Paths of Glory

1922
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

GEORGE KNEW THE moment he stepped on board the SS Caledonia at Tilbury that he was embarking on a journey for which he had been preparing all his life.

The climbing team spent the five-week sea voyage to Bombay getting better acquainted, improving their fitness, and learning how to work together as a unit. Every morning for an hour before breakfast they would run circuits around the deck, with Finch always setting the pace. Occasionally George’s ankle would play up a little, but he didn’t admit it, even to himself. After breakfast he would lie out on the deck reading John Maynard Keynes’s The Economic Consequences of the Peace, but not until he’d written his daily letter to Ruth.

Finch gave a couple of lectures on the use of oxygen at high altitudes. The team dutifully disassembled and reassembled the thirty-two-pound oxygen sets, strapped them on each other’s backs, and adjusted the valves that regulated the amount of gas released. Few of them seemed enthusiastic. George watched intently. There wasn’t any doubt that Finch knew what he was talking about, although most of the team disapproved of the idea of using oxygen on principle. Norton said that the sheer weight of the cylinders would surely nullify any advantage their contents might have to offer.

“What proof do you have, Finch, that we’ll need these infernal contraptions to get to the summit?” he demanded.

“None,” admitted Finch. “But should you find yourself at 27,000 feet and unable to progress any further, perhaps you’ll end up being grateful for one of these infernal contraptions.”

“I’d rather turn back,” said Somervell.

“And fail to reach the summit?” queried Finch.

“If that’s the price, so be it,” said Odell adamantly.

Although George was also against the idea of using oxygen, he didn’t offer an opinion. After all, he wouldn’t be expected to make a decision if Finch was proved wrong. His thoughts were interrupted by an unmistakable bark of, “Time for PT, chaps.”

The team clambered to their feet and formed three orderly lines in front of General Bruce, who stood with his hands on his hips and his feet firmly on the ground, evidently having no intention of leading by example.

After an hour of furious exercise the General disappeared below deck for his morning snifter, leaving the rest of the team to their own devices. Norton and Somervell began a game of deck tennis, while Odell settled down to read E. F. Benson’s latest novel. George and Guy sat cross-legged on the deck, chatting about the possibility of a Cambridge man winning the hundred meters dash at the Paris Olympics.

“I’ve seen Abrahams run at Fenners,” said George. “He’s good, damned good, but Somervell tells me there’s a Scot called Liddell who’s never lost a race in his life, so it will be interesting to see what happens when they come up against each other.”

“We’ll be back well in time to find out which of them wins gold. In fact,” added Guy with a grin, “it will be a good excuse to return to-oh my God.” Guy was looking over George’s shoulder. “What’s he up to now?”

George swung around to see Finch standing with his arms folded, feet apart, staring up at the ship’s funnels, which were belching out clouds of black smoke.

“Surely he can’t be considering…”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said George. “He’d do anything to be one up on the rest of the team.”

“I don’t think he gives a damn about the rest of the team.” said Guy. “It’s only you he wants to beat.”

“In which case,” replied George, “I’d better have a word with the captain.”

George told Ruth in one of his daily letters that he and Finch were like two children, always striving to outdo each other to gain teacher’s attention. In this case teacher was General Bruce, who, George confided, may well be an old buffer, but he’s no fool, and we’ve all happily accepted him as the expedition’s leader. He paused to look at Ruth’s photograph, which he had remembered to bring with him this time, even though he’d forgotten his razor and left home with only one pair of socks. He continued to write:

I still spend so much of my time wondering if I made the right decision to come on this trip. When you’ve found Guinevere, why go in search of the Holy Grail? I’ve begun to realize that every day without you is a wasted day. God knows I hope I will exorcise this demon once and for all, so I can return to The Holt and spend the rest of my life with you and the children. I know how difficult you find it to put your true feelings into words, but please let me know how you really feel.

Your loving husband,

George

Ruth read George’s letter a second time. She still wondered if she had done the right thing in not letting him know before he left that she was pregnant again. She rose from her chair by the window, walked across to her little bureau, and began to write, with every intention of answering his last question truthfully.

My darling,

I’ve never been able to properly express how I feel every time you leave home. This time it’s no different from your trips to the Western Front or the Alps, when I spent every hour of the day wondering if you were safe, and if I would ever see you again. It’s no different now. I sometimes envy other wives who were fortunate enough to see their husbands return in one piece from that misnamed Great War, and assumed that they would never have to face the same dread again in their lifetime.

Like you, I yearn for a successful outcome of this expedition, but only for the selfish reason that I have no desire to be put through such an ordeal again. You don’t begin to understand how much I miss you, your company, your gentle humor, your kindness, your guidance in all things, but most of all your love and affection, especially when we are alone. I spend every waking hour wondering if you will return, if our children will have to grow up without a father from whom they would have learned tolerance, compassion, and wisdom, and if I will grow old having lost the only man I could ever love.

Your devoted wife,

Ruth

Ruth returned to her chair and read through the letter before placing it in an envelope. She looked out of the window at the open gates at the end of the drive, wondering, just as she had during the war, if she would ever see her husband come striding down that path again.

Once the General had blown his whistle for the last time, most of the team remained flat on their backs as they tried to recover from the morning PT session. George sat up and glanced around the deck to be sure that none of his colleagues were showing any particular interest in him, then stood and sauntered off in the direction of his cabin.

He took the stairs down to the passenger deck, crossed the gangway, and looked back for a moment before opening a door marked Crew Only and going down the crew’s steps for another three levels, until he came to the engine room. He banged his fist on the heavy door, and a moment later the chief engineer stepped out to join him. The man nodded, but made no attempt to talk above the noise of the engines. He led George along a narrow corridor stopping only when they came to a heavy steel door marked Danger: No Entry.

He removed a large key from a pocket in his boiler suit, unlocked the door, and held it open.

“The captain gave me clear orders, Mr. Mallory,” he shouted. “You’ve got five minutes, and no longer.”

George nodded, and disappeared inside.

Guy Bullock started clapping the moment he saw George standing on top of the center funnel. Norton and Somervell stopped playing deck tennis to see what the fuss was about. Odell looked up, closed his book, and joined in the applause. Only Finch, hands in pockets, feet apart, didn’t respond.

“How did he manage that?” said Norton. “You only have to brush up against one of those funnels and you’ll get a blister the size of an apple.”

“And even if it weren’t for the heat,” added Somervell, equally bemused, “you’d need the suction of a limpet to climb that surface.”

Finch continued to stare up at Mallory. He noticed that for once there was no black smoke belching from the center funnel, and glanced across at Bullock, who couldn’t stop laughing. When Finch looked back up, Mallory had disappeared.

As George climbed back down the ladder on the inside of the funnel, he couldn’t decide if he should tell Finch that every Thursday morning one of the funnels was taken briefly out of commission so that the ship’s engineers could carry out a full inspection.

A few moments later, a plume of black smoke erupted from the center funnel, and once again the rest of the team burst into spontaneous applause. “I still can’t work it out,” said Norton.

“The only explanation I can come up with,” said Odell, “is that Mallory must have smuggled Mr. Houdini on board.”

The rest of the team laughed, while Finch remained silent.

“What’s more, he seems to have reached the top without the aid of oxygen,” Somervell added.

“I wonder how he managed that?” said Guy, a grin still fixed firmly on his face. “No doubt our resident scientist will have a theory.”

“No, I don’t have a theory,” said Finch. “But I can tell you one thing. Mallory won’t be able to climb up the inside of Everest.”

Ruth sat by the window holding her letter, beginning to wonder if her forthright honesty might prove to be a distraction for George. After a few minutes of contemplation, she tore the letter into small pieces and dropped them into the crackling flames. She returned to her desk and began to write a second letter.

My darling George,

Spring is upon us at The Holt, and the daffodils are in full bloom. In fact, the garden has never looked more beautiful. Everything is just as you would wish it to be. The children are doing well, and Clare has written a poem for you, which I enclose…

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

WHEN THE SS Caledonia docked in Bombay, the first person to disembark was General Bruce. He was dressed in the freshly ironed short-sleeve khaki shirt and neatly pressed khaki shorts that had become regulation kit for the British army serving in hot climates. He regularly reminded the team that it was Lord Baden-Powell who had followed his example when choosing the uniform of the Boy Scout movement, and not the other way around.

George followed closely in the General’s wake. The first thing that struck him as he made his way down the wobbly gangplank was the smell-what Kipling had described as spicy, pungent, oriental, and like no other smell on earth. The second thing that hit him, almost literally, was the intense heat and humidity. To a pale-faced loon from Cheshire, it felt like Dante’s fiery furnace. The third thing was the realization that the General had considerable clout in this far-off land.

Two groups of men were waiting at the foot of the gangplank to greet the expedition’s leader, and not only did they stand far apart from each other, but they could not have been in greater contrast. The first group of three embodied “the British abroad.” They made no attempt to blend in with the indigenous population, dressed as if they were attending a garden party in Tunbridge Wells and making no allowances for the inhospitable climate for fear it might suggest in some way that they and the natives were equals.

As the General stepped onto the dockside, he was greeted by one of them, a tall young man wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a stiff collar, and sporting an Old Harrovian tie.

“My name is Russell,” he announced as he took a step forward.

“Good morning, Russell,” said the General, and they shook hands as if they had known each other for years, whereas in reality their only bond was the old school tie.

“Welcome back to India, General Bruce,” said Russell. “I’m the Governor-General’s private secretary. This is Captain Berkeley, the Governor-General’s ADC.” An even younger man in full dress uniform, who had been standing rigidly to attention since the General had stepped ashore, saluted. The General returned his salute. The third man, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, stood by the side of a gleaming Rolls-Royce, and was not introduced. “The Governor-General hopes,” continued Russell, “that you and your party will join him for dinner this evening.”

“We shall be delighted to do so,” said Bruce. “At what time would Sir Peter like us on parade?”

“He will be hosting a reception in the residence at seven o’clock,” said Russell, “followed by dinner at eight.”

“And the dress code?” inquired the General.

“Formal, with medals, sir.”

Bruce nodded his approval.

“We have, as you requested,” continued Russell, “secured fourteen rooms at the Palace Hotel, and I’ve also put a number of vehicles at your disposal while you and your men are in Bombay.”

“Most hospitable,” said the General. “For the time being, perhaps you could arrange for my men to be transported to the hotel, billeted, and fed.”

“Of course, General,” said Russell. “And the Governor-General asked me to give you this.” He handed over a bulky brown envelope, which the General passed on to George as if he was his private secretary.

George smiled and tucked the envelope under his arm. He couldn’t help noticing that the rest of the team, including Finch, were observing the exchange in awed silence.

“Mallory,” said the General, “I want you to join me while the rest of the men are escorted to the hotel. Thank you, Russell,” he said to the Governor-General’s private secretary. “I look forward to seeing you at the reception this evening.”

Russell bowed and took a pace backward, as if the General were minor royalty.

The General then turned his attention to the second group, also three in number, which was about the only thing they had in common.

The three locals, dressed in long, cool white gowns and white slippers, had waited patiently while Mr. Russell carried out the formal welcome on behalf of the Governor-General. Now their leader stepped forward. “Namaste, General Sahib,” he said, bowing low.

The General neither shook hands with the Sirdar nor saluted. Without preliminaries, he asked, “Did you get my cable, Kumar?”

“Yes, General Sahib, and all your instructions have been carried out to the letter. I think I can say with some confidence that you will be well satisfied.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Kumar, and only after I’ve inspected the merchandise.”

“Of course, General,” said the Indian, once again bowing low. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to follow me.”

Kumar and his two compatriots led the General across a road teeming with people, rickshaws, and hundreds of old Raleigh and Hercules bicycles, as well as the occasional contented-looking cow chewing its cud in the middle of the highway. The General marched through the bustling, noisy crowd, which parted as if he were Moses crossing the Red Sea. George pursued his leader, curious to discover what was next while at the same time trying to take in the unfamiliar sounds of the street traders plying their exotic wares: Heinz baked beans, Player’s cigarettes, Swan Vesta matches, bottles of Tizer, and Eveready batteries were continually thrust in front of his nose. He politely declined each new offer, while feeling overwhelmed by the energy and exuberance of the local people, but horrified by the poverty he saw all around him-the beggars far outnumbered the traders. He now understood why these people considered Gandhi to be a prophet, while the British continued to treat the Mahatma as if he were a criminal. He would have so much to tell the lower fifth when he returned.

The General strode on, ignoring the dusty outstretched hands and the repeated cries of “Pie, pie, pie.” The Sirdar led him into a square that was so packed it might have been a mass rally at Speaker’s Corner, with the difference that everyone was talking, and no one was listening. The square was surrounded by unfinished concrete buildings. The curious and those with nothing better to do hung out of upper windows hoping to gain a bird’s-eye view of what was taking place below. Then George set eyes for the first time on what the General had described as “the merchandise.”

On a dusty, sunburned patch of earth, one hundred mules awaited inspection. Behind them stood a large group of porters.

George stood to one side and watched as the General carried out his inspection, the crowd following his every move. He began by checking the mules’ legs and teeth, and even sat astride several of the beasts to assess their strength. Two of them collapsed under his weight. It took him over an hour to select seventy of the animals that in his opinion passed muster.

Next, the General carried out exactly the same exercise with row upon row of the silent porters. First he inspected their legs, then their teeth, and in some cases, to George’s astonishment, he even jumped on their backs. Once again, one or two of them collapsed under his weight. Despite this, before the second hour was up he had added sixty-two porters to the seventy mules he had already selected.

Although George had done little more than act as an observer, he was already sweating from head to toe, while the General seemed to take everything, including the heat, in his stride.

When the inspection had been completed, Kumar stepped forward and presented his demanding customer with two cooks and four dhobis. To George’s relief, the General did not jump onto their backs. He did, however, check their teeth and legs.

Having completed his inspection, the General turned to Kumar and said, “Be sure that every one of the coolies and mules are standing on the dockside at six o’clock tomorrow morning. If they are all on parade by that time you will be paid fifty rupees.” Kumar bowed and smiled. The General turned to George and put a hand out. George assumed he required the envelope. The General opened it, extracted a fifty-rupee note and handed it to the Sirdar to confirm that the deal had been struck. “And instruct them, Kumar,” he added, pointing at the porters, “that they will be paid ten rupees a week. Any of them who are still with us when we re-board the ship in three months’ time will be given a bonus of twenty rupees.”

“Most generous, General Sahib, most generous,” Kumar replied, bowing even lower.

“Were you also able to comply with my other request?” demanded the General as he passed the envelope back to George.

“Yes, General Sahib,” said the Sirdar, with an even broader grin on his face.

One of the two men standing behind Kumar stepped forward, stood to attention in front of the General and then removed his slippers. George had given up trying to guess what would happen next. The General took a tape from a pocket in his shorts and proceeded to measure the young man, from the top of his head to the soles of his bare feet.

“I think you will find,” said Kumar with satisfaction, “that the boy is exactly six feet.”

“Yes, but does he understand what is expected of him?”

“He does indeed, General Sahib. In fact he has been preparing for the past month.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Bruce. “If he turns out to be satisfactory, he will be paid twenty rupees a week, and on arrival at base camp will be given a bonus of fifty rupees.”

Once again the Sirdar bowed.

George was about to ask why the expedition required a youth who was exactly six feet tall, when the General pointed to the short, stocky man with Asiatic features who was standing at the back of the trio, and had not uttered a word. “And who is that?”

The young man stepped forward before Kumar had a chance to introduce him, and said, “I am Sherpa Nyima, General. I am your personal translator, and will be the Sherpa leader when you reach the Himalaya.”

“Twenty rupees a week,” said the General, and marched out of the square without another word, his business completed.

It had always amused George that whenever generals marched off, they assumed that everyone else would follow. It was one of the reasons, he concluded, that the British had won more battles than they had lost. It took George several minutes to catch up with Bruce, because most of the crowd were still running after him, hoping to benefit from his largesse. When he finally managed to do so, Bruce simply said, “Never become friendly with the natives. You’ll regret it in the long run.” He didn’t utter another word until they entered the driveway of the Palace Hotel twenty minutes later, leaving the pursuing horde behind them. As the General marched up the path through the manicured gardens, George spotted a third welcoming party standing on the top step of the hotel. He wondered how long they had been waiting.

The General came to a sudden halt in front of a beautiful young woman wearing a deep purple and gold sari. She was carrying a small bowl of sweet-smelling powdered herbs in her left hand and, after dipping the forefinger of her right hand into the powder, she gently pressed the tip of her finger to the General’s forehead, leaving a distinctive red mark of respect. She took a pace back, and a second young woman, also in traditional dress, placed a garland of flowers over the General’s head. He bowed and thanked them.

The ceremony over, a smartly dressed man wearing a black frock coat and pinstripe trousers stepped forward. “Welcome back to the Palace Hotel, General Bruce,” he said. “I have put your party in the south wing, overlooking the ocean, and your usual suite has been prepared.” He stood aside to allow his guest to enter the hotel.

“Thank you, Mr. Khan,” said the General, walking straight past the check-in desk toward a lift that he assumed was being held open for him.

George followed him, and when they reached the top floor, the first thing he saw was Norton and Somervell standing at the far end of the corridor wearing their dressing gowns. He smiled and waved to let them know he would be joining them in a few minutes.

“I suppose, General,” said George, “that this could be our last chance to have a bath for three months.”

“Speak for yourself, Mallory,” said Bruce, as Mr. Khan held open the door of the Queen Victoria suite for him.

George was already discovering why the RGS had considered this short, plump, retired soldier to be head and shoulders above the rest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“I’D LIKE TO post some letters, please,” said George.

“Of course, sir,” said the concierge. “How many?”

“Seventeen,” said George. He had already posted eighteen letters when the ship had docked for a few hours at Durban to take on fuel and fresh food.

“All to the same country?” the concierge asked casually, as if this was an everyday occurrence.

“Yes, in fact all to the same address.” This time the concierge did raise an eyebrow. “My wife,” explained George. “I write to her every day, and I’ve only just disembarked, so…”

“Leave it to me,” said the concierge.

“Thank you,” said George.

“Are you coming to the Governor-General’s shindig, George?” asked a voice behind him.

George turned to see Guy approaching. “Yes,” he replied.

“Then let’s share a taxi,” said Guy, as he headed toward the door.

“I intend to eat like a pig tonight,” said Guy as the rickshaw dodged obstacles in the crowded streets. “I have a feeling this is likely to be the best spread we’ll get before we return to England. Unless of course the Governor-General decides to invite us again on our way back.”

“That may depend on whether we return as conquering heroes or frostbitten failures,” said George.

“I’m not going to risk it anyway,” said Guy. “Especially as Bruce tells me that Sir Peter has the finest cellar in India.”

Two soldiers in full dress uniform snapped to attention and saluted as the rickshaw drove through the gates of the Governor-General’s residence. Mallory and Bullock jumped out and walked beneath a high wooden arch into a long, ornate marble hall, where they took their place in the reception line. The General was standing by the Governor-General’s side, introducing him to each member of the team.

“As you seem to be so well informed, Guy,” whispered George, “who’s the young lady standing by the Governor-General’s side?”

“His second wife,” said Bullock. “His first died a couple of years ago, and this one-”

“This is Guy Bullock, Sir Peter,” said the General. “He’s taken a sabbatical from the Foreign Office to join us.”

“Good evening, Mr. Bullock.”

“And this is George Mallory, our climbing leader.”

“So this is the man who’s going to be the first to stand on the summit of Everest,” said the Governor-General, shaking George warmly by the hand.

“He has a rival,” said Guy with a grin.

“Ah, yes,” said the Governor-General, “Mr. Finch, if I remember correctly. Can’t wait to meet the fellow. And may I introduce my wife.”

After bowing to the young lady, George and Guy drifted into a packed room where the only Indians in sight were servants offering drinks. George selected a sherry wine and then headed for the one person he recognized.

“Good evening, Mr. Mallory,” said Russell.

“Good evening, Mr. Russell,” said George. “Are you enjoying being posted out here?” He was never at ease when having to make small talk.

“Capital, enjoying every moment,” Russell replied. “It’s just a pity about the natives.”

“The natives?” repeated George, hoping Russell was joking.

“They don’t like us,” whispered Russell. “In fact, they loathe us. There’s trouble brewing.”

“Trouble?” prompted Bullock, who had walked across to join them.

“Yes, ever since we put that fellow Gandhi in jail for creating unrest-” Suddenly, without warning, Russell stopped in mid-sentence and stared, his mouth hanging open. Mallory and Bullock turned to see what had caused him to be struck dumb.

“Is he one of yours?” asked Russell, barely able to hide his discomfort.

“I’m afraid so,” said George, stifling a grin as he turned to see Finch chatting to the Governor-General’s wife. Finch was dressed in an open-necked khaki shirt, green corduroy trousers, and brown suede shoes, with no socks.

“You should feel flattered,” chipped in Guy. “He doesn’t usually take that much trouble.”

The private secretary was clearly not amused. “The man’s a bounder,” he said as they watched Finch slip an arm around Lady Davidson’s waist.

George didn’t move as he spotted the General heading toward him, almost at a gallop.

“Mallory,” he said, his cheeks flushed, “get that man out of here, and be quick about it.”

“I’ll do my best,” said George, “but I can’t guarantee-”

“If you don’t get him out, and now,” said the General, “I will. And let me assure you it won’t be a pretty sight.”

George handed his empty glass to a passing waiter before crossing the room to join Finch and the Governor-General’s wife.

“Have you met Mallory, Sonia?” Finch asked. “He’s my only real rival.”

“Yes, we’ve been introduced,” replied the Governor-General’s wife, pretending to be unaware of Finch’s arm, draped around her waist.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Lady Davidson,” said George, “but I need to have a private word with Mr. Finch, as a small problem has arisen.”

Without another word he grabbed Finch firmly by the elbow and led him quickly out of the room. Guy slipped in next to Lady Davidson and started chatting to her about whether she intended to return to London for the season.

“So what’s this small problem?” asked Finch once they were out in the hallway.

“You are,” replied George. “At this moment I think you’ll find the General is rounding up volunteers for a firing squad.” He guided Finch out of the door and onto the driveway.

“Where are we going?” asked Finch.

“Back to the hotel.”

“But I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“I think that’s the least of your problems.”

“You were ordered to get me out of there, weren’t you?” said Finch as George shoved him into a rickshaw.

“Something like that,” admitted George. “I have a feeling that will be the last time we’re invited to one of the Governor-General’s little soirées.”

“Speak for yourself, Mallory. If you and I get to stand on top of that mountain, you’ll definitely be dining with the Governor-General again.”

“That doesn’t mean you will be,” said George.

“No, I won’t. I’ll be upstairs in his lady’s chamber.”

George thought he heard a knock on the door, but then he could have been dreaming. It sounded a little louder the second time. “Come in,” he said, still half asleep. George opened one eye to see the General staring down at him, still dressed in his uniform.

“Do you always sleep on the floor with the windows wide open, Mallory?” he asked.

George opened his other eye. “It was either this or the veranda,” he said. “And I can assure you, General,” he added, pushing himself up, “this is luxury compared to what it’s going to be like at 27,000 feet, stuck in a tiny tent with only Finch for company.”

“That’s precisely what I wanted to speak to you about,” said the General. “I felt you ought to be the first to know that I’ve decided to put Finch on the next boat back home.”

George put on his silk dressing gown and sat down on the only comfortable chair in the room. He slowly filled his pipe with tobacco, and took his time lighting up.

“Finch’s behavior this evening was quite inexcusable,” the General continued. “I now realize I should never have agreed to him being included in the team.”

George puffed away on his pipe for a few moments before he responded. “General,” he said quietly, “you don’t have the authority to send any member of my team back to England without consulting me.”

“I am consulting you now, Mallory,” said the General, his voice rising with every word.

“No, you are not. You’ve barged into my room in the middle of the night to inform me that you’ve decided to send Finch back to England on the first available boat. That’s not my idea of consultation.”

“Mallory,” interrupted the General, “I don’t have to remind you that I am in overall charge of this expedition. I will be the one who makes the final decision as to what happens to any member of my team.”

“Then you’ll be making this one all on your own, General, because if you put Finch on that boat, then I and the rest of my team will be joining him. I’m sure the RGS will be fascinated to know why, unlike the Duke of York, you didn’t even manage to take us to the top of the hill, let alone bring us down again.”

“But, but-” spluttered the General. “Surely you agree that’s not the way to treat a lady, Mallory, especially the Governor-General’s wife.”

“No one knows better than I do,” said George, “that Finch can be tiresome, and I’m sure he won’t be teaching etiquette to any debs next season. But unless you’re willing to take his place, General, I suggest you go to bed now, and just be grateful that Finch won’t be attending any more cocktail parties for at least another three months. He’s also unlikely to bump into any more ladies on his way to the Himalaya.”

“I’ll have to think about it, Mallory,” said the General, turning to leave. “I’ll let you know my decision in the morning.”

“General, I’m not one of your coolies who’s desperate for the King’s shilling, so please let me know now if I am to wake up my men and tell them they’ll be returning to England on the first boat, or if I can allow them to rest before they set out on the most arduous journey of their lives.”

The General’s face became redder. “On your head be it, Mallory,” he said, before storming out of the room.

“Dear Lord,” said George as he took off his dressing gown and lay back down on the floor, “please tell me, what did I do to deserve Finch?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

April 15th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

We have begun the 1,000-mile trek to the Tibetan border. We boarded the train to Siliguri at the base of the Himalaya, which the timetable promised would be a 6-hour journey, but it took almost 16. I’ve often wondered what happens to old trains when they’re pensioned off-well, now I know. They’re sent to India, where they’re reincarnated.

So, we all piled aboard an old Great Northern locomotive, Castle class, the Warwick Castle, to be precise. The seats in first class are now somewhat shoddy and worn, while third class still has wooden slats to sit on, and no loo, which meant we had to jump off when we stopped at a station and head for the bushes. The train also had cattle class, where Bruce put the mules and the porters. Both complained.

There is one big difference between traveling down from Birkenhead to London in comfort and going from Bombay to Siliguri: we used to keep the windows closed and turn the heating up on our way down from the north of England, but here, despite the fact that the rail company has dispensed with the glass windows, it feels as if you’re traveling in an oven on wheels.

“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 opened 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

GEORGE SLIPPED OUT of camp just before sunrise, a knapsack on his back, a compass in one hand, and an ice axe in the other. He felt like a schoolboy off to have a smoke behind the bicycle shed.

Through the early morning mist, he could just about make out the unnamed mountain rising high above him. He was estimating that it would take at least two hours before he could hope to reach its base when he heard an unfamiliar sound. He stopped and looked around, but couldn’t see anything unusual.

By the time he reached the lower slopes of the mountain, he’d been able to consider several different routes to the summit. The first thrill for any mountaineer contemplating a climb is deciding which route to take. The wrong choice can result in disaster-or, at the least, in having to return another day. George didn’t have another day.

He had just decided on what looked like the best route when he thought he heard the unfamiliar sound again. He looked back down the valley along which he had approached the mountain. Half of it was bathed in morning sunlight, while the shadow of the mountain made the rest of it appear as if it had not yet woken up, but he still didn’t spot anything strange.

George double-checked his chosen route, then began to attack the stony, rough terrain at the foot of the mountain. For the next hour he made good progress, despite having to change direction several times whenever an obstacle blocked his way.

He could now see the peak ahead of him, and estimated that he would reach the top within the hour. That’s when he made his first mistake. He had come up against a rock that not only blocked his path, but appeared to be insurmountable without a partner to assist him. George knew from bitter experience that much of mountaineering ends in frustration, and that he had no choice but to turn back and search for another route. He also knew that if he was to get back to camp before sunset, there would come a moment when he could no longer risk chasing the sun as it sank beneath the unfamiliar horizon.

And then he heard the sound again, closer this time. He swung around, and saw Nyima approaching. George smiled, flattered that the Sherpa leader had followed him.

“We’ll have to turn back,” George said, “and try to find another route.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Nyima, who simply jumped up onto the rock and began to scale it effortlessly, his arms and legs working as one unit as he moved across the uneven surface. George watched as the Sherpa followed a route he’d so clearly taken before, and George wondered if he’d seen Everest before. Moments later, Nyima had reached the top of the obstacle, and all George could see was a hand beckoning him to follow.

George tracked the route the Sherpa had taken, and grabbed a ledge he had not noticed before, but that opened up a direct path all the way to the summit. This simple maneuver had saved him an hour, perhaps two, while at the same time Nyima had become George’s climbing leader. It was not long before he had joined the Sherpa, and as they made their way up the mountain it was clear to George that Nyima was familiar with the terrain, as he set a pace George could only just keep up with.

When they reached the summit, they sat down and looked toward the north, but everything was enveloped in a bank of thick cloud. George reluctantly accepted that he would not be introduced to Chomolungma today. He opened his knapsack, took out a bar of Kendal Mint Cake, broke it in half, and handed a piece to Nyima. The head Sherpa did not take a bite until he had seen George chewing away for some time.

As they sat staring at the unmoving clouds, George concluded that Sherpa Nyima was the ideal climbing partner-experienced, resourceful, brave, and silent. He checked his watch, and realized they would have to leave soon if they were to be back in camp before sunset. He rose, tapped his watch, and pointed down the mountain.

Nyima shook his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Mallory.”

As the Sherpa had proved right about which route they should take, George decided to sit back down and wait for a few more minutes. However, there comes a moment when every climber has to decide if the reward is worth the risk. In George’s opinion, that moment had passed.

George rose and, without waiting for Nyima to join him, began to descend the mountain. He must have covered about 150 feet when he felt the breeze picking up. He turned around to see the clouds drifting slowly away. He quickly retraced his steps and rejoined the silent Sherpa at the summit, when he found that, like Salome, Chomolungma had already stripped away four of her seven veils.

As the breeze grew stronger, Chomolungma removed yet another veil, revealing a small range of mountains in the foreground that reminded George of the French Alps, and then another. He didn’t believe that such beauty could possibly be surpassed, but then a gust of wind removed the final veil, proving him wrong.

George was lost for words. He stared up at the highest mountain in the world. Everest’s radiant summit dominated the skyline, making the other peaks of the mighty Himalaya look like a kindergarten playground.

For the first time, George was able to study his nemesis more closely. Below her furrowed brow projected a sharp Tibetan nose made up of uneven ridges and unapproachable precipices beneath which wide nostrils belched out a wind so fierce that even on level ground you would have been prevented from advancing a single stride. But worse, far worse, this goddess was two-faced.

On her west face, the cheekbone was made up of a pinnacle of rock that stretched high into the heavens, far higher than George’s imagination had ever dared to soar, while the east face displayed a mile-long sheet of ice that never thawed, even on the longest day of the year. Her noble head rested on a slim neck, nestling in shoulders of granite. From her massive torso hung two long, supple arms, attached to large flat hands that offered a slight hope until you saw her ten thin, icy fingers, one of the nails of which was where they hoped to set up base camp.

George turned to see Nyima gazing at Chomolungma with the same fear, respect, and admiration that he himself felt. George doubted if, alone, either of them would be capable of climbing onto even the shoulders of this giant, let alone scaling her granite ice face-but perhaps together…

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

AFTER THEIR MIDNIGHT dispute in Bombay, George was relieved that the General invited him to be a member of the diplomatic mission that would present their credentials at the border post.

Thirteen members of the expedition team, thirty-five porters, and forty-eight mules had bedded down for the night on a flat piece of land by a fast-flowing river on the India-Tibet border. George and the rest of the party spent a convivial evening enjoying the General’s excellent wine and cigars over dinner.

At 5:45 the following morning, the General was standing outside George’s tent in full dress uniform, carrying a black leather attaché case. Sherpa Nyima stood a pace behind him, wearing his traditional woolen bakhu and carrying a large black box with the words LOCK’S of London printed on the lid. George crawled out of his tent a few moments later, dressed in the suit he’d worn for the Governor-General’s reception and his old school tie. He accompanied Bruce out of the camp toward the border post.

“Now, I am not expecting any problems, Mallory,” said the General, “but should any misunderstanding arise, leave everything to me. I’ve dealt with these natives in the past, and have the measure of them.”

George accepted that the General had many great strengths, but feared he was about to witness one of his weaknesses.

When they reached the border post, George was taken by surprise. The little bamboo hut was well camouflaged by the dense undergrowth, and certainly didn’t look as if it welcomed strangers. A few paces later, George spotted a soldier, and then another, holding ancient rifles pointing in their direction. This show of hostility didn’t cause the General to slacken his pace-if anything, he speeded up. On balance, George felt he would have preferred to die on the top of a mountain rather than at the bottom. A few paces further on, George could see exactly where the Tibetan border lay. At the only break in the bamboo barrier that stretched across the narrow path, two more soldiers sat in a dug-out fortified by sandbags, their rifles also aimed directly at the advancing British army. Still undaunted, the General marched straight up the wooden steps of the hut and through the open door, as if the border post was under his command. George followed cautiously in his wake, Nyima a pace behind.

Inside the hut, the General came to a halt in front of a wooden counter. A young corporal seated behind the desk stared at the three strangers in disbelief and, although he opened his mouth, he didn’t speak.

“I wish to speak to your commanding officer,” barked the General. Sherpa Nyima translated in a soft voice.

The corporal quickly disappeared into a little room behind him and closed the door. It was some time before the door opened again, and a short, thin man with sunken cheeks and a battle-hardened face stepped out and glared at the General as if his private territory had been invaded. The General smiled when he noticed that the post commander only held the rank of captain. He saluted, but the Tibetan did not return the compliment. Instead, he looked directly at Sherpa Nyima and, pointing at the General, said in his native tongue, “I am the Dzongpen of the district of Phari. Who is this?”

Once Sherpa Nyima had translated his words, only adding the final word “gentleman,” the General replied, “I am General Bruce,” then opened his attaché case and removed some papers, which he placed firmly on the desk. “These are the official permits that authorize my party to enter the district of Phari Dzong.” After Nyima had translated the General’s words, the Dzongpen gave the documents a cursory glance, then shrugged his shoulders. “As you can see,” said the General, “they have been signed by Lord Curzon, the British Foreign Secretary.” The General waited for Sherpa Nyima to complete his translation before the Dzongpen came back with a question.

“The Dzongpen wishes to know if you are Lord Curzon.”

“Of course I’m not,” said the General. “Tell this fool that if he doesn’t allow us to cross the border immediately, I will have no choice but to…”

It was clear that the Tibetan commander didn’t need the General’s words translated, as his hand moved swiftly to the gun in his holster.

“The Dzongpen says that he will allow Lord Curzon to cross the border, but no one else,” translated Nyima.

Bruce banged a fist on the desk, and shouted, “Doesn’t the stupid man realize who I am?”

George bowed his head and began to think about the long journey home as he waited for the Dzongpen’s response. He could only hope that the General’s words would be lost in translation, but the Dzongpen had removed his pistol from its holster and was pointing the barrel at the General’s forehead before Sherpa Nyima had completed his translation.

“Tell the General he can go home,” said the commander quietly. “I will give my men orders to shoot on sight if he comes anywhere near this border post again. Do I make myself clear?”

The General didn’t flinch, even after Nyima had translated the border commander’s words. Although George had given up any chance of being allowed to cross the border, he still rather hoped they might get out alive.

“May I speak, General?” he whispered.

“Yes, of course, Mallory,” replied the General.

George wondered if he should have held his tongue, because the commander’s gun was now pointing at his forehead. He looked the Dzongpen straight in the eye. “I bring gifts of friendship from my country to yours.”

Sherpa Nyima translated, and the Dzongpen slowly lowered his gun and put it back in its holster, before placing his hands on his hips. “I will see these gifts.”

George removed the lid of the Lock’s box and took out a black Homburg hat which he handed across to the Dzongpen. The commander placed it on his head, looked at himself in a mirror on the wall and smiled for the first time. “Please tell the Dzongpen that Lord Curzon wears a Homburg to work every morning,” said George, “as do all gentlemen in England.” When the commander heard these words he leaned over the desk and peered into the box. General Bruce bent down, took out another Homburg and passed it to the commander, who in turn placed it on the head of the young corporal standing by his side. This time the Dzongpen burst out laughing, then grabbed the box, left the hut, and began to distribute the remaining ten Homburgs among his guards.

When the commander returned to the hut, he began to study the General’s documents more carefully. He was about to rubber stamp the last page when he looked up, smiled at the General, and pointed to his half-hunter gold watch. The General wanted to explain that he had inherited the watch from his father, Lord Aberdare, but he thought better of it, and without a word handed it over. George was relieved that in his haste that morning he had forgotten to put on the watch Ruth had given him for his birthday.

The Dzongpen was now eyeing General Bruce’s thick leather belt-then his brown leather shoes-and finally his knee-length woolen socks. Having stripped the General, he turned his attention to George, and appropriated his shoes, socks, and tie. George could only wonder when and where the Dzongpen would wear an Old Wykehamist tie.

At last the Dzongpen smiled, stamped the last page of the entry permits, and handed them back to the General. Bruce was just about to place the documents in his attaché case when the Dzongpen shook his head. The General left the case on the desk, and stuffed the documents into the pockets of his trousers.

The barefooted Bruce held up his trousers with one hand and saluted with the other. This time the Dzongpen returned the compliment. Sherpa Nyima was the only person who left the hut fully dressed.

An hour later the expedition party, led by General Bruce, advanced toward the border, and the barrier was raised to allow them to enter the district of Phari Dzong.

After checking the time on his half-hunter gold watch, the Dzongpen smiled at the General, raised his Homburg, and said, “Welcome to Tibet, Lord Curzon.”

Nyima didn’t translate his words.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

May 4th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

Having crossed the border into Tibet, we are now approaching the Himalaya-a range of a thousand mountains that surround and protect their mistress like armed guards, do not accept the authority of the local Dzongpen and have never heard of Lord Curzon. Despite their frosty welcome and cold demeanor, we battle on.

When we arrived and set up base camp, some 17,000 feet above sea level, we saw the General at his best. Within hours the porters-down to 32-had erected the team tent, about the size of our drawing room, which made it possible for us to sit down for dinner. By the time coffee and brandy had been served, 15 other tents were in place, which meant we could all bed down for the night. When I say “all,” I should point out that the porters, including Nyima, are still sleeping outside in the open air. They curl up on the rough ground with only stones for their pillows. I sometimes wonder whether, if I’m to have any chance of conquering this infernal mountain, I ought to join them.

Sherpa Nyima is proving invaluable when it comes to organizing the natives, and the General has agreed to raise his pay to thirty rupees a week (about sixpence). Once we reach the slopes of Everest, it’s going to be fascinating to find out just how good a climber he really is. Finch is convinced that he’ll be the equal of any one of us. I’ll let you know.

This evening the General will officially hand over command to me until the moment we begin to retrace our steps back to England…

“His Majesty the King,” said the General, raising his glass.

“The King,” responded the rest of the team.

“Gentlemen, you may smoke,” said the General, sitting back down and clipping off the end of his cigar.

George remained standing, as did the rest of the team. He raised his glass a second time. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Chomolungma, Goddess Mother of the Earth.”

The General was quickly back on his feet, and joined his colleagues as they raised their glasses, while the Sherpas fell flat on the ground and lay facing the mountain.

A moment later, George tapped his glass and called for order. Command had changed hands.

“I should like to begin, gentlemen,” he said, “by thanking General Bruce for ensuring that we all arrived in one piece. And, to quote you, sir,” he added, turning to the General, “burly and fit.”

“Hear, hear,” chorused the rest of the team, a sentiment with which even Finch felt able to join in.

George unfurled a parchment map, cleared a space in front of him and placed it on the table. “Gentlemen,” he began, “we are currently here.” He pointed the handle of his coffee spoon at 17,500 feet. “Our immediate aim is to progress to here,” he added, moving the spoon up the mountain and coming to a halt at 21,000 feet, “where I hope to set up Camp III. If we are to succeed in conquering Chomolungma, we must establish three more camps at altitude. Camp IV should be on the North Col around 23,000 feet while Camp V will be at 25,000 feet, and Camp VI at 27,000 feet, just 2,000 feet from the summit. It is imperative to discover a route along the crest or skirting the North-East Ridge, that could lead us to the summit.

“But for now,” he continued, “we must remember that we have no idea what lies ahead of us. There are no reference books to consult, no maps to pore over, no old fogies sitting at the bar of the Alpine Club who can regale us with anecdotes of their past triumphs, real or imagined.” Several members of the team smiled and nodded. “We must therefore chart a course that will allow us to one day be the old fogies who pass on our knowledge to the next generation of climbers.” He looked up at his team. “Any questions?”

“Yes,” said Somervell. “How long do you think it will take to establish Camp III? And by that I mean fully stocked and occupied.”

“Ever the practical one,” said George with a smile. “In truth, I can’t be sure. I’d like to cover 2,000 feet a day, so by tomorrow evening I hope to have set up Camp II at 19,000 feet, and be back here at base camp before sunset. The following day we push for 21,000 feet, where we set up Camp III before returning to Camp II for the night. It will take at least a couple of weeks to become acclimatized to altitudes none of us has ever experienced before. Never forget: climb high, sleep low.”

“Will you be dividing us up into teams before we set out?” asked Odell.

“No, not yet,” said George. “We’ll remain as one unit until I know which of you acclimatize best to the conditions. However, I suspect that in the end it won’t be me who decides on the final composition of the teams, but the mountain itself.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Finch. “But have you given any further thought to the use of oxygen above 25,000 feet?”

“Again, I expect the mountain will dictate that decision, and not me.” George waited for a moment before he asked, “Any more questions?”

“Yes, skipper,” said Norton. “What time do you want us on parade tomorrow morning?”

“Six o’clock,” replied George. “And that means all kitted up and ready to move. Remember, tomorrow, we must have the courage to think like Columbus and be prepared to walk off the map.”

George couldn’t make up his mind if it was the responsibility of leadership, or the sheer thrill of knowing that from this moment on, every pace he took would be the highest he’d ever climbed, that meant he emerged from his tent the next morning some time before the rest of the team.

A few minutes before six o’clock, on a clear morning with little wind and the sun inching its own path above the highest peak, George was delighted to find that all eight of his climbers were waiting patiently outside their tents. They were dressed in a variety of garments: woolen waistcoats-probably knitted by their wives or girlfriends-Jaeger trousers, windproofs, silk shirts, cotton smocks, climbing boots, Burberry scarves, and Canadian moccasins, making one or two of them look as if they were about to embark on a skiing holiday in Davos.

Standing behind the climbers were the local Sherpas Nyima had recruited. They each carried as much as eighty pounds of equipment strapped to their backs: tents, blankets, spades, pots and pans, Primus stoves, and food, as well as a dozen oxygen cylinders.

At six o’clock precisely, George pointed upward, and his men set off on the first stage of a journey of which none of them could predict the outcome. He looked back at his team and smiled at the thought of the General sitting in his warm bath at base camp having to read through endless telegrams from Hinks demanding to know how much progress had been made, and whether Finch was behaving himself.

George set a steady pace for the first hour, tramping over the barren, stony ground that stretched along the side of the valley above base camp, regularly passing the sacred blue sheep of the Rongbuk valley, which, however hungry the local tribesmen became, could not be slaughtered. He was well aware that the real challenges wouldn’t arise until they’d skirted the North Ridge, at around 23,000 feet, where not only would the air be thinner and the temperature fall to levels few of them had ever experienced, but far worse, they would have no way of knowing which route they should take if they hoped to progress.

As they tramped on, George became awestruck by colors he had never seen before-a faint blue light that changed to a rich yellow and seemed bent on parching their pale English skins. In the distance he could see the Kangshung face, its vast icy fangs pitted with crevasses and dark, unfathomable ridges perpetually threatening them with an unwelcome avalanche.

Once they’d established Camps II and III, George could only wonder just how many days they would have to spend searching for a safe route on the North Col, only to find that at the end of every illusory path there would be signposts announcing No Entry, Dead End. George was beginning to wonder if it would even prove possible for a human to reach the summit. Those members of the RGS who had predicted that Chomolungma would be just like Mont Blanc, but a little higher, were already looking foolish.

At the end of the second hour, George called the caravan to a halt so that everyone could enjoy a well-earned rest. As he walked among the team, he noticed that Morshead and Hingston were breathing heavily. Nyima had to report that three of the Sherpas had dumped their loads in the snow and headed back down the mountain to return to their villages. George wondered how many Sherpas would be standing on the dockside in Bombay waiting to claim their twenty-rupee bonus from General Bruce. “You’ll be able to count them on one hand,” Bruce had warned him, though even the General couldn’t have predicted that one of his colleagues wouldn’t even be able to do that.

Thirty minutes later the group continued on their way, and didn’t stop to rest again until the sun had reached its zenith. During the lunch break they chewed on mint cake, ginger biscuits, and dried apricots, and drank reconstituted powdered milk before setting off once again.

After another hour’s climbing they had to cross a stream surrounded by tufts of green grass. On its bank stood a willow tree teeming with giant butterflies that rose into the air as they approached; an oasis, the memory of which soon became a mirage as they climbed higher and higher.

The time had come to look for a suitable place to pitch Camp II. He finally chose a piece of flat, stony ground in the middle of the East Rongbuk Glacier, among the giant pinnacles of ice, that had the advantage of being sheltered from the wind. He checked his altimeter-just above 19,000 feet. Under Nyima’s watchful eye the Sherpas deposited their loads in the snow, and leveled off the rocky debris before they could set about erecting the first tent. After unloading equipment and boxes of provisions destined for Camp III and meant to last them at least a month, they finally raised the team tent.

George told his men over dinner back at base camp-goat stew and dumplings once again, no need for a menu, because water biscuits and cheese were certain to follow-that he thought the first day could not have gone much better. However, he still had no idea how long it would take to identify a route beyond the Rongbuk Glacier, and they must be prepared to expect a number of false dawns.

Before George blew out his candle that night, he read a few pages of The Iliad, having just finished another long letter to Ruth. She would read it two months later, some time after the tragedy had taken place.

George’s letters often turned up at The Holt several weeks after the news they carried had been reported in The Times. Ruth knew she would eventually receive a letter that would give George’s side of the story of what had taken place on that fateful June morning, but until then she could only follow the drama in installments, like reading a Dickens novel.

May 8th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

I’m sitting in my little tent, writing to you by candlelight. The first day’s climb went well, and we found an ideal site on which to set up a temporary home. However, it’s so cold that when I go to bed I have to wear those mittens you knitted for me last Christmas, as well as a pair of your father’s woolen long johns.

The mountain has already left me in no doubt that we were not properly prepared for such a demanding venture. Frankly, many of the team are too old, and only a few are fit enough to continue. Like me, they must wish they’d been given the chance to attempt this in 1915, when we were all so much younger. Damn the Germans.

My darling, I miss you so much that…

Ruth stopped reading, and knelt down beside Clare and Beridge to study the map that had taken up permanent residence on the drawing-room floor. When she drew the figure of a man in goggles leaning on an ice axe at 19,400 feet, Clare started clapping.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

June 16th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

We have now spent just over a month searching for a route, which will take us beyond the East Rongbuk Glacier and I was beginning to become downcast, after Sherpa Nyima reminded me that the monsoon season will soon be upon us, and we’ll then have no choice but to return to base camp and begin the long journey back to England.

However, the breakthrough came today, when Morshead located a route beyond the Rongbuk Glacier that curves around Changtse and onto the other side of the North Col. So tomorrow Norton, Somervell, and Morshead will return, and if they can find a large enough platform, and assuming the wind-gale force up there, Morshead warns me-allows them, they’ll try to pitch a tent and discover if it’s possible to spend a night under canvas on top of the North Col, some 6,000 feet below the summit.

If it is, Norton and Somervell will make the first attempt on the summit the following day. I know 6,000 feet doesn’t sound much-indeed, I can hear Hinks telling the committee that it’s not much higher than Ben Nevis. But Ben Nevis doesn’t consist of pinnacles of insurmountable black ice, or temperatures that fall to minus forty degrees, and a wind that insists that for every four strides you take, you will only advance a single step. On top of that, we are only breathing one-third of the oxygen you are enjoying in Surrey. And, as coming back down will undoubtedly be even more hazardous, we can’t take unnecessary risks just so Hinks can inform his committee that one of us has climbed heights no man has ever reached before.

Several of the team are suffering from altitude sickness, snow blindness, and, worst of all, frostbite. Morshead has lost two fingers and a toe. It would be worth two fingers and a toe if he’d reached the summit, but for the North Col? If Norton and Somervell fail to reach the summit the day after tomorrow, Finch, Odell, and I will try the following day. If they do succeed, then we’ll be on our way home long before you open this letter. In fact I might even arrive ahead of it-let’s hope so.

I have a feeling that it may be Finch and I who end up sleeping in that tiny tent some 27,000 feet above sea level, although there’s one other member of the team who has matched us stride for stride.

My darling, I write this letter with your photograph by my side, and…

Once again, Ruth joined her daughters on the drawing-room carpet, only to find that Clare already had her thumb firmly planted on the North Col.

“They should have been back over an hour ago.”

Odell didn’t comment, although he knew George was right. They stood outside the team tent and stared up at the mountain, willing Norton, Somervell, and Morshead to appear.

If Norton and Somervell had reached the summit, George’s only regret-although he would never have admitted it to anyone other than Ruth-would be not putting himself in the first team.

George checked his watch again, and calculated that they could wait no longer. He turned to the rest of his team, all of whom were peering anxiously up the mountain. “Right, it’s time to put together a search party. Who wants to join me?”

Several hands shot up.

A few minutes later, George, Finch, Odell, and Sherpa Nyima were fully kitted out and ready to go. George set off up the mountain without another word. A biting cold wind was whistling down the pass and tore into their skin, covering them in a thin wafer of snow that immediately froze onto their parched cheeks.

George had never faced a more determined or bitter enemy, and he knew that no one could hope to survive a night in these conditions. They must find them.

“Madness, this is nothing but madness!” he shouted into the howling gale, but Boreas didn’t heed him and kept on blowing.

After more than two hours of the worst conditions George had ever experienced, he could hardly place one foot in front of the other. He was about to give the order to return to the camp when he heard Finch cry out, “I can see three little lambs who’ve lost their way, baa, baa, baa!”

Ahead of them, almost invisible against the rocky background, George could just make out three lost climbers shuffling slowly down the mountain. The rescue party moved as quickly as they could toward them. Desperate as they all were to find out if Norton and Somervell had reached the summit, they looked so exhausted that no one attempted to ask them. Norton was holding a hand over his right ear, and George took the poor fellow by the elbow and guided him slowly back down the mountain. He glanced over his shoulder to see Somervell a few feet behind. His face gave no clue as to the success or failure of their mission. He finally looked at Morshead, whose face remained expressionless as he staggered on.

It was another hour before the camp came into sight. In the murky twilight, George guided the three climbers into the team tent, where mugs of lukewarm tea awaited them. The moment Norton stepped into the tent he collapsed on his knees. Guy Bullock rushed to his side and began to examine his frostbitten ear, which was black and blistered.

While Morshead and Somervell knelt over the flame of the Primus stove trying to thaw out, the rest of the team stood around in silence, waiting for one of them to break the news. It was Somervell who spoke first, but not until he’d drunk several gulps of tea laced with brandy.

“We couldn’t have made a better start this morning, having put up the tent at Camp V,” he began, “but after about a thousand feet, we walked straight into a snowstorm,” he added between breaths. “My throat became so bunged up I could hardly breathe.” He paused again. “Norton thumped me on the back until I was violently sick, which temporarily solved the problem, but by then I didn’t have the strength to take another step. Norton waited for me to recover before we struck out across the North Face.”

Norton picked up the story while Somervell took another gulp of tea. “It was hopeless. We made a little more progress, but the snowstorm didn’t ease up, so we had no choice but to turn back.”

“What height did you reach?” asked George.

Norton passed the altimeter to his climbing leader. “Twenty-six thousand eight hundred and fifty feet,” gasped George. “That’s the highest any man has ever climbed.”

The rest of the team burst into spontaneous applause.

“If only you’d taken oxygen,” said Finch, “you might have reached the summit.”

No one else offered an opinion.

“This is going to hurt, I’m afraid, old fellow,” said Bullock, picking up a pair of scissors and warming them over the Primus. He bent down and carefully began trimming off parts of Norton’s right ear.

The following morning, George rose at 6:00 A.M. He stuck his head out of his tent to see a clear sky, without the slightest suggestion of wind. Finch and Odell were sitting cross-legged on the ground, devouring a hearty breakfast.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said George. He was so keen to be on the move that he ate breakfast standing up, and was ready to set off ten minutes later. Bullock, Morshead, and Somervell crawled out of their tents to wish them Godspeed. Norton remained flat on his back.

George took Norton’s advice on which route they should take and led Finch and Odell slowly toward the North Ridge. Despite the clear, windless conditions, every pace seemed more demanding than the last because they had to take three breaths for each stride they advanced. Finch had insisted on strapping two cylinders of oxygen to his back. Would he prove to be right, and end up the only one who could keep going?

Hour after hour, they trudged on up the mountain in silence. It was not until the late afternoon that they felt the first breath of icy wind that met them like an unwelcome guest. Within minutes the gentle breeze had turned into a gale. If George’s altimeter hadn’t confirmed that they were only a hundred yards from Camp V, at 25,000 feet, he would have turned back.

One hundred yards became an hour as the wind and snow lashed relentlessly at their bodies, tearing into their garments as if searching mercilessly for any exposed skin, while trying to blow them back down the mountain whence they’d come. When they finally reached the tent, George could only pray that the bad weather would have cleared by the morning, otherwise they would have to return, as they couldn’t hope to survive such conditions for two nights in a row; in fact, George feared that if they fell asleep, all three of them might freeze to death.

The three men attempted to settle down for the night. George noticed that their condensed breath froze and turned into icicles that hung from the roof of the tent like chandeliers in a ballroom. Finch spent every moment checking and re-checking the dials on his precious oxygen cylinders, while George attempted to write to Ruth.

June 19th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

Yesterday three brave men set out to try to reach the summit of Everest, and one of them, Norton, climbed to a height of 26,850 ft. before sheer exhaustion got the better of them. They finally had to turn back, and Norton lost parts of his right ear to frostbite. He sleeps tonight in the knowledge that he has climbed higher than any man on earth.

Tomorrow three more of us will attempt to follow in their footsteps, and perhaps one of us might even…

“After what we’ve been through today, Mallory, surely you’ll reconsider using oxygen tomorrow?”

“No, I won’t,” replied George, putting his pen down. “I’m determined to give it a go without any artificial aids.”

“But your handmade boots are an artificial aid,” said Finch. “The mittens your wife knitted for you are an aid. Even the sugar in your tea is an aid. In fact, the only thing that isn’t an aid is our partner,” said Finch, glaring at the sleeping Odell.

“And who would you have chosen in his place? Norton or Somervell?”

“Neither,” replied Finch, “although they’re both damned good climbers. But you made it clear right from the start that the final push should only be attempted by someone best acclimatized to the conditions, and we both know who that is.”

“Nyima,” said George quietly.

“There’s another reason why you should have invited Nyima to join us, and I would certainly have done so if I’d been climbing leader.”

“And what might that be?”

“The pleasure of seeing Hinks’s face when he had to report to the Everest Committee that the first two men to place a foot on the summit of Everest were an Australian and a Sherpa.”

“That was never going to happen,” said George.

“Why not?” demanded Finch.

“Because Hinks will be reporting to the committee that an Englishman was the first to reach the summit.” George gave Finch a brief smile. “But I can’t see any reason why an Australian and a Sherpa shouldn’t manage it at some time in the future.” He picked up his pen. “Now go back to sleep, Finch. I’ve got a letter to finish.” Once again George began to move the nib across the paper, but no words appeared; the ink had frozen.

At five o’clock the following morning the three men clambered out of their sleeping bags. George was the first to emerge from the tent, to be greeted by a cloudless blue sky, the color of which J. M. W. Turner would have marveled at, although the great artist would have had to climb to 25,000 feet before he could hope to paint the scene. There was only the slightest suggestion of a breeze, and George filled his lungs with the cold morning air as he looked up at the peak, a mere 4,000 feet above him.

“So near…” he said as Finch crawled out of the tent with thirty-two pounds of oxygen cylinders strapped to his back. He also looked up at the summit, and then beat his chest.

“Shh,” said George. “We don’t want to wake her. Let her slumber, and then we can take her by surprise.”

“That’s hardly the way to treat a lady,” replied Finch with a grin.

George began pacing up and down on the spot, unable to hide his frustration at having to wait for Odell to appear.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, chaps,” Odell said sheepishly when he eventually crawled out of the tent. “I couldn’t find my other glove.” Neither of his companions showed any sympathy.

They roped up, George taking the lead, with Finch behind him and Odell bringing up the rear. “Good luck, gentlemen,” said George. “The time has come for us to court a lady.”

“Let’s hope she doesn’t drop her handkerchief right on top of us,” said Finch, turning the valve of one of his oxygen cylinders and adjusting his mouthpiece.

George had taken only a few steps before he knew that this was going to be like no other climb he’d ever experienced. Whenever he’d approached the summit of a mountain in the past, there were always places where it was possible to stop and rest. But here there was no chance of respite. The slightest movement was as exhausting as if he was trying to run a hundred-yard dash, although he progressed at a tortoise’s pace.

He tried not to think about Finch, only a few strides behind, contentedly taking in his oxygen. Would he prove them all wrong? George battled on but with each step his breathing became more and more labored. He had practiced a special deep-breathing technique every day for the past seven months-four seconds in through the nose, fill up your chest, followed by four seconds out through the mouth, but this was the first opportunity he’d had to try the technique out above 25,000 feet. He glanced back to see that Finch, despite carrying an extra thirty-two pounds on his back, still appeared relaxed. But if they both reached the top, there would be no doubt which one of them would be considered the victor.

George struggled on inch by inch, foot by foot, and didn’t stop until he came across Norton’s Burberry scarf, which had been left as a marker to proclaim the new-now old-world-record altitude for any climber. He looked back to see Finch still climbing strongly, but Odell was clearly struggling and had already fallen several yards behind. Would Finch prove to be right? Should George have chosen the best climber available to accompany them?

George checked his watch: 10:12. Although their progress had been slower than he had anticipated, he still believed that if they could reach the summit by midday, they would have enough time to return to the North Col before sunset. He counted slowly to sixty-something he’d done on every climb since he was a schoolboy-before checking the altimeter to see how far they’d progressed. He didn’t need an altimeter to know the distance was becoming less and less by the minute, but he still remained confident that they could make it to the top when they reached 27,550 feet at 10:51. That was when he heard a cry that sounded like a wounded animal. He knew it wasn’t Finch.

George looked back to see Odell was on his knees, his body racked with coughs, his ice axe buried beside him in the snow. He clearly wasn’t going to advance another inch. Reluctantly, George slithered back down to join him, losing twenty hard-earned feet in the process.

“I’m so sorry, Mallory,” gasped Odell. “I can’t go any further. I should have let you and Finch set off without me.”

“Don’t give it a second thought, old chum,” George said between breaths. He placed an arm around Odell’s shoulders. “I can always have another crack at it tomorrow. You couldn’t have done more.”

Finch didn’t waste any time with words of sympathy. He removed his mouthpiece and said, “If you’re going to stick around looking after Odell, can I at least carry on?”

George wanted to say no, but knew he couldn’t. He checked his watch-10:53-and nodded. “Good luck,” he said, “but you must turn back by midday at the latest.”

“That should be quite long enough,” said Finch, before replacing his mouthpiece and releasing himself from the team’s rope. As he eased his way past Mallory and Odell, neither could see the grin on his face. George could only watch as his rival progressed slowly on up the mountain, inching his way toward the summit.

However, long before the hour was up, Finch could no longer place one foot in front of the other. He stopped to release the valve on the second gas cylinder, but he could still only manage a few more feet. He cursed as he thought how close he was to immortality. He checked his altimeter: 27,850 feet, a mere 1,155 feet from shaking hands with God.

Finch stared up at the glistening peak, took out his mouthpiece, and shouted, “It was Mallory you were expecting, wasn’t it? But it will be me who comes back tomorrow!”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

June 28th, 1922

My dearest Ruth,

We so nearly reached the summit, but within hours of returning to the North Col the foul weather set in again with a vengeance. I can’t make up my mind if the Gods are angry because we failed to reach the top, or that we came too close so they decided to slam the door in our face.

The following day the conditions were so dreadful that we only just got back to Camp II, and we’ve had to sit around for the past week waiting for a break in the weather. I’m still determined to have one final crack at the summit.

Norton has had to return to base camp, and I suspect the General may decide to send him back to England. God knows he’s played his part.

Finch has been struck down with dysentery and also returned to base camp but is still well enough to remind anyone who cares to listen that he is the man who climbed higher than anyone else on earth (27,850 feet)-myself included. Morshead has had to join him as his frostbite has become unbearable. Odell has fully recovered from our first attempt on the summit, when he suffered badly, and tells me that he wants to be given another chance, but if we do make another attempt I’m not going to risk climbing with him again. So with Finch, Norton, and Morshead no longer available to join me for the final climb, only Somervell among the recognized climbers is still on his feet, and he has every right to be given a second chance.

If the weather breaks, even for a couple of days, I’m determined to give it one more go, before the monsoon season is upon us. I don’t care for the idea of returning to Britain in second place, not while I’m convinced that if Odell hadn’t held me up, I could have gone far higher than 27,550, especially with Finch snapping at my heels-possibly even to the top. Now that he’s laid low, I may even experiment with his foul oxygen cylinders, but I won’t tell him until I’ve returned triumphant.

However, the real reason I’m so determined to put an end to this life-long obsession is that I have no interest in coming back to this desolate place, and every interest in spending the rest of my life with you and the girls-I even miss the lower fifth.

I hope that long before you open this letter, you will have read in The Times that your husband has stood on top of the earth and is on his way back home.

I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.

Your loving husband,

George

George was sealing the envelope when Nyima appeared by his side with two mugs of Bovril.

“You will be pleased to learn, Mr. Mallory,” he said, “that we are about to have three clear days in a row, but no more. So this will be your last chance, because the monsoon season will follow close behind.”

“How can you be so sure?” asked George, warming his fingers on the mug before taking a sip.

“I’m like a cow in your country,” Nyima replied, “that knows when to shelter under a tree because it’s about to rain.”

George laughed. “You have a considerable knowledge of my country.”

“More books have been written about England than any country on earth.” Nyima hesitated for a moment before saying, “Perhaps if I had been born an Englishman, Mr. Mallory, you might have considered including me in your climbing party.”

“Please wake me at six,” said George, folding his letter. “If you’re right about tomorrow’s weather, I’d like to try to reach the North Col Camp by sunset, so we can have one final crack at the summit the following day.”

“Would you like me to take your letter down to base camp, so it can be posted immediately?”

“No, thank you,” said George. “Someone else can do that. I have a more important role than postman in mind for you.”

When Nyima woke him the following morning, George’s spirits were high. Ascension Day. A day for making history. He ate a hearty breakfast, aware that he would only be able to nibble Kendal Mint Cake for the next couple of days.

When he stepped out of his tent he was delighted to see Somervell and Odell already waiting for him, along with nine Sherpas, including Nyima, who all looked equally determined to be on their way.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said George. “I think the time has come to leave our calling card on top of the earth.” Without another word he set off up the mountain.

The weather was perfect for climbing: a bright, clear day, not a breath of wind, just a carpet of overnight snow that reminded him of the Swiss Alps. If Nyima’s prediction turned out to be correct, George’s only problem would be selecting who to team up with for the final assault. But he’d already made up his mind to follow Finch’s advice and invite the most competent climber to join him tomorrow.

George made better progress in the first hour than he had thought possible, and when he turned to see how his team was faring, he was delighted to find that no one was lagging behind. He decided not to stop while they were progressing so well; a decision that was to save his life.

No one flagged during the second hour, at the end of which George called for a break. He was pleased to see that even the Sherpas, despite each having eighty pounds of supplies on their backs, were still smiling.

When they set off again, their pace dropped a little as the slope steepened. The snow was deep, often above his knees, but George’s spirits remained high. He was pleased that Somervell and Odell were keeping up with the pace, no doubt both assuming that they would be joining him tomorrow for the final climb. He’d already decided that, this time, only one of them would. A little further down the mountain, the Sherpas were managing a slow shuffle up the slope, with Nyima bringing up the rear. A contented smile remained on George’s face, as he now believed he could defeat both Finch and Hinks.

They were within 600 feet of the North Col when George heard what sounded like a car backfiring somewhere above him. He instantly recalled when he’d last heard that unmistakable, unforgiving sound.

“Please God, not again!” he shouted as a wave of rocks, snow, and rubble came crashing down from a cliff-face some 200 feet above him. Within seconds he, Somervell, and Odell were completely buried. George frantically fought his way to the surface in time to see the avalanche continuing its ruthless course down the mountain, gathering momentum as it engulfed everything its path. He could only watch helplessly, still buried up to his shoulders in snow, as first his colleagues, and then the Sherpas, disappeared below the surface, one by one. The last to be buried was Nyima, an image that would remain with George for the rest of his life.

An cerie silence fell, before George cried out. He prayed that he wasn’t the only member of the party still alive. Odell answered his call, and moments later Somervell surfaced. The three of them dug themselves out of the snow and hurried down the mountain, hoping against hope that they could save the Sherpas who had served them so faithfully.

George spotted a glove on the surface and tried to run toward it, but with each step he sank deeper into the thick snow. When he finally reached the glove, he began frantically shoveling at the snow around it with his bare hands. He was beginning to despair when a blue gloveless hand appeared, followed by an arm, a neck, and finally a head, gasping for breath. Behind him he heard a cry of relief as Odell rescued another Sherpa who had not expected to see the light of day again. George waded on down the mountain through the thick powdery snow searching for a rucksack, a boot, an ice axe, anything that might lead him to Nyima. For what seemed like hours he dug desperately at even the slightest hint of life. He found nothing. At last he collapsed, exhausted, forced to accept that he could do no more.

When the sun set an hour later, only two of the nine Sherpas had been rescued. The other seven, including Nyima, remained buried in undug graves. George knelt in the snow and wept. Chomolungma had laughed at the impertinence of these mortals.

It would be days before the loss of those seven Sherpas was not constantly on George’s mind, even when he slept. No matter how hard his colleagues tried to console him, they were unable to convince George that his ambition had not been the cause of the Sherpas’ deaths. General Bruce had ordered that a memorial cairn be erected on a moraine close to a Tibetan monastery. As the team stood around it, heads bowed, Somervell said quietly, “It would have been better if one of us were buried alongside them.”

Bruce led a broken band of men back to Bombay. They had been on board the ship sailing for England for several days before anyone smiled, and weeks passed before anyone laughed. George could only wonder what lay ahead of them when they docked at Liverpool.

Every member of the team had vowed that he would not return to Everest for, to quote their climbing leader, all the gold in Arabia.