Sacred Mountain (12 page)

Karma looked at the book and laughed. “It’s only a tattered old book but it means more to me than the Kanjur next door!”

“Father!” Lhamu said. “I told you that was a secret. Nobody is to know.”

The old man dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. “Everybody knows. It’s the talk of the village. What do you expect if they turn up here in such a big group with those heavy boxes on their yaks?” He looked at Philip with a twinkle in his eye. “We all thought it was gold!”

“Am I missing something here?” Philip asked, raising an eyebrow towards Lhamu. “What’s a Kanjur?”

“The Kanjur is very sacred to all Buddhists,” she replied quietly. “It is the word of the Buddha that was translated and written down many centuries ago by the first Dalai Lama. They say it is written in gold on paper as dark as night. The book is so sacred it has been decided to bring it to safety away from the Chinese. It has been in Lhasa but now even there is too dangerous.”

Philip nodded. “So those monks eating with us today are the ones carrying it?”

“That’s right,” Lhamu replied. “They are very senior Llamas. They have brought with them some young, strong monks to help protect them and look after the animals. They are at the monastery for two nights recovering from crossing a high pass through the Himalaya. It was very cold. Tomorrow they leave early to continue their journey with the Kanjur to Kathmandu.” She sat down again by the fire, warming her hands. “They are very nervous. Even their most senior Llama was constantly glancing around today, always on edge. He was very angry when he found out that the climbers were coming to the monastery but it was too late to change it. I would have thought that now they are out of Tibet they would be able to relax but he said to my abbot that until he has passed on his responsibility he will allow himself no sleep.”

“Typical monk!” exclaimed Karma. “They sit all day praying and eating and when they actually have a proper job to do they think it’s the hardest thing in the world.” He shook his head, looking up at Lhamu. “They are lucky to have you working there. If it wasn’t for you getting them organised they wouldn’t have enough firewood in the winter or food to live on.”

He turned to Philip. “Her mother was the same. She died when in childbirth with Lhamu otherwise I’m sure they would together now be running the whole village. I remember her as a little girl, always the one who got my sons to do what they were told. She was always the clever one, unlike this lot,” he nodded towards Tshering and Lhakpa, “who never understood your language and are happy to live in the village. That’s why I brought her with me on my trips.” He stopped and took Lhamu’s hand, squeezing it. “I always knew she’d get out into the world, that our valley would be too small for her. I’ve had many requests from families as far away as Namche for her to marry their sons but I’ve turned them all down. She’s not going to be tied here.” The old man kissed her hand and yawned.

Philip caught Lhamu’s eyes and she smiled, nodding almost imperceptibly towards the door. He stood and turned to face Karma. “You must excuse me sir, but I have an early morning. It’s been a privilege to meet you,” he said, as they shook hands. “I’d like very much to visit you again when I’m next in the village. Perhaps I could take some notes about your memories of those trips.”

The old man smiled. “I’d like to do that, young man, and look forward to our next meeting.” He glanced across at his daughter and winked at her. “But not as much as Lhamu is looking forward to it I think.” He sat down chuckling, leaving Philip and Lhamu to head towards the door, faces burning.

Chapter 8

Burma, 1943

Philip scrutinized the far river bank with his binoculars, idly scratching at an itchy rash he’d developed the previous night from a large hairy caterpillar that’d crawled up his arm. It looked clear. They’d been there for about thirty minutes. Philip, Prem and two rifleman had crawled from the fringe of the jungle into the thick elephant grass that ran along the river bank. From where he lay he looked out over a silt beach of probably twenty yards to the water’s edge. The river itself was slow and languid, like thick, warm chocolate running from the pan.

He’d chosen this spot as there was no sign of any habitation either up or down stream, allowing them the opportunity to cross without being seen. If they could do so they might just fool the Japanese into believing they still had them trapped on the eastern bank. That, he hoped, gave them a chance. During their vigil they’d seen or heard nothing. No soldiers, no people, no engines, only a small shell duck dabbling for food in the shallows.

Philip lowered the glasses and rubbed his aching eyes. He felt exhausted. There’d been little sleep the previous night. After the Japanese patrol had retreated down the valley, he’d waited until he’d thought it was clear and then taken the men north-east out of the ravine. It had been quite a detour before they’d finally dropped down to the river. They’d camped, exhausted and hungry, in teak forest a few hundred yards from the bank, plagued by aggressive red ants that had crawled over them and nipped at them all night. At first light he’d been relieved to get up and made his way to the water.

Judging by the large trunks of driftwood caught up midstream the river didn’t look deep. He hoped not as most of the platoon couldn’t swim. That was one problem with the Gurkhas, they didn’t swim and didn’t like water. Unfortunately they’d lost their ropes in the confusion at the last crossing so he’d nothing to rig up to help them across. There certainly wasn’t time, and the men didn’t have the energy, to build rafts. If the worst came to the worst they’d have to hang onto pieces of wood and kick their way over. He crawled back from the edge of the grass, beckoning the others to follow. In a couple of minutes they were back at the camp.

“Get the men prepared,” he told Prem, deepening his voice slightly to make it more authoritative. “All weapons and ammo must be rolled in ground-sheets and tied high out of the water, everything else packed away.”

Prem nodded. “Rifleman Rai has asked for you to inspect the mules. They have a problem.”

Philip nodded and walked back through the men to the rear where the mules were tethered. As soon as he saw them he knew they were finished. One was lying on its side, sucking in great juddering breaths. The other two stood with their noses touching the floor, legs splayed out to keep their balance, ribs and pelvis painfully visible through their worn hides. Large sores stood out a vivid red on their backs, crusty with discharge and covered in flies.

He looked at the three Gurkha handlers, all of whom understood the situation and looked to be on the brink of tears. They’d been through a lot with these animals and although they’d often been a nightmare to control they’d always made it through. It was time to put them out of their misery, but he couldn’t risk a shot being heard. “Turn them loose,” he said at last, fighting to keep his voice steady. “They’ll never get over the river in this state.”

He turned quickly and walked to where the baggage panniers were piled. There was little left, dwindling food supplies, some water containers, ammo and the radio set. The last radio battery had died the previous night as he’d tried unsuccessfully to reach HQ. There was no way to recharge it. Before, new batteries had been delivered in the air drops or charged by a small generator. That had gone with the main column. Without the radio there was no way of organizing a new drop but without batteries it was useless and would slow them down. It would be a pain to get it dry across the river anyway without any boats.

He nodded towards the pile of equipment. “Split this lot up between the men. Dump the water containers and the radio. The rest needs to go.” The men nodded and started unpacking the panniers.

He returned to his own pack and was just finishing preparing it when he saw Prem hurry over. He looked at him. “Everything OK, corporal?”

The Gurkha nodded but stood there, something obviously on his mind.

“What is it?” he asked after a short silence.

“The mules sir,” came the reply. “I was thinking we could kill them and take some of the meat.”

Philip turned and looked at him. “It’s going to be inedible, tough as boots.”

The corporal shrugged. “It’s still meat. The men need something.”

Philip nodded, realising Prem was right and annoyed that he hadn’t thought of it himself. How could he have overlooked such an obvious bloody thing considering they were all starving? “They’ll need to be dispatched silently,” he said. “Drive them apart first. I don’t want them braying in panic when they smell blood. And be quick. I want to start the crossing in ten minutes.”

Prem turned and strode off through the camp, drawing his khukri as he went.

Philip took twenty rounds of ammo and some food from the soldier who was distributing the mules baggage and tucked it in the top of his pack. It had felt heavy before, nearly fifty pounds of kit. Now he could hardly lift it off the ground. Leaving it standing on a tree stump he finished his mug of tea and then put his last piece of chocolate into his mouth. He closed his eyes, savouring the burst of sweetness that made him feel light-headed. He remembered a shop in Kings Lynn that made the most divine chocolates he’d ever tasted. His mother had always bought his Easter eggs there when he was a child and he vowed to head back there on his next leave.

When he opened his eyes again he saw the men had fallen in. He beckoned them closer.

“The Mu is one of the last big barriers between us and home,” he announced, trying to sound encouraging. “When we get across this we’re only eighty miles from India and there should be less Japs crawling around.”

He looked around the faces of his men, none betraying any emotion.

“I’m going to cross first with 1st squad to check the depth and current. Once we’ve make it and are in position, we’ll signal and you all follow. Single file, well spaced. And don’t stop to admire the view.”

A chuckle of nervous laughter ran through the group. That’s as good as it’s going to get, Philip thought, so turned and slipped into his pack, trying to make it look effortless as he straightened up. The three surviving members of 1st squad followed him as he walked towards the river, trying to keep his legs from trembling from a combination of weight and fear. He never liked these crossings, always convinced that here was something horrible lurking in the opaque water. Reaching the edge of the tall grass, he held up his hand.

“Wait here. Don’t enter the water until I give you a signal.”

He emerged onto the sandy riverbed at what he hoped would be a run, but under the weight of his pack and his weakened state was barely a jog. Glancing up and down the shore he checked it was clear and entered the river. He felt water seep into his boots, initially through the ripped seams and holes in the sole. It was rather pleasant, soothing the aches. As he waded further he felt the current starting to tug at him and as the bottom of his pack entered the water he found it necessary to turn slightly upstream in order to keep his balance.

He walked on, carefully edging his feet forward through the water, heavy with silt. The riverbed was firm, his feet sinking in no more than an inch or so, but a couple of times his boot hit submerged debris which almost tripped him. Looking forward he realised he was already in mid- stream. The water was up over his waist and he walked with his revolver and map held high above his head.

He reached the stump of an enormous teak tree that sat grounded, the current breaking around it and stopped, gratefully hanging onto an exposed root for a rest. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of trying to stay balanced. After a few seconds he pushed out once more into the current and found that the river shelved up quickly, making the going much easier. When the water was at his knees he turned and waved the rest of the squad forward. He saw them run into the water and set off determinedly towards him. He turned and waded on, soon reaching the far bank and gratefully dropping his pack into the fringe of the forest that ran down to the water’s edge. He turned to check on the progress of the men and was surprised to see them almost with him. The look on their faces was of grim determination. They hated water and seemed to have decided that the best way of crossing was to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Looking to the far bank he signalled for the rest of the platoon to start their crossing. Almost immediately the first Gurkha appeared, scurrying into the water. He turned to the men with him, pointing at the nearest two. “You and you, I want one twenty yards upstream and one twenty yards downstream keeping watch. If you see anything, let me know. And you,” he pointed to the last man, “Recce the jungle behind. Make sure there are no tracks or houses nearby.”

The men nodded and disappeared. Philip turned back towards the river. There was now a line of soldiers crossing, one approximately every ten yards. They bunched closer as the water deepened and the progress of the front ones slowed. He saw it reached chest level on many of the men but they still appeared unaffected by the current.

It took the first man a minute or so to get across and when he looked at the far bank he saw that Prem was now in the water at the end of the line. He glanced up at the sky. No planes in sight, no spotters or worse still a Zero diving down to strafe the exposed men.

“Boat!” came an urgent cry and peering upstream Philip saw the man he’d positioned there pointing to a dark spot on the river, a large white bow wave showing that it was indeed a boat and heading towards them fast.

“Bloody hell,” he cursed under his breath, jumping up and wading a few steps into the water.

“Get over here, at the double. Enemy boat,” he yelled, hands cupped around his mouth.

He saw the men look up in the direction he was pointing and then try to run. The ones nearest the shore kicked up sheets of water as they lifted their feet from the river and ran. A couple stumbled and fell. Philip ran towards them, crouching as he went and grabbed them by the collar. Heaving them up he pushed them towards the bank.

Small plumes of water were now kicking up around him, and for a moment he thought it was raining. Then the clatter of a machine gun reached his ears and he ran for the bank, diving headlong into the undergrowth. He turned, keeping low behind some tangled roots. Two bodies were drifting slowly off downstream; the muddy waters around them turned a burnished copper as blood mixed in with the silt. The four soldiers nearest the bank were lying, just their heads above the surface, crawling to safety. Further back he could see that several of the Gurkhas, including Prem, were sheltering behind the tree stump mid-stream. A couple had gained a footing and were trying to shoot back with their rifles.

“Return fire,” Philip yelled, and immediately there was the crackle of rifle fire around him. The boat veering sharply towards them, making itself a smaller target and he could see the muzzle of the machine gun flashing yellow flame. Bits of bark and vegetation showered down on them as the bullets slammed home in the jungle above their heads. After a sustained burst that kept the Gurkhas pinned down, it abruptly swung towards the stranded men. Philip heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the hard teak stump and realised that as soon as the boat got down river of them they’d have no cover.

He could see the boat clearly now. About thirty feet in length it was a local boat that had been commandeered. It had heavy wooden planking, off which their rifle rounds seem to deflect harmlessly. Inside he could make out six soldiers, two in the bow where the machine gun was set, its barrel peeping over the prow and surrounded in sand bags. At the stern three other soldiers were shooting with rifles and the last was crouched low, looking forward, steering the vessel.

“Aim for the stern,” Philip ordered. “Go for the man on the tiller.”

The shooting picked up and Philip smiled grimly as he saw one of the soldiers on the boat pitch backwards and disappear from view. He cursed to himself. If they hadn’t lost their Bren gun they’d have been able to return fire. When they’d been split off from the main column their platoon gun had already crossed the river, leaving them with only light arms.

The boat passed them, firing a broadside as it did so that had them again pinned down to the damp forest floor. It smelt of decay and rot. He heard a stifled yell as a bullet hit home into one of the Gurkhas near to him. Raising his head he peered out through the tangled roots and watched as the boat turned up stream, its guns swivelling round towards the driftwood stump.

A flash of movement caught his eye, accompanied by a crash of undergrowth and the sound of splashing water. Philip looked up in surprise, before screaming “Cover him!” and repeatedly firing his revolver in the direction of the boat. A Gurkha had burst from the trees, jumping into the shallows and was now running towards the enemy boat which had slowed right down as it closed in on the stranded soldiers. Philip saw the soldier pull the pin from a grenade and after a small pause throw it high into the air, diving into the water as he released it.