Free Paths of Glory by Jeffrey Archer Page B

moment the ice he was clinging to would shear off. Then one foot found a toehold, followed by the other. He held his breath, the fingers of his right hand almost glued to the ice above him. His strength was beginning to ebb away. He took some time before selecting the next rung of the ladder. Just three more, and he would be able to push himself through the chink of light. He picked the next rung carefully, and then the next, and at last he was able to punch a fist through the little crack above him. He would have cheered, but he couldn’t waste the time, as the last rays of sunlight were fast disappearing behind the highest peak.
    George pushed his head through the hole, and looked tentatively to his left and right. He didn’t need a manual to tell him it made sense to clear the snow around him if he was to have any chance of finding a rock or a hard place.
    He swept away with his bare hands until he uncovered a slab of rock that had recently been covered by the avalanche. Gathering all the strength he possessed, he hauled himself out of the hole and clung on to the edge of the rock. He didn’t hang around but, like a crab, scurried across its surface, fearful that he might slide back down the icy rock and return to the bottom of the crevasse.
    That was when he heard a voice singing “Waltzing Matilda.” No prizes for guessing who the soloist was. George continued his painful advance across the snow until the source of the voice took shape. Finch was sitting bolt upright repeating the chorus again and again. He clearly didn’t know the second verse.
    “Is that you, George?” Finch cried out as he peered through the falling snow.
    It was the first time Finch had ever called him by his Christian name. “Yes, it is!” George shouted as he crawled up to his side. “Are you all right?”
    “I’m just fine,” said Finch. “Apart from a broken leg, and the fact that the toes of my left foot are beginning to freeze up. I must have lost a boot somewhere along the way. What about you?”
    “Never better, old chap,” said George.
    “Bloody English,” said Finch. “If we’re to have any chance of getting out of here, you’ll need to find my torch.”
    “Where do I start looking?”
    “The last time I saw it, it was some way up the mountain.”
    George set off, like a toddler, on his hands and knees. He was beginning to despair until he spotted a black object resting in the snow a few yards ahead of him. He cheered. He cursed. It was only Finch’s missing boot. He struggled on until he was able to cheer again when he saw the handle of the torch sticking out of the snow. He grabbed at it, and prayed once more before flicking the switch. A beam of light glowed in the dusk. “Thank God,” he murmured, and returned down the mountain to where Finch was lying.
    No sooner had George reached him than they both heard the moan. “That must be Young,” said Finch. “Better go and see if you can help. But for God’s sake turn off that torch until the sun’s completely disappeared. If Odell spotted the avalanche from the hotel, a rescue party should be on their way by now, but they won’t reach us for hours.”
    George switched off the torch and began to crawl in the direction of the moan, but it was some time before he came across a body lying motionless in the snow, the right leg buckled under the left thigh.
    “Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda … ”
    George quickly cleared the snow around Young’s mouth, but made no attempt to move him.
    “Hold on, old friend,” he whispered in his ear. “Somervell and Herford should be on their way by now. They’re certain to be with us soon.” He only wished he believed his own words. He took Young’s hand and began to rub, trying to get some circulation back, all the time having to brush away the falling snow.
    “Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda, who’ll come a-waltzing, Matilda … ”

    Odell ran out of the front door of the