Paths of Glory

George raised his ancient umbrella when he felt a few drops of rain land on his forehead. He tried to think about his morning lesson with the lower fifth—not that he had anything new to tell them about the Elizabethans. He wondered how Francis Drake would have handled the problem that had been nagging away at him for the past decade.

He had not yet heard from the Everest Committee following last week’s medical tests. Still, there could be a letter waiting for him when he returned home that evening. There might even be a mention of the team selection in The Times—if so, Andrew O’Sullivan would be certain to bring it to his attention during the mid-morning break. However, after Finch’s stalwart effort at the medical, George would have no complaint if he turned out to be the committee’s choice as climbing leader. He’d laughed out loud when Young had reported verbatim the exchange between Finch and Hinks that had taken place at the committee meeting. He only wished he had been able to witness the encounter himself.

Although he didn’t agree with Finch about the use of oxygen at high altitude, he did accept that if they were to have any chance of making a good fist of it, they would have to approach the whole exercise in a more professional manner than in the past, and to learn from the mistakes made during the South Pole debacle.

His thoughts turned to Ruth, and how supportive she had been. The past year had been idyllic. They were blessed with two lovely daughters and a lifestyle that would have been the envy of most men. Did he really want to travel to the other side of the earth, and have to watch his children growing up by letter and photograph? But it was Ruth who had cruelly summed up his innermost dilemma when she had casually asked him how he would feel if Andrew pointed out a photograph in The Times of George Finch standing on top of the world, while he had just come from teaching the lower fifth?

George checked his watch as he passed a signpost that told him he still had three miles to walk, and smiled. He was a couple of minutes ahead of schedule for a change. He disliked being late for morning assembly, and Ruth always did everything in her power to make sure he left home each morning well in time. The headmaster always entered Great Hall as the clock chimed nine, and if George was so much as thirty seconds late, he had to slip in at the back during prayers, while heads were bowed. The problem was that the headmaster’s head was never bowed—nor were the lower fifth’s for that matter.

As he walked into School Lane, George was surprised to notice how few boys and masters were about. Even more puzzling, when he reached the school gates there was nobody in sight. Was it half term? A Sunday, perhaps? No, Ruth would have remembered and reminded him to put on his best suit.

He walked across the empty quad toward the main hall, but not a sound was coming from inside. No headmaster, no music, not even a cough. Perhaps their heads were bowed in prayer? He turned the large wrought-iron handle slowly, and, not wishing to make a sound, pushed open the door and peered inside. The hall was packed, with every pupil in his place. On the stage stood the headmaster, with the rest of the staff seated behind him. George was more mystified than ever—after all, nine o’clock hadn’t yet chimed.

And then one of the boys shouted, “There he is!” and everyone in the hall rose as one and began clapping and cheering.

“Well done, sir.”

“What a triumph.”

“You’ll be first to reach the top!” someone shouted at him as he made his way down the center aisle toward the stage.

The headmaster shook George warmly by the hand and said, “We are all so very proud of you, Mallory,” then waited for the boys to resume their seats before announcing, “I will now call upon David Elkington to address assembly.”

The head boy rose from his place in the front row and walked up onto the stage. He unrolled a scroll and began to read.

“Nos, scholae Carthusianae et pueri et magistri, te Georgium Leigh Mallory salutamus. Dilectus ad ducendum agmen Britannicum super Everest, tantos honores ad omnes Carthusianos iam tribuisti. Sine dubio, O virum optime, et maiorem gloriam et honorem in scholam tuam, in universitatem tuam et ad patriam.” We, the boys and masters of Charterhouse, salute George Leigh Mallory. You have honored all Carthusians by being chosen to lead the British assault on Everest. We are in no doubt, Sir, that you will bring further glory and honor to your school, your university, and your country.

The head boy bowed before presenting the scroll to George. Once again, the whole school rose to their feet and let the senior history master know exactl

y how they felt.

George bowed his head. He preferred the lower fifth not to see him in tears.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“ALLOW ME TO welcome you as a member of the committee, Mallory,” said Sir Francis warmly. “And may I add that we are delighted you felt able to accept the role of climbing leader.”

“Hear, hear! Hear, hear!”

“Thank you, Sir Francis,” said George. “It’s a great honor to be invited to lead such a fine bunch of chaps,” he added as he took his place between Geoffrey Young and General Bruce.

“You will have read General Bruce’s report,” said Younghusband, “describing how the party will travel from Liverpool to the foothills of Everest. Perhaps you could advise the committee how you see matters proceeding once you’ve set up a base camp.”

“I’ve read General Bruce’s report with great interest, Mr. Chairman,” said George, “and I agree with his assessment that it will be thorough and detailed preparation that will determine the success or failure of this whole expedition. We must not forget that no Englishman has ever been within forty miles of Everest, let alone set up a base camp on its lower slopes.”

“Fair point,” admitted Bruce, his monocle falling from his eye, “but I am able to inform the committee that since writing my report I have had a meeting with Lord Curzon at the Foreign Office and he has assured me that he will do everything in his power to ensure a safe and swift passage across the border and into Tibet.”

“Jolly good show,” said Raeburn, flicking some ash off the end of his cigar.

“But even if we are able to cross the border without incident,” said George, “the committee must understand that no human being has ever climbed above 25,000 feet. We don’t even know if it’s possible to survive at such heights.”

“I’m bound to say, Mr. Chairman,” said Ashcroft, “that I can’t see a great deal of difference between 25,000 and 29,000 feet, don’t you know.”

“Speaking for myself, I don’t know,” said George, “because I’ve never stood at 25,000 feet, let alone 29,000. But if I ever do, commander, I’ll let you know.”

“Now, Mallory,” said Sir Francis, “as no one knows the climbing team better than you, we’d be interested to hear who you think will accompany you on the final assault.”

“I won’t be able to answer that question, Mr. Chairman, until I know who has acclimatized best to the conditions. But if I were to make a calculated guess, I’ve pencilled in Odell and Somervell”—Hinks allowed a smile to cross his face—“as the back-up team. However, I have only ever considered one man to be the obvious choice for the final climb, and that’s Finch.”