Paths of Glory

“What rumors?” said George.

“That you entered this university by climbing over your college’s wall.”

George was about to reply when a voice behind him said, “And then he was made to climb back out. That’s always the most difficult part.”

“And why is that?” inquired Brooke innocently.

“Simple, really,” said Guy, before George had a chance to speak. “When you’re climbing up a rock face, your hands are not more than a few inches from your eyes, but when you’re coming down, your feet are never less than five feet below you, which means that when you look down you’ve far more chance of losing your balance. Got the idea?”

George laughed. “Ignore my friend,” he said. “And not just because he’s a hide-bound Tory, but he’s also a lackey of the capitalist system.”

“True enough,” said Guy without shame.

“So what clubs have you signed up for?” asked Brooke, turning his attention to Guy.

“Apart from cricket, the Union, the Disraeli Society, and the Officers’ Training Corps,” replied Guy.

“Good heavens,” said Brooke. “Is there no hope for the man?”

“None whatsoever,” admitted Guy. Turning to George, he added, “But at least I’ve found what you’ve been looking for, so the time has come for you to follow me.”

George raised his mortar board to Brooke, who returned the compliment. Guy led the way to the next row of stalls, where he pointed triumphantly at a white awning that read CUMC, founded 1904.

George slapped his friend on the back. He began to study a display of photographs showing past and present undergraduates standing on the Great St. Bernard Pass, and on the summits of Mont Vélan and Monte Rosa. Another board on the far side of the table displayed a large photograph of Mont Blanc, on which was written the words Join us in Italy next year if you want to do it the hard way.

“How do I join?” George asked a short, stocky fellow standing next to a taller man who was holding an ice axe.

“You can’t join the Mountaineering Club, old chap,” he replied. “You have to be elected.”

“Then how do I get elected?”

“It’s quite simple. You sign up for one of our Club meets to Pen-y-Pass, and then we’ll decide if you’re a mountaineer or just a weekend rambler.”

“I would have you know,” interrupted Guy, “that my friend—”

“—would be happy to sign up,” said George before Guy could complete the sentence.

Both George and Guy signed up for a weekend trip to Wales, and handed back their application forms to the taller of the two men standing behind the table.

“I’m Somervell,” he said, “and this is Odell. He’s a geologist, so he’s more interested in studying rocks than climbing them. The chap at the back,” added Somervell, pointing to an older man, “is Geoffrey Winthrop Young of the Alpine Club. He’s our honorary chairman.”

“The most accomplished climber in the land,” said George.

Young smiled as he studied George’s application form. “Graham Irving has a tendency to exaggerate,” he said. “However, he’s already written to tell me about your recent trip to the Alps. When we’re at Pen-y-Pass you’ll be given the chance to show if you’re as good as he says you are.”

“He’s better,” said Guy. “Irving won’t have mentioned our visit to Paris, when…ahhh!” he shouted as George’s heel collided with his shin.

“Will I be given a chance to join your party for Mont Blanc next summer?” George asked.

“That may not be possible,” said Young. “There are one or two other fellows already hoping to be selected for that jaunt.”

Somervell and Odell were now taking a far greater interest in the freshman from Magdalene. The two young men couldn’t have been more dissimilar. Odell was just a shade over five feet five, with sandy hair, a ruddy complexion, and watery blue eyes. He looked too young to be an undergraduate, but the moment he spoke he sounded older than his years. Somervell, in contrast, was over six foot, with dark, unruly hair that looked as if it had rarely been acquainted with a comb. He had the black eyes of a pirate, but when asked a question he bowed his head and spoke softly, not because he was aloof, but simply because he was shy. George knew instinctively that these two disparate men were going to be friends for the rest of his life.

SATURDAY, JUNE 23RD, 1906

If George had been asked what he had achieved in his first year at Cambridge—and his father did—he would have said that it had been far more than the third class he’d been awarded following his end-of-term exams.

“Is it possible that you have become involved in too many outside activities,” his father remonstrated, “none of which is likely to assist you when the time comes to consider a profession?” This was something George hadn’t given a great deal of thought to. “Because I don’t have to remind you, my boy,” his father added—but he did—“that I do not have sufficient funds to allow you to spend the rest of your life as a gentleman of leisure”—a sentiment the Reverend Mallory had made all too clear since George’s first day at prep school.