Paths of Glory

“Where’s Daddy?” demanded Clare. “Where is he now?”

Ruth put down the letter and joined her daughters on the floor so they could study the map her father had drawn for them, and follow his progress. She ran a finger across the ocean from Tilbury to Bombay, and then along a railway line, that finally came to a halt at Siliguri. She picked up the letter and continued to read it aloud to the children:

Imagine our surprise when we disembarked in Siliguri to be greeted by the sight of the Darjeeling Himalayan Railway Company’s own miniature wonder of the world. Here the meter gauge ends, to be replaced by a unique two-foot gauge, which is why it is known affectionately by the locals as the toy train.

You step into a delightful little carriage, which would be ideal for Beridge and Clare, but made me feel like Gulliver when he woke in the land of the Lilliputians. With a noise that is out of all proportion to its size, the little steam engine begins its upward journey from the foothills of Siliguri, at a mere 300 feet above sea level, to Darjeeling, 51 miles away, climbing to a height of 7,000 feet.

The children will be fascinated to learn that the gradient is so steep that a native has to sit on the front buffer of the engine so he can sprinkle sand on the tracks to make sure the wheels can grip as we climb higher and higher into the mountains.

I can’t tell you how long the journey took, because every minute was such sheer delight that I didn’t stop admiring the view even for a moment, for fear of missing some new wonder. In fact our intrepid cameraman, Captain Noel, became so infatuated by the whole experience that when we came to a halt at Tung to fill up with water—both the little engine and its passengers—he climbed up onto the roof of the carriage, from where he filmed the rest of the journey, while we mere mortals had to satisfy ourselves with looking out of the windows.

When we finally pulled into Darjeeling station after a 7-hour journey, I had only one thought: if only this little gem could transport us all the way to base camp, how much easier our lives would be. But no such luck, and within moments of our leaving the train, the familiar voice of General Bruce could be heard barking out orders as he lined up the mules and porters so we could begin the long journey into the jungle, and on to the plains of Tibet.

We have each been allocated our own pony to carry our personal possessions and equipment, and with the exception of the General we have to walk at least 20 miles a day. In the evening we try to set up camp near a river or lake if it’s at all possible, which gives us the chance to swim, and for a few glorious moments rid ourselves of the flies, mosquitoes, and leeches, which seem to prefer a diet of white men to natives.

The General has brought along his own bath, which is strapped to two mules, and every evening at around seven, half a dozen porters fill it with water that’s been heated over a wood fire. I have a photograph of our leader sitting in his bath, a cigar in one hand and a glass of brandy in the other. He clearly sees no reason to change the habits of a lifetime simply because he’s spending a few weeks in the Indian jungle.

We all dine together in the evening at a trestle table—the General sits at the top, perched on his shooting stick. Our menu rarely varies from stew and dumplings, but by the time we set up camp at the end of the day we’re far too hungry to inquire which animal has been added to the pot.

The General has brought along a dozen cases of the finest Châteauneuf-du-Pape, as well as half a dozen cases of Pol Roger, which are carried by two of the sturdiest mules in the pack. The only complaint the General voices is that he can’t keep the wine at room temperature. However, as the weather is becoming a little colder each day, it won’t be too long before he’ll be able to chill the champagne in a bath full of ice.

Everyone appears to be holding up well—a little fever and sickness are to be expected, although I seem to have escaped—so far—with just a few mosquito bites and a rather bad rash.

Three of the porters have already run away, and two of the mules have died of exhaustion—don’t tell Clare. Otherwise they all seem to be in pretty good shape. We’ve already signed up our chief Sherpa. He’s called Nyima, and not only does he speak the King’s English, but he is clearly a serious climber—barefooted.

Somervell has been a real brick, as always. Not only is he enduring the same hardships we all have to go through, but he carries out his duties as our reserve quack without ever grumbling about the extra workload. Odell is in his element, discovering new types of rock by the day. No doubt once he returns to Cambridge several volumes will be appearing on the bookshelves, not to mention the dozens of well-attended lectures he’ll be delivering.

Norton, poor man, is six foot four inches tall, so he has to have the largest mule, and still his feet touch the ground. Finch always brings up the rear of the convoy—his choice as well as ours—where he keeps a careful eye on his precious oxygen cylinders, which he is still convinced will decide the outcome of the expedition. I remain skeptical.

As we climb higher and higher, I’m monitoring how the chaps handle the conditions, and I’m already beginning to consider the composition of the individual climbing parties. Finch assumes that he’ll be the one who’s selected for the final assault on Everest, and frankly no one will be surprised if he is. Hardly a civil word has passed between him and the General since we left Bombay. However, as each day passes the “Sonia affair,” as it’s referred to by the lads, fades into blessed memory.

One of our party has turned out to be an unexpected revelation. I’ve always known that Noel was a first-class alpinist, but I had no idea what an outstanding photographer and film-maker he is. There can never have been an expedition that’s been better recorded, and as an added bonus, Noel is one of the few members of the team who speaks the local language.

One of the daily routines that Noel has been filming wouldn’t be believed unless he’d made a record of it. Morshead, who I don’t believe you’ve met, is a cartographer who, as a member of the RGS team, is responsible for producing detailed maps of the area, and one of the things he’s most assiduous about is recording distances accurately. To assist Morshead, the General has employed, at a cost of twenty rupees a day, a young Indian who is exactly six feet in height. Let me try to describe his responsibility, although you’ll be able to see it on film for yourself once we return. He lies flat on the ground while another Sherpa makes a mark in the earth at the top of his head to record the distance. The six-foot man then stands up, placing his toes behind the mark (he’s barefooted) while he repeats the entire exercise again and again, hour upon hour. That way, Morshead can measure the exact distance we cover each day—around 20 miles—which I’ve calculated means that the young man is standing up and lying down nearly 18,000 times a day. God knows he earns his twenty rupees.

My darling, it’s time to stop writing and blow out my candle. I share my little tent with Guy. It’s wonderful having an old friend on this trip, but it’s not the same as being with you…

“Where’s he reached?” demanded Clare, looking down at the map.

Ruth folded up the letter before joining Clare and Beridge on the floor again. She studied the map for a moment before pointing to a village called Chumbi. As George’s letters took six or seven weeks to reach The Holt, she could never be quite sure where he actually was. She ope

ned his latest letter.

Today we covered our usual 20 miles, and lost another mule, so we’re now down to 61. I wonder what strategic decision the General would make if we were faced with a shortage of mules and he had to choose between ditching his wine or his bath.

He has the porters on parade, standing to attention for roll call, at six every morning. This morning we were down to 37, so another one has run away; the General describes them as deserters.

While we were on our march yesterday, we came across a Buddhist monastery high in the hills. We stopped so that Noel could film it, but, the General advised us against disturbing the monks at their worship. He’s a strange combination of wisdom and bombast.

Nyima tells me that once we’ve trudged up the Jelep La, we should be setting up camp this evening at around 14,000 feet, under the peak of a mountain from which, if I were to climb it, I would have a clear view of Everest. Tomorrow is Sunday, which the General has designated as a day of rest, to allow the porters and the mules a chance to recover their strength, while some of us catch up with our reading or write home to our loved ones. I’m currently enjoying T. S. Eliot’s “ The Waste Land,” though I confess I intend to climb that mountain tomorrow if there’s the slightest chance of seeing Everest for the first time. I shall have to rise early, as Nyima estimates that the summit could be as high as 21,000 feet. I didn’t point out to the Sherpa leader that I’ve never climbed to that height before.

“What happens if Daddy isn’t allowed to cross the border?” asked Clare, plonking a thumb on the thin red line that divided India from Tibet.

“He’ll just have to turn round and come back home,” said her mother.

“Good,” said Clare.

CHAPTER FORTY