Authors: Robert Ferguson
Chapter 19
Tibet, 1953
Shots echoed out from inside the shrine as the Gurkhas on the roof opened fire exactly two minutes after Philip had given them the signal. A scream came from through the door to show they’d successfully found a target. A second later a roar erupted from across the courtyard and glancing up Philip saw a wall of purple and yellow monks screaming towards him, Prem at the front.
He realised he was too late. The grenade would have a fuse several seconds long and if he pulled it now the monks might be there when it exploded. He dropped it to the ground and threw himself around the corner, sprinting for the door. It was ajar so that the Chinese could keep watch on the dormitories and occasionally shoot across the yard. In the initial confusion of the attack he saw that it hadn’t been closed and through the opening, lying on the ground, was the outstretched arm of a shot Chinese soldier. It started to disappear as the body was dragged out of the way and he launched himself at the heavy wooden planking. The force of his dive crashed the doors back, knocking two soldiers flat on the ground who’d been trying to secure the entrance.
Before they could recover Philip rolled over and shot single rounds into their scrambling bodies, hearing cries of pain as the bullets hit home. The Gurkhas had been left flat-footed as they waited for the grenade explosion to signal the attack and the next instant the monks, led by Prem, slammed through the door, packing the shrine in a matter of moments. He lay watching as their sticks rained blows on the rest of the soldiers who’d collapsed in terror, cowering on the ground to protect their heads and bodies. In less than a minute it was over. An eerie calm descended and then, starting from the back of the shrine, the monks started prostrating themselves on the ground.
As the last of the monks lay themselves down on the paved floor the Gurkhas stepped around them, knives raised and ready. They tied the hands of those Chinese soldiers who were still conscious, dragging them to the corner of the shrine and tying them to the base of a large seated Buddha. Others – they cautiously prodded with their boots before kneeling to check for pulses. Those who were unconscious were next tied and dragged away. In total five were dead, including the Chinese Commander who’d been taken out by the sniper fire from the roof which probably explained why their resistance had crumbled so quickly.
Philip looked around, shocked, his heart still racing. He hadn’t realised that the monks would be so devastating, but looking at them now, as they lay prostrate on the floor he could see why they were. They lived a tough life, working tirelessly to survive in an unforgiving environment. Before arriving at the monastery many would have come from the families of nomads who’d worked hard from the moment they could walk. They were hardened and fit and outraged that the Chinese had captured the Rinpoche.
Philip pushed himself up and walked carefully through them, moving towards a young man who stood by himself at the back of the shrine, rubbing his wrists which were raw from where the binding had cut into him. He stopped in front of him and gave a small bow, unsure what to do.
The man stepped forward and offering his hand. “I believe this is how you greet friends in your country,” he said in a clear voice. “Thank you.” He looked around the shrine, his eyes stopping on the bodies of the dead soldiers. “Death, even of an enemy, is a terrible thing.” He looked back at Philip. “But what is done had to be done and I thank you for it.”
Philip moved forward and took the hand and they stood for a few moments studying each other. He was tall for a Tibetan, their eyes almost level. His face was open and strong, his hair, originally shaved, was now a black stubble streaked with dried blood. He was young, but not, Philip suspected, as young as people had suggested. His eyes were old, betraying a depth of experience beyond the age of his body. Philip felt calm, completely at peace. He’d only felt it once before, such complete acceptance but this time he felt a surge of hope. They stood, hands clasped together, until Philip became aware of Prem standing beside him. He reluctantly released the Rinpoche’s hand and turned to the corporal.
“The room is secure,” the Gurkha said, bowing his head to the Tibetan as he spoke. “We have no casualties, except two monks who got hit by blows from other monks. The soldiers are all tied up and secure.”
Philip nodded, looking down at the monks who still lay prone on the floor. “Well done Prem. That was quite a charge! “ He turned back to the Rinpoche. “If you’ll excuse me I have something I must attend to in the cook house.” He nodded over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you to address your monks.”
He turned and walked with Prem out of the shrine into the cold night air, sucking it deep into his lungs. He walked over to where the grenade lay abandoned on the ground and picked it up, handing it to Prem. “You should take this. I failed again, I just couldn’t throw it. Memories …”
“It didn’t need to be thrown,” replied Prem, shrugging. “The attack was successful. We had no losses.”
“But we could have,” Philip snapped back angrily. “Some of the monks could have been shot or our men injured. It’s better you take it.”
He watched as the Gurkha clipped it to his belt and they turned and quickly strode down the steps, heading towards the kitchen. As they walked Philip filled the Gurkha in about what they’d learnt from Tashi.
As soon as he entered he knew something was wrong. Where Tashi had been tied was deserted and the door into the back alley stood wide open. He glanced around and saw Lhamu’s feet sticking out from behind the raised hearth. He rushed over. She was lying face down, arms up above her head. Discarded beside her lay a long thin piece of firewood, its end covered in congealing blood. Philip fell to his knees, unable to breath. Gently he laid a trembling hand on her shoulder and whispered her name.
“Lhamu?”
There was no reply. He carefully rolled her over so her head and shoulders were resting on his lap. He could see an ugly cut on her scalp, her hair plastered to it as it oozed blood down her face. Some of it had run down into her eyes, which he gently wiped away with his sleeve. Taking her wrist he felt for a pulse and a shiver of relief ran through him.
“Lhamu,” he said again, tenderly rubbing her cheek, and was rewarded by a small groan and movement of her head. Slowly she opened his eyes, unfocused and objecting to the dull light that the one remaining lamp threw out. Then they suddenly snapped open and stared at Philip.
“Tashi …” she gasped, trying to pull herself up.
“Easy,” interrupted Philip, gently holding her down. “Don’t get up yet. You’ve had a nasty bang to the head and will be dizzy for a while. Tell me what happened as you lie here.”
Prem, who’d run to the open door and checked in alley returned, shaking his head.
Lhamu spoke slowly, her mind still fuzzy and slow. “He must have had a knife hidden in his sleeve. I was looking out of the door to watch what was happening and when I turned I saw he had nearly cut through the ropes. Before I could reach him he had freed himself and hit me with some wood from the fire.”
She grimaced, the mention of the blow seeming to flood the pain from the wound into her.
“It’s alright,” Philip reassured her. “It doesn’t matter he escaped. We’ve captured the shrine and the Rinpoche is safe. The men and monks are all safe.”
Lhamu shook her head, struggling from his grasp and sitting up.
“But we are not. Before he escaped he was taunting me. He said that when he was on the radio, he was successful. He managed to contact the main Chinese force.”
Philip looked at her, slowly shaking his head. “That’s impossible, he must have been lying to you, trying to upset you. The radio won’t work here, it’s got no range in these mountains.”
“I know,” Lhamu replied, grasping Philips hand, “but it does not need to. The Chinese are only a day’s march up the valley and he has told them about our attack. They are already on their way.”
Philip glanced up at Prem. “Go and find the abbot. He must know if there are any other soldiers around camped around here.” He turned back to Lhamu, just as several monks rushed in and started to relight the fires. “Let’s get you over to the shrine and get that cut in your head seen to.”
*
Thirty minutes later and they were sitting around a roaring fire in a large hearth at the centre of the shrine, its smoke snaking out through the uncovered hatch in the roof. Philip had carefully cleaned Lhamu’s wound, which had turned out to look much worse than it was. Two wooden benches had been dragged up to the fire and he found himself describing the last few days to the Rinpoche, who sat watching him intently through eyes over the rim of a large bowl of butter tea.
On the Rinpoche’s other side sat the Head Abbot of Rombuk, an old man who’d been woken in his private chamber by the fighting and had been brought straight over to them by Prem. When he’d arrived, Philip had immediately asked him if he knew of any other Red Army in the area. There’d been a pause as Lhamu translated but Philip felt his heart sink as the old monk started pointing down the valley.
Lhamu looked at Philip. “He says some traders came through a couple of days ago and said there was a large camp of soldiers about a day’s journey to the North. “
Philip looked at the old man. “Does he know how many?” he asked.
There was a brief conversation.
“About fifty,” she replied.
“Damn it,” cursed Philip, looking into the fire and running a blood stained hand through his filthy hair. “In which case we’ll have to assume that Tashi was telling the truth and that he got a message through to them. If they received it a couple of hours ago they still won’t be here until dawn, even if they set off straight away. Let’s eat and rest here where it’s warm.” He looked around at the men. “Everybody’s exhausted. A few hours good sleep and a hot meal will make a big difference on the return.”
Philip had soon discovered that the Rinpoche spoke excellent English, so there was no need for Lhamu or Mingma to translate. Despite the reverential way he was treated by everybody he soon put Philip at his ease.
“Please, call me Dawa,” he said, lightly resting his hand on Philips wrist. “You’ve rescued me and given me the opportunity to continue my mission. It’s our last hope. If we cannot get help from the United Nations then I fear my country will be overrun by the Chinese.”
They chatted on, Philip describing their discovery of the ambush by the river and the pursuit through the mountains. The Rinpoche often nodded and added his own comments. It was about their last campsite that Philip was particularly interested in.
“I remember,” the Rinpoche had replied. “It was the middle of the night. They’d removed my blindfold as I’d just been out to the toilet. I saw a man come into camp whom the guards were very wary of. They fetched the commander who initially wasn’t pleased to have his sleep disturbed. There was a brief conversation and then everybody was woken.” He shook his head. “I didn’t hear what they said but we set off fast down the valley.”
“It was a man from our camp who’d come with us as a translator. We know now that he’s a spy and has fled. Before he went though he used our radio to warn the main Chinese force who were waiting to meet you, presumably with transport to take you away in.”
At that moment some of the younger monks appeared carrying trays laden with plates of small, boiled potatoes cooked with some kind of green leaf vegetable and covered in thick melted butter. The smell was delicious and Philip realised just how hungry he was. There was silence as they all ate ravenously and drank their tea which was constantly topped up by a nervous monk who hovered behind them.
Philip had just finished when he saw Prem hurrying into the shrine.
“There’s no sign of the Indian,” he reported. “We’ve checked every building in the monastery. But there is a pony missing from the stable. I think he’s taken it and fled. The two monks in charge of the guard dogs have taken them to see if they can pick up a trail. I wouldn’t like to be him if they get onto it. They are savage.”
Philip nodded, quickly filling the corporal in about the soldiers.
“We’d have had no chance if they’d reached them and we’ll struggle now if they catch us. They’ll be well armed and rested.” He looked at the Rinpoche.
“Your Holiness, we need to get back to Nepal as quickly as possible. Could you ask the abbot to spare us some supplies as we’ve nothing left for the return journey.”
The Rinpoche nodded.
“One other thing,” Philip continued. “We need to get rid of the prisoners. If the Chinese find them here then I dread to think what they’ll do to the monastery.”
The two Tibetans had a conversation and after a minute or so the Rinpoche turned back to Philip. “He will confine the prisoners inside one of the many caves in the valley until the army has gone. Then he’ll get some of the traders whose caravans pass through to take them far away across the plateau and release them. They won’t be able to cause any harm from there and by the time they eventually return to Lhasa nobody will remember. The bodies of the dead with be put out with respect for sky burials, releasing their spirits.”
He paused, keeping his eyes fixed on Philip. “And now I have a favour to ask of you. With your permission I will travel back with you. If I’m caught here I will be taken to China and the monastery razed. It would be as if you’d never come.” He fell silent.