Survivor: The Autobiography (12 page)

Yesterday we marched up the depot, Mt Hooper. Cold comfort. Shortage on our allowance all round . . .

Sunday, 11 March
Titus Oates is very near the end, one feels. What we or he will do, God only knows. We discussed the matter after breakfast; he is a brave fine fellow and understands the situation, but he practically asked for advice. Nothing could be said but to urge him to march as long as he could. One satisfactory result to the discussion; I practically ordered Wilson to hand over the means of ending our troubles to us, so that any one of us may know how to do so. Wilson had no choice between doing so and our ransacking the medicine case. We have 30 opium tabloids apiece and he is left with a tube of morphine. So far the tragical side of our story.

The sky was completely overcast when we started this morning. We could see nothing, lost the tracks, and doubtless have been swaying a good deal since – 3.1 miles for the forenoon – terribly heavy dragging – expected it. Know that 6 miles is about the limit of our endurance now, if we get no help from wind or surfaces. We have 7 days’ food and should be about 55 miles from One Ton Camp tonight, 6 x 7 = 42, leaving us 13 miles short of our distance, even if things get no worse. Meanwhile the season rapidly advances . . .

Wednesday, 14 March
No doubt about the going downhill, but everything going wrong for us. Yesterday we woke to a strong northerly wind with temp. –37°. Couldn’t face it, so remained in camp till 2, then did 5¼ miles. Wanted to march later, but party feeling the cold badly as the breeze (N) never took off entirely, and as the sun sank the temp. fell. Long time getting supper in dark.

This morning started with southerly breeze, set sail and passed another cairn at good speed; halfway, however, the wind shifted to W by S or WSW, blew through our wind clothes and into our mits. Poor Wilson horribly cold, could [not] get off ski for some time. Bowers and I practically made camp, and when we got into the tent at last we were all deadly cold. Then temp. now midday down –43° and the wind strong. We
must
go on, but now the making of every camp must be more difficult and dangerous. It must be near the end, but a pretty merciful end. Poor Oates got it again in the foot. I shudder to think what it will be like tomorrow. It is only with greatest pains rest of us keep off frostbites. No idea there could be temperatures like this at this time of year with such winds. Truly awful outside the tent. Must fight it out to the last biscuit, but can’t reduce rations.

Friday, 16 March, or Saturday 17
Lost track of dates, but think the last correct. Tragedy all along the line. At lunch, the day before yesterday, poor Titus Oates said he couldn’t go on; he proposed we should leave him in his sleeping-bag. That we could not do, and we induced him to come on, on the afternoon march. In spite of its awful nature for him he struggled on and we made a few miles. At night he was worse and we knew the end had come.

Should this be found I want these facts recorded. Oates’s last thoughts were of his mother, but immediately before he took pride in thinking that his regiment would be pleased with the bold way in which he met his death. We can testify to his bravery. He has borne intense suffering for weeks without complaint, and to the very last was able and willing to discuss outside subjects. He did not – would not – give up hope till the very end. He was a brave soul. This was the end. He slept through the night before last, hoping not to wake; but he woke in the morning – yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard. He said, ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard and we have not seen him since.

I take this opportunity of saying that we have stuck to our sick companions to the last. In case of Edgar Evans, when absolutely out of food and he lay insensible, the safety of the remainder seemed to demand his abandonment, but Providence mercifully removed him at this critical moment. He died a natural death, and we did not leave him till two hours after his death. We knew that poor Oates was walking to his death, but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a brave man and an English gentleman. We all hope to meet the end with a similar spirit, and assuredly the end is not far.

I can only write at lunch and then only occasionally. The cold is intense, –40° at midday. My companions are unendingly cheerful, but we are all on the verge of serious frostbites, and though we constantly talk of fetching through, I don’t think any one of us believes it in his heart.

We are cold on the march now, and at all times except meals. Yesterday we had to lie up for a blizzard and today we move dreadfully slowly. We are at No. 14 pony camp, only two pony marches from One Ton Depot. We leave here our theodolite, a camera, and Oates’s sleeping-bags. Diaries, etc., and geological specimens carried at Wilson’s special request, will be found with us or on our sledge.

Sunday, 18 March
Today, lunch, we are 21 miles from the depot. Ill fortune presses, but better may come. We have had more wind and drift from ahead yesterday; had to stop marching; wind NW, force 4, temp. –35°. No human being could face it, and we are worn out
nearly
.

My right foot has gone, nearly all the toes – two days ago I was proud possessor of best feet. These are the steps of my downfall. Like an ass I mixed a small spoonful of curry powder with my melted pemmican – it gave me violent indigestion. I lay awake and in pain all night; woke and felt done on the march; foot went and I didn’t know it. A very small measure of neglect and I have a foot which is not pleasant to contemplate. Bowers takes first place in condition, but there is not much to choose after all. The others are still confident of getting through – or pretend to be – I don’t know! We have the last
half
fill of oil in our primus and a very small quantity of spirit – this alone between us and thirst. The wind is fair for the moment, and that is perhaps a fact to help. The mileage would have seemed ridiculously small on our outward journey.

Monday, 19 March
Lunch. We camped with difficulty last night and were dreadfully cold till after our supper of cold pemmican and biscuit and a half a pannikin of cocoa cooked over the spirit. Then, contrary to expectation, we got warm and all slept well. Today we started in the usual dragging manner. Sledge dreadfully heavy. We are 15½ miles from the depot and ought to get there in three days. What progress! We have two days’ food, but barely a day’s fuel. All our feet are getting bad – Wilson’s best, my right foot worse, left all right. There is no chance to nurse one’s feet till we can get hot food into us. Amputation is the least I can hope for now, but will the trouble spread? That is the serious question. The weather doesn’t give us a chance – the wind from N to NW and –40° temp today.

Wednesday, 21 March
Got within 11 miles of depot Monday night; had to lie up all yesterday in severe blizzard. Today forlorn hope, Wilson and Bowers going to depot for fuel.

22 and 23
Blizzard bad as ever – Wilson and Bowers unable to start – tomorrow last chance – no fuel and only one or two [rations] of food left – must be near the end. Have decided it shall be natural – we shall march for the depot with or without our effects and die in our tracks.

Thursday, 29 March
Since the 21st we have had a continuous gale from WSW and SW. We had fuel to make two cups of tea apiece and bare food for two days on the 20th. Every day we have been ready to start for our depot 11
miles
away, but outside the door of the tent it remains a scene of whirling drift. I do not think we can hope for any better things now. We shall stick it out to the end, but we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.

It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

R. S
COT
r

Last entry.

For God’s sake look after our people.

Mountains

After twenty-four hours of uninterrupted march, we spent our first night on the face, freezing but serene. At 3.30 a.m. on the Tuesday dawn broke; a great explosion of fire between the Matterhorn and Monte Rosa announced the sunrise. It seemed incredible but this hour was the coldest of all. We made some more tea, which was to be the last during our adventure. The Frenchmen called to us and proposed that I take the lead. I agreed and an hour later we again set off in this order: Bonatti, Gallieni and Oggioni on the first rope, Kohlman and Mazeaud on the second and Guillaume and Vielle on the third.

We climbed quickly and reached the base of the last pinnacle about noon instead of two o’clock as we had expected. We had noticed mist trailing overhead, but it had not worried us overmuch considering the altitude we had now reached; we hoped to be able to reach the summit before any brewing storm should break. However the storm caught us just as Mazeaud and Kohlman were beginning to climb the last pinnacle. We had only about two hundred and fifty feet of overhanging monolith to climb to complete our climb on the Pillar and to reach the ridge which led to the summit of Mont Blanc.

We all gathered together on the few ledges there were. The snowstorm was now raging furiously; it was thundering and the lightning flashed around us. The air was saturated with electricity and the gusts of wind blew powdered snow into our faces, blinding us. We were at a height of nearly 15,000 feet on the Pillar, the lightning-conductor of Mont Blanc. We three Italians were squatting on a little ledge; the Frenchmen were in two groups. Then, without warning, Kohlman’s face was grazed by a flash of lightning. He was blinded by the flash but Mazeaud with a leap caught hold of him and managed to support him. For some minutes Kohlman was almost paralysed. We looked for the coramine and Mazeaud made him gulp some down. At last the Frenchman recovered and we were able to settle down.

At this moment, with the storm raging, we were as follows: I was on one narrow ledge, with Oggioni and Gallieni; Vielle, Mazeaud and Guillaume were on another ledge beside us while Kohlman was by himself on a third and slightly larger one farther down to give him a chance of stretching out. It was perhaps here that his psychological tragedy began, though we did not know it at the time.

The summit of Mont Blanc was not more than twelve hours’ climb away from us. Beyond the summit, after we had conquered the Pillar, the Vallot hut was waiting, a sure shelter; after that, it was an easy descent to Chamonix. A break in the clouds for half a day would have been enough for us to achieve this, but in fact we never reached the summit.

It began to grow darker. The storm was more and more violent. We shut ourselves into our little tent and could judge the strength of the storm only by the intensity of the thunderclaps. Sometimes our spirits rose when we thought them to be very far off, sometimes we lost heart when we thought them close to us. The lightning flashes blinded us even through the opaque tent. We were there, alive, yet unable to do anything against the furious outpouring of the elements. Around us, secured to the same pitons that supported us in space, hung all our equipment for the climb: pitons, crampons and ice-axes; better bait for the lightning could not be imagined. We would have liked to throw them away, but how could we either ascend or descend without them? No one spoke; everyone was wrapped up in his own thoughts.

Just as we were thinking for the
n
th time that we were at the mercy of fate, we felt as if some force wanted to tear off our legs. We had all been grazed by the lightning. We yelled wildly. But we were alive, though now we knew that the storm could reduce us all to ashes at any time it chose. We called to one another to find out if everyone was still all right. Then there was a terrifying lull, which we knew heralded a last concentration of electricity which would inevitably break loose around us.

A few moments later a shock, similar to the one we had already experienced, but even more violent, nearly threw us off the face. Amid the commotion and shouts I could hear one voice clearly. I heard: ‘We must get away!’ I don’t know if it was Oggioni or Gallieni. The words were born of despair and mirrored our state of mind. I thought that we were lost and I believe that we all thought the same. I relived my whole life and in my mind’s eye saw all those dear faces and places which I should certainly never see again. Though by now resigned to my fate. I felt sorry that during my life I had not been able to do all the things I had intended. These are sensations which last only for seconds, yet they are clear and seem incredibly long.

Miraculously, however, the storm seemed to be dying away in the distance. Now we could only hear the drumming of the frozen snow on the rubberised cloth which covered us. We remained inert and apathetic; we did not even look outside the tent, for outside it was already dark. No one spoke. We did not eat. We were indifferent to everything. The snow which was falling though it was a very serious matter for us, almost gave us a sense of relief. We had been saved from the lightning and were still alive. I had never before been on such a face in such a storm: there was no skill and no technique which could have saved us.