The Ascent of Rum Doodle Read online

  I must admit that I was completely baffled.

  Poor fellows, they were still slightly hysterical.

  We had already reconnoitred the lower slopes of the wall.

  Burley was completely exhausted,

  The great question was: would the mountain go? Totter, in 1947, had written: ‘The mountain is difficult – severe, even – but it will go.’ Later reconnaissance had questioned whether the North Wall itself would go, but the final verdict had been that it would. Totter himself had summed up the prevailing opinion thus: ‘Given team spirit and good porters, the mountain will go.’ All the world knows now that it did. It is no small part of my satisfaction that we vindicated Totter’s opinion.

  But as we stood on the Rankling La we were awed by the mighty bastion which reared its majestic head against the cloudless sky. As we stood there, Constant spoke for all of us:

  ‘She stands like a goddess, defying those who would set sacrilegious feet on her unsullied shrine.’

  There was a murmur of agreement. In that moment we were humbled by the magnitude of the task we had set ourselves, and I for one sent up a fervent prayer that I would not be found wanting in the ordeal that lay before us. In such moments a man feels close to himself.

  We stood there, close to ourselves, until sunset, the supreme artist, touched the snowfields of that mighty bastion with rose-tinted brushes and the mountain became a vision such as few human eyes have beheld. In silence we turned and made our way through gathering darkness to our halting-place in the valley.

  4

  The Glacier

  TWO DAYS LATER we reached the snout of the glacier and commenced the long haul to Base Camp. Here we roped up for the first time. Jungle went first as route-finder, with Shute, who was to take films of us at some convenient point. With them were ten porters carrying camera and accessories. Burley and Wish followed. The former was suffering from glacier lassitude but was expected to acclimatize shortly. Then came Constant and Prone. The latter had developed German measles but was receiving the best of treatment at his own capable hands. The porters were distributed between the various parties. I stayed behind to meditate for a while on the responsibilities of leadership, and so brought up the rear.

  The glacier was over a mile wide, deeply crevassed and littered with innumerable blocks of ice, most of them twenty to thirty feet high. The place was a veritable maze. Even the highest peaks were hidden from sight.

  After some hours’ march I was gratified to see in front of me the film gear, fully operational, with Shute at the handle. I left him to pack up his things with the help of his porters and carried on. An hour later I was surprised to see him once more, again turning the camera. I concluded that he had passed me without my noticing – as might easily happen – and was glad to congratulate him on his energy. He looked at me in surprise and swore that he had not moved from that spot since setting up his camera over an hour ago. I was about to remind him that this was neither the time nor the place for such witticisms when I was astounded to hear a call from behind. Imagine my amazement when I found that it was Jungle, who, instead of being out in front, had evidently dropped behind and been passed by the rest of us. Following him were a number of porters, in a long straggling line, and then, to our mutual bewilderment, came Burley and Wish.

  I must admit that I was completely baffled. It was one of those moments when one doubts one’s own sanity. I had, with my own eyes, seen the four people who were now with me set out ahead of me. Of these, I had passed Shute, who had nevertheless appeared ahead of me, while the others, whom I had not passed at all, were now behind me. It was too much to believe that we had passed each other in this complicated way without noticing it.

  The question was: where were Constant and Prone?

  It was Shute who supplied the answer.

  ‘Jungle, you fool!’ he cried. ‘You’ve been and gone round in a circle!’

  At once it came clear to me. We were stretched out along the circumference of a circle, everybody following everybody else. Shute had gone on filming us without bothering to identify us as we passed, and we had all gone round twice. If it hadn’t been for him, who was the only easily recognizable feature of our route, we might have gone on all day.

  Confirmation came shortly afterwards with the arrival of Constant and Prone. I think they must have been suffering from altitude deafness, for they were shouting at each other as though they were half a mile apart instead of only a rope’s length. I congratulated myself on my arrangement of the party; two men who could carry on a spirited conversation after several hours’ hard marching at 15,000 feet were obviously kindred spirits. It is one of the deeper rewards of leadership to find that one’s manipulation of the human element has been successful.

  I decided that the occasion was suitable for a halt, and over a glass of champagne we discussed the reasons for the mistake. I asked all to give their opinion candidly, without regard to susceptibilities. It is my belief that men are better friends for facing the truth together, and that evasion of any kind leads to distrust in the long run.

  It was encouraging to hear how they responded to the appeal. Shute was particularly outspoken, and this, I thought, was a good sign in one who was to be Jungle’s constant companion.

  What none of us could understand was how Jungle, using his compass, as he assured us he had done, could have turned through a circle. The problem was solved by Shute, who made Jungle demonstrate his method. They wandered off together, and soon they, too, were discussing the matter at the top of their voices. Altitude deafness was, I thought, unusually prevalent that day.

  When they returned Shute gave us the answer. ‘The silly fool forgot to release the catch on his compass,’ he told us. ‘Naturally, it pointed north whatever direction he took.’

  ‘It might happen to anyone,’ I said. It is my experience that a man supplies his best when he is trusted. Nothing saps a man’s confidence in himself so much as mistrust from those over him. It would have been fatal to the expedition to allow Jungle to doubt himself – to say nothing of the effect upon him in later life. I take no credit for my forbearance; such things are the essence of leadership; either one has them or one has not.

  For this reason I sent Jungle off again after the break, confident that he would not make the same mistake twice.

  Nor did he. After we had been on the go for about four hours I found the party at the edge of a vast crevasse – all except Jungle, who was in it. His compass had directed him to it, and rather than make a long detour in a doubtful direction he had insisted on being lowered into the crevasse, intending to climb up the other side by cutting steps. He had been down for two hours and nobody knew whether he was making progress, for his voice was multiplied by echoes and reached the surface as an undecipherable chorus. For all they knew he might be completely stuck.

  It is in such moments of crisis that a man’s real character is revealed. The veneer of manners and sophistication which enabled him to bluff his way in the civilized world is of no avail to him now. Unless he is heart of oak he will show some crack or blemish, some weakness which will betray him and his comrades. I am glad to be able to record that in this emergency each and all of the party emerged with flying colours. It is perhaps not too much to say that during the final stages of the assault, when things were as black as they could be and only character stood between us and destruction, the confidence engendered by that early incident provided the last ounce of effort which enabled us to win through.

  Each, of course, met the crisis in his own way. Burley, with the sang-froid of a Napoleon, took the opportunity to recuperate his strength – sapped by glacier lassitude – by taking a nap. Wish was boiling a piece of ice over a primus stove in order to determine the boiling point of ice. Shute had detached the lens of his camera and was correcting it for the reduced refractive index of the rarefied atmosphere. Constant was improving his knowledge of the language by a shouting contest with the Bang. And Prone was treating himself for swollen gla
nds, which he suspected to be incipient.

  The behaviour of my companions on this occasion has been, I freely admit it, an example and inspiration to me on more than one occasion when panic threatened. I was both humbled by their calmness and warmed by the confidence which they evidently placed in me, upon whom the responsibility rested. They knew I would not fail them.

  But time was pressing. If Jungle was to be rescued from his predicament before nightfall, something had to be done, and done quickly. Obviously, someone must go down after him; but who should it be? Thanks to the morning’s incident I had the answer. To Shute alone should go the privilege of risking his life for his friend.

  It speaks volumes for Shute’s modesty that he did his best to concede the honour to someone else. But I could not allow him to forgo his real desire, and we soon had him dangling on a rope.

  After he had descended some distance he disappeared from sight, and his voice became as incoherent as Jungle’s. We lowered away until the rope hung slack, then awaited developments.

  After some minutes it dawned on me that we now had two men down the crevasse without being a step further forward. Neither could communicate with us, and we dared not haul on the ropes for fear of injuring them.

  The situation was desperate.

  It was Burley who, waking up at this juncture, supplied the solution. ‘Send down a walkie-talkie,’ he said. ‘We’ve carried the blasted things all this way; let’s get some good out of them.’

  It was a brilliant suggestion. Burley, I decided, must have the honour of descending with a radio set. Like Shute, he modestly declined the privilege, but I insisted. Soon he, too, disappeared from sight. I could have sworn that his last words were something about ‘keep my ruddy mouth shut in future’; but this could not have been the case – unless, of course, it was another of Burley’s incomprehensible witticisms.

  Wish switched on another radio, and we waited breathlessly. Nothing happened. A horrible suspicion came over me.

  ‘Is the set in order?’ I asked.

  ‘How the devil do I know?’ said Wish. ‘Jungle’s the expert.’

  It was true. None of us knew how to use the radio. Jungle was to have instructed us at the meeting in London, but he had been unavoidably absent.

  There was nothing else for it; Wish must go down. He would get Jungle to write down instructions, which would be pulled up by me on a line, one end of which Wish would take down with him.

  Down he went; and up, in due course, came the message: ‘Batteries not yet installed. Are packed in one of the loads, but Burley does not know which one. Send down champagne.’

  This, I decided, would never do. Some channel of communication had to be opened. I scribbled a message: ‘Please tell me what to do.’ I wrapped this around the neck of a champagne bottle, tied the line round it and lowered it into the crevasse. I gave them five minutes to reply and hauled up the line. The message read: ‘Send down another bottle.’

  I hope I am not unduly harsh in thinking this an inconsiderate reply; certainly I might be forgiven for thinking so at the time. But, not wishing to appear dictatorial, I did as they requested, sending with the bottle another message: ‘I earnestly beg of you to consider my position. All means must be used to extricate you from your predicament. Please advise at earliest convenience.’

  Back came the following: ‘Yours of even date to hand. Jungle overcome by vertigo. Absolutely imperative you send four bottles of champagne immediately, otherwise cannot answer for consequences.’

  This, of course, put the matter in a different light, and I repented my quick judgment. I have since talked the affair over with Totter, who confirms my original opinion that the first message was not quite in the best tradition; but at the time I was anxious to make amends for my unfounded and ungallant suspicion that the request for the second bottle was without justification, and I thereby erred into leniency. That the message was justified must certainly be conceded; we – that is, Totter and I – question only the manner in which it was delivered, which made no acknowledgement of my own difficult position. But it is hard for me, who was at least on terra firma, to judge the feelings of those below. Perhaps I have, after all, been unfair to them; if so, I tender sincere apology.

  I naturally lost no time in fulfilling the last urgent request, sending with the champagne another appeal for instructions.

  The next message read: ‘Jungle seized with convulsions. Send down Prone with five bottles.’

  This worried me more than I care to say. It seemed to me that champagne was the last thing one would prescribe for convulsions. But Prone, who, sick as he was, pulled himself together manfully when I read the message to him and seemed almost lively for the first time in weeks, assured me that it was just the thing. So we sent him down too.

  I gave them time to talk over the situation, then pulled up the cord. Up came an empty bottle, with this message round its neck: ‘Bung Ho!’

  At the same moment strange sounds began to issue from the crevasse. At first I could not believe my ears, but at last I was forced to the conclusion that my comrades were singing. Having some knowledge of British folk-tunes I was able, with some degree of certainty, to identify the music as ‘Oh, My Darling Clementine’, although, multiplied by echoes, it sounded rather like a full-size choir singing a kind of fugal Clementine. The result was not unpleasing, and I rejoiced that my friends had not lost heart; but unless they intended the song as a code message it was no help to me in my dilemma. I feared that although they were putting up a brave front my companions were in a situation of great peril.

  This seemed also to be the opinion of Constant. ‘They need me down there!’ he said, and before I quite realized what he was about the brave fellow had pushed several bottles into his pockets, belayed the rope to an icicle, and was sliding out of sight.

  Time went by, and the singing continued. I raised and lowered the line several times, but no message appeared. I was well-nigh desperate. Six human lives depended on my clear thinking and decisive action; but I was completely at a loss. My impulse was to descend the crevasse myself, even if it were to perish with my colleagues; but this would leave us with no means of communication with the surface.

  The porters had long since settled themselves comfortably on their loads and were smoking the inevitable pipe of stunk. I could expect no help from that quarter.

  Or so I thought. But I was to receive a lesson on the invaluable qualities of the Yogistani porter, without whom the expedition could not have been successful. The Bang, whose name, by the way, was Bing, suddenly rose to his feet and came across to the crevasse, bringing with him a small but immensely broad and powerful porter, Bung by name. Without a word being spoken, Bung took hold of one end of a rope and was lowered by Bing into the crevasse. Hardly had the rope gone slack when a piercing whistle sounded from below. Bing at once began to haul in again, and you can imagine my astonishment and relief when Bung came safely to the surface holding Burley by his jacket with a mighty fist. Burley, dangling like a puppet, was happily singing ‘Yo, Heave-Ho!’ – as well he might.

  It was too simple. One by one my companions were hauled to the surface, and a cordial reunion took place. I am not ashamed to admit that I shed a quiet tear. Jungle, carried away no doubt by relief at his narrow escape – although I like to think that some small part of his feeling was genuine affection – thumped me so hard on the back that I fell down; and Wish, who seemed a little light-headed after his ordeal, apparently thought it of the greatest urgency that he should inform me that he had measured the depth of the crevasse, which was exactly 153 feet. This seemed to him, for some reason, excruciatingly funny.

  When all but Constant had been safely restored to terra firma Bing and Bung went back to their comrades. They had evidently forgotten Constant, or were, perhaps, unable to count up to seven. I went over to them and endeavoured to indicate by signs what I wished them to do. I was met by blank scowls. Their meagre intelligence was evidently incapable of grasping my meaning.
I lined the rest of the team up, leaving a gap in the middle, and pointed to this gap and to the crevasse, then went through the motions of lowering and raising a rope and greeting a companion saved from the abyss. All nodded encouragingly – a few even applauded – but no one made a move. I went through the whole performance again; this time they took not the slightest notice, but puffed away at their stunk as if everything were normal.

  The team had clasped each other around the shoulders and, still in line, capered sideways on the ice like a row of chorus girls, singing ‘Don’t Put Your Daughter On The Stage, Mrs Worthington’. Poor fellows, they were still slightly hysterical from the effects of their ordeal.

  I was on the point of unmanly panic when Bing got to his feet, came over to me, leered in a most objectionable fashion into my face and scratched the palm of one hand with the forefinger of the other. He did it in a most deliberate and odious way, as though the act had some esoteric significance.

  It was horrible. I honestly thought for a moment that he was trying to bewitch me. One never knows what goes on in the heads of such primitive people. After all, this was the Mysterious East; who knew what might not happen?

  The others stopped dancing and gathered round. I appealed to them for advice. What should I do?

  It was Burley who told me, although how he came to know about it I cannot imagine.

  ‘Grease it, old boy,’ he said; ‘grease it.’

  I looked at him in astonishment. What was I to grease, and why?

  Luckily, Burley took charge. To my amazement he produced a bohee (¾d.) and offered it to Bing. The latter shook his head and scratched harder at his palm. Burley added another bohee, with the same result.

  It seemed to me exactly as if they were bargaining over the price of something. Constant has since explained the matter to me. It appears that the number six is sacred to the Yogistani. Every sixth occurrence of a thing is treated in a special way. The sixth day is a day of rest. The sixth son is put to the priesthood. The sixth pipeful of stunk is smoked in honour of one’s grandfather; and so on. The prescribed ritual may, however, be waived provided that a suitable offering is made to the gods. In this particular case, five lives had been saved; the gods had been deprived of the presence of five Europeans. To deprive them of a sixth would be the grossest sacrilege, and only a heavy monetary offering could adjust the matter.