Paths of Glory (41 page)

“Good morning, sir,” said a voice behind him.

George swung around, to be greeted by Irvine’s infectious grin. “Good morning, Sandy,” he replied. “Shall we go and have some breakfast?”

“But it’s only five o’clock,” said Irvine, checking his watch. “In any case, Odell is still asleep.”

“Then wake him up,” said George. “We must be on our way by six.”

“Six?” said Irvine. “But at your final briefing yesterday evening you told us to be up in time for breakfast at eight, ready to move off at nine, because you didn’t want to spend any longer than necessary perched on a ledge at 27,000 feet.”

“Six thirty, then,” conceded George. “If Odell isn’t up by then, we’ll leave without him. And while you’re at it, young man, why don’t you do something useful for a change?”

“Like what, sir?”

“Go and make my breakfast.”

The infectious grin returned. “I can offer you sardines on biscuit, lightly grilled, sardines off the bone with raisins, or the speciality of our tent, sardines—”

“Just get on with it,” said George.

Mallory, Odell, and Irvine, accompanied by five Sherpas carrying tents, equipment, and provisions, left the North Col just after 7:30 on the morning of June 6th. Odell had missed breakfast, but he didn’t complain. Guy Bullock was the last to shake hands with George before he left. “See you in a couple of days, old friend,” he said.

“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.

S
UNDAY
, J
UNE
8
TH
, 1924

“Would you like me to remove the scarf, old chum?” asked Odell.

“Yes, please do,” said Norton.

Odell lifted the silk scarf gently off Norton’s face.

“Oh Christ, I still can’t see a thing,” said Norton.

“Don’t panic,” said Somervell. “It’s not unusual for it to take two or three days for your sight to begin to recover following a bout of snow blindness. In any case, we’re not going anywhere until Mallory comes back down.”

“It’s not down I’m worried about,” snapped Norton. “It’s up. Odell, I want you to return to Camp VI, and take a jar of Bovril and a supply of Kendal Mint Cake with you, because you can be sure that Mallory’s forgotten to pack something.”

“I’m on my way,” said Odell. He peered out of the tent. “I’ve never known better conditions for climbing.”

George woke a few minutes after four to find Irvine preparing breakfast.

“What’s on the menu for Ascension Day?” he asked as he poked his head out of the tent to check on the weather. Despite being hit by a blast of cold air that made his ears tingle, what he saw brought a smile to his face.

“Macaroni and sardines,” replied Irvine.

“An interesting combination,” said George. “But I have a feeling it won’t make the next edition of Mrs. Beeton’s cookbook.”

“I might have been able to offer you a little more choice,” said Irvine with a grin, “if you’d remembered to pack your rations.”

“I do apologize, old chap,” said George. “Mea culpa.”

“No skin off my nose,” said Irvine, “because frankly I’m far too nervous to even think about eating.” He pulled on an old flying jacket, not unlike the one George’s brother Trafford had been wearing when he’d last visited The Holt on leave. George wondered how Irvine had acquired it, because he was far too young to have served in the war.

“My housemaster’s,” explained Irvine as he did up the buttons, answering George’s unasked question.

“Stop trying to make me feel so old,” said George.

Irvine laughed. “I’ll fix up your oxygen cylinders while you’re having breakfast.”

“A couple of sardines and a short note to Odell, and I’ll be with you.”

Outside the tent, the morning sun almost blinded Irvine as it shone down from a clear blue sky.

Once George had eaten what was left of the sardines, having ignored the macaroni, he scribbled a quick note to Odell and left it on his sleeping bag. He’d have put money on Odell returning to Camp VI that day.

George had slept in four layers of clothes, and he now added a thick woolen vest and a woven silk shirt, followed by a flannel shirt and another silk shirt. He then put on a cotton Burberry jacket known as a Shackleton smock, before pulling on a pair of baggy gabardine trousers. He strapped a pair of cashmere puttees around his ankles, pulled on his boots, and slipped on a pair of woolen mittens that had been knitted by Ruth. He finally put on his brother’s leather flying cap before grabbing the latest pair of goggles, donated by Finch. He was glad there wasn’t a mirror available, although Chomolungma would have agreed that he was correctly dressed for an audience with Her Majesty.

George crawled out of the tent to join Irvine, who helped him on with a set of oxygen cylinders. Once they were strapped to his back, George wondered if the extra weight would prove more of a disadvantage than not being able to breathe regularly. But he’d made that decision when he sent Odell back. The last ritual the two men carried out was to smear zinc oxide all over the exposed parts of each other’s faces. Before setting off up the mountain they squinted at the summit, which looked so close.

“Be warned,” said George, “she’s a Jezebel. She grows even more alluring the closer you come to her, and this morning she’s even tempting us with a spell of perfect weather. But like any woman, it’s her privilege to change her mind.” He checked his watch: 5:07. He would have liked to start a little earlier. “Come on, young man,” he said. “In the words of my beloved father, it’s time to put our best foot forward.” He adjusted his mouthpiece and turned on the oxygen supply.

If only Hinks could see me now, thought Odell as he climbed the last few feet to Camp VI. When he reached the tent he fell on his knees and pulled back the flap, to encounter the sort of mess one might expect after having left two children to spend the night in a treehouse: a plate of unfinished macaroni, an empty sardine tin, and a compass that George must have left behind. Odell chuckled as he crawled in and set about tidying up. It wouldn’t have been Mallory’s tent if he hadn’t left something behind.

Odell was placing the Bovril and a couple of bars of Kendal Mint Cake on George’s sleeping bag when he spotted the two envelopes—one addressed to
Mrs. George Mallory, The Holt, Godalming, Surrey, England,
which he put in an inside pocket, and one with his own name scrawled across it. He tore the envelope open.

Dear Odell,

Awfully sorry to have left things in such a mess. Perfect weather for the job. Start looking for us either crossing the rock band or going up the skyline.

See you tomorrow.

Yours ever,

George

Odell smiled, and once he’d double-checked that everything was in place for the returning heroes, he crawled out of the tent backward, then stood and stretched his arms above his head as he looked up at the highest peak in the world. The weather was so perfect that for a moment he was even tempted to follow them, as he couldn’t help feeling a little envious of his two colleagues who must by now be approaching the summit.

And then suddenly he spotted two figures silhouetted against the skyline. As he watched, the taller of the two walked across to join the other. He could see that they were standing on the Second Step, about 600 feet from the summit. He checked his watch: 12:50. They still had more than enough time to reach the top and be back in their little tent before the last rays of sunlight disappeared.