Paths of Glory

The corporal quickly disappeared into a little room behind him and closed the door. It was some time before the door opened again, and a short, thin man with sunken cheeks and a battle-hardened face stepped out and glared at the General as if his private territory had been invaded. The General smiled when he noticed that the post commander only held the rank of captain. He saluted, but the Tibetan did not return the compliment. Instead, he looked directly at Sherpa Nyima and, pointing at the General, said in his native tongue, “I am the Dzongpen of the district of Phari. Who is this?”

Once Sherpa Nyima had translated his words, only adding the final word “gentleman,” the General replied, “I am General Bruce,” then opened his attaché case and removed some papers, which he placed firmly on the desk. “These are the official permits that authorize my party to enter the district of Phari Dzong.” After Nyima had translated the General’s words, the Dzongpen gave the documents a cursory glance, then shrugged his shoulders. “As you can see,” said the General, “they have been signed by Lord Curzon, the British Foreign Secretary.” The General waited for Sherpa Nyima to complete his translation before the Dzongpen came back with a question.

“The Dzongpen wishes to know if you are Lord Curzon.”

“Of course I’m not,” said the General. “Tell this fool that if he doesn’t allow us to cross the border immediately, I will have no choice but to…”

It was clear that the Tibetan commander didn’t need the General’s words translated, as his hand moved swiftly to the gun in his holster.

“The Dzongpen says that he will allow Lord Curzon to cross the border, but no one else,” translated Nyima.

Bruce banged a fist on the desk, and shouted, “Doesn’t the stupid man realize who I am?”

George bowed his head and began to think about the long journey home as he waited for the Dzongpen’s response. He could only hope that the General’s words would be lost in translation, but the Dzongpen had removed his pistol from its holster and was pointing the barrel at the General’s forehead before Sherpa Nyima had completed his translation.

“Tell the General he can go home,” said the commander quietly. “I will give my men orders to shoot on sight if he comes anywhere near this border post again. Do I make myself clear?”

The General didn’t flinch, even after Nyima had translated the border commander’s words. Although George had given up any chance of being allowed to cross the border, he still rather hoped they might get out alive.

“May I speak, General?” he whispered.

“Yes, of course, Mallory,” replied the General.

George wondered if he should have held his tongue, because the commander’s gun was now pointing at his forehead. He looked the Dzongpen straight in the eye. “I bring gifts of friendship from my country to yours.”

Sherpa Nyima translated, and the Dzongpen slowly lowered his gun and put it back in its holster, before placing his hands on his hips. “I will see these gifts.”

George removed the lid of the Lock’s box and took out a black Homburg hat which he handed across to the Dzongpen. The commander placed it on his head, looked at himself in a mirror on the wall and smiled for the first time. “Please tell the Dzongpen that Lord Curzon wears a Homburg to work every morning,” said George, “as do all gentlemen in England.” When the commander heard these words he leaned over the desk and peered into the box. General Bruce bent down, took out another Homburg and passed it to the commander, who in turn placed it on the head of the young corporal standing by his side. This time the Dzongpen burst out laughing, then grabbed the box, left the hut, and began to distribute the remaining ten Homburgs among his guards.

When the commander returned to the hut, he began to study the General’s documents more carefully. He was about to rubber stamp the last page when he looked up, smiled at the General, and pointed to his half-hunter gold watch. The General wanted to explain that he had inherited the watch from his father, Lord Aberdare, but he thought better of it, and without a word handed it over. George was relieved that in his haste that morning he had forgotten to put on the watch Ruth had given him for his birthday.

The Dzongpen was now eyeing General Bruce’s thick leather belt—then his brown leather shoes—and finally his knee-length woolen socks. Having stripped the General, he turned his attention to George, and appropriated his shoes, socks, and tie. George could only wonder when and where the Dzongpen would wear an Old Wykehamist tie.

At last the Dzongpen smiled, stamped the last page of the entry permits, and handed them back to the General. Bruce was just about to place the documents in his attaché case when the Dzongpen shook his head. The General left the case on the desk, and stuffed the documents into the pockets of his trousers.

The barefooted Bruce held up his trousers with one hand and saluted with the other. This time the Dzongpen returned the compliment. Sherpa Nyima was the only person who left the hut fully dressed.

An hour later the expedition party, led by General Bruce, advanced toward the border, and the barrier was raised to allow them to enter the district of Phari Dzong.

After checking the time on his half-hunter gold watch, the Dzongpen smiled at the General, raised his Homburg, and said, “Welcome to Tibet, Lord Curzon.”

Nyima didn’t translate his words.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

May 4th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

Having crossed the border into Tibet, we are now approaching the Himalaya—a range of a thousand mountains that surround and protect their mistress like armed guards, do not accept the authority of the local Dzongpen and have never heard of Lord Curzon. Despite their frosty welcome and cold demeanor, we battle on.

When we arrived and set up base camp, some 17,000 feet above sea level, we saw the General at his best. Within hours the porters—down to 32—had erected the team tent, about the size of our drawing room, which made it possible for us to sit down for dinner. By the time coffee and brandy had been served, 15 other tents were in place, which meant we could all bed down for the night. When I say “all,” I should point out that the porters, including Nyima, are still sleeping outside in the open air. They curl up on the rough ground with only stones for their pillows. I sometimes wonder whether, if I’m to have any chance of conquering this infernal mountain, I ought to join them.

Sherpa Nyima is proving invaluable when it comes to organizing the natives, and the General has agreed to raise his pay to thirty rupees a week (about sixpence). Once we reach the slopes of Everest, it’s going to be fascinating to find out just how good a climber he really is. Finch is convinced that he’ll be the equal of any one of us. I’ll let you know.

This evening the General will officially hand over command to me until the moment we begin to retrace our steps back to England…

“His Majesty the King,” said the General, raising his glass.