The weather had broken by the time the rocks above the snow ridge had been gained. We were at an altitude of about 25,000 feet. The wind was whirling snowflakes past us. We climbed on, however, because from Camp III I had detected, at a height of about 26,500 feet, a suitable site for our intended high camp. But by the time a height of 25,500 feet had been reached, the storm had become so threatening that all idea of further progress had, for the time being, to be renounced. To persist in going on in the face of this break in the weather would have meant running the porters, who had to make their way back to the North Col that afternoon, most unjustifiably into danger. This was not to be thought of; for I was responsible for the safety of these smiling, willing men, who placed absolute confidence in the sahib whom they served so well.
It was anything but a cheerful spot in which to pitch camp. But though I climbed some two hundred feet higher, nothing more suitable was to be found. The leeside of the ridge was bare of any possible camping ground, and, as a wind is always felt more severely a little below and on the windward side of a ridge than on the crest of the ridge itself, I elected to camp right on the very backbone, on a little ledge overlooking the tremendous precipices falling away to the East Rongbuk and Rongbuk Glaciers, now over four thousand feet below. As soon as we had sent the porters scurrying down towards the safety of the North Col, Geoffrey Bruce, Tejbir and I looked to see that the guy-ropes holding down the tent were quite secure, then gathered up our sleeping-bags and provisions and crawled into the tent. After taking off our boots, all the undressing that was practicable, we crept into the sleeping-bags. It was bitterly cold, and, as the exposure to wind and storm which we had already undergone had severely chilled us, we huddled up together as closely as possible for the sake of the preservation of mutual warmth. The storm without was now in full blast, and it was snowing hard. Although we did our best to block up all apertures in the tent walls, a thick, white pall of fine, powdery snow soon covered us. Much of it insinuated its way into sleeping-bags and through our clothing on to our skin, there causing acute discomfort. Towards evening we set about preparing a meal. With the help of solidified spirit, snow was melted and tea brewed. It was far from being hot, for at this altitude water boils at such a low temperature that one can immerse the hand in it without fear of scalding; but, such as it was, the drink imparted some small measure of comfort to our chilled bodies. After sunset, when we would fain have slept or at least rested, the storm rose to a veritable hurricane and kept us occupied for the next eighteen hours. During the whole of this period, we had to remain alert and vigilant. To sit down and meditate quietly over what our attempt on the mountain would bring forth was out of the question. Terrific gusts tore at the tent, and occasionally the wind would force its way underneath the sewn-in ground-sheet and lift it up at one side or the other. When this happened, our combined efforts were needed to hold the ground-sheet down, for we knew that, once the wind got a good hold upon it, the tent would belly out like a sail, and nothing would save it from stripping away from its moorings and being blown, with us inside, over the precipice on to the East Rongbuk Glacier. By one o’clock on the morning of the 26th, the gale was at its height. The wild flapping of the canvas made a noise like that of machine-gun fire, and, what with this and the shrieking and howling of the gale round our tent, it was well-nigh impossible to converse with each other except by shouting, mouth to ear. Later on came interludes of comparative lull succeeded by outbursts even more furious than ever. Some of the guy-ropes had broken or had worked loose, and we had to take it in turns to go outside the tent and endeavour to straighten things up. To work in the open for more than three or four minutes at a stretch was impossible, so profound was the exhaustion induced by even this brief exposure to the fierce and bitterly cold wind.
A cheerless dawn broke. The snow had ceased falling, but the wind howled and hurried with unabated vigour. At eight o’clock, on the morning of May 26, it showed signs of subsiding. It was but the rousing of false hopes, for half an hour later it had returned with greater energy than ever. With almost incredible fury it tore at our tent, and once again we had to take it in turns to go outside and tighten up guy-ropes. These little excursions showed, beyond all possible doubt, that until the storm had diminished there could be no question either of advance or retreat to the North Col Camp. No human being could survive more than a few minutes’ exposure to a gale of such fury coupled with so intense a cold. To add to our discomfort, a great hole was cut in the windward panel of the tent by a stone, and the flaps of the door were stripped of their fastenings. Fortunately, however, everybody was remarkably cheerful.
At one o’clock in the afternoon of the 26th, just as we were beginning to feel rather irritated at the rough treatment which Everest had hitherto so generously doled out to us, respite came. The blustering gale dropped to nothing more than a stiff breeze—the sort of thing against which one can walk comfortably if one only leans sufficiently far forward into it. This was our first opportunity to return to the North Col; but we decided to stay where we were for the rest of the day and the ensuing night, and on the following morning make an early start and climb the mountain.
The one fly in the ointment was that our provisions were practically at an end. Reasons for this shortage in food supplies are soon given. For one thing, we had never intended to spend more than one night in the high camp and had, therefore brought provisions for only one night, and even these had been measured out on an extremely niggardly scale. The majority of Himalayan experts had assured us time and again that it would (1) be absolutely impossible for a human being to survive a night spent at an altitude such as we had now attained (25,500 ft.), and that (2) at such an altitude one would be totally unable to eat owing to absolute lack of appetite. On the other hand, sound, scientific opinion emanating from Professor Dreyer had not only not prophesied either of these contingencies, but had, indeed, definitely warned me that oxygen would increase the appetite, irrespective of altitude. I was now bitterly to regret that Professor Dreyer’s warning had been swamped from my memory by the flood of the other assurances set out above. I well remember how, on that second night in our high camp, I fervently wished that one or two of those who had voiced such heresies had been available; we were ravenously hungry, even, I think, to the point of cannibalism! However, thanks to the fact that there still remained to us some cigarettes, the time passed well enough. Apart from its comforting influence, cigarette smoking incidentally exerts a most beneficial effect upon respiration at high altitudes. I noticed in a very marked fashion that unless I kept my mind on the question of breathing and made of it a voluntary process instead of the involuntary one it normally is, I suffered from lack of air and consequent feeling of suffocation. To recover from this feeling, it was necessary to force the lungs to work more quickly than they would of their own accord. There is a physiological explanation of this phenomenon. The amount of carbon dioxide normally present in the blood is, at high altitudes, largely removed from the system owing to the enormous volume of air which it is necessary to inhale in order to obtain a sufficient supply of atmospheric oxygen for the re-oxidation of the venous blood. Carbon dioxide serves to stimulate the nerve centre controlling the process of involuntary breathing. Lack of carbon dioxide results in this nerve centre being no longer stimulated, and, if suffocation is to be avoided, involuntary breathing has to be replaced by voluntary breathing, a process which in time throws such strain upon the mind and powers of concentration as to preclude all possibility of sleep. Both Geoffrey Bruce and Tejbir had likewise observed the annoying necessity of having to concentrate continuously on breathing. But after the first few deep inhalations of cigarette smoke, we discovered that it was possible to resort once more to normal involuntary breathing. Evidently something in the smoke took the place of the carbon dioxide in which the blood was deficient, and acted as a nerve stimulant. The beneficial effect of a cigarette lasted for as much as three hours. As luck would have it, we had with us a fair supply which lasted well into the afternoon of the 26th.
We were quite a merry little party that afternoon as we gathered round a scanty meal cooked with the last of our fuel, and then prepared to settle down for another night. Towards 6 p.m. I heard voices outside the tent, but thought I must be dreaming. When Geoffrey Bruce, however, started up at the sounds, I knew that someone must be without. Six porters, headed by that indomitable little fellow Tergio, clustered round the door. They brought thermos flasks of warm tea provided by the thoughtful Noel. These splendid men had, of their own accord, left the North Col that afternoon as soon as the storm had abated, and made the tremendous journey up to our camp just to assure themselves of our well-being. This is but one example of the many acts of brave, unselfish devotion performed by the porters of the 1922 expedition. Tergio, whose light-hearted gaiety, ready laughter and merrily twinkling eyes, whose high courage, boundless energy and perseverance had especially endeared him to me, now lies buried in the cold snows of the North Col. He will never be forgotten; I should like to climb with him again. The porters expected us to return with them, and needed no little persuasion before leaving us.
The second night in the high camp did not begin well. We were exhausted from our previous experiences and lack of food. Provoked, perhaps, by my labours outside the tent, a dead, numbing cold was creeping up my limbs; a sensation that I had only once before felt, and to the seriousness of which I was fully aware. Inquiry elicited the information that my companions were undergoing the same unpleasant experiences. Like a heaven-sent inspiration came the idea of trying the effect of oxygen. Previously we had used oxygen only while actually climbing, and, on arriving at our high camp, had dumped the apparatus outside the tent. Now hauling in one apparatus together with a supply of cylinders, we took doses all round, giving the action the air of a joke. Tejbir took his medicine without much interest; but as he inhaled, I saw with relief that his face brightened up. The effect of the oxygen on Geoffrey Bruce was particularly visible in his rapid change of expression; the hitherto drawn, anxious look on his face gave place to a more normal one. The result on myself was no less marvellous; almost at once I felt the painful, prickling, tingling sensation, due to the returning circulation of the blood, as the lost warmth slowly came back to my limbs. We connected up the apparatus so that all could breathe a small quantity throughout the night. There is no doubt whatsoever that oxygen saved our lives that night; without it, in our well-nigh exhausted and famished condition, we would have succumbed to the cold.
Before daybreak we were stirring. It was necessary to dress, that is, put on our boots—a much lengthier operation than it sounds. By taking mine to bed with me, I had contrived to keep them fairly soft and supple, so that a quarter of an hour’s striving and tugging sufficed to get them on. But the others had neglected to nurse theirs, with the result that the uppers were hard-frozen and completely out of shape. It took us an hour to soften and remould them by holding them over lighted candles. Shortly after six o’clock, we assembled outside. No time had been wasted over breakfast; there was none. The first rays of the sun had just touched our tent when we shouldered our loads and set off. What with oxygen apparatus, cameras and other necessary odds and ends, Bruce and I each carried more than forty pounds. Tejbir, with two extra cylinders of oxygen, shouldered a burden of about fifty pounds. My scheme was that Tejbir should accompany us as far as the Shoulder, where we would relieve him of his load and send him back. The weather was clear, and the only clouds in the sky, though undoubtedly of the wrong type, seemed too far off to presage evil. A fresh wind cut across the ridge, and the cold was, as usual, intense. Keeping to the ridge, and making straight for the Shoulder, we mounted rapidly. But very soon the cold began to have its effect on Tejbir’s sturdy constitution, already weakened by starvation and hardship. At an altitude of 26,000 feet above sea-level he collapsed. It took some little time to restore him to his senses, only to see that he had given of his best and could go no farther. We unburdened him, leaving him his apparatus and sufficient oxygen to see him safely back to the high camp. The ground over which we had just come was easy and, as the tent was in full view below, there was no chance of losing the way; so, as soon as he was sufficiently recovered,[18] we sent Tejbir back.
After seeing him well on his way, we shared Tejbir’s load between us. In view of the straightforward nature of the climbing, I chose to dispense with the rope in order to be able to progress more quickly. Climbing by no means steep and quite easy rocks, and passing two almost level places affording ample room for some future high camp, we arrived at an altitude of 26,500 feet. By this time, the wind, which had been steadily rising, had acquired such force that I realised that, were we to remain fully exposed to it much longer, we would both succumb to the cold as Tejbir had done. We were, however, not out to see how far we could go, but bent on getting to the top of Everest. So we changed tactics. Instead of gaining the summit by ridges exposed to the full blast of the gale, we would have to follow a more sheltered way. The only thing to do was to leave the ridge and strike out across the vast north face of the mountain. This alternative route had its disadvantages. The rocks up which we had come were wind-swept free from snow, and foot- and handholds were good and plentiful, and, so far as could be seen, this state of affairs continued for quite a long way beyond the Shoulder. The moment we left the ridge, however, we felt the disadvantages of the fact that the stratification of the rock dips towards the north. The ground over which we now had to make a way was slabby, with much new snow to hamper us. Caution was necessary throughout. My companion was sure-footed, careful and unlikely to slip; nevertheless, being responsible for his safety, I moderated my pace and never allowed more than a few feet to separate us. Thus, keeping close together, we worked away steadily, gaining but little in altitude, but getting ever so much nearer to the summit. The climbing steadily became more and more difficult. Sometimes the slabs gave place to snow; treacherous, powdery stuff with a thin, wind-formed crust that gave a false appearance of compactness. Little reliance could be placed upon it. At length, when about half-way across the face and at an altitude of about 27,000 feet, we decided once again to change our route and strike straight upwards in the direction of the summit ridge.
We had climbed some three hundred feet higher, and I had just reached a ledge at the top of a steep slab about thirty feet in height, when I heard Geoffrey Bruce give a startled cry: “I’m getting no oxygen!” Turning round immediately, I saw him struggling ineffectually to climb up towards me. Quickly descending the few intervening feet, I was just in time to grasp his right shoulder with my left hand as he was on the point of falling backwards over the precipice. I dragged him face forwards against the rock, and, after a supreme effort on the part of both, we gained the ledge where I swung him round into a sitting position against the slope above. Thus placed, with the weight of his apparatus taken off his back, he again told me, this time in a gasp, that he was no longer receiving oxygen. I gave him my tube and, still standing, with the full weight of my own apparatus and other impedimenta on my back, endeavoured to locate the fault. Systematically I traced the connections from the cylinder in use down to the pressure gauge and flow-meter and found both in action, the latter recording a flow of 2·4 litres per minute. By this time, however, what with the weight of my load and being deprived of oxygen, I was not feeling any too well, and, believing the defect to lie in a breakage of the flow-meter exit tube (an apparatus had previously failed through developing this flaw which was consistent with the results of the present hasty examination), in my desperation I tried to prize off the flow-meter with my ice-axe in order to be able to connect the rubber tube leading to Geoffrey Bruce on to the exit tube of the reducing valve. (The emergency by-pass valve was useless in dealing with this type of breakdown.) Before I had proceeded far with my efforts, however, I found it necessary to recover my tube from Geoffrey and take a series of deep gulps of oxygen, turning on the gas to a maximum rate of delivery and, in addition, increasing its flow by making use of the by-pass valve on my own apparatus. This restored me, and, so that both could breathe oxygen simultaneously from my apparatus, I connected a reserve “T” piece and rubber tubing, which I had fortunately brought with me, on to the delivery tube. Resuming the diagnosis, I this time traced connections back from the mouthpiece and at once discovered that a glass connecting piece, which had been used in the construction of the improvised mask, was broken. The thick rubber which had originally covered the tubing had been partially dragged off, and the glass, thus unprotected, had probably been fractured against rock while climbing. As I had a spare glass connection in my possession, the repair was speedily effected, and Geoffrey Bruce was once more inhaling oxygen from his own apparatus.[19]