Hell Is Above Us: The Epic Race to the Top of Fumu, the World's Tallest Mountain (52 page)

McGee, looking downright slim and sunburned, cried aloud and hugged his oldest friend with gleeful abandon. Junk may have been somewhat distracted by River Leaf’s rebuff, but not so much he could keep from crying as well. They hugged for minutes. Brothers, reunited at last. Nothing was said. It is likely neither man expected to see the other again, but here they were, seeing, smelling, and hearing the one thing in their worlds that gave their respective lives consistency. There was silence until McGee whimpered “I was a hero, Junk.” This summoned more tears from both men. “I’m sure you were” Junk replied, his voice muffled by the shoulder of his friend’s coat. After the embrace was done, McGee added “You owe me a load of money, pal.” This was indeed the case. McGee had survived and therefore won himself one million dollars fair and square. Junk was not worried at all. They would be passing through the lava tube shortly and after collecting rucksacks worth of gold, all debts would be settled. With toes deformed and emotions at full extension, Junk led everyone across the moraine, into the lava tube for some unprecedented American plundering, and then out of mountains on their way to Calcutta.

Yuudai had received no welcome back. He had simply rested his weary bones at base camp in silence and then begun the long hike home. Chhiri Tendi, the only person who knew of Yuudai’s heroic deeds with Hoyt and the parachute, came over and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I didn’t say anything and neither did he” Chhiri Tendi told me, “but he reached up and grabbed my hand and I think in doing that we both communicated successfully.”

River Leaf would not speak to Junk no matter the advances. When they passed the monasteries of the man-children, he asked her to join him to pay a visit to Mano. To this she shook her head and nothing more. In a huff Junk decided to just move forward and forego the visit to the odd sage. When they reached Darjeeling, he asked her to get some dinner with him to celebrate their new-found wealth. She had been separating her own clothing from the other equipment at the time. She did not look up from her task. “No thank you” was the flat response.

Chatham was taken to a doctor in Darjeeling. Even more disturbing than his look was his lack of words. He mumbled and whispered now and then, but there was no more of his outsized braggadocio. Humbled by the mountain, there was nothing more to say. Thornton was also admitted for observation, although his problems were of a more temporary nature; both arms and one rib were broken. Thanks to the quality care of the Sherpa and porters at base camp, Thornton was already on the mend by the time they were on their way to Calcutta.

Chatham and Thornton’s medical care in Darjeeling provided the team with an opportunity to bid Zeigler farewell. After descending to Camp Two weeks earlier in order to combat altitude sickness, Zeigler had instantaneously recovered from the headaches and fared well in all other respects. But despite escaping unscathed compared to the others who had climbed higher, the expedition had still left him shaken. According to Chhiri Tendi, Zeigler spoke often on the hike back to Darjeeling of returning to the States and dropping the curtain on his climbing avocation. Like Junk he was no longer a young man. When boarding a train for the Assam province, he waved goodbye. No one would see him again. Relatives in the United States were difficult to find, and when they were found they could knew nothing of his whereabouts. The author made a journey to Assam several years back and failed to track Zeigler down. Perhaps the political upheaval of India in the 1940’s consumed him or perhaps his obsession with climbing got the better of him and he chose not to return the United States; choosing instead to move even closer to the Nepalese border and live out his days in the shadows of the mountains he loves.

Also while in Darjeeling, the services of Pasang Dolma and the formerly dyspeptic Sherpa came to a close. Of course, because of their insubordination, Junk did not pay the dyspeptic Sherpa, but to Pasang Dolma he gave twice the promised payment. The man had been brave and trustworthy. Had he not returned to high camp after the Nepalese Cobra situation, Junk would not have survived.

Pasang Dolma was finished with the business of being a Sherpa. The Nepalese Cobras had in fact influenced his way of thinking. Although he disagreed with their brutal methods, Pasang Dolma did share and approve of their sentiments. Back home in Nepal, he and the dyspeptic Sherpa formed a new alliance; an alliance that would gain hundreds of members and international notoriety after the war ended. Their modus operandi was to pose as porters and offer their services to Americans and Europeans who had arrived in India from overseas. Once their services were successfully sold to foreign adventurers, they would do as they were told all the way up to base camp. And then, the night before the initial climb to the Camp One, they would simply leave. The foreigners would wake up to find camp almost entirely abandoned except for their high altitude Sherpa. One can be sure that the priorities of the climbers change at that moment. Backs are turned to the mountain and planning the route home becomes all-consuming. The devious pranksters would proceed to execute this caper over twenty times throughout the early 1940’s. They may have failed to stop the invading hordes from treating Nepal as their own garden of delights, but the message was heard far and wide that not every citizen of Nepal welcomed the white eyes into their Kingdom, and therefore some caution was in order. Ultimately, Pasang Dolma and the remaining Nepalese Cobras fell in with the Provisional Government of Free India. No records exist of them after that. One can only hope they survived the upcoming clashes with the Raj and did not get slaughtered like so many of their brethren during the conflict in Rangoon.

With Chatham sufficiently bandaged, Thornton given more durable plasters, and a large portion of porters paid and let go, the Americans, their equipment, and the remaining porters traveled south toward the ocean. The train from Darjeeling to Calcutta brought great joy to the Americans as it was their first exposure to the modern age since setting out on their adventure. Junk and McGee were clearly not done with their old ways; they drank, being careful not to burn their cracked lips. They smoked cigars. They played poker. Despite all of these activities one usually associates with uproarious fun, the scene was somewhat muted. They went through the motions, but did not laugh or shout. No one was patting anyone else’s back. Foul language was non-existent. Memories of carnage acted as strict chaperones at this party.

And still River Leaf avoided Junk. If she was sitting conversing with McGee and Junk happened to work his way into the discussion, River Leaf would quickly look around as if something important had caught her eye and then she would walk away with haste and furrowed brow. Drake wrote in his journal:

“
Everyone can see that the Indian girl is avoiding this Junk character like plague. I’m not sure what she and the late Hoyt had against Junk. He seems like a pretty decent guy. And he kills at poker. He took my straight flush with a four of a kind. I don’t see that as a reason to hate him. He was a gentleman while he was bleeding me dry.

“
Well, back to work on my latest invention. I am done creating things that serve the selfish nature of man. No more magic ropes to the summit. No more computing machines to size up one’s coffers. No more war machines for General Motors. When I return to the States, I am going to dedicate myself to the betterment of society. That’s why my focus now turns to designing a ‘double-barreled cigarette’.”

Drake would go on to do exactly that and in 1945 at the end of the war, he actually experienced some success. But when the left lung of a smoker of Camel’s “Twice As Nice” cigarettes literally fell off of the esophagus – dropping like an overripe apple from its tree in a killing frost – Drake’s luck ran out. The killing frost sent more apples falling, and before he knew it, Drake’s employer was swimming in lawsuits. They handled the discord between themselves and Drake in a manner they felt would sever all ties but allow Drake a dignified ending to his long, illustrious career. They fired him on the spot and told the press that the spate of lung detachments was entirely his fault. Drake decided then and there to retire. He lives to this day off of his GM pension in total isolation in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

The members of the two expeditions arrived in Calcutta on October 15
^th
, giving them more than two weeks before the scheduled arrival of The Souls At Sea. Zeigler knew of many American expatriates who lived in Calcutta. Before he left them in Darjeeling Zeigler was able to secure lodging for all of the expedition members at their next stop. They mostly spent the two weeks in Calcutta staying in their respective guest quarters and resting, rarely seeing or speaking to one another. Chatham, who was still in terrible condition, spent the remaining weeks in yet another hospital (Thornton was now well enough to move about on his own). No one saw the burned oilman except when visiting the hospital to tend to their own sunburn and frostbite. Junk was not the only poor American sod who would have to go under the knife; both expeditions would leave an unfortunate number of toes and fingers behind in Asia.

Tensions were growing between the Allies and Japan; within India, the Japanese were beginning to align themselves with the Indian resistance. Given the state of things, if any British soldier had seen Yuudai Ubugai walking the streets of Calcutta at that time, the results would have been immediate imprisonment. He had to spend the entirety of his Calcutta stay dressed as a porter and hiding out in the home of a porter from the expedition who was also a member of the All India Forward Bloc and therefore sympathetic to the Japanese. His loneliness on Fumu was simply continuing uninterrupted upon their return to civilization. But slowly that changed. Junk and McGee were staying at a British hotel very near Yuudai’s lodgings. Junk began to feel a compulsion to speak with Yuudai possibly because he wanted to learn more about Hoyt through the Japanese soldier. They started spending a considerable amount of time together as the end of October drew near. It turned out Yuudai was a baseball fan and so he and Junk shared stories about their home teams, the Tokyo Kyojin and the Boston Red Sox. The friendship that flourished between Junk, McGee, and Yuudai was only increased by information passed on from Chhiri Tendi to the Bostonians: Chhiri Tendi let them know Yuudai had saved Hoyt’s life while passing the Maw on the ascent. Junk hugged Yuudai in response, all the while thanking him for his bravery and honor.

On October 31
^st
, the night before the expeditions were to set sail, Yuudai was invited by Junk to drink – heavily – to celebrate their survival and toast those who had died. The party had been planned to take place at the hotel but that could not happen due to Yuudai. Instead, it was held at the home of several nearby porters. With the exception of River Leaf who did not make an appearance, everyone including Yuudai celebrated and stumbled around drunk, arms around the shoulders of new friends. Then in the darkest depths of the early morning, somewhere in twisting catacombs of Calcutta’s poorest district, the expedition members received quite a surprise when Yuudai broke his silence and began to sing. It was “A Wand’ring Minstrel I” from The Mikado. His voice was strong but gentle, as smooth and as warm as freshly-melted candle wax. For once, the others were silent as Yuudai held court. In the case of Thornton and Drake who had seen the murder of Randolph Hoyt at the hands of Yuudai’s father, tears fell. The awed silence continued once Yuudai had completed his crooning. He said “My father is wrong. That is a good opera. It is not white men trying to control us; it is white men trying to understand us.”

When dawn broke on the first of November, Yuudai, Junk, Chhiri Tendi, and McGee had not yet slept. They arrived at the docks still gassed and still singing and having completely forgotten about Yuudai’s personal effects or climbing equipment. In the hazy, prematurely hot sun, with the scene smacking of low tide and the sound of fishermen barking out orders in Bengali, they bid Yuudai a slurred farewell. “Thank you for saving Hoyt” Junk blubbered.

“
Bushido!” Yuudai yelled while stumbling and shooting his fist into the air.

“
Bushido!” the others responded.

Yuudai’s escorts appeared from everywhere, mercenary men of varying origins and unvarying aggressions. While surrounding their charge, they pulled knives on Junk, Chhiri Tendi and Yuudai. One particularly greasy fellow pushed Junk up against a rickshaw while another asked Yuudai “Did you make it to the top?”

“
Yes” Yuudai lied.

The men let Junk and the others go and unceremoniously rushed Yuudai away. And so ended Yuudai’s relationship with our tale. Nonetheless, Yuudai went on to weave his own tale. He fought for the Japanese Army at Coregidor and won accolades from his superiors. But then, when those same superiors began to order atrocities at Baatan and elsewhere, Yuudai refused to follow their commands. He was forced to retire from the Japanese military and his father stopped speaking to him. Once again, Yuudai was the outsider. He moved away from everyone he knew to make a new rural life for himself as a pear farmer in Shikoku. While he was out in the countryside, the cities of Tokyo, Nagoya, Kobe, Osaka, Yokohama, and Kawasaki were firebombed, and the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were turned to glass. Japan surrendered. After the war ended, the Allies remained in Japan to get the place back in working order. And subsequently when the Allies left in 1952, Japan was trying its damnedest to recover from the anguish on its own. Widespread famine shrouded the nation, smashing Yuudai’s go at a solitary, agrarian existence. This crisis turned out to be rather fortunate: Yuudai moved to the remains of Tokyo and began a life in music. Small crowds were immediately ignited by his mellifluous take on the American crooning style of Frank Sinatra (
This popularity came despite the fact that Mr. Sinatra had just rekindled his career by starring in
From Here to Eternity
)
. Performances at nightclubs grew in attendance with each engagement. Today he can be heard over the airwaves of the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation. His voice is a soothing balm for a people deeply wounded – a good people who, like so many other good people throughout history, were dragged into the heat of battle along with their wives and children because of a small elite’s appetite for conquest. Any of them within earshot is temporarily healed by Yuudai’s blending of American jazz, rhythm & blues, and a touch of traditional Japanese
enka
. I was fortunate enough to catch one of his performances upon my recent visit to the Orient. He performed his most popular song
The Train to Her Heart
. Words cannot describe the beauty of that experience. It was standing room only in a smoky room full of clinking glasses. The audience was rapt. When he finished for the night, the applause was more than just deafening and relentless – its din contained a joyful declaration of optimism. Yuudai was finally receiving the approval he deserved for his kind, gentle ways. I chose not to speak to him afterwards, preferring to keep this wonderful, heroic, poetic man a mystery.