Paths of Glory

If the weather breaks, even for a couple of days, I’m determined to give it one more go, before the monsoon season is upon us. I don’t care for the idea of returning to Britain in second place, not while I’m convinced that if Odell hadn’t held me up, I could have gone far higher than 27,550, especially with Finch snapping at my heels—possibly even to the top. Now that he’s laid low, I may even experiment with his foul oxygen cylinders, but I won’t tell him until I’ve returned triumphant.

However, the real reason I’m so determined to put an end to this life-long obsession is that I have no interest in coming back to this desolate place, and every interest in spending the rest of my life with you and the girls—I even miss the lower fifth.

I hope that long before you open this letter, you will have read in The Times that your husband has stood on top of the earth and is on his way back home.

I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.

Your loving husband,

George

George was sealing the envelope when Nyima appeared by his side with two mugs of Bovril.

“You will be pleased to learn, Mr. Mallory,” he said, “that we are about to have three clear days in a row, but no more. So this will be your last chance, because the monsoon season will follow close behind.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked George, warming his fingers on the mug before taking a sip.

“I’m like a cow in your country,” Nyima replied, “that knows when to shelter under a tree because it’s about to rain.”

George laughed. “You have a considerable knowledge of my country.”

“More books have been written about England than any country on earth.” Nyima hesitated for a moment before saying, “Perhaps if I had been born an Englishman, Mr. Mallory, you might have considered including me in your climbing party.”

“Please wake me at six,” said George, folding his letter. “If you’re right about tomorrow’s weather, I’d like to try to reach the North Col Camp by sunset, so we can have one final crack at the summit the following day.”

“Would you like me to take your letter down to base camp, so it can be posted immediately?”

“No, thank you,” said George. “Someone else can do that. I have a more important role than postman in mind for you.”

When Nyima woke him the following morning, George’s spirits were high. Ascension Day. A day for making history. He ate a hearty breakfast, aware that he would only be able to nibble Kendal Mint Cake for the next couple of days.

When he stepped out of his tent he was delighted to see Somervell and Odell already waiting for him, along with nine Sherpas, including Nyima, who all looked equally determined to be on their way.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said George. “I think the time has come to leave our calling card on top of the earth.” Without another word he set off up the mountain.

The weather was perfect for climbing: a bright, clear day, not a breath of wind, just a carpet of overnight snow that reminded him of the Swiss Alps. If Nyima’s prediction turned out to be correct, George’s only problem would be selecting who to team up with for the final assault. But he’d already made up his mind to follow Finch’s advice and invite the most competent climber to join him tomorrow.

George made better progress in the first hour than he had thought possible, and when he turned to see how his team was faring, he was delighted to find that no one was lagging behind. He decided not to stop while they were progressing so well; a decision that was to save his life.

No one flagged during the second hour, at the end of which George called for a break. He was pleased to see that even the Sherpas, despite each having eighty pounds of supplies on their backs, were still smiling.

When they set off again, their pace dropped a little as the slope steepened. The snow was deep, often above his knees, but George’s spirits remained high. He was pleased that Somervell and Odell were keeping up with the pace, no doubt both assuming that they would be joining him tomorrow for the final climb. He’d already decided that, this time, only one of them would. A little further down the mountain, the Sherpas were managing a slow shuffle up the slope, with Nyima bringing up the rear. A contented smile remained on George’s face, as he now believed he could defeat both Finch and Hinks.

They were within 600 feet of the North Col when George heard what sounded like a car backfiring somewhere above him. He instantly recalled when he’d last heard that unmistakable, unforgiving sound.

“Please God, not again!” he shouted as a wave of rocks, snow, and rubble came crashing down from a cliff-face some 200 feet above him. Within seconds he, Somervell, and Odell were completely buried. George frantically fought his way to the surface in time to see the avalanche continuing its ruthless course down the mountain, gathering momentum as it engulfed everything its path. He could only watch helplessly, still buried up to his shoulders in snow, as first his colleagues, and then the Sherpas, disappeared below the surface, one by one. The last to be buried was Nyima, an image that would remain with George for the rest of his life.

An cerie silence fell, before George cried out. He prayed that he wasn’t the only member of the party still alive. Odell answered his call, and moments later Somervell surfaced. The three of them dug themselves out of the snow and hurried down the mountain, hoping against hope that they could save the Sherpas who had served them so faithfully.

George spotted a glove on the surface and tried to run toward it, but with each step he sank deeper into the thick snow. When he finally reached the glove, he began frantically shoveling at the snow around it with his bare hands. He was beginning to despair when a blue gloveless hand appeared, followed by an arm, a neck, and finally a head, gasping for breath. Behind him he heard a cry of relief as Odell rescued another Sherpa who had not expected to see the light of day again. George waded on down the mountain through the thick powdery snow searching for a rucksack, a boot, an ice axe, anything that might lead him to Nyima. For what seemed like hours he dug desperately at even the slightest hint of life. He found nothing. At last he collapsed, exhausted, forced to accept that he could do no more.

When the sun set an hour later, only two of the nine Sherpas had been rescued. The other seven, including Nyima, remained buried in undug graves. George knelt in the snow and wept. Chomolungma had laughed at the impertinence of these mortals.

It would be days before the loss of those seven Sherpas was not constantly on George’s mind, even when he slept. No matter how hard his colleagues tried to console him, they were unable to convince George that his ambition had not been the cause of the Sherpas’ deaths. General Bruce had ordered that a memorial cairn be erected on a moraine close to a Tibetan monastery. As the team stood around it, heads bowed, Somervell said quietly, “It would have been better if one of us were buried alongside them.”

Bruce led a broken band of men back to Bombay. They had been on board the ship sailing for England for several days before anyone smiled, and weeks passed before anyone laughed. George could only wonder what lay ahead of them when they docked at Liverpool.

Every member of the team had vowed that he would not return to Everest for, to quote their climbing leader, all the gold in Arabia.