Paths of Glory

“Yes. Keep the kettle boiling.”

As George’s old housemaster Mr. Irving—George wondered if he was still alive—used to say, you can never start too early, only too late. George set off like a man possessed, at a pace Odell and Irvine found difficult to match.

He kept peering suspiciously up at the clear blue sky, trying to detect the slightest suggestion of wind, the appearance of a single wisp of cloud, or the first flake of snow that might alter all his best laid plans, but the sky remained resolutely calm and undisturbed. However, he knew from bitter experience that this particular lady could change her mind in the blink of an eye. He also kept a close watch on his two companions to see if either of them appeared to be in any trouble, almost hoping that one of them would fall behind, and take the final decision out of his hands. But as hour succeeded hour, he reluctantly concluded that there was nothing to choose between them.

The party reached Camp V a few minutes after three that afternoon, well ahead of schedule. George checked his watch and tried to make a calculation. When Hannibal crossed the Alps, he had always allowed the sun to make such decisions for him. Should he press on to Camp VI, and try to save a day? Or would that result in them being so exhausted that they wouldn’t be able to take on the more important challenge ahead? He chose caution, and decided on an early night so they could set out for Camp VI first thing in the morning. But who would he set out with? Which one of them would accompany him to the summit, and which would be accompanying the Sherpas back to the North Col?

Turning in early didn’t guarantee a night’s sleep for George. Every hour or so he would wake, poke his head out of the tent, and check if he could still see stars few others had witnessed with such clarity. He could. Irvine slept like a child, and Odell even had the nerve to snore. George looked across at them while he continued to wrestle with the problem as to who should join him for the final climb. Should it be Odell, who after years of dedication had surely earned his chance—probably his last chance? Or should it be Irvine? After all, it would only be human for the young man to be dreaming of his place in the sun, but if he were not selected, he would still have many years ahead of him in which to try again.

George was certain of only one thing. This was his last chance.

Just after four o’clock the following morning, with the moon still shining peacefully down on them, the three men set off again. Their pace slowed with each hour that passed, until it was no more than a shuffle. If either Odell or Irvine was suffering from the experience, neither gave the slightest hint of it as they continued doggedly in their leader’s footsteps.

The sun was beginning to set by the time the North-East Shoulder came into sight. George checked his altimeter: 27,100 feet. Half an hour and 230 feet later, the three of them collapsed exhausted, and mightily relieved to find Norton and Somervell’s small tent still in place. George could no longer put off making his final decision, because three men weren’t going to be able to sleep in that small space, and there certainly wasn’t enough room on the ridge to pitch a second tent.

George sat on the ground and scribbled a note to Norton to inform him of their progress, and that they would attempt the final ascent in the morning. He stood up, and looked at both silent men before handing the note to Odell. “Would you please take this back down to the North Col, old fellow, and see that Norton gets it?”

Odell betrayed no sign of emotion. He simply bowed.

“I’m sorry, old chap,” added George. He was about to explain his reasons when Odell said, “You’ve made the right decision, skipper.” He shook hands with George, and then with the young man he had recommended to the RGS should replace Finch as a member of the climbing team. “Good luck,” he said, before turning his back on them to begin the lonely journey down to Camp V to spend the night, before returning to the North Col the following morning.

And then there were two.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

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.