and now it was all boulder fields and a tortuous descent on frozen moss around and between steep little drops to the lower glen.

I ripped off my crampons, the rucksacks, the salvaged ropes, stuck my axe in the ground and went running on, praying not to sprain an ankle.

I burst into the hut and found three members of a mountaineering course drinking tea. They were an elderly man, a lad and a girl. They had sent a fourth lad up with the blankets but I'd missed him on the descent. None of them knew the Ben or the position of Coire na Ciste. They were tired after carrying heavy packs up from Fort William, and one had just arrived from London. I absorbed this, considered it and rejected it, while I sipped at a cup of tea and woundered how much longer the boy in the corrie would last. After some chivvying we got away from the hut.

I sent the girl up the glen towards the North-East Buttress with instructions to try to get Hamish down from his climb but not to venture on the cliff herself, merely to shout loudly. Then I started leading the way across the grass towards the steep ascent to the corrie. The elderly man and the lad were carrying the stretcher. Very shortly I relieved the former of his end. He relinquished it reluctantly: “Yes, well, I shall have to carry it on the way down.“ You and the rest, I thought grimly, taking the handles and prodding the leader up the route to the corrie. We were unco-ordinated, and where I pushed him unmercifully at the foot of the steep bits, he dragged me protesting over their lips.

Lees came down to meet us and, to my disgust, relieved the other man of his end. The pace quickened. A little higher, a stranger appeared (this was the man who had carried up the blankets). With a nice sense of timing he offered me a hand as I was negotiating the iced outfall from the lochan. Both my hands were occupied with the stretcher so I gave him that instead.

Catherine and Lees had got the injured man to the floor of the corrie where the snow stopped. They had straightened his leg and wrapped him in a casualty bag. He was trapped down.

Lees went in front, one of the younger men at the back. Catherine and I were on either side of the rear man. The other lad and the elderly man had the fifth and sixth places. I doubt if such a carry has ever been accomplished by such a motley crew. For the first half of the descent (which was the steepest and roughest) Lees - who could see his feet - went at a gruelling pace. We three at the back, who were walking blind, were stumbling continually. Lees insisted constantly that a man's life depended on our speed. We set our teeth and said nothing. I realised that even the best team leaders must sometimes be hated by their men. At one point all three of us in the rear, having fallen but refusing to relinquish our stretcher, were on our knees but - resembling religious fanatics - still making some sort of progress through a boulder field. The casualty's face was set and he made no sound. Either he was naturally stocical or Catherine had administered morphia - or both, for sometimes morphia has no effect.

At length I was moved to protest on behalf of the rear men, and we changed positions, Lees taking the end. As soon as we started again, he shouted that we were going too fast.

Despite the differences of opinion the carry was conducted at professional speed, and Continue to Page 11