope, he read Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” before finally blowing out the candle and falling asleep.

“Would you like me to remove the scarf, old chum?” asked Odell.

“Yes, please do,” said Norton.

Odell lifted the silk scarf gently off Norton’s face.

“Oh Christ, I still can’t see a thing,” said Norton.

“Don’t panic,” said Somervell. “It’s not unusual for it to take two or three days for your sight to begin to recover following a bout of snow blindness. In any case, we’re not going anywhere until Mallory comes back down.”

“It’s not down I’m worried about,” snapped Norton. “It’s up. Odell, I want you to return to Camp VI, and take a jar of Bovril and a supply of Kendal Mint Cake with you, because you can be sure that Mallory’s forgotten to pack something.”

“I’m on my way,” said Odell. He peered out of the tent. “I’ve never known better conditions for climbing.”

George woke a few minutes after four to find Irvine preparing breakfast.

“What’s on the menu for Ascension Day?” he asked as he poked his head out of the tent to check on the weather. Despite being hit by a blast of cold air that made his ears tingle, what he saw brought a smile to his face.

“Macaroni and sardines,” replied Irvine.

“An interesting combination,” said George. “But I have a feeling it won’t make the next edition of Mrs. Beeton’s cookbook.”

“I might have been able to offer you a little more choice,” said Irvine with a grin, “if you’d remembered to pack your rations.”

“I do apologize, old chap,” said George. “Mea culpa.”

“No skin off my nose,” said Irvine, “because frankly I’m far too nervous to even think about eating.” He pulled on an old flying jacket, not unlike the one George’s brother Trafford had been wearing when he’d last visited The Holt on leave. George wondered how Irvine had acquired it, because he was far too young to have served in the war.

“My housemaster’s,” explained Irvine as he did up the buttons, answering George’s unasked question.

“Stop trying to make me feel so old,” said George.

Irvine laughed. “I’ll fix up your oxygen cylinders while you’re having breakfast.”

“A couple of sardines and a short note to Odell, and I’ll be with you.”

Outside the tent, the morning sun almost blinded Irvine as it shone down from a clear blue sky.

Once George had eaten what was left of the sardines, having ignored the macaroni, he scribbled a quick note to Odell and left it on his sleeping bag. He’d have put money on Odell returning to Camp VI that day.

George had slept in four layers of clothes, and he now added a thick woolen vest and a woven silk shirt, followed by a flannel shirt and another silk shirt. He then put on a cotton Burberry jacket known as a Shackleton smock, before pulling on a pair of baggy gabardine trousers. He strapped a pair of cashmere puttees around his ankles, pulled on his boots, and slipped on a pair of woolen mittens that had been knitted by Ruth. He finally put on his brother’s leather flying cap before grabbing the latest pair of goggles, donated by Finch. He was glad there wasn’t a mirror available, although Chomolungma would have agreed that he was correctly dressed for an audience with Her Majesty.

George crawled out of the tent to join Irvine, who helped him on with a set of oxygen cylinders. Once they were strapped to his back, George wondered if the extra weight would prove more of a disadvantage than not being able to breathe regularly. But he’d made that decision when he sent Odell back. The last ritual the two men carried out was to smear zinc oxide all over the exposed parts of each other’s faces. Before setting off up the mountain they squinted at the summit, which looked so close.

“Be warned,” said George, “she’s a Jezebel. She grows even more alluring the closer you come to her, and this morning she’s even tempting us with a spell of perfect weather. But like any woman, it’s her privilege to change her mind.” He checked his watch: 5:07. He would have liked to start a little earlier. “Come on, young man,” he said. “In the words of my beloved father, it’s time to put our best foot forward.” He adjusted his mouthpiece and turned on the oxygen supply.

If only Hinks could see me now, thought Odell as he climbed the last few feet to Camp VI. When he reached the tent he fell on his knees and pulled back the flap, to encounter the sort of mess one might expect after having left two children to spend the night in a treehouse: a plate of unfinished macaroni, an empty sardine tin, and a compass that George must have left behind. Odell chuckled as he crawled in and set about tidying up. It wouldn’t have been Mallory’s tent if he hadn’t left something behind.

Odell was placing the Bovril and a couple of bars of Kendal Mint Cake on George’s sleeping bag when he spotted the two envelopes-one addressed to Mrs. George Mallory, The Holt, Godalming, Surrey, England, which he put in an inside pocket, and one with his own name scrawled across it. He tore the envelope open.