Authors: Robert Ferguson
“The monk was telling the truth then. The Rinpoche was with them?” Philip cut in impatiently, looking at the Sherpani.
She nodded slowly, appearing to be translating in her head what she wanted to say next. “He was. It had been decided in Lhasa that he must go to the United Nations and ask for help against the Chinese. The Dalai Lama and the other Tibetan leaders are watched constantly and kept prisoner in their homes. The Rinpoche was allowed to travel to Shigatze for his father’s funeral and his escape was planned. With the help of the Head Lhama and monks from the monastery there he managed to slip away and cross to Thangboche.” She stopped and looked into the embers. “There have been reports that the monastery at Shigatze has been destroyed by the Chinese when they found out, with monks lying dead in the streets.”
She sipped her tea. “They were very tired when they arrived at the monastery as they had been travelling very fast. That is why they rested for a day. They believed they had escaped and were safe. The story of the sacred book was a way to explain their journey without making people suspicious.”
Mingma pulled the blood-stained hat out of his pocket and held it up in the firelight. “I showed them this. They recognised it immediately as several of the monks went to Lhasa to visit the Jokung Temple last year. It’s definitely Red Army.”
“Did the abbot know where they’d crossed the border when they came?” Philip asked, taking the hat. “If they were being tracked then you’d expect the Chinese to return by the same route.”
Lhamu nodded. “They crossed the Nangpa la. It’s a high pass through the Himalaya that is used by Tibetan traders. There are no checkpoints or police there. It is so high that it’s impossible for most people to climb over it. Only the hardiest will do so.” She looked at Philip. “This is where the Chinese lost them. After crossing the pass the monks took a short cut to Thangboche over a smaller pass. The Chinese missed this and went straight down the valley towards Namche. They must have realised their mistake and turned back, waiting by the river to ambush them as they came down the other valley.” She sat up straight. “That is why I’ve come. I travelled over the Nangpa la on several trading trips with my father so I know the route. I will help guide the rescue.”
Philip looked at her and shook his head. “That’s far too dangerous,” he said. “These soldiers are cold blooded killers. They wouldn’t think twice about shooting you or the Nepalese police. I can’t let you take such a risk. I’d never forgive myself if something happened.”
Lhamu stared at him, narrowing her eyes in annoyance. “Luckily for you it is not your choice. The Head Llama at Thangboche has blessed me for this trip and it is my duty. You need not worry. It is not your responsibility so you have no blame to take if things go badly.”
“It’s irrelevant anyway,” Philip replied, looking away from her glare. “The police won’t believe us without proof and they won’t check the story until tomorrow. By then the Chinese will have all but escaped and there won’t been the need for a guide.
Lhamu stood up and reached inside her apron, pulling out the abbot’s ring. She held it up and took the soldiers cap from Mingma. “In which case, I had better take these along to the police now. Perhaps with them I will be able to convince them.” She turned towards the door but before she could move was stopped by a voice.
“Let me take them.” It was Tashi, who’d be quietly sitting in the corner of the room, drinking chang. He stubbed out a beedi. “After my brown-nosing this afternoon I seem to now be on good terms with the commissioner. Perhaps with these items I can get him to act or at least send for reinforcements. That way you can eat your food while it’s still hot. ” He smiled. “If necessary I’ll come and fetch you if he wants to hear your evidence.”
There was a pause as Lhamu studied him suspiciously, before glancing quizzically across at Philip as if not exactly sure what the Indian had said.
Philip nodded. “Good idea. Tashi was there this afternoon with me. Give them to him and he can go. You rest and eat after your walk.”
Lhamu gave the two items to Tashi, who drained his cup and strode out into the night.
They all ate hungrily, Philip gratefully accepting a second helping. A bowl of boiled potatoes was put in front of them, together with a small plate of salt, for them to take, as well as some dried fruit. They chatted as they ate. The monks had returned to the river with Mingma as soon as they’d been told what had happened and gathered the bodies. Each had been sewn into a heavy cloth that was then tied to a long pole. As he and Lhamu had started the climb to Namche, the column of monks started carrying their burden in the opposite direction, the mournful sound of ritual chanting echoing through the valley.
They’d just finishing their meal when the door opened and looking up Philip saw Prem and the Gurkhas enter. He stood and beckoned them over to warm themselves by the fire. Soon they too were seated, eating the meal and drinking greasy butter tea.
In between large mouthfuls Prem told them what they’d discovered. “As soon as we arrived at Syanboche we could tell something was wrong. There was nobody about. Everybody was shut up in their houses.” He nodded towards one of the other men who Philip recognised as Lal, one of his old lance corporals. “Fortunately Lal has done business there with one of the local traders so we went to his house.” He shook his head. “It took several minutes before he would even let us in.”
He looked at Philip. “You are right. The soldiers were there. They must have passed at night when they went through the first time. The dogs barked but the villagers assumed it was a bear or yeti. But they returned today, travelling fast. They pointed their guns at the children and told everybody to go into their houses and stay there until dark.”
“Did they say how many there were?” Philip asked, his face grim.
“He thought around twenty, but was not sure. Other people we saw later said more.” Prem put his bowl down on the floor. “But they did agree that they had a prisoner with them, a young monk whose face was swollen and bloody. His hands were tied in front of him and he was being pulled along by a rope tied to his belt.”
There was silence.
“Did the villagers see which direction they were going?” asked Lhamu, gazing at the ex- soldier intently.
Prem nodded. “They were heading west. We left the village and made our way to Khunde village where we discovered the same thing. Here the soldiers had stolen chickens and rice.” He looked down. “We also found the body of an old man who’d been shot trying to stop them. They are heading to the Nangpa La.”
“What time did they go through Khunde?” Philip asked.
“The villagers said it was early afternoon,” Prem replied. “By now they will be approaching the Nangpa Glacier. They will follow this up to the pass and into Tibet.”
A silence fell, everybody lost in their thoughts. The room was warm, everybody was full after their meal but there was a tension that kept them alert.
“When do we move out?” a voice said. Glancing up the dark room Philip made out the squat, thick-set outline of Balbir looking at him expectantly. He’d been little more than a boy when he’d served in Burma and still looked fresh faced now.
Philip looked around the faces of his old platoon. They all stared back at him and he recognised a determination that had helped them survive before. He tried to breathe calmly. He’d sworn never to take responsibility for people’s lives again. He looked at Lhamu, her eyes locked onto his, hope gleaming from them.
He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, wanting his voice to sound strong. “This isn’t our fight,” he said looking round the men. “You’re no longer in the army. I’m no longer your officer.”
There was murmuring amongst the men and Prem shook his head. “We will always be Gurkhas.” He looked around at the others, several of whom were nodding to urge him on. “There was a reason we survived and a reason why you came back with us. We cannot escape our destiny. We live with Sherpas, we trade with Tibetans. They are our friends, and we will help them now.”
He turned and spoke to one of the men called Lalit. “We’ll need shelter for the high mountains. See if you can find something.”
Lalit stood up but before he could leave Mingma spoke. “We have shelter.” He looked at Philip. “Old Gompu has arrived with your equipment. If we take the Mess tent we can all sleep in it. It will be warmer all together. We can split it between us to keep down the weight each of us has to carry.”
Philip looked around, realising the decision had been made. “But we have no supplies. And what are we going to fight them with? Snow balls?”
A discussion started amongst the men, ending with Lalit and a young Gurkha called Giri hurrying out of the door. Giri, Philip remembered, had always been the best shot in the platoon.
“They will find some,” said Prem calmly. “And we still all have these,” he added, drawing his khukri from its battered wooden scabbard.
Philip leant back against the wall, resignation washing through him. He looked at Lhamu and smiled weakly. “I suppose you still want to come?”
She looked back at him, her face serious. “I have always felt envious of my father for the adventures he had when he was young. Distant places, strange peoples, excitement.” She looked back at him. “Now it is my turn.”
“Once we head off from Namche we’ll be all on our own,” Philip said in a firm voice. “We can hope that the Nepalese police, maybe even their army, come to help when they’ve finally worked out what’s happened but there’s no guarantee.” He glanced around all the faces in the room. “We could be ambushed or stuck in a storm with no way of calling for help.”
He stopped as he heard someone chuckling and looking up saw Prem beaming back at him.
“That’s not strictly true,” said the Gurkha. “There was something else I hadn’t got round to telling you. We found something else at Khunde. It was the camp site of the Englishman you spoke about. From the newspaper that is not yours.”
Philip felt his body tense. “Christ! Izzard. Was he OK?”
Prem nodded and gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “He was fine. He was locked in the house of the village headman for safety. So we took the opportunity to look in his tents and Parul found something of use.” The corporal said something in Nepalese and a stocky man Philip remembered having been his Radio Operator stood up and disappeared across to the bunks. After a few seconds he returned with a radio set.
Philip stared open mouthed.
“So you see,” continued Prem happily, “we do have communications and at the same time your Englishman has none.”
Chapter 11
Burma, 1943
He pointed at the tattered map that lay unfolded on a moss-covered log. “The village is about 400 yards ahead. You can see the river bed through the trees over there.” He pointed to a small gap in the foliage through which white boulders, bathed in sunlight, could be seen. “It’s to the north, on the western bank.” He looked around the drawn faces, smeared with grime and streaked with sweat. “Corporal Prem, take two men and the burrif and approach the village. If it looks clear, go in and find the headman. Send a man back for us.”
The corporal nodded.
“The rest of you, at ease. No fires though. That’s all.”
They moved off, slumping down where they could find space, too tired even to remove their packs. Philip wearily pulled out his groundsheet and after dropping it still folded to the ground collapsed on top of it. He leant against the log, his head resting back on it and closed his eyes. He didn’t know whether he was more hungry or more tired. Christ, he hoped this village would sell them something.
They’d been lucky at the start of the expedition. The Burmese had been happy to see British soldiers, and they’d often been given the food they required. Recently it had been a different story. The villagers were scared. The Japanese checked on them frequently, staying in their villages and threatening them with execution should they help the enemy. For three weeks they’d got nothing, the burrifs returning empty-handed each time, despite silver rupee coins and parachute silk being offered in payment. With the failure of the supply drops and no way to arrange any more they were on the verge of exhausting their supplies. They were starving anyway. Philip reached inside his shirt to examine a painful bite on his side and felt his fingers running up and down his protruding ribs.
The bite was from a large bull leech that had attached itself to his side. Bloated to the size of a large, ripe plum, he took out a match and carefully burnt it until it released its grip. The last thing he wanted was to rip it out and leave its jaws still attached to him, as they’d fester and quickly become an infected sore. Could have been worse he thought to himself grimly. Earlier in the expedition one of the other junior officers, now dead, had found one attached to his testicles.
He dozed, the ache of his constricted stomach no match for the exhaustion of his body. It was Christmas. In front of him as a table covered in a starched linen table cloth, silver cutlery and bone china. A goose was being carved, he couldn’t see by whom as his eyes were transfixed by the slices of succulent meat falling before the knife. The smell flooded his senses and looking down he saw his plate was piled with thick wedges of meat, drowned in rich, dark gravy. He knew it was bad manners but he reached out to grab his fork but it vanished as his fingers closed on it. He didn’t care, he shoved his hand into his plate but the food had gone.
He woke confused, ripped back to the present. Gunfire. His mind cleared instantly. It was rifle fire, no more than seven or eight rounds. All around his men were alert, crouching, staring outwards into the surrounding jungle with raised rifles.
Philip called over his shoulder as he peered towards the river. “Is the corporal back?”
“No sir,” the nearest Gurkha replied, coming to kneeling beside him.
Philip rubbed his eyes, trying to get the last of the sleep out of them. Damn it. There must’ve been enemy in the village. He tried to think, attempting to shake food from his mind. After the river crossing the previous day they’d pushed on hard to get away from the river. All day they’d had no contact with the enemy and Philip’s hopes had slowly grown as the day had worn on that the burning boat had drifted far enough downstream to confuse the Japs as to their exact crossing point.
As dusk had fallen they’d stopped. The men had been exhausted. He’d ordered them to light fires and boil water so they could drink and clean each other’s wounds and injuries. He’d also let them cook the strips of mule meat they’d taken earlier. Better, he thought, to eat it while it was fresh than have it go rancid in the stifling heat and humidity. The smell of roasting meat would carry a long way but he’d just have to risk it. The men needed something or he thought they’d might just lie down on the dead leaves of the jungle floor and sleep. God knows he wanted to. With some mule meat inside them, accompanied by hot tea with some of the remaining milk powder and sugar, their spirits had risen. The mule meat had been a revelation, quite tasty when roasted rather than boiled. Philip suspected that this judgement may have been influenced by the fact that he was starving, but he certainly preferred it to boiled python and the unpalatable bull frog.
They’d bivvied on a small knoll in the middle of a large area of jungle bog. The security it offered meant Philip took the risk of setting only one sentry at a time, allowing everybody to get a decent rest. He’d spent the evening delousing his clothes with the help of burning twigs from the fire and the blade of his knife, which he’d scraped down the seams. Every time the flame hissed and spat as it incinerated one he’d chuckled to himself happily. When he pulled his shirt back on it felt like new; dry, crisp and much less itchy. That morning they’d moved on to their current position, near a large but remote village in the hope they’d have food to sell. He’d looked at his maps, piecing together what remained of some of the sheets that had been packed away and damp for weeks. Another eight days he reckoned, given no enemy encounters, until the Chindwin River and home. Given the state of the men it was probably nearer ten, especially as they were going to have to scavenge for food as they went. He scratched idly at a weeping scab on his neck, wincing as he accidentally pushed the clasp of his small St. Christopher into the raw flesh. In a burst of anger he ripped it from his neck, throwing it down on the maps.
“Bloody thing,” he spat out, not caring who heard. “At least a fruit cake would have been useful.”
Philip checked his watch, a present from his sister on his eighteenth birthday and still working beautifully after all it’d been through. It was late afternoon, a couple of hours until sunset. After being caught by the Japanese the previous day he didn’t want to be attacked in daylight again. He tried not to think about what the Japanese would be doing to his men if they’d been captured.
“We’ll move a few hundred yards back into the jungle and wait until dusk,” he ordered. “Then we’ll move in on the village.”
He gathered together his gear and led the remnants of his platoon back into the thick undergrowth. He couldn’t settle but sat fidgeting with his compass, checking and rechecking the bearings of their next march. When and if the moment came, he wanted to be able to get away quickly. They’d been give strict instructions when they’d received the order to return to India to avoid all engagements with the Japanese. Yet here he was, preparing to attack a village where he knew the enemy were. Sod it. His men were there. Surely that order wasn’t meant to include situations like this? Anyway, he thought grimly, if they succeed no one will care, if they fail, no one would know.
He tried to calm himself, leaning back against a teak trunk and closing his eyes. Taking deep breaths, he imagined he was being called through into the treatment room, the chiropodist removing his boots and gently massaging his feet with ointments and creams. They felt great, the skin clean and unmarked, no blisters, sores or rotting flesh to be seen or smelt. He sighed. His first stop on leave was there. Not a pub, not a restaurant but there. As the light began to fade he stood up and stretched, popping his last acid drop into his mouth. Its sour taste made him wince and sharpened his mind. It was time to go.
He led the men to the riverbed, turning north when he reached it but staying concealed in the forest. They got to a bend and Philip indicated for the men to remain there while he crept forward. A small paddy field appeared on the far bank, then others climbing back up the shallow slope of the valley where the jungle had been hacked back. Soon he was back.
“Leave your packs. We’ll move quicker and quieter without them. Take guns, ammo and grenades.”
The packs were piled behind the stump of a rotten tree and a couple of the men cut some large leaves with their khukri to cover them with. When they’d finished, Philip got them together.
“We’ll move together until we reach the edge of the village.” He said, looking around the faces of the seven remaining men. “Then we’ll fan out to offer a range of fire should we need to open up. Tarun and Giri,” he nodded at two of the men, “stay with me. You’re good with your knives and I suspect they’ll be needed. Chances are there are going to be more Japs than us so we’ll need to use surprise, hit them quick and then get out again. I want the rest of you to cover our escape. Is that understood?”
The men nodded.
“Good. Best of luck everybody. If you get separated from the rest then rendezvous back here.”
He turned and set off across the riverbed, the men falling in behind. It wasn’t far, perhaps thirty yards, with only a small stream flowing down it, but to Philip it seemed to take a lifetime to cross. He kept his eyes upstream, looking for any sign of movement, but saw nothing.
Once over he kept by the bank of the river, pausing in a crouch when he arrived at the fields. The crops were high but not tall enough to give cover to a full-grown man. There was no sign of any houses but he decided to stay in the forest as long as possible. By circling to the west, keeping in the scrub that had been thinned by the grazing of the domestic animals, they could move quickly and quietly. They passed behind a small plantation of bananas and Philip fought the temptation to eat a few of the green fruits. Finally he saw the village no more than fifty yards ahead and he dropped down into the grass, gesticulating to the men where he wanted them to go. He was joined by Giri and Tarun and, heads raised just above the grass, lay quietly surveying the village.
There was little sign of life. He counted a total of fifteen huts, each built several feet clear of the ground on stout teak stilts. They were constructed of rough wooden planking and then thatched with a thick layer of dried grass. Chickens scraped at the dusty yard around them and from the dark spaces beneath several of the huts came the grunting of pigs. From the centre of the village rose a temple, a building that resembled a large stone bell about fifteen feet tall, standing on a three- tiered dais of worn bricks. A niche in one side housed the small statue of a deity, daubed with bright orange paint and garlanded with flowers.
Philip’s eyes were drawn to a large discarded rattan mat on the far side of the clearing. It was crumpled, covering something that lay on the ground. He went cold as he made out a scuffed and battered army boot protruding out from one side. He watched as a cockerel strutted over to it and started pecking enthusiastically at its laces.
He focused his mind. If that was one of his men, the others must presumably still be alive or they’d have been dumped outside as well. The silence of dusk was abruptly rent by a scream that echoed through the village clearing. It was followed by muffled laughter that emerged from a large hut near the centre of the clearing, a thin trail of smoke rising through its thatch. As he watched, a figure stood up from the shadows of its veranda. There was a brief flicker of light that subsided to a tiny patch of orange. It was enough. He’d seen the face of a Japanese soldier lighting up a cigarette, presumably to while away the boredom of sentry duty.
He turned to Giri and without speaking pointed towards the sentry, drawing his other finger across his throat. The Gurkha was gone, moving silently through the village. Philip waited, hardly daring to watch. The sentry had descended the ladder – no more than a tall log with foot holes hacked into it – from the veranda and was slowly ambling around the clearing. A smudge of darkness appeared behind him and the speck of orange fell to the dirt. Within seconds Giri was back, wiping his khukri on a large leaf.
As dusk faded, a thin line of light could be seen around the hut door. He couldn’t see any other guards in the shadows. Another scream pierced the evening.
“OK,” whispered Philip. “We’re going in.” He checked his revolver. He advanced cautiously across the clearing, watching carefully where he trod. He could now hear muffled voices, Japanese and the occasional word of heavily accented English. It was unintelligible. He glanced at the two Gurkhas and, satisfied with their positions, slowly climbed the ladder. Every footfall seemed to echo around the village. He reached the door and slowly stooped to look through a tiny gap in the wooden planking.
The hut was lit by a central fire and a hurricane lamp that hung hissing from a rafter. Also hanging from it was Prem. His hands were tied above his head and blood ran down his arms where the rope cut deep into his flesh. His back was raw and lacerated. Philip could see three Japs, one holding a bloody lash that hung from his hand to the floor, two others sitting on a wooden bench drinking from wooden cups. He could see their rifles leaning against the hut wall to their left. He heart was pounding so hard that his hands twitched with every beat. This was their chance. They were off guard and unarmed. He gently took hold of the latch and beckoned the Gurkhas up to his side. After a final glance through the crack he opened the door and stepped in.
The soldier with the lash was the nearest to him but had his back turned. One of the soldiers drinking tea had just turned to refill his cup. The third soldier glanced up at him, his eyes dropping to the strange uniform and revolver which at that moment exploded and sent him flying backwards into the fire. The man with the lash turned but before he could act Philip swung round and fired straight into his face. The back of his head erupted in a plume of blood and brain.