Paths of Glory

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

March 12th, 1924

My dearest Ruth,

The long sea voyage has only served to remind me what a fine bunch of chaps I have the privilege of leading. I think too often of the sacrifices I have made, and not enough about these fine men who have been willing to join me in this capricious adventure, and what tribulations they must also have been through with their families and friends during the past two years.

Despite my initial misgivings, Sandy Irvine turns out to be a very singular fellow. Although he’s only 22, he has a shrewd northern head screwed firmly onto his broad shoulders, and the coincidence of us both hailing from Birkenhead would not be acceptable on the pages of a novel.

Of course, I’m still anxious about the fact that he’s never climbed much above 5,500 feet, but I have to admit that he is far fitter than any of us, as passengers have been able to witness at our morning PT sessions conducted by the redoubtable General Bruce. Bruce is happy enough to remain our conductor, while still having no desire to be part of the orchestra.

I must also confess that Hinks did not exaggerate Irvine’s chemistry skills. He’s quite the equal of Finch in that department, even though Norton and Odell still refuse to countenance the idea of using oxygen, let alone agreeing to strap those bulky cylinders onto their backs. Will they in the end accept that we cannot hope to reach the summit without the aid of this infernal heresy, or will they remain, in Finch’s words, blessed amateurs who must therefore fail? Only time will tell.

Our ship docked at Bombay on March 20th, and we immediately boarded the train for Darjeeling, where we selected our ponies and porters. Once again General Bruce performed miracles, and the following morning we set off on the long trek for Tibet, along with 60 ponies and more than a hundred porters. Before leaving Darjeeling on the Toy Train, we dined with Lord Lytton, the new Governor-General, and his wife, but as Finch wasn’t present there is nothing of interest to report, other than the fact that young Irvine took more than a passing interest in the Governor-General’s daughter, Lynda. Lady Lytton seemed happy to encourage him.

There was a letter awaiting me at the embassy from my sister Mary. Bit of luck her husband being posted to Ceylon, because she’ll be able to warn us in advance when the monsoon season will be upon us, as it travels across that island about ten days before it’s due to reach us.

The following morning we set off on the eighty-mile journey to the border, which passed without incident. Sadly, General Bruce caught malaria and had to return to Darjeeling. I fear we won’t see him again. He took with him his bath, a dozen boxes of cigars, and half his cases of wine and champagne-but he kindly left us with the other half, not to mention all the gifts he had so carefully selected for the Dzongpen, when we present our credentials at the border.

The General’s deputy, Lt. Col. Norton, has taken over his responsibilities. You may recall Norton as the man who held the world altitude record for twenty-four hours before Finch so rudely snatched it away from him. Although he never mentions the subject, I know Norton is keen to put the record straight, and I must admit that if only he would agree to using oxygen once we have reached 27,000 feet, he would be the obvious choice to accompany me to the summit. However, Somervell is wavering when it comes to oxygen, so he may well turn out to be the alternative, as I wouldn’t consider attempting the last 2,000 feet with Odell again.

We sailed across the border on this occasion, even if we were all wearing our oldest boots and watches picked up cheaply in Bombay. However, we were still able to shower the Dzongpen with gifts from Harrods, Fortnum’s, Davidoff, and Lock’s, including a black opera cane mounted with a silver head of the King, which I assured him was a personal gift from His Majesty.

We were all taken by surprise when the Dzongpen told us how disappointed he was to learn that General Bruce had been taken ill, as he had been looking forward to seeing his old friend again. I couldn’t help noticing that he was wearing the General’s half-hunter and chain, even if there was no sign of my Old Wykehamist tie.

This morning as we passed over Pang La, the clouds suddenly lifted and we saw the commanding heights of Chomolungma dominating the skyline ahead of us. Once again, her sheer beauty took my breath away. A wise man would surely resist her alluring charms and immediately turn back, but like Euripides’ sirens, she draws one toward her rocky and treacherous terrain.

As we climbed higher and higher, I kept a watchful eye on Irvine, who appears to have acclimatized to the conditions as well as any of us. But then, I sometimes forget that he’s sixteen years younger than I am.

This morning, with Everest in the background, we held a service in memory of Nyima and the other six Sherpas who lost their lives on the last expedition. We must reach the summit this time, if for no other reason than to honor their memory.

I only wish Nyima was standing by my side now, because I would not hesitate to invite him to join me on the final climb, as it must surely be right that a Sherpa is the first person to stand on top of his own mountain. Not to mention that it would be the sweetest revenge on Hinks after his Machiavellian behavior on the night of the memorial lecture. But sadly a Sherpa will not reach the top on this occasion, as I have searched among his countrymen and have not found Nyima’s equal.

We finally arrived at base camp on April 29th, and to be fair to Hinks-something I’ve never found easy-everything I requested has been put in place. This time we will not be wasting precious days erecting and dismantling camps and continually moving equipment up and down the mountain. I’ve been assured by Mr. Hazard (an unfortunate name for someone with the responsibility of organizing our daily lives) that Camp III has already been established at 21,000 feet, with eleven of the finest Sherpas awaiting our arrival under the command of Guy Bullock.

One must never forget that it’s Noel’s £8,000 that has made all this possible, and he’s filming anything and everything that moves. The final documentary of this expedition will surely rival “Birth of a Nation.”

I am writing this letter in my little tent at base camp. In a few minutes’ time I will be joining my colleagues for dinner, and Norton will hand over the responsibility of command to me. I will then brief the team on my plans for the ascent of Everest. And so, my dearest, the great adventure begins once again. I am much more confident about our chances this time. But as soon as I conquer my magnificent obsession, I shall press a button, and moments later I will be standing by your side. From this you will gather that I am currently re-reading H. G. Wells’s “The Time Machine.” Even if I can’t press his mythical button, I will nevertheless return as quickly as humanly possible, as I have no desire to be away from you a moment longer than necessary. As I promised, I still intend to leave your photograph on the summit…

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

AND THEN THERE were eight.

“Gentlemen, His Majesty the King,” said Lieutenant Colonel Norton as he rose from his place at the head of the table and raised his tin mug.

The rest of the team immediately stood up and, as one, said, “The King.”

“Please remain standing,” said George. “Gentlemen, Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.” The team raised their mugs a second time. Outside the tent, the Sherpas fell flat on the ground, facing the mountain.

“Gentlemen,” said George, “you may smoke.”

The team resumed their places and began to light cigars and pass the port decanter around the table. A few minutes later George stood up again, tapped his glass with a spoon.

“Allow me to begin, gentlemen, by saying how sorry we all are that General Bruce is unable to be with us on this occasion.”

“Hear, hear. Hear, hear.”

“And how grateful we are to him for the fine wine he has bequeathed to us, which we have enjoyed this evening. Let us hope that in time, God willing, we will have good reason to uncork his champagne.”

“Hear, hear. Hear, hear.”

“Thanks to General Bruce’s foresight and diligence, we have been left with only one task, that of finally taming this monster so that we can all return home and begin leading normal lives. Let me make it absolutely clear from the outset that I haven’t yet decided the composition of the two teams that will join me for the final ascent.

“One aspect that will not differ from the previous expedition is that I will be keeping a close eye on each one of you, until I decide who has best acclimatized to the conditions. With that in mind, I expect all of you to be up and ready to leave by six o’clock tomorrow morning, in order that we can reach 19,000 feet by midday, and still return to base camp by sunset.”

“Why come back down,” asked Irvine, “when we’re trying to get to the top as quickly as possible?”

“Not as quickly as possible,” said George, smiling when he realized just how inexperienced young Sandy Irvine was. “Even you will take a little time to become acclimatized to new heights. The golden rule,” he added, “is climb high, sleep low. When we’ve become fully acclimatized,” he continued, “it’s my intention to move on to 23,000 feet, and set up Camp IV on the North Col. Once we’ve bedded in, we will move on and establish Camp V at 25,000 feet, and Camp VI around 27,000 feet, from where the final assault will be launched.” George paused for some time before he delivered his next sentence. “I want all of you to know that whoever I invite to join me will be part of the team making the second attempt on the summit, as I intend to allow two of my colleagues the first opportunity to make history. Should the first team fail, my partner and I will make our attempt the following day. I feel sure that every one of us has the same desire, to be the first to place his foot on the brow of Chomolungma. However, it’s only fair to let you know, gentlemen, that it’s going to be me.”

This was greeted by the whole team with laughter and banging of mugs on the table. When the noise had died down, George invited questions.

“Is it your intention to use oxygen for the second attempt on the summit?” asked Norton.

“Yes it is,” replied George. “I’ve reluctantly come to the conclusion that Finch was right, and that we cannot hope to scale the last 2,000 feet without the aid of oxygen.”

“Then I’ll have to make sure I’m in the first party,” said Norton, “and prove you wrong. It’s a shame, really, Mallory, because that means I’ll be the first man to stand on top of Everest.”

This was greeted with even louder cheers, and more banging of mugs on the table.

“If you manage that, Norton,” retorted George, “I’ll abandon the use of oxygen the following day, and climb to the top in my bare feet.”

“That will be of little significance,” said Norton, raising his mug to George, “because no one will remember the name of the second man to climb Everest.”

“Howzat!”

“Not out.”

Mallory wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, or if he really had just heard the sound of leather on willow. He stuck his head out of the tent to see that a square of snow in the Himalaya had been transformed into an English village cricket pitch.

Two ice axes had been planted in the snow twenty-two yards apart, serving as stumps. Odell, ball in hand, was bowling to Irvine. Mallory only needed to watch a few deliveries to realize that bat was on top of ball. It amused him to see the Sherpas standing around in little huddles, chatting among themselves, clearly puzzled by the English at play, while Noel filmed the event as if it were a Test Match.

Mallory crawled out of his tent and strolled across to join Norton behind the stumps, taking up his place at first slip.

“Irvine’s not at all bad,” said Norton. “The lad’s only a few runs off his half century.”

“How long has he been at the crease?” asked Mallory.

“Best part of thirty minutes.”

“And he’s still able to run between the wickets?”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem. He must have lungs like bellows. But then, you have to remember, Mallory, he does have at least fifteen years on the rest of us.”

“Wake up, skipper,” shouted Odell as the ball shot past Mallory’s right hand.

“Sorry, Odell, my mistake,” said Mallory. “I wasn’t concentrating.”

Irvine hit the next ball for four, bringing up his fifty, which was greeted with warm applause.

“I’ve seen enough of this bloody Oxford man,” said Guy Bullock as he took over the bowling from Odell.

Guy’s first effort was a little short, and Irvine dispatched it to the boundary for another four runs. But his second sizzled off an icy patch, caught the edge of Irvine’s bat and George, falling to his right, took the ball one-handed.

“Well caught, skipper,” said Guy. “Pity you didn’t turn up a little earlier.”

“All right, chaps, let’s get moving,” said Mallory. “I want to be out of here in half an hour.”

Suddenly the pitch was deserted, as the village cricketers reverted to seasoned mountaineers.

Thirty minutes later nine climbers and twenty-three Sherpas were all ready to move. Mallory waved his right arm like a traffic policeman, and set off at a pace that would soon sort out those who would be unlikely to survive at greater heights.

One or two Sherpas fell by the wayside, dropping their loads in the snow and retreating down the mountain. However, none of the climbing party seemed to be in trouble, with Irvine continually dogging his leader’s footsteps despite having two large oxygen cylinders strapped to his back.

Mallory was puzzled because he didn’t seem to have a mouthpiece attached. He beckoned the young man to join him. “You won’t be needing oxygen, Irvine,” he said, “until we reach at least 25,000 feet.”

Irvine nodded. “I was hoping not to use one precious ounce of the stuff until at least 27,000 feet, but if I’m lucky enough to be selected to join you for the final climb, I want to become accustomed to the extra weight. You see, I’m planning to be sitting on top,” he said, pointing to the peak, “waiting for you to join me. After all,” he added, “it’s nothing more than the duty of an Oxford man to hammer a tab whenever possible.”

George gave a slight bow. “Fix me up with two of your cylinders tomorrow,” he said. “It’s not just getting used to the extra weight that’s important, but once we have to tackle sheer rock faces and sheets of ice, even the slightest shift of balance could prove fatal.”

After a couple of hours, George allowed the team a short break to enjoy a digestive biscuit and a mug of tea before setting off again. The weather couldn’t have been more conducive to climbing, apart from a brief shower of snow that wouldn’t have distracted a child building a snowman, and they maintained a steady pace. George wondered just how long the weather would remain so docile.

He prayed. His prayers were not answered.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

May 17th, 1924

My dearest Ruth,

Disaster. Nothing has gone right for the past two weeks. The weather has been so foul that there have been days when the relentless heavy snow has made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of your nose.

Norton, always as brave as a lion, somehow managed to reach 23,400 feet, where he and Somervell set up Camp IV and spent the night. However, the following day the two of them only just made it back to Camp III before nightfall. It took them over eight hours of downhill trekking into the driving snow to cover 2,400 ft. Think about it-that’s an average speed of 100 yards an hour, a distance Harold Abrahams covered in 9.6 seconds.

The following day Odell, Bullock, and I reached 25,300 feet and somehow managed to pitch Camp V on an icy ledge. But after spending the night there, the weather gave us no choice but to return to Camp III. When we arrived, Dr. Hingston greeted me with the news that one of the Sherpas had broken his leg, while another had suspected pneumonia. I didn’t bother to tell him that my ankle’s been playing up again. Guy and Odell kindly volunteered to accompany the walking wounded down to base camp, from where they were escorted back to their villages.

When Guy returned the following day, he reported that our cobbler had died of frostbite, a Gurkha NCO had developed a blood clot on the brain, and twelve more Sherpas had run away; on the equivalent of less than a shilling a week, who could blame them? Apparently morale at base camp is pretty low. What do they imagine it’s like up here?

Norton and Somervell finally reached the North Col after three more attempts, and even managed to set up camp despite the temperature being minus twenty-four degrees. But when they were on their way back down, four of the Sherpas lost their nerve and fearing an avalanche returned to spend a second night on the North Col.

The following morning, Norton, Somervell, and I mounted a rescue party, and somehow managed to reach the Sherpas and bring them back to the relative safety of Camp III. My bet is that we’ve seen the last of them.

If that wasn’t enough, our meteorologist informed me over breakfast this morning that, in his opinion, the monsoon will soon be upon us. However, he did remind me that, last time, the monsoon was preceded by three days of clear skies. It’s hardly a pattern one can rely on, but it didn’t stop me from offering up a prayer to whichever god is in charge of the weather.

George should have seen it coming, but he had been so preoccupied with the desire to be given one more chance that he had failed to notice what was taking place around him. That was until Norton called a council of war.

“I think it would be wise, given the circumstances, gentlemen,” said Norton, “for us to cut our losses and turn back now, before we lose anyone else.”

“I don’t agree,” said George immediately. “If we were to do that, we would have sacrificed six months of our lives, with nothing to show for it.”

“At least we would live to fight another day,” said Somervell.

“None of us is going to be given the opportunity to fight another day,” said George tersely. “This is our last chance, Somervell, and you know it.”

Somervell was momentarily stunned by the vehemence of Mallory’s words, and it was some time before he responded. “But at least we’d be alive,” he managed.

“That’s not my idea of living,” responded George. Before anyone had a chance to offer an opinion, he turned to his oldest friend and asked, “How would you feel about turning back, Guy?”

Bullock didn’t respond immediately, though the rest of the team waited for his reply.

“I’m still willing to back your judgment, George,” he finally said, “and to hang about for a few more days to see if the weather breaks.”

“Me too,” said Irvine. “But then, I have no qualms about turning back either. After all, I’m the only one here young enough to fight another day.”

The rest of the team burst out laughing, which helped to ease the tension.

“Why don’t we give it another week before we decide to shut up shop?” suggested Odell. “If the weather hasn’t improved by then, perhaps we should admit defeat and return home.”

George looked around the group to find his colleagues nodding. He recalled A. C. Benson’s sage advice: “When you know you’re beaten, give in gracefully.”

“So be it,” said George. “We’ll stick it out for another seven days, and if the weather doesn’t improve, Norton will resume command and we’ll return to England.”

George felt he had won the day-or to be more accurate, seven days. But would that be enough?

May 29th, 1924

So, unless the weather turns on its head in the next few days, you can expect me back in England toward the end of August, or the beginning of September at the latest.

Please thank Clare for her wonderful poem-Rupert Brooke would have been proud of her-and Beridge for her drawing of a cat, or was it a dog?-not to mention John’s good wishes, short but appreciated.

I’m glad that you’ve found time to visit Cambridge and start looking for a home, and thanks for the warning that it gets very cold in the Fens at this time of the year.

My dearest, I’m looking forward to starting the new job, and to sleeping in a bed with a woman I want to hold, and not a man I have to cling on to just to stay alive. When I return home this time, there will be no crowds at the dockside to welcome Mallory of Everest, just a young lady waiting for a middle-aged man who is looking forward to spending the rest of his life with the woman he loves.

Your loving husband,

George

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

AND THEN THERE were five.

George was having breakfast on a clear, windless morning, when a Sherpa arrived from base camp and handed him the cable. He tore it open, read its contents slowly, and smiled as he considered its implications. He glanced at Norton, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside him.

“Could we have a word, old chap?”

“Yes, of course,” said Norton, putting aside his sliced ham and tongue.

“I’m going to ask you one last time,” said George. “If I were to offer you the chance to partner me on the final climb, would you be willing to consider the use of oxygen?”

“No, I would not,” said Norton firmly.

“So be it,” said George quietly, accepting that no amount of further discussion on the subject was going to persuade Norton to change his mind. “In that case, you will lead the first assault, without oxygen. If you succeed…”

“Gentlemen,” George said, after calling the team together, “I’m sorry to interrupt your breakfast, but I’ve just received a message from my sister in Colombo.” He looked down at Mary’s cable. “One week, possibly ten days of good weather before monsoon season upon you. Good luck.” Mallory looked up. “We don’t have a moment to waste. I’ve had a good deal of time to consider my options, and I will now share my thoughts with you. I’ve selected two teams for the attempts on the summit. The first will be Norton and Somervell. They will set out in an hour’s time, and attempt to reach Camp V, at 25,300 feet, by nightfall. Tomorrow they will have to rise early if they hope to skirt the North-East Ridge, establish Camp VI at around 27,000 feet, and be bedded down before the sun sets. They will have to grab as many hours of sleep as possible, because on the following morning they will have to make the first attempt on the summit. Any questions, gentlemen?”

Both Norton and Somervell shook their heads. They had spent the past month endlessly discussing every possible scenario. Now all they wanted to do was get on with it.

“Meanwhile, the rest of the team,” Mallory said, “will just have to sit around twiddling their thumbs while we wait for the return of the conquering heroes.”

“And if they fail?” asked Irvine with a grin.

“Then you and I, Sandy, will make the second attempt using oxygen.”

“And if we succeed?” asked Norton.

Mallory gave the old soldier a wry smile. “In that case, Odell and I will make the second ascent without the aid of oxygen.”

“In your bare feet, remember,” added Somervell.

While the rest of the team laughed, Mallory gave his two colleagues a slight bow. He waited for a moment before he spoke again.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is not the occasion on which to make a speech about what being the first man to stand on the top of this mountain would mean to our fellow countrymen throughout the Empire, or to dwell on the possible garlands that would be placed on our heads. There will be time enough to sit at the bar of the Alpine Club and bore young climbers with tales of our past glories, but for now, if we are to succeed, we cannot afford to waste a precious moment. So good luck, gentlemen, and Godspeed.”

Thirty minutes later, Norton and Somervell were fully equipped and ready. Mallory, Odell, Irvine, Bullock, Morshead, and Hingston were standing in line to see them off, while Noel went on filming them until they were out of sight. He didn’t see Mallory look up to the heavens and say, “Just give me one more week, and I’ll never ask you for anything else again.”

George matched Norton and Somervell stride for stride as he sat alone in his tent. He regularly checked his watch, trying to imagine what height his two colleagues would have reached.

After a prolonged lunch of macaroni and prunes with the rest of the team, George returned to his tent. He wrote his daily letter to Ruth, and another to Trafford-Wing Commander Mallory: another man interested in reaching great heights. He then translated a few lines of The Iliad, and later managed a round of bridge against Odell and Irvine, with Guy as his partner. After the last rubber was decided, Odell dug out a tin of bully beef from rations and, once it had thawed over a candle, divided the contents into four portions. Later, all the remaining members of the climbing party sat and watched the moon replace the sun, which had flickered across the snow on what had turned out to be a perfect day for climbing. They all had only one thought on their minds, but no one spoke of it-where were they?

George climbed-the only climbing he managed that day-back into his sleeping bag just before eleven o’clock, exhausted by hour upon hour of doing nothing. He fell into a deep sleep, wondering if he would live to regret allowing Norton and Somervell the first crack at the summit. Would he be returning to England in a week’s time having captained the winning team, only to be forever reminded of Norton’s words, No one will remember the name of the second man to climb Everest?

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.

“How many times have you warned us never to do that, in any circumstances?” said Norton as he removed the arm that was covering his eyes. “By the time I replaced them, my eyelids had almost frozen together and I couldn’t see a pace in front of me. I called out to alert Somervell, he yodelled to let me know where he was, and I slowly made my way back down to join him.”

“Some glee club,” said Somervell, attempting a smile. “With the aid of my torch we were able to make our way back down, if somewhat slowly.”

“Thank God for Somervell,” said Norton as Odell placed a handkerchief that he’d soaked in warm water over his eyes.

It was some time before either man spoke again. Norton drew a deep breath. “I don’t believe that there’s ever been a better example of the blind leading the blind.”

This time George did laugh. “So what height did you reach?”

“I’ve no idea, old man,” Norton said, and passed his altimeter to Mallory.

George studied the altimeter for a moment before he announced, “Twenty-eight thousand one hundred and twenty-five feet. Many congratulations, old chap.”

“For failing to climb the final 880 feet?” said Norton, sounding desperately disappointed.

“No. For making history,” said George, “because you’ve regained the altitude record. I can’t wait to see Finch’s face when I tell him.”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” said Norton, “but Finch would be the first to remind me that I should have listened to him and agreed to use oxygen.” He paused before adding, “If this weather holds, I expect to be nothing more than a footnote in history, because, if you’ll forgive the cliché, old fellow, you should walk it.”

George smiled, but made no comment.

Somervell added, “I agree with Norton. Frankly, the best thing you, Odell, and Irvine can do is make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

George nodded, and although they had all been together for over three months, he shook hands with both his colleagues before returning to his own tent to try to capture that good night’s sleep.

He might even have succeeded if one of Norton’s remarks hadn’t remained constantly on his mind: If this weather holds…

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

AND THEN THERE were three.

George rose long before dawn to witness a full moon glistening on the snow, making it look like a lawn of finely cut diamonds. Despite the temperature being minus thirty degrees, he felt a warm glow, and a confidence that they would succeed, even if he hadn’t made up his mind who they would be.

Did he really need to bother with oxygen after Norton and Somervell had come so close? And hadn’t Odell proved to be better acclimatized than either of them? Or would Odell once again fall by the wayside just when the prize was within his grasp? Would Irvine’s inexperience become a liability when they stepped into uncharted territory? Or perhaps his enthusiasm, supported by those blessed oxygen cylinders, would be the only thing that would guarantee success?

“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.

“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.

He couldn’t stop himself from leaping up and down with joy as he watched them stride into a cloud of mist, and disappear from sight.

Once Irvine had reached the top of the Second Step, he clambered over a jagged piece of rock and joined George.

“We’ve got about another 600 feet to go,” said George, checking his altimeter. “But remember, that’s equivalent to at least a mile, and without oxygen Norton could only manage about 125 feet an hour. So it could take us another three hours,” he added between breaths, “which means we can’t afford to waste any time, because when we start back down that rock face later this afternoon,” he said, pointing upward, “I want to be sure I can still see several feet in front of me.”

As George replaced his mouthpiece, Irvine gave him the thumbs-up sign. Then they began the slow trek along a ridgeline no man had ever trodden before.

CHAPTER SIXTY

WHEN GEORGE LOOKED up again, it appeared as if the peak was within touching distance, despite the altimeter warning him that they still had over 300 feet to climb. So breathtakingly close, even if it had taken far longer than he had bargained for.

Once they had conquered the Second Step, the two of them chipped, pushed and pulled their way slowly up the narrow northeast ridgeline, aware that the snow on either side of them was like the eaves of a roof, with nothing below but air. They would only have to stray a few feet either way, and…

The inviting-looking fresh, untrodden snow had turned out to be two feet deep, making it almost impossible to take a step forward, and when they did, their feet only advanced a few inches before sinking once again into the snow.

Two hundred and eleven steps later-George counted every one of them-and they were finally released from the snowdrift, only to be confronted by a sheer rock face that would have been a challenge for him on a warm summer’s morning at 3,000 feet, let alone when his body was soaked with sweat, his limbs almost frozen, and he was so exhausted that all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep, even though he knew that at minus forty degrees, if he was to stay still for more than a few moments, he would freeze to death.

George even considered turning back while there was still a good chance that they would be safely under canvas before sunset. But then he would have had to spend the rest of his life explaining why he’d let the prize slip from his grasp at the last moment and, worse, when he fell asleep, each night he would dream of climbing those last 300 feet, only to wake from the nightmare in a cold sweat.

He turned around to see an exhausted Irvine pulling his foot out of the snow, only to stare in disbelief at the rock face that stood in front of them. For a moment George hesitated. Did he have the right to risk Irvine’s life as well as his own? Should he, even now, suggest that the young man turn back while he went on alone, or rest and wait for him to return? He banished the thought from his mind. After all, Irvine had surely earned the right to share the spoils of triumph with him. George removed his mouthpiece and said, “We’re nearly there, old chap. This rock will be the last obstacle before we reach the top.” Irvine gave him a thin smile.

George turned around to face a vertical rock, covered with ice that never melted from one year to the next. He searched for somewhere he could gain a toehold. Normally, he would place his first step at about eighteen inches, perhaps even two feet, but not today, when a few inches would prove a mountain in itself. With a trembling hand he grasped a ledge inches above his head and pulled himself slowly up. He lifted a boot and searched for a foothold so he could raise his other arm and progress a few more inches on the vertical journey to the top of the rock. He tried not to think what it was going to be like on the way down. His brain screamed turn back, but the heart whispered carry on.

Forty minutes later, he heaved himself up onto the top of the rock and pulled the rope taut to make his colleague’s task a little easier. Once Irvine had clambered up to join him, George checked the altimeter: 112 feet left to climb. He looked up, this time to be faced with a sheet of ice that had built up over the years into a cornice overhanging the East Face, which would have prevented even a four-legged animal with spiked hooves from progressing any further.

George was trying to secure a foothold when a flash of lightning struck the mountain below him, followed moments later by a clap of thunder. He assumed they were about to be engulfed by a storm, but as he looked down, he realized that they were far above the tempest, must have been venting its fury on his colleagues some 2,000 feet below them. It was the first time George had viewed a storm from above, and he could only hope that by the time they descended it would have moved on, leaving in its wake the still, clear air that so often follows such anger.

Once again, George lifted his boot and tried to gain some purchase on the ice. The surface immediately cracked, and his heel skidded back down the slope. He almost laughed. Could things get any worse? He thrust his axe into the ice in front of him. This time it didn’t crack quite so easily, but when it did, he placed a foot in the hole. It still slithered back a few inches. He didn’t laugh when he recalled the saying, two paces forward, one pace back. He was now having to satisfy himself with one foot forward, six inches back. After a dozen such steps, the narrow ridge became even thinner until he had to fall on all fours and begin crawling. He didn’t look to his left or right, because he knew that on both sides of him was a sheer drop of several hundred feet. Look up, ignore everything around you, and battle on. Another yard forward, another half yard back. Just how much could the body endure? Then, suddenly, he felt solid rock below him, and was able to climb out of the bed of ice and stand on rough, stony ground only 50, perhaps 60 feet from the summit. He turned around to see an exhausted Irvine still on his hands and knees.

“Only 50 feet to go!” he shouted, as he untied the rope so that both men could continue at their own pace.

It was another twenty minutes before George Leigh Mallory placed a hand, his right hand, on the summit of Everest. He pulled himself slowly up onto the top and lay flat on his stomach. “Hardly a moment of triumph,” was his first thought. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and then, with a supreme effort, he somehow managed to stand up. The first man to stand on top of the earth.

He looked across the Himalaya, admiring a view no man had ever seen before. He wanted to leap up and down with joy and shout triumphantly at the top of his voice, but he had neither the energy nor the breath to do so. Instead he turned a slow circle; the biting wind, which seemed to come at him from every direction did not allow him to move any faster. A myriad of unconquered mountains stood proudly around him, heads bowed in the presence of their monarch.

A strange thought crossed his mind. He must remember to tell Clare that the top of Everest was about the same size as their dining-room table.

George checked his watch: 3:36 P.M. He tried to convince himself that they had more than enough time to return to the safety of their little tent at Camp VI, especially if it turned out to be a clear night with no wind.

He looked back down to see Irvine moving ever closer, even if it was at a snail’s pace. Would he falter at the last step? Then, like a child who couldn’t yet walk, Irvine crawled up onto the summit.

Once George had helped him to his feet, he fumbled around in the pocket of his Shackleton smock, only hoping that he hadn’t forgotten what he was looking for. His fingers were so numb with cold that he nearly dropped his Vest Pocket camera over the side. Once he’d steadied himself, he took a photograph of Irvine, arms held high above his head as if he’d just won the boat race. He passed the Kodak to his companion, who took a photo of him trying to look as if he’d been for a bracing walk in the Welsh hills.

George checked his watch again, and frowned. He pointed firmly down the mountain. Irvine placed the camera in a trouser pocket and buttoned up the proof of what they had achieved.

George was about to take the first step back down, when he recalled his promise to Ruth. With heavy, ice-covered fingers, he clumsily pulled out his wallet and extracted the sepia photograph that he always took with him on every trip. He gave his wife one last look and smiled, before placing her image on the highest point on earth. He put his hand back in his pocket and began rummaging around.

“The King of England sends his compliments, ma’am,” he said, giving a bow, “and hopes that you will grant his humble subjects safe passage back to their homeland.”

George smiled. George cursed.

He’d forgotten to bring Geoffrey Young’s sovereign.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

WHEN ODELL ARRIVED back at Camp IV, he was unable to conceal his excitement. He crawled into Norton’s tent and told him what he’d seen.

“About 600 feet from the summit, you say?” said Norton, still lying flat on his back.

“Yes,” said Odell, “I’m certain of it. They were standing on the Second Step when I saw one of them walk toward the other before going strong for the top.”

“Then nothing should stop them now,” said Bullock as he placed a fresh warm cloth over Norton’s eyes.

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Somervell. “But I still think it would be wise for Odell to write down the details of everything he saw while they’re fresh in his mind. It might turn out to be significant when the history of the expedition is written.”

Odell crawled across to his rucksack and took out his diary. He sat in a corner of the tent and for the next twenty minutes wrote down everything he had witnessed that morning. Exactly where he’d seen the two figures, the time at which they continued up the mountain, and the fact that they appeared to be in no difficulty as they disappeared into the mist. When he’d finished, he checked his watch: 6:58 P.M. Were Mallory and Irvine safely back in their tent at Camp VI, having stood on top of the earth?

Once they’d roped up, George’s first thought as he stepped off the summit of Everest was to wonder how long his oxygen would last. Irvine had joked about them not taking more than eight hours, but they must surely be approaching that deadline. His second thought was to wonder how many hours were left in the sun’s rays, because that was something you couldn’t alter with the twiddling of a valve. Finally, he hoped it would be a clear night, which would allow the moon to accompany them on the last steps of their journey home.

He was surprised to find that once they had attained the prize, the rush of adrenaline had deserted him, and all he had left was the will to survive.

After covering a mere 50 feet, George wanted to sit down and rest, but with his body so fatigued and racked with pain, he knew that if he closed his eyes even for a moment, he might never open them again.

He jabbed his ice axe into the cracked surface, took a step backward, and immediately felt the rope tighten. Irvine must be finding the journey down even more difficult than he was, if that was possible. George tentatively placed his left foot back onto the icy slope that was now even more treacherous than before. He tried to take advantage of the finger and toe-holds he’d left behind on the way up, but they were already icing over. Despite losing his balance and falling on his backside several times, he managed to keep moving until he had safely reached the patch of stony ground, only to find himself once again standing above a sheer icy rock face, this time looking down. George knew that this would be the most dangerous part of the climb, and he had to assume that Irvine was in an even worse state than he was. If either of them made the slightest error, they would both tumble to their deaths. He turned to his companion and smiled. For the first time, Irvine did not return his smile.

George gripped the top of the rock with both hands and slowly lowered himself a few inches, searching for the slightest indentation that might secure a toehold. Once his toe had found a step, he lowered his other leg. Suddenly he felt the rope go slack. He looked up to see that Irvine had lost his grip on an icy ledge, and was falling backward. His body passed George a moment later.

George knew that he couldn’t hope to cling on to an icy, vertical rock face while the six-foot-two-inch, 220-pound man to whom he was roped was falling through the air. An instant later he was pulled off the rock. He didn’t even have a chance to think about death as he followed Irvine down, down, down…

A second later, they both landed in the two feet of thick snow that had so bedeviled them on the way up, and which now acted as a cushion to save their lives. After a brief, stunned silence, they both began laughing, like two naughty schoolboys who’d fallen out of a tree and were buried in Christmas snow.

George rose slowly and checked his limbs. He stood unsteadily, pleased to see Irvine already on his feet. The two men collapsed into each other’s arms, and George began slapping his young colleague on the back. He finally released him and gave Irvine the thumbs-up before once again setting off down the mountain.

George knew nothing was going to stop him now.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

WHEN ODELL ROSE at five the following morning, the first thing he saw was Noel setting up his tripod on a small, flat ridge. The massive lens of his camera was pointing in the direction of Camp VI, ready to roll at the slightest sign of life. A moment later, Norton crawled out to join them.

“Good morning, Odell,” he said cheerfully. “I confess that for the moment you’re no more than a blur, but at least I can tell the difference between you and Noel-just.”

“That’s good news,” said Noel, “because I hope it won’t be too long before we see George and Sandy coming over the skyline.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Norton. “Mallory’s never been an early riser, and I expect young Irvine will still be fast asleep.”

“I can’t hang around waiting for them any longer,” said Odell. “I’m going up to cook them some breakfast, and then I’ll escort them back down in triumph.”

“Before you leave, old man,” said Noel, “once you get up there would you do something for me?” Odell turned to face him. “Could you drag their sleeping bags out of the tent and lay them side by side in the snow, and then we’ll know they reached the summit?”

“And if they didn’t?” He paused. “Or worse?”

“Place the bags in the sign of a cross,” said Noel quietly.

Odell nodded, pulled on his rucksack and began the climb back to Camp VI for the second time in three days. But this time the weather was becoming worse by the minute. Within moments he was battling against a savage wind that was whipping down the valley, a clear warning that within hours the monsoon would be upon them. He kept looking up anxiously, hoping to see his two triumphant colleagues on their way down.

As he came closer and closer to Camp VI, he tried to dismiss from his mind the thought that they might have come to any harm. But when he finally spotted the small tent, it was covered in a layer of fresh snow, with no telltale footprints in sight, and its green canvas flapping in the wind.

Odell attempted to quicken his pace, but it was pointless, because his heavy boots just sank deeper and deeper into the fresh snow until it felt as if he was treading water. He finally gave up, fell on his knees and began to crawl the last few feet toward the tent. He poked his head inside and took off his goggles, hoping to see an untidy mess left by two exhausted men who were fast asleep. But in truth, he already knew that was wishful thinking. He stared in disbelief. Odell would tell his friends for many years to come that it was like looking at a still-life painting. The sleeping bags had not been slept in, the jar of Bovril was unopened, and the bars of Kendal Mint Cake had not been unwrapped, while beside them stood a candle that had not been relit.

Odell put on his goggles and backed out of the tent. He pushed himself up off his knees and looked up toward the mountain peak, but could no longer see more than a few feet in front of him. He screamed, “George! Sandy!” at the top of his voice, but the lashing wind and drifting snow beat his words back. He kept on shouting until his voice was just a whimper and he could barely hear himself above the noise of the gale. He finally gave up, but not until he accepted that his own life was in danger. He crawled back toward the tent, and reluctantly pulled out one sleeping bag and placed it on the side of the mountain.

“Someone’s dragging out one of the sleeping bags,” announced Noel.

“What’s the message?” cried Norton.

“Not sure yet. Ah, he’s dragging the other one out now.”

Noel focused on the moving figure.

“Is it George?” shouted Norton, looking hopefully up the mountain, a hand shielding his eyes from the driving snow. Noel didn’t reply. He just bowed his head.

Somervell shuffled across the ridge as quickly as he could, and took Noel’s place behind the camera. He peered through the viewfinder.

The whole lens was filled with the sign of a cross.