they tell me.’
‘I understand you were told by the Indian Government not to cross the border, but went anyway?’
‘That’s true.’
‘And Major Hamid went with you?’
‘Also true.’
Piroo shook his head. ‘Crazy Pathan. They’ll court martial him for this.’
‘No they won’t. He’s behind me right now with the Dalai Lama. I only came ahead to confirm their arrival time. Hamid will be an instant hero to every Indian on this continent.’
‘Perhaps not, my friend.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Chavasse demanded.
‘Oh, that’s for my boss to tell you.’
Chavasse sat there, frowning and they came over a rise and saw a number of Nissen huts below, beside an airstrip. The aircraft parked at one end had twin engines and was painted white.
‘A Navajo,’ Chavasse said. ‘What’s that doing here?’
‘A quick link with the lowlands. Supplies, communications. The Airstair door means we can get stretchers in.’
‘And why the white strip?’
‘So that if I stray over the border it will make it more difficult for the Chinese to shoot me down.’ Piroo smiled. ‘Oh, yes, Mr Chavasse. I am the pilot. Indian Air Force, not Army.’ And he drove down the track.
* * *
It was warm in the Nissen hut as the four officers and Chavasse leaned over the map on the table. Colonel Ram Singh was small and fierce with a thin moustache, the medal ribbons on his shirt making a fine show.
‘Not good, Mr Chavasse, not good. I can tell you unofficially that Prime Minister Nehru and the Indian Government are prepared to receive the Dalai Lama. Piroo here was to fly him out as soon as he arrived.’
‘Which isn’t likely now, I’m afraid,’ Piroo said. ‘I made an overflight, quite illegally, of course.’ His finger touched the map. ‘Here is the Dalai Lama’s column. I’d estimate by now about fifteen miles to go.’ He indicated again. ‘And here, twenty-five miles behind them a Chinese column coming up fast, jeeps, not horses. Certain to catch them before the border.’
Chavasse examined the map carefully. ‘When did you see all this?’
‘An hour ago. Not much more.’
Chavasse nodded. ‘I came that way myself. The terrain is terrible. Even a jeep is lucky to cover ten miles in an hour. Rough ground and boulders everywhere.’
‘So?’ Ram Singh said.
‘That means the Chinese are still on the other side of the Cholo Gorge. Hundreds of feet deep. There’s an old wooden bridge there. It’s the only way across. Destroy that and they’ve had it. The Dalai Lama will be home free.’
‘An attractive idea, Mr Chavasse, but if you are suggesting that Lieutenant Piroo should somehow bomb their bridge, I must say no. Chinese territory; that is what they claim and we are not at war with China.’
‘Well, I am.’ Chavasse turned to Piroo. ‘You carry parachutes on that thing.’
‘Of course.’
Chavasse said to Ram Singh, ‘Meet me half-way, Colonel. You’ve already allowed Piroo to fly over there. Let him volunteer again. You find me some explosives. On the way in we drop a message to the Dalai Lama’s column to alert Hamid as to what’s going on, then I’ll parachute in at the bridge and blow it up.’
‘But what happens after?’ Piroo demanded. ‘You’ll be all alone out there on foot.’
‘Hopefully Hamid will ride back for me.’
There was a long silence; all the officers exchanged glances. The Colonel looked down at the map, drumming his fingers on it. He glanced up.
‘You would do this, Lieutenant?’ he asked Piroo.
‘My pleasure, Colonel.’
‘Madness,’ Ram Singh said. ‘Total madness.’ Suddenly he smiled. ‘We’d better get cracking, Mr Chavasse. Not much time.’
* * *
Ram Singh said, ‘A very simple explosive, Mr Chavasse.’ He opened an army haversack and produced one of several dark-green blocks. ‘We get it from the French Army.’
‘Plastique,’ Chavasse said.
‘Totally harmless until used in conjunction with one of these timer pencils.’ He held a few up. ‘Five-minute fuses, but the two with yellow ends are two minutes.’
Chavasse took the haversack on his back and pushed his arms through the straps. One of the officers helped him into a parachute, another gave him a Sten-gun with two magazines taped together which he draped across his chest.
Ram Singh picked up a weighted signal can with a great scarlet streamer attached to it. ‘The message for Major Hamid. It tells him exactly what you intend.’ Ram Singh put a hand on Chavasse’s shoulder. ‘I hope he finds it possible to, how shall I put it, to retrieve you, my friend?’
‘He’s a Pathan,’ Chavasse said simply. ‘You know what they’re like. He’d walk into the jaws of hell just to have a look.’ He smiled. ‘I’d better get moving.’
Ram Singh pulled on a parka and led the way out. It was snowing a little, loose flakes on the wind and very cold. They crossed to the Navajo, where Piroo already had the engines warming up. Chavasse paused at the bottom of the Airstair door and Ram Singh shook hands and saluted.
‘As God wills, my friend.’
Chavasse smiled, went up the steps and pushed the door shut. Piroo glanced over his shoulder, boosted power and they roared along the airstrip and lifted off.
In spite of the layers of clothing he wore, Chavasse was cold – very cold – and he found breathing difficult. He looked out of the window to a landscape as barren as the moon, snow-covered peaks on either side. Now and then they dropped sickeningly in an air pocket and were constantly buffeted by strong winds.
Piroo glanced over his shoulder and shouted above the roar of the engines.
‘I’ll curve round to the gorge first. Let’s make sure the Chinese are still on the other side before we communicate with Hamid.’
‘Fine,’ Chavasse told him.
They entered low cloud which enveloped them for five minutes, came out on the other side and there was the gorge below, the bridge in clear view. Even clearer was the Chinese column perhaps a quarter of a mile on the other side, racing towards the bridge very fast over what was at that point a flat plain.
‘No time to hang around. They’ll be at the bridge in ten minutes,’ Chavasse shouted. ‘I’m on my way. Take me down to five hundred.’
Piroo dropped the nose, the Navajo went down and levelled out. Chavasse moved awkwardly because of the bulk of his equipment and released the Airstair door. There was a great rush of air. He waited until they were as close to the bridge as possible and tumbled out head first.
Hamid dismounted and waited while one of the Tibetan freedom fighters galloped to where the signal can lay on the snow, the scarlet streamer plain. The man leaned down from the saddle, picked up the can and galloped back.
Hamid was a typical Pathan, a large man, very tall, dark-skinned with a proud look to his bearded face. Behind him the column had stopped as everyone waited. The horseman arrived and handed over the can. Hamid opened it and took out the message and read it. He swore softly.
From behind, a voice called, ‘What is it, Major Hamid?’
The Dalai Lama, covered by sheepskins, lay on a kind of trailer pulled by a horse for he