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From the North Col to Camp III, we had in Captain Noel an invaluable addition to our party. He formed our rear-guard and nursed us safely down the steep snow and ice slopes on to the almost level basin of the glacier below. Within forty minutes after leaving the Col, we arrived in Camp III. Since midday, from our highest point we had descended over six thousand feet, but we were quite finished. The brightest memory that remains with me of that night is dinner. Four quails truffled in pâté de foie gras, followed by nine sausages, only left me asking for more. With the remains of a tin of toffee tucked away in the crook of my elbow, I fell asleep in the depths of my warm sleeping-bag.
Next morning an inspection by Somervell, who had returned to Camp III during our attempt on Everest, showed that Geoffrey Bruce’s feet were sorely frost-bitten. I had well-nigh escaped, though four small patches of frost-bite, due to the cold which had penetrated the half-inch thick soles of my boots and three pairs of woollen socks, made walking unpleasant. I was also weak. The result was that both of us were piled on to a sledge and dragged by willing porters down over the glacier until its surface became too rough. I then discovered that I could walk quite well; presumably I had been lazy in the morning. But Geoffrey Bruce fared less well, and had to be assisted back to Camp II. And so from camp to camp the weary return journey dragged on. The sense of failure was with us. We had set out with one resolve—to get to the summit. The realisation that we had at least established the record for high climbing had not yet dawned upon us, and when it did, it afforded but scant consolation. With fine weather and but one night at our high camp, with Geoffrey Bruce, whose stout-heartedness made good to a great extent his inexperience of mountaineering and consequent uneconomic use of his strength, Mount Everest would in all probability have been climbed. I shall always be grateful to Geoffrey Bruce, not only for the confidence he placed in me, but also for the backing he gave me throughout our climb—and afterwards.
The descent from Camp I to the Base was perhaps the roughest and most trying march of all. Great was the rivalry amongst the porters as to who should have the honour of carrying Geoffrey Bruce, the condition of whose feet would not permit of his walking down those almost interminable moraines with their harassing stones. Even the worst journey must come to an end, however, and at last, on the afternoon of May 29, we were being accorded the warmest of welcomes by the General and the other members of the expedition at the Base Camp.
The next few days were spent in resting. But I underwent the same experience as the members of the first climbing party; instead of recovering strength rapidly during the first three or four days, if anything, a further decline took place. However, as the immediate weather prospects seemed good, although it was obvious that the monsoon must shortly break, it was decided to make a third attempt upon the mountain.
On the return journey to the Base Camp.
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