Authors: Robert Ferguson
Time slowed. Philip watched the grenade arc through the air, trying to judge its flight and the movement of the boat. It was going to fall short, he was sure of it. The Japanese had seen the grenade coming and one of the soldiers in the stern tried to swat it away with his hand. It was too low for him to reach, clipping the gunwale and disappearing into the boat. He could see the panic spread, with several of the Japanese making to jump overboard. As they launched themselves clear there was a dazzling flash of flame followed by a deafening explosion. The body of the soldier nearest to them was thrown upwards with pieces of fabric and flesh flying away. It landed with a belly flop in the river and didn’t move.
The boat itself was ablaze, the wooden hull a cauldron of fire. Ammunition was exploding, popping in the extreme heat, and now the engine’s power had gone the current slowly took it and started pulling it downstream, gathering speed as it went.
Philip pulled himself up and jumped into the river, splashing to where the Gurkha had thrown himself into the water. Hauling him to his feet he quickly scanned his body for signs of wounds and it was only when he looked into his face that he relaxed, a large grin fixed to the man’s face.
“That was very brave, Rifleman Balbir,” he said, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezing. “Bloody stupid but very brave.”
He glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see movement from behind the teak stump.
“Get over there and help them,” he yelled.
Men piled down the bank and waded back into the water, assisting and dragging the rest onto the beach. Philip walked over to where Prem was sitting panting in the shallows, blood running down his face from a wound high on his forehead.
“Two dead with me,” he panted between breaths. “And another has a bad wound in the arm.” He stared down at the fine silt of the river bed that sucked at his feet. “They were from my village. We grew up together. One was my cousin.”
Philip nodded and tentatively reached his hand out towards the corporal’s shoulder, unsure what to say. Prem pushed himself up, composing himself, so that instead Philip quickly pointed towards the corporals own wound. It was met with a dismissive shake of the head. “Nothing. Just a graze.”
He shoved his revolver back into its holster and glanced around at his men. They looked dazed and exhausted. No wonder. He knew that the Gurkhas were a close-knit group, but if they’d all grown up together then these deaths were going to hurt badly. Best, he thought, to keep them distracted. “Five minutes. We’ll dress the wounds and then head off. We’ll have every Jap between here and Mandalay coming this way after that little explosion.”
He turned and walked over to where his pack lay abandoned in the jungle. Christ. Four more dead, another two injured. If it hadn’t been for the heroics of Balbir they’d have lost five more. He rubbed his face, pretending to scratch his stubble but trying to keep his jaw from trembling. He should have waited, waited until nightfall or made them cross the previous night, however exhausted they’d been. He was a bloody fool.
Chapter 9
Nepal, 1953
The next morning Philip was woken at daybreak and after a mug of bed tea he got dressed and went out to join James in the small Mess tent. He was feeling rested, having slept deeply, undisturbed by nightmares. He didn’t know why, but after his evening with Lhamu and her family, it felt like a break through.
“Nothing new,” was James reply when asked if he’d learnt anything of interest from Hunt the previous day. “I’m pretty sure he knows which of the climbers he’s going to use for the summit attempt but damned if he’ll tell me. Don’t really see what harm it could do and the climbers must know themselves by what they’ve been told to practise. I’ve noticed Bourdillon and Charlie Evans practising together so I reckon they’ve got a shot at it.”
He paused as he finished off the last of his eggs, wiping his plate clean with a piece of flatbread. “I wanted them for the code I’ve been working on. Here.” He pulled a piece of paper from his leather notebook that lay beside him on the table and slid it across to Philip. It was a list of names and phrases. “A radio message is quick but not secure. The transmissions from Namche go to the Indian Embassy in Kathmandu where anyone could get hold of it. A bit of baksheesh in the right palm.” He took a gulp of coffee. “Even my runners might get tempted to hand over a dispatch bag if they’re offered silly money. I couldn’t really blame them as £50 is more than they earn in a year.”
He leant across the table and pointed to a name on the list. “So, if my message contains the phrase “Ridge Camp untenable” it means that Charlie has got to the top. It is reads “Advance Base abandoned” it means that Hillary’s made it. This way, it’ll only make sense to you, Hutch and the office in London. Nobody else will be any the wiser, just thinking it’s a normal update.” He smiled at Philip. “Not bad, eh?”
Philip nodded, running his finger down the list.
“That copy’s for you,” James continued. “Take it with you and keep it safe. If you take it to Kathmandu and give it to Hutch then we’ll know for sure that nobody else has the code. He’ll then decipher the message and send on the real message to London.”
Mingma entered the tent and smiled at both men. “We are ready Philip,” he said. “The equipment is packed and the porters are just leaving.”
Philip nodded and stood, offering his hand to James. “I’ll let you know what happens when I finally catch up with Izzard.”
“It’s been a pleasure having you here,” James replied, shaking the hand. “Hopefully next time we meet we can share a cold beer and toast the success of both the expedition and our exclusive report.”
*
It was a cold morning. Clouds were sitting on the mountains, keeping out the morning sun and a breeze moved the leaves of the nearby larch trees. Mingma picked up Philips rucksack and held it for him as he slipped his arms through the leather straps and secured it onto his back.
“How long until we reach Khunde?” he asked as they walked through the village, waving as he noticed the boy Sarkey staring at him from the doorway of Karma’s house.
“It will take about five to six hours,” Mingma replied. “You are fit now and starting to walk like a Sherpa.”
Philip laughed. “I don’t think I’m quite that fast, but at least I remembered not to ask how far it was!”
At the start of the trek he’d always want to know how far it was to the next camp, a concept that meant little to Mingma. He’d grown up knowing that the mountains were so vast that you could be climbing up to a ridge one day, and then dropping to a valley floor the next. The distances were the same, but the ascent took twice as long. That was why distances were measured in time.
They passed the rough stone wall of engraved mani stones that marked the edge of the village and the trail immediately fell away on the long descent to the river far below. Prayer flags flapped in the wind and glancing back at the village before it disappeared from view he saw Sarkey cautiously raise his hand in a timid wave before turning and fleeing back down the street. They continued in silence for an hour or so, moving quickly down the well maintained path. They soon overtook Old Gompu and the porters, who’d stopped to adjust their loads to get the balance even. Without the sun it was a comfortable temperature and with the steady descent Philips thoughts wandered back to Lhamu. He’d wanted to pop in to say goodbye as they’d passed her house, but he realised that she’d be at the monastery, helping with the guests. He felt confused. He’d only met her the day before and yet already he felt at ease with her, something he hadn’t experienced towards a woman since he’d returned from the war.
They came to a switchback in the trail where a stone ledge had been built into the upslope for passing porters to rest their loads and take a break. Leaving their rucksacks there, they stood on the edge of the trail above a sheer drop as Mingma pointed out to him the route they were to take.
“From the bridge you can see the path climbing up towards the top of the ridge opposite.” He pointed across the valley to almost the same level as they were. “By that large rocky outcrop the trail splits. The trail to the south is the one we came along. It traverses the ridge before dropping to Namche. If you climb past the boulder to the right it leads to Khunde and the other upper villages. It’s very steep and used…”
He stopped, interrupted by a strange noise rising up from the valley below. It came again, a hollow popping, then again and finally a burst of sound that bounced back off the mountains until it filled the valley with a continuous rumbling.
Philip recognised it immediately. “Gunfire,” he said, more to himself than Mingma. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Is there much hunting up here?”
Mingma shook his head. “None. We are Buddhists and do not kill animals.”
“Of course,” Philip mumbled. “I forgot, sorry. What about a festival or a funeral? Perhaps someone’s letting off a few firecrackers?” He knew it wasn’t. He’d heard gunfire many times and even after all these years he still knew its sound. It had been rifles; he guessed two or three of them and a then a couple of short bursts of automatic fire. He tried to think. James hadn’t sent out a courier that day so if couldn’t be anything to do with the expedition and anyway, surely the other newspapers weren’t so desperate for the story they’d kill for it? He looked down the valley, trying to fix the point from where the shooting had come.
“It came from near the bridge,” he said at last, pointing down towards the river. “If you wanted to ambush someone then that would be the best place. Everybody has to cross the river there, there’s no other option.”
He turned and returned to his rucksack. “Come on. We’d better go and see what’s happened.”
They walked on in silence, moving quickly and sure-footedly down the trail. The forest had engulfed them once more so that the only noise was the gentle rustling of the leaves in the breeze and the sound of their boots kicking out loose stones as they hurried on. Even at this pace it still took them the best part of an hour to reach the bottom of the valley. Here the trail flattened out and followed the river for a few minutes, contouring along its bank as it approached the bridge.
They slowed down, walking cautiously and keeping their eyes fixed ahead. The roar of the river drowned out everything. There was a rush of movement ahead and Philip threw himself into the thin scrub beside the trail, Mingma landing heavily beside him. Carefully raising his head he looked cautiously up and saw a yak ambling down the trail towards him, stopping occasionally to graze at the plants growing on the bank of the river. They pulled themselves up, brushing dust and leaves from their clothes. Philip laughed, a release of the tension that was racking his body. He was about to walk forward when Mingma grabbed his arm.
“Wait,” said the Sherpa, sounding alarmed. “I recognise it. It’s one of the yaks belonging to the Tibetan monks. They set off first think this morning.”
Philip nodded. “Perhaps they’ve stopped to rest by the river and are letting them graze...” His voice tailed away as the creature wandered nearer. As it turned to graze the other side of the trail its other flank came into view. The animal’s long, shaggy coat was plastered to its side by a large patch of congealing blood.
Without speaking, they slowly moved forward. The yak stared at them dolefully, its heavy load still balanced on its back, and when they got closer it was apparent that the blood didn’t belong to the animal. They moved on and edged around a bend in the trail. Philip could now see the bridge ahead, a couple of hundred yards downstream. It was a large suspension bridge, built of heavy ropes supporting a floor of rough wooden planking, covered by a thin layer of packed earth. It looked deserted but he couldn’t see where it joined the bank they were on, its end hidden behind a small rocky outcrop.
It felt wrong. They’d dropped out of the breeze and the air felt oppressive. With the exception of the river, everything was still. There were no birds flying in the thick foliage or perched on the rocks. Thick clumps of lichen hung down from the boughs of the rhododendron trees, making the woods look dark and sinister. Philip turned to Mingma and held his finger to his lips, before slowly moving along the trail, staying close to the fringe of the forest.
He could now feel an updraft of cold air coming from the icy river water as it roared past down the valley, the chill adding to his sense of foreboding. He kept his eyes forward, fixed on the furthermost point he could see. Another yak wandered past, almost knocking Philip over in its enthusiasm to reach some grazing in the forest behind.
Philip’s mind was still trying to work out a plausible explanation for the gunfire. Perhaps it had come from a group of porters or traders from the Hindu lowlands who’d been out looking for game. Prem and the other Gurkhas might well have guns and would be happy to eat fresh, free meat. That didn’t, however, explain why there were blood-stained yaks wandering around. His mind sharpened as they reached what he thought was the last corner in the trail before the bridge.
He felt his senses heighten, aware of every noise and movement. He could smell something. It was triggering something in his mind, something that was telling him to run. He sniffed the air again, his eyes scanning around for anything that looked out of place. A mantra he’d long forgotten flooded back into his head;
never tread on what can be stepped over
.
Never cut what can be broken. Never bend what can be moved.
He could sense that something wasn’t right, wasn’t natural. He just had to see it. He glanced down to the water, wondering if anything had been dropped or fallen from the trail and his eyes fell on something in the rushing water.
At first it didn’t really register what he was seeing, just knowing that something wasn’t right. Dropping his rucksack to the ground he crossed the path and scrambled down the steep slope to the river’s edge, a narrow strip of boulders and silt that had been deposited there during the summer floods. Crouching down he put his fingers into the icy water and immediately realised what had caught his eye. The water here wasn’t crystal clear. It had a pink tinge to it as swept past where he was kneeling, before quickly diluting and vanishing as it entered the main flow of the river.
He turned and slowly worked his way up stream, climbing on top of a large boulder that jutted out into the main river. Looking down he saw that behind it a small pool had formed where water from the main current got trapped, eddying around. In this, floating face-down, was the body of a man. The water around it was bright crimson, spiralling in the current and a small hint of this was being dragged out by escaping water into the main stream. It was this that Philip had noticed.
He slid down the rock, beckoning to Mingma to follow. The pool wasn’t deep, reaching to just over his knees but he gasped as its icy temperature made his legs go numb. He grabbed the man’s clothes and dragged him to the bank, trying to roll him over to get his face clear of the water. Mingma took hold of an arm and between them they dragged him onto a small silt beach.
Philip recognised him at once. It was the Llama, the Tibetan monk who’d been sitting next to the Abbot at the feast in Thangboche the day before. His distinctive yellow and purple robes clung to his thin body, a silver ring with a large piece of engraved coral still on a white, shrivelled finger. A neat hole, still seeping blood, showed where he’d been shot in the head, just above the ear.
Philip and Mingma looked up at each other, too shocked to speak. Mingma glanced up towards the trail, fear in his eyes and Philip, realising the danger they were in, grabbed his arm and pulled him over the body. They scrambled backwards until the large boulder hid them from view, sitting on the beach, leaning up against it.
It was Mingma who spoke first, shouting above the roar of the river into Philip’s ear. “It’s one of the Tibetan monks,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
Philip nodded grimly. “Somebody certainly wanted him dead.” He nodded towards the body. “That shot to the head was done at close range; you can see the burns from the muzzle flash. It looks as though he was executed and his body thrown down into the river.”
Mingma looked shocked. “But who would do it? He was a holy man, a higher incarnation.”
Philip shrugged. “I don’t know but it wasn’t robbery.” He pointed to the ring. “Whoever did it knew exactly what they were after and didn’t hang around afterwards to loot anything.” He glanced around. “We cannot stay here; we’re sitting ducks if whoever did this is still around.” He pointed up the slope. “We need to get up above the trail. That way we can approach the bridge in the forest without being seen. We need to find out what’s happened to the other monks, see if there are any survivors.”