Sacred Mountain (8 page)

The enemy seemed to have stopped directly opposite their hiding place. Philip forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, his mind alert. Had they left something down by the water? Perhaps some of the men had been down by the stream had left a sign. A footprint, a wet patch on a rock?

He strained his eyes, cursing the thick foliage for blocking his view while thankful for its cover. He just wanted to know what was happening. A new sound came, the regular slash of a machete cutting into the jungle, coming towards them. If they reached the place they’d been sitting they might realise they’d been there. He heard voices again, and then laughter. The sound of machetes stopped, replaced by one voice speaking clearly. A buzz of static filled the air, followed by the voice again. They were radioing in.

The call lasted no more than a minute, and when it finished the voices started again. They seemed to be resting, perhaps drinking before moving on. The jungle had gone quiet. He could hear water sloshing in bottles as they drank from their canteens. The rustle of paper as food was unwrapped. A belch was greeted with groans and laughter.

Philip’s nostrils flared as the odour of the Japanese reached him. It was a pungent, heavy smell of humans. He’d always wondered how his dogs at home smelt out game from the undergrowth, his own sense of smell seemingly reserved for food and the perfume of beautiful women. Now he knew how they did it. It was the stench of stale humanity, of overcooked rice, concentrated sweat, tobacco and shit. It seemed incredible to him now he’d never noticed it before as it seemed so powerful. He could detect the smell of cigarette smoke from hundreds of yards and for hours after it was extinguished. Even before they’d run out of supplies he’d been tempted to ban them. Thank Goodness the Japs were smoking and eating. God knows what they smelt like after all these weeks in the jungle.

He tensed as he heard foliage being disturbed, the sharp snapping of stalks and rustling of leaves. A man burst into view, no more than ten yards away. Philip help his breath, finger tight around his pistol trigger. It was a Japanese soldier.

The man was smaller than one of his Gurkhas, perhaps just over 5 ft tall. Philip’s first thought was how fat he looked, before realising that he’d got used to living with half-starved men. Apart from large sweat stains under his arms the man looked spotless. No rips or tears in the uniform, no bites or sores on him. He’d taken his pack off but had his rifle slung over his shoulder. His head and neck were protected by the standard Jap jungle hat which had a protective cloth hanging down to his shoulders. He had a half-smoked cigarette clamped in his mouth and after fumbling with his fly he started to relieve himself.

He was looking directly at Philip. Philips heart was beating so loud he felt sure the man must hear it, certainly must see him. He waited for realisation to spread over the soldiers face, but he just stood staring at him. Occasionally he lifted his head up, tilting it to the side, until he finished and turned away with a satisfied grunt. He took the cigarette from his mouth and rubbed his eyes, smarting from the smoke, before turning and vanishing back into the jungle.

Chapter 6

Nepal, 1953

Philip sat on a hard wooden bench, leaning back against a wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. His whole body ached after the exertions of the day and he rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the headache that throbbed gently behind them and clear the smoke that was making them ache. They had, he knew, climbed up too quickly, and his body hadn’t had time to acclimatize to the increase in altitude. He took a sip of the drink he’d been given, a type of local beer made from fermented millet and hot water. It tasted bitter and initially had been rather unpleasant but now, half way through his second mug, he was starting to feel its affect as the weak alcohol warmed him and dulled the aching.

In front of him was a cooking fire, logs pushed into the embers just far enough to generate a flame without wasting wood. Hanging above it, on a rickety wooden tripod, was a large iron pot from which steam rose. The light from the fire was supplemented by two lamps that gave the small room a cosy feel. It was certainly warm, a welcome sensation after days of camping, as the fireplace had no chimney, the smoke slowly filtering through the stone roof and leaving much of its heat behind.

He’d been led through the narrow streets by Mingma and on their arrival at a squat, stone house he’d been welcomed with great ceremony by the Sherpa’s family. Mingma’s father was dead and it was his mother who ran the household; a small, squat lady with whom, Philip decided, it would be best to keep on the right side of. Two of her sons lived with her, responsible for the family’s animals and fields, and their wives and children seemed to fill the house to capacity.

“What do they grow?” Philip asked, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his feet. “It seems so barren up here I can’t believe that anything would survive.”

“Potatoes”, Mingma had replied proudly. “Life was very hard before, but somebody brought potatoes here that had been taken to India by the British. They grow very well.”

Philip looked around. “You must have plenty of land to feed all these mouths,” he said, giving up counting the endless number of children who stared at him with a mixture of fascination and fear.

“There is not enough,” Mingma said, shaking his head. “My mother runs this house as a lodge. The porters and traders who come to trade with the Tibetans stay here while they are bartering their goods in the bazaar. She is famous for her cooking and is usually full.” He pointed towards a small door at the far end of the room. “Later we will go through as we will be sleeping there too.”

Philip looked up as one of the brothers wives came up to refill his empty mug. He smiled and nodded his thanks. He looked at Mingma.

“Have they heard any news of the expedition?” he asked. “I’m sure the Sherpa’s who work for it must pass through occasionally.”

Mingma nodded. “One of them is here now, a cousin of mine. He was allowed back for the night as his wife has just had a baby. The preparations are going well. Everybody is safely at Thangboche and some of the climbers have gone up to the ice flow to get fit and look for possible routes.”

“I don’t suppose he’s seen any western journalists wandering around has he?” Philip asked hopefully.

Mingma shook his head and drained his drink. “No one. He said nobody has visited the expedition other than James.”

They fell quiet as Mingma’s mother served them bowls of small boiled potatoes, tossed in some kind of wilted green leaves, chilli flakes and butter. His mug was topped up yet again with fresh chang, and as he ate he watched as one of the younger women carefully poured more boiling water and millet into a large wooden churn and started making the next batch.

Mingma took his mug and downed it in one, smacking his lips when he’d finished and holding it out to be refilled. “Nobody makes Chang like my sister-in-law,” he pronounced, smiling happily at her.

They ate in silence, Philip only realising how hungry he was as he chewed his first mouthful. Within minutes his bowl was empty and he was gratefully accepting more. After some dried fruit the meal was over.

“I’ll take you through to where we will sleep,” Mingma offered, hauling himself to his feet. “We have an early start tomorrow.

Philip thanked Mingma’s mother and followed the young Sherpa through the roughly made door. They entered a large room that looked as though it occupied the rest of the building. At the far end there were bunks, rough wooden platforms three tiers high that comprised the sleeping accommodation. Already it looked full. The porters who carried the enormous loads into the mountains would need to be up before first light to tout for a load to bring down to the lowlands.

Elsewhere a few latecomers sat in the dark gloom eating their evening meals. The food was included with the accommodation, but the millet beer or fiery spirit made from potato peelings was extra. Glancing around Phillip realised with an inward groan that there were going to be a few drunken snorers later that night.

Mingma initially insisted on sitting with him by a small low fire in the corner of the room but eventually Philip managed to get him to go and spend time with his family. It had, he’d finally got him to admit, been nearly a year since his last trip home. He was content sitting in silence, letting his mind gently wander as his body warmed up and relaxed.

He jerked up and realised that he’d been starting to doze. He’d dreamt he’d heard his name. He was just settling down again when it came again.

“Lieutenant Armitage?”

It was strange, he was sure he was awake but he couldn’t be. Nobody had called him that for years. He glanced round and saw a face, indistinct in the gloom. It seemed familiar so he turned to face it and leant forward, trying to make it out more of its features. The face moved towards him and became clearer as it moved into the light of the fire.

Philip froze. He must still be asleep. Memories flooded his head that had been locked away years before. It was impossible, he felt his body trembling, his headache starting to pound again. This man was dead.

The man spoke again, this time with certainty in its voice, mixed with incredulity. “Lieutenant, sahib! It is you. I thought it was when you entered but couldn’t believe it. After all this time and why would you be here? It seemed impossible that it could be!”

Philip gasped a breath, his mind dizzy. “Prem? Corporal Prem?” He stood up shakily, keeping one hand against the wall to keep himself steady. “How the hell did you get here?”

The small Nepali quickly snatched his hat off his head and stretching himself up snapped into a smart salute. Before Philip could tell him to stop he was bowing with his hands together. Straightening up, he was smiling, his face glowing with joy.

“I’m working, sir,” he laughed. “I live in the lowlands in a small town called Okhaldhunga. We come up here to trade with the Tibetans. We are all still together. After we left the army we returned to our homes but didn’t want to settle back onto the land. Trading was the only way we could earn money.” He shrugged. “With our profits and the army pensions we live well.”

“We?” Philip queried. “Who else is here?”

Prem laughed again. “There are ten of us in total, all from the old platoon. Look,” he said, indicating towards the bunk beds. “They are all here.”

Philip looked over and saw a group of shadowy shapes get to their feet. Several saluted him. He smiled and raised his hand weakly, overwhelmed by the appearance of so many familiar faces from so long ago.

“Why are you in Nepal?” Prem asked. “I am guessing it is something to do with the British climbers on Everest?”

Philip nodded, relieved to be able to talk about something else. “That’s right,” he replied, “although I work for a newspaper,
The
Times
in London. I’m reporting on it rather than doing any of the climbing.” He smiled weakly. “At the moment I’m chasing about after another Englishman from a rival paper who we think has got a radio. Bit silly really.”

The other men had come over and one by one Philip greeted them. It was like a dream, perhaps induced by all the alcohol, but the hands he shook were real. Faces he’d long shut from his mind stood before him, glowing in the weak light of the fire. The warmth of their greeting made him giddy, their joy at meeting him palpable and he struggled to cope with their undisguised happiness. He felt it but fought the emotion down, scared that it would overcome him. After all these years of not knowing, it was too much.

He turned to Prem, trying to anchor his mind in the present. “So what is it you trade with the Tibetans?” he asked in as steady a voice as he could manage.

“We bring tea and rice with us which are grown around our town. We trade them for salt that they bring from the plateau and also their thick wool. We can sell this back in the lowlands for a good profit, although the Tibetans are hard barterers.”

“When did you leave the army?” Philip asked, so many questions forming in his mind. “Straight after the war?”

Prem shook his head. “No. We stayed until the regiment was transferred to the Indian Army when there was Independence. After our time together the platoon was rebuilt but it was never the same. We decided it was time to spend more time with our wives and children, to build a life here before we were either too old or were killed.”

Philip smiled weakly. “You have a wife?”

Prem nodded. “And three sons,” he added proudly. “Life has been good to me since my return.”

A silence fell, Philip conscious that the Nepali wanted to know about his life but was perhaps too polite to ask. He couldn’t bring himself to reply and a silence fell, so one by one the men said goodnight and returned to their sleeping places. Soon only Prem was left and he too raised his hands together in a parting gesture.

“I’ve often prayed to see you again. During the last Sakela festival I gave offerings for you for allowing my life to continue.” Slowly he reached out his hand and placed it on Philips arm. “We often wondered what happened. We would talk around camp fires during the war and our hearths when back home. We never stopped hoping.”

“Christ, Prem, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.” He rubbed his face with his free hand, and cleared his throat. “I, I never knew what happened, whether...whether you made it back or not. I’m so pleased that you did.” He stopped, unable to find any more words.

“It’s an honour to see you again sir,” Prem said quietly. “I hope you are happy.”

Philip took the hand into a handshake, trying hard to keep it steady. “Thank you, corporal,” he replied, trying to think what to say. “I’d no idea I was travelling so near to your homes. I hope you have a successful trip.” He turned quickly and sat down on the bench, trying to hide his tears. He held his hands to the flames, but quickly clasped them together when he saw them trembling. He closed his eyes, head hanging down when he felt a hand laid gently upon his shoulder and a voice whispering in his ear.

“You did the right thing sir,” Prem said, so quietly it was hardly audible over the hiss of the lamps. “There was no other choice. We lived because of it. Balbir Rai has five children now because of you and we thank you for it.”

Philip closed his eyes, the memories flooding back, panic welling up and forcing him to take deep breaths. When he opened them again Prem had returned to the shadows and he was alone, the whole episode like a dream. He stood and walked unsteadily to the door, needing to be alone. Outside the air was cold and crisp, clearing his head as he breathed long, slow breaths. He walked to a small terrace and undid his fly, staring out across the valley as he relieved himself into a drainage gutter. In the freezing air he felt calmer, the shock of the meeting numbing.

When he’d finished he walked to a huge boulder that lay half embedded in the edge of a terrace and leant back against it, staring up at the stars. He didn’t remember any stars, mainly he guessed because they were hidden by the jungle canopy for so much of the time. The moon always reminded him of his men but the stars, no.

It had been over ten years since he’d last seen Prem and the others. He’d thought they’d died. Ten years of believing that their deaths were down to him. Tears ran silently down his cheeks. A sob racked his body which he tried to stifle by hugging himself tightly with his arms, squeezing it inside himself. He sank down the boulder until he was sitting on the ground and silently let the tears flow out of him. He’d never dared to ask when he’d got back and he’d been discharged so quickly. All ten of them. He covered his face with his hands and wept.

*

When Philip woke next morning it was still early. Mingma’s mother was making up the fire, using dried dung that Mingma was stacking by the hearth and the first hint of dawn was shining through the cracks in the rough wooden shutters. He sat up, his body stiff after the exertions of the previous day and a night sleeping on the stone floor cushioned only by thick woollen blankets and oily sheep skins. Glancing over at the bunks on the far side of the room he saw that Prem and the other ex-soldiers had gone. Mingma followed his gaze.

“They left a few minutes ago,” he said. “They wanted to get to the bazaar at first light to do their business.”

Philip nodded. Now he’d recovered from the initial shock, there were so many questions he wanted to ask.