Survivor: The Autobiography (44 page)

Our journey through the Salle de Navarre gave rise to some differences of opinion as to its real dimensions. In order to clear the matter up, I undertook a solitary excursion which led me over ridges of rock, gigantic crags, and ‘Crazy Stones’ that seemed ready to crash down at any moment. Finally, I lost myself in a veritable labyrinth of boulders, the end of which I could not see; and it was some time before I succeeded in rejoining my companions who, in spite of the Scotch-lights, had resorted once again to hair-raising feats of acrobatics in order to escape from the labyrinth.

We returned to the bivouac at 6 p.m. after a forced march and a regular display of acrobatics. It had taken us eight hours to cover the 1¼ miles there and back, which should give some idea of the difficulties involved. The cavern extended for 1,100 yards into Spanish territory; and that distance added to two miles on the French side, gives a 4,620-yard stretch of uninterrupted chaos so far explored.

Delteil and Vergnes, who had anxiously awaited the result of our expedition, informed us that work in the shaft was more or less up to schedule, although it was proving a most delicate and awkward business. It seemed, then, that the entire chasm had been a hive of activity. We sat around the oven and chatted while our one hot meal of the day was cooking.

But our joy and satisfaction was tempered by the presence of the coffin which shone through the gloom. It had never ceased to dominate our thoughts.

Thursday, 12 August
Early this morning there was much ado in the tent occupied by Mairey, Mauer and Ballandraux. They rose, dressed, trimmed their acetylene lamps, drew their rations, and prepared to set off. The three of them were going to revisit the bottom of the chasm, which some of us had reached in 1953. Dr Mairey, who had formed one of the party on that occasion, and was therefore acquainted with the road, would take charge now. The newcomers, Mauer and Ballandraux, had been longing to make the journey; but this was to be more than just a pleasure-trip, and before they started I ran over the subjects upon which they were to make notes: topography, temperature, humidity, air currents, barometric pressure, and biology. They were also to take photographs.

Vergnes was bitterly disappointed that he was not going with them, but his camera was out of action, so he could do nothing in the way of making a film. He was to return to the surface some time this morning. The cable would soon be lowered, for we had been informed by telephone that someone else was coming down to join us. He arrived an hour later, and Vergnes went up almost immediately. Our visitor was Fr. Jacques Attout, who with Lorian of Charleroi formed the Belgian element which we always included in our Group. He confirmed Delteil’s news that preparation of the balconies was well advanced in spite of difficulties. Numerous
pitons
were required to secure the girders, but storms on the surface were delaying work, which had frequently to be broken off. This year’s campaign had been inaugurated under the sign of foul weather.

Fr. Attout and I traversed the Salle Lépineux from end to end and from side to side. Looking down into the shaft which gives access to the Salle Elizabeth Casteret, we saw a wire ladder; Mairey, Mauer and Ballandraux had fixed it there earlier in the day. An icy wind howled ceaselessly in this place, and was no encouragement to stay for long, so we returned to the bivouac where Delteil mounted solitary guard at the telephone.

‘Father, there’s a message for you,’ he said as we approached.

‘What about?’

‘Your bishop has appointed you parish priest of some out-of-the-way place – I’ve forgotten its name.’

It was perfectly true; so you see the Pierre Saint-Martin telephone had its uses – when it worked!

At about 7 p.m. Fr. Attout unpacked a small case containing his priestly vestments, an altar stone, a chalice and other necessities for the celebration of mass. The altar was an irregular slab of rock. The servers wedged themselves uncomfortably between a vertical wall and a heap of boulders; Delteil lit the two small candles, and I laid the tiny cruets at my feet. Over his alb, etc. the priest donned a beautiful white chasuble with green orphreys; it was almost startling amid that wild, dark scenery. But if the altar was a wretched makeshift affair, and if we ourselves were ragged, dirty and unshaven after a week underground, ‘it is the spirit that quickeneth’.

The celebrant told us that he was going to offer the Holy Sacrifice for the repose of Marcel Loubens’s soul and for the success of the dangerous undertaking to which we had pledged ourselves. Mass then began, the coffin lying only a few feet from the altar.

An hour later Mairey’s team came back, haggard and exhausted, but flushed with success. They had carried out their programme in full: having crossed the seven huge chambers and travelled more than 3 miles through an unimaginable chaos, they had reached the bottom of the cavern where the altimeter confirmed last year’s reading of 2,388 feet.

Friday, 13 August
I spent a restless night. At midnight and 1 a.m. Bidegain phoned to keep me informed of progress. At 2 o’clock he told me that work on the balconies was complete. Between then and 6 a.m. the men responsible for this achievement were raised to the surface. It was now the turn of those at the bottom, excepting two who were to attach the container to the cable and guide it past the great boulders of the Salle Lépineux after the take-off.

We had much difficulty with the cable on its downward journey, in spite of the guide-wire which was handled from below. Over and over again it became entangled on projections of rock, and had to be pulled this way and that before it was freed. At long last, however, it was in position, and I prepared to leave the cavern.

I had spent hours of alternate joy and sorrow, but one decision had yet to be made: what to do with a small crucifix hanging on the wall. On 13 August 1952, as Marcel lay dying at the bottom of the shaft, Father Atauri, a Spanish priest from San Sebastian who was among a crowd of spectators on the surface, had detached this cross from his rosary and asked Dr Mairey to lay it on the stretcher. Mairey had in fact nailed it to the wall nearby, and it had hung there ever since – a lonely symbol in the waste of that tremendous chasm. I was aware that it belonged to a rosary given to Fr. Atauri by his mother and of great sentimental value in his eyes, so I took it down and slipped it into my pocket-book.

At 2 o’clock in the afternoon I linked the snap-hook of my harness to the cable, gave the signal by telephone, and felt myself raised from the ground, turning, swaying in mid-air. On this my seventh consecutive day underground, I had reason to feel satisfied, but I was distinctly off-colour after that long sojourn in a cold, damp atmosphere, during which my diet had been, to say the least, unorthodox. Lack of sunlight, on the other hand, which is often supposed to cause lassitude and even claustrophobia, had had no ill effects. My eyesight had, if anything, improved; I had the vision of a cat by night.

Within fifty minutes I was out of the shaft, standing in bright sunshine beneath an azure sky. Willing hands stripped me of my harness; I climbed those last few yards of rope-ladder, and sat down by the winding-gear. Queffelec was still at the helm, cheerful, confident, and bold as brass. Nearby was a party of girls dressed in shorts, members of a holiday-camp, who eyed me with unfeigned curiosity from top to toe. Unwashed, unshaven, my drawn face smeared with clay, and overalls in shreds, I must have seemed to them a miserable specimen of humanity. Questions crowded one upon another, but I have only the haziest recollection of that half-hour.

I then strolled up to the camp, and was greeted at the cookhouse by Henri Périllous, who gave me the first proper meal I had been able to enjoy since entering the chasm. I returned to the winch and saw Henri Brosset go down to help Ballandraux attach the coffin. Delteil was then hauled to the surface, followed by Mairey. Father Attout was delayed by a tremendous storm which obliged us to postpone operations until next day.

Saturday, 14 August
Fr. Attout came up at 6 a.m. during a hailstorm and in dense fog. Mauer was then hauled to the balcony at –699; Lépineux and Bidegain went down to join him.

This was Judgement Day, to which we had looked forward with hope and yet with dread. My thoughts were with Lépineux, Mauer and Bidegain making their last inspection of the gear. Queffelec adjusted his engine and the winch. It was almost zero hour. Lévi, wearing earphones, spoke hurriedly with the lads at –699, and then with the Salle Lépineux. Labeyrie crouched over the radio, ready to take over if the telephone should fail. Ballandraux and Brosset had just attached the cable to the head of the container, and the girder at –699 was in position. The stage was set.

At exactly 5 p.m. Lévi passed Lépineux’s signal to the engineers, and Queffelec threw his engine into gear. The rise of tension was alarming; the machinery vibrated and slipped, the dynamometer showed 1,100 lb. But the container was off the ground, clear of the huge boulders, and was rising slowly. Every available member of the party stood by, as well as a few journalists. There were about fifteen of us all told, huddling together round the winch beneath the shelter of a canvas awning, while rain and hail poured down in torrents, driven by great gusts of wind. In spite of the weather, our attention was concentrated entirely upon the dynamometer and upon the cable as it wound slowly on the drum. We dare not speak. All eyes turned towards Queffelec whose smile had given place to a grim and anxious look. Gradually, however, he relaxed; his countenance cleared, and he gave his assistant Isola a friendly pat on the back.

‘Well, it’s coming up all right,’ he said.

Yes, it was coming up all right. Progress was slow and painful, but it was progress, and our faces showed a lessening of fear.

We had regarded this phase of the journey as most critical; the initial haul had counted for so much, and the container had seemed at that moment so very far away. On second thoughts, however, the situation appeared different. Until now the manoeuvre had involved no danger of contact with the walls . . . The dynamometer jerked several times and startled us.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Lévi. ‘It’s bumping against the wall every now and again, but there’s worse than that to come.’

Holding the receiver of his telephone to the loudspeaker, he enabled us to hear the dismal sound of the container; it resembled a cracked bell. He spoke again into the mouthpiece:

‘Approaching –699. Hello, Lépineux! Let me know as soon as you catch sight of it.’

‘I see nothing yet; there’s that sea of cloud below us . . . oh yes! Here it comes, like a ghost out of the mist.’

There was a dull, heavy sound; the container was in contact with the girder, and a few seconds later it had cleared that dangerous overhang. Lépineux and Mauer had had some anxious moments. One of the
pitons
had come loose; the girder had leaned over, and they had to use all their strength to avoid an accident and, perhaps, disaster.

The container was now dragged on to the balcony and made fast while Lépineux unhooked the cable and attached it to his own harness. Bidegain followed; they were going up to –257 to help with the remainder of the operation. Mauer was to remain alone at –699 and re-attach the container as soon as the cable had been lowered. His situation was fraught with peril. If there were a fall of stones, if the cable snapped, or if some other untoward incident occurred, he would be in the direct line of fire.

Lépineux had joined Bidegain and Rossini at –257 and together they made final preparations for the arrival and reception of the container. On the surface, bad weather continued unabated; we were drenched to the skin and buffeted by an icy gale. The Spanish
carabiniers
, of their charity and unasked, brought us great logs of dead pine wood. They managed also to light a brazier which bore us company throughout that night.

All subterranean work is terribly slow and complicated, and it was some time before the cable was lowered again and Mauer attached it to the nose of the container. Fortunately the telephone was working well; all messages were passed and repeated between –699, –257, and the winch. The next stage of the journey could begin. But just as Lévi was about to give Queffelec the signal, I motioned him to wait. I had glanced at the clock on the instrument board: it was precisely 10 p.m. ‘Two years ago today at this very hour,’ I said, ‘Marcel died. Let’s pause for a few moments.’ Lévi nodded assent and passed my message to those underground. The whole party observed a minute’s silence, drawing from the recollection of that tragedy in 1952 a stern resolve to succeed in their present task. Those of us on the surface were little more than passive, helpless spectators of the drama which now approached its climax.

Mauer had bidden farewell to the container. He was alone now at –699 where he was doomed to remain and suffer through long hours. Lépineux shall now take up the tale. Crouched with José Bidegain and Rossini at –257, he had checked up on the girder.

‘The cable was rising; our eyes were glued to the pulley. “It must be getting close now, José,” I remarked. “We shan’t have long to wait.” Rossini phoned the surface to ask for position. Queffelec answered that the container was at –525. At that critical point there was an angle of rock under which it might easily become jammed, and we began to have serious misgivings about the next stage of the journey.

‘Almost immediately we were startled by a loud noise, and the cable stopped vibrating. Rossini snatched the telephone . . . The winch had ceased to turn, and the dynamometer had risen from 880 to 2,200 lb. Three times I had the container lowered and raised; three times it jammed, making a tremendous din. Lévi’s voice held a note of grave anxiety: “What do you propose doing?” José and I looked at one another. Then I said: “Eat and think. We’ve got to take our time over this. How late is it?” “Nearly midnight,” Lévi replied.’

Sunday, 15 August
The crisis was upon us. The wind howled unceasingly, and rain gave place to heavy snow which froze us to the marrow. A journalist, crouching at my side, leaned over and said: ‘Nature has unleashed all her forces; the storm, the mountain and the chasm are allied against you. It seems as if the malignant spirits of the place refuse to yield up their prey and Loubens back to you.’