Survivor: The Autobiography (41 page)

5 and 6 August
These were days of preparation, during which everyone worked hard at all kinds of jobs; laying telephone lines; erecting the heavy winding-gear at the mouth of the shaft; repairing tackle which had been damaged in transit; packing materials and foodstuffs for use underground. Last, but not least, our cooks got busy laying out their kitchen.

There were twenty members of the team. Most of us had not met for twelve months; for the Groupe Spéléologique de la Pierre Saint-Martin, which includes men from all over France and Belgium, makes a point of foregathering only once a year, on the occasion of its summer campaign.

6 August
The Spanish lieutenant climbed up from his little camp 220 yards from the pothole. His manner was quite formal; he simply wanted a full list of the party. Then, to our absolute amazement he gave us official notice that the Spaniards would take no part in the expedition, and that we must confine ourselves to recovering Loubens’s body – there must be no further attempt to explore the chasm.

By nightfall, Queffelec, with his assistants, Rossini, Isola, Accoce and Laisse, had got the winch into position. Pierre Louis, our official engineer, set a pulley-jack at the entry to the great vertical shaft. All was now ready, and the descent could begin.

I had again volunteered to go down first, both as a matter of principle and also to clear the cornices of fallen stone. This particular chasm, is still in process of formation; from year to year masses of rock break off from the walls and pile up in dangerous heaps on the balconies and smaller overhangs. Lépineux, however, had determined to lighten my task by cleaning the first platform, 257 feet down. He reached it without mishap, and set to work with an American army shovel, conversing with us over the telephone. Meanwhile I was at the receiving end, not far from the winch; I took note of all he said, and I must say it surprised me. Considering he had himself cleared this same balcony, which inclined sharply downwards, he was amazed by the amount of debris that had accumulated since 1953. He spent a good two hours throwing down lumps of rock; and I could hear his gasps of astonishment as he realized the extent to which the interior of the chasm had disintegrated.

You see, nothing can fall into the shaft from outside; the entrance is far too narrow, and opens like a dormer window in a vertical wall of rock. All this debris with which Lépineux had to deal came from inside, through ‘chimneys’ and smaller flues crammed with stones. These were gradually dislodged by the trickling water and erosion, and fell into the shaft.

As darkness fell it grew cold, a keen wind blew, and a dismal fog lay heavy on the mountain. ‘Real Pierre Saint-Martin weather,’ as someone had remarked as we returned to camp for the night. A small, solitary tent drowned in mist, and shaken by angry squalls, is not an enchanting or invigorating place.

Alone, rolled up in my sleeping-bag, I could still hear within me those subterranean avalanches hurtling downward, smashed to fragments at terrifying depths. I saw myself tomorrow, within a few short hours, hanging from a thread in that huge shaft which a Parisian journalist has so aptly described as ‘the Eiffel Tower poised on the towers of Notre-Dame’.

7 August
A bright, sunny day. I could hear sheep-bells in the neighbouring fold; there were voices too, one of them Etchebarre’s. That worthy
gendarme
was busy sending radio messages by shortwave to Saint-Engrâce in the valley.

Attention was before long concentrated upon the shake-hole, where Queffelec shouted to his assistants and then asked in a tremendous voice: ‘Anyone for the lift?’ ‘Shan’t be long!’ I called back, knowing to whom his question was directed. Then, while the rest of the party moved towards the chasm, I disappeared into a stone hut where the provisions were stored. Henri Périllous, our cook, was busied about many things; he was the least talkative, but one of the hardest working members of our crew. Throughout our stay at Pierre Saint-Martin this frail, retiring youth of eighteen, ever willing and ever smiling, fulfilled a crushing task. He was always on duty, cooking at all hours of the day and night, or carrying pails of water from a distant stream. In fact, Henry Périllous had often to go down to the winch in the middle of the night with food for hungry workers who could not leave their job.

‘Henri,’ I said, ‘I’m going down in half an hour’; and the good fellow at once lit another stove
⁹
and prepared me an excellent lunch. (It was unlikely that I should have another hot meal for a week!) I had even to refuse a second course; there was too much of it, and I was going to need all my resources of mind and body for my journey down the shaft.

It was 10 a.m. by the time I reached the shake-hole.

Before going down on a rope-ladder, I stopped for a word with Queffelec and to cast an eye over the winding-gear. Its strength reassured me; but not being an engineer I understood little of its complicated mechanism. Queffelec drew me aside, and, lowering his normally loud voice, pointed to the new steel cable on its drum: ‘It’s not as good as last year’s,’ he said. ‘It’s quite safe, of course, but the strands are not so tightly wound. I warn you, you’ll spin round like a top.’ This was confirmed by the physicist, Labeyrie, who joined us at that moment. Well, if the technicians said so, I was in for an uncomfortable time. But why worry in advance? I put on a bold front and reached the bottom of the shake-hole, feeling like a gladiator in the arena. Other members of the team were waiting there to harness me and help me through the narrow entry to the shaft. This year I had given much thought to my wardrobe. A good deal of snow had fallen during the winter; the spring had been wet; and we anticipated that the cascade, which begins 722 feet below the surface, would be particularly heavy. Accordingly, I wore woollen underclothing and two suits of overalls, the first rubberized and the outer one of stout canvas. Finally I unfolded a large square of highly elastic sheet-rubber, in the centre of which I had cut a hole about the size of my fist. I passed my head through this hole, and was thus arrayed in a kind of
poncho
which covered me down to the waist and fitted close to my neck without strangling me.

The general effect, it seemed, was rather odd: the thing resembled a large white waterproof table napkin, and made me look like an outsize baby about to eat its porridge! As in 1953, it was Bidegain who helped me on with the heavy parachute harness; I was no more than a puppet in those powerful hands, which lifted me clean off the ground to make sure that the breast-strap was properly adjusted and would cause me no discomfort. Delteil busied himself with my helmet, inside which he adjusted the earphones. He inspected my breast-lamp, and carefully fastened the mouthpiece on each side of my neck. ‘That’s important,’ he remarked; ‘otherwise you can’t make yourself heard properly. I know, because I’ve got a huge Adam’s apple!’

And now Pierre Louis, attentive and methodical as ever, was waiting for me at the entrance to the shaft. With ritual precision he attached me to the end of the cable by means of a climber’s snap-hook. Henceforward I was linked to the winding-gear and its attendants who waited only for a signal to lower me.

I have already explained that the opening which gives immediate access to the shaft is so narrow and inconveniently placed that you have to be something of an acrobat to get in at all. Although one cannot go down Pierre Saint-Martin without luggage, the kitbags which everyone carried slung from each of the suspension straps were too bulky to pass the opening in that position. One had therefore to slip through oneself, and then wait on a narrow ledge 13 feet down until the two bags were lowered on the end of a rope.

I had just entered and reached –13 when the sky above me was darkened. I was surprised, and looked up. I could scarcely believe my eyes. There was a perfectly colossal sack being pushed through the hole. In due course it landed at my side.

‘Lévi,’ I called up, ‘I told you not to overload me; how do you expect me to clean up the shaft with all this tied round me?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, ‘but you’ll have to forgive me. You know the chasm as well as I do, and you know how I go to work. One must be prepared for anything; you may be alone down there for several days, and that bag contains only your minimum requirements of tackle, food, and bedding.’

Another huge sack then arrived. Having to make the best of it, I hooked on these two monstrosities which were to weigh me down and prove a serious hindrance. Then I heard a suave voice from on high: ‘Maestro, you’ve forgotten one small item’; and there appeared a heavy 6 ft 6 in board. It was Lépineux who bade me this gracious farewell. Reluctantly I tied the thing to my belt so that it would hang below me, and was just going to call ‘Lower away!’ when someone else spoke. This time it was a photographer, leaning over the edge and asking me to ‘look up and smile nicely!’ One must try to oblige everyone, and above all not disappoint the Press. I therefore looked up; but I feel sure my smile was somewhat formal and contracted!

At last I was free to take off. I gave the signal, and had travelled rather less than 65 feet when I came to a halt. ‘What’s up?’ I asked. ‘Oh, nothing much,’ Queffelec replied; ‘but we shall have to ask you to be patient for a few minutes while we change the motor.’

Change the motor! I thought at first he was joking, but he assured me that it was unavoidable.

‘How long will you be?’

‘Oh, twenty minutes to half an hour. Will you stay where you are or come up again?’

Without those damned bags and the board I would have remained where I was, hanging in mid-air. As it was, I asked to come up, though much against my inclination, for it was quite a business in itself, nor is it good for morale to stay proceedings at the last moment and have to begin all over again. The job of passing out my baggage and then extricating myself, not to mention the intense heat of the shake-hole, caused me to perspire heavily in my woollens and waterproof overalls – an unfortunate circumstance, considering that I would soon have to plunge once more into the icy chasm.

Sitting on the ground, tired and roasting in my shell, I kept quite still in order not to aggravate the perspiration. Bidegain came up with a look of mingled concern and amusement. ‘Well, Casteret,’ he asked, ‘are you going to spend your fifty-seventh birthday underground this year?’ My birthday! Why of course; last year I had celebrated it (if I may use that phrase) in the chasm – I made a mental calculation and suddenly exclaimed: ‘Good heavens, no! Don’t suggest such a thing; there are twelve days to go.’

Half an hour later I was going down again quite normally and at a fair speed. Lépineux talked to me over the phone, ready with advice and encouragement until I reached the bottom.

Despite the weight of my baggage, I had to admit that I had been most skilfully harnessed; I was almost comfortable. Moreover, Robert Lévi, who is for ever improving and perfecting, had substituted for the usual groin-straps and webbing of parachute harness a wooden seat and canvas back-strap. This was a distinct advantage; for whereas a parachute drop very rarely lasts more than a few minutes, our journeys might take several hours, during which the old equipment was liable to cause cramp, or at least a good deal of discomfort. Seated in the ‘bosun’s chair’, I arrived at –257, and was glad to find that Lépineux had thoroughly cleaned up the sloping balcony. I unfastened my talisman, the board, and fixed it in position with a few sharp hammer blows. There it would constitute a little barrier which would stop and hold further falls of stones. I stepped over it, hung in mid-air, and gave the word, ‘Lower away!’ But some 12 feet lower down I ran into trouble.

‘Stop! Stop!’ I called.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing serious, but I’m stuck in a crevice,’ I replied, making violent efforts to free myself.

‘Casteret, you’ve lost your way,’ said Lépineux who knew ‘his’ pothole by heart; ‘you should have taken the right fork, not the left.’

‘I know; but these blasted kitbags have dragged me off the path down here. Haul me up a couple of yards.’

That was better; I had managed to release myself, and descended without further mishap to –425 where the shaft is full of crevices, fissures, and small ledges piled with rubble which I swept down into the void as I passed by.

While thus engaged I witnessed a phenomenon which, though not uncommon, is most alarming, particularly in that situation. My headlamp suddenly revealed a lump of rock poised on a balcony that sloped inwards. It stood on a bed of sand and wet gravel. Was I . . . No, there was no illusion; the thing was moving. The inclination of the shelf, and the water trickling over it, had caused the gravel-bed to shift. It began cascading over the edge, followed almost immediately by the projectile itself, which must have weighed about 12 lb. Instinctively, but to no purpose here, since I was alone in the shaft, I shouted, ‘Stone! Stone!’ then smiled at my own nervousness as I heard the missile ricochet and break to pieces far below . . .

From this point the shaft was very damp; the walls oozed moisture, and whenever I touched them with bare hands, I received a slight but most unpleasant electric shock through my earphones. I learned afterwards that it was due to defective insulation, which was remedied by Rossini, our electrician. Thus tormented, I came at length to –699. At first I hardly knew where I was, so greatly had the place altered since last year.

If Lépineux had been surprised yesterday at –257, I was staggered now by the pile of debris on this next ‘balcony’. With only a small geologist’s hammer slung from my belt, I experienced a sense of frustration, helplessness. Besides, there were those accursed bags hanging at my sides; they tired and almost paralysed me. Each of them weighed quite 44 lb, and I began to wonder what on earth Lévi had stuffed them with. It seemed he had packed me off with provisions for a month!

Never mind; I had my job to do, and I must get on with it. No less than two hours were necessary to complete this exhausting labour. During that time I struggled with feet and hands to dislodge, lift, and throw down rocks and small stones. The pile seemed never to diminish, and I was obliged at intervals to stop work and lie down, panting, between my sacks. I guessed they were becoming impatient up above; the delay must have appeared interminable, and they might well be asking whether I should ever reach the bottom. Thanks, however, to a loudspeaker erected near the winch, everyone could hear those avalanches of stone which I unleashed, and which incidentally were undermining my morale. It is not good to have to let loose repeated showers of rock inside a shaft, for they awaken the most dismal echoes which end by scaring even the most hardened explorer. As for the impatience of the surface team with those below, and vice versa, it is familiar to all speleologists.