Sacred Mountain (25 page)

It was quite high, but a chest had been dragged over and by standing on this it was fairly straight forward to climb up and drop to the ground the other side. He carefully worked his way around the side to the next dormitory and keeping just out of sight called out as loudly as he dared. A shot rang out, aimed blindly at his voice and Philip heard it fizz harmlessly overhead. Almost immediately it was answered by a shot from Prem and Philip heard his round ricochet off the stonework of the shrine. It all fell quiet again.

He called again and on hearing a reply told them to get out the back through the window. In less than a minute they were all reunited behind the first building. Giri, it was agreed, would stay as the second gun. He’d been winged in the shoulder by a round from the initial burst and while it didn’t seem serious, Philip was concerned it may affect his mobility.

He quickly outlined his plan to him and told him to ensure the other two dormitories were ready when the signal came.

Without having to worry about the guards, Philip quickly led them back around the complex, avoiding the dogs this time, and within a couple of minutes they entered the cook house.

There was one lamp burning and by its light he saw Lhamu gasp and come hurrying over.

“What happened? Are you injured?” she asked, her hand reaching up to the back of his head, concern in her eyes.

Philip nodded. “I’m fine. It’s not my blood.” He looked around to see who was there and quickly described what had happened. “Did you find Tashi?” he asked when he’d finished, looking at Balbir.

The Gurkha nodded and said something in Nepalese to two of the men, who turned and left the room. “We were almost back at the camp when we heard someone hurrying towards us. When we saw it was the Indian we tackled him and tied him up. Back at camp we found Parul unconscious, I think he will be OK, he came round while we were there and we left him by the fire.”

The Gurkha paused as the door opened and Tashi was pushed roughly into the room.

“The radio set had been set up and was turned on.”

Everyone was watching Tashi, who cut a forlorn figure in the pale light. His hands were tied behind his back and his face was bruised and scratched from falling on the way to the monastery, no doubt assisted by being pushed along by the Gurkhas behind. Philip walked up to him and stood looking into his eyes, one of which was puffy and starting to close.

“Balbir,” he said in a quiet voice, his eyes not moving. “Stand behind him. If you even think he’s going to shout a warning, cut his throat.”

The Gurkha walked over and stood behind him, the silent whisper of his Kukri being drawn just audible in the silent room. Reaching up, Philip pulled down the filthy gag that covered his mouth.

“Last night, you crept down and warned the Chinese about our planned attack.” He paused momentarily, watching as Tashi started to deny it. He cut across him, holding up his hand and continuing in a calm voice. “Please don’t deny it. We’ve learnt it from the monks who overhead the Chinese talking. It explains why you were so exhausted this morning.”

Tashi stood still for a few moments, seemingly torn as to whether to defend himself or not. After a few seconds, he took a deep breath and pulled himself up as tall as he could, his face hardening.

“I meant no harm to you or these men,” he said in a steady voice, nodding around the room. “I could have knocked off your radio man tonight if I’d wanted to, or any of you guys on numerous occasions.”

“So why didn’t you?” Philip replied.

“It was the Rinpoche I wanted,” he spat out. “No one else.”

“But you’re a Tibetan by birth,” Philip said, confused. “You fled the Chinese. They threw you off your farm for Christ sake and killed most of your family. Why the hell would you want to help them?”

Tashi laughed bitterly. “I’m afraid your history is a little bit goofed up. It wasn’t the Chinese who threw us off our lands. That year the Tibetan army invaded disputed lands that had been under Chinese control for decades. They exiled people like us, accusing us of being collaborators and confiscated our lands for their own estates. My father pleaded with them, saying that we were Tibetan like them, that we’d had no choice but to live under Chinese rule but they wouldn’t listen. That’s when they killed my brothers and I vowed that one day that somehow, somewhere I would avenge them.”

There was a stunned silence, Philips head reeling. “But, but they’re your own people …”

“They threw us out, they killed my family,” Tashi spat. “They are ignorant tyrants who deserve to die and be replaced by the people whose country it really is.”

Philip shook his head. “Enough, I haven’t time for this now. I just need to know who you were trying to contact on the radio. Do the soldiers have a receiver in the monastery?”

Tashi sat for a few moments looking at him before slowly he shaking his head. “They don’t have a radio, which is why I had to warn them on foot last night.”

Philip looked hard at him. “So who were you calling?”

“I tried to send a message to the main force they were planning to join. They are camped waiting for them a few days north of here on the main route to Lhasa. If it hadn’t been for your persistent little chase getting too close they’d have been well on their way there by now. As it was, when I told them you were coming and they decided to head for the monastery for protection. They’ve sent a man off to get the reinforcements, but when I saw the radio I thought I’d try to speed things up a bit.” Tashi stopped talking for a moment, keeping his stare fixed on Philip. “I shouldn’t tell you this but I don’t want innocent people hurt and I’ve got no beef with you. You’ve been good to me, not judging or looking down on me. You must leave now while you’ve got a chance. If the main force arrives while you are still here you’ll be annihilated.”

Philip slowly reached out and pulled the gag back into place.

“Balbir, tie him to that column,” he said quietly, nodding towards the corner. “We’ve more important things to do. He can wait. We know the radio’s useless in these mountains so the time the messenger gets there and they hurry back here we’ll be long gone. We’ve time enough.” He watched as the Gurkha roughly pulled Tashi away, thinking about what they must do next.

“We’ll climb back up to the rear of the shrine. There are no windows there. If we then keep close to the side walls they won’t see us until we reach the front and rush the main door.” He stopped, his mind running through his visit to the monastery at Thangboche. An idea came to him and he looked at Lhamu.

“Ask the monk if there’s an open courtyard inside the shrine.”

She turned to the old monk, who’d delivered the food earlier, and asked something in Tibetan, listening intently to his reply. “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “It is too cold in winter to have an open courtyard.”

Philip thought for a moment. “So how does the smoke from all the lamps and incense escape?” he asked, looking at the monk.

Lhamu translated again. “There is a hole in the roof, covered by a thin stone slab that can be slid closed if the weather is bad.”

Philip nodded. “And how do they get on the roof to move the stone?”

“There is a ladder,” confirmed Lhamu after a brief conversation with the monk.

“OK,” he replied and looked at the nearest Gurkha Eknath. “Take him with you and fetch the ladder. We’ll meet you beside the chortern at the foot of the hill.”

The man nodded and beckoning the old monk disappeared out of the door.

Philip turned to the rest. “We’ll put two men on the roof with rifles. They’ll be able to shoot down into the shrine and add to the confusion. At the same time I’ll use the hand grenade we found to take out the doors. We’ll use those few seconds of smoke and confusion to get inside. I’ve organised it that Prem will lead the monks on a charge across the yard when they hear our attack, which will add to the general chaos, so we need to get inside before they do.” He looked around at the men. “It’s going to be knife work so I don’t think I need to tell you what to do.”

The men all nodded, several lifting their knives for him to see.

“Right then, you two.” He pointed at Balbir and Ram. “Take a rifle each. I want you up on the roof as quietly as possible so they don’t know you’re there. I’ll give you two minutes from when you start climbing the ladder to get in position. When the time is up try to take out a couple of soldiers at the front. If they are running back from the door it will confuse them even more. Remember though,” he held up his finger. “Don’t shoot towards the back of the shrine. That’s where the Rinpoche is and we don’t want to injure him.”

The two Gurkhas nodded and took a rifle each, checking their actions and that they were loaded.

Philip looked around at the men, a flutter of panic welling inside him as he realised he was about to lead his first action for years, something he’d sworn never to do again. He turned to the door, trying to disguise it. “Lhamu, you stay here and watch the prisoner. The rest of you, let’s go.”

He led them out of the door, flinching as he heard the crack of a rifle shot coming from the other side of the yard. Prem was doing his job well.

When they reached the chortern they found Eknath and the monk waiting with the ladder, a spindly tree truck with footholds hacked roughly into its sides. Philip quickly turned away from it, forcing old memories away. He led off, taking them up the rough trail to the rear of the hill. The noise they made, despite their best efforts to be quiet, seemed to echo back to them from the surrounding buildings; the crunching of stone underfoot, small rocks bouncing down the slope and the occasional scraping of the ladder catching a protruding rock. At least, Philip reasoned to himself, the Chinese are trapped inside the shrine and distracted by Prem.

They reached the top and the ladder was silently lifted into position. Philip pointed to his watch and held up two fingers. Balbir nodded and clambered up the ladder, followed close behind by Ram.

Philip glanced around the remaining men. He pointed at three of them and indicated for them to go round the opposite side of the building.

“Keep behind the corner of the wall until the grenade explodes,” he warned. “That’s the signal for the charge. I don’t want to kill you lot by mistake.”

They nodded and moved off.

Philip looked at the remaining two Gurkhas and tried to smile reassuringly at them. The tension in his face made him feel as if he was scowling.

He turned and edged his way along the side wall of the shrine, making sure that they all kept as low as possible when passing under the small window. He thought he heard low voices as he ducked past, mingling with the groans of a wounded man.

At the front corner he stopped and checked his watch. Twenty seconds to go. He carefully placed his pistol on the ground and unclipped the grenade from his belt. It felt like a block of ice in his hand and he wiggled his fingers to reassure himself that the freezing metal wouldn’t stick to his flesh. With five seconds to go he looked cautiously around the corner.

It was about ten yards across a paved terrace to the door. An easy throw. He just had to ensure that the grenade didn’t roll off the front edge and down the wide flight of steps that dropped to the main courtyard. If it did that it would deflect the blast and probably leave the doors intact. Slowly he raised his other hand to the grenade and slid his finger through its pin, ready to rip it out and lob it towards the target.

His hands were trembling, his mind filling with bloody memories that threatened to overcome him. He forced his mind to visualise the inside of the shrine, of Chinese soldiers preparing for their attack. An image of young monks came into his head. He stopped breathing. He hadn’t checked that the shrine was clear of monks. Perhaps the Chinese had some inside that they were using as human shields. Perhaps the Rinpoche had been moved up to be by the door. If he threw the grenade, he would kill him, kill them.

He glanced at his watch. It was time.

Chapter 18

Calcutta

15
^th
February 1945

Dear Mr and Mrs Armitage,

I enclose a copy of a letter I was entrusted with by your son Philip with whom I was a prisoner in Rangoon. When I last saw him he was as alive as anyone else incarcerated there and we exchanged letters when I was moved up country to work on the railway. From here I managed, more by luck than judgement, to escape to our lines. I hope the letter brings you some comfort and that one day you are reunited.

With best wishes,

Capt. John McMillan

13th Kings Liverpool Regiment

Rangoon Central Jail

3
^rd
November 1944

Dear Mother and Father,

I hope that you’re well? I often think of your lives continuing unchanged at home and in many ways it’s this that gives me strength to continue. With so much time on my hands I seem to remember every detail, every conversation from my past that a normal, busy life drives from your memory. And yet other things are confused and blurred. Sometimes I don’t know whether the faces I see in my mind are truly you or what I’ve now imagined them to be.

You wouldn’t believe the number of times I’ve reread your last letter. The paper is so worn that the writing has almost gone. It matters not as I know every word, every mark on the paper. I used to hold it to my nose, inhaling deeply to try to catch a smell of home. Sometimes I thought I caught your lavender water or fresh scones or the Labradors panting from a rummage in the woods. The grief I felt at the news of Will’s death has passed away to nothing but fond memories of our childhood running wild on the estate. Sometimes I even envy him.

I now wake in the morning thinking that my old life was a glorious dream that evaporates slowly in the dawn light. The St. Christopher you sent out deserted me long ago. It’s for the best. There are some things even god shouldn’t see. Sometimes, when everybody is settled in the huts for the night, I lie awake in the darkness and silent tears run down to soak the rough sacking that serves as bedding, weeping for the boy who stepped from the ship in Bombay.

We exist here only to try to survive. After what I’ve seen and done, I think it would be better to die rather than live my life with the images that fill my mind. The life I had is over and can never come back as the man, the boy, who lived it has died. It’s strange. I can actually remember his passing. I remember you coming to comfort him at the last and I can see a million stars dazzling high above the jungle fading to darkness through failing eyes.

So I was born again to this. The smell of rotting flesh and dysentery, of death and desperation. When I came round my wounds had been treated by the Jap field doctors. Without them I would have died as in a camp there is no medicine and no compassion from the guards. We live our lives waiting. Waiting to see what, if any, food arrives. Waiting for the next concert or reading that we have seen or heard a thousand times. Waiting for the next death so we can move to a better bunk or wear better boots. Waiting for our lives to start again.

When I first arrived it was wounds and disease that did for most men. They marched us from camp to camp, with no time to dress injuries that festered in the tropical heat. To this day I’ve no idea why the wound in my shoulder healed quickly and cleanly when that of the man who slept next to me went bad and gave him an agonising death. Now we’re at Rangoon it’s starvation and illness we fear. Flies are so numerous that you can kill four or five with one swat and still they cover your hand before you can lift it. It’s no wonder dysentery is rife, many die as skeletons in skin, while beriberi taunts us with fat, swollen bodies and peaceful resignation. The thing I fear most are the sores. A small scratch can turn into a hole the size of your hand, eating to the bones and oozing a foul green discharge. Men die of them frequently, usually desperate for the release death will bring.

As an officer I’ve presided over more funerals than Reverend Fisher will ever be called on to perform. Bodies sewn into old rice sacks, saluted by their friends and buried in a crammed piece of scrubland, marked only by a brittle cross of bamboo or twigs. I try to remember words from our Sunday Services in Norfolk, but they and god seem so far away. I use the Lord’s Prayer, a mantra I can repeat without having to think about what I’m doing or having to say.

The rations are never enough and I’ve run out of things to trade with the Burmese. The “wage” the Japs pay us for the slave labour they make us do is taken by them to pay for our board and to buy Japanese War Bonds. The few rupees that are left I use to buy myself one egg a week. Our bodies are little more than bones, my teeth are loose and hair falls out in clumps.

What keeps me going and yet terrifies in equal measure is watching the Americans over Rangoon most nights. I hope the bombing means that the war is finally drawing to a close. But I lie awake petrified that after all we’ve endured I’m to be killed by a trigger-happy Yank at the very end of it all. Two downed airmen were brought in last week, with terrible burns and wounds seething with maggots where they’d been locked up in this heat without treatment. They died badly but bravely, but gave us hope with what they told us of the war.

One day Father, I hope to sit with you in those deep, leather chairs in your study, whiskeys in hands, staring in companionable silence into the glowing embers of the fire. I understand at last. We’ll never need to speak about our experiences but I think it will bring comfort to us both.

I’ve written several letters that have been entrusted to those I think strongest and the most reliable. Should I escape through death, I want you to know that I loved you both dearly. I don’t have the strength to pray anymore, but my thoughts are always and always will be, with you both, Kim and Mary.

Your loving son,

Philip