Conquistadors of the Useless (6 page)

The ascents that we did every week were in a different style from what I was used to in the Mont Blanc range. There was comparatively little rock climbing about them, and what there was was seldom very difficult. These great rubbish heaps of mountains were more a question of unending trudges among steep, slippery grass, rabbit warrens, and moraines of loose boulders. The habit of the school was to send us up to remote huts loaded like mules and at competition speed. In the same way, climbs were carried out at such speed that the majority of students ended up in a state of complete exhaustion. Given the fact that in those days there was very little food around, these mountain trips were profoundly tiring even for the toughest, and when we got back to the Centre after three or four days we were all more or less done in.

But we were far from being allowed to rest for the remainder of the week. An iron discipline imposed ten to fourteen hours of work every day. We were up at six, and it was usual for us to get back to our beds at midnight without having had any other time off than what was necessary for meals – if one could so term the absorption of a few ill-cooked vegetables, whose main nutritive value came from the in-numerable flies stuck to the plate.

The day would begin with perhaps three-quarters of an hour of high-speed physical training. The rest of the morning would be spent at some kind of manual labour, wood fatigue or improving mountain tracks. The afternoons began with a rock climbing session on a small local crag, followed by lectures or study. After the evening meal we still had to attend cultural classes or rehearsals for a sort of music hall act called ‘passing out' with which each course ended. Naturally all the activities were carried on at top speed, and the least little movement from one place to another was carried out at the double, and singing.

The method of character training at the J.M. Central School was, it appeared, modelled on that of the military colleges, and every day we had the opportunity of measuring its full excellence. However unexpected the ideas may be which germinate in the brain of the brass-hatted pedagogue, anyone would at least agree that they were formulated at a time when there was enough to eat to support such a painful existence. But in those days, when the whole of France was starving, this was decidedly not the case. After three weeks about half the course were at the end of their strength, and the rest were more or less run down. Probably due to the inadequate nourishment we were nearly all suffering from a painful illness. The smallest scratches would turn into festering wounds which grew larger every day and resisted all attempts at medication. In varying degrees, we all had our hands, forearms, calves and feet covered in these agonising sores.

The course, which had begun in enthusiasm, turned into a sort of hell as the days went on. Without the impulsion of the ideals which remained in us like the voice of conscience and gave an unguessed-of endurance, such trials would have been insupportable. We told ourselves that anyone who could not take it was unworthy to be called a man. Had it been otherwise there would have been no motive to resist the temptation of the sick-bay, or even of the liberty of desertion. One might suppose that the leaders who imposed such an inhuman regime were mere bloodthirsty brutes, Nazis worthy of service in the S.S. Nothing could be farther from the truth, because in reality the great majority of them were likeable and intelligent men, frequently quiet and even sensitive. By what collective aberration these sensible beings could have been led to apply such stupid methods of education will always remain a mystery to me. Fortunately, after the first year, the excesses began to be understood, and the courses were subsequently humanised even to the point where enthusiasm gave way to a certain slackness. But this cannot change the fact that as a result of those first courses a number of young men contracted grave heart and lung ailments which will handicap them for the rest of their lives.

As for me, although I was one of the few to finish in reasonable physical condition, those five weeks have left a memory of exhaustion greater than any I have known since. I have no doubt that the ordeal had a permanent effect on me, and if later, on big expeditions, I have sometimes surprised my comrades by the ease with which I could undergo what seemed unusually exhausting and painful experiences, it has been because they seemed nothing to what I endured at La Chapelle.

At last the course came to an end. I had done little climbing, and learnt nothing new about it. But despite it all, I did not regret my time in Valgaudemar. I had widened my horizons, met new men and new mountains, and had been enriched by an extraordinary experience which I was happy to have stuck out to the end. ‘Ah, do not beg the favour of an easy life – pray to become one of the truly strong. Do not pray for tasks proportionate to your strength, but for strength proportionate to the task.'
[3]
I also had the lesser satisfaction of graduating first in the technical tests and second in the overall classification, the more studious Rébuffat having beaten me by a few points.

In the course of these five tough weeks which we had gone through shoulder to shoulder, Gaston and I had got to know each other and despite profound differences of temperament had become great friends. The trials of the course had not abated our love of the mountains or our desire for the great climbs. No sooner were the results published than Gaston wanted to drag me off to the famous north-west face of the Olan. It would make us A.W.O.L., but provided we accepted this and the punishment which would ensue on our return to our centres, we had the chance of doing the climb. Rébuffat's proposition was extremely tempting, and I wasn't very worried about the J.M. brand of punishment, which consisted of making us carry an eighty-pound sack of stones for twenty or thirty kilometres. But I was not yet ripe for climbs of this class, and had been over-impressed by the tale of the first ascent. Discretion won the day and I declined the offer.

Passing through Grenoble on the way back to Beaufort the temptations of civilised life were too strong, and we decided to stop over for twenty-four hours to get a bit of rest and Christian nourishment. After a copious meal and a good night we were once more bursting with energy and enthusiasm. Despite the prospect of stone carrying we put off our departure for Beaufort for another day, not for the sake of the flesh-pots, but in order to climb the Dent Gerard on the Trois Pucelles. We thought of starting up the Grange gully and then seeing if we could find a more interesting route. Now that I had become a climber of some experience the Grange gully seemed so easy that I couldn't understand how I had almost met my end there. By contrast, however, the difficult new variation that we put up that day on the wall between the Dalloz crack and the Sandwich chimney was a real initiation for me into certain forms of artificial climbing, which I had never tried till then.
[4]

Gaston got a long way up by the use of a good many pitons, but was then stopped by an overhang. He tried several times to climb it free but without success. I then had a try at it and greatly to my surprise got up, despite an annoying trembling of the limbs. New horizons began to open up from that moment.

We got back to Beaufort forty-eight hours late, to be greeted by Testo Ferry, the commandant of the centre, in unexpected fashion. This still-young man, who had distinguished himself by his courage in aerial combat, had a taste for dash and achievement. It was obvious that we appealed to him. With a twinkling eye and a suspicion of a smile at the corners of his lips, he told us off approximately as follows:

‘In the first place I have to congratulate you on your brilliant placings on the course you have just completed. It is thanks to men of your stamp that we are going to build a brave new France. As commandant of the Paturaud-Mirand Centre I am proud of you. But I regret that you have been awaited for two days now in Chamonix, where you are to join a climbing troop. Your late return has considerably hindered the proper functioning of the course, which is already in progress. In order not to prolong this situation you are to leave for Chamonix in a few minutes' time, but in view of the fact that it would be a deplorable example to leave unpunished the grave breach of discipline of which you have been guilty, I have no choice but to be strict with you. Your penalty is to have your heads shaved – and I mean a complete tonsure. Given the urgency of the situation it will be impossible to inflict this punishment before your departure. I therefore order you to go to a barber's shop either on the way through Annecy or on your arrival at Chamonix. I need hardly add that if these orders are not carried out I shall be obliged to punish you more severely.'

Far from plunging me into consternation this speech, subtly larded with the formality of the time and with a certain humour, raised me to heights of joy. Nothing could have delighted me more at that moment than to set off for my beloved range of Mont Blanc. As for my hair, to have it cut off was more of an advantage than a punishment for me. Although I was just twenty it had already started to moult liberally, and someone had told me that shaving the head would put off the evil hour – but in this as in so many other things life lost no time in showing me the extent of my naiveté!

At Annecy we had two hours to wait for the Chamonix coach, so we went off to the nearest hairdresser's. At the time of our condemnation Gaston, as befitted an idealist above the opinions and flatteries of the world, had affected the noblest disinterest in his capillary system. Now, face to face with the secular arm, he suddenly lost his pride. At the idea of imminently seeing his thick, curly locks lying at his feet, he was thrown into confusion. Forcing a thin smile, he asked me shyly:

‘Do you think the old man would be satisfied with a very short brush-cut?'

But I replied:

‘Aren't you ashamed of yourself at the idea of cheating like that? Orders are orders, and our duty is to carry them out to the bitter end. Boy! Bring the razor, and let it shine.'

So I sat there radiating pleasure and malice as I watched my head assuming the appearance of a billiard ball, while Gaston's naturally long face grew longer still as his head was turned into a sort of tubercle covered in bumps and hollows. But his good nature soon got the better of him, and during the next few days he got everyone to finger his bumps, averring that one was the bump of mathematics, another the bump of business acumen, and so on.

Next day André Tournier, the guide in command of the Montenvers camp, had a bad few minutes as he watched two men climbing towards him whose shaven scalps shone in the gay morning sunlight like those of German soldiers! At that time such visits were apt to be worrying.

Situated next to the old Montenvers Hotel, justly noted for its magnificent site above the Mer de Glace, the so-called camp was installed in some disused stables that had been roughly converted into dormitories. Each Sunday some thirty virtual beginners would arrive from Beaufort for a one-week course in mountain climbing. There were theoretically five of us to look after the whole lot, but one was old and often tired or ill, and another would only lead parties on the very easiest climbs. For practical purposes there were only the three of us: André Tournier our chief, Rébuffat and myself. Despite his small stature, Tournier had Herculean strength, and his chest was of the proportions of a wardrobe. Aquiline, sallow, dark-eyed, with thick black hair, he might have passed for an Oriental if his deeply-chiselled features, stamped with decision, had not lent to his face rather the beauty of an ideal mediaeval knight. He was a man of exceptional character in the prime of life, and a truly fine guide into the bargain. Authoritative and violent, he was also upright and just, and by contrast with many guides he did not hold my urban origins against me. Having discerned my ability to outlast many born mountaineers, he treated me like a friend. It was the same with Rébuffat, under whose phlegmatic and almost smooth exterior he recognised the exceptional driving force.

As often happens in September, the weather remained immovably fine, and thanks to this we were able to take half our beginners every day on to some summit or other. In this way all of them were able to get in three climbs per course. The actual climbs were not very difficult but none the less called for a certain technique, and they were relatively long. As each of the instructors towed three or four beginners behind him, chiefly distinguished by a total lack of aptitude, it will be easy to imagine the slowness of our progress up routes like the Blaitière, and the patience required to get everyone to the top and back again in good order. We would set out at three or four in the morning and quite frequently not get back till seven or eight o'clock at night. It would have seemed a hellish life to a good many people, and it would have been natural if these daily-repeated climbs, carried out at a snail's pace, had become excessively boring. On the contrary, however, I loved every minute of the time, which seemed to go by all too quickly. Doing these easy climbs in such conditions was after all a real adventure. Constant care was necessary, to say nothing of ingenuity. Getting a party safely up them bit by bit called for the concentration of all one's powers, and gave me the sort of pleasure a child gets from succeeding in a difficult game.

I suppose we really amounted to nothing more significant than a gang of overgrown children delighting in the conquest of altitude by the force of our own muscles. Yet to see a companion arrive for the first time on a sunlit crest, his eyes full of happiness, seemed in itself an adequate recompense. Tomorrow he might return to the valley and be swallowed up by all the mediocrity of life, but for one day at least he had looked full at the sky.

It was in helping these uninspired parties of beginners, under the direction of André Tournier, that I began to love the guiding profession, and to understand its peculiar problems. I learned to make the most of the lay of the land, to be ready for emergencies at any moment, to foresee events, to keep the ropes unentangled, and how to make a group of clumsy beginners advance at a relatively respectable pace.