Paths of Glory

While Morshead and Somervell knelt over the flame of the Primus stove trying to thaw out, the rest of the team stood around in silence, waiting for one of them to break the news. It was Somervell who spoke first, but not until he’d drunk several gulps of tea laced with brandy.

“We couldn’t have made a better start this morning, having put up the tent at Camp V,” he began, “but after about a thousand feet, we walked straight into a snowstorm,” he added between breaths. “My throat became so bunged up I could hardly breathe.” He paused again. “Norton thumped me on the back until I was violently sick, which temporarily solved the problem, but by then I didn’t have the strength to take another step. Norton waited for me to recover before we struck out across the North Face.”

Norton picked up the story while Somervell took another gulp of tea. “It was hopeless. We made a little more progress, but the snowstorm didn’t ease up, so we had no choice but to turn back.”

“What height did you reach?” asked George.

Norton passed the altimeter to his climbing leader. “Twenty-six thousand eight hundred and fifty feet,” gasped George. “That’s the highest any man has ever climbed.”

The rest of the team burst into spontaneous applause.

“If only you’d taken oxygen,” said Finch, “you might have reached the summit.”

No one else offered an opinion.

“This is going to hurt, I’m afraid, old fellow,” said Bullock, picking up a pair of scissors and warming them over the Primus. He bent down and carefully began trimming off parts of Norton’s right ear.

The following morning, George rose at 6:00 A.M. He stuck his head out of his tent to see a clear sky, without the slightest suggestion of wind. Finch and Odell were sitting cross-legged on the ground, devouring a hearty breakfast.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said George. He was so keen to be on the move that he ate breakfast standing up, and was ready to set off ten minutes later. Bullock, Morshead, and Somervell crawled out of their tents to wish them Godspeed. Norton remained flat on his back.

George took Norton’s advice on which route they should take and led Finch and Odell slowly toward the North Ridge. Despite the clear, windless conditions, every pace seemed more demanding than the last because they had to take three breaths for each stride they advanced. Finch had insisted on strapping two cylinders of oxygen to his back. Would he prove to be right, and end up the only one who could keep going?

Hour after hour, they trudged on up the mountain in silence. It was not until the late afternoon that they felt the first breath of icy wind that met them like an unwelcome guest. Within minutes the gentle breeze had turned into a gale. If George’s altimeter hadn’t confirmed that they were only a hundred yards from Camp V, at 25,000 feet, he would have turned back.

One hundred yards became an hour as the wind and snow lashed relentlessly at their bodies, tearing into their garments as if searching mercilessly for any exposed skin, while trying to blow them back down the mountain whence they’d come. When they finally reached the tent, George could only pray that the bad weather would have cleared by the morning, otherwise they would have to return, as they couldn’t hope to survive such conditions for two nights in a row; in fact, George feared that if they fell asleep, all three of them might freeze to death.

The three men attempted to settle down for the night. George noticed that their condensed breath froze and turned into icicles that hung from the roo

f of the tent like chandeliers in a ballroom. Finch spent every moment checking and re-checking the dials on his precious oxygen cylinders, while George attempted to write to Ruth.

June 19th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

Yesterday three brave men set out to try to reach the summit of Everest, and one of them, Norton, climbed to a height of 26,850 ft. before sheer exhaustion got the better of them. They finally had to turn back, and Norton lost parts of his right ear to frostbite. He sleeps tonight in the knowledge that he has climbed higher than any man on earth.

Tomorrow three more of us will attempt to follow in their footsteps, and perhaps one of us might even…

“After what we’ve been through today, Mallory, surely you’ll reconsider using oxygen tomorrow?”

“No, I won’t,” replied George, putting his pen down. “I’m determined to give it a go without any artificial aids.”

“But your handmade boots are an artificial aid,” said Finch. “The mittens your wife knitted for you are an aid. Even the sugar in your tea is an aid. In fact, the only thing that isn’t an aid is our partner,” said Finch, glaring at the sleeping Odell.

“And who would you have chosen in his place? Norton or Somervell?”

“Neither,” replied Finch, “although they’re both damned good climbers. But you made it clear right from the start that the final push should only be attempted by someone best acclimatized to the conditions, and we both know who that is.”

“Nyima,” said George quietly.

“There’s another reason why you should have invited Nyima to join us, and I would certainly have done so if I’d been climbing leader.”

“And what might that be?”

“The pleasure of seeing Hinks’s face when he had to report to the Everest Committee that the first two men to place a foot on the summit of Everest were an Australian and a Sherpa.”

“That was never going to happen,” said George.