Conquistadors of the Useless (44 page)

As a result of their lack of form my four companions had been unable to fulfil their mission of carrying a unit and more supplies up to Camp Four, and this threw the whole operation out of phrase. A delicate question now arose: was I to obey orders and go back down, or should I stay where I was with the Sherpas and carry out the uncompleted task? By doing this I would lose my chance of teaming up with Herzog, who at present was in the best condition and best placed for the summit dash, so that a bitter paradox would make a disinterested action the frustration of all my hopes. It would be so easy to obey orders and bow to a fate another had ordained. Nobody would ever hold it against me; after all, I was only a simple foot soldier who had taken an oath of obedience. And yet, and yet … it seemed to me that by going down at this juncture I would be letting down the side. The very idea gave me a pang such as one might feel at the suggestion of committing a crime. This internal struggle lasted no more than a few minutes. No doubt I was an ass imbued with mediaeval ideas, but I would take the finer and harder way by carrying on to Camp Four the following morning.

I told Rébuffat and Schatz what was in my mind, and Gaston, feeling somewhat better, decided to try and accompany me. Marcel was still too sick to be anything but a burden and resolved to descend alone in spite of the risk. Though it was little more than a vertical height of a thousand feet to Camp Four it took us over seven dangerous hours to get there, due to the constant zigzagging and difficulty of the route. The deep snow and strong downhill wind made the going harder than ever before, and by the time we arrived a blizzard was in full swing. The tent had foundered under the mass of snow. We had all the trouble in the world to get it up again and also pitch the one we had carried. Gaston had felt nothing in his feet for some time and got in quickly to examine them, his thin features sharper than ever with anxiety. By means of rubbing and whipping I eventually got the circulation going again. Thanks to drugs we spent a reasonable night, but even if we still had some strength left we were nevertheless suffering badly from the effects of altitude.

By dawn the tents were half buried in the snow. There was so little space left inside that one could hardly move. We had to dig them out with our mess tins and re-erect them as best we could, though they looked pretty sorry for themselves. The cold was positively arctic, and the strange downhill wind which had troubled us so much the day before was worse than ever. We were up against it already: how could we hope to climb another four thousand feet in such conditions? Victory seemed farther off than ever. However, we must just do our best to carry on.

It was a positive pleasure to leave this camp, installed as it was in the middle of an avalanche slope with no more protection than a moderate-sized sérac. If this could not shelter the tents enough to stop them being half buried in the night it seemed unlikely to keep off a really big slide. We made short work of the descent, and it was not until a long way down that we encountered Herzog, Lachenal, Angtharkay and Sarki. Louis seemed much fitter and said he was now back on perfect form. They explained that they were going to implement the plan that I was to have executed with Maurice, and that they had no intention of coming down before reaching the summit. I wished them luck without the smallest feeling of jealousy, for I was convinced by the previous day's experiences that the mountain was not yet adequately equipped. In my opinion they were simply deceiving themselves.

Next morning I scanned the mountain through powerful binoculars. The four men had already surmounted the very steep ice slope above Camp Four, and before they were hidden by clouds I could see them trying to find a way across the chaos of séracs to the left of the great arching wall of rock which divided the upper slopes. We called this wall ‘the sickle'. Much lower down, I could see Couzy, Schatz and their Sherpas making slow progress in the direction of Camp Three.

Camp Two had by now practically turned into a village. Large, comfortable tents had been brought up from the valley, and Noyelle and Oudot were both installed there. They told us about all the difficulties they had had to keep us supplied. Only after innumerable complications both technical and diplomatic had they managed to get forty porters as far as Base Camp, and of these not much more than a dozen could be induced to do a few portages to Camp One. Two only would consent to help the indefatigable Adjiba in his ceaseless comings and goings from Camp One to Camp Two. It had in fact been touch and go whether our efforts on the mountain would be brought to nothing by a rupture of our lines of communication, and perhaps this dull and patient work in the rear was the finest example of team spirit shown on the whole expedition. Certainly we would have been able to do nothing without the devotion of our companions who, without hope of personal glory, performed the extraordinary feat of keeping us supplied across the five or six days of difficult ground that cut us off from the inhabited world.

One good day's rest sufficed to make Gaston and I fighting fit again, and we formulated a daring plan which would gain us a day. Light loads and an early start would enable us to reach Camp Three by ten or eleven o'clock in the morning where, with the help of Couzy and Schatz's freshly-broken trail, we would carry everything on up to Camp Four. Oudot and two Sherpas would carry up a new camp three (which would be necessary for the retreat) the following day. For once everything worked out exactly as planned. We duly picked up our loads at eleven o'clock in the morning, and the ready-made track enabled us to reach Camp Four in an hour and a half instead of seven hours, despite the weight of two units and twenty-odd pounds of food. To climb getting on for three thousand feet with heavy loads in one day at well over twenty thousand feet is a sign of real form, which we felt augured well for the future.

On the way we met Angtharkay and Ang Dawa, forced to descend due to finding one tent fewer than expected at Camp Four. Faced as they had been with the prospect of humping double loads, therefore, Couzy and Schatz were naturally overjoyed at our unexpected arrival. I spent an excellent night, and in the morning started breaking the trail like a giant while the others struck camp. For the first few yards I was up to the chest in snow, but its depth gradually diminished until it was just a thin layer through which the ice penetrated here and there. The angle became as great as a difficult Alpine couloir. Cramponning is very exhausting at these altitudes and Sherpas do not seem very adept at it, so I nicked out well-spaced steps which Schatz enlarged and multiplied behind me.

After five hundred feet of this exhausting pastime we came out on the upper edge of ‘the sickle', where we found a tent craftily pitched in the shelter of a sérac. We immediately named this Camp Four B. In the tent were Antharkay and Sarki, who explained to us in their broken English that they had gone with Herzog and Lachenal to establish another camp quite a lot farther on, after which they had received the order to return and wait here. They had frostbitten feet and seemed in poor shape. Our own two Sherpas were also complaining about their feet and lost no time in scrambling into the tent to get warm.

Following Angtharkay's directions we now began a long traverse to the left, making use of a network of ledges which wound in and out of enormous séracs. Schatz ploughed relentlessly ahead through the deep snow. Rébuffat took over for a short time, but had to give up owing to loss of circulation in his feet. At the end of the traverse I went to the front again, zigzagging up through the icefall. To find the track in cloud would obviously be very difficult, and we did our best to pick out and memorise landmarks as we went along.

A breakable crust through which we plunged up to the calf had now taken the place of deep snow. Sometimes we had to crampon for a few yards where the crust had been particularly hardened by the wind. Despite the large new boots (which I had taken the precaution of carrying as far as Camp Four to keep them dry) I could feel the cold penetrating my feet. Constant wiggling of my toes didn't seem to be having any effect, so I stopped, took off my boots and stockings, and massaged my lower limbs in the shelter of my pied d'éléphant, an undertaking rendered somewhat complicated by the strong wind.
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Couzy and Schatz had halted to imitate me a short way above. Trail-breaking was getting progressively easier, and presently it became no more than a matter of cramponning up hard snow on a regular slope of thirty to thirty-five degrees. Camp Five, pitched at the foot of a short rock step, seemed a mere stone's throw away, yet for all our efforts it never appeared to get any closer. I could feel the insidious onset of cold again, so I forced the pace in order to have time to attend to my feet before the others arrived. Rébuffat, reasoning the same way, overtook Couzy and Schatz, but I kept up my lead without much trouble.

When I reached the tent it was half buried, but I pushed my way into the small remaining space, and by the time Gaston arrived I was ready to yield it up to him while I started hacking out a platform for the second tent. Schatz, whose motto is ‘never say die', gave me valuable help in this heavy task. We had nothing to work with but our ice axes and our mess tins. The wind-hardened snow was almost as tough as ice, and on such a steep slope a very deep step had to be cleared before there was room to erect a tent. At 24,500 feet, where the smallest effort is enough to make one out of breath, this navvy's work was just about the limit. After every ten blows with the axe I felt as if I was about to spew up my lungs, and when I stopped the blood pounded in my ears. It would take a good thirty seconds to recover from the feeling of suffocation and to let my pulse slow down a little. At this rate we would never get finished, so I decided to go to the limit. At times I would force so much that a black veil began to form in front of my eyes and I fell to my knees, panting like an overdriven beast.

However I refused all help from the Sherpas and insisted that they should start down at once. This was the least we could do. The storm had risen, visibility was steadily getting worse, and it was essential that our devoted companions should get back to Camp Four before the tracks were completely covered. Couzy had now come to our aid and the platform was growing rapidly. Finally we improved the rather too rudimentary one left by our forerunners, pitched the new tent, and re-erected the original one in which Rébuffat had just succeeded in getting life back into his feet. The discomfort of this hurriedly installed camp was augmented by the fact that we had only three air mattresses and one pressure-cooker. Couzy and Schatz crammed themselves into one tent, Rébuffat and I into the other.

But what were Herzog and Lachenal up to? Since they had left their tent here they must be making a bid for the still distant summit. Time went by without our seeing anything. Outside the furies of the storm were in full cry, and we began to get seriously worried. It would soon be too late for anyone to get back to Camp Four, and we would be forced to sleep three in tents already too small for two persons. Couzy and Schatz, who were obviously suffering from altitude sickness, therefore decided to start on down and go as far as they could. No sooner had they gone than I moved bag and baggage into their tent and, according to habit, began to get busy with the cooking, which consisted of melting water for Ovomaltine and Tonimalt.

As time went by we became more and more anxious. I kept on sticking my head out of the tent to see if I could see anything, but there was nothing but the pitiless blizzard. At last my straining ears heard the unmistakable scrunching of footsteps on snow, and I threw myself out of doors just in time to greet Maurice, who was alone. With his beard and his clothing all strangely coated in rime and his eyes shining, he told me of victory.

I seized him by the hand, only to find to my horror that I was shaking an icicle. What had been a hand was like metal. I cried out: ‘Momo, your hand is frostbitten!' He looked at it indifferently, and replied: ‘That's nothing, it'll come back.' I was surprised that Lachenal was not with him, but he assured me that he would arrive at any moment and then crawled into Gaston's tent. I began to heat up some water. Lachenal still hadn't arrived, so I questioned him again. All he knew was that they had been together a few moments before entering camp.

Putting my head out of doors, I fancied I could hear a cry coming from some way off. Then the raging wind carried a faint but unmistakable ‘Help'. I got out of the tent and saw Lachenal three hundred feet below us. Hastily I dragged on my boots and clothes, but when I came out of the tent again there was nothing to be seen on the bare slope. The shock was so terrible that I lost my self-control and began to cry, shouting in desperation. It seemed that I had lost the companion of the most enchanted hours of my life. Overcome with grief I lay in the snow unconscious of the hurricane that howled around me. Suddenly the thing occurred for which I had not dared to hope. A gap in the clouds showed him still on the slope, but much lower down than I had remembered. Without even waiting to put on my crampons I launched out on an audacious glissade, shooting down the steep slopes at the speed of a racing car. The surface was so crusted by the wind that I had considerable difficulty in stopping.

Lachenal had obviously had a long fall. I found him hatless, glove-less, axe-less and with only one crampon. With staring eyes he called out:

‘I peeled. My feet are frozen stiff up to the ankles. Get me down to Camp Two quickly, so Oudot can give me an injection. Quick, let's get going.'

I tried to explain the mortal danger of a descent without rope or crampons in the dark and the hurricane, but his fear of amputation was such that, when he heard me starting to argue, he suddenly grabbed my ice axe and started running across the slope. His single crampon impeded him, however, and he crumpled on to the snow weeping and screaming:

‘We must get down. I've got to have some injections or I'll be ruined for life. They'll cut off my feet.'