Treachery in Tibet by John Wilcox Page B

just over 14,000 feet high. That’s where Younghusband and Macdonald and a whole damned army have gone.’
    He looked around him. Apart from perhaps twenty or so roughhuts, Gnatong had indeed become an army camp. Khaki tents stretched out onto the arid plain and the place was a-bustle with pack ponies, yaks, bullocks and mules, all being herded into separate enclosures by handlers, while other coolies stacked sacks and wooden boxes marked ‘Ammunition – Handle with Care’ nearby. Grazing fodder was being pitchforked into piles and firewood tied into bundles ready for loading. A handful of sapper NCOs were vainly trying to apply some sort of order, while even fewer officers observed the scene and stamped their feet to restore circulation. The sun shone from a cloudless sky but it was cold.
    ‘Bloody ’ell, bach sir,’ muttered Jenkins, ‘if it’s as parky as this down ’ere, what’s it goin’ to be like at that Jallopie Laa place up there? ’Ow ’igh did you say it was?’
    ‘About 14,000 feet, I am told. But it gets even higher on the road to Lhasa. Something like 17,000 at a place called Karo La.’ He grinned. ‘Glad you joined, 352?’
    ‘Oh instat, egstiteted …’
    ‘Ecstatic?’ prompted Alice.
    ‘That’s what I said. Let’s find somewhere where I can put the kettle on.’
    They trotted on until Fonthill found an officer who led them to where they could pitch their tents – one housing Alice and Simon and a second for Jenkins and Sunil – in the lee of a small wooden building that gave some protection from the wind. Then, while Jenkins and Sunil erected the tents and Alice sought kindling for a fire, Simon set off in search of the officer commanding the post.
    He found him, a tired-looking major, huddled in a bell tent behind a trestle table piled with requisition orders and what appeared to betables of loading weights. The man jumped to his feet when Fonthill introduced himself.
    ‘Glad to see you have made it safely from Siliguri, sir,’ he said. ‘I was told to expect you.’
    Simon pulled up a camp stool. ‘There were no problems for us, Major. The way ahead was as plain as a pikestaff. It was clear that a bloody great army – or so it seemed – had tramped on before us.’
    The Major smiled wistfully. ‘Not as great as all that, actually, sir. But big enough to cause us all problems.’ He jerked his head to the north-east. ‘Trouble is that everything has to be carried in from the railhead at Siliguri and then loaded up here again and sent up there, higher into the mountains proper. Suitably guarded, of course.’
    He sighed. ‘There is no fodder up there above the treeline and no damned fuel for fires, either, so everything has to be carried on the backs of our animals, coolies and even the soldiers themselves. What’s more, to get here, everything has had to come through the Tista Valley where anthrax, rinderpest and foot and mouth disease are rampant. We have already lost God knows how many animals from them eating aconite, a sort of poisonous plant known back home as monkshood or wolfsbane.’ He shook his head.
    Fonthill frowned. ‘And all this before we meet any opposition from the Tibetans?’
    ‘Exactly. We’ve seen nothing of them so far.’
    ‘Hmmm. We are hoping to leave and start the big climb tomorrow. Is there a pack train due to go then?’
    ‘Oh yes. It will leave at dawn. I do suggest you go along with it. It is not easy going by any means. The column will have stamped down the snow at the top but the trail is covered in packed ice and it’s asslippery as all hell. You will have to lead your horses. Do any of you suffer from mountain sickness?’
    Simon wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes, I’ve been worried about that. But all three of us have roughed it high up in Afghanistan and the Hindu Kush without trouble …’
    The Major shook his head. ‘Not the same. The route to Gyantse is much higher. And …’ he blew out his cheeks, ‘if we have to go on to Lhasa