Paths of Glory

Irvine was the first to rise the following morning, and immediately set about preparing breakfast for his colleagues. George vowed that when he returned home, he would never eat another sardine in his life.

Once breakfast had been cleared away, Irvine lined up the nine oxygen cylinders and, like his leader, selected the best pair for the final climb. George watched as he went about the slow, methodical business of tapping cylinders and adjusting knobs, and wondered if they would ever be used, or simply discarded here on the North Col along with their owner. Odell went off in search of rare rocks and fossils, happy to escape into a world of his own.

In the afternoon the three of them came together to pore over Noel’s photographs of the upper reaches, searching for any new piece of information that might assist their attempt to reach the summit. They earnestly discussed whether they should follow the ridgeline and tackle the Second Step head-on, or simply strike out onto the North Face across the limestone slabs of the Yellow Band, and skirt around the Second Step. In truth, all three of them knew that the final decision couldn’t be made until Somervell and Norton had returned, and were able to pass on the first-hand knowledge that would allow them to fill in so many empty spaces on the map, and so many gaps in their knowledge.

After supper, George returned to his tent, a drink made from powdered milk in one hand, Ulysses in the other. He fell asleep at page 172, determined to finish Joyce’s masterpiece on the sea voyage back to England.

The next morning Odell rose early, and to his colleagues’ surprise pulled on his rucksack, gloves, and goggles.

“Just off to Camp V to make sure the tent’s still in place,” he explained as George crawled out of his sleeping bag. “And I may as well leave them some provisions, as they’re sure to be famished.”

George would have laughed at such a casual remark delivered at 25,000 feet, but it was typical of Odell to consider the plight of others, and not the dangers he might be facing. He watched as Odell, accompanied by two Sherpas, headed up the mountain as if he was on an afternoon stroll in the Cotswolds. George was beginning to wonder if Odell wouldn’t be the best choice to accompany him on the final climb, as he seemed to have acclimatized to the conditions far better than any of them had this time, himself included.

Odell was back in time for a lunch of two sardines on a wholemeal biscuit—wholemeal meant whole meal—and he didn’t appear to be even out of breath.

“Any sign of them?” George asked before he had pulled off his rucksack.

“No, skipper,” Odell replied. “But then, if they reached the summit by midday and returned to spend the night at Camp VI, I wouldn’t expect them to be back at Camp V much before two, in which case they should be with us some time around four this afternoon.”

“Just in time for tea,” George said.

After a six-minute lunch, George returned to Ulysses, but spent most of his time staring up the mountain waiting for two specks to appear from the wasteland of the North Face, rather than turning the pages of the novel. He checked his watch: just after two. If they turned up now, they could not have reached the summit; if they arrived around four, the prize must surely be theirs. If they had not returned by six…he tried not to think about it.

Three o’clock passed, to become four, followed by five, by which time small talk had been replaced by more serious discussion. No one mentioned supper. By six, the moon had replaced the sun, and they were all becoming apprehensive. By eight, they were beginning to

fear the worst.

“I think I’ll just head back up the North Ridge,” said Odell casually, “and see if they’ve decided to bed down for the night.”

“I’ll join you,” said George, leaping up. “I could do with the exercise.” He tried to sound as if there was nothing to be worried about, but in truth they all knew he was leading a search party.

“Me too,” said Irvine, dumping his oxygen cylinders in the snow.

George was grateful for a full moon, and a still night with no wind or snow. Twenty minutes later, Odell and Irvine were fully equipped and ready to accompany him as he set out in search of their colleagues.

Up, up, up they went. George was becoming more despondent with each step he took. But he didn’t consider turning back, even for a moment, because they might just be a few feet away from…

It was Irvine who spotted them first, but then, he had the youngest eyes. “There they are!” he shouted, pointing up the mountain.

George’s heart leaped when he saw them, even if they did resemble two old soldiers limping off a battlefield. Norton, the taller of the two, had one arm draped around Somervell’s shoulder, the other covering his eyes.

George moved as quickly as he could up the slope to join them, with Irvine only a pace behind. They each threw an arm under Somervell’s shoulders, and almost carried him back across the finishing line. Norton transferred an arm to Odell’s shoulder, the other still covering his eyes.

Mallory and Irvine guided Somervell into the team tent before lowering him gently to the ground and covering him with a blanket. Norton followed a moment later, and immediately fell to his knees. Bullock had already prepared two mugs of lukewarm Bovril. He passed one to Somervell as Norton eased himself onto a mattress and lay flat on his back. No one spoke as they waited for the two men to recover.

George undid Somervell’s laces and gently pulled off his boots, then began to rub his feet to get some circulation back. Bullock held one of the mugs of Bovril to Norton’s lips, but he was unable to take even a sip. Although George had never believed patience was a virtue, he somehow managed to remain silent, despite being desperate to know if either of them had reached the summit.

To everyone’s surprise, it was Somervell who spoke first. “Long before we reached the Second Step,” he began, “we decided not to climb it, but to skirt round the Yellow Band. A longer route, but safer,” he added between breaths. “We traversed across it until we came to a massive couloir. I thought that if we were able to cross it, we could progress all the way to the final pyramid, where the gradient would be less demanding. Our progress was slow, but I still believed we had enough time to make it to the top.”

But did you? George wanted to ask, as Somervell sat up and took another sip of now cold Bovril.

“That was until we reached 27,400 feet, when my throat started to play up again. I began coughing up phlegm, and when Norton slapped me on the back with all the force he could muster, I brought up nearly half my larynx. I tried to struggle on, but by the time we reached 28,000 feet I couldn’t put one foot in front of the other. I had to stop and rest, but I could see the peak ahead of me, so I insisted that Norton carried on. I sat there watching him climb toward the summit, until he was out of sight.”

George turned to Norton and quietly asked, “Did you make it?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Norton. “Because when I stopped to rest, I made the classic mistake.”

“Don’t tell me you took your goggles off?” said George in disbelief.