Sacred Mountain

by Robert Ferguson

  Mingma smiled and turned, leading him through the small village. There was only one street; a muddy track lined on either side by small squat houses made of thick, grey stone. Elaborately carved doors and shutters were open, allowing smoke from the cooking fires to escape. Young children stood in the doorways watching them pass, hiding their filthy faces behind the door jambs. Cockerels strutted around, scratching at the mud in search of scraps of food and a skeletal looking dog slunk off down an alley when he saw the young Sherpa approaching. Almost as soon as they’d left the village the trail started to climb, slowly at first as it crossed gently sloping fields. When these were left behind it quickly rose above the river, switching back on itself in a series of hairpins. It was hard going and Philip had to stop frequently to catch his breath. It wasn’t just the climb making him breathless but also the altitude. They were heading north, into the High Himalaya and were quickly gaining height. The thin air left him panting after walking only a few hundred yards. Philip noticed enviously that Mingma hadn’t even broken a sweat, but waited for him patiently at every turn.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead,” Philip said irritably as he recovered from a particularly steep climb. “It’s a good path so I can’t get lost. You can get things organised for our stay tonight in Namche.”

  Mingma reluctantly agreed, torn between the logic of doing so and the possibility of losing Philip. “Keep on the main trail,” he instructed. “I will send back my youngest brother to meet you and bring you to our house.” With that he was gone, disappearing at what appeared to Philip to be a jog.

  Philip looked out over the valley. The river he’d been relaxing beside only a few hours before was now no more than a winding ribbon of churning white far below. Its rushing waters created a distant roar that bounced off the valley walls to give a feeling of vastness.

  He started off up the trail again, walking at a slower speed than the one he’d felt obliged to keep up with the young Sherpa. In this steady rhythm he felt better, mechanically pacing forward and finding less need to stop. His mind was able to wander away from his aching legs and think about what James Morris would be doing. It must have been much harder to do this trek with fit mountaineers snapping at your heels. He also thought about Izzard and what he was going to say when they met. If the truth be known he was rather looking forward to it. After two weeks out it would be good to chat with someone from his own world, even if that person was, in theory, a rival.

  The climb seemed to go on and on, but at least the trail was well graded and much of the climb was in shade. After a couple of hours, during which time he’d only had to stop twice for a drink, he saw a small boy of about eight skipping towards him down the trail. The boy stopped and greeted him solemnly, two large, apprehensive eyes peeping out from beneath a mop of unkempt hair.

  Philip tried to smile and waved a tired hand towards the boy, who immediately turned and fled back up the trail, stopping whenever he reached a corner, but always keeping as far ahead as possible. The light was going. The sun has set behind the jagged skyline of the western valley several minutes before and the light of dusk now silhouetted the ridge in a warm orange glow. Looking up he could still see the evening sun playing on the summits of the peaks on the opposite side, but it was getting increasingly hard to see where to put his feet on the broken trail.

  The boy had sped off and disappeared into the gloom, but when Philip finally reached the place he’d last seen him and turned the corner he was met by the sight of lamp and firelight. A small town of maybe eighty houses was clustered together in a small natural amphitheatre where two valleys met. As the last rays left the mountain tops and a sea of stars appeared in the thin strip of visible sky, he saw Mingma hurrying towards him, fetched by his young brother, and holding aloft a hissing hurricane lamp.

  Chapter 5

  Burma, 1943

  It wasn’t going to come. Philip glanced around the faces of those nearest to him. Their eyes were intently scanning the small patches of sky that could be seen through the thick canopy, ears straining to hear the faintest drone of aircraft engines. He rubbed his eyes. They ached from fatigue and from staring up into the unaccustomed light for so long; the jungle had got them used to living in a constant twilight. It had been a tough day.

  The burrif had arrived at camp just before first light to report that the villagers had been too scared to help Sergeant Gurung. They’d sent food and drink but wouldn’t take him in. He’d died just after midnight. Then the terrain on their march had been harder than he’d anticipated, the undergrowth so thick in places they’d had to detour to the south. It had rained the whole time, a tropical downpour that sliced through the canopy and meant every branch they touched showered them in water. They were still steaming now as the midday heat sucked the moisture from their still damp clothes.

  Reaching into his bag he pulled out the dog-eared map and studied it, glancing up occasionally at the landscape laid out in front of him. There was the river and the two small hills behind. There was the confluence downstream of the small tributary. They were definitely in the right place. Bloody RAF. He turned as he heard somebody approach, his hand instinctively dropping to the butt of his holstered revolver.

  A Gurkha appeared through the foliage and stopped by Philip. “Message from Corporal Prem, sir,” he said in a clear but accented voice. “Should he light the fires to guide in the pilot?”

  Philip glanced out over the riverbed, hand running through the itchy stubble that covered his chin. He shook his head but before he could say anything caught his breath, ears straining. A faint drone intermittently drifted towards him. The sound of a plane.

  “Yes please, Rifleman,” he replied, relief washing through him. “At the double.”

  The rifleman scurried off, vanishing back into the thick vegetation. He turned and strained his ears again. It was closer, now a constant whine only a couple of valleys away.

  Looking down towards the riverbed he watched two men running from the cover of the forest to crouch beside two small bonfires, one on each side of the confluence. After a few moments of fanning, smoke and some tall fingers of flames licked up into the air and the men darted back into cover, leaving the fires to leap skyward. It never ceased to amaze him how the Gurkhas could get anything to burn so quickly in this sodden jungle, but they were able to boil water and produce a cup of piping tea within minutes of a stop being called.

  Smoke was now climbing into the sky, clearing the tree line and raising straight in the still, dank air. White against the lush green forest, Philip felt sure the pilots would be able to use it to guide themselves in for the drop.

  He turned to listen to the plane again, angling his head to pick up its engine. It seemed to be taking an age to reach them. Normally when they heard engines the Dakotas would almost instantly roar overhead before banking round to return on a drop run. Perhaps they hadn’t seen the smoke and were flying up and down the neighbouring valleys looking for the signal. He listened again at the constant, steady hum.

  “Shit!” Leaping to his feet he put his hands to his mouth. “Extinguish the fires!” he screamed down into the valley.

  Instantly four men ran out, kicking the flames apart and throwing handfuls of silt onto the embers. It was too late. The pall of smoke still hung thick over them as a small spotter plane skimmed over the ridge and flew straight through the cloud. Banking hard to the right, it circled overhead, its pilot starring down onto the riverbed as the soldiers dived for cover. The cockpit glass gleamed in the sun as it made another pass before flying over the ridge on which Philip and his men were standing. As it flashed overhead Philip saw the burning red markings of the Japanese Air force.

  He turned to one of the riflemen. “Tell the corporal to gather his men and return here immediately.”

  The man nodded and ran off down the slope.

  Philip brushed the rotting leaves from his legs, his heart pounding. Glancing up, he saw the men looking at him. “Stand down everybody,” he ordered. “T
here’s not going to be a drop now.”

  Philip could feel the disappointment. Tense bodies sagged, eyes were downcast. It’s was no wonder if they were as hungry as he was. He picked up the map from where it’d fallen. While waiting for the plane he’d marked the compass bearing that would lead them back towards India. Near this route lay a large, isolated village and their only real chance of finding food if he couldn’t organise a new drop. Christ, he hoped there was some life left in the radio batteries. No more than three inches on the map. Perhaps fifteen miles as the crow flies, more like twenty-five through the thick vegetation and skirting mud-sucking swamps. They had, he estimated, half-rations left for another two days.

  He looked up as the rest of the men started returning through the trees. Soon they were all gathered and he turned to face them.

  “We need to move out. That was a Jap plane and they’ll have seen us down here.”

  And he’d just ordered two large fires lit to show them. “There must’ve been a problem with the drop. Most likely the plane got intercepted by fighters, poor sods.” He glanced around the men, looking them hard in the eye. “Which means that the Japs now know exactly where we are so we need to get going.”

  He held up the map and pointed to a place on it. “First we need to put some distance between us and here. There’s a decent sized village a couple of days march away. We’ll head towards there and if it looks clear, we’ll buy food.” He didn’t mention the radio, not wanting to raise hopes.

  The men looked up, some nodded, some smiled, relieved at the prospect of food.

  “Corporal,” Philip continued, looking over at Prem, “form up the men and send out scouts. We’ll leave in two minutes.”

  Philip watched as the men prepared themselves, tying loose kit and water bottles to their battered Everest frames before pulling them onto their backs. He shoved the map back into his bag, checked the bearing once more on his compass and dropped down to the edge of the riverbed. He couldn’t see the scouts but knew they were there, keeping his ears alert for any signal they might give.

  Behind him he could hear nothing but knew he was being followed by the men. It was unbelievable how quietly the Gurkhas moved over rough terrain, a legacy of childhoods spent living in the Himalayan foothills. The river course swung westwards and he continued due north, plunging into the thick undergrowth. Without needing to say anything two soldiers walked past him and started wielding their khukris to clear a path.

  Bloody idiot, he thought to himself. Rule one of air supply. Identify aircraft before giving any ground signals. If he hadn’t lit those fires so early there was no way they’d have been spotted. Now they’d have the whole bloody Japanese garrison chasing after them. He shuddered, despite the heat. He was uneasy. They’d been too lucky over the last few weeks. Three times they’d blown up rail tracks and each time had managed to slip away before the Japanese could reach them. This time felt different. The Japanese knew they were trying to get back to India and therefore which way they were heading. They’d be able to set an ambush and simply wait for them to walk into it.

  Two more soldiers took over the trail blazing, their relieved comrades dropping back dripping in sweat. Progress seemed painfully slow, the jungle itself hindering them. In the gloom of the forest it was impossible to keep track of time. For several hours Philip kept them moving, carefully checking the bearing every few minutes before they finally crossed over a wide, rolling ridge and started slowly dropping out of the hills.

  At last he held up his hand and gave the fall-out signal. He could hear it ripple down the line, groans of exhaustion as men dropped their loads to the ground and collapsed beside them. He wanted to do the same but waited until Prem had appeared beside him.

  “We’ll rest for thirty minutes. Tell the men to eat but no fires.” He mopped sweat from his face, his forehead stinging as the dried salt on his handkerchief rubbed against the open pores. “I want to push on for another couple of hours while there’s still light, to get more distance between us and the drop site.” He swatted a mosquito biting the back of his neck. “We’ll be reaching the Mu River soon. I want to get across as soon as we can as it’s the obvious ambush point.”

  The corporal nodded and head off to tell the men.

  Philip sat on a moss covered boulder. It lay at the base of a small cliff that made up one side of the small valley they were now following down towards the river. Dropping his pack to the ground he took out a packet of hard biscuits and took a bite, chewing unenthusiastically, his mouth clogging with the dry crumbs as they stripped his mouth of what little moisture it contained. He reached for his mug and after crumbling two biscuits inside it, added some tepid water from his bottle and a few small pieces of dried fruit. After stirring it for a few moments he swallowed it down without chewing.

  He watched as some of the men opened tins of meat and carefully divided each can between two. He was pleased to see they’d learnt their lesson. Initially when put on half-rations they’d eaten half a tin and saved the rest for the next day. In the tropical heat the tinned mutton had gone bad and incapacitated half the platoon. This was not the time or place for a recurrence.

  Philip settled down, taking out his penknife to work at a painful splinter he’d picked up in the ball of his thumb. Already it looked red and angry and he didn’t want it to infect his hand. He heard footsteps and looking up saw one of the sentries running towards him.

  “Enemy, Sir,” the soldier reported. “Coming this way, about half a mile away.”

  Philip nodded, closing his knife and slipping it into his pocket. “How many?”

  “About twenty,” the man replied, “maybe one or two more. They are following the small stream that runs past about thirty yards to our south.”

  “How long until they reach us?”

  The soldier thought for a moment. “About twenty minutes.”

  Prem had joined them and was looking at Philip for orders. Philip swallowed a flicker of panic, gripping his mug hard to prevent his hands from shaking.

  “There’s water running in the stream so they won’t have heard us.” He said, thinking aloud. “They’ll have sent patrols up all the tributaries of the Mu, trying to flush us out. If we take them on we’ll we’d give our position away and have the others swarming all over us.”

  He looked at Prem. “Tell the men to move as far from the stream as they can, up against this cliff. I want the mules taken back a few hundred yards and given all the remaining fodder. That should keep them quiet. If they do start braying at least they won’t give away our exact position and it’ll give us the chance to slip away.”

  The men had seen the scouts return and were on edge, ready to move. Philip watched them quickly pack their things away, checking they’d left no trace on the ground before falling back to where he was. They settled themselves behind rocks and fallen trees, lying on the damp jungle floor with their weapons trained towards the stream. A few minutes later Prem returned.

  “The mules are in position,” he reported in a whisper. “They are well hidden and fed.”

  Philip nodded. “Excellent.” He looked out into the undergrowth. “Now we wait.”

  Silence fell. His stomach rumbled angrily and he hoped the food he’d just consumed would stay in long enough that he wouldn’t have to sprint for the bushes. The same went for many of the men, whose bowels had been loose for weeks.

  Looking straight ahead Philip found it possible to believe he was there all on his own. Not a sound could be heard from his men. It was disconcerting and he had to stop himself from glancing sideways to check they were still there. He could hear the sound of running water coming from the stream, a gentle bubbling as it gently flowed over small pebbles. Insects buzzed around him, drawn by the sweat that drenched his head. Mosquitoes whined past his ears and it took all his resolve not to swat at them when they landed and fell silent. All around was a chorus of frogs, mingling with the rhythmic calling of lizards. Some red breasted parakeets landed in the trees
overhead, squawking noisily as they searched for wild berries.

  Philip froze as he saw movement to his right. A small, plump pheasant emerged from the undergrowth and made its way slowly through the forest, scrapping at the leaves on the floor searching for bugs to eat. His mouth started watering, as he guessed had every mouth in the platoon. His mind slipped back home. As a boy he’d often beat for shoots on the Norfolk marshes, thrashing through the undergrowth with a stout beech stick to put up pheasants for the guns. He smiled to himself. He used to complain to his mother that he got scratched by the thickets and brambles in the copses and hedgerows. If he’d only known. The taste of game flooded his mouth, rich, strong meat served in thick, greasy gravy.

  His mind snapped back to the present, his body tensing. He could hear something new. The water in the stream was now making a different noise that was nothing to do with the rhythm of its flow. It was irregular, sometimes abrupt, sometimes gentle. After a few seconds it became clearer, distinct footfalls moving slowly up the channel. They stopped and Philip heard the murmur of voices, indistinct words but recognisable as Japanese.

  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.