The Ascent of Rum Doodle

The Missing Camp

SOMETIMES, EVEN NOW, I awake in the night screaming as I relive in dreams the misery of that wretched night. As soon as the tents were up Constant and I crept into our sleeping-bags and awaited supper. I prepared myself for the ordeal by thinking about Christian martyrs and reminding myself that Rum Doodle would hardly be worth climbing if it were no more than a pleasure trip. But my meditations were interrupted by a prolonged clattering which came from the direction of Pong’s tent. Constant, whose nerve was beginning to go, went out to investigate. He came back trembling, with an ominous tale. Pong was crouched over a large stewpan, from which emerged indescribable odours. The ground in front of the tent was littered with empty food tins, and Constant had ascertained that their contents had been those special delicacies which we had chosen to attract the high-altitude palate. And when it appeared, the loathsome mess confirmed his forebodings. All our choicest titbits had gone into Pong’s awful pot: our luscious breast of chicken, the tinned apricots and cream which we had so often tasted in anticipation, the sardines, the caviar, the lobster, the lovely gruyère cheese, the pickled walnuts, the curry, the salmon, even the coffee and the chocolate biscuits: all these were reduced to a nauseating brew which might have sent Macbeth’s witches shrieking from the place.

The horrors of that meal were but the prelude to a night such as few human beings can have endured. It was, I think, about midnight when I awoke from a nightmare in which I was buried under Rum Doodle, to find Constant lying across my chest snoring heavily and muttering. When I pushed him off he awoke with a cry of terror and hit me on the nose, making my eyes water. I apologized for waking him, and we settled down again. I must have dozed off, for I awoke suddenly under the impression that a prehistoric monster had crept into the tent and was about to do me an injury. I seized the nearest solid object – which happened to be a climbing boot – and hit the monster as hard as I could. It was Constant, of course. I asked had I woken him; and if he said what I thought he said he is not the man I think he is. I decided after careful thought that I must have imagined it, and was just dropping off again when Constant uttered a wild cry and bit me in the ear. I woke him up and suggested that it might be safer to sleep head to foot. After some strange remarks he agreed, and I started to shuffle around in my sleeping-bag. It was breathless work at that altitude. I had to stop three times to rest, and when I finally completed the turn I found that I had lost my pillow on the way. I could not face the thought of searching for it, so I made a boot do instead.

I was almost asleep again when a horrid noise sounded a few inches from my face. Terrified, I struck out instinctively, and found myself grasping, of all things, a mouth. This was quite horrible; I don’t think I shall ever forget the alarm and disgust which it caused me. We found out later that we had both turned round together and were still sleeping head to head. Waking suddenly out of the nightmare caused by the clutch on his mouth, Constant flung himself upon me. Still dazed by sleep and terror I fought back madly, and we were wrestling all over the tent. I was soon exhausted, and had almost given up hope of surviving when Constant stopped suddenly and lay where he was, panting. When we had recovered our breath and wits I apologized again, and we tried to disentangle ourselves. But this was not as easy as one might expect. We were locked in a complicated embrace, half in and half out of our sleeping-bags, with ropes and clothing wrapped around us. It was pitch dark. In the middle of the operation I dropped off to sleep in a sitting position, to wake screaming under the impression that the rope was a snake which was trying to strangle me. I struggled desperately with the rope before I came to my senses, making the tangle ten times worse.

We went to it again, but somehow we could never make each other understand what we were trying to do. Sometimes we would be pulling in opposite directions on the same section of rope; sometimes we would roll over and get our legs entangled; sometimes we would strike out in a bold bid to free an arm, and catch each other in the eye. We were continually out of breath. Every other minute one of us would be seized with cramp or stomach-ache and writhe about, making it all worse than ever. We kept falling asleep and waking terrified after the most hideous nightmares.

Finally, the tent came down on us.

After that we gave it up. We just stayed where we were and waited for daylight.

When it was light enough to see we got our heads out somehow and looked at each other.

‘This can’t go on,’ said Constant.

This, I thought, was very well put. At all costs we must get down to Camp 1.

But first we had to get out of the tent, which was no light matter at 29,000 feet. After a few moments of struggle we were forced to stop to regain our breath. Our hands were freezing; we had to put on gloves, which made the job of disentangling almost impossible. At one point I almost gave up in despair. I lay gasping, with Constant sitting on my head, my arms bound behind me with rope, my legs wrapped in tent and sleeping-bag. For the third time I faced the possibility of defeat. Was the mountain too strong for us, after all?

To make matters worse, Pong came with breakfast.

After a sharp and manly struggle with nausea, Constant sent Pong for So Lo and Lo Too. Soon they were working on us, and at last, after what seemed an eternity, we were free men.

Telling the porters to re-erect the tent we retired to theirs, where we spent some time boiling our boots in order to de-ice them. Pong followed us with breakfast, which was a rehash of yesterday’s left-overs made still more deplorable by burning. We forced ourselves to swallow a few mouthfuls, holding our noses and closing our eyes and telling ourselves that it was for the sake of the expedition. Then we took some stomach tablets and made our plans. They were simple. We must make Camp 1 as quickly as possible and spread the burden of Pong as widely as we could.

We radioed the others and told them to expect us; but we said nothing about Pong, not daring to risk a panic on the mountain. Jungle told me that they would wait for us. Burley, he said, had just become acclimatized but thought that a further day at Camp 1 would consolidate his fitness. The others, too, thought they would benefit from an extra day of rest.

We moved off early. Our wet boots froze immediately; short of a rise in temperature, nothing but an amputation could have separated us from them. We fell all over the place and sometimes went to sleep where we lay. So Lo and Lo Too kept saving our lives; but at last they seemed to get tired of it, for they threw us on top of their loads and carried us for the rest of the day.

At 27,000 feet we cast about once more for Camp 1, and again, in spite of radioed instructions, we failed to find it. In desperation we decided to make for Advanced Base. We reached it in the late afternoon as exhausted as two men could possibly be.

Our first job was to thaw off our boots. This we did by putting our feet in a bucket of melted snow which we then boiled over a pressure stove. Luckily, spare boots were available. We then put a short call through to Camp 1 and went straight to bed, refusing food and drink.

Next day we were somewhat recovered. Under normal circumstances we should have taken a long rest, but since this would mean remaining at Pong’s mercy it was not to be thought of. During the night we had crept into the mess tent and snatched a little food. Fortified by this we were able to deny ourselves breakfast, and we set off for Camp 1 shortly after sunrise. We made no attempt this time to leave Pong behind. He had by now demoralized us completely; even to refuse a meal was an act requiring the combined moral courage of both of us.

We had been somewhat cheered to learn that Shute, Jungle and Wish had already started for Camp 2. Burley, now alone at Camp 1, had unfortunately passed the peak of his acclimatization and had deteriorated during the previous day. He thought it advisable to stay behind and recuperate.

The day’s climb was strenuous but uneventful. Neither Constant nor myself was fit for anything but a dogged trudge behind the porters. Ever since we had been above 20,000 feet I had been expecting the improvement in their disposition which Constant had promised. It never came. To the end they remained obedient and hard-working but completely independent and unapproachable. Constant said he could not understand this, but thought that perhaps they were not Yogistanis at all, but Rudistanis, who were a different kind of people altogether. He said he would look it up in his correspondence-course notes when he got back home.

At 27,000 feet we made our usual search, with the usual result. To this day I am utterly unable to account for our repeated failure to locate Camp 1.

Tired though we were, we had no alternative but to make for Camp 2. It was a pity to leave Burley alone at Camp 1, but I consoled myself with the thought that there would now be five of us to share the burden of Pong. Our combined wits might devise some method of circumventing him.

So it was onwards and upwards again. Using the steps we had cut two days before we mounted quickly, and Camp 2 was reached without further incident.

Constant and I had been miserable for so long that it was almost with surprise that we found happy people at Camp 2. As we drew near, the strains of ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ charmed us like the Hosannas of the Blessed.

We were welcomed with open arms and hearty back-slappings. We were punched and thumped. Our hair was ruffled. We were tripped and sat upon. Snow was put down our necks. Our bootlaces were tied together so that we fell flat on our faces.

I had not seen my comrades so boisterous since the crevasse incident. I wondered what the cause might be.

And then they saw Pong.

I have never seen a mood change so suddenly. The heaviest depression descended upon us like a plague of Egypt. The three who, one short moment before, had been as gay as sandboys, shrank into melancholy like old men. They glowered at each other and snarled maledictions. They wrung their hands and shook their heads continually. They muttered. They slunk into their tents and cowered in the corners, biting their nails and drooling. They cried quietly when no one was looking.

Coming on top of my long ordeal it was too much for me. I crept supperless into my sleeping-bag and sobbed myself to sleep.

I awoke next morning to find Constant sitting up in his sleeping-bag. His face was drawn.

‘They’ve gone!’ he said.

‘You mean?’ I gasped.

He nodded.

‘Tell me,’ I pleaded.

His whole frame quivered with a deep, searing sigh. His mouth opened and a long moan was forced through a tortured throat as he strained to tell the horror of it.

‘Betrayed!’ he groaned.

‘You mean?’ I said.

He nodded.

It was awful.

Gradually, I soothed him; and as the friendly sun mounted in the heavens, warming our little tent, he gathered courage. Once, when the shadow of the prowling Pong fell across the tent roof, he screamed; but soon manhood reasserted itself and he was telling me his story in a voice whose gentleness was infinitely poignant.

Jungle and Wish had crept away before dawn and fled up the mountain. Shute had left soon afterwards on his way back to Camp 1.

For the whole of that day we lay in our sleeping-bags, each facing the crisis in his own way. Towards evening, Constant spoke. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘I go down to Camp 1.’

I nodded. It was inevitable. I turned over and slept.

Next morning I awoke to find him gone. I was not surprised. I was not disappointed. I was hardly even interested. This was the end: the end of high endeavour, the end of comradeship, the end of dreams, the end of life itself. I stood on the brink of an infinite nothingness. Without a sigh, without a backward glance, resignedly, even thankfully, I stepped over the threshold.

Somebody was slapping my face in a most unpleasant manner. An impatient voice was saying: ‘Wake up, Binder, you silly fool!’

I woke, opened my eyes, and looked around me.

I was lying on my back on the snow, in full and blinding daylight. Shute was bending over me.

‘Where am I?’ I said.

‘Where do you think you are?’ he asked.

I considered this for a while.

‘I thought I might be in heaven,’ I said.

He roared with laughter. ‘I say, chaps: Binder thinks he’s in heaven!’

More laughter. I looked around. Wish was there, and Jungle; and, seated on a box beside me, looking very weary, Constant.

And behind them, peering down at me, were several porters, including So Lo, Lo Too and Pong.

Then I saw the tents and began to get my bearings. It was Camp 2. Constant and I had just arrived from Advanced Base for the second time, finding the others in possession. I must have fallen asleep. The rest had been a dream.