The Ascent of Rum Doodle Read online

  Constant was frantic. He consulted authorities on seal psychology and visited ancient seamen in various hemispheres. He sat for hours in his bath trying to put himself in Travers’ place. His toes became permanently wrinkled, but the secret of the seal’s affection remained hidden from him.

  One day, while strolling in the blackest despair through the West End of London, little caring what happened to him, he was seized by an uncontrollable impulse to justify his misery by performing some irretrievable act of degradation. Uttering a cry which changed the lives of three bystanders, he flung himself madly into a news cinema. A cartoon was just beginning. It opened with a rocky shore where a pretty mermaid was charming the creatures of the deep with a song. Amongst her audience was a large, healthy-looking seal which was listening with an expression of complete ecstasy. With a thrill, Constant saw that it was the image of Travers in his happier moments.

  He dashed from the cinema and took a taxi straight to the circus, where he rushed to Travers’ tank and laid bare his soul in a passionate rendering of ‘Caller Herrin’’.

  The effect was startling. Lions roared, dogs howled, elephants trumpeted and stamped. An acrobat fell on his friend and three clowns gave their notice on the spot.

  But Constant was oblivious to these trivia. For Travers was sitting up in the water with a smile of ultimate bliss, accompanying Constant in a well-modulated bass voice.

  The circus manager rushed in and offered Constant a contract at a fabulous salary. Constant brushed him aside and hurried to Stella’s dressing-room. Back they came together, and Constant and Travers continued their duet.

  Stella gave a cry of love and flung herself at the ecstatic Constant. As she did so Travers gave a thunderous bellow. Astonished, she turned to the beast and tried to stroke its head. To her horror it bit her hand.

  That was the end. The animal had transferred its affections to Constant and was insanely jealous of Stella. Heartbroken and furious, she told him to take the beast he had stolen and go. He clasped Travers in his arms and ran sobbing into the street, where he took a taxi to the zoo. All the time, Travers had continued to render his part of ‘Caller Herrin’’.

  Constant was sobbing again, his face hidden in his sleeping-bag. I waited until the fit had passed, then assured him of my deepest sympathy and said that I knew what a relief it must have been to tell me about it. He nodded. He was, he said, feeling better already. He had even begun to hope that he had at last conquered his grief.

  I turned from him to wipe away a tear. The rewards of leadership are not always so immediate or so intense. When I had composed myself I asked him what had happened to Travers. The animal, he told me, had started a male voice choir among the zoo seals. Constant sang with them on Saturday afternoons.

  *

  That night both Constant and I slept badly. I had a recurring nightmare in which I saw Constant’s face at the moment when he recognized Pong as the figure following us. But when it came closer it turned out to be a flat-faced seal which sobbed heartbrokenly and tried to hide itself in a sleeping-bag which was much too small for it. I awoke unrested. Constant was also tired out, having been seized with repeated bouts of sobbing which made the tent shake. He said they were due to habit and did not indicate grief any more, which was a comfort to me.

  We were really in no condition to go on, but the mountain was less terrifying than the prospect of Pong’s meals. We left him behind with great relief and assurances that we had never eaten so well in our lives. We told him that we would hurry back to partake as soon as possible of his culinary marvels. This, we assured him, would be the high spot of our adventure, the reward for difficulties surmounted, the silver lining to our cloud of toil. We begged him to stay where he was so as not to disappoint us.

  We left him washing up and glowering.

  We set off for Camp 1 by the route which Wish had described to us. Just above the Advanced Base a steep ridge rose for some 5,000 feet before merging into the face of the mountain. Our path lay up the left face of this ridge.

  Constant and I were using oxygen. We found the apparatus so uncomfortable that we allowed So Lo to lead. The porters refused the aid of oxygen; I think they thought it was witchcraft.

  After a short distance the ground steepened, and soon we – or rather the porters – were cutting steps in hard ice. We were now high. Every step climbed demanded an effort equivalent to running up 153 steps at sea level – the figure is Wish’s. The great ordeal had begun at last. We could now number ourselves amongst those who had trod the ultimate heights and invaded nature’s last stronghold against the advancing spirit of man.

  I tried to remember all I had read about climbing at such heights. I took one step, then waited for ten minutes. This, I understood, was essential; our predecessors were unanimous about it: one step, then ten minutes’ rest, or seven in an emergency. I found it more difficult than I had anticipated. To remain in one position for ten minutes was not at all easy. First, I tended to fall over sideways; then I got cramp in the calf; then my nose started to itch; then my foot started to vibrate and had to be held down by both hands. This was very tiring, and when I crouched to hold my foot I was lower than I had been before making the step, which caused me to wonder whether I was gaining height or losing it; and the mental strain was so great that I lost control of myself and fell off my step.

  I was pulled up by So Lo, and tried again. I was beginning to appreciate all I had read concerning the rigours of high-altitude climbing. But I noticed that the others seemed to be ignoring the procedure. While I was struggling to maintain my posture they would shuffle about freely on their steps and even show signs of impatience. This I could understand in the case of the porters; but Constant, I thought, should know better. I was about to expostulate when he said: ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing, Binder?’ I explained, and to my surprise he went off into fits of laughter. He said that the early climbers had been forced to rest after every few steps because they were out of breath. This was because they were not using oxygen. Nobody, he said, need rest any longer than he wanted to; at my rate of progress we should never get up the mountain.

  This was a surprise to me, but after thinking it over it seemed quite reasonable, and I decided to give it a fair trial. I found to my delight that the going was not appreciably heavier than it had been the previous day. I mention this incident, in which I appear in no very admirable light, because it is a striking illustration of how one may be misled by book knowledge. It was a lesson to me, as a reader, to take nothing on trust, and as a writer to take the greatest care not to mislead my readers.

  I hate to think what my progress might have been, had Constant not been there to put me right.

  I soon found the going quite difficult enough, and I began to expect the onset of those strange phenomena which occur in rarefied atmospheres. I reminded Constant that I would like to hear of any unusual experiences he might have, and when we stopped for a rest I called the others on the radio and reminded them of the same thing. They were still at Camp 1, not yet acclimatized. Burley, to whom I spoke, told me that Wish was being particularly objectionable that morning; did I think this was one of the symptoms I was interested in? I assured him that it undoubtedly was, and thanked him. Wish apparently seized the apparatus at this point, for his voice now came through telling me that there was every reason for his attitude. Burley had snored heavily the whole night and Wish had been quite unable to get a wink. The snores, he said, were not, as he had expected, attenuated due to the rarefied atmosphere, but were much louder, more complicated and altogether more objectionable than they had ever been before. This, he said, was an example of how a man’s true and bestial nature is revealed at high altitudes. Burley was clearly unfitted for social life above 20,000 feet – if, indeed, he could be considered fit for it at any altitude.

  I commiserated with Wish, but asked him to be kind to his friend, who had much to bear. He promised to remember my words and asked me to keep a look-out for Wharton’s w
arples.

  Off we went again, climbing well, restraining the impetuous So Lo, who was inclined to rush the mountain – a fault to which all beginners are prone. A novice will tire himself out within an hour while the veteran keeps going all day at the same steady pace.

  Higher and higher we climbed, and all the time our legs grew weaker and our breathing more laboured. It was now becoming necessary to stop quite often, but at first I found it almost a pleasure to stop because I had to and not because I thought I had to. The magnificent scenery around me had become much less interesting. I found myself concentrating on the seat of Constant’s trousers – he being ahead of me. I thought I had never seen such a disgusting trousers’ seat in all my life. I thought that Constant ought to be ashamed of himself for owning such a seat. I thought how different was the seat of Burley’s trousers. I noted this down in my diary that evening as an interesting effect of high altitude.

  We reached 27,000 feet in remarkably good time, and looked around for Camp 1. To our dismay it was nowhere to be seen. I called up the others on the radio. Shute answered. I described to him as well as I could the route we had taken and the nature of our immediate surroundings. He said that as far as he could make out we were actually at Camp 1. He advised me to find some high spot from which we might get a good view. This was all very well, but the face of the ridge at this point was a maze of high spots; the tents might be hidden behind any one of a hundred crags or pinnacles. We reconnoitred and we shouted. We whistled and we yodelled. We exploded paper bags. All to no result.

  We had just sat down to think it over when Constant gave a strangled cry and pointed downward.

  Below, ascending by the steps we had cut, was a dark and grim figure.

  Pong!

  This was awful.

  We held a hurried council of war. Pong was heavily laden. He seemed to have brought all the cooking equipment and most of the food we had left at Advanced Base. It was just possible that we could shake him off. We would abandon the search for Camp 1. We would climb as quickly and as high as we could and establish Camp 2 when we could go no further.

  While we were talking Pong had drawn alarmingly close, and when we moved off I had to fight against unmanly panic. Constant said he had known nothing like it since being chased by a bull at Broadstairs on bank holiday.

  We gave So Lo his head with the step-cutting and did our best to keep up with him. He set a tremendous pace. I doubt whether steps have ever been cut so quickly at any altitude. There was something unnatural about it. Mountaineering at 27,000 feet was supposed to be something almost superhuman; yet So Lo, without oxygen, was cutting steps as quickly as we, with oxygen, could climb them. It was all wrong; and it worried me. I was also worried about Constant’s bull. It seemed to me very unlikely that there should be a loose bull at Broadstairs on bank holiday. Was Constant deceiving me? I also felt ashamed of myself for doubting him, which added to my worries.

  In spite of our spanking pace Pong continued to gain on us. Faster and faster we went. Constant and I became dizzy and fell frequently. I became a mass of bruises, and Constant was in even worse condition; being taller than I he had further to fall. The climax came when, after a particularly bad fall, he found himself being picked up by Pong, who had caught us up. Constant uttered a horrid cry and collapsed, senseless. I revived him by hitting his head, and asked him what we should do. He said that since I was obviously in no condition to go on we had better camp where we were. This we did. I found that the height was 29,000 feet. We had established Camp 2 as originally planned. But this was small satisfaction to us at the time; we could think of nothing but the digestive horrors to come.

  9

  The Missing Camp

  SOMETIMES, EVEN NOW, I awake in the night screaming as I relive in dreams the misery of that wretched night. As soon as the tents were up Constant and I crept into our sleeping-bags and awaited supper. I prepared myself for the ordeal by thinking about Christian martyrs and reminding myself that Rum Doodle would hardly be worth climbing if it were no more than a pleasure trip. But my meditations were interrupted by a prolonged clattering which came from the direction of Pong’s tent. Constant, whose nerve was beginning to go, went out to investigate. He came back trembling, with an ominous tale. Pong was crouched over a large stewpan, from which emerged indescribable odours. The ground in front of the tent was littered with empty food tins, and Constant had ascertained that their contents had been those special delicacies which we had chosen to attract the high-altitude palate. And when it appeared, the loathsome mess confirmed his forebodings. All our choicest titbits had gone into Pong’s awful pot: our luscious breast of chicken, the tinned apricots and cream which we had so often tasted in anticipation, the sardines, the caviar, the lobster, the lovely gruyère cheese, the pickled walnuts, the curry, the salmon, even the coffee and the chocolate biscuits: all these were reduced to a nauseating brew which might have sent Macbeth’s witches shrieking from the place.

  The horrors of that meal were but the prelude to a night such as few human beings can have endured. It was, I think, about midnight when I awoke from a nightmare in which I was buried under Rum Doodle, to find Constant lying across my chest snoring heavily and muttering. When I pushed him off he awoke with a cry of terror and hit me on the nose, making my eyes water. I apologized for waking him, and we settled down again. I must have dozed off, for I awoke suddenly under the impression that a prehistoric monster had crept into the tent and was about to do me an injury. I seized the nearest solid object – which happened to be a climbing boot – and hit the monster as hard as I could. It was Constant, of course. I asked had I woken him; and if he said what I thought he said he is not the man I think he is. I decided after careful thought that I must have imagined it, and was just dropping off again when Constant uttered a wild cry and bit me in the ear. I woke him up and suggested that it might be safer to sleep head to foot. After some strange remarks he agreed, and I started to shuffle around in my sleeping-bag. It was breathless work at that altitude. I had to stop three times to rest, and when I finally completed the turn I found that I had lost my pillow on the way. I could not face the thought of searching for it, so I made a boot do instead.

  I was almost asleep again when a horrid noise sounded a few inches from my face. Terrified, I struck out instinctively, and found myself grasping, of all things, a mouth. This was quite horrible; I don’t think I shall ever forget the alarm and disgust which it caused me. We found out later that we had both turned round together and were still sleeping head to head. Waking suddenly out of the nightmare caused by the clutch on his mouth, Constant flung himself upon me. Still dazed by sleep and terror I fought back madly, and we were wrestling all over the tent. I was soon exhausted, and had almost given up hope of surviving when Constant stopped suddenly and lay where he was, panting. When we had recovered our breath and wits I apologized again, and we tried to disentangle ourselves. But this was not as easy as one might expect. We were locked in a complicated embrace, half in and half out of our sleeping-bags, with ropes and clothing wrapped around us. It was pitch dark. In the middle of the operation I dropped off to sleep in a sitting position, to wake screaming under the impression that the rope was a snake which was trying to strangle me. I struggled desperately with the rope before I came to my senses, making the tangle ten times worse.

  We went to it again, but somehow we could never make each other understand what we were trying to do. Sometimes we would be pulling in opposite directions on the same section of rope; sometimes we would roll over and get our legs entangled; sometimes we would strike out in a bold bid to free an arm, and catch each other in the eye. We were continually out of breath. Every other minute one of us would be seized with cramp or stomach-ache and writhe about, making it all worse than ever. We kept falling asleep and waking terrified after the most hideous nightmares.

  Finally, the tent came down on us.

  After that we gave it up. We just stayed where we were and waited for daylight.


  When it was light enough to see we got our heads out somehow and looked at each other.

  ‘This can’t go on,’ said Constant.

  This, I thought, was very well put. At all costs we must get down to Camp 1.

  But first we had to get out of the tent, which was no light matter at 29,000 feet. After a few moments of struggle we were forced to stop to regain our breath. Our hands were freezing; we had to put on gloves, which made the job of disentangling almost impossible. At one point I almost gave up in despair. I lay gasping, with Constant sitting on my head, my arms bound behind me with rope, my legs wrapped in tent and sleeping-bag. For the third time I faced the possibility of defeat. Was the mountain too strong for us, after all?

  To make matters worse, Pong came with breakfast.

  After a sharp and manly struggle with nausea, Constant sent Pong for So Lo and Lo Too. Soon they were working on us, and at last, after what seemed an eternity, we were free men.

  Telling the porters to re-erect the tent we retired to theirs, where we spent some time boiling our boots in order to de-ice them. Pong followed us with breakfast, which was a rehash of yesterday’s left-overs made still more deplorable by burning. We forced ourselves to swallow a few mouthfuls, holding our noses and closing our eyes and telling ourselves that it was for the sake of the expedition. Then we took some stomach tablets and made our plans. They were simple. We must make Camp 1 as quickly as possible and spread the burden of Pong as widely as we could.

  We radioed the others and told them to expect us; but we said nothing about Pong, not daring to risk a panic on the mountain. Jungle told me that they would wait for us. Burley, he said, had just become acclimatized but thought that a further day at Camp 1 would consolidate his fitness. The others, too, thought they would benefit from an extra day of rest.