Free Conquistadors of the Useless by Geoffrey Sutton Lionel Terray David Roberts

moult liberally, and someone had told me that shaving the head would put off the evil hour – but in this as in so many other things life lost no time in showing me the extent of my naiveté!
    At Annecy we had two hours to wait for the Chamonix coach, so we went off to the nearest hairdresser’s. At the time of our condemnation Gaston, as befitted an idealist above the opinions and flatteries of the world, had affected the noblest disinterest in his capillary system. Now, face to face with the secular arm, he suddenly lost his pride. At the idea of imminently seeing his thick, curly locks lying at his feet, he was thrown into confusion. Forcing a thin smile, he asked me shyly:
    â€˜Do you think the old man would be satisfied with a very short brush-cut?’
    But I replied:
    â€˜Aren’t you ashamed of yourself at the idea of cheating like that? Orders are orders, and our duty is to carry them out to the bitter end. Boy! Bring the razor, and let it shine.’
    So I sat there radiating pleasure and malice as I watched my head assuming the appearance of a billiard ball, while Gaston’s naturally long face grew longer still as his head was turned into a sort of tubercle covered in bumps and hollows. But his good nature soon got the better of him, and during the next few days he got everyone to finger his bumps, averring that one was the bump of mathematics, another the bump of business acumen, and so on.
    Next day André Tournier, the guide in command of the Montenvers camp, had a bad few minutes as he watched two men climbing towards him whose shaven scalps shone in the gay morning sunlight like those of German soldiers! At that time such visits were apt to be worrying.
    Situated next to the old Montenvers Hotel, justly noted for its magnificent site above the Mer de Glace, the so-called camp was installed in some disused stables that had been roughly converted into dormitories. Each Sunday some thirty virtual beginners would arrive from Beaufort for a one-week course in mountain climbing. There were theoretically five of us to look after the whole lot, but one was old and often tired or ill, and another would only lead parties on the very easiest climbs. For practical purposes there were only the three of us: André Tournier our chief, Rébuffat and myself. Despite his small stature, Tournier had Herculean strength, and his chest was of the proportions of a wardrobe. Aquiline, sallow, dark-eyed, with thick black hair, he might have passed for an Oriental if his deeply-chiselled features, stamped with decision, had not lent to his face rather the beauty of an ideal mediaeval knight. He was a man of exceptional character in the prime of life, and a truly fine guide into the bargain. Authoritative and violent, he was also upright and just, and by contrast with many guides he did not hold my urban origins against me. Having discerned my ability to outlast many born mountaineers, he treated me like a friend. It was the same with Rébuffat, under whose phlegmatic and almost smooth exterior he recognised the exceptional driving force.
    As often happens in September, the weather remained immovably fine, and thanks to this we were able to take half our beginners every day on to some summit or other. In this way all of them were able to get in three climbs per course. The actual climbs were not very difficult but none the less called for a certain technique, and they were relatively long. As each of the instructors towed three or four beginners behind him, chiefly distinguished by a total lack of aptitude, it will be easy to imagine the slowness of our progress up routes like the Blaitière, and the patience required to get everyone to the top and back again in good order. We would set out at three or four in the morning and quite frequently not get back till seven or eight o’clock at night. It would have seemed a hellish life to a good many people, and it would have been natural if these