Authors: Robert Ferguson
“Christ,” he muttered, trying to breathe as shallowly as possible. “What a stink.”
“It is where they feed the dogs,” Lhamu replied, a scarf pulled up over her nose. “They throw the scraps out here in the morning and the dogs come to get them after being out all night guarding the sheep. It’s how they catch them to shut them up again.”
Philip looked around nervously. “Where are they now?”
Lhamu chuckled at his voice. “They are still shut up,” she replied. “You can hear them barking occasionally. They will be released when the soldiers are fed and the monks all inside for the night. They are vicious in the dark.”
Philip nodded, feeling reassured. “It’s a good thing we came early.” He grimaced as he felt his boots sticking in something greasy. “I don’t suppose we could wait inside,” he asked, nodding towards the door. “It would be a damn sight warmer and a lot less smelly.”
Lhamu moved over to the door and after listening intently for a few moments gently opened it and looked inside. Beckoning Philip she slipped through.
He followed and found himself in a long room centred around a large central fire, raised on a low stone hearth. Over this stood several metal tripods, off which hung large three cauldrons. The walls were lined with shelves, on which large copper and clay pots stood in rows. Beneath them on the floor were open sacks of rice, potatoes and other foodstuffs, with thin wooden benches running in front of them. The smoke was acrid, his eyes stinging and he coughed into his sleeve. Glancing up he could see that the stone roof was black with soot, smoke billowing beneath it as it slowly filtered through into the clean night air.
He could hear Lhamu quietly talking to someone and rubbing his eyes saw three young monks, their faced grubby with soot, staring solemnly at him.
He tried to smile. “Namaste,” he said, hands held together.
The boys hesitated, but after glancing at each other nervously and then at Lhamu, returned the greeting.
There was an awkward silence, the monks staring at Philip and his clothes.
“Ask them how many monks are here?” Philip said, looking at Lhamu. “Especially how many young, fit ones.”
He watched the monks, noting their reactions as Lhamu spoke to them in a flow of Tibetan. They answered her thoughtfully, each adding something to what had been said before until they seemed to arrive at a number they all agreed upon.
“About 120,” Lhamu replied. “That is not including the hermits in the caves and the young boys. There used to be more but many have fled, frightened of what will happen if the Chinese army comes here.”
Philip whistled. That was more than he’d hoped. He was convinced he could get them on their side, he just had to mention the Rinpoche. It was just how to do it without causing a riot.
“Do they have any weapons?” he asked again. “Guns, knives, staffs, things like that.”
Again he waited until Lhamu had an answer. She shook her head. “They have sticks to defend themselves from wild animals, as well as some machetes that are used for cutting crops in the summer. Other than that, nothing. This is a sacred valley and nothing is allowed to be killed in it.”
“And where are all these monks?”
The monks were more confident now and enthusiastic in their replies.
“They are in their dormitories, which are on the other side of the main Shrine, across the courtyard,” she replied at last. “There are three buildings but each has a guard outside its door to stop them escaping.”
Philip nodded and sat down on one of the benches, stretching out his legs towards the fire and watching as some ice crystals melted off his glistening boots.
Lhamu was busy giving orders to the monks, who now seemed completely under her spell. One went to the main door to keep watch for the soldiers, while a second was stationed at the back door to intercept Prem when he arrived with the men. The third busied himself at the fire and soon Philip was holding a scalding cup of greasy Tibetan tea.
He felt himself relaxing. With the hot drink and heat from the fire it was the first time in days he’d been truly warm. In an effort to stay alert he took a slug of the tea, scalding the roof of his mouth as he did so and grimacing as his cracked lips stung. He sat forward and placed the cup on the floor. He had to keep alert in order to work out what to do now. If the soldiers knew they were being followed they’d be more alert, which made it even more vital to strike as soon as possible.
Also, one of their group was a traitor who’d tipped off the Chinese. His mind ran through other possibilities, that perhaps one of the Chinese had dropped back, either through exhaustion or to collect firewood, and had seen them following. But if that was the case why would they have camped at all, surely they’d have pushed straight on to the monastery?
He’d trust any one of the Gurkhas with his life. He’d done so frequently. They’d been through things together that he’d never been able to even talk about to others, not even his family. They were tied by blood and memories. Lhamu and Mingma were both devout Buddhists, he’d watched them at the monastery at Thangboche and they would never hurt the Rinpoche. That only left one man. Tashi. But he seemed, of all of them, to have the strongest reasons to want to stop the Chinese, to punish them. Philip sighed, thoughtfully picking at flaking skin on his upper lip, and a realisation dawning. They only had Tashi’s word for what had happened all those years ago. Unlike everybody else, there was no one to corroborate his story.
He looked up, hearing muffled whispers and saw Prem enter the room, his khukri drawn and flashing in the firelight. The Gurkha glanced around the room, taking everything in, and after acknowledging Philip kept his eyes fixed on the young monk at the main door, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.
“The men are ready.”
Philip nodded. “There are eighteen of them. We’ve seen two guards outside. They’re smoking so we should be able to take them out easily enough. There’re three more guarding the three dormitories on the far side of the courtyard. That leaves thirteen inside the main shrine. Two seem badly injured and several others are exhausted and asleep.” He ran his hand through his hair which had started itching in the warmth of the kitchen. “I guess that when they’re fed they’ll release the dogs and barricade themselves in for the night. We need to get to them before then.”
Prem nodded in agreement.
Philip continued. “We need to get rid of the five guards first without alerting those inside. If they realise something’s going on they could use their hostage as a shield and that could be dangerous.” He stood up. “We’ll take out the guards by the dorms first. We’ll need three teams. I’ll lead one, you another and the third can be with Mani. We’ll all take one man; you can assign the three best knifemen, and one of these monks. They can lead us there.”
He glanced at Lhamu. “The rest will stay here, watching the doors. When we’ve dealt with the guards we’ll return and start the main assault. I want to talk to the monks first and get them to create some sort of diversion. Mingma, you’ll come with us but stay well back until the guards have been dealt with. Then I’ll need you to explain what’s happening and to tell them what to do.”
Mingma nodded and he and Prem turned and disappeared back into the alleyway.
Philip turned to Lhamu. “Can you explain to these monks what I want them to do. We need to get to the dormitories without being spotted, circling around to approach them from the rear. And they must be quiet,
really
quiet.”
Lhamu turned to the three boys and started talking, their eyes growing wider as she spoke. They glanced at each, shuffling their feet on the packed earth floor. At last one of them replied, his eyes downcast and avoiding Lhamu’s.
She shrugged. “They are scared,” she said. “They say the soldiers have told them that they will go tomorrow and leave them alone if they give them food and let them rest.”
Philip sighed, shaking his head in frustration. “Tell them who the hostage is and for Christ’s sake make sure they keep quiet.”
Lhamu turned back to the monks and started speaking in a slow, deliberate voice. As she spoke he reached inside a pocket and pulled out the ring of the murdered abbot, holding it up for the monks to see hanging on an old lace he’d tied it too so as not to lose it.
There was a chorus of disbelief, and angry hands waved at Lhamu. One of the monks was arguing with her, pointing at Philip accusingly until he glanced over and froze. Slowly he crossed the room and stared at the gold ring twinkling in the light. As the Coral seal swung to face him and his face paled. He said something quietly in Tibetan and Philip looked at Lhamu to translate.
“He recognises it. It is the Seal Ring of the Head Abbot of Shigatze Monastery. He was here last year on pilgrimage,” she said
“Well,” replied Philip sternly. “Tell them they can’t help him anymore but they can help the Rinpoche. If they don’t he might die.” He looked at the three monks. “We need their help to get us round to the dormitories.”
Lhamu said something quickly and he was relieved to see them nod their heads in agreement.
Mingma hurried back into the room. “Prem has the men ready outside. He doesn’t want them to come inside as it will damage their night vision.”
Philip turned and beckoned the monks to follow. He walked out into the alley, catching his breath as the cold enveloped him and taking a few moments to allow his own eyes to adjust. The men slowly became visible in the shadows.
Philip spoke quickly and quietly. “Someone tipped off the Chinese last night that we were tracking them. That’s why they’d broken camp so early this morning.” He looked around the shocked faces. “It means they know we’re coming.”
There was muttering as the men took this in, glancing amongst themselves.
“I trust everyone here so, if it’s true, it must have been the Indian Tashi.” Philip continued. “What’s important is that he doesn’t get the chance to warn them again now that we’re about to attack.”
Prem nodded, understanding immediately. He turned to Balbir. “Take Tarun and go back to the camp. Tie him and bring him here. If he tried to flee, cut him but keep him alive. We will need to speak to him.”
Philip shook his head, unable to believe how trusting he’d been of the Indian. It was obvious now, he’d been in the right place at the right time too many times for it to be a coincidence. But why would an exiled Tibetan want to help the Chinese? He pushed it from his mind, watching as the two Gurkhas disappeared off into the night. They were outnumbered already, without losing two more men, but what choice did he have? He couldn’t risk Tashi turning up and either attacking them from behind or shouting a warning to the Chinese in the shrine.
Prem had already briefed the men and those who were staying behind silently disappeared into the kitchen. He heard a hissing as the fire was extinguished. A small squat Gurkha called Nandan walked up to him and smiled. Philip nodded back, remembering how he’d always sat in camp in the jungle lovingly sharpening his blade. He’d once seen him drop a leaf onto its upturned edge and watched as it fell to the ground, sliced cleanly in two.
Without another word they set off, following the young monks into a small, dark alley.
Chapter 17
The moon was still bright, flooding the valley in a white light that helped them navigate quickly through the maze of buildings and giving everything a ghostly appearance.
“Make sure they keep us well back and out of sight,” he whispered to Mingma, who nodded and caught up with the boys as they paused at a small junction. He heard a short, muffled conversation and they moved off again. They were now on the very edge of the monastery complex, the valley dropping off below them in a wide sweep of stony pastures. Pens of sheep and goats flanked the buildings, built from thick bushes of dead thorn and crudely built dry stone walls.
The animals stirred as they passed; a low chorus of nervous bleating starting as mothers called out to their kids and lambs. Philip jumped in fright as the rough wooden door of the building they were passing rattled on its hinges as it was hit by a strong blow from within, accompanied by a frenzy of snarling and frantic barking. Hurriedly they moved on, wanting to get past the caged dogs before they caught the attention of the Chinese. It only took another minute until they were on the far side of the settlement, crouching behind the first of the dormitory buildings.
“We’ll split up here,” Philip whispered. “I’ll take this block, the rest move onto the other two and get in position. Take the guards out as silently as possible and then get inside the buildings. Use the monks to explain the situation and then wait for us. I’ll come round once we’ve secured this one and Mingma can explain things further.”
He glanced at his wristwatch. “Okay, let’s go. Get in position and we’ll attack in exactly two minutes from … now.”
The others disappeared into the shadows. He turned to Nandan. “I’ll go down this side, you skirt round the other. I’ll distract the guard and when he moves towards me you take him from behind.”
Nandan nodded, the handle of his crooked bladed khukri already in his hand, and disappeared around the far side of the building.
Philip turned to the remaining monk and held his finger to his lips. He pointed to a large boulder that lay a few yards behind them and whispered to Mingma. “Wait with him behind that, I’ll come for you when it’s over.” He checked his watch and started creeping along the side of the dormitory.
There wasn’t much cover. The rough stone wall was whitewashed and against it Philip felt completely exposed in the moonlight. At the front, a low wall ran off at an angle, part of the barrier that surrounded the large courtyard in front of the main shrine. As quietly as he could he crouched down behind it. The dogs were now howling, desperate to be released and he was grateful for it. That, combined with the distant roar of the river, created a background of noise that covered any sounds they were making on what was otherwise a silent night.
He looked at his watch again, the faded fluorescent paint on the dial dimly glowing back at him. It was nearly time. He picked up a fist-sized stone in one hand and filled the other with gravel, returning his eyes to the watch. At the exact moment the second hand reached the top he threw the gravel along the wall, away from the dormitory, listening as the small stones bounced and rolled along its surface. He heard the shuffling of footsteps coming towards him.
Quickly he lobbed the larger stone further away. It landed with a sharp crack, rolling along the wall and falling with a dull thud into the yard. He heard a frantic scuffing of feet and the rattle of air bubbling through liquid. Nandan’s head appeared around the corner and signalled to him that it was clear.
Philip nodded and ran back to where Mingma and the monk were hiding, the latter quietly chanting a mantra. “Let’s go,” he hissed, grabbing the monk’s arm and dragging him back towards the door of the building. After a quick glance across the deserted courtyard they dodged inside and Nandan closed the door behind them.
They were met by a sea of faces staring fearfully at them, and the crumpled body of the Chinese guard lying in a growing pool of blood that glistened in a dull light thrown out by several butter lamps. The monks were dressed in purple and yellow robes, many wrapped in rough, brown blankets and wearing lumpy woollen hats.
He held his hands together and bowed. “Mingma,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Explain what’s going on. Quickly.”
The Sherpa stepped forward and started to talk. Philip watched the monks as they listened, their eyes moving from Mingma to him and back again as he explained the story, a couple of times interrupting to ask questions.
Philip had returned to the doorway, and was looking through a small crack in the frame. All seemed silent until after a minute or so he recognised the dark outline of Prem and opened the door to let him in.
“We’ve secured the other buildings,” he said as he entered. “The guards were fools. One of them was asleep.”
Philip smiled grimly. “Luckily for us. That’s three down but the rest won’t be so straight forward. Have the young monks explained what’s happening to the others?”
Prem nodded. “Yes. And I’ve left the men at the doors to stop them running out to help the Rinpoche immediately. They were not happy with the news.”
“When he’s finished here, Mingma will go to make sure they understand what we need them to do. One wrong move and the soldiers will kill the Rinpoche rather than risk losing him. It’s vital they keep quiet until everything’s ready.”
Mingma turned to them. “These monks understand and will help us. They will not kill, but will charge with us and try to overpower the Chinese. They agree that their religion and their country have been attacked and that some violence cannot be avoided to follow the correct path. I have instructed them to wait here until told what to do,”
“Excellent,” replied Philip, nodding towards the monks. “Let’s go and check on the others.”
They darted out of the building, leaving Nandan guarding the door, and quickly entered the next building situated about twenty yards away. Philip could see that the young cook was doing a good job. The monks were all listening to him quietly, shock on their faces but no with panic visible. After a few words from Mingma they headed off to the last dormitory.
They arrived just in time. Philip could hear the raised voices as they crossed the rough paving outside, and as they opened the door a scene of chaos greeted them. Several older monks were arguing with the young cook, held back by a Gurkha who stood beside him menacingly, his hand holding his bloodstained khukri. Everything fell silent as Philip entered, the shock of seeing a westerner in their doorway too much for the monks.
Philip pushed Mingma forward who started to berate the occupants in a stern but low voice. Prem was standing by the door, looking out up the complex when suddenly he held up his hand.
“Shh,” he hissed. Mingma immediately fell quiet and the monks, picking up on the tension stood in silence. “The two guards are coming,” he whispered, still looking through the gap. “I can see their cigarettes moving this way.”
“Damn it,” Philip cursed. The sound of the arguing voices must’ve carried over to where the guards were standing. He turned to Prem. “We must get them inside. We’ll never be able to take them out quietly in the open.”
He crossed to where the crumpled body of the Chinese soldier lay and picked up his cap which had been thrown down on top of him. It wasn’t too blood soaked so he put it on. Looking up he saw an old beer bottle standing on a stone ledge, full of butterfat with which to top up the lamps. He picked it up he walked back to Prem.
“If they call out, I’ll open the door and beckon them in. You and Giri must take them when they enter. The lamps in here will silhouette me so they won’t be able to make out my face.”
Prem nodded and gestured to the other Gurkha. They took up positions as close to the wall as possible, their knives drawn.
Everything fell silent. Philips ears strained to hear any movement outside. He breathed slowly and deeply, preparing himself. Everything became clearer and sharper. The dull lamplight now filled the room and he could hear Prem slowly scrapping his finger across his the blade, back and forth repeatedly, as he waited to strike. He could hear the dogs, even the river seemed to have become a torrent. Finally he heard footsteps on stone that stopped abruptly.
He could feel a draft of cold night air coming through a gap in the door, chilling a line of skin down the back of his neck. A voice called out.
“Nï shentï häo ma?”
There was silence for a few seconds.
“Nï zài nä li?
Philip took a final, calming breath. He turned and opened the door so the soldiers could only see his head peering around it. He’d stooped down, so he looked smaller than he was and swayed slightly, his right hand enthusiastically waved the beer bottle towards them.
There was a short silence as the two soldiers stared back and then he heard them laugh and lower their guns. Something was called out but Philip had, with a final flourish of the bottle retreated behind the door, leaving it ajar. He heard them laugh again and talking quietly to each other as they walked the final few steps and pushed in through the entrance. As the first one entered he reached up to remove the cigarette from his mouth, his eyes squinting from the sudden light and smoky interior. As the foot of the second man appeared in the doorframe the Gurkhas struck.
Prem, who was standing nearest to them, threw himself behind the first man, hitting him in the back and throwing him forward. Giri lunged at the soldier behind, grabbing his rifle barrel and pushing it up into the air. With one upward slash of his knife the man’s throat was cut. He crumpled to the ground, blood spurting from the wound and his eyes and mouth open, screaming a silent cry of terror.
Prem had grabbed the first soldier’s hair, trying to pull back his head to expose the throat but the man’s stumble had thrown him off balance. Seeing the danger Philip flung himself at the rifle, trying to wrestle it away from him and keep his fingers away from the trigger. The soldier tried to shout but Philips shoulder knocked the air from his lungs and as Prem’s knife bit into the back of his neck his body convulsed and a deafening roar filled the room. Philip felt himself crash to the floor, his senses scrambled by the explosion.
He tried to get up, his ears ringing, but was pinned to the ground. He pulled his knees up under his chest to give himself some leverage and pushed, struggling harder as he felt hot, viscous liquid running down his neck. He couldn’t feel any pain, he was sure he hadn’t been hit. The weight on top of him was lifted off, and he turned to see Mingmo pulling the body of the soldier away. Blood poured from a gaping wound where the khukri had almost sliced through his neck.
He looked up, forgetting the stickiness of his neck. Prem was crouched at the door, looking out across the courtyard towards the shrine. Philip scrambled to his feet and joined him.
“Bang goes our surprise attack,” he said, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He tried to shake the buzzing from his head.
He glanced around. “At least that’s five of them out of the way.” He looked down at the bodies. “Let’s get their guns and ammo together and see what we’ve got.”
Prem nodded at Giri who finished wiping his knife on the soldier’s uniform and slipped out of the hut door. A burst of gunfire tore into the night, echoing around the valley, bullets smacking into the wall of the building. Prem and Philip dived for cover as chips of wood flew off the wooden doorframe.
“Shit,” exclaimed Philip, looking round at the monks who were now all cowering on the floor. “Mingma, ask them if there’s another way out.”
Mingma nodded and after a brief conversation with the nearest monks nodded. “There is a small window at the back we can get through. It cannot be seen from the shrine.”
Philip looked at Prem. “You stay here. Keep a rifle and try to keep them pinned down. If you can keep them all inside until we get back round to the cook house we’ll be able to come at them from behind.” He paused, rubbing at the congealing blood on his neck with the hat of the dead soldier.
“I’ll leave another man in one of the other dormitories to help you. I’ll also leave Mingma.” He turned and looked over towards the Sherpa. “I need you to organise the monks. Get them to arm themselves with anything they can find; sticks, rocks, anything. When you hear us start to attack, we’ll be drawing the fire and I need these monks charging, screaming across the courtyard to the shrine. If we’re to prevent the Rinpoche being killed we’ll need to cause as much confusion as possible. A hundred angry monks screaming out of the night towards the Chinese could just do the trick.
He watched as Prem checked the rifle and started searching through the dead soldiers pockets, pulling out any ammunition he found. Soon he had a decent quantity and looked at Philip.
“I understand. I will keep them in there. When we hear you, we will charge immediately.”
Philip put his hand on the Gurkha’s soldier and squeezed, before striding across the room after a young monk who’d stood up to show him the way out. The sleeping quarters were dark and he stumbled his way over the lumpy grass mattresses and heavy woollen blankets that littered the door. Some of the monks had already pulled down the filthy drapes and shutters that covered a small window, through which Philip could see the moonlight now streaming through.