power that were in possession before the identity of the victim was known.

Lying on the snow-slope was a prone body which resolved itself into Peter Rack, wrapped, as the neck of a giraffe-necked woman is wrapped in copper, from ankles to neck in coils of nylon. He looked like something out of the British Museum. His eyes were open, there was very little blood. It was obvious that he had rolled down the slope and the rope at the same time. His arms were pinioned to his sides.

As we started to unwind him, John Heap, with blood pouring down his face, came clawing up the slope.

Someone had been sent down for the stretcher and now the rest of the team arrived, summoned by the whistle. There seemed to be little wrong with Peter apart from concussion, yet he was semi-conscious and incapable of movement. John, despite his gashed head, seemed not too bad (head wounds bleed a lot, we reminded him cheerfully, and stuck his balaclava back on his head, hoping it would clot). He could walk without assistance and was sent under escort to the hut - about fifteen hundred feet below - while the rest of us remained with Peter.

I started to build a wall with chunks of wind-slab which I sliced out of the slope with my axe. The novices followed suit with a will. It kept them warm and provided a windbreak for Peter; it was snowing lightly now. A patient waiting for the stretcher prefers bustle and movement and talk about him. Even semi-conscious he is aware of these things. They gave the impression of something being done. Silence implies waiting and thinking - which means anxiety. We took turns to hold hs head in our laps, affording a little extra protection from the wind.

The stretcher arrived very quickly but to us, watching the breathing of the injured man, the waiting was an anxious period.

Now came the lower down the long snowfield, the laborious progress through the boulder fields under Carn Dearg, and then the three-mile carry down the glen. John Heap helped in the first part of the carry from the hut, but he was growing weaker rapidly, and eventually had to be assisted. In view of this it is extremely doubtful if he could have reached the valley without collapsing had he and Peter been climbing alone on the mountain.

The rescue party didn't stop, except to change bearers, until we reached the siding on the narrow-gauge railway above the Great Glen. Here the British Aluminium Factory keeps a bogie for just such contingencies, a bogie which has probably meant the saving of some lives at the most, and at the least the saving of much discomfort and energy on the part of many casualties and rescuers. The stretcher was loaded on to the bogie, we all attached ourselves like leeches to various parts of the mechanism, Dan took the brake off and we shot down the track like a meteorite.

It was dangerous, terrifying, exhilarating. When we came to the bridges over the deep ravines, the bogie lost its impetus and someone had to jump off and push; there was ample space for a man to slip between the sleepers, and afterwards one could only hope that we were all there. Peter slumbered on in our midst like a Viking chief on his way to Valhalla. I supposed that somewhere in this Laocoon-like mass a member of the team would be holding Heap firm, for he couldn't be fully conscious by now. Continue to Page 6