Annapurna (3 page)

Louis Lachenal had been an amateur, climbing for his own pleasure, until he became, a few years ago, an instructor at the National School of Ski-ing and Mountaineering. To the inhabitants of Chamonix he ranked as a ‘foreigner’, which means that he was not a native of the valley – he came from Annecy. In spite of this
dubious
origin, as it seemed to the local people, who are jealous of their mountains, he had succeeded, along with Gaston Rébuffat and Lionel Terray, in being admitted to the Company of Guides of Chamonix, a body unique both for the quality and number of its members. He was of medium height, with a piercing eye, and in conversation could administer a very pretty repartee. He loved exaggeration in everything, and his judgments could be devastating. Absolutely honest with himself, he was perfectly ready, if occasion arose, to own himself in the wrong. As often as they could manage it he and Lionel Terray would go off together, as amateurs, to enjoy themselves on the finest climbs in the Alps.

Lionel Terray, although a native of Grenoble, was also a Chamonix guide, and he and Lachenal formed a crack partnership: they were a couple of regular steam-engines. Like his friend, Terray had a weakness for dogmatic and exaggerated statements, and there was continuous rivalry between them to see who could go one better than the other. Terray was unbeatable and would never give in. Although the son of a doctor, and a highly cultured man, he liked to be thought a well-meaning tough, all brawn and nothing more. It was pure love of the mountains that brought him to climbing, and he was entirely happy as a guide. During the war he farmed a holding at Les Houches; anyone who came to help him there had to be fond of mountains and of hard work – and he measured their capacities by his own. He went over to Canada last year to teach the new French method of ski-ing, and brought back some notable additions to his repertory of curses. ‘Just now,’ he wrote to me, ‘I am ski-ing
en tabernacle
’ – ski-ing like hell. He was in Canada at the moment and would get back only a week before we sailed. Until then everything had to be done by letter.

Gaston Rébuffat had a scandalous origin for a mountaineer, and even worse for a guide. He was born at the seaside! It would take the Company of Guides many years to live this down. All the same, it was on the cliffs of the Calanques, between Marseilles and Cassis, that he did his first climbs. He was the tallest man of the party, towering over the rest of us by nearly a head. He had done all the finest expeditions in the Alps, and thought nothing of going straight on from one big climb to another without a rest between. His young wife, Françoise, and his daughter seldom saw him during the season’s round of Chamonix, Cortina d’Ampezzo, Zermatt and
so
on. He was away in Italy giving a series of lectures, but I had asked him to return at once.

These men formed the assault parties, and no better men could be found in France. No one disputed this – not even secretly. If a vote had been taken among climbers, the same names would have been put forward.

Nor was there any question about our camera-man: Marcel Ichac indeed was one of our trump cards. He had already been to the Himalaya, in 1936, and had taken part in a great many expeditions. As soon as he arrived I should have the benefit of his advice, but just now he was in Greenland with Paul-Emile Victor, and immediately afterwards he would be off to the USA to film the world ski championships, at Aspen, arriving back only a few days before we left for India. He would have several jobs to do. Not only would he film the expedition, he would be responsible for everything connected with photography. We should each have a camera, but the maintenance, supply and care of all the films would be his business. Collecting and documenting our scientific observations would be another responsibility of this intelligent, enterprising and lively-minded man. Ichac had managed to solve one of the climber’s biggest problems – a wife is always a risk! – by marrying another climber.

We hoped Jacques Oudot would be our MO. He was a first-class surgeon, and we should all be able to treat ourselves to the luxury of a fracture. But he was up to his eyes in work, and had very prudently given orders that he must not be disturbed at the Salpêtrière hospital where he performed vascular surgical operations under the direction of his chief, Mondor. The things he dared to do appeared so incredible to me that I was always asking him, ‘And d’you mean to say he didn’t die?’ Simplicity of ignorance! Anyway, my questions about surgery always seemed to cause him great amusement. There are not many surgeons who climb, and I knew from personal experience how invaluable Oudot would be to us.

‘Oudot, have you made up your mind?’

‘Just now I am very busy.’ His shrewd little eyes blinked cagily. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ he would promise.

This performance had been going on for a week; Devies and I were on tenterhooks. Two days before our departure we finally
dragged
from him the longed-for ‘yes’. His job would be to keep us all in good health, to deal with emergency ailments and accidents, and also to keep me constantly informed about the physical condition of the party and their degree of acclimatization. In addition he would exercise his skill upon the local populations.

There was one thorny question: the liaison officer. Our preference was for a Frenchman whom we should be likely to get on with and to understand. Robert Tézenas du Montcel had spoken to us, a few days previously, of a young diplomat at the Embassy in New Delhi. A lot would be required of him: as well as English he must know and speak Hindustani and the principal local languages – Gurkhali and Tibetan. He would have to arrange all the transport and would also be responsible for good diplomatic relations with the Nepalese authorities in the capital of Katmandu as well as in the regions through which we should be travelling. Francis de Noyelle seemed the ideal person. Furthermore he was entirely at home in the mountains, being himself an ardent climber – an indispensable requirement in our party.

Noyelle was the only one I did not know, but his parents and his sister gave me such a clear picture of him that I had the feeling I was dealing with a friend. He was a well-built, self-reliant, keen-eyed young man, accustomed to dealing with the local high-ups. Not long ago he made a trip to Katmandu with Monsieur Daniel Levi, our Ambassador to India and Nepal, who enjoys considerable prestige in these countries. He took part in the negotiations which succeeded in obtaining the rarely granted permission to penetrate far into Nepalese territory. In India, Professor Rahaul, who had himself already taken part in several Himalayan Expeditions, would help Noyelle in Darjeeling to recruit the Sherpas
¹
whom for the most part he knew personally.

That was our party – all tough chaps, all men of marked individuality and striking character. All of them ardently wished to go to the Himalaya which we had talked about for so many years. Lachenal put it in a nutshell: ‘We’d go if we had to crawl there.’

Let me put it clearly on record that their zeal for the adventure
was
entirely disinterested. From the start every one of them knew that nothing belonged to him and that he must expect nothing on his return.
²
Their only motive was pure idealism; this was what linked together mountaineers so unlike in character and of such widely dissimilar origins.

In the days remaining before our departure Schatz and I went round to hustle up all the firms supplying our equipment. Our arms were sore from all the injections we had to undergo: yellow fever, cholera, smallpox. But who cared?

On the evening of March 28th the Himalayan Committee met for the last time with all the members of the Expedition present. Lucien Devies, the President and chief promoter of the Expedition, outlined a history of Himalayan achievement and specified just what he expected of us:

‘The Himalaya, by their size,
³
fully merit the title of “the third pole”. Twenty-two expeditions of different nationalities have tried to conquer an “eight-thousander”. Not one has succeeded.’

Then he defined our objectives:

‘Dhaulagiri, 8167 metres [26,795 feet], or Annapurna 8075 metres [26,493 feet] in the very heart of Nepal. Should these prove impossible – and that would be no disgrace – “consolation” summits ought to be attained. With its six tons of equipment and provisions the Expedition must cross the Indian frontier and penetrate into hitherto forbidden Nepalese territory. After a march of three weeks up into the high valleys, the party will arrive at Tukucha, the Chamonix of Nepal, which enjoys a remarkable geographical situation. It lies between Dhaulagiri and Annapurna. Until now Himalayan expeditions have picked objectives in regions already known and explored. But we have absolutely no information about our two “eight-thousanders”. We know nothing about the approach routes, and the maps at the Expedition’s disposal are sketchy, and practically useless above a certain height. So that as soon as the party reach Tukucha, their headquarters, they must begin by reconnoitring the two massifs. Only after they have become familiar
with
the lie of the land, and have drawn up a plan of attack, will they be able to launch the attempt …’

Devies went on to say that investigations must be carried out – medical, geological, ethnographical, meteorological and geographical.
⁴

Clearly it was a tremendous undertaking; but I had complete faith in my colleagues. Our party was the best that could be assembled, and we all appreciated each other’s individual qualities. Our stores and equipment further increased our confidence. French industry had made an exceptional effort, and in very few months had produced equipment which combined the maximum of strength, lightness and convenience.

The dull and dreary office in which we were meeting took on that evening an imposing and solemn air. There was nothing to add. After this silence we should be launched upon extraordinary adventures which we could not as yet picture but of which as mountaineers we could form an idea. The bridges were now down between those grave, judicious persons on the one side, and, on the other, the bronzed and vigorous members of the expedition.

Then suddenly Lucien Devies stood up. After a moment, and carefully enunciating each syllable, he said:

‘This, gentlemen, is the oath which, like your predecessors in 1936, you must take: “I swear upon my honour to obey the leader of the Expedition in everything in which he may command me regarding the Expedition.”’

Mountaineers don’t much care for ceremonial. My colleagues stood up, feeling both awkward and impressed. What were they supposed to do?

‘Now, gentlemen … your turn Matha, since you are the senior’ – and he turned towards Marcel Ichac.

Henry de Ségogne, who had led the 1936 expedition, and had spared neither pains nor advice to help the next one get started, was equal to the occasion. ‘Come on, Matha,’ said Ségogne. Terray’s almost timid answer could be heard at the same time as Ichac’s. In turn my colleagues swore to obey the leader of the
Expedition
in all circumstances, especially at moments of crisis. They were pledging their lives, possibly, and they knew it. They all put themselves completely in my hands. I should have liked to say a few words, but I just couldn’t do it. There is no feeling to equal this complete confidence of one man in another, because it is the sum of so many other feelings put together. In that moment our partnership was born. It was for me to keep it alive.

The Committee acted in princely fashion – if they gave me all the responsibility, they also gave me an entirely free hand. As this memorable session drew to a close I felt very sad about one matter: Pierre Allain, that great figure of French mountaineering, who had done so much for us, would not be coming. His health, which had been undermined during the war, no longer allowed him to undertake long expeditions. I knew, better than anyone, just how much the Himalaya meant to him, and tonight was for him a Paradise Lost. But his face showed no hint of it. He even smiled, for he was delighted to see us set off. Far away in Asia we should often think of the friend who was fated to stay behind.

¹
Sherpas are Buddhists from a high valley in the cast of Nepal. They are mountaineers and are semi-professionals on Himalayan expeditions. They are engaged by contract.

²
Every source of income, without exception, will go to form a fund for subsequent expeditions.

³
The chain of the Himalaya extends for about 1800 miles. It includes something like 200 summits of over 7000 metres (23,000 feet), and 14 over 8000 metres (26,000 feet).

⁴
The geological investigations of the Expedition have been communicated to the Académie des Sciences (meeting of April 23rd, 1951). With the aid of the information collected the general lines of structure of the Central Himalaya have been traced.

2

The Himalaya

THE MOMENT WE
took off, Oudot, who was dead tired, fell asleep. He hardly woke until we reached Delhi, though from time to time he would open an eye to grumble: ‘Damn these stops!’ Or sometimes to ask Ichac, ‘How’s my little mouse? Take care she doesn’t escape.’ This particular little mouse was going to be a godsend to Indian doctors. It belonged to a strain of which pure specimens, no longer to be found in India, are essential in the study of certain types of malaria.

India at last! There was a perfect moment when, looking at the view through a window, I could conjure up the ancient city of Mohenjo Daro, the invasion of the Aryans, and that earliest monument of mankind, the Vedas.

Our Ambassador, Monsieur Daniel Lévi, and the staff of the Embassy at New Delhi were on the landing-ground at Palem to welcome us and help us with all the official complications. At the Indian Customs they had never before seen an expedition arrive lock, stock and barrel by plane.

‘I wish to see a complete list, in English, of everything you are taking with you, with details of the weight, value, size …’