Our polar flight

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Title: Our polar flight
Author: Amundsen, Roald, Ellsworth, Lincoln
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Our polar flight" ***

Transcriber’s Notes: Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. Other notes
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OUR POLAR FLIGHT

[Illustration: BEFORE WE LEFT WE PLANTED OUR NORWEGIAN FLAG]

OUR
POLAR FLIGHT

_The Amundsen-Ellsworth Polar Flight_

ROALD AMUNDSEN
LINCOLN ELLSWORTH

AND

OTHER MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION

ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
TAKEN ON THE EXPEDITION

[Illustration]

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1925

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. BY
The Quinn & Boden Company

BOOK MANUFACTURERS
RAHWAY NEW JERSEY

CONTENTS

PAGE
PART I: THE EXPEDITION 1
BY ROALD AMUNDSEN

PART II: THE AMUNDSEN-ELLSWORTH POLAR FLIGHT 101
BY LINCOLN ELLSWORTH

PART III: THE NAVIGATOR’S TASK 141
BY LIEUT. HJALMAR RIISER-LARSEN

PART IV: REPORT ABOUT N 24 FROM THE START UNTIL
WE JOINED N 25 AND ITS CREW ON THE
26TH MAY 219
BY L. DIETRICHSON

PART V: WHILST WE WAIT 253
LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF FREDRIK RAMM
FROM MAY 21ST TO JUNE 18TH

PART VI: THE WEATHER 341
BY JAKOB BJERKENS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Before We Left We Planted our Norwegian Flag _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE
Lincoln Ellsworth 2

The Directors of the King’s Bay Coal Company, Messrs. Brandal
and Knutsen 3

Sailmaker Rönne 3

“Fram” Moored to the Ice at the Edge of King’s Bay 22

Unloading 22

The Games on May 17th 23

The Planes Were Put Together Near the Coal Company’s Workshops 23

The Crew of N 25: Riiser-Larsen, Amundsen, Feucht 38

The Crew of N 24: Ellsworth, Dietrichson, Omdal 38

Photograph of Amundsen’s Machine Taken in Flight 39

When the Two Planes Were Near Each Other 54

A New Lead Opening in the Ice 55

Getting Ready for a Fresh Start 55

Collecting Snow Blocks for a Run-way 70

Trying Out Our Bulb Sextants 71

Fast in the Ice 71

Members of the Expedition Arriving at King’s Bay 92

Roald Amundsen and Lincoln Ellsworth at the Reception by the
King of Norway 93

Lincoln Ellsworth and N 24 Just Before the Start 104

The Polar Sea from the Sky 105

N 25 Above the Polar Pack Just Before Landing at 87° 44’ 118

N 24 and Our Arctic Home 119

Ellsworth, Amundsen, Larsen and Feucht with the Implements
with Which They Moved 300 Tons of Ice 134

Lincoln Ellsworth After the Trip 135

Captain Roald Amundsen, Just Before the Take-off from Spitzbergen 150

Just Before the Take-off 151

Our Footgear 151

Taking the Wings Out of Their Boxes 166

Setting Up the Wings 166

Mounting the Wings 167

The Last Meeting Before the Flight 167

The Edge of the Polar Ice Pack 182

Our Last Hope for a Take-off 183

Disembarking from the _Sjoliv_ at King’s Bay 198

Members of the Expedition After Their First Dinner Ashore 199

Our First Solid Camp 199

Preparing the Planes for Their Arctic Flight 214

The Last View of Spitzbergen 215

Edge of the Polar Pack 215

The _Sjoliv_, the Sealer That Picked Them Up 230

At Brandy Bay, Northeast Land, on the Way Home 231

Amundsen--Before the Trip 246

Amundsen--After 246

Ellsworth--Before 246

Ellsworth--After 246

Riiser-Larsen--Before 247

Riiser-Larsen--After 247

Dietrichson--Before 247

Dietrichson--After 247

Omdal--Before 262

Omdal--After 262

Feucht--Before 262

Feucht--After 262

The Explorers at Oslo 263

The Two Meteorologists 344

N 25 on the Way to Oslo 344

Route of the Amundsen-Ellsworth Flight 345

The Course of the Ships on Watch 356

Territory Explored by the Flight Expedition 357

PART I

THE EXPEDITION

BY ROALD AMUNDSEN

[Illustration: LINCOLN ELLSWORTH]

[Illustration: THE DIRECTORS OF THE KING’S BAY COAL COMPANY, MESSRS.
BRANDAL AND KNUTSEN]

[Illustration: SAILMAKER RÖNNE]

THROUGH THE AIR TO 88° NORTH

The day the brothers Wright rose and flew the curtain went up on a new
era in the history of mankind. Many were certain that they could see
great possibilities opening up for mankind in general, and particularly
for them in their own branch of work, but few, I think, saw such
possibilities of making a full and complete change in his work as the
Polar explorer. What he has tried for years to accomplish would now
be possible for him to achieve in a very short space of time. Century
after century had he worked with his primitive means, the dog--the
sledge. Day after day he had exerted himself with all his craft, all
his intelligence, and all his will, yet had only covered a few miles
over the vast ice desert. What courage, what tenacity, had been shown
in the fight against cold, hunger and hardships. What a brilliant
example of sacrifice and self-denial. Year after year shut up in a tiny
little ship, surrounded by the same people, equipped with only the most
necessary things, he had worked up to this time through the greatest of
difficulties, through the hardest tests--cold and darkness. And now,
all at once, in one moment, the whole of this was to be changed. Cold
and darkness should be dispersed becoming warmth and light instead;
for the complete and troublesome journey should be changed now to a
speedy flight. In truth the possibilities were great. No rationing,
no hunger or thirst--only a short flight. As in a dream, seen as a
far-away possibility, there was ignited that day a small spark which
should quickly blaze up to a mighty fire and in the course of a few
years become one of our most important means of communication. Emerging
from its swaddling-clothes, flying freed itself and went into its
cradle when Bleriot flew across the Channel. It was then speedily led
by the world’s war through its childhood where it (developing with
the years--slowly or quickly who can say?) was led into youth--into
manhood! What the possibilities would become it was difficult to say,
but one had to be satisfied with what was there--flying’s childhood.
The young inexperienced birds leaving their nests show us an example.
Some will hurt their wings, others will break them altogether, but, it
is just as certain that, just as they do, so will mankind also succeed
in reaching his goal in the world of flying.

As I learned of Bleriot’s flight, I knew at once that the time
had come to think of using the air to help the Polar expeditions.
Certainly human power and skill had overcome and conquered vast
tracts of this mighty unknown whiteness, but enormous tracts remained
unexplored--tracts which now could be reached from the air. My
thoughts turned especially to the enormous area in the Arctic which
until now had withstood every attempt. Certainly Nansen, the Duke of
the Abruzzi, and Peary had drawn lines through the unknown doing great
and brilliant work, but colossal and unknown tracts still lay in front
of them unexplored. Should we have had to continue exploration in
the same old manner we should have had to wait many years before our
knowledge had become complete. If one _had_ used the word “impossible”
it seems absolutely reasonable to have used it in connection with the
exploration of this immense ice desert; but it seems that the word
“impossible” has been scratched out of the dictionary of mankind. How
often have we seen the impossible made possible! What was impossible
yesterday is an easy matter to-day. Bleriot’s flight across the Channel
showed me the conquering of the impossible. When I, in the year 1909,
equipped the “Fram” for a trip to the Arctic, I had a conference with
one of the most esteemed aviators of the day. He declared himself as
willing to go with me. But it never came off, a fact which probably
was for the best, as in the case of both parties it was put off on
economical grounds. I mention this in order to draw attention to the
fact that the idea of exploring the Polar regions from the air is not
a recent plan. I have been attacked from many sides because I have
“_stolen_” the plans of others; this seems to me childish and scarcely
worth talking about, but many people take childish things for grim
earnest if they have not a closer knowledge of the circumstances.
Therefore, these few words.

In 1914 I managed to get sufficient means to buy my first aeroplane
for use in Arctic exploration. As an independent means of transport
in those vast tracts it certainly could not be used where all
circumstances seemed to be against it, but, in conjunction with a
mother-ship, would be of invaluable service. It was therefore my
intention to take it on board the “Fram,” which at that time was ready
to begin its journey north, and there to use it in the best possible
way. What immense areas would it not be possible to observe in an
Arctic trip if one only was able to rise a few thousand yards? By what
I had seen of the ice I was certain one could always find flat places
to rise from and to land on. But later experience showed me that it
takes an aviator to express an opinion about landing conditions amidst
Polar ice, and not an Arctic explorer. What the second considers to be
a flat plateau can be absolutely useless in the opinion of the first.

My first aeroplane was a Farman biplane mounted on skis. We scarcely
could have got any benefit from this. Later years’ experience shows me
that. The war broke out in the meantime and put a stop to that part of
my program. But then, as so often later in life, I experienced the
fact that an apparent obstacle often had the opposite effect. Flying
technique at that time took enormous steps forward; the child shot up,
grew, and learned to move on its own account.

In 1921 the world’s record for the longest sojourn in the air reached
about twenty-seven hours on a Junker machine in America. It was a
monoplane, built entirely of aluminum, and therefore specially suitable
for working in the Polar regions. Sun, cold, snow, and rain would
not hurt it. I was living at that time in Seattle, Washington, where
“Maud” lay, being equipped for a new journey north. As soon as that
news reached me my decision was made. Such a machine I must have at
all costs. With such an apparatus the impossible would become almost
possible. The door to the Unknown seemed to me to be opening, but my
hopes were dashed and the door remained locked for many years still.
The machine at last was obtained and Lieutenant Omdal appointed to be
its pilot. In May, 1922, we decided, as soon as we had learned to know
the machine, to fly from the works in New York over America to Seattle.
The engine failed as we were over the town of Marion in Pennsylvania,
and we had to make an irritating forced landing in the Oil Fields.
The machine was entirely ruined; a new one was hastily ordered, sent
through America by rail just in time to be taken on board the “Maud.”
Simultaneously the well-known American Curtis Aeroplane Factory put at
our disposal a small reconnoitring machine. Therefore, as the “Maud”
sailed in 1922 she was completely equipped, not only for a trip through
the ice, but also for exploration from the air. The Curtis machine
should be used for reconnoitring and accompany “Maud” all the time. I
promised myself endless results from it. Whilst “Maud” went on right
into the ice and explored sea, ice and air, Omdal and I went ashore
at Wainright on Alaska’s north coast from whence we intended to trek
as far as possible into the unknown territory to the north of that
Coast, but everything went to pieces. On account of the stormy summer
and autumn Omdal and I could not leave the place as arranged, but must
build a house and spend the winter there.

In May, 1923, we were ready for flight, but already on our first trial
flight the Junker broke the whole of its underpart in landing and
became so damaged that all hope of repairing it had to be abandoned.
Thus we gathered no experience. Things went somewhat better however
with the little machine on board the “Maud.” A wireless telegram
announced that it had been twice in the air with Odd Dahl as pilot
and Wisting as observer, but it was crushed in the second landing. So
far as I understand these two flights had not been of long duration;
therefore it was scarcely possible to have studied anything of the
immense area. It is, however, certain that these two were the first
to fly over the actual drift ice. Thus we hear from them, for the
first time, of the great difficulties which flying in this district
presents. It was impossible from the air to determine the condition of
the ice they said; it appeared to be absolutely flat, but it was quite
different as results showed. The prospects now were not any brighter.
On my return to Seattle I had only my two empty hands and a ruined
aeroplane which nobody would have. I did not, however, give up, but
continued to work in order to get a new equipment. Nineteen twenty-four
passed, up till now, without luck. In September of the same year I went
to the Norsk Luftseiladsforeningen (Aero Club of Norway) and proposed
that they should work with me; I was received with open arms. Whilst
they should try to do what they could at home I should travel to
America to see what I could do there. I had already held some lectures
on the subject, and sat one morning in my hotel deeply engrossed in
reckoning out how long it would take me with my earnings to pay my
creditors and start a new flight. The result was not heartening. I
found out that if nothing unforseen happened I should be clear by the
time I was 110 years old! But see, the unexpected _did_ happen just
then. The telephone rang and a voice said, “Are you Captain Amundsen?”
(They always called me Captain Amundsen in America, but as all the
negro conductors receive the same honor it does not make me proud.)
“Yes, I am.” “Well,” continued the voice, “I am Lincoln Ellsworth.”
That was how I became acquainted with the man to whom I should later
owe so very, very much. The Luftseiladsforeningen (The Aero Club)
will certainly agree with me when I say that without his assistance
the expedition could hardly have taken place. It is not my intention
by this to belittle the great and excellent work which the Club did;
in deep thankfulness will I always remember the names of the three
members of the Board with whom I came into direct touch: the president,
Dr. Rolf Thommesen, and the two members, Dr. Ræstad and Major Swerre.
Thanks to their energetic work, together with the State’s kindly aid,
the expedition was soon ready to start. During my stay in America all
the winter, the entire organizing of the work fell on these gentlemen,
but the technical part of the arrangements fell on First Lieutenant of
the Royal Norwegian Navy--Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen.

Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen had already taken part in the spring attempt to
get the expedition going, so he was quite familiar with everything.
It was therefore both with gladness and with trust that I was able to
telegraph to him $85,000--James W. Ellsworth’s gift--begging him to
order the two seaplanes. From this moment Riiser-Larsen got permission
for leave and was able to give himself up entirely to the expedition.
As a flying man he is so well known by every person in the land that
it is superfluous and stupid to mention more. But he has dozens of
other notable qualities which I need not enumerate and which made him
specially qualified to fill his difficult post. With such an assistant
a difficult trip becomes for the leader a pleasant and light effort.

He was assisted in his work by First Naval Lieutenant Leif Dietrichson
and Flight Lieutenant Oskar Omdal. Both these gentlemen had been in the
spring fiasco and thus knew all the details. It is quite unnecessary
to talk about Dietrichson. His skill as a flyer is recognized by all.
His bravery and resolution will stand out clearly later in this record.
With his light outlook on life, his glad smile, and happy nature, he
was an invaluable comrade on the flight. Omdal is known. If things went
_with_ him or _against_ him it was all the same. Nothing seemed to
depress him. He stood beside me in my two unhappy attempts in 1923 and
1924, and you can believe that it took a real man to show courage and
keenness in a third attempt, but Omdal did not disappoint me. “So long
as you don’t give in,” he said to me, “you shall always find me ready.”
He is a marvelous being; he seems to have several limbs more than the
rest of us. He moves slicker and thinks quicker. It is impossible to
depress him. With three such men I knew that the technical part of the
expedition was in the very best hands. The objective of the expedition
was to trek in, as far as possible, over the unknown stretch between
Spitzbergen and the Pole in order to find out what _is_ there, or what
_isn’t_ there. It was not only to substantiate evidence of land, but
to make a geographical research. This substantiation was as equally
important as learning the composition of the land. From Nansen’s, the
Duke of the Abruzzi’s, and Peary’s discoveries we had certainly good
reason to believe that no land existed in that part of the Arctic
Ocean, but our knowledge must be built on _certainties_, not on
_beliefs_. Modern exploration insists on certainties. How miserably
our maps have suffered in this district just on account of “beliefs.”
Land has been put down instead of ocean, ocean instead of land, all on
account of these same “beliefs.” More accidents have been caused by
this than one would think; many people have lost their lives.

Apart from this we hoped to be able to make a number of meteorological
observations which, even although they would not bring us many rich
scientific results, would still give us interesting enlightenment. In
the end we hoped, as at first, to harvest great and rich experiences
which could be, to us and to others, of the greatest help when we once
should be ready to start for the long arranged flight from Spitzbergen
to Alaska. I lay special weight on the fact that I hope our experiences
will be found of use by others. I do not belong to that class of
explorer who believes that the North Pole is a place for himself alone.
My outlook shows that I have an absolutely opposite disposition; “the
more the better,” say I. Rather, let _all_ of us be at the same time at
the same place. Nothing stimulates like competition, nothing encourages
exploration more. How would it appear if, for example, a man made
public his intention to fly across the Polar regions, but for some
unforeseen reasons could not accomplish it? Should every one therefore
stay away from the place so long as the first one was alive? It seems
to me an absurdity which is little in keeping with the sporting spirit
one would expect to reign in these regions. “He who comes first to the
mill gets his grist first milled,” says an old proverb. I hope to be
able to make an attempt to fly from Spitzbergen to Alaska next summer.
I must not, however, declare this to be my private ground, but I wish,
on the contrary, that many will go there too. All the experience which
I have stands at their disposal.

The trend of a wireless telegram from Dr. Sverdrup on the “Maud” in
the summer of 1924 intimated that large tracts of land were not likely
to be found north of Alaska. This theory he has based after careful
tide observations. I have great faith in Sverdrup; I have never met a
cleverer man than he, in his own line, but I feel absolutely certain
that he will agree with me that one should go further in and explore
the place. Without having actually seen it one cannot substantiate the
evidence.

Our hope to get right along to the Pole was very small, for that our
radius of action was too limited. Apart from that I had not any great
interest in reaching the Pole, as I had always regarded Peary as being
the first on the spot. Our objective was only, therefore, to cover
the great distance by flying over it and over the great area we were
exploring.

On the 9th April all the long and many preparations were finished, and
we left Tromsö at five in the morning. The expedition had two ships.
The motor ship “Hobby,” which should bring the two seaplanes up to
Spitzbergen, and the Navy’s transport ship “Fram” which the State had
placed at our disposal for the undertaking. On board the “Hobby” were
Riiser-Larsen, Dietrichson, Omdal, Berge, the photographer, and the
Rolls-Royce mechanic Green.

On board the “Fram”--Captain Hagerup, the second in command Lieut.
Torkeldsen, ice-pilot Ness, Dr. Matheson, Director of the Pisaverkene
Schulte-Frohlinde with two mechanics Feucht and Zinsmayer, the
journalists Ramm and Wharton, the meteorologist Dr. Bjerknes, the guide
Calwagen, also Devold, the cook Olsen, Sailmaker Rönne, Horgen, the
chemist Zapffe, Lincoln Ellsworth and myself. This may appear almost
unbelievable, but that part of the journey was regarded by us as one
of the most anxious. It was still early in the year and the fairway
between Norway and Spitzbergen was anything but safe for two smacks
like ours. The “Fram” is a midsummer boat, intended for an ice-free
sea, sunny and calm. But in the month of April one must not reckon
with these three factors. One would be much cleverer to expect lots of
ice, no sun, and heavy storms, and for that “Fram” is not a suitable
ship. “Hobby” was more of an ice-ship and would in general plow her
way as well as any other, but this was an extraordinary occasion. The
tremendous cases which the flying boats were packed in had no other
place to lie but on deck and in consequence of this “Hobby” became in
very truth not much of a sea ship. The ubiquitous prophet had foretold
her death and her sinking, and I must say that I was almost inclined
to agree with him when I saw the big boxes lifted in the air. After
leaving Tromsö “Hobby” had already given up trying to be a boat; she
looked like a mass of gigantic cases which was wandering along over the
sea.

The arrangements were that both ships should keep together in order
to be of mutual assistance and cheer. It is always comforting in the
loneliness of the sea to be cheered by the near presence of another
ship; assistance too we might both have need of.

It was a dark unpleasant night as we left Tromsö--wet and black. A
foreign film photographer, who accompanied us to Spitzbergen, showed
his spirit by operating his camera under all conditions and filming
for all he was worth. (Had he wished to take a film of a dark night he
must in very truth have been lucky.) Just outside Skaarö Sound we got
into tremendous snow-storms and the meteorologists at the same time
announced that the storm center was in the west. I decided along with
the “Fram’s” captain, Hagerup, that it would be advisable to go into
Skaarö Sound, anchor there and wait. The meteorologists thought that
the bad weather would be of short duration. We signaled to “Hobby”:
“We shall anchor at Skaarö,” after which we steered towards land. We
lost “Hobby” in a snow shower. At 11:45 A.M. we anchored and expected
“Hobby” to arrive soon. Frequent blasts amidst thick snowfalls made the
atmosphere impenetrable. We waited in vain for our comrade.

At four o’clock P.M. the storm center passed and we set off again.
We passed close to Fugleö, peering and glancing into all the creeks
and inlets looking for “Hobby,” but there was nothing to be seen. We
understood, therefore, that she must have mis-read our signal and
steered in a direct course for Björneöen.

In spite of the officers’ and the men’s unchanging kindness and
willingness, the journey was not altogether pleasant. We were packed
as tightly together as it was in any way possible to pack human
beings, and then as the boat began to roll, so the air got thicker and
thicker--I refer to the inside air--and what under normal conditions
would have been perpendicularly hanging things, such as towels, coats,
etc., all stood right out from the wall in such a way that people
began to feel themselves a little uncomfortable--I say uncomfortable,
for nobody would ever be sea-sick! Now I have been at sea for over
thirty years, but I have yet to meet the person who will admit to being
sea-sick. Oh, no, not at all! Sea-sick? Far from it: only a little
uncomfortable in the stomach or the head. In my diary I believe I have
written that there were a number of sea-sick people on board, but I
ask all the people to excuse me if I have been mistaken! I am also so
very frank in my diary that I remark that I, too, am not so sure of
myself, but that remark was presumably only meant for my private eye.
The night of the 10th was particularly unpleasant: Zapffe, Ellsworth
and I lay in the dining-room. Zapffe reclined in a corner of the sofa
looking very pale, but insisting that he had never felt better in his
life. Ellsworth and I lay in our sleeping-bags and, should I judge
from the sounds and movements I heard and saw, I should be bold enough
to say that we were in the same condition of well-being as Zapffe.
Everything that could tear itself free did it, the chairs in particular
appeared to have taken full possession of the dining saloon; the tricks
they performed during the night were absolutely unbelievable. Now and
again they performed alone, now and again they united and performed
in troops. They had also been joined by a box of cigars which fell
down and performed with them, and I can remember how these cigars
flew round our ears. In spite of his paleness Zapffe had not lost his
good-humor. “I thought I was in Havana,” came calm and dry from him as
the first cargo of cigars struck him. I asked him if he would not be
satisfied with Bremen, but that he would not agree to at all. In the
pantry, which lay beside the saloon, there seemed to be a veritable and
forcible jazz band now playing. Which instrument was being used at the
moment was not quite clear to me, but in every case a zinc bucket was
certainly doing its best. The rolling calmed down on the following day
and most of the “souls” showed themselves on deck, with a pale sleepy
look in their faces. I asked one who seemed in a bad way if he had
been sea-sick, but I should never have done that. With cold scorn he
replied that he had never felt such a thing in his life. What he felt
half a minute later when a sudden roll landed him between two boxes and
deprived him of the last part of his breakfast I don’t know. Certainly
not sea-sick!

It is astonishing to notice how people’s interests can change in one
moment. Yesterday we went round Tromsö and not the finest drug store,
or the most tempting grocery shop, or the best set-out shoemaker’s
window would have made us turn our heads to look at them. But this
afternoon one of the members of the expedition had opened a box, which
he had kept standing on the afterdeck, apparently with a view to taking
something out. In a second he was surrounded by a curious crowd. The
object of interest felt himself particularly flattered by so much
notice being taken of him and he took out one thing after another.
First came a tube of tooth paste. All necks were stretched, each one
longer than the other, to get a sight of the wonderful thing. After
that came a tablet of chocolate. What comments this brought forth I
am unable to say as my point of observation was so far away. Certain
is it, however, that the interest in the chocolate was quite intense.
A pair of shoes came next. Had they been new and fine, I could have
understood it. But that anybody could show any interest in these old,
worn, down-trodden shoes is to me unbelievable. A snow storm closed the
entertainment.

Word came that Björneöen was free from ice and we could approach
without fear of meeting any. At four o’clock in the morning of the
11th we passed the island’s most southerly point. We had built on the
possibility of seeing “Hobby” there, but in vain. We sent Björneöen a
wireless and asked them to keep a lookout for “Hobby” and to inform
us immediately if they sighted her. Simultaneously we telegraphed to
King’s Bay and asked them for information regarding the ice conditions
there. Beside the island we ran into a southeasterly wind, which during
the day developed into a fresh breeze. At five o’clock in the afternoon
we came into small ice, but, steering a westerly course, got quickly
clear of it. On the 12th we passed through some fields of mush and
quite small ice. The “Fram” is far from being an ideal ship for ice
navigation, but so well did Captain Hagerup and Ice Pilot Ness guide
us through in such a careful and comfortable manner that they earned
our fullest appreciation. A less worthy man could have sent a boat such
as “Fram” to the bottom in much less ice than we passed through. The
atmosphere was impenetrable during most of the day. At ten o’clock in
the evening--in a little clear glow--land was discernible. It was Quade
Hoock in King’s Bay. At two o’clock we arrived at the edge of the ice
and moored fast to it. The “Knut Skaaluren,” a little steamboat which
had brought the two Directors, Brandal and Knutsen, here, lay there
already.

King’s Bay had been free from ice the whole winter. Only in the last
two days had the ice acquired a temperature of -26°c. We naturally
regarded this as a great misfortune as it seemed that we should be
prevented from getting in to the Coal Company’s quay where we were to
begin the unloading of our boats. So far from being a misfortune this
proved itself later to be our first and greatest piece of luck, that
King’s Bay was icebound.

At ten o’clock in the morning I went ashore in order to pay the
Directors a visit to see what they could do for us. The distance from
where we had moored the “Fram” up to the quayside was a good three
miles; there was a lot of water on the ice, dark and mushy. It was
not easy to see Ny Aalesund, which was snow covered. But the moment
I arrived at the quay and climbed from the ice a hand was stretched
out giving me a warm handshake and a cheery welcome. It was Director
M. Knutsen who, with the Company’s other Director, was to show us the
most glorious hospitality during the whole of our long stay in King’s
Bay. I may as well say it now as later, that without these practical
men’s assistance we could scarcely have brought our arrangements to
completion as they eventually were.

It was soon fixed up that all who were participating in the expedition
should come ashore and stay there where room must be found for them.
“Where there is room in the heart there is room in the house,” they
said. Nothing greater than the “heart room” of Knutsen and Brandal
could any one ever wish to find.

Now there was a matter which weighed on my mind--depressing me in a
high degree. Where was “Hobby”? I went on board the “Fram” at eventide
and walked up and down on the deck. It was about seven o’clock at
eventide when Horgen came up to me and said that he saw something which
stood high above the ice, and according to his opinion only “Hobby”
could present such an appearance. Up with the glasses! Yes!--quite
right, there came a heavy-looking box rustling and crushing through the
ice. “Hobby” itself I could not see even now, but I _could_ see that
there was life on board. Every one ran around and shouted, “‘Hobby’
comes!” “‘Hobby’ comes!” In a second all hands were called on deck and
to the accompaniment of ringing hurrahs “Hobby” lay by the side of the
ice. All was well on board. The first part of the journey was over. Our
boats were safely in King’s Bay. Honor where honor is due and it should
be given to the expedition’s airmen, Captain Holm, Pilot Johannesen and
the whole of “Hobby’s” crew. It was no small act of seamanship which
they had accomplished.

[Illustration: “FRAM” MOORED TO THE ICE AT THE EDGE OF KING’S BAY]

[Illustration: UNLOADING]

The next day was very wintry--sea fog with a temperature -10°. We took
advantage of this for the members of the expedition to flit ashore
and make themselves at home in the Coal Company’s station. The
airmen--Riiser-Larsen, Dietrichson, Horgen, Omdal, in company with
Ellsworth and Ramm--got their cozy little house. Zapffe and I were
quartered in the Directors’ house and the others in the hospital. The
sailing-boat workshop was cleared and prepared as a dining-room. This
was baptized “the salon.” Here the scepter was waved by our steward,
purser, chemist, and purveyor of entertainment. Yes, dear steward,
you won all hearts with your glad, happy spirit. To me you were an
invaluable and priceless aid with your dutiful and conscientious work.

[Illustration: THE GAMES ON MAY 17TH]

[Illustration: THE PLANES WERE PUT TOGETHER NEAR THE COAL COMPANY’S
WORKSHOPS]

The newly frozen ice, which prevented us from approaching the
quay, might have become embarrassing had not Captain Jensen of the
“Skaaluren,” on the 15th April, become tired of waiting and decided
to make an attempt to force it. The attempt was crowned with success
in the highest degree. Never, I believe, had the “Skaaluren” been so
absolutely astonished at herself. She broke through very quickly and
lay a short time afterwards by the quay. “Fram” and “Hobby” followed
behind her in line, and by the evening we all lay alongside the quay.
There we had a northerly breeze of about -13° c.--Mid-winter!

By the following day every one was fully occupied taking our belongings
ashore. Riiser-Larsen organized the work with the frequent assistance
of his comrades and the officers from the “Hobby.” At this point I
would like to hand out a few compliments to the crew of the “Fram.”
When and where they could help, they were always at hand. Quick,
skillful, and willing at all times. Fortunately the ice here was so
strong that one could discharge the seaplanes on to it. This was a
great help and lightened the work considerably. Everybody at the
same time hauled them along a natural slide towards land and placed
them outside the station-workshop, where all the necessary help was
obtainable. Director Schulte-Frohlinde from the Pisa Works, with
his two mechanics, Feucht and Zinsmayer, along with Omdal and the
Rolls-Royce mechanic, Green, who had got the very worst jobs, remained
in charge. In spite of snow and cold they continued “hard at it” from
morning until evening without any one ever hearing them grumble once;
but they were men of steel!

It was gratifying to see how the machines grew from day to day.
Frohlinde believed that he could have them completed by the 2nd of May,
and it very nearly proved so. There was another duty which had to be
carried out each day under the same difficult conditions and with the
same unabated energy. This was the weather report service. No matter
how it blew, no matter how it snowed, nor how bitterly cold it was,
Bjerknes and Calwagen were always “on the go.” Nothing seemed to tire
these two young scientists and the expedition owes them the greatest
gratitude for their splendid work. They were assisted in their work
by Devold, who was principally employed receiving messages from the
numerous stations in Europe, Canada, Alaska, and Siberia. The weather
report service is still in its swaddling clothes, but there is no doubt
that in time it will become a strong factor in our progress. Already we
could see the benefit to be derived from this particular service by any
expedition whether it should go north, south, east or west.

Others of our “most occupied men” were the photographer Berge, and the
journalist Ramm. The first of these two could always be seen with his
camera in his hand and his tripod on his shoulder. He was everywhere.
One could not even blow his nose without Berge being there to
immortalize the event. Ramm kept the world advised of the expedition’s
progress; if we did anything, it was immediately telegraphed. If we did
not do anything, it was likewise immediately telegraphed. His strongest
competitors were the meteorologists; not that they were giving news to
the world’s press in competition with Ramm. No, they did not do that,
but they were in frequent use of the wireless. Between the two parties
there arose a burning question as to which was the more important--the
weather reports or the news reports. The meteorologists voted for the
weather, Ramm for the news. And so it remained. Dr. Matheson acted as
the “Fram’s” and the expedition’s doctor. As a doctor he fortunately
did not get much to do, but it seemed safe and comforting to know that
he was near if anything should happen.

I now come to the expedition’s most occupied man. That was my old
traveling companion from the “Fram” and the “Maud” trips, Sailmaker
Rönne. Since he first joined my service for the “Fram” expedition in
1910--fifteen years ago--any weakening in his work was undiscernible
by me. In view of what he did on this trip one could only come to the
conclusion that he had improved. He was the first man up every single
morning, and in full swing long before any one else. But it was quite
necessary for him to do this if he was to complete in good time all
the little orders which came streaming in to him every day in large
numbers. At one moment he was sewing shoes, soon afterwards trousers,
then tents and sleeping bags. He worked at the boats and made the
sledges ship-shape. His strongest forte was to bring along with him
everything that other people had forgotten. If anything was missing
any one could be absolutely sure that Rönne would be able to help him
out of the difficulty. His greatest service at this time was that
during the flight to the North he gave me a long knife made from an old
bayonet which was to prove our best ice-tool. It was during our last
dinner in the “salon” that he came to me and honored me with the knife.
I had a splendid clasp-knife already, but accepted his gift in order
not to offend him. I intended to lay it away in one or other of my
lockers as it was too big to carry about. But how it happened I cannot
say--the knife appeared in my rucksack and was of invaluable use to us
later. Ton after ton of ice has been shifted by my comrades and myself
with this same knife. When I travel next time I shall have at least a
dozen with me.

Our cook, Einer Olsen, could prepare a rum omelette--now, I must not
let my tongue run away with me--just as well as any chef in the best
hotel of any seaside resort, and that is not saying enough. Apart from
this he absolutely astonished us with what he called “gateau danoise”
(Olsen was a linguist). I sought in vain, from the point of view of a
baker, to analyze this confection, but without success. The nearest I
can describe it is a cross between a cream bun and a “gateau de mille
feuilles.” _He_ got up still earlier in the morning than Rönne and thus
deprived him of his record-breaking honor.

Our stay in King’s Bay began really with the baptism of the “salon.”
That was on Sunday April 19th. The furniture of the “salon” was quite
different from what it originally had been. Its contents were composed
of a long board and four trestles. In addition to this, and on account
of the shortage of room elsewhere, it was necessary for the “salon” to
house the pantry. This stood beside the entrance. A little gramophone
supplied us with all the _jazz_ we desired. In addition to this it
could play music! But what was missing in the way of furniture in
the “salon” was made up for by the culinary masterpieces. And here
competition was strengthened by originality. Yes, there were even a few
who risked saying that.... No, I won’t repeat it, as one says so many
things. On the evening of the christening there were twenty-six people
round the table. I see by my diary that the number was “legion,” but my
diary _has_ to be discreet, so it keeps silent about the rest.

There is nothing particular to relate about the days which followed.
One followed the other just exactly as ordained by the almanac. Some
(yes, the most) were beautifully sunny and beautifully colored from
the magnificent glaciers. Others were overshadowed with fog and snow.
The day in the week which we looked forward to with the most pleasure
was not Sunday, as you might be inclined to believe, but Friday. Every
Friday at 5:30 P.M. there was a steam bath; a proper, really good steam
bath. There was nothing mean about the heat in this as we had coal all
around us, wherever we went, and wherever we stood. It was far meaner
as regards the quantity of water, but we did not bother about that. The
bath was naturally very popular. In the morning the ladies had their
turn; in the afternoon the Directors with their staff along with the
members of the expedition. Saturday was bath day for the miners.

Over and above this a very important piece of work had to be done in
these days: i.e., getting the provisions and equipment ready for the
flight. In case it should interest anybody, I will here repeat my list
exactly as it appeared:

_Provisions_

Salt Beef 400 gr. per man per day
Chocolate 250 gr. „
Biscuits 125 gr. „
Dried milk 100 gr. „
Malted milk 125 gr. „
Total 1000 gr. kg.

_Rucksack_

1 change, diary, compass, matches tinder, housewife, snow glasses,
cup & spoon, pipe & tobacco, linen thread, sail-cloth gloves, 1 pr.
ski-shoes, 1 long knife, 1 pr. skis, 2 staves, 1 pole, 1 sleeping-bag

_Equipment Principally for the Machines_

1 boat, 1 sledge, 1 tent, 1 medicine case, 1 Primus, petroleum,
reserve belts, 1 Meta cooking stove with plates, 2 sextants, 1 level,
navigating equipment, six small and 4 large smoke bombs, 1 cooking
pot, motor spare parts, tools, 2 snow shovels, 1 ice anchor, 1 log, 1
sun compass, 1 pair of glasses, ten plugs, meteorological instruments,
1 shot gun, 1 rifle, 400 cartridges, Colt revolver, 25 shots, senna
grass, benzine pump, hose and bucket, camera, films and plates,
soldering lamp.

* * * * *

On the 29th of April the “Fram” attempted to go to Green Harbour to
fetch and take the mail. However, she did not get far before the ice
stopped her. By dinner time the next day she had returned.

Ellsworth and I now went every day to the wireless station in order to
take the time signal from the Eiffel Tower so that we might check our
watches. We had each three watches for use on the flight. Fortunately
they never went wrong. We checked the time signals for fourteen days
before our departure and thus we were absolutely certain of the
correctness of our watches.

On the 4th of May, a strange restless and unsettling sort of day, we
began to long for the moment when we could leave. The meteorologists
announced that _that_ particular morning would be a fine opportunity
to go and we were not long in replying, “All is ready.” “Fram” and
“Hobby” got orders to make ready to sail northwards and all hands were
called on deck to help to get everything in order. In the meantime a
northeasterly wind sprang up and retarded the mechanics from completing
the final little “finishing-off” touches. We were therefore compelled
to put off our intended start until the weather improved. In the
meantime the boats made ready and on the next evening--May 5th--“Fram”
and “Hobby” steered northwards in order to reconnoiter round the Danske
Öen to see if they could find a good place for us to start off from on
the ice. That evening we had -18° c. No work could be done. On the 6th
we received a wireless from the “Fram” from South Gate which announced
that the weather was very uncertain and that we ought to wait. They
announced also that they had found no suitable starting place on the
ice. The ice all around was uneven and banked up and consequently
useless for our purpose.

After the machines were ready to start we saw clearly that the maximum
weight of 2,600 kg., which the factory said we could carry, was going
to be considerably increased. We could see that if we had to make
the flight we must at least carry 3,000 kg.--perhaps more. The two,
Riiser-Larsen and Dietrichson, thought that it would be quite possible
to rise with this from the ice. Director Schulte-Frohlinde doubted the
possibility of this. The two former, however, had great experience in
rising from the ice and my trust in them was complete. To rise from the
water with this weight would hardly have been possible. On the eighth
evening “Hobby” came back announcing that the ice conditions were bad,
the weather was stormy and the temperature as low as -23° c.

We decided, therefore, to wait some time hoping for an improvement in
the weather and a more reasonable temperature.

On the 9th N 25 left its “cradle” on Spitzbergen for the first time and
made a few trial runs on the ice. Everything went well and the pilot
was very satisfied. On the morning of the 11th “Fram” returned, thus
finishing this part. Now we were all ready to make use of the first
opportunity which the meteorologists should advise. The temperature
rose quickly and steadily and in the days that followed it was quite
clear that spring was coming.

The 17th of May dawned and was spent exactly as it should have been. A
salute in the morning, Olympic games, and a gala dinner in the evening
in the “salon.” On the 18th Dr. Bjerknes announced that the prospects
were so good that we should hold ourselves ready for a flight at short
notice. We were ready. The weather on the 19th was still not exactly
as the prophet wished it to be. In the meantime, however, we made “all
clear” and got the machines down to a definite starting place where one
could slide down a grade direct on to the fjord ice. Local bad weather
on the 20th prevented us from starting. The filling of the petrol
tanks was finished and by eventide we were absolutely ready.

As I, on the morning of the 20th of May, stuck my nose out of the
window I realized at once, without further confirmation from our
weather prophets, that our day had arrived. It was brilliant summer
weather with a tiny breeze blowing from the fjord, exactly what the
pilot wished for. The starting time was fixed for four P.M. The sun
was in a favorable position for our sun compass and gave us the
greatest aid on our flight. Even at breakfast time we could notice
that there was a little excitement in the camp. Many of the members
of the expedition, who otherwise would still have been invisible
during the time I usually took my breakfast, had in this case already
breakfasted and disappeared. It was unnecessary to send a messenger
round to say the day had arrived. Every one was making his preparations
for departure and the different members could be seen with hands
full of private belongings disappear beside the machines and return
empty-handed. Each of these little journeys brought more weight and by
the time the last pin was fastened we were carrying a load of 3,100
kg., or about 500 kg. more than we were supposed to carry. Director
Frohlinde had always insisted in his opinion that we ought to make some
trial trips. The airmen said, “No.” As the differences of opinions will
be disentangled later on I shall not say more about this here. All the
morning a crowd of people were crossing over to the starting place.
Everybody who could be there was on the spot. Dinner was taken in the
“salon” and if some one had come in by chance he would have noticed
something unusual going on. The only guests we had in the “salon”
were six Thermos flasks, set up ready for the road. These contained
chocolate; beside them were our only provisions for the flight, and
the box of Mrs. Clausen’s good oatcakes. The only person who disturbed
the dinner’s quiet and friendly course was the steward, who thought he
ought to wish his comrades a good journey and thank them for assembling
there. Thus was the last dinner at an end and the “salon” again took on
its old form as the Coal Company’s sailboat works. “Sic transit gloria
mundi.”

As I left my good and comfortable quarters in the house of the
Director, his good-natured housekeeper Berta stood there with two
packets, which she held out to me. “There is one for each machine,” she
said. “Just a little ‘snack’ for the journey.” Oh, Berta, could you
but see how gladly and with what warm thanks in our hearts we took the
delicious sandwiches and eggs carefully and slowly from the packages,
eating them with pleasure, as our last civilized meal for a long time
to come,--you would certainly be overjoyed!

At three o’clock in the afternoon we were all gathered beside the
machines. As I have already remarked--one is never ready. Director
Frohlinde went round and looked carefully at everything. Green, the
Rolls-Royce mechanic, listened first to the one and then to the other
of the motors. At four o’clock all four motors were warming up. It
was a sign for all of us that our hour was almost there. Both sun
compasses, which had been set at four o’clock, started going--and the
motors started humming. Whilst we put on our heavy flying clothes
the two flying men and observers did likewise, wearing similar
garments--thick underclothes of wool with leather on top. The point
which I personally had always been afraid of during a flight was the
condition of my legs. The tremendous speed, which necessarily causes
a strong draught and lowers the temperature, puts our shoes naturally
to a very strong test. It was not often that my experience proved of
actual use to me, but this time I really did get some good out of it.
On my earlier journeys it had often been necessary for me to stand hour
after hour as observer. When the temperature was below -50° c. and -60°
c., which often happened, one must have very special footwear. I found
out then that one ought to have good warm footwear on, preferably loose
leather stockings and leather shoes (such as the Eskimos wear), and
in addition to this the feet should be put into enormous canvas shoes
filled with senna grass, which forms a complete lining to the shoes
and renders protection to the feet. That time years ago we had taken
no Eskimo shoes, but used felt shoes with a pair of thin stockings and
above these we wore gigantic canvas shoes filled with large quantities
of senna grass. The result was brilliant. Not only did we not freeze,
but one or two grumbled because they were too warm. The pilots wore
thick leather gloves which gave complete protection to their hands.
Personally I wore only an old pair of woolen gloves as I had to write
continually. The mechanics were not so heavily clad, as they were
continually on the move, passing between the petrol store and the
motor, and for this reason they _had_ to be lightly clad. As soon as
we were dressed the various members took their places. Ellsworth and I
were in the observation seats. Riiser-Larsen and Dietrichson were in
the pilots’ seats and the two mechanics, Feucht and Omdal, were beside
the motors. My place was in the observation seat of N 25, which lay
forward. In the seat behind me--the pilot’s seat--was Riiser-Larsen and
in the petrol store behind him was Feucht. In N 24 the arrangements
were the same for Ellsworth, Dietrichson, Omdal. Feucht, who had
accompanied Director Schulte-Frohlinde from Pisa, was only taken on as
a member of the expedition a few days before the start; he had up to
that time remained in the Factory’s service. He is a German by birth
and had been employed by the Factory for a long time, being considered
an exceptionally capable mechanic which will be proved here later.
Every one was now ready to say good-by and a long queue passed by the
machines. Mention of the photographer must not be forgotten, either, in
this connection.

Whilst we waited the motors continued to run and the clock went round
to five. Before the two planes got away the following orders were sent
out: (1) The command of the remaining part of the expedition should
be taken over by Captain Hagerup of the “Fram.” (2) In fourteen days
from the start the expedition’s return by flying-machine might be
expected. “Fram” and “Hobby” should remain together in the fairway
by the Danske Öen so long as it was possible to see the North Coast.
Should the light diminish “Hobby” must steer towards the east as
far as conditions allowed, but not east of Verlegen Hook. (3) After
fourteen days had passed “Hobby” was in any event to steer eastwards
if possible as far as Nordkap. After collaborating with “Fram” they
were to take up the work of patrolling as near the edge of the ice as
possible, both ships keeping a sharp lookout. (4) From the 16th to the
19th of May “Fram” shall remain in King’s Bay for boiler-survey. (5)
The ships (if necessary “Hobby” doing this alone should “Fram” have
gone back earlier) shall remain by the north coast of Spitzbergen and
continue patrolling for six weeks counting from the start; “Hobby”
going afterwards to King’s Bay to collect the remaining material to
be delivered at Tromsö, where it will be sent back in accordance with
special instructions here enclosed. The despatching will be attended to
by the chemist Zapffe. (6) When “Fram” goes to King’s Bay for boiler
survey it will give those members of the expedition who wish it the
opportunity to accompany the boat to King’s Bay in order to travel home
by the first opportunity. (From here Horgen, Ramm and Berge are the
first to return when both boats definitely set off.)

First Lieutenant E. Horgen, who was engaged as the expedition’s reserve
airman (after he had obtained permission from the Norwegian American
Line, where he was first mate), became the expedition’s leader on board
the “Hobby.” The services Horgen rendered us were many and valuable.
I would have liked so much to have granted his great wish to fly
northwards with us, but there was no room. Next time I hope to see
Horgen an active participator in the flight. He belongs absolutely to
the type which I have always sought for, calm, resolute, and afraid of
nothing. As a flyer Horgen is now counted among the best.

[Illustration: THE CREW OF N 25

LEFT TO RIGHT: RIISER-LARSEN, AMUNDSEN, FEUCHT]

[Illustration: THE CREW OF N 24

ELLSWORTH, DIETRICHSON, OMDAL]

It was now ten minutes past five. The motors were quite warm and Green
nodded approvingly. His smile expressed complete satisfaction. A
last handshake from Director Knutsen and then good-by. The motor was
running at top speed as N 25 trembled and shook. The plan was that
our machine should make the first start and try if possible to start
out over the fjord with the wind in order to glide and swing at a low
altitude between the fjord boundaries. If this were not successful
we were to set our course direct against the wind, towards King’s
Bay Glacier. It was also agreed that the machines should try to keep
together during the entire flight. What the one did the other should do
afterwards. One last pull and then N 25 was free and glided gracefully
down the slide on to the frozen fjord. The trip was started. “Welcome
back to-morrow,” was the last I heard as with tremendous speed--1,800
revolutions a minute--it set off towards the starting place in the
middle of the fjord. There we noticed all at once that the ice was
bending right over and the water surging up. In a second the machine
was across the fjord heading straight for the glacier and making 2,000
revolutions. This was one of the most anxious moments. Could the
machine bear the tremendous excess weight or must we stop and lighten
it? The pilot sat at the wheel. Had he been seated at the breakfast
table he could scarcely have looked less concerned. As the speed still
continued, and we were nearing the glacier at a mighty rate, the
pilot’s coolness seemed greater than ever. His mouth was the only
indication of his resolution and determination. We went over the ice
like a hurricane. The speed continued and continued; then suddenly the
miracle happened. With a mighty pull the machine raised itself from
the earth. We were in the air. The master stroke was accomplished. It
seemed to me after the breathless anxiety that I at last heard a light
Ah! which grew into a ringing shout of joy.

[Illustration: PHOTOGRAPH OF AMUNDSEN’S MACHINE TAKEN FROM ELLSWORTH’S
WHILE IN FLIGHT, SHORTLY BEFORE LANDING AND WITHIN 250 MILES OF THE
POLE]

After this calmness again took possession of the man who had performed
this master stroke, and it left him no more during the whole trip.
Feucht was always going up and down between the tank compartment and
the motor; his duty was to keep the pilot advised of everything: how
the engine worked: how much petrol had been used, etc. All seemed in
the finest order and Feucht announced, “All clear.” Before we rose I
had tried to get my things in order as the space was limited and my
belongings numerous.

Over Cape Mitra we had already risen to 400 m. and everything beneath
us seemed exceedingly small. Time after time I turned round and looked
for the other machine, but never managed to discern it. Therefore we
turned our plane completely round, flying back to look for N 24. One
never knew what might have happened. It was possible that something had
struck it as it tried to rise. The ice might have broken, or its load
might have been too heavy for it. Suddenly something blazed in the sun;
it glittered like gold. It was the sun playing on N 24’s wings. There
it came in full flight to meet us. Everything seemed to be in order.
Had I known then what I know now, I should have held my breath for a
moment and taken off my hat to the man who sat at the wheel. But more
about that later. Then the machine turned its nose again towards the
north, and the two enormous birds started their flight together towards
the “Unknown.”

My feelings at that moment were one whirl of burning gratitude. I
gave a bow and a grateful glance to the man sitting behind me who had
accomplished this brilliant master stroke--a warm silent thank-you to
those who had just joined us; a thank-you so deep and so heartfelt to
my five comrades, who have all willingly placed their lives upon the
scales--a thank-you because the heavy yoke was at last lifted from my
shoulders (the disdainful scorn which I had been forced to feel so many
times during the last year of constant misfortune had disappeared for
ever). Even if we fell right down now where we were this proof of our
earnestness could nevermore be taken away.

We passed quickly over the northwest coast of Spitzbergen, where the
sea below us was entirely free from ice. Then we reached Magdalena Bay,
the South Gate with the Moss Islands, and then came the Danske Öen.
I knew them all again from my trip with Gjoa in 1901. After an hour’s
flight we were level with the Amsterdam Islands. Here we met most
unpleasant weather. Fog as thick as porridge. First it came densely,
thickeningly, from the northeast--then thicker--thicker. The pilot rose
higher and we were flying above the woolen blanket. The other machine
accompanied us at a somewhat lower altitude. Here I saw the strangest
optical illusion I have ever seen and nothing seems to me to have
ever equaled it in beauty. Directly pictured in the fog I could see a
complete reflection of our own machine surrounded by a halo of all the
spectrum’s colors. The sight was miraculously beautiful and original.

We took our bearings from the Amsterdam Islands and steered north
for Taakeheimen. Here the fog came down quite unexpectedly. We had
not looked for it so quickly, nor such a big stretch of it; it was
certainly not local, but a field of colossal dimensions lay before
us. For two complete hours we flew over it; a stretch of fully 200
kilometers. Occasionally we passed over a little break or hole in it,
but never big enough to give me an opportunity to take my bearings.
These holes were of great interest. Through them I got an idea of the
territory below. The sea here was filled with small ice with water
amongst it. These conditions continued to 82° n. and I am certain
that a vessel with any power at all could have navigated it. A little
after eight o’clock it began suddenly to clear and in a second the
fog disappeared as though charmed. And there below us and in front of
us lay the great shining plain of the notorious pack-ice. “How many
misfortunes have you been responsible for during the passage of years,
you vast ‘Whiteness’? What have you not seen in the way of need and
misery? And you have also met those who set their foot upon your neck
and brought you to your knees. Can you remember Nansen and Johansen?
Can you remember the Duke of the Abruzzi? Can you remember Peary? Can
you remember how they crossed over you and how you put obstacles in
their way? But they brought you to your knees. You must respect these
heroes. But what have you done with the numbers who sought to free
themselves from your embrace in vain? What have you done with the many
proud ships which were steered direct towards your heart never to be
seen again? What have you done with them I ask? No clew, no sign--only
the vast white waste.”

Quite naturally an airman’s thoughts turn towards a landing place.
Should his motor fail and he has no place to land, he is indeed in a
bad way. But no matter where we looked there was not the sign of a
landing place. So far as we could see the ice looked like a number
of furrows, stretched out without rhyme or reason, and between the
furrows rose a high stone fence. Conditions however were unusual, the
fence took up more room than the plowed field. Had the field been
even and flat it would not have appeared so strange, but a flat part
simply did not exist. The plow seemed to have been everywhere between
stones and stubble. A little brook was also there, but so small that
one could have jumped over it anywhere. A more monotonous territory it
had never been my lot to see. Not the slightest change. Had I not been
engaged in making many kinds of observations and notes it is certain
that the uniformity of the outlook and the monotony of the engine’s hum
would have sent me to sleep, but fortunately my task kept me awake.
Riiser-Larsen confessed to me later that he had had a little snooze. I
can understand that as he had monotonous work to do.

The mean temperature during the flight had been -13 °c. N 24 kept
beside us with no thought of separating. I tried continually to take
the sun but unsuccessfully. The sun was all right, but the horizon was
useless. Our plane level was fastened to the sextant (a bulb sextant,
of American make). We had used it several times at a trial in King’s
Bay, but the results were most unsatisfactory, so much so that we had
stopped using it. Therefore I was left to use whatever nature placed at
my disposal. But nature was not obliging. There was no horizon. Sky
and ice blended into one.

Two hours after I had taken soundings at the Amsterdam Islands I got an
opportunity to calculate our speed and the deviation. What had happened
in two hours? It was exceedingly difficult to say. If one does not get
an opportunity to calculate speed and the deviation it is naturally
difficult to know the direction of the wind when one comes flying at a
speed of 150 kilometers. It was quite clear as we came out of the fog
with a few high cirri in the east. About ten o’clock a fine mist crept
up from the north, but too high and fine to annoy one. The sun was not
quite visible, but from the sun’s position and the compass’s variations
it was quite clear that we were well over to the west. There was
therefore nothing else to do but to steer eastwards. I have never seen
anything more deserted and forlorn; at least I thought we might see a
bear or anything to break the monotony a little, but no,--absolutely
nothing living. Had I been sure of this condition before, I would have
taken a flea with me in order to have life near.

At five o’clock on the morning of the 22nd we came to the first
waterway. It was not a small brook but a big dam with arms stretching
in different directions. It offered our first possibility of finding
a landing place. According to our bearings we should now be 88° N.
lat., but with regard to longitude we were quite confused. That we
were westerly was certain, but where? Feucht announced here that half
the benzine was used so it became necessary to look for a landing
place. Our intention was, therefore, to descend, take the necessary
observations, and act in the best way according to the conditions.
The question now was where should we land? Naturally a landing on the
water would have been safest, so far as the landing was concerned,
but there was always the fear that the ice could close in and crush
us before we were able to rise again. We decided unanimously that if
it were possible we should land on the ice. In order to observe the
territory as conveniently as possible we descended in big spirals.
During these maneuvers the aft motor began to misfire and changed the
whole situation. Instead of choosing a place now we would have to take
what offered. The machine was much too heavy to remain in the air with
one motor. A forced landing became necessary. At this low altitude we
could not reach the main dam, but had to be satisfied with the nearest
arm. It was not particularly inviting--full of slush and small ice.
But we had no choice. Under such conditions it was worth much to have
a cool unruffled pilot who never lost his self-possession, but even
in flight was able to make a clear decision and act accordingly. The
slightest wobbling and the game would have been lost. The arm was
just wide enough for the machine so it was not so dangerous. Every
clump of ice could have torn it through; the danger lay in the high
icebergs which lay at each side. It took a master to guide the machine
in between these and save the wings. We landed squat in the slush and
here arose the most difficult problem any airman could have to solve.
It was a piece of luck for us that we landed in the slush, for that
slowed down our speed somewhat. But on the other hand it reduced the
boat’s maneuvering powers. We were passing a small iceberg on the
right. The machine turned to the left with the result that the wings
stroked the top of the iceberg and loose snow was whirled in the air.
Here we zig-zagged along in a manner which was most impressive and
alarming. Can we clear it? The anxiety was great for those who were
only spectators; it seemed not to have the slightest effect on the
pilot; he was quite cool and calm. When I say we cleared the iceberg by
two millimeters it is no exaggeration. I expected every moment to see
the left wing destroyed. The speed now slackened in the thick slush and
we stopped at the end of the arm--nose up against the iceberg. It was
again a question of millimeters. A little more speed and the nose would
have been stove in.

So far so good. We had still our lives--what did this place look
like? The arm ended in a little pool surrounded by high icebergs and
with nose against this we lay with our tail towards the entrance. We
hopped out on the ice and looked around. What was to be done? Only one
thing. To try and get out as quickly as possible. Should the ice freeze
together we were sentenced to death in five minutes. What was necessary
now was to turn the machine round 180°. I must say we put all our force
into the work and tried in different ways, but all in vain. The slush
and small ice stuck fast to the boat and it lay as if in glue. If we
managed to free the boat a few inches the slush went with it. If we got
rid of that the boat fell back into its old position, and then so did
the slush. Oh, how we struggled and strove. But after the space of a
few hours we had to put that plan aside and take on another. But first
we must find out where we were. Our observations gave 87° 43′ N. lat.
and 10° 20′ L. Our presumption that there was a westerly current proved
to be correct.

At eight o’clock A.M. we decided we had earned a little food and rest.
But before we could gratify this need there were two things to be done.
First to take all the provisions and equipment on to the big ice, in
case the ice should begin to screw. Also we must look around to see if
our comrades on N 24 were in sight. The small quantity of provisions
that we had were shifted onto the ice in a few minutes, and then we
set off with glasses to take observations from the top of the highest
iceberg. We thought we had heard a shot after we had landed, but we
were not certain. There are so many noises like shots amongst the ice.
The last I saw of N 24 just before our landing was that it was flying
very low on the other side of the dam. If I was right we must look for
it in a southerly direction, but everywhere we looked there was nothing
to be seen. The mist now lay somewhat lower than when we landed and a
few snowflakes came whirling along. The temperature was about -15° c.
I had never looked upon our machine before as a dwelling but that must
be done now. It was divided into five rooms. The first, the observer’s
room, was too small for occupation. No. 2, the pilot’s place, offered
the best sleeping room for one or two men. No. 3, the petrol store, was
full of tanks and could not be used. Room No. 4 was the best of them
and we decided to make it a dining room and sleeping room. It was four
meters long diminishing in width towards the tail. I assume that the
builder had never thought of it as a dining room when he built it, but
certain it is that it seemed absolutely prepared for that purpose. At
all times our Primus apparatus got a good position here. Room No. 5
lay right in the tail and you entered it through a round door in the
wall. It was long, small, and dark, as it had no window. As a bedroom
for one man it might have been used had it not been for the ribs
which converged tightly here. In the dining room we set our Primus
going and soon had our first meal of chocolate and biscuits. It was
comfortable in here so long as we could keep it warm and this was easy
in the beginning while we still trusted and hoped that our stay should
be short. We had brought with us some small petrol apparatus called
Therm’x and with these we kept the temperature fine and high.

I cannot pass by our friend Therm’x without giving him a good word. How
it is constructed I cannot say and it will not interest many. But what
will interest most people is the fact that with one liter of petrol
this apparatus will give out considerable heat for twelve hours. In
addition to this it is absolutely fireproof. It gives a glowing heat,
but burns without a flame. You could pour petrol over it whilst it
functioned, yet nothing would result except smoke and an unpleasant
smell. For a trip like ours where we were surrounded by benzine it was
a priceless possession. Add to this its astonishing economy and it is
not necessary to say more. Two Therm’xs made each room quite cozy, but
as events will show even Therm’x had afterwards to be used sparingly
and our cozy corners were cozy no longer. Riiser-Larsen, unselfish as
ever, took up his quarters in the tail. How he managed to bear four
weeks in it puzzles me. He must still have five blue stripes exactly
like the five tail ribs! Feucht had his place in the dining room, and
I mine in the pilot’s room. We did not rest long at first, for at ten
o’clock we were in full swing again. We tried once more to turn the
machine round, but soon gave it up for another plan, namely, to get the
machine into safety as quickly as possible, for without any warning the
fissure might close up and crush us like a nut between nut-crackers.
To guard against this we decided to place it on top of the iceberg
which lay beside us. It seemed a hopeless task at first, but it meant
much. Firstly, part of the iceberg must come down, for a slide to be
made. “But however could we accomplish that task?” asked one. Yes, that
is the question. When we left we had 500 kilos too much on board and
therefore must deny ourselves many things. To carry with us a number
of ice tools, which we might never need, was out of the question. We
had only calculated with landing on, and rising from, suitable ice. No
one had dreamed of the present situation. We looked at our available
tools: three slip knives, one big knife, one ax, one ice-anchor, which
in time of need could be used as a pick. It is unbelievable what people
can do when they are driven to it. There was only one way to get the
machine into safety--and for that the iceberg must come down and be
leveled and it would appear that we only had our fingers to do it with.
Wholly inexperienced in work of this kind, we were rather clumsy in
the beginning, but we were willing and incredibly persevering and were
lucky enough to get the better of the situation. Later we managed
to level an iceberg in a fabulously short time, but at present we
were unused to the work and it went slowly. From time to time during
our work we went up to the top of the machine, or to the top of an
iceberg, and looked around to find the others. Anything might have
happened in such a morass, and at lunch time we discussed the various
probabilities. Had they made a bad landing? Had they decided that it
was hopeless to land in this chaos?

The next day we got ready to march to Cape Columbia. The sledge was
secured and put ready so that we, with the shortest possible warning,
could set off if the ice should close in and crush the machine. Our
provisions were sufficient to last for a month giving 1 kilo per man
per day. As soon as we saw our situation was serious we began quickly
to take less and in a short time our ration was reduced to 300 grammes
per day. It was naturally too little for any length of time, but for
a shorter period would suffice. We all felt very weak after the first
day, but it appeared that we could get used to it. We got noticeably
thinner, tightening our belts every day. My belt, which had often been
too tight in King’s Bay, was now too slack even when worn outside my
thick leather clothes. Our sleeping equipment consisted of one light
reindeer skin bag, only designed for summer use. Most of us grumbled
at the cold in the beginning, as the temperature remained about -10°
c., but one must have practice in using a sleeping bag, and one must
understand it in order to pass in it what turns out to be a warm balmy
night, while another person without experience freezes. It is necessary
to take plenty of time and to work oneself right down to the bottom
when getting into a sleeping bag, for one can often see people who have
no knowledge of these things, only halfway wriggled in, and naturally
they pass an uncomfortable night.

On the 23rd we were able to cross the new frozen ice into the pool. We
were early at work that day and kept on hacking at the slide. During a
little interval I took the glasses, climbed to the top of the machine
in order to look round after N 24. Who can describe my pleasure as I,
almost with the first glance, observed it? South-west, on the other
side of the great dam, there it lay looking quite cheeky. A little to
the left stood the tent. And still a little further away, on the top
of a high iceberg, a flag. This was pleasant news for my comrades and
in haste we hoisted our flag. Anxiously I followed progress through my
glasses to see if they were observing us. Yes, right enough, in a few
moments I saw signs of life. They sprang to the flag, caught hold of it
and in a few moments we had a means of communication, as fortunately
our two pilots were practiced signalers. The distance between us was
too great for semaphoring, so we had to use the Morse system. Apart
from the fact that it took a little longer, everything went splendidly.
Dietrichson announced that his machine on leaving King’s Bay had
started an ugly leak, but that he had hoped all the same to be able to
manage. We could tell them that our machine was absolutely undamaged.
No further announcements were made. We went on with our work on the
slide all day.

[Illustration: WHEN THE TWO PLANES WERE NEAR EACH OTHER]

The 24th was given up to the same work. Most of the ice was as hard as
flint and it took us a long time to work through it. In the afternoon I
discovered suddenly through my glasses that there was an unusual stir
on the other side. I could see them jumping backwards and forwards,
preparing to do something or other. An hour later they put skis on;
slung two heavy packages on their backs and set off towards us. It was
just what I had wished to happen, though I had not expressed my wish so
long as they were working at their machine. If they were able, by some
means, to get their boat clear for a start, I naturally had no desire
to hinder them. We could well have done with their assistance in our
work of saving our machine, but, so long as they had their own work to
do, we could not ask for help. I watched them anxiously through the
glasses, noting their mode of approach through the icebergs (let me
make it clear that they had very heavy packages on their backs), and I
did not like the direction they took. They set their course directly
towards the new frozen ice in the dam and I doubted its solidity.
Certainly the ice in the little fissure was strong enough, but the
ice on the great dam was a different matter. I held my breath as they
descended from the old ice towards the new. Things could go wrong and
prove fatal. Fortunately they were sufficiently foresighted to stay
on the old ice; to my relief they kept to it, coming straight across
and throwing off their packages. I thought they were going to rest a
few moments, but was pleasantly surprised when they produced two flags
and started semaphoring. It was not long before Riiser-Larsen was also
on the job and the conversation started. They told us that they could
not get their machine clear away alone and asked if they should come
over and join us. As they apparently intended to cross the new ice, we
hastily answered that it was better for them to turn back and consider
matters a little, arranging to continue semaphoring the next morning
at ten o’clock. With a sigh of relief I saw them go on to the old ice
again.

[Illustration: A NEW LEAD OPENING IN THE ICE]

[Illustration: GETTING READY FOR A FRESH START]

On May 25th we managed to get our machine onto the slide so that the
heavy end lay on the old ice. This was a great advantage, as any
screwing which might take place would only push us higher up into
complete safety. At ten o’clock the next morning we semaphored again.
Dietrichson announced that conditions were better over there. In reply
we asked them if they were finished with their work to come and help
us. I would rather have seen them set off immediately, but such a
course would have hindered their own work. While we chatted a big seal
head suddenly appeared from a little fissure. I was astonished. Seals
in 88° N. Lat. I had not expected to find.

With a satisfied feeling we drank our chocolate that evening. Our
condition was much better. If we were not in absolute safety, we still
had found a way to work clear. Our stay on the waterway had been a
nightmare. High icebergs grinned down on us the whole time.

The 26th was a busy day. It dawned overshadowed; with a temperature
of -10° c. The ice on both sides of the great dam had been moving a
good deal during the night and both machines were driven nearer each
other. We could thus quite easily see everything that happened in the
other camp. We worked as usual on the slide and hoped in course of the
day to raise the machine absolutely. At three P.M. there was great
excitement on the other side and we thought at once that they were
crossing to us. The great dam had become considerably smaller during
the night; we looked at the old ice with large round eyes as we saw the
people from N 24 coming round it towards us. We thought that they would
have a dreary march of several hours, so we got on with our work in the
meantime.

Who can describe my surprise when some one suddenly said, “Look, there
they are!” Twenty minutes after leaving their resting place they had
nearly reached us. Two hundred yards away we could see them working
their way between the icebergs. We knew, however, that they could not
come straight over, as there was a little fissure lying between us
and them. Riiser-Larsen and I left our work, took the canvas boat,
and went to meet them. We had scarcely set the boat on the water when
Riiser-Larsen got into it to cross and fetch one of the advancing
party. As he broke his way through the thin ice, I stood on the old ice
and waited, when I was alarmed by a ringing shriek; a shriek which went
to my marrow and made my hair stand up on end. It was followed by a
number of cries, each one more alarming and terrifying than the last. I
had not the slightest doubt but that a drama of the most horrible kind
was being played on the other side of the iceberg. A man was in danger
of drowning. There I must stand and listen to it without being able to
raise a finger to help him. The situation seemed hopeless. The dying
cries got less and I thought to myself, “Yes, now all is over. How many
of them and who?” Just then came a head from the back of the iceberg.
“Fortunately all three are not drowned.” One appeared and then another
one joined him; then all three were there. To say I was glad is a mild
expression. The two first shook themselves like dogs, but the third
conducted himself normally. Riiser-Larsen carried them quickly over the
fissure. Dietrichson and Omdal were wet to the skin, but Ellsworth was
dry. We got them quickly on board the boat and their wet clothes were
changed for dry ones.

To burn in the Primus stove, I had been clever enough to bring spirits
of wine with me, and smiled slyly to myself over my farsightedness. As
they arrived their teeth chattered so that they could not speak, a fact
which was quite understandable, as falling into icy water and having to
remain in a temperature of -10° c. for ten minutes afterwards, while
a fresh little breeze is blowing, is enough to freeze one’s marrow.
A dram of 97 p. c. possibly saved them from unpleasant consequences.
A cup of steaming chocolate performed wonders, but _it_ took twenty
minutes to get ready, while the dram was ready at once. The work at
eventide was stopped and we gathered in the little dining room to hear
each others’ news. As the three left their camp at three P.M. with
their packages of forty kilos weight, they had fastened lifebelts on
and put skis on their feet without fastening the lashings. When they
found that the old ice was difficult to negotiate on account of small
open cracks, they decided it would be better to link hands and cross
the new ice. The result was better than one might have expected and
they got safely near to the old ice. But that lay on _our_ side, and
in such a condition that they preferred to continue on the new ice.
Omdal went first, then Dietrichson, and last Ellsworth. The first to
break through was Dietrichson, in fact one could hardly use the word
“break,” as “_sink_” suits the situation better. The slush is very
treacherous, it disappears underneath without a sound. When Dietrichson
fell through he quite reasonably gave a loud cry and Omdal turned round
to see what was wrong. In the same moment he himself fell through, and
both lay there. Without a thought and with brilliant presence of mind
Ellsworth rushed to them, pulled Dietrichson out and together they ran
to Omdal. It was in the last moment that they reached him, loosened his
rucksack, and hauled him out. He had stuck his nails into the ice and
held on with the greatest desperation, but it did not help him much as
the current carried his legs under the ice and threatened to draw him
under if help had not come to him in the last moment. Lincoln Ellsworth
was later decorated with the Medal for Bravery by H. M. the King and no
one who wears it has earned it more bravely. There is no doubt that by
his action he saved the whole expedition as later experience showed us;
for without the power of six men the N 25 could never have got home.

And now we got Dietrichson’s story of his departure from King’s Bay;
notwithstanding the fact that he knew a large part of the bonnet
had been torn open he decided to continue the flight in order not to
restrain N 25, which was already in the air. He thought it was better
to risk life than to stop the trip. I know there are people who will
shrug their shoulders and say “Idiotic.” I take off my hat and say,
“Courage--splendid, brilliant, indomitable Courage. Oh! if only we had
a number of such men.”

When N 24 saw us land they prepared to follow suit, but as Dietrichson
knew that the water would surge in as soon as he came down, he sought
a landing place on the old ice whence he thought he could raise his
machine. To land on it he found was impossible, but he managed to land
half on the old ice and thereby saved the situation. A quantity of
the material they carried got wet and everything was hung out to dry.
It sounds strange to speak of drying things in -10° c., but when they
were hung on the dark gray wall of the machine they did not take long.
From this moment all six of us took up quarters on board the N 25.
Dietrichson and Omdal went into the mess with Feucht, Ellsworth in the
pilot’s room with me. It was not a wonderful place that we had, but in
80 °N. Lat. one is not so particular. The three in the mess must each
evening lay skis on the floor in order to have something to lie on.

On the 24th of May the six of us finished the work of bringing the
machine into safety. How lightly and pleasantly it went, now that
we were all together. The thought of what might have happened to the
others had often proved detrimental to progress. Now we worked on
amidst laughter and song and no one could have believed that we were
prisoners in Nature’s most solid prison. In the beginning we three had
only had one goal before us, namely, to raise N 25 onto the nearest
solid ice. The slide was ready, but until the others joined us we had
not managed to raise the machine. Now we broadened our plans arranging
to bring the machine to a floe which we had examined and discovered to
be safe and solid. In order to reach it it was necessary to get the
machine across an intermediate floe. To do this we found it would be
necessary to negotiate some small icebergs and unevenesses, and to fill
up two ditches or trenches two meters wide. Our first work therefore
was to get the machine on the slide. What we three had found difficult
was easy for six men to accomplish; it was not only the addition of
physical power, but also the knowledge that we were re-united, and it
seemed that nothing could stop us as the machine glided out on the
first floe. We were all pleased and satisfied. We believed we could
make great progress in this frame of mind. How hopeless much of this
work appeared to be when we started, but self-confidence and unity
quickly changed the prospects. Riiser-Larsen was a builder of bridges
and roads. He seemed to have done no other kind of work in all his
life than what he was doing now. The two holes were filled up, the
whole place was evened out, and at 8 P.M. to the sound of loud hurrahs
we glided on the thick solid floe where we felt absolutely safe, or
as safe as we could. Casting the lead the following day gave us 3,750
meters. Adding to this the fact that we had reached 88° 30 N. Lat. when
we landed I believe that we confirmed Peary’s observations that no land
exists in the northern sector of the Arctic Ocean. But this cannot be
absolutely decided until some one flies over. The evening of the 29th
the dam closed considerably and the distance now between the two boats
could scarcely be more than 1 kilo as the crow flies. In the evening
Dietrichson, Ellsworth, Feucht and Omdal went over to see if it would
be possible to bring petrol back with them, but the ice was moving and
they had to make a long detour to get back again. They tried to bring
one petrol can with them, but were forced to leave it on the ice. “As
soon as we have got two cans of petrol here,” said I in my diary, “we
shall start for Spitzbergen. By our bearings we can take it for granted
that the territory from here to the Pole is just the same--drift-ice
and again drift-ice. And what should we do there? Substantiate the
existence of land. But what is in that? Nothing--it is not worth while.
But--perhaps it will be possible to find a place to rise from here.
The prospects are not too good but conditions can change quickly.”

The next day passed and we succeeded in bringing the petrol in safety
to our own floe. Later at eventide Dietrichson and Omdal crossed to
N 24 to bring back most of the provisions and equipment which had
been left there. The temperature was rising steadily, and was now
about -6° c. By the 1st of June we had let the new frozen ice get an
opportunity to set and become strong enough for a track. That day we
tested its thickness and found that it was eight inches (solid enough
for our purpose). As soon as we discovered this condition we started
to level the track; it was not so easy as one might think. Although
the new frozen ice was fine and level in long stretches there were
places where the old ice had taken the liberty of mingling with the
new and upsetting conditions entirely. Here the floe was on the slant,
with ditches and unevenesses, which gave us much hard work, but it was
necessary to get the machine down from the height above to the new ice.
For this a slide was necessary. It is difficult to calculate how much
we hacked away and how much we filled in, before we completed the work,
but it was many tons of ice and snow. By twilight we had finished the
track and the slide.

Early the next day we prepared to make ready. Everything must be in
good order. Everything must have its place and be properly secured.
When we rise nothing must be faulty. By 2:15 P.M. the engine was warm
and ready to start. Riiser-Larsen was in the pilot’s seat, Feucht
beside the motor. We four others stood by, ready to either push off
or haul in the seaplane just as circumstances demanded. Here began
a new task--to maneuver the seaplane amidst deep loose snow. When I
call this work wearisome I think I have used the right term. While at
first the work was particularly heavy, later, when we had had more
practice, it was easier, but the whole time it was “weary.” Our first
attempt was unsuccessful as the thin ice could not carry us. We broke
through almost at once, breaking the ice on the greater part of the
area. The track was about 500 yards long ending in old screw ice. As we
had neared the end of this we turned the machine round preparatory to
starting in the opposite direction in the pool which we had broken up.
But, as it is said, “the traveler meets many obstacles,” and I think
this applies particularly to any one who lands with a flying machine
amidst the Polar ice. Hardly had we swung the seaplane round than thick
fog descended like a wall. We could scarcely see from fore to aft, far
less think of flying through the fog at a speed of 110 kilometers.
“Therefore, my friend, cover yourself with patience,--the explorer’s
indispensable salve.” We arranged to watch and to sleep--it was ten
o’clock.

Feucht was keeping watch; he passed the time in pushing the machine
backwards and forwards in the mushy water to prevent it from being
frozen in. I got quite used to the crackling noise of the ice breaking
against the sides and in the end I slept to this music. I had slept
for an hour, I think, when I was suddenly awakened by a terrific
shout--“Come out, every one, the ice is closing in!” I knew that
Riiser-Larsen’s voice and tone were not to be mistrusted. Here was
danger ahead. There were cracklings and smashings all around and I
expected every moment to see the sides stove in like a concertina. In
a rush Ellsworth and I dived for our shoes, the only things we took
off during our stay amongst the ice. When I say “in a rush” it is only
relatively speaking. For a rush was impossible in our circumstances.
The pilot’s room offered good sleeping accommodation for two people if
they went to bed quietly and carefully. There were so many uprights,
struts, and pipes that our bedroom had the appearance of a birdcage.
The making of a miscalculated movement landed one against a pipe or a
strut, sometimes both. In addition to this one could not stand at full
height. To speak of a rush under such conditions is therefore stupid.
The sight which met us when we put our heads through the trap-door was
interesting, but not altogether inviting. It was interesting to note
how much four desperate men can straighten out. The pool we had made
was now covered with ice in the center of which N 25 was stuck. The
pressure was tremendous and a catastrophe seemed unavoidable. Gathering
all his strength, Riiser-Larsen sprang like a tiger. He jumped high in
the air in order to land anywhere on the ice which jammed the seaplane.
The result was always the same. The ice broke under him without
resistance. Omdal had got hold of a tool (I don’t know which one) and
helped his comrade splendidly with its aid. Larsen pushed for all he
was worth against the seaplane’s nose and tried to free it from the ice
pressure. By this united work they managed to loosen the machine about
45° and thereby lighten the pressure against the sides. In the meantime
Ellsworth and I were occupied in putting the provisions and equipment
on the old ice. We were masters of the situation at last, but it was a
near thing that time.

To return to our old quarters was unthinkable, so we looked round
for a safe place somewhere else. We lay in a favorable position for
crossing to N 24 and decided it might be wise to pursue this course.
There was a possibility that we might reach it by way of the new ice,
but this seemed unlikely after our last experience. However we would
try our best to get over because it would be an advantage to be able to
use N 24’s petrol without transporting it. Moreover it appeared that
conditions across there were calmer and offered a safer resting place.
That this was not the case we shall see later.

Thus we began again to hack and to level and by breakfast time the
track was finished. Exactly as though we ourselves had dispersed it
the fog lifted, and we could soon start. This reminds me of an amusing
occurrence, amusing for others, but not exactly for me. On account of
the small accommodation in the machines it was necessary for us always
to move about in tabloid form, bent, drawn together and compact. The
result of this was cramp, sometimes in the legs, in the thighs, in the
stomach, in the back. These attacks came on at the most inopportune
moments and the martyr was a never-failing object of general amusement.
Everything was ready that morning for departure and I suddenly
remembered my glasses which I had forgotten in the mess and which I
now rushed to fetch. But it was a mistaken move on my part. My first
hasty jerk gave me cramp in both thighs with the result that I could
not move from the spot. I heard titters and giggles and notwithstanding
the infernal pain I could not do otherwise than join in the general
amusement.

The second start was not more fortunate than the first. The ice broke
all the way and N 25 became famous as an icebreaker. One good result
came from it, however, namely, that we got near to the other machine.
That presented a sad appearance as it lay there lonely and forlorn
with one wing high in the air, and the other down on the ice. They had
been lucky enough to get its nose up on to a grade of the old ice floe,
but the tail lay right out in the ice.

The conditions here seemed quite promising. We had an open waterway
about 400 meters long with fine new ice quite near. The third attempt
to start was undertaken the same afternoon but without result. We
decided to join up the waterway and the new ice. It was possible that
the great speed one could attain on the waterway would carry one up
onto the ice and if that happened there was a big chance of rising in
the air as the track would then have become about 700 meters long. At
2 A.M. on the 4th June we started the work, continuing all day. As by
eventide we had got the track finished, down came the fog and prevented
us from starting. A little later the ice got rather lively, beginning
to screw during the night. Fortunately it was only the new-frozen ice,
but even it was eight inches thick. There were pipings and singings
all round us as the ice jammed against the machine. The methods and
tools we now used were most original. Dietrichson armed himself with
a four-yard-long aluminium pole with which he did wonderful work.
Omdal used the film camera tripod, which was very heavy, ending in
three iron-bound points. Every blow therefore was trebled and was most
effective. Riiser-Larsen was the only one who had brought rubber boots
with him; these reached to his waist. As the ice encroached it was met
by ringing blows. The battle against it continued the whole night and
by morning we could once again look back upon a conquest. Meantime
the old ice had crept up nearer to us. It now appeared as though the
“Sphinx” was taking aim at us; this was an ugly forbidding iceberg,
formed in the shape of the Sphinx. The movements of the ice had caused
the sides of the waterway to set together and our starting place was
ruined again. The fog lay thick on the 5th of June while fine rain
was falling. The ice cracked and piped as though it would draw our
attention to the fact that it still existed. _Now_ what should one do?

With his usual energy Riiser-Larsen had gone for a walk that afternoon
amongst the icebergs accompanied by Omdal; they wished to see if they
could find another place which could be converted into a starting
place. They had already turned round to return home, as the fog was
preventing them from seeing anything, when suddenly it lifted and
there they stood in the center of the only plain which could be used.
This was 500 meters square and not too uneven to be made level by
a little work and patience. They came back happy and full of hope
and shouted to the “Sphinx”: “You may be amused and smile even when
others despair--even when the position is hopeless we still sing with
pleasure aha! aha! aha! Things are improving day by day.”

The “Sphinx” frowned! It did not like this!

[Illustration: COLLECTING SNOW BLOCKS FOR A RUN-WAY]

The way to the plain which the two men had found was both long and
difficult, but we lived under conditions where difficulties frightened
us no more. First of all the machine must be driven there--about 300
meters through new ice to a high old plain. Here we would have to
hack out a slide to drive the machine up. From here the road crossed
over to the Thermopylæ Pass, which was formed by two moderately sized
icebergs, and ended in a three-yards-wide ditch over which the machine
must be negotiated on to the next plain. On the other side one could
see the last obstacle which must be overcome in the form of an old
crack about five yards wide with sides formed of high icebergs and
loose snow--rotten conditions to work in. Early on the morning of the
6th the work was started. After breakfast we took all our tools and
attacked the old ice where the grade should be built. In order to
get to this spot we had to pass round a corner which took us out of
sight of N 25. Under general circumstances one would not have left the
machine unattended, but conditions were otherwise than general and we
had no man we could spare. Singing “In Swinemunde träumt man im Sand,”
the popular melody associated with our comfortable days in Spitzbergen,
we used our knives, axes, and ice-anchor to the best advantage, and
fragments of ice flew in all directions. It is with pride and joy that
I look back on these days, joy because I worked in company with such
men, proud because our task was accomplished. Let me say quite frankly
and honestly that I often regarded the situation as hopeless and
impossible. Ice-walls upon ice-walls raised themselves up and had to be
removed from our course; an unfathomable gulf seemed to yawn before us
threatening to stop our progress. It had to be bridged by cheeky heroes
who, never grumbling, tackled the most hopeless tasks with laughter and
with song.

[Illustration: TRYING OUT OUR BULB SEXTANTS]

[Illustration: FAST IN THE ICE]

At 1 P.M. we went on board for soup. The ice was then calm. The
“Sphinx” lay in the same position. Oh! how good the thick pemmican
soup tasted! Five hours’ hard work on a cup of chocolate and three
small oatcakes gives one a good appetite. At 4 P.M. Dietrichson went
on board to fetch something, and on his return remarked that it seemed
to him that the old ice was approaching the seaplane. Now, he, during
the last days, had suffered a little from snow blindness and we thought
accordingly he had made a mistake. It was indeed a mistake. We should
have gone at once and looked into the matter. One must however remember
that every second is precious and that we grudged stopping work. At 7
P.M. we went on board to eat our three biscuits. The sight which then
met us would have filled the bravest heart with despair. The great pack
had approached the seaplane to within some meters. The “Sphinx” seemed
to bow and chuckle with amusement. Now it would have us! But it had
laughed too soon. The six men that it now looked upon were not the same
six who some days ago had arrived through the air from a place full
of life’s comforts; the six now were hardened by obstacles, weariness
and hunger, and they feared nothing on earth, not even the “Sphinx.”
“Hurrah! heroes. Hurrah for home and all we hold dear. The devil take
the ‘Sphinx.’” And so the work began and in its performance we got
more self-confident than ever before, as we managed to turn the heavy
machine round in the course of a few minutes. What task each person
specially performed it is difficult to say, but it was a Herculean
task. We lay down, we pulled, we toiled, we scratched. “You shall go
round!” Before we realized it there it was, turned 180° and the course
set for the new slide. The “Sphinx” hung its head and looked sad; but
the next day it lay exactly on the spot where N 25 had lain. During
this performance N 24 was pushed on to the plain beside which it had
lain. Still a little more leveling and the slide was ready. To shouts
of joy the machine, in the evening at eleven o’clock, was driven over
the track and stopped exactly beside the Thermopylæ Pass. To-morrow
there would not be much to be done.

The 7th of June. Norway’s Day! At home they would be wearing light
summer clothes and enjoying life, while flags flew over the whole land
from the North Cape to Neset. But don’t think that we forgot this
day. No! From the N 25’s highest point our silk flag flew and our
thoughts--oh! don’t let us think at all of them!

The side of the pass was formed by two gigantic icebergs which would
have to be more than half cut down before the wings could pass over
and the great ditch had to be filled up with ton after ton of snow.
But the 7th of June is a good day to work for homesick folk. The
knives are driven with greater certainty, the axes swung with greater
power, and in a remarkably short time the ice giants dwindled to
dwarfs. We experienced a very exciting episode on this occasion. While
Riiser-Larsen drove the machine over the snow glacier Dietrichson
went past and did not get out of the way. At the last moment he threw
himself down flat on the ground and the tail-skid passed so near
to him that I could not see daylight between. It was in the words’
fullest meaning a narrow escape. “I saw you all right,” remarked the
pilot later. “But I could not stop in the middle of the bridge.” That
his words were true was proved by looking back and noting that the
bridge was no longer there. It was a delightful feeling to sit on a
“flynder” and rush across the snow plains. It was not often we got the
satisfaction, as we usually had to stand by ready to push or haul the
machine over the snow. But this intermediate plain was hard and the
pilot could manage to steer with the wheel. And thus we stood before
the last ditch which had to be filled and leveled. It took us six hours
before it was finished and the machine landed in safety on the big
plain. It had been thawing the whole day and was uncomfortably warm for
working, but one could always throw some clothes off. We were not so
particular about our appearance.

The 8th of June brought us fog and half a degree of heat. It drizzled
the whole time and we were exceptionally uncomfortable. We were now
faced by another hard task, namely, turning the machine round in the
deep wet snow. We were unused to this work and consequently were fairly
clumsy. In addition to this we had to decrease our daily rations from
300 to 250 grammes, insufficient to keep up our strength. Our work in
the deep wet snow of this plain was wearying. More wearying than ever
before. Do you remember, comrades, how we made the turning platform?
You will scarcely have forgotten that? The machine had to be driven
up to the starting place and then swung round 180° to face the right
direction. The snow as already said was deep and wet, and any turning
of the machine under these conditions was hardly possible. What should
we do now? There was only one thing to be done, namely, to dig down
to the ice and turn the machine on that. The snow here was from two
to three feet deep and every spadeful was a heavy weight to lift,
particularly as we used the big shovels. We cleared a circular place
with a diameter of fifteen meters. That got the name “turning-table.”
Had we solved our problem by this you might have forgotten the
turning-table by now, but when we tried to turn the machine, we found
that the skids caught in the ice and stopped the whole progress. Again
we were faced with the question--“What shall we do?” And some one was
struck by a bright idea--to lay a snow-skate underneath. We all agreed
the idea was good, but to accomplish it was not easy. We must lift the
machine and it weighed four and one-half tons. But even that did not
frighten us. It was not to a great height that we had to lift it--just
about two centimeters, but only five men were available while the sixth
must place the snow-skate underneath. Never mind, come on, my heroes.
Lay your shoulders to the wheel and lift. And then five backs are bent
in unison, and one! two! three!--we had got it up on the snow-skate
at last. We continued working steadily, regardless of time’s flight,
from 4 A.M. on the 8th of June to 4 A.M. the next day. During that time
starting place No. 5 was worked on, tried, and approved. The fog lay
thick and heavy while the drizzle continued all day on the 9th, but
Riiser-Larsen insisted that the track should be completed. Think now
what a problem we had before us when we started to work that morning.
A track--500 meters long--twelve meters broad--should be made in wet
snow three feet in depth. The snow cleared away from the track must be
thrown at least six yards away from each side so that it should not
get in the way of the machine. We had lived on 250 grammes daily for
several days so you will not be astonished when I say that by evening
we were absolutely worn out. I watched, with wonder, the two giants
who wielded the shovels all day. We others did what we could, but our
work was trifling compared to theirs. On the 11th we set to again after
breakfast, but we could not keep up this strenuous work; an observer
would have noticed at once that he had a number of worn-out people
before him. The clang of the spades got slower, the rest-intervals
longer and longer till in the end we stood quite still and stared at
each other. It seemed an impossibility to get the snow shoveled aside
in a reasonable time. Whilst we stood discussing it, Omdal walked up
and down in the snow. It was only a chance that he did so, but a chance
which brought about important results. “See,” he shouted suddenly,
“this is what we can do instead of shoveling.” The place where he had
trekked was quite hard and with a little frost would give a splendid
surface. In the afternoon we started our great trek. Foot by foot
of the track of soft wet snow was trodden into a solid road. It was
still thawing, but we knew that if it turned frosty it would become a
perfect track--and it was only natural to expect that frost would come.
To make the surface even we had to remove long and high stretches of
ice-formation containing tons upon tons of ice. On the 14th of June
as we laid down our tools I don’t think I exaggerate when I say that
all in all we had removed 500 tons of ice and snow. That day we made
two starts, 6 and 7, but the foundation was still too soft as we had
had no constant frost. Certainly the temperature that day had been as
low as -12° c., but then it rose immediately after to 0° again. It
was impossible to get up sufficient speed to rise, the machine sank
down into the snow, and in a number of places dragged the whole of the
underlying snow with it. Now will it freeze or not?

The 15th of June was fixed as the latest day for our next attempt
to start. If that was not successful we must collaborate and decide
what could be done. There were not many courses to choose. Either we
must desert the machine and attempt to reach the nearest land, or we
must stay where we were and hope for an opportunity to rise in the
air. We had performed the miracle of leaving Spitzbergen with one
month’s provisions, and yet after four weeks had passed we found we
had provisions for six weeks. We could thus hold out until the 1st of
August. In my lifetime I have often been faced by situations where I
found it difficult to decide on the right course of action, but to
choose in this case with any degree of certainty was more difficult
than the making of any previous decision. The first alternative--to
set off in search of land--appeared to me to be the most sensible as,
should our provisions run out, it was possible further south that we
might find edible animal life. In addition this plan had the great
advantage that it would occupy our thoughts with the work we had ahead.
Against this plan the fact of our modest equipment and our probably
weakened condition must be weighed. When I privately considered these
two alternatives I always came to the conclusion that to look for land
was the most sensible, but as soon as I decided on this course a voice
whispered in my ear: “Are you mad, Boy? Will you leave a complete and
good machine, filled with petrol, and go down into the high broken ice
where you know you may perish miserably? A waterway may open up before
you to-morrow and then you will be home in eight hours’ time.” Will any
one blame me for my indecision when I found it so difficult to choose.

On the evening of the 14th we unloaded everything on the ice except
the most necessary, and _that_ we placed in a canvas boat. We kept
sufficient petrol and oil for eight hours, one canvas boat, two
shotguns, six sleeping bags, one tent, cooking utensils and provisions
for a few weeks. Even our splendid ski-shoes had to be set aside as
they were too heavy. Of our clothes we only kept what we could not do
without. All told it amounted to about 300 kg.

On the 15th of June we had a temperature of -3° c. with a little
breeze from the southeast, just the very wind we required. The track
was frozen fine and hard during the night, but the sky was not too
promising--low-lying clouds--but what in all the world did we care
about the sky! The thickest fog would not have kept us back. In this
light the track was very difficult to see; small black objects were
therefore placed at each side so that the pilot would be certain to
make no mistake. A little too much to one side or the other could be
fatal. At 9:30 P.M. everything was clear and ready for a start. The
solar-compasses and the engines started. They were three-quarters
warmed up. I cast a last glance over the track and walked along it to
pass the time. It ran from northeast towards southeast. A few yards in
front of the machine there was a small crack across the ice. It was
only a few inches wide, but there it was, and at any moment it might
open and separate the little corner we stood upon from all the rest.
For the distance of 100 meters the track rose quite gradually in order
to become level. Two hundred meters away, on the floe’s southeast
end, there also lay a crack right across, but this was of a much more
serious nature, and had caused us many uneasy moments. It was about
two feet wide and filled with water and mush. This seemed to show
that it was connected with the sea and could give us a few unpleasant
surprises sooner or later. Should this crack widen and tear away 200
meters of our track, the latter would be entirely ruined. The floe
ended in a three-foot broad water-lane; on the other side of it, direct
in the line of the track, lay a flat forty-meter long plain, which one
will understand was far from ideal, but absolutely the best which the
place could offer us. At 10:30 everything was in order. In the pilot’s
seat sat Riiser-Larsen, behind him Dietrichson and I, in the petrol
tank Omdal and Feucht, and Ellsworth in the mess. Dietrichson was to
navigate us homewards and should really have taken his place in the
observer’s seat in front of the pilot. But as that was too exposed
in view of the nature of the task we were undertaking, his place was
allotted further back at the start. This was undeniably a most anxious
moment. As soon as the machine began to glide one could notice a great
difference from the day before. The hasty forward glide was not to
be mistaken. One hundred meters off, we started at top-speed, 2,000
revolutions a minute. It trembled and shook, shivered and piped. It
was as though N 25 understood the situation. It was as though the whole
of its energy had been gathered for one last and decisive spring from
the floe’s southern edge. Now--or never.

We rushed over the three-meter wide crack, dashed down from the
forty-meter broad floe and then? Was it possible? Yes, indeed! The
scraping noise stopped, only the humming of the motor could be
heard. At last we were in flight. A smile and a nod and Dietrichson
disappeared into the observation compartment.

And now started the flight which will take its place amongst the most
supreme in flying’s history. An 850-kilometer flight with death as the
nearest neighbor. One must remember that we had thrown practically
everything away from us. Even though we had managed by a miracle to
get away with our lives, after a forced landing, still our days were
numbered.

The sky was low and for two hours we were compelled to fly at a height
of fifty meters. It was interesting to observe the ice conditions,
so we eased down. We believed that in different places we observed
from the sky we could distinguish open water all around us. But it
was not the case. Not a drop was to be seen anywhere, nothing but ice
in a chaotic jumble all around. It was interesting also to see that
the floe, which from first to last had given us freedom, was the
only floe within a radius of many miles which could have been of any
use to us. N 24 got a farewell wave and was lost to sight for ever.
Everything worked excellently, the engines went like sewing machines
and gave us unqualified confidence. Both solar-compasses ticked and
worked, and we knew that if only the sun would appear, they would be
of invaluable assistance to us. The speedometers were placed. By the
wheel sat the pilot, cool and confident as always. In the navigating
compartment was a man I trusted absolutely, and by the engines two
men who knew their work perfectly. Ellsworth spent his time making
geographical observations and photographs. I myself managed to get
what was impossible on the journey north, a splendid opportunity to
study the whole flight. The course was set towards Spitzbergen’s north
coastland, around Nord Kap. In the two first hours we steered by the
magnetic compass. This had been considered an impossibility, hitherto,
so far north, but the result was excellent. When the sun broke through
after two hours and shone direct on the solar-compass, it showed us how
exactly we had steered. For three hours the atmosphere had been clear,
but now it turned to thick fog. We rose to a height of 200 meters,
flying over it in brilliant sunshine. Here we derived much benefit from
the solar-compasses and were able to compare their readings with the
magnetic-compass. We had fog for an hour and then it cleared again.
The condition of the ice was as on the northern trip, small floes, with
icebergs on all sides. There was apparently no system in its formation;
everything was a jumble. There was more open water than on the northern
tour, but no waterways, only basins.

In 82° N. Lat. the fog descended again. The pilot tried for some time
to fly under it, and this was a flight which would have delighted
people who seek nerve-splitting thrills. The fog came lower and lower
till at last it stretched right over the icebergs. With a speed of
about 120 miles at a low altitude one gets a new impression of flying.
With a rush we passed over the top of the icebergs one after the other.
At a great height one does not notice the terrific speed. One is,
on the contrary, astonished how slowly one appears to be traveling.
Several times icebergs peeped up directly under us, so close in fact
that I thought, “We shall never clear that one!” But the next moment we
were across it. There could not have been more than a hair’s breadth to
spare. At last the conditions became impossible; fog and ice blended
into one. We could see nothing. There was another matter as well which
was of special weight, namely, the nearness of Spitzbergen. Should we
fly into the high cliff walls with a speed of 120 kilometers there
would not be much left of us. There was only one thing to do--to fly
over the fog and that was exactly what the pilot decided to do.

Up 100 meters high--and we were above the fog in brilliant sunshine. It
was observable soon that the fog was thinning, it began to lift more
and more in big masses, and soon we could see territory under it. It
was not inviting; nothing but small ice with a little water. When I
speak of the impossible landing conditions it is only to show that to
land here would have meant certain death. Such a landing would have
crushed the machine and sent it to the bottom. The fog lifted steadily
and soon disappeared entirely. It was a fresh southerly breeze which
brought about this welcome change. The fog had lain thickest in the
south, but now that began to move away as well. Large sections of it
tore themselves away from the great mass and disappeared in small
driving clouds. Where was Spitzbergen? Had we steered so mistakenly
that we had flown to the side of it? It was quite possible. One had no
experience in the navigation of the air in these regions. Over and over
again the general opinion of the magnetic compass’s uselessness in this
district came back to my mind as I sat there. The solar-compass had--as
soon as we got the sun--shown a reading in agreement with the magnetic
compass, but it was set at ----? At what? If only I knew! There was
probably no ground for anxiety, yet I felt dubious. We ought to see
land by now. We had not enough petrol to last long--and still no land.
Then suddenly a big heavy fog-cloud tore itself away and rose slowly,
disclosing a high glittering hill-top. There was scarcely any doubt. It
must be Spitzbergen. To the north lay some islands. They coincided with
Syvöene and the land stretched out in a westerly direction. But even
if it were not Spitzbergen, it was still land--good, solid land. From
the islands there stretched a dark strip northwards. It was water--the
great open sea. Oh! what a delightful feeling--sea and land and no more
ice. Our course lay southwards, but to get more quickly away from the
ugly conditions beneath us, the course was set westwards and downwards
to the open sea. It was more than a clever move on the part of the
pilot--it was refreshing to see how instinct came to his aid--because
the controls were showing signs of wear. It is enough to say before
we had got right across the sea the controls jammed and an immediate
landing was necessary. The wind blew with a cold blast from what we
learned later was Hinlopen Strait and the sea was high and rough. The
forced landing was accomplished with all the assurance and experience
which always distinguished our pilot. We left our places and all went
aft in order to allow the nose to lift as high as possible. The pilot
was the only one left forward. He flew most carefully, guiding the
boat and maneuvering it against the highest waves, which were of
tremendous dimensions. We who were aft kept warm and dry, but it was a
different matter for the man at the wheel. Time after time the waves
lashed over him, wetting him to the skin in a few minutes. It was not
“_spray_” which we shipped when the waves broke over us. Unused as
I was to maneuvers of this kind I expected every moment to see the
bottom stove in. It was seven in the evening when the forced landing
was accomplished, and it was not until eight that we reached land. It
was a fairly shoal bay we entered and the landing places it offered us
were not of the best. We found a sloping side of the coast ice where
we could climb ashore. The wind now died away and the sun shone on the
heavy stones which lay on the beach. Here and there a little fresh rill
ran between them singing as it descended from the hillsides. The sweet
voices of birds fitted in with our gentle mood of eventide and inspired
in us a feeling of solemnity. There was no need to look for a church
wherein to praise God the Almighty and offer up to Him our burning
thanks. Here was a spot amidst His own wonderful nature. The sea lay
smooth and calm with here and there tremendous pieces of ice protruding
from the water. The whole scene made an ineradicable impression on us
which we shall never forget. The plane was moored to a large piece
of ice so that it swung free, and all of us went ashore. There were
two things which it was necessary for us to do in our own interests.
First to discover our whereabouts and then to have a little food. The
chocolate and the three biscuits we had taken at 8 A.M. no longer
satisfied us. While Dietrichson “took the sun” the rest of us got the
meal ready--a repetition of breakfast. How good it tasted! How fine
it was to jump about among the big rocks! We became children again.
All around lay driftwood which we could use for firing if we remained
here any time. The ninety liters of petrol which we had must be used
sparingly.

Omdal, who had been our cook during the whole trip, wished to set the
Primus going, as there was still a little drop of petrol left in it,
and he was busy with it when suddenly Riiser-Larsen shouted, “There
is a ship.” And truly there in the east round the nearest point came
a little cutter, gliding along. Had misfortune earlier been our lot
luck seemed now to overwhelm us. It was now 9 P.M. and Dietrichson
had just completed his observations. We found that we were exactly
at Nord Kap on Nordostland, the very spot we had steered for in the
morning. Thus the flight was a master-stroke on the part of the man
who directed the machine, while the navigator shares the distinction
with him. It was a splendid deed! But--the little cutter had changed
her course and apparently had not noticed us. She moved quickly and
was probably fitted with a motor engine. What should we do? What should
we do to communicate with it? “Nothing easier,” said the flying-men.
“Just sit tight and you shall see.” In a second everything was brought
on board the plane, the motor started and we rushed over the sea
stopping exactly beside the cutter. It was the cutter “Sjöliv” of
Balsfjord--Captain Nils Wollan. A jolly-boat was lowered and with
two men rowed across to us. They seemed in doubt as to who we could
be, dirty and bearded as we were. But when I turned slightly round I
exposed my profile--and they knew us at once. Would they tow us down
to King’s Bay as our petrol was almost done? They would be delighted
to do this, in fact Wollan would have certainly towed us to China if
we had asked him, so glad was he to see us, so beaming with kindness
and goodwill. We had a rope attached to N 25 and we all went on board
the “Sjöliv.” There for the first time we felt that the expedition
was finished. Quietly and calmly we shook hands with each other--it
was a handshake that said much. We were received by all the crew
with hearty welcome and shown down to the cabins. While this part
of the ship was not exactly a ballroom, the cabins on “Sjöliv”--2
× 2 meters--compared with what we had had in the last four weeks,
were roomy and comfortable. These good people cleared out of them
absolutely and handed over the whole place to us. In the two broad
bunks four of us were able to sleep, while two found berths in the
men’s quarters. “Will you have coffee?” was the first question. Would
we! Yes, certainly, and as quickly as possible with a smoke thrown in.
We had been tobaccoless for the last days and now were longing for a
smoke. The first coffee was not an unqualified success; the coffee pot
was set on the fire to warm and, on a mighty roll the cutter gave,
it flew straight onto Riiser-Larsen’s back. He was thus the first to
get coffee, but if he appreciated the honor, his language expressed a
totally different opinion. They apologized to us for the egg pancake
and the seal-flesh which comprised the next course, but apologies were
unnecessary. All the food disappeared as though a whirlwind had passed
over the table--and this, despite the fact that we had decided to eat
sparingly after our long restriction.

The towing of N 25 proceeded satisfactorily in the beginning, but
during the night a southerly breeze came up blowing directly down from
the hills. The waves increased steadily and as we steered westwards
towards Hinlopen Strait we decided that we must turn landwards and
anchor. We only got to bed at 5:30 A.M., after traversing an endless
number of roods.

At eleven o’clock the next morning we were up again. It was blowing a
gale and we lay badly. We decided therefore that we should go into the
nearest bay to find a calm and safe harborage for N 25, let it remain
there while we went on to King’s Bay for assistance, return for the
seaplane and fly it down. The nearest harbor was Brandy Bay. We looked
at each other as much as to say, “Can we really permit ourselves to
enter a place with such a name?” The ice here lay at the bottom of the
Bay and we towed the machine safely through it. At 8 P.M. we steered
for King’s Bay. It was a windy passage through Hinlopen Strait. The sea
was high and rough and the “Sjöliv” enjoyed herself royally. If our
feelings agreed with hers, I should not like to say. On the 17th we
sailed along Spitzbergen’s north coast in summer sunshine and warmth.
We passed a few vessels and asked if they had seen “Hobby”--but “No,
they had not.”

As we passed Virgo-havn we hoisted all our flags and the little
“Sjöliv” was in gala attire. We wanted to honor the memory of the
man who, for the first time, sought to reach the Pole through the
air--Salomon August Andrëe. Was there any one in the world who had
more right to honor the memory of this man than we six who stood here
looking over the place from which he set out on his sad expedition. I
scarcely think so. We lowered our flag and continued.

At 11 P.M. we rounded Cape Mitra and there lay King’s Bay before us.
It was a wonderful sensation to sail back through the Bay and see
all the old well-known places again. The ice had vanished, melted by
the sunshine as loon and auk gamboled in its rays. Anxiety was rife
among us as we sailed in as to whether “Hobby” was here or not? The
skipper looked out, came back and announced that “Hobby” was not here;
only a coal-boat lay by the quay. As we approached one or other of us
went continually to look out; suddenly some one cried, “Yes, there is
‘Hobby.’ And another boat lies there also, but I can’t distinguish
which it is.” Our relief was great. There lay “Hobby” and many of our
dear friends were near. “Hullo,” some one cried from above, “the other
boat is the Heimdal.’” “No, you must be mad. What would the ‘Heimdal’
be doing here?” answered another. We had not the slightest idea what
awaited us. Nearer and nearer we approached. “Shall we raise the flag?”
said the skipper. “No,” I answered, “there is no reason to do so.” But
a little later some one said, “Surely we must greet the naval flag.”
“Yes, naturally. I have forgotten my good manners on the trip,” I had
to admit. So up went the flag and the “Sjöliv” approached the quay. We
continually had our glasses directed on the ships ahead; suddenly some
one exclaimed, “Good gracious, two flying machines are lying there.”
And, true enough, there lay two Hansa-Brandenburgers ready for flight.
Surely they were destined for a North Coast charting survey, as that
had been discussed last year. Yes, that seemed quite possible! That
_we_ were the reason for all this excitement never entered our minds.
We came on nearer and nearer. We could now see that they were beginning
to direct glasses on us from the Coast, showing interest in the little
cutter. As we sailed in one of our people who saw a comrade on board
the “Hobby” shouted, “Hullo, Finn, how is everything at home?” That
was the signal for great excitement. We saw them run round each other
in jubilation, shouting and gesticulating. What in the world was the
reason for all this? Soon we were to know. The motor stopped and the
“Sjöliv” sailed up alongside “Hobby.”

[Illustration: MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION ARRIVING AT KING’S BAY]

The reception we received will never be forgotten, not even when other
things fill our thoughts. Our friends wept, they took hold of us, they
looked at us with unbelieving glance--“But, Great God, is it you?” They
simply did not realize that we had returned. But they explained how
they had waited and waited, insisting that they had never given us up,
while in their hearts they knew they had. And suddenly there we stood
among them--the dead returned to life. No wonder that the reaction was
great. Not one sensible word was said during the first half hour. There
stood all our dear old friends: Captain Hagerup, Lieutenant Horgen,
Zapffe, Ramm, Berge, etc. They looked so happy. And there were the
dear fellows who had been sent to our relief: Captain Blom of the
“Heimdal” and First Lieutenant F. Lutzow-Holm with the air fleet.

[Illustration: ROALD AMUNDSEN AND LINCOLN ELLSWORTH AT THE RECEPTION BY
THE KING OF NORWAY]

The last to come down, not because he wished to be late, but because it
took him a long time to traverse the road from the Director’s house,
was our dear host, Stakkars Knutsen. He had run so fast that he had to
stand for a time to regain his breath. It was a warm reunion. Among
all who had missed us in that time there was scarcely anybody whom
our absence had made more uneasy. Late and early, we were told, he
had scanned the horizon looking for us. Never had we been out of his
thoughts. Big, strong man as he was, he had the warmest and softest of
hearts. No wonder then that the meeting with Knutsen was regarded as an
outstandingly important incident.

We had to be photographed from all sides, although a record would
appear on the plate of a month’s whiskers and dirt. In an hour both
would have vanished. And so we set off to our old King’s Bay quarters
where we had passed unforgettable days before our departure. It was
like a delightful dream to see it again. Every day as we had sat in
our little mess on N 25 taking our humble meal, it was remarked on
every side, “Oh! if only we were back at Knutsen’s.” And now we were
there. We felt we wanted to pinch ourselves and ask, “Is this really
possible? Can you really eat as many biscuits as you wish?” There was
no time to shave and wash first. No! Berta had now taken command, and
we should first and foremost have food. As we stepped into the room,
cheering broke out. The Station welcomed us back, and never has our
National Anthem sounded finer than it did as we stood in the little
square room listening to the tones of what is our dearest hymn. I
believe there was not one dry eye in the company. “Gud sygne dig landet
vaart. Vi gir dig med glede alt.”

On the next day about three or four o’clock the steam bath was ready
and a change was effected; hair and whiskers disappeared. We were all
very thin, but we noticed it now more distinctly. It looked as though
Riiser-Larsen could have put his collar twice round his neck--the same
size collar which had even been tight for him when he set out for the
north.

What time we went to bed that night I really cannot say, but I do know
that when I came out next morning and looked around, one of the finest
sights met me, making an ineradicable impression. On the flagstaff,
right before the house, waved our big, beautiful National flag in a
light summer breeze. The sun was blazing down and the glaciers around
shone like silver in its rays. All seemed to be in festal dress. The
hills blushed with the finest little flowers, and the birds twittered
and sang. In the harbor lay the boats fully be-flagged. Yes! it was
almost necessary to pinch myself to see if I was really awake. It
seemed more like a fable.

On June 20th at 2 A.M. the “Heimdal” left the Bay with flying-men,
mechanics, and photographer on board. They were off to Brandy Bay
to fetch the machine. At eight next evening they were back with the
apparatus in good order. We were dining when they arrived, but the
hum of the motor brought us all to our feet. There she came gliding
elegantly along and landed immediately afterwards. Now we got a holiday
which we all keenly appreciated. It reminded me of my happy days
when I could lie in idleness in the country and get fat! Hundreds of
telegrams streamed in daily from all corners of the world. The King
and Queen were first to send a greeting: “The Queen and I wish you and
your companions welcome back. I thank you for your enterprise and that
you have again brought honor to Norway. Haakon R.” The Crown Prince’s
followed immediately after. Then came the Storthing, the Government,
the Universities, all the towns, a number of districts and clubs and
all the foreign Legations. Telegrams from abroad also poured in with
congratulations--one from the English King, the German President, the
Geographic and Scientific Associations, among others. Those were hard
days for the telegraphers here in the north, but they were unusually
smart. The telegraph service on board the “Fram” and the “Heimdal”
gave us invaluable assistance. In addition to this the King’s Bay Coal
Company’s telegrapher, Herr Hagenis, worked at high pressure all the
time.

On June 23rd “Hobby” left us to return to her home--Tromsö. It was like
losing an old friend, for we had been so glad to have with us all these
clever, splendid people, who went with her; Ramm and Berge accompanied
them.

St. Hans’ Eve was celebrated with due ceremony,--bonfire, song and
dance. The Coal Company’s chartered boat “Albr. W. Selmer,” which
came into the station on the 21st of June, was finished by the 25th
with loading coal and took on board (the same afternoon) N 25 and the
Navy’s two Hansa-Brandenburgers. They were shipped as they lay on the
water--N 25 forward and the two others aft. The “Albr. W. Selmer”
was suddenly turned into something which looked like a cross between
fish and fowl. The planes were stretched out at both sides, and must
have offered a most unusual sight to any ship meeting her. “Selmer”
was an old boat, but quite able to take the whole expedition south.
Furthermore, she had sufficient room to carry the machines quite easily
and could house all the members. Captain Aasgard, her captain, and
his officers made room for us with customary Norwegian hospitality
and kindness and we of the expedition had the whole of the ship’s
after-part given over to us. Thus we had the officers’ quarters and
saloon. It was hard to say good-by to Knutsen and King’s Bay. We shall
always hold as one of our dearest memories the wonderful hospitality
and kindly care which was shown to us there on our return. At eleven
o’clock the “Selmer” left King’s Bay in glorious weather. The midnight
sun stood high in the heavens and the hills around were brightly
illumined. From the “Heimdal” we heard the sounds of them playing “Ja
vi elker” and from the Station’s height cheers broke out. The flags
were dipped--one last farewell and the Station disappears--our dear
home--behind us. We were ten passengers: Captain Hagerup, Lieuts.
Riiser-Larsen, Dietrichson, Horgen, Lutzow-Holm, Omdal, Zapffe, Feucht,
Ellsworth and myself. It was an unforgettable holiday--and festal
journey. The intention was that we should sail down outside the Islands
all the way, anchoring at Lang-Grunnen, from whence we should enter
Horten. This, however, was altered as time passed. We met a heavy
swell coming from the east, making it dangerous for our machines.
We must therefore “hug the coast” as quickly as possible, and at 11
A.M., June 29th, we passed Fugleö. Telegrams continued to come in such
numbers that the ship’s second mate, who was also radio-telegrapher,
was overworked. Near Tromsö we were overhauled by the S.S. “Richard
With,” belonging to the Vesteraalske Steamship Company. As it passed,
it hoisted its flags and broke out into loud cheers, as all on board
waved and shouted. This was the first greeting we had had of this
kind. Unexpectedly as it came it absolutely overwhelmed us. It was a
delightful greeting and will never be forgotten. Now we had an idea
what awaited us elsewhere and as we saw the tremendous preparations in
Tromsö Sound we were prepared. Out shot two large flag-bedecked ships
full of festal-clad jubilant people. A little further forward we saw
our old friend “Hobby” so gayly decorated and so laden with people
that she took our breath away. Speeches were made, songs were sung and
people cheered. The passage through Tromsö Sound was triumphant--a
proof of the warm-hearted hospitality characteristic of the people. The
wonderful summer weather continued all the time and our journey along
the coast was like a trip through Dreamland. Our beautiful flag was to
be seen everywhere and greeted us with the same glowing warmth. Fir
trees and birches were dressed in their most lovely green reminding
us of Fairyland as we glided past. Here and there lay solitary little
fishing-boats and I felt many times a lump in my throat when their
sunburnt men stood up, raised their hats and sent us their “Welcome
Home.” It was a calm but deep welcome which, in contrast to other more
demonstrative greetings, filled us with emotion.

Outside Kristiansand we received our first welcome from the air. It was
the Fleet and the Army greeting us. Four Hansa-Brandenburgers circled
round us once and then disappeared.

On the afternoon of July 4th we passed Færder and entered Oslo-Fjord
and were met with jubilant crowds by air and by sea. At Fuglehuk we
encountered one of the most affecting scenes which we had lived through
all the time, the meeting between the flying-men and their wives. The
companion ladder was lowered, all heads were bared, and the two women,
who had borne the hardest part of the expedition, climbed on board. If
I only had command of all the world’s flags I would dip them in honor,
if I only had all the world’s guns I would fire them all, to give these
brave women a reception worthy of an Empress, for as such I regarded
them.

At eleven o’clock at night we sailed into Horten’s Quay. Any attempt
to describe this would be in vain. It was like the Arabian Nights. I
was happy to go ashore at Horten, for in the past I had harvested so
much good there that I was deeply grateful to this place. Not one of
my expeditions had ever set out without the Norwegian Navy playing a
great part; this last one being indebted in an overwhelming degree. It
was through the Norwegian Navy’s Air Service that this last trip was
really made possible. Thanks to their liberal granting of necessary
permission, thanks to their giving us clever men; thanks to them again
it was possible to set off on our enterprise.

Thus came the day--the great, the unforgettable day--the 5th of July,
1925. Summer favored us in its fullest glory. Who can describe the
feelings which rose within us as we of the N 25 flew in, over the
flag-bedecked capital, where thousands upon thousands of people stood
rejoicing? Who can describe the sights that met us as we descended
to the water surrounded by thousands of boats? The reception on the
quay? The triumphant procession through the streets? The reception at
the Castle? And then, like a shining crown set upon the whole, their
Majesties’ dinner at the Castle. All belongs to remembrance--the
undying memory of the best in a lifetime.

PART II

THE AMUNDSEN-ELLSWORTH POLAR FLIGHT

BY LINCOLN ELLSWORTH

THE AMUNDSEN-ELLSWORTH POLAR FLIGHT

So long as the human ear can hark back to the breaking of waves over
deep seas; so long as the human eye can follow the gleam of the
Northern Lights over the silent snow fields; then so long, no doubt,
will the lure of the unknown draw restless souls into those great
Arctic wastes.

I sit here about to set down a brief record of our late Polar
experience, and I stop to try to recall when it was that my imagination
was first captured by the lure of the Arctic. I must have been very
young, because I cannot now recall when first it was. Doubtless
somewhere in my ancestry there was a restless wanderer with an
unappeasable desire to attain the furthest north. And, not attaining
it, he passed it on with other sins and virtues to torment his
descendants.

The large blank spaces surrounding the North Pole have been a challenge
to the daring since charts first were made. For nearly four generations
that mysterious plain has been the ultimate quest of numberless
adventurers.

Before this adventure of ours explorers had depended upon ships and
dogs. Andrée and Wellmann planned to reach the Pole with balloons, but
theirs were hardly more than plans. Andrée met with disaster soon
after leaving Spitzbergen. Wellmann’s expedition never left the ground.

What days they were--those ship and dog days! What small returns came
to those men for their vast spending of energy and toil and gold! I am
filled with admiration for the courage and the hardihood of the men who
cut adrift from civilization and set out with dogs or on foot over the
tractless ice fields of the Far North. All honor to them! Yet now what
utter neglect it seems of the resources of modern science!

No doubt the men who have been through it best realize what a hopeless,
heart-breaking quest it was. Peary’s land base at Camp Columbia was
only 413 miles from the Pole; yet it took him twenty-three years to
traverse that 413 miles.

[Illustration: LINCOLN ELLSWORTH AND N 24 JUST BEFORE THE START]

Curiously enough, Peary was the first man with whom I ever discussed
the matter of using an airplane for polar work. That was shortly before
his death, and he was enthusiastic about the project. Eight years
later, in 1924, Captain Amundsen arrived in New York. He had already
announced his belief that the Polar Sea could be crossed in a plane,
and for those eight years my mind had not freed itself of the idea. We
had a long talk and, as the result, I brought Amundsen and my father
together. My father, too, became enthusiastic and agreed to buy us two
flying boats. Thus the adventure began.

[Illustration: THE POLAR SEA FROM THE SKY]

The island of Spitzbergen, lying just halfway between Norway and
the North Pole, is ideally situated to serve as a base for Polar
exploration. Besides its nearness to the Pole--ten degrees, or 600
nautical miles--a warm current, an offshoot of the Gulf Stream, follows
along the western and northern coasts of the island, and has the effect
of producing ice-free waters at the highest latitude in the world.
These were the principal reasons which prompted Captain Amundsen and
myself to choose Spitzbergen as a base for our aeroplane flight to the
Pole.

We wanted to be on the ground early in the spring and to make our
flight before the summer fogs should enshroud the Polar pack and
hide from view any possible landing place beneath us, for it was our
intention to descend at the Pole for observations. From April 19th to
August 24th (127 days) the sun never sets in the latitude of King’s
Bay, Spitzbergen, where we had established our base. Here one may find
growing during the long summer days 110 distinct species of flowering
plants and grasses. But from October 26th to February 17th is another
story; the long Arctic winter is at hand and the sun never shows above
the horizon. Many houses have been built along the Spitzbergen coast
during the last twenty years by mining companies who annually ship
about 300,000 tons of coal, and King’s Bay boasts of being the most
northerly habitation in the world.

May 21st, 1925, was the day we had long awaited, when, with our two
Dornier-Wal flying boats we are ready to take off from the ice at
King’s Bay to start into the Unknown. We are carrying 7,800 pounds
of dead weight in each plane. As this is 1,200 pounds above the
estimated maximum lift, we are compelled to leave behind our radio
equipment, which would mean an additional 300 pounds. Our provisions
are sufficient to last one month, at the rate of two pounds per day per
man. The daily ration list per man is:

Pemmican 400 gr.
Milk Chocolate 250 „
Oatmeal Biscuits 125 „
Powdered Milk 100 „
Malted Milk Tablets 125 „

At 4:15 P.M. all is ready for the start. The 450 H. P. Rolls-Royce
motors are turned over for warming up. At five o’clock the full
horse power is turned on. We move. The N 25 has Captain Amundsen as
navigator. Riiser-Larsen is his pilot, and Feucht mechanic. I am
navigator of N 24, with Dietrichson for pilot, and Omdal my mechanic.
Six men in all.

The first two hours of our flight, after leaving Amsterdam Islands,
we ran into a heavy bank of fog and rose 1,000 meters to clear it.
This ascent was glorified by as beautiful a natural phenomenon as I
have ever seen. Looking down into the mist, we saw a double halo
in the middle of which the sun cast a perfect shadow of our plane.
Evanescent and phantom-like, these two multicolored halos beckoned us
enticingly into the Unknown. I recalled the ancient legend which says
that the rainbow is a token that man shall not perish by water. The
fog lasted until midway between latitudes eighty-two and eighty-three.
Through rifts in the mist we caught glimpses of the open sea. This
lasted for an hour; then, after another hour, the ocean showed, strewn
with small ice floes, which indicated the fringe of the Polar pack.
Then, to quote Captain Amundsen, “suddenly the mist disappeared and
the entire panorama of Polar ice stretched away before our eyes--the
most spectacular sheet of snow and ice ever seen by man from an aerial
perspective.” From our altitude we could overlook sixty or seventy
miles in any direction. The far-flung expanse was strikingly beautiful
in its simplicity. There was nothing to break the deadly monotony of
snow and ice but a network of narrow cracks, or “leads,” which scarred
this white surface and was the only indication to an aerial observer of
the ceaseless movement of the Polar pack. We had crossed the threshold
into the Unknown! I was thrilled at the thought that never before had
man lost himself with such speed--75 miles per hour--into unknown
space. The silence of ages was now being broken for the first time by
the roar of our motors. We were but gnats in an immense void. We had
lost all contacts with civilization. Time and distance suddenly seemed
to count for nothing. What lay ahead was all that mattered now.

“Something hidden. Go and find it.
Go and look behind the Ranges--
Something lost behind the Ranges,
Lost and waiting for you. Go!”

On we sped for eight hours, till the sun had shifted from the west to a
point directly ahead of us. By all rights we should now be at the Pole,
for our dead reckoning shows that we have traveled just one thousand
kilometers (six hundred miles), at seventy-five miles per hour, but
shortly after leaving Amsterdam Islands we had run into a heavy
northeast wind, which had been steadily driving us westward. Our fuel
supply was now about half exhausted, and at this juncture, strangely
enough, just ahead of us was the first open lead of water that was
large enough for an aeroplane to land in that we had encountered on
our whole journey north. There was nothing left now but to descend
for observations to learn where we were. As Captain Amundsen’s plane
started to circle for a landing, his rear motor backfired and stopped,
so that he finally disappeared among a lot of ice hummocks, with only
one motor going.

This was at 1 A.M. on the morning of May 22nd.

The lead ran east and west, meeting our course at right angles. It was
an awful-looking hole. We circled for about ten minutes, looking for
enough open water to land in. The lead was choked up with a chaotic
mass of floating ice floes, and it looked as if some one had started to
dynamite the ice pack. Ice blocks standing on edge or piled high on top
of one another, hummocks and pressure-ridges, was all that greeted our
eyes. It was like trying to land in the Grand Canyon.

We came down in a little lagoon among the ice-floes, taxied over to
a huge ice-cake, and, anchoring our plane to it, jumped out with our
sextant and artificial horizon to find out where we were. Not knowing
what to expect, I carried my rifle, but after our long flight I was a
bit unsteady on my legs, tumbled down into the deep snow, and choked up
the barrel. Our eyes were bloodshot and we were almost stone-deaf after
listening to the unceasing roar of our motors for eight hours, and the
stillness seemed intensified.

Looking around on landing, I had the feeling that nothing but death
could be at home in this part of the world and that there could not
possibly be any life in such an environment, when I was surprised
to see a seal pop up his head beside the plane. I am sure he was as
surprised as we were, for he raised himself half out of the water to
inspect us and seemed not at all afraid to approach, as he came almost
up to us. We had no thought of taking his life, for we expected to be
off and on our way again towards the Pole after our observation. His
curiosity satisfied, he disappeared, and we never saw another sign of
life in those waters during our entire stay in the ice.

Our observations showed that we had come down in Lat. 87° 44′ N., Long.
10° 20′ West. As our flight meridian was 12° East, where we landed
was, therefore, 22° 20′ off our course. This westerly drift had cost
us nearly a degree in latitude and enough extra fuel to have carried
us to the Pole. As it was, we were just 136 nautical miles from it. At
the altitude at which we had been flying just before descending, our
visible horizon was forty-six miles; which means that we had been able
to see ahead as far as Lat. 88° 30′ N., or to within just ninety miles
of the North Pole. We had left civilization, and eight hours later we
were able to view the earth within ninety miles of the goal that it
had taken Peary twenty-three years to reach. Truly “the efforts of one
generation may become the commonplace of the next.”

When we had finished taking our observation, we began to wonder where
N 25 was. We crawled up on all the high hummocks near by and with our
field-glasses searched the horizon. Dietrichson remarked that perhaps
Amundsen had gone on to the Pole. “It would be just like him,” he said.
It was not until noon, however, of the 22nd that we spotted them from
an especially high hill of ice. The N 25 lay with her nose pointing
into the air at an angle of forty-five degrees, among a lot of rough
hummocks and against a huge cake of old blue Arctic ice about forty
feet thick, three miles away. It was a rough-looking country, and the
position of the N 25 was terrible to behold. To us it looked as though
she had crashed into this ice.

We of the N 24 were not in too good shape where we were. We had torn
the nails loose on the bottom of our plane, when we took off from
King’s Bay, so that she was leaking badly; in fact, the water was now
above the bottom of the petrol tanks. Also, our forward motor was
disabled. In short, we were badly wrecked. Things looked so hopeless to
us at that moment that it seemed as though the impossible would have to
happen ever to get us out. No words so well express our mental attitude
at that time as the following lines of Swinburne’s:

“From hopes cut down across a world of fears,
We gaze with eyes too passionate for tears,
Where Faith abides, though Hope be put to flight.”

That first day, while Dietrichson and I had tried to reach the N 25,
Omdal had been trying to repair the motor. We dragged our canvas
canoe up over hummocks and tumbled into icy crevasses until we were
thoroughly exhausted. The snow was over two to three feet deep all over
the ice, and we floundered through it, never knowing what we were going
to step on next. Twice Dietrichson went down between the floes and only
by hanging onto the canoe was he able to save himself from sinking.
After half a mile of this we were forced to give up and return.

We pitched our tent on top of the ice floe, moved all our equipment
out of the plane into it, and tried to make ourselves as comfortable
as possible. But there was no sleep for us and very little rest during
the next five days. Omdal was continually working on the motor, while
Dietrichson and I took turns at the pump. Only by the most incessant
pumping were we able to keep the water down below the gasoline tanks.

Although we had located the N 25, they did not see us till the
afternoon of the second day, which was May 23rd. We had taken the small
inflated balloons, which the meteorologist had given us with which to
obtain data regarding the upper air strata, and after tying pieces of
flannel to them set them loose. We hoped that the wind would drift them
over to N 25 and so indicate to them in which direction to look for us.
But the wind blew them in the wrong direction, or else they drifted too
low and got tangled up in the rough ice.

Through all that first day the wind was blowing from the north and we
could see quite a few patches of open water. On the second day the
wind shifted to the south and the ice began to close in on us. It was
as though we were in the grasp of a gigantic claw that was slowly but
surely contracting. We had a feeling that soon we would be crushed.

On the third day, May 24th, the temperature was -11.5 c., and we had
trouble with our pump freezing. The two planes were now slowly drifting
together, and we established a line of communication, so that we knew
each other’s positions pretty well. It is tedious work, semaphoring,
for it requires two men: one with the flag, and the other with a pair
of field-glasses to read the signals. It took us a whole hour merely to
signal our positions, after which we must wait for their return signals
and then reply to them.

On this day, after an exchange of signals, we decided to try to reach
Amundsen. We packed our canvas canoe, put it on our sledge, and started
across what looked to us like mountainous hummocks. After only going a
few hundred yards we had to give up. The labor was too exhausting. With
no sleep for three days, and only liquid food, our strength was not
what it should have been. Leaving our canvas canoe, we now made up our
packs of fifty pounds each, and pushed on. We may or we may not return
to our plane again.

According to my diary we traveled the first two miles in two hours and
fifteen minutes, when we came upon a large lead that separated us from
the N 25 and which we could see no way to cross. We talked to them by
signal and they advised our returning. So, after a seven-hour trip,
we returned to our sinking plane, having covered perhaps five and one
half miles in about the same length of time it had taken us to fly from
Spitzbergen to Lat. 87.44. Arriving at our plane, we pitched camp again
and cooked a heavy pemmican soup over our Primus stove. Dietrichson
gave us a surprise by producing a small tin of George Washington
coffee. We took some of the pure alcohol carried for the Primus stove
and put it into the coffee, and with pipes lighted felt more or less
happy.

As we smoked in silence, each with his own thoughts, Dietrichson
suddenly clasped his hands to his eyes, exclaiming: “Something is the
matter with my eyes!” He was snow-blind, but never having experienced
this before, did not know what had happened to him. We had been careful
to wear our snow-glasses during most of the journey, but perhaps not
quite careful enough. After bandaging Dietrichson’s eyes, Omdal and I
put him to bed and then continued with our smoking and thoughts. It
seems strange, when I think back now, that during those days nothing
that happened greatly surprised us. Everything that happened was
accepted as part of the day’s work. This is an interesting sidelight
on man’s adaptability to his environment.

All our energies were now being bent in getting the N 24 up onto the
ice floe, for we knew she would be crushed if we left her in the lead.
The whole cake we were on was only about 200 meters in diameter,
and there was only one level stretch on it of eighty meters. It was
laborious work for Dietrichson and myself to try to clear the soggy
wet snow, for all we had to work with was one clumsy home-made wooden
shovel and our ice-anchor. As I would loosen the snow by picking at it
with the anchor, Dietrichson would shovel it away.

Looking through our glasses at N 25, we could see the propellers going,
and Amundsen pulling up and down on the wings, trying to loosen the
plane from the ice, but she did not budge. On the morning of May 26th,
Amundsen signaled to us that if we couldn’t save our plane to come
over and help them. We had so far succeeded in getting the nose of our
plane up onto the ice-cake, but with only one engine working it was
impossible to do more. Anyway, she was safe now from sinking, but not
from being crushed, should the ice press in on her. During the five
days of our separation the ice had so shifted that the two planes were
now plainly in sight of each other and only half a mile apart. During
all that time the ice had been in continual movement, so that now all
the heavy ice had moved out from between the two camps. We signaled
to the N 25 that we were coming, and making up loads of eighty pounds
per man, we started across the freshly frozen lead that separated us
from our companions. We were well aware of the chances we were taking,
crossing this new ice, but we saw no other alternative. We _must_ get
over to N 25 with all possible speed if we were ever to get back again
to civilization.

With our feet shoved loosely into our skis, for we never fastened them
on here for fear of getting tangled up, should we fall into the sea,
we shuffled along, slowly feeling our way over the thin ice. Omdal
was in the lead, myself and Dietrichson--who had recovered from his
slight attack of snowblindness the next day--following in that order.
Suddenly I heard Dietrichson yelling behind me, and before I knew what
it was all about Omdal ahead of me cried out also and disappeared as
though the ice beneath him had suddenly opened and swallowed him. The
ice under me started to sag, and I quickly jumped sideways to avoid
the same fate that had overtaken my companions. There just happened
to be some old ice beside me and that was what saved me. Lying down
on my stomach, partly on this ledge of old ice, and partly out on the
new ice, I reached the skis out and pulled Dietrichson over to where I
could grab his pack and partly pull him out onto the firmer ice, where
he lay panting and exhausted. Then I turned my attention to Omdal. Only
his pallid face showed above the water. It is strange, when I think
that both these Norwegians had been conversing almost wholly in their
native tongue, that Omdal was now crying in English, “I’m gone! I’m
gone!”--and he was almost gone too. The only thing that kept him from
going way under was the fact that he kept digging his fingers into
the ice. I reached him just in time to pull him over to the firmer
ice. I reached him just before he sank and held him by his pack until
Dietrichson could crawl over to me and hold him up, while I cut off the
pack. It took all the remaining strength of the two of us to drag Omdal
up onto the old ice.

Our companions could not reach us, neither could they see us, as a few
old ice hummocks of great size stood directly in front of N 25. They
could do nothing but listen to the agonizing cries of their fellow-men
in distress. We finally succeeded in getting over to our companions,
who gave us dry clothes and hot chocolate, and we were soon all right
again, except for Omdal’s swollen and lacerated hands. Both men had
lost their skis. In view of the probability of being forced to tramp
to Greenland, four hundred miles away, the loss of these skis seemed a
calamity.

I was surprised at the change only five days had wrought in Captain
Amundsen. He seemed to me to have aged ten years. We now joined with
our companions in the work of freeing the N 25 from her precarious
position. As stated before, when Captain Amundsen’s plane had started
to come down into the lead, his rear motor back-fired, and he was
forced to land with only one motor working, which accounted for the
position which we now found N 25 in. She lay half on and half off an
ice floe; her nose was up on the cake and her tail down in the sea.
Coming down thus had reduced her speed and saved her from crashing into
the cake of old blue ice, which was directly ahead. It seemed amazing
that whereas five days ago the N 25 had found enough open water to land
in, now there was not enough to be seen anywhere sufficient to launch a
rowboat in. She was tightly locked in the grip of the shifting ice.

[Illustration: N 25 ABOVE THE POLAR PACK JUST BEFORE LANDING AT 87° 44′]

A most orderly routine was being enforced at Amundsen’s camp. Regular
hours for everything--to work, sleep, eat, smoke and talk; no need to
warn these men, as so many explorers had been compelled to do, not to
give one another the story of their lives, lest boredom come. These
Norwegians have their long periods of silence in which the glance of an
eye or the movement of a hand takes the place of conversation. This,
no doubt, accounts for the wonderful harmony that existed during the
whole twenty-five days of our imprisonment in the ice. One might expect
confusion and disorganization under the conditions confronting us.
But it was just the reverse. We did everything as if we had oceans of
time in which to do it. It was this calm, cool, and unhurried way of
doing things which kept our spirits up and eventually got us out of a
desperate situation. No one ever got depressed or blue.

[Illustration: N 24 AND OUR ARCTIC HOME]

We elected Omdal our cook. Although we felt better nourished and
stronger after our noon cup of pemmican broth, it was always our
morning and evening cup of chocolate that we looked forward to most.
How warming and cheering that hot draught was! Captain Amundsen
remarked that the only time we were happy up there was when either the
hot chocolate was going down our throats, or else when we were rolled
up in our reindeer sleeping bags. The rest of the time we were more
or less miserable, but never do I remember a time when we ever lost
faith! The after-compartment of our plane--a gaunt hole--served as
kitchen, dining-room and sleeping-quarters, but it was draughty and
uncomfortable, and it seemed always a relief to get out into the open
again after our meals. The cold duralumin metal overhead was coated
with hoarfrost which turned into a steady drip as the heat from our
little Primus stove, together with that from our steaming chocolate,
started to warm up the cabin. Feucht always sat opposite me--I say
sat, but he squatted--we all squatted on the bottom of the plane with
our chocolate on our knees. I remember how I used to covertly watch
him eating his three oatmeal wafers and drinking his chocolate. I
always tried to hold mine back so as not to finish before him. I had
the strange illusion that if I finished first it was because he was
getting more to eat than I. I particularly recall one occasion, two
weeks later, after we had cut our rations in half, when I purposely hid
my last biscuit in the folds of my parka, and the satisfaction it gave
me to draw it out and eat it after Feucht had laid his cup aside. It
was the stirring of those primitive instincts which, hidden beneath the
veneer of our civilization, lie ever ready to assert themselves upon
reversion to primitive conditions. We smoked a pipe apiece of tobacco
after each meal, but unfortunately we had taken only a few days’ supply
of smoking stuff. When that went, we had to resort to Riiser-Larsen’s
private stock of rank, black chewing twist. It took a real hero to
smoke that tobacco after moistening it so as to make it burn slower and
thus hold out longer. It always gave us violent hiccoughs.

We were compelled to give up our civilized habits of washing or
changing our clothes. It was too cold to undress, and we could not
spare the fuel to heat any water after our necessary cooking was done.

During all our stay in the ice I never saw Captain Amundsen take a
drink of water. I was always thirsty after the pemmican, and when I
called for water, he said he could not understand how I could drink so
much water.

Captain Amundsen and I slept together in the pilot’s cockpit, which we
covered over with canvas to darken it at night. I was never able to get
used to the monotony of continuous daylight and found it very wearing.
With the exception of Riiser-Larsen the rest of the men slept on their
skis stretched across the rear-compartment to keep them off the metal
bottom. Riiser-Larsen had the tail all to himself, into which he was
compelled to crawl on hands and knees.

It took us a whole day to construct a slip and work our plane up
onto the ice-cake. The work was exhausting on our slim rations, and,
besides, we had only the crudest of implements with which to work:
three wooden shovels, a two-pound pocket safety-ax, and an ice anchor.
Through hopeless necessity we lashed our sheath-knives to the end of
our ski-sticks, with which we slashed at the ice. It is remarkable,
when one considers the scant diet and the work we accomplished with
these implements! Captain Amundsen conservatively estimates that we
moved three hundred tons of ice during the twenty-five days of our
imprisonment up there in order to free our plane.

The floe we were on measured 300 meters in diameter, but we needed a
400-meter course from which to take off. Our best chance, of course,
would be to take off in open water, but the wind continued to blow
from the south, and the south wind did not make for open water.

Riiser-Larsen was tireless in his search for an ice floe of the right
dimensions. While the rest of us were relaxing, he was generally to be
seen on the skyline searching with that tireless energy that was so
characteristic of him. Silent and resourceful, he was the rock on which
we were building our hopes.

The incessant toil went on. On May 28th the N 25 was safe from the
screwing of the pack-ice. On this day we took two soundings, which gave
us a depth of 3,750 meters (12,375 feet) of the Polar Sea. This depth
corresponds almost exactly to the altitude of Mont Blanc above the
village of Chamonix. Up to this time our only thought had been to free
the plane and continue on to the Pole, but now, facing the facts as
they confronted us, it seemed inadvisable to consider anything else but
a return to Spitzbergen. The thermometer during these days registered
between -9° c. and -11° c.

On May 29th Dietrichson, Omdal and I, by a circuitous route, were
able to reach the N 24 with our canvas canoe and sledge. We must get
the remaining gasoline and provisions. Our only hope of reaching
Spitzbergen lay in salvaging this fuel from the N 24. We cut out one of
the empty tanks, filled it from one of the fresh ones, loaded it in our
canoe, put the canoe on the sledge and started back. And now we found
that a large lead had opened up behind us, over which we were barely
able to get across ourselves, so we had to leave the tank and supplies
on the further side over night. The next day the lead had closed again
and Dietrichson and Omdal succeeded in getting the gasoline over. The
light sledge got slightly broken among the rough hummocks, which was an
additional catastrophe, in view of the probability of having to walk to
Greenland.

We now had 245 liters additional fuel,--1,500 liters altogether,--or a
margin of 300 liters on which to make Spitzbergen, provided we could
get off immediately.

On May 31st an inventory of our provisions showed that we had on hand:

285 half-pound cakes of pemmican,
300 cakes of chocolate,
3 ordinary cracker-tins of oatmeal biscuits,
3 20-lb. sacks of powdered milk,
3 sausages, 12 lbs. each,
42 condensed milk tins of Horlick’s Malted Milk Tablets,
25 liters of kerosene for our Primus stove (we later used
motor fuel for cooking).

Our observations for Latitude and Longitude this day showed our
position to be 87.32 N. and 7.30 W. It meant that the whole pack had
been steadily drifting southeast since our arrival. It was at least
some consolation to know that we were slowly but surely drifting south,
where we knew there was game. How we should have liked to have had
that seal we saw the first day! We had seen no life of any description
since, neither in the water nor in the air, not even a track on the
snow to show that there was another living thing in these latitudes but
ourselves. It is a land of misery and death.

With a view to working the longest possible time in an attempt to
get the N 25 clear, and at the same time have sufficient provisions
left with which to reach Greenland, Captain Amundsen felt that it was
necessary to cut down our daily rations to 300 grams per man, or just
one half pound per man per day. This amounted to one-half the ration
that Peary fed his dogs a day on his journey to the Pole. By thus
reducing our rations, he figured that our provisions would last for two
months longer.

Captain Amundsen now set June 15th as the date upon which a definite
decision must be arrived at. On that date something must be done; so a
vote was taken, each man having the option of either starting on foot
for Greenland on that date, or else sticking by the plane with the hope
of open water coming while watching the food dwindle. There was much
divided opinion. It seemed absurd to consider starting out on a long
tramp when right by our side was 640 horsepower lying idle, which
could take us back to civilization within eight hours. Captain Amundsen
was for staying by the plane. He said that with the coming of summer
the leads would open. Riiser-Larsen said he would start walking on June
15th. Feucht said he would not walk a foot and that he would stick by
the motors. Omdal said he would do what the majority did, and I said I
would prefer to wait until June 14th before making a decision.

My own mind was pretty well made up that if I ever succeeded in
traveling 100 miles towards Greenland on foot, I would be doing well.
Yet sitting down by the plane and watching the last of the food go was
a thing that ran counter to my every impulse. I agreed with Captain
Amundsen that I should much prefer to “finish it” on my feet. I think
that all really believed that in our worn-out condition, carrying
thirty pounds on our backs and dragging a canvas canoe along with which
to cross open leads, none of us would be able to reach the Greenland
coast.

Most of our doubt regarding the tramp to Greenland, of course, came
from our not knowing just how far the bad country that we were in
extended. Climb up as high as we could, we were never able to see the
end of it. Whether it extended to Greenland or not was the question,
and that was what made it so hard for us to decide what course to take.

After our evening cup of chocolate Captain Amundsen and I generally
would put on our skis and take a few turns around the ice floe we were
on before turning into our sleeping-bags. I usually asked him on these
occasions what he thought of the situation. His reply was that things
looked pretty bad, but he was quick to add that it had always been his
experience in life that when things were blackest, there was generally
light ahead.

On May 31st there was eight inches of ice in the lead on the far side
of the floe we were on. We decided to try a take-off on this new ice.
From our ice-cake down into the lead there was a six-foot drop, so
that it was necessary to construct a slip upon which to get our plane
down into the lead. We built this slip in accordance with standard
road-making principles--first heavy blocks of ice, then filling in on
top with smaller pieces, and then tiny lumps and loose snow, on top
of which we spread a layer of loose snow which froze into a smooth
surface. It took us two days to build this slip and to level off the
ice ahead for 500 meters.

At this time we had established regular nightly patrols, each man
taking his turn at patrolling all night around and around the ice floe,
on his skis, looking for open water. The mental strain during this
period was terrific, for we never knew when the cake we were on might
break beneath us.

On June 2nd, at 5 P.M., we decided that our slip was worthy a trial.
We started up the motors and taxied across the floe and down the slip,
but we had built our slip too steep, and, therefore, not having enough
speed, the plane simply sagged through the ice and for 1,000 meters we
merely plowed through it. We shut off the motors and prepared to spend
the night in the lead.

At midnight I was awakened by Captain Amundsen yelling that the plane
was being crushed. I could plainly hear the pressure against the metal
sides. We lost no time in getting everything out onto some solid ice
near by, and by working the plane up and down permitted the incoming
ice to close in beneath her from both sides. It was a narrow escape. We
had expected the plane to be crushed like an eggshell. Riiser-Larsen’s
only comment after the screwing stopped was, “Another chapter to be
added to our book!” Before morning our first heavy fog set in. The
Arctic summer was upon us. From then on the fog hung like a pall over
us and for the remainder of our stay in the Arctic we were never
free from it, although we were always able to see the rim of the sun
through it and knew that above it the sky was clear and the sun shining
brightly, but we could not rise into it. With the coming of the fogs
the temperature rose to freezing.

We were gradually working our way over towards where the N 24 was
lying. During the day we would level off a new course, but there was
not sufficient wind in which to rise, and as usual our heavily loaded
plane broke through the thin ice,--

“Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul.
Felt her lift and felt her sag, betted when she’d break;
Wondered every time she raced if she’d stand the shock.”

The N 25 started leaking so badly from the pressure she received the
other night that Captain Amundsen and I were obliged to pitch our tent
on the floe upon which the N 24 was resting. We were wondering how much
more she could stand. N 24 still lay with her nose on the ice floe, as
we left her, but she had now listed sideways, so that the tip of one
wing was firmly imbedded in the freshly frozen ice around her. During
the past few days the ice had been freezing in from both sides, forming
a long, narrow lane in front of N 24, but parts of this lane have bent
into a curve. It was a narrow, crooked passage, but Riiser-Larsen felt
that it offered one more opportunity for a take-off. He taxied N 25
forward, narrowly escaping an accident. As he slowed up to negotiate
the curve, the nose broke through the ice with the reduced speed. The
plane suddenly stopped and lifted its tail into the air. We jumped out
and hacked away the ice until the plane settled on an even keel. We
dared not remain where we were because the main body of the pack was
fast closing in upon us from both sides.

At two o’clock the next morning we commenced work on an extension of
our previous course and continued on throughout the day and on into
the following night. It was a tremendous task, as the ice was covered
with tightly frozen lumps, old pressure-ridges of uptilted ice cakes.
Hacking away with our short-handled pocket-ax and ice anchor was
such back-breaking work that we were compelled to work on our knees
most of the time. The sweat was rolling down my face and blurred my
snow-glasses, so that I was compelled to take them off for a couple
of hours. I paid the penalty by becoming snow-blind in one eye.
Dietrichson was not so fortunate. He was badly attacked in both eyes,
and had to lie in the tent in his sleeping-bag for two days with his
eyes bandaged and suffering acutely from the intense inflammation.

We awoke on the morning of June 5th, tired and stiff, to look upon the
level track we had so frantically labored to prepare, but saw in its
place a jumbled mass of upturned ice blocks. With the destruction of
our fourth course our position was now desperate. But we would hang
on till the 15th, when the vital decision would have to be made as
to whether or not we should abandon N 25 and make for the Greenland
coast while there were yet sufficient provisions left. But we had come
here on wings, and I know we all felt only wings could take us back
to civilization. If we could only find a floe of sufficient area from
which to take off. That was our difficulty.

In the early morning of June 6th Riiser-Larsen and Omdal started
out into the heavy fog with the grim determination of men who find
themselves in desperate straits, to search for what seemed to us all
the unattainable. We saw no more of them till evening. Out of the fog
they came, and we knew by their faces, before they uttered a word, that
they had good news. Yes, they had found a floe! They had been searching
through the fog, stumbling through the rough country. Suddenly the sun
broke through and lit up one end of a floe, as Riiser-Larsen puts it,
which became our salvation. It was a half mile off, and it would be
necessary to build a slip to get out of the lead and bridge two ice
cakes before reaching the desired floe.

The main body of the pack was now only ten yards away. Immediately
behind the N 25 a huge ice wall was advancing slowly, inch by inch, and
fifteen minutes after we started the motors the solid ice closed in
over the spot where our plane had lain. We were saved.

We worked our way slowly up to where we meant to build the slip, using
a saw to cut out the ice ahead where it was too heavy for the plane to
break through. After six hours of steady toil we had constructed our
slip and had the plane safe up on floe No. 1. That night of June 6th
we slept well, after the extra cup of chocolate that was allowed us to
celebrate our narrow escape.

The next morning began the most stupendous task we had yet undertaken:
cutting a passage through a huge pressure-ridge,--an ice wall fifteen
feet thick which separated floe No. 1 from floe No. 2,--and then
bridging between floe No. 1 and floe No. 2 two chasms fifteen feet wide
and ten feet deep, separating the two floes from one another. In our
weakened condition this was a hard task, but we finished it by the end
of the second day. Crossing the bridges between the floes was exciting
work. The sustaining capacity of such ice blocks as we could manage to
transport and lay in the water could not be great. The heavier blocks
which we used for a foundation were floated into place in the sea and
left to freeze--as we hoped they would--into a solid mass during the
night. When the time came, we must cross at full speed, if we were
not to sink into the sea, and then instantly stop on the other side,
because we had taken no time to level ahead, so great was our fear that
the ice floes might drift apart during the operation of bridging. We
made the passages safely and were at last upon the big floe. In order
to take advantage of the south wind, which had continued to blow ever
since the day of our landing, we leveled a course across the shortest
diameter of this cake, which offered only 300 meters for a take-off.
But before we completed our work the wind died down. Nevertheless we
made a try, but merely bumped over it and stopped just short of the
open lead ahead. Our prospects did not look good. The southerly winds
had made the deep snow soft and soggy. But it was a relief to know that
we were out of the leads, with our plane safe from the screwing of the
pack-ice.

It was June 9th, and now began the long grind of constructing a course
upon which our final hopes must rest. If we failed there was nothing
left. My diary shows the following entry for June 10th:--“The days go
by. For the first time I am beginning to wonder if we must make the
great sacrifice for our great adventure. The future looks so hopeless.
Summer is on. The snows are getting too soft to travel over and the
leads won’t open in this continually shifting ice.”

Riiser-Larsen looked the ground over and decided that we must remove
the two and a half feet of snow right down to the solid ice and level
a track twelve meters wide and four hundred meters long. It was a
heartbreaking task to remove this wet summer snow with only our clumsy
wooden shovels. It must be thrown clear an additional six meters to
either side, so as not to interfere with the wing stretch. After but
a few shovelfuls we stood weak and panting gazing disheartened at the
labor ahead.

One problem was how to taxi our plane through the wet snow and get it
headed in the right direction. We dug down to the blue ice, and now we
were confronted with a new difficulty. The moist fog, which came over
us immediately, melted the ice as soon as it was exposed. We found that
by working our skis underneath the plane we were able finally to get
her to turn, but after splitting a pair of skis we decided to take no
more chances that way. In desperation we now tried stamping down the
snow with our feet and found that it served the purpose admirably. By
the end of our first day of shoveling down to the blue ice, we had
succeeded in clearing a distance of only forty meters, while with the
new method we were able to make one hundred meters per day. We adopted
a regular system in stamping down this snow. Each man marked out a
square of his own, and it was up to him to stamp down every inch in
this area. We figured that at this rate we would have completed our
course in five days.

During the first day’s work we saw our first sign of animal life since
the seal popped his head up out of the lead where we first landed.
Somebody looked up from his work of shoveling snow to see a little auk
flying through the fog overhead. It came out of the north and was
headed northwest. Next day two weary geese flopped down beside the
plane. They must have thought that dark object looming up through the
fog in all that expanse of desolate white looked friendly. They seemed
an easy mark for Dietrichson, but the rich prize was too much for his
nerves and he missed. The two geese ran over the snow a long distance
as if they did not seem anxious to take wing again. They too came from
the north and disappeared into the northwest. We wondered if there
could be land in that direction. It was an interesting speculation.

On the 14th our course was finished. Then Riiser-Larsen paced it again
and was surprised to find that instead of four hundred meters it was
five hundred. When he informed Amundsen of this fact, the Captain
was quick to remark that one million dollars couldn’t buy that extra
hundred meters from him, and we all agreed that it was priceless. And
so it proved to be.

[Illustration: ELLSWORTH, AMUNDSEN, LARSEN AND FEUCHT WITH THE
IMPLEMENTS WITH WHICH THEY MOVED 300 TONS OF ICE]

On the evening of the 14th, after our chocolate, and with a southerly
wind still blowing--this was a tail-wind on this course and of no help
to us--we decided to make a try. But we only bumped along and the plane
made no effort to rise. What we needed to get off with was a speed of
100 kilometers per hour. During all our previous attempts to take off,
forty kilometers had been the best we could do. On this trial we got
up to sixty, and Riiser-Larsen was hopeful. It was characteristic of
the man to turn in his seat as we jumped out and remark to me: “I hope
you are not disappointed, Ellsworth. We’ll do better next time.” That
calm, dispassionate man was ever the embodiment of hope.

[Illustration: LINCOLN ELLSWORTH AFTER THE TRIP]

That night it was my watch all night. Around and around the ice-cake I
shuffled, with my feet thrust loosely into the ski straps and a rifle
slung over my shoulder, on the alert for open water. Then, too, we
were always afraid that the ice-cake might break beneath us. It was
badly crevassed in places. Many times during that night, on my patrol,
I watched Riiser-Larsen draw himself up out of the manhole in the top
of the plane to see how the wind was blowing. During the night the
wind had shifted from the south and in the morning a light breeze was
blowing from the north. This was the second time during our twenty-five
days in the ice that the wind had blown from the north. We had landed
with a north wind--but were we to get away with a north wind? That was
the question. The temperature during the night was -1.5° c. and the
snow surface was crisp and hard in the morning. We now were forced to
dump everything that we could spare. We left one of our canvas canoes,
rifles, cameras, field-glasses; we even discarded sealskin parkas and
heavy ski-boots, replacing them with moccasins. All we dare retain was
half of our provisions, one canvas canoe, a shotgun and one hundred
rounds of ammunition.

Then we all climbed into the plane and Riiser-Larsen started up.
Dietrichson was to navigate. The plane began to move! After bumping
for four hundred meters the plane actually lifted in the last hundred
meters. When I could feel the plane lifting beneath me I was happy, but
we had had so many cruel disappointments during the past twenty-five
days that our minds were in a state where we could feel neither great
elation nor great suffering. Captain Amundsen had taken his seat beside
Riiser-Larsen, and I got into the tail.

For two hours we had to fly through the thick fog, being unable either
to get above or below it. During all this time we flew slowly, with a
magnetic compass, a thing heretofore considered to be an impossibility
in the Arctic. Dietrichson dropped down for drift observations as
frequently as possible. The fogs hung so low that we were compelled to
fly close to the ice, at one time skimming over it at a height of but
one hundred feet. Finally we were able to rise above the fog and were
again able to use our “Sun Compass.”

Southward we flew! Homeward we flew! One hour--two hours--four, six
hours. Then Feucht yelled back to me in the tail, “Land!” I replied,
“Spitzbergen?”--“No Spitzbergen, no Spitzbergen!” yells back
Feucht in his broken English. So I made up my mind that it must be
Franz-Josefs-Land. Anyway, it was land, and that meant everything!

Our rationing regulations were now off, and we all started to munch
chocolate and biscuits.

For an hour Riiser-Larsen had noticed that the stabilization rudders
were becoming more and more difficult to operate. Finally they failed
to work completely and we were forced down on the open sea, just after
having safely passed the edge of the Polar pack. We landed in the sea,
after flying just eight hours, with barely ninety liters of gasoline in
our tanks, one half hour’s fuel supply. The sea was rough, and we were
forced to go below and cover up the man-holes, for the waves broke over
the plane.

I had eaten seven cakes of chocolate when Feucht yelled, “Land ahead!”
But I was now desperately ill and cared little what land it was so long
as it was just land. After thirty-five minutes of taxi-ing through the
rough sea, we reached the coast.

In we came--“in the wash of the wind-whipped tide.”

“Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we
Euchred God Almighty’s storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!”

How good the solid land looked! We threw ourselves down on a large
rock, face upward to the sun, till we remembered that we had better
take an observation and know for sure where we were.

It seems remarkable, when I think about it now, how many narrow escapes
we really had. Again and again it looked like either life or death,
but something always just turned up to help us out. Captain Amundsen’s
answer was, “You can call it luck if you want, but I don’t believe it.”

We got out our sextant and found that one of our position lines cut
through the latitude of Spitzbergen. While we were waiting to take our
second observation for an intersection, three hours later, some one
yelled, “A sail!”--and there, heading out to sea, was a little sealer.
We shouted after them and put up our flag, but they did not see us,
and so we jumped into our plane and with what fuel we had left taxied
out to them. They were after a wounded walrus that they had shot seven
times in the head, otherwise they would have been gone long before.
They were overjoyed to see us. We tried to tow the plane, but there
was too much headwind, so we beached her in Brandy Bay, North Cape,
North-East-Land, Spitzbergen, one hundred miles east of our starting
point at King’s Bay.

We slept continuously during the three days in the sealer, only waking
to devour the delicious seal meat steaks smothered in onions and the
eider-duck egg omelets prepared for us.

The homage that was accorded us upon our return to civilization will
ever remain the most cherished memory of our trip. We took steamer from
King’s Bay for Norway on June 25th, after putting our plane on board,
and nine days later arrived at Horten, the Norwegian Naval Base, not
far from Oslo.

On July 5th, with the stage all set, we flew N 25 into Oslo. It was
difficult to realize that we were in the same plane that had so
recently been battling in the midst of the Arctic ice. Good old N 25!
We dropped down into the Fjord amid a pandemonium of frantically
shrieking river craft and taxied on through the wildly waving and
cheering throngs, past thirteen fully manned British battleships, and
as I listened to the booming of the salute from the Fort and looked
ahead at the great silent expectant mass of humanity that waited to
greet us, I was overcome with emotion and the tears rolled down my
face. At that moment I felt paid in full for all that I had gone
through.

PART III

THE NAVIGATOR’S TASK

BY LIEUT. HJALMAR RIISER-LARSEN

THE NAVIGATOR’S TASK

“The Air Club has fixed up contracts with the publishers of several
countries for a book of at least seventy thousand words. Therefore you
must write several thousand. Come and stay with me so that you can work
in peace.” Such were Amundsen’s orders immediately we stepped ashore in
Oslo.

The manuscript of the entire 70,000 words should be delivered by
the 10th of August. In view of the big task of arranging charts and
pictorial matter, there would not be much time to spare, so we had to
get down to it as quickly as possible.

There were also many other things to be done in the meantime. The
expedition’s cinema film had to be cut and run off--run off again,
and recut, as the cinema owners wanted to “fit in” three shows
daily at 5 P.M., 7 P.M. and 9 P.M. It would take fifteen minutes to
clear the theater, to ventilate it, and let the next audience get
seated, therefore the run of the film must not exceed one hour and
three-quarters. At first it took two and a half hours even without
the caption lines. Berge continued cutting, and the film got shorter
daily. The worst task was to arrange the sequence of the scenes. They
were far from being in chronological order, but after a time it began
to present a better picture of the expedition’s course--a picture
which gave a calm straightforward story--a calendar of daily episodes.
The caption lines, too, required writing, as they could not create
themselves.

While we were busy with all this work we had also to attend to the
returning of the expedition’s unused stores to the suppliers. Much of
this had been bought conditionally so that we could return everything
we had not used. The ever-helpful Omdal, who never seemed to have
enough to do, took charge of this part of the work. The more I left to
him the better pleased he was. I asked him often in those days if he
would not like to be released to go home. “So long as I can be of use
to the expedition there is no hurry,” was his reply. At last on August
1st he set off to his home in Kristiansand, which he had been longing
for. But I am sure he would have been quite happy about it if I, even
then, had said to him that he could not get off.

That’s the sort of man Omdal is!

In the meantime the post-bag was filled with requests for information
regarding the instruments and other equipment we had used on the trip.
Lantern slides for lectures had to be got ready and advertising matter
sent to our business managers.

Thus the days passed and the dreadful 10th of August got nearer, so
threateningly that at last to-day I had to take the bull by the horns
and go to Amundsen for further particulars.

Now I sit here experiencing the same feelings as in my schooldays, when
I used to put off writing Norwegian composition so long that I had to
do it during the games’ interval.

The first thing I shall render an account of is--

_Why We Chose the Dornier-Wal Type_

As the expense of using airships was prohibitive, we could only
consider the employment of flying-machines. The choice of type depended
upon the idea we could form of the landing conditions among the ice.
The highest authority in the “world of polar-exploration,” and many
others who had hunted and fished Greenland’s east coast for many years,
all contended that there would be many suitable landing places on the
numerous big flat ice-floes, and also that we should find water-lanes
where the seaplanes could land. Some voices were raised against these
contentions but as they were only “voices” we didn’t lay much weight
on their opinion, though, as was proved later, these latter were
right,--but that is a different matter. We regarded it at that time
as certain that we should find plenty of big-enough landing places.
Accordingly we based our plans, on making an expedition which could
land to carry out observations and which would be of considerably
more value than an exploration expedition which would only fly over
the ice. An expedition thus equipped would be safer, as a forced
landing might have to be made at any time. We decided therefore to
use two machines, which would allow the expedition to continue with
one plane if the other had to make a forced landing on account of
irreparable engine trouble. In a forced landing, too, the machine
might be damaged, as there would not be the same opportunity to find
a suitable landing-place, as in the case of a voluntary landing. It
is also certain that it would double the chances of reaching the goal
ahead to set off with two machines rather than with only one,--always,
of course, banking on the probability of good opportunities for landing
being found.

On the other hand, if such opportunities for landing did not offer,
the use of two machines would halve the chances of success, as the
risk of engine trouble where two are concerned is naturally double
what it would be if only one machine were employed. The arrangements,
therefore, were, that both seaplanes’ crews should keep together.

When we made our forced landing on the ice we were convinced that
there were no suitable landing places to be found up there, and in
consequence we decided that we would only use one seaplane for the
homeward flight. We spent some days at first getting both machines
ready for a start, because starting conditions were _so_ difficult,
that it was an advantage to hold one machine in reserve in case the
other should get damaged in attempting to get away; but we discovered
that it would take the six of us to tackle the work in each case, so we
chose the machine which was in the best condition and therefore safest
for the homeward flight.

The reason why I have gone into so many details regarding this side
of our plans and our conduct of the expedition, is that we have been
publicly criticized “because we flew with _two_ machines over a stretch
of territory that offered no landing possibilities, and thus we took a
_double_ risk of engine trouble.” This is putting a wrong construction
on it. The reason that we continued our northward flight after we had
reached 83°, and, being free of the fog, saw that there were only bad
chances of landing, was because we naturally had a goal to reach and we
thought conditions would improve further north.

Back to the choice of type! In clear weather, especially in sunshine,
one can see from overhead unevennesses on a place, even when one cannot
be certain that all is clear, as the snow may have “covered-in” some
banks of drift-ice. If the weather is hazy, even a voluntary landing
is a matter of chance, for it is impossible to see even the biggest
undulations in the snow.

There are three kinds of under-carriages to choose from--skis, floats,
or flying boats. If one has chosen skis or floats, and should strike
against a projection with them, tearing off the under part, the machine
will turn over, and a continuation of the flight with the same machine
will be impossible.

A flying boat on the contrary has fewer sidewise projections (which
means that it would be less exposed to the danger of being damaged
by unevennesses) and, furthermore, it will not capsize so quickly.
If one has also ordered it of durable aluminium it will afford the
uttermost safety. Where a big strain would tear the bottom of a wooden
boat (making reparation impossible or at least very difficult in the
conditions prevailing up there) under the same strain durable aluminium
would only suffer some denting which could be straightened out again
if it proved sufficient to hinder progress. Aluminium does not break
easily.

There were also other reasons that counted in making the choice of a
type of boat. Should one have the intention of rising from deep snow,
the burden (of the boat or the machine’s under-carriage) lying on the
snow must not be greater than a certain weight on the flat, namely, 600
kilograms per square meter.

As our machine would average a weight of six tons it was a simple
matter to calculate that we must lie on an area of at least ten square
yards, and even then it would be bearing the maximum weight. Thus, a
ski-attachment would be particularly heavy, and the floats would have
to be unnecessarily large if the bottom’s lines were to satisfy the
seamanlike desire “to rise from the water.”

After making these calculations we were never in doubt, but decided
that we should choose a flying boat built of durable aluminium. With
regard to ski-machines, we should gain a further advantage in being
able to land in, or rise from, possible water-lanes, while in a wooden
boat a collision with ice in the water-lanes presented a smaller risk.

The point now was to find the _right_ dur-aluminium boat as Dornier was
not the only builder of such boats. If one wishes to rise from loose
snow it is not only the flat-weight which counts, but it is distinctly
necessary that the bottom lines of the boat must be so designed that
no power shall be lost by the unnecessary pushing aside of snow when
gliding forward. There was thus only one type of boat which satisfied
our demands and that was Dornier-Wal.

Dornier-Wal has furthermore a distinct advantage which we first became
aware of up in the ice regions. It has not got wing-floats to afford
the necessary stability on the water, but for this purpose--as shown
in the illustration--has attached at each side of the propeller a big
“flyndre.” During our start from the water-lane the boat sank through
the new ice and a part of the weight fell on the “flyndres.” In this
way we were able to go to the assistance of N 25 in the capacity of an
ice-breaker and help it out of several critical situations. Had there
been floats on the wings, too great a weight would naturally have
fallen on these, and we should have been unable to avoid damage.

From the above it can be seen that there was nothing else for it but
to choose Dornier-Wal for our flight even though it might have been
handicapped by certain failings. I cannot at present mention one single
failing, but it had numerous advantages. The best of these in my
estimation is the fact that it is fitted with Rolls-Royce twin-engines
(Eagle IX). I should scarcely have agreed to undertake a flight of this
kind without a Rolls-Royce. It is not a matter of “chance” that made
Dornier fix Rolls-Royce engines to his Wal type: it would have been bad
policy to put anything but the very best engines in a flying-machine of
the “Wal’s” high standard.

[Illustration: CAPTAIN ROALD AMUNDSEN, JUST BEFORE THE TAKE-OFF FROM
SPITZBERGEN]

It will also be noticed from the illustrations that the “Wal” is
fitted with two engines and that these are placed immediately behind
each other--one pulls and one pushes--thus the aft propeller turns
contrariwise to the fore propeller, each rotating in its own way. The
wonderfully effective qualities which are thus attained, in conjunction
with the suitable lines and ingenious “wing-frontage,” make it
possible for a weight equal to that of the machine itself to be
lifted. As we started from King’s Bay we had a load of 3,100 kilograms,
while the “Wal” itself weighs 3,300 kilograms--yet the machine rose
with such ease from the ice that I am sure we could have taken an
additional 200 kilograms on board. This very fact seemed most apparent
during the hardships we underwent in the ice regions, when we thought
longingly of how many boxes of biscuits or how much tobacco we might
safely have brought with us. We always closed these ruminations by a
unanimous agreement that it was a good thing we had carried no more
with us than we actually _had_ brought, for a heavier load might have
demanded more revolutions from the engine.

[Illustration: JUST BEFORE THE TAKE-OFF]

[Illustration: OUR FOOTGEAR]

The fact that the “Wal” had twin-engines gave us greater confidence in
it. In view of the situation of each engine it is possible with a “Wal”
to fly with one engine alone, with a heavy load on board, much more
easily than if the engines had been placed by each wing, as they are in
many other twin-motor machines. With a light load on board a “Wal” can
rise quite easily from the water with one engine alone.

Our machine was built by “S. A. I. di Construzioni Mecchaniche i
Marina di Pisa” with only a few unimportant differences from the
usual Dornier-Wal. We owe a deep debt of gratitude to the factory’s
technical director, Herr Schulte-Frohlinde, for the great interest he
showed in our expedition. The director accompanied us to Spitzbergen
and superintended the setting up of the machines. In all he spent three
months of his valuable time on us. We, who otherwise would have been
taken up with this work, could now (while the work of mounting was
proceeding) give ourselves up to the completion of other tasks.

We also owe much gratitude to the Rolls-Royce factory. They sent
five men to Marina di Pisa to introduce certain new improvements and
inventions which they had hardly had time to “try out,” and they also
sent Mr. Green with us to Spitzbergen. Mr. Green superintended all
the trial flights and cared for the engines as though they were his
“darlings.” As he (after his final inspection on the 21st of May)
smiled and nodded in answer to my request to be told if all was in
order, I set off at full speed feeling just as safe as if I were only
going to cross the waters of the fjord.

_Measures Against the Cold_

The oil-tank on a Dornier-Wal stands with one of its sides outside the
engine-gondola’s wall. This side is furnished with cooling-ribs for
cooling off the oil. On our machine the tank was designed right into
the engine’s gondola and therefore any cooling off was unnecessary. In
addition to this capsules were built over the motors so that the heat
from the engines could be kept in the gondolas without cooling down
like the temperature outside. All the pipes were bound many times round
with linen strappings. Certain pipes had the inner layer of bindings
of _felt_. This provision was made both as a means of isolation from
the cold and to prevent “burst pipes.” Experience here in Norway and
in other lands shows us that most motor trouble on a long flight
originates in one or other of the pipes. The motor conducts itself well
generally. Truly I have seldom, if ever, seen a motor-construction so
free from vibration as on our machines and therefore there was little
possibility of burst pipes. As a safety measure, all the same, I regard
such binding as necessary. To the cooling water we added 4% pure
glycerine and thus had a mixture which would not have frozen before we
had -17° c. and we did not have such a low temperature up in the ice
regions. All the same we took the precaution of tapping the water down
on to one of the petrol tanks whenever it was not necessary to be ready
to start at a moment’s notice. By a special contrivance we could pump
the water direct from the tank into the radiator again. We generally
started the engine first, then pumped the water up. I should like to
explain why. The lower part of the intake-pipe was encompassed by a
water-cap through which a smaller quantity of the cooling water is led
for the purpose of warming the pipe. When the propeller starts to turn,
petrol begins to flow, lowering the temperature in the petrol pipe
considerably below atmospheric temperature. The walls of the water-cap
take on the same low temperature immediately. If the cooling mixture at
this time stands at a temperature which is barely a few degrees above
water’s freezing point, one runs the great risk of there being so much
freezing that the exhaust of the cap will be blocked. If this occurs
the cap will in one moment become a solid block of ice, causing the
sides to burst in consequence. Should one, on the contrary, start the
engine first and fill up, the cooling water will thus, in its passage
through the cylinders, be so warmed when it reaches the cap that this
calamity will be avoided.

As indicated above, we do not tap the water when we must be ready for
an immediate start. In order to keep the temperature in the motor
gondola so high that nothing should freeze, and the engines at the
same time should be absolutely ready for a start, we used the Therm-X
apparatus. This is the first time I have learned that this apparatus
bears this amusing name; hitherto I believed it was called “Thermix.”
(That is what we called it up in the ice and that is what we are going
to call it henceforth!) This apparatus was constructed specially for
us by the Société Lyonnaise des Chauds Catalytiques, and was made in
a size and form suitable for placing under the engines or under the
oil-tanks. Their manner of action was, otherwise, exactly the same as
the ordinary Thermix apparatus. We had six apparatus in each gondola
and could thus, in a short time, raise the temperature to 35° above
atmospheric temperature.

In the early days “up in the ice” we took the Thermix apparatus down
in the mess when the cooling water was tapped off. They warmed the
place up so well that we found it really pleasant and comfortable. In
the evening when we separated to go to bed, we divided the apparatus
amongst us in the three sleeping compartments, and there we slept in a
little Paradise (as compared with the later times) when of necessity
we had to economize, even in the small quantity of petrol which they
used. There we hung our frequently soaking-wet socks, goat’s-hair socks
and shoes, directly over the apparatus to dry. I remember still how
comfortable it was to put on the warm dry footwear in the morning.
During the time that we were not able to use the Thermix apparatus
we had to lay our stockings on our chests when we went to bed in the
evening--a not too comfortable proceeding. The high temperature we were
able to keep up in the body of the plane when we had the apparatus
going prevented the machine from freezing fast in the ice. There was
always a tiny little puddle outside the body of the machine.

In order to be able to warm up the motor and the oil with the help of
this apparatus, it was necessary that we should start the engine, screw
out the sparking plugs in each cylinder, warm it up well, and set it
ready for starting again. This prevented moisture gathering on the
plugs. To help to get the petrol warm we ran along the petrol pipes
with a large soldering-lamp to help to make the petrol flow easily. On
account of these preparations we never had starting difficulties; the
engines started at once.

In case the petrol might be thick and slow in flowing we had brought
with us a quantity of naphtha with which to spray the cylinders. We
never needed, however, to make use of it.

The radiator was equipped with blinds, with which we could regulate
the radiation. They were of untold benefit to us. When the blinds were
fully barred, it took much less time to warm up the motors before
attempting to start. We used thus less petrol for warming up. To get
the greatest possible power out of the engines we could, by regulation
of the blinds, keep the temperature almost at boiling point at the
start, damping down later by opening the blinds wider.

That the compasses were filled with pure spirit, and not with the
spirit mixture, was of course a necessity. The same referred to the
levels and the water levels. Even though oil might not have frozen in
the event of our having had an oil level, it would in any case have
acted too slowly in the cold atmosphere. Moreover all the movable parts
of our instruments, which were designated for use in the cold regions,
were smeared with a special kind of oil which had been tested in a
temperature of -40° c.

In my portion of the book I must make special mention of the pilot’s
rig-out. For flying in a cold temperature it is of the greatest
importance that the pilot, who must sit still the whole time, should
be warm and appropriately clad. It is easy to find the most beautiful
heavy leather suits which can withstand every attack of cold and frost,
but it is not so easy to find garments which are appropriate for all
circumstances. Even though the pilot has to sit still he must have
freedom to move about without his clothes handicapping him. They must
in all respects be easy and pliable. What is most important is that
they should be absolutely suitable for any work which may be needed
before the start. I shall try to explain why a little more intimately.
There will always be one thing or another to be done immediately before
a start is made, and as far as we were concerned we might have to land
to take observations at any time, and start off again immediately
afterwards. If during such a landing we kept on all our flying clothes
as we moved about the ice, we should quickly become much too warm; our
underclothes would become clammy, causing us to shiver when we should
once again rise in the air. Had we only one heavy outer set of clothes,
and we took it off for any reason, we should risk taking severe cold,
and would start flying again thoroughly chilled. Our outer clothes
were therefore arranged in several plies so that without waste of time
we could take them off or put them on again to suit the temperature,
according to whether our work was strenuous or not. Our undergarments
were presented to us by the Norske Tricotagefabrikanters Forening. They
were made after we had had a conference with one of the manufacturers,
H. Meyer Jun. Next the skin we wore a quite thin woolen vest and a
pair of pants of the same material. On the top of these we had a
pair of heavy pants and a vest of Iceland wool. Then long trousers,
and a jumper, with a woolen helmet to pull over the head. Rönne had
made these suits which were of a thin comfortable wind-proof cloth (a
present from A/S William Schmidt, Oslo). This was our working kit and
also our skiing rig-out intended to be worn should we eventually have
to set out on a march to reach land.

The flying suits were composed of a roomy jacket and long trousers of
thin pliable leather with camel hair outside. The leather suits were
presented to us by the Sporting Outfitters, S. Adam, Berlin. On the
top of these we wore a sealskin “anorak” (Eskimo jacket with peaked
hood). This outfit was made absolutely to accord with the demand of the
aforedescribed conditions.

On our heads we had a leather-lined flying-helmet. Should this not
afford sufficient warmth, we could draw the anorak’s hood over our
heads. In order to have glasses which would be suitable for any
possible condition we had taken with us a pair of ordinary spectacles
with clear glass. At the side of the pilot’s seat hung a pair of
goggles and a pair of sun-glasses; also a mask with which one could
cover the greater part of the face. However, as we sat well protected
behind the wind-screen, we were never required to use the mask. I might
mention in conjunction with all this that we took advantage of the
opportunity to discard shaving from the first day.

Round our necks we wore a big woolen scarf, and on our hands a pair of
specially made gloves of double pig-skin, with wool both inside and
out. Over these we drew a pair of gloves of thin wind-proof material,
which went right up to the elbow, where they could be drawn up and
tied. Roald Amundsen will have told you all about the footwear, but in
conclusion I should like to point out that any one could fly in this
kit daily in the most severe cold.

Progress is distressingly slow in this account of mine. To-day is the
3rd of August and up till now I have only written 4,000 words. That is
scarcely 1,000 words per day. I shall have to triple my speed and push
forward if I am to finish with my task in time.

As I sit and fag over the work of writing, and get irritated over the
difficulties which present themselves, I comfort myself by repeating
the words of an English admiral: “Good writers are generally rotten
officers.”

I see moreover from to-day’s newspapers that they wish me to be a
member of a new North Pole expedition next summer. In view of what I am
going through at the present moment I almost believe I shall “decline
with thanks.”

_Spare Parts_

Spare parts for the machines and engines presented an important
consideration. Spitzbergen lay so far away from the factories which had
made the material that we could not have any missing parts sent after
us. So, as far as the engines were concerned, we decided to draw up a
list of the spare parts which we should most likely need. As an engine
is made up of so many different parts the best things to do seemed to
me to order one complete reserve engine. We should thereby have the
certainty that in every event we should have at hand _one_ reserve
part for the complete engine no matter which part should suddenly be
required. (By chance we came to need a reserve part which we never had
thought about!)

“Rolls-Royce” also made up a list of the parts which they thought we
might need _more than one of_, and thus we got an extraordinarily
fine equipment. We had in all engine spare parts to a value of 38,000
kronen. We should not have been able to get this equipment had not the
Rolls-Royce people shown us the great consideration of agreeing to take
back everything which we had no use for. We were in a position similar
to most expeditions, and had great financial difficulties to cope
with. I mention this as every one here at home seemed to think that
Ellsworth’s gift of 85,000 kronen would suffice for our needs. But that
was not the case. The two flying machines together cost $82,000, and
on these alone the money was almost all spent. When the expedition’s
accounts are toted up I believed that they will show a sum of at least
$100,000 in excess of Ellsworth’s gift--and _that_, even after we had
pinched and spared on every side. Against this we can reckon with a
certain income from stamps (this cannot at present be estimated),
and the expedition will also have an income from newspapers, films,
lectures and this book, all of which combined should cover the debt
of this necessary $100,000. The essential part of the expenses all
came before the start, but any income only accrued some time after
our return. The position at Christmas time last year appeared very
unpromising, and the outlook seemed hopeless. The till had long been
empty. Yet orders must be placed if everything was to be ready in good
time, and everything had to be paid in ready cash. Bills streamed in,
followed by demands for payment whenever they were not settled at once.
But where were we to get the money? It is satisfactory to look back,
now that everything has been accomplished, but it was far from pleasant
at the time. Our private household bills got very, _very_ old,--_so_
hard-up were we!

Dr. Ræstad, who had the financial management of the undertaking, worked
on through these conditions quietly and calmly, and he was lucky in
being able to carry through a task which probably no one else could
have accomplished. Thanks to him we were able in April this year to
have everything collected in Tromsö, ready for our departure for
Spitzbergen, so that after looking through our equipment we were able
to say, “There isn’t one thing missing.”

Up till now only the returns from the newspapers have come in. We have
therefore an alarmingly large overdraft at the bank. As the account is
so overdrawn we have still difficulties to face, and must therefore set
about the fulfillment of our many obligations. We can now look forward
to a time when our income will be sufficient to pay off our overdraft,
and leave a balance, which will be used for the realization of Roald
Amundsen’s old plans.

It is on that account that I have taken this opportunity to write about
the financial side of the expedition. There are a number of people
who think that we have become rich folk. How often have I not been
congratulated--not only because I have come back with my life, but also
because I have returned as a millionaire. Probably the films shown in
this connection have given this impression. But people should realize
that we are at the mercy of the big film companies who fix the price.
If we ourselves had cinema theaters stretching through the world’s
towns, then could Roald Amundsen set out to-day on the realization of
his wonderful plan: the exploration of the sea between the Pole and
Alaska.

* * * * *

Back to the matter which I am really discussing. The same goodwill
met us in Marina di Pisa when Director Schulte-Frohlinde himself made
out the list of spare parts, assuring us (by giving the matter his
own personal attention) that we should have with us every article
necessary for the flying boats’ requirements. The bill for these spare
parts ran up to about 28,000 kronen.

_Instruments_

During his preparations for his earlier flight Roald Amundsen was
struck with the idea of using a sun-compass, and arranged with “Goerz
Optische Werke” to construct such an instrument. The firm met his
suggestions in the most friendly manner, and the result was our
invaluable solar-compasses. The principle of these is as follows:

The sun’s reflection is cast through a periscope down onto a dull disc
directly in front of the pilot. By the side of the instrument there
is a clock which can be coupled to a cogwheel on the periscope. The
clock is constructed so that it can swing the periscope round 360° in
the average time that it takes the sun to perform a similar movement.
By the aid of a graduated scale on the periscope, which can be placed
at a certain angle, one can set it in agreement with the flying-boat’s
nose. Should I, for example, start exactly at midday, I should set the
periscope so that it points direct astern. Exactly at twelve o’clock I
attach the clock to the instrument. Should the seaplane now by chance
face the north, I would see a little reflection of the sun in the
center of the dull disc which is marked by a cross. The periscope
will now follow the sun’s course so that the reflection will always be
in the center of the disc as long as the seaplane continues the same
course.

Should it be set working at another time, it would be calculated from
the angle of the sun, at that moment when the clock is set going. The
clock is always regulated according to Greenwich time (or any other
recognized time), but the longitudinal distance must be taken into
account, and in the same manner the angle must deviate away from the
meridian beneath if one does not desire to steer parallel with it. On
the top of the periscope there is a screw with an inner part, where an
adjustment can be made according to the declination on that day. The
solar-compass is mounted on a base on which can be made corrections for
eventual latitudinal changes. The periscope’s axis must always stand
parallel with the earth’s axis. A change in the upward tilt of the
machine must also be reckoned with.

The lenses in the periscope are constructed to give a radius of 10°;
that is to say, if the sun’s reflection appears in the disc’s outer
edge, one can allow 10° before it disappears in the other outer edge.
If one has set the solar-compass for a flight directly north, one will
continue in the right direction so long as the flying machine has no
deflection. In order to detect such deflections we had a combined
speedometer and deviation measure which was also given to us free
of charge by Goerz. Amundsen attended to these on the northward
journey--Dietrichson on the southward. They both speak of them with
high praise. Their uses are shortly as follows: Inside the instrument,
on a move-able ring, is fastened a diametrical wire. One looks through
the instrument down to the ground below or to the ice, and adjusts
the wire the longitudinal way of the ship, then pays attention to the
objects passing aftwards under the plane (icebergs, for example),
noting whether they follow the direct line of the wire or deviate to
the side. Should there be a deviation, one knows that they are not
following the direct course in which the nose is pointing, so it has to
be set at an angle allowing for the deviation. The wire must be drawn
to the side quite slowly until one finds that the objects which one
can notice now follow the line of the wire exactly. This points now in
the direction one comes from, and the wire’s angle, compared with the
boat’s nose, can be read directly in the instrument. That gives the
angle of deviation.

[Illustration: TAKING THE WINGS OUT OF THEIR BOXES]

[Illustration: SETTING UP THE WINGS]

One can also leave the wire as it is, and turn the whole instrument
instead. The angle of deviation is to be read on the instrument’s
base. This is the easiest way, as it allows one to get on quickly
with measuring the speed. Having calculated the deviation, it is not
correct to steer against the wind allowing only a corresponding number
of degrees, or it will be found that there is _still_ a deviation,
though not so great as before. To correct it it would have to be
measured, then some steering would have to be done, then it would have
to be measured again and so on, before it could be regulated. It is,
therefore, better to come to a quick and exact result by quickly taking
the speed measure. This is done with the same instrument, by watching
an object pass between four points of the scale, as the machine goes
over it. The pilot continues to fly in a steady course during the
entire observations. The navigator sets a stop clock going when an
object passes the scale at an angle of 45°, and he stops the clock when
the object passes zero, as it will then be centrally under the machine.
The altitude above the under-lying territory is read on the altimeter,
and by aid of this and the stop clock’s indications it is possible
to calculate correctly the speed over the ground-distance covered.
We have now got the following particulars: The speed through the air
which the speedometer shows and which is called the air-speed,--the
steering course through the air which we will call the air-course,--the
speed over the ground which we will call the ground-speed and last
the deviation’s angle. These calculations have to be worked out in
conjunction with each other on a calculating machine, showing in a
second what steering-course shall be adopted under the existing wind
conditions, to carry the plane in the desired direction. In addition
to this there is a gratis enlightenment, showing the exact direction
and strength of the wind at that altitude.

[Illustration: MOUNTING THE WINGS]

[Illustration: THE LAST MEETING BEFORE THE FLIGHT]

The pilot announces if a new course shall be steered. If he steers
according to the solar-compass, the navigator adjusts the solar-compass
by turning the periscope a corresponding number of degrees.

So long as one need not fly over clouds or fog all goes well. With
steadiness it is possible to control the course over the ground and
steer the plane straight to the Pole by territorial navigation. During
the two first hours, after we had passed Spitzbergen’s north coast, we
had thick fog under us and got no drift observations. As soon as we
could get these the solar-compass was corrected. We had, however, in
the meantime deviated so far westwards that the indicator pointed well
over to the west side of the Pole. One must pay particular attention to
the fact that the solar-compass only indicates a northward direction
so long as one is on the same meridian which the compass was adjusted
to. If one has deviated to the side and continues to steer according
to the solar-compass, one will set a course directly parallel with the
meridian for which the compass was adjusted when starting. For a new
adjustment of the compass, so that it points towards the Pole, one must
in every case take the bearings. Both during the northward journey,
and during the homeward flight, the solar-compasses were of the
utmost benefit to us. Without these and depending only on the magnetic
compasses we should have been very much less confident. The selection
of our magnetic compasses was only settled after we had studied the
various types most analytically, paying particular attention to the
conditions which they would have to answer to in the Arctic Ocean.

I should like here to mention a common mistake founded on a popular
idea, that the _Magnetic_ Pole lies at the _North_ Pole. The globe is
a great magnet which has two magnetic points, a North Pole and a South
Pole, and fortunately the Magnetic Poles do not lie in the same places
as the geographical poles. The earth’s magnetic North Pole, which
draws towards itself the compasses’ _North_, lies on the north coast
of Canada about 70° N. and 95° W. long. In general this is called for
convenience the magnetic North Pole. Its position, as is well known,
was verified by Roald Amundsen during the Gjoa expedition.

Looking at the map, it will be discovered that the magnetic pole
lies about an equal length from the geographical North Pole as from
Spitzbergen. Therefore it stands to reason that the compass which can
be used in Spitzbergen can therefore be used in the fairway from there
to the Pole. The one thing which might cause us moments of misgiving
was the magnitude of the compass’s variations in the district we
wished to reach. (There is little data resulting from exact observation
to give us the reason of these variations.)

During a visit to Bedford, Dietrichson and I discussed this part of the
enterprise with one of my English airman friends, Captain Johnstone,
and we are most grateful for the assistance he gave us. The result
of the discussion was that we chose a steering compass as well as a
standard compass of an up-to-date type made by the firm of Hughes &
Son, London. These compasses are made to repel movement, and to bring
the needle slowly back to its correct position without the slightest
oscillation either to the right or left. In the Arctic Sea, where the
horizontal component of the earth’s magnetism is proportionately weak,
it must always take time for the needle to swing back into position as
it is so strongly repelled by existing conditions. But we preferred
this to one with a lengthy oscillation and a big swing backwards and
forwards. Steering compasses of the above kind are eminently suitable
on account of a special construction which it will take too long
to describe here. The standard compass was excellent. The magnetic
condition in the navigation compartment was also ideal. The deviation’s
coefficiency was shown by the readings we took to be so trifling that
we could consider our compasses free from deviation. Just before
leaving Spitzbergen we had one of the German Ludoph-compasses sent
to us, with a request for us to give it a trial. I placed it in the
pilot’s compartment of N 25, where it proved itself to be an excellent
compass. If the machine heeled over the dial also took a certain tilt
and the vertical component of the earth’s magnetism caused considerable
oscillation as the natural result of its great attraction. Whilst
the Ludoph-compass oscillated somewhat, the other took some time to
swing back, making it impossible for me to say which I preferred. I
steered with both of them, controlling the one by the other. During the
homeward flight I continually steered by the magnetic compasses, and
had no difficulty so long as I could have a “Landmark” ahead. During
the fog it was not such an easy matter.

A/G Gyrorector, Berlin, kindly placed at our disposal a gyroscopic
apparatus for each machine--as a loan. This instrument commended
itself to me and is the best I have seen hitherto for flying in fog
or darkness. The rising and tilting indicator was of use to me during
the whole flight. The conditions, however, were such that I did not
have to make great use of the direction indicator, beyond the fact
that on the northward flight I experimented with it in case we should
find it necessary at some time to make a forced landing in the fog.
The arrangement between the two planes was that at all costs, if we
should pass through fog, not to get separated from each other. At the
close of the homeward journey, as mentioned elsewhere, we flew into
such thick fog that I could have made use of the direction indicator.
We flew, however, so low there that the whole time I had to keep my eye
glued to the ice beneath and in front of us.

We had ordered a wireless installation for N 24, but went without it as
it was not ready in time. It was the only thing we went off without. We
never missed it. I might mention here that we had laid down a principle
not to wait at all for any belated goods.

After seeing that many different suppliers, at home as well as abroad,
should despatch the goods in time to reach Tromsö, to be loaded by a
certain date, I got endless notices to say the goods would be belated
and that we must put off our flight some days. The answer was always
the same: “We shall go without goods if they have not arrived.” The
result was, except in the case of the wireless, that everything was
delivered in good time. Had we once started to put off our departure we
should have had constant delays.

_Navigation_

It will perhaps interest those readers who have a knowledge of
navigation to hear a little more about Sverdrup of the “Maud’s”
cleverly calculated but simple methods of navigation in the Arctic Sea.
I repeat word by word Sverdrup’s own well-known description:

“One single measuring of the sun’s altitude shows that one stands on
one particular spot, in a small circle whose center is the point, where
at that moment the sun has reached its zenith, the radius of which is
90° h. (h. indicates the measured height of the sun). This circle shall
be called a local circle.”

In order to find the meridian the sun would be in at the exact moment
of observation one must read a clock, the agreement of which with
Greenwich mean time (G.M.T.) is known. An almanac gives the time level
to be added to, or subtracted from, G.M.T.--giving Greenwich true time
(G.T.T.). The sun would then be over that meridian, the latitudinal
difference of which from Greenwich is equal to the time taken for a
clock to strike, according to G.T.T., and would be in its zenith over
the point, the breadth of which is equal to the sun’s declination.

Taking an observation of the sun’s altitude, with a simultaneous noting
of the clock’s striking, can be done most rationally by describing a
tangent from a local circle in the neighborhood of the place where
one believes oneself to be. Such a tangent should be called a local
line. In the neighborhood of the Pole it is easy to find local lines
without scientific calculations. The meridian the sun is in can be
found directly one has calculated the clock’s stroke by G.T.T. The
local circle cuts the meridian in the distance h--d from the Pole,
where d signifies the sun’s declination. This cutting-point we will
call the local circle’s Pole point. If the difference h--d is positive,
this point will be on the same side of the Pole as the sun, should
it be negative it will be on the opposite side. A line dropped on
the meridian which the sun is in, through the local circle’s Pole
point, describes a tangent from the local circle. We will call this
tangent the “Pole tangent.” At a distance from the Pole point equal
to 5° of latitude, the Pole point will represent the local circle
with sufficient exactitude, and can be considered as a local line.
But if the distance increases, the tangent’s divergence from the
circle will be noticeable. Sverdrup explains how, by an easy method,
one can calculate the corrections which have to be made, should one
find oneself within the above-mentioned limits from the Pole. During
our observations in the ice region we were always within the limit,
and had therefore no need for corrections. The method is of course
particularly simple and sufficiently exact because there is so little
difference between the hour-angle and azimuth. I here give a table of
our observations on the night of the 22nd immediately after landing:

Clock readings: 3 h 23′ 3″
Error -1 h 0′ 19″
------------------------------
G.M.T. 2 h 22′ 44″
Time level + 3′ 33″
------------------------------
G.T.T. 2 h 25′ 17″

Converted into
degrees: 36° 3′

Sun’s lower
rim from the
imaginary
horizon measured 35° 58′ 2″

Half of this 17° 59′
Mistakes: 0
Corrections + 13′
-----------
Sun’s center
correct altitude 18° 12′

Sun’s declination 20° 15′ 4″
-----------
h--d: - 2° 3′ 4″

Converted into
nautical miles 123.4

On a chart we drew a line representing Greenwich meridian, and a point
on that was selected as the North Pole. The angle 36° 3′ was set from
north to east and the sun’s meridian drawn through the North Pole. From
the last named point towards the southwest we marked out 123.4 nautical
miles, as the h--d was negative we drew the local line straight up to
the sun’s meridian.

Hereby we had the line on which we stood, and must wait until the sun
had changed its position to complete our calculations. The cutting
point between the local lines would give our position.

According to G.T.T. 5 h 47′ we took an observation in the morning
which gave h--d by -33 nautical miles. These observation lines were
constructed on the same chart, and the cutting point gave us our
position 87° 47′ N. lat. and 13° W. long.

Some days later we used these data as examples and re-calculated the
same observations according to the method of St. Hilaire, and thereby
found that our landing point lay on N. lat. 87° 43′ 2″ and W. long. 10°
19′ 5″.

After our return our observations were again re-calculated according to
absolutely exact astronomical formula by Cand. mag. R. Wesöe, under the
guidance of Professor Schroeter. According to their calculations the
most northerly point turned out to be N. lat. 87° 43′ and W. long. 10°
37′, the very spot where we had our first camp. During reconnoitering
we went further north, but without taking observations. In addition to
this Cand. mag. Wesöe calculated the positions as follows. I herewith
give four:

1925. 22/5 N. lat. 87° 43′ Long. W. 10° 37′
28/5 „ 87° 32′ „ „ 10° 54′ 6
29/5 „ 87° 31′ 8 „ „ 8° 3′ 9
12/6 „ 87° 33′ 3 „ „ 8° 32′ 6

These positions give an idea of the drift of the ice easterly and
southerly.

_Soundings_

We could see that it would be a matter of great and special interest
if we could take soundings where we landed, and, discussing it fully,
we came to the conclusion that we ought to be able to get sounding
materials with a reasonable weight. We got into communication with the
Behm Echolot Factory in Kiel, and all our difficulties were immediately
brushed aside. After I had been to Kiel and talked over the matter with
Herr Behm an excellent apparatus was made and placed gratis at our
disposal. (As there were great depths in the district where we were
to land, it was not necessary to take the depth to the nearest meter,
but we could make an approximate registration. The weight of the whole
sounding equipment, with cartridges for a number of charges, was cut
down to a few kilograms. There was therefore no obstacle in the way of
our taking it with us in the flying machine--and we could also have
taken it with us even had we had to make a march towards land.)

The principle was simply as follows. A watertight microphone was
sunk about four meters down in the water of a crack in the ice. The
microphone was attached by a line to an ordinary head-microphone,
which the observer wore. At a distance of twenty-five to fifty meters
from the observer a little charge was sunk under the surface which
contained ten grams of trinol and was provided with a detonator. The
charge was exploded by an electric spark. The observer set a stop-clock
going when he heard the explosion, stopping it as soon as he heard the
echo from the sea bottom.

On May 28th we took two soundings immediately after each other, and
in both cases the stop-clock’s time proved to be five seconds. As
sound travels in sea-water at the rate of 1,500 meters per second, the
distance from the surface down to the bottom and up to the surface
again is equal to 7,500 meters, and thus the sea’s depth is at this
place half the amount, namely, 3,750 meters. The echo was quite sharp
and not to be misunderstood. Therefore during a later drift, as we did
not move far from the place where we had taken the first sounding, we
took no more. We wished to reserve the spare charges for a possible
march.

_Variations_

For the exact “taking of the sun” the standard compass was equipped
with a special finder, in the same way, as there were water-levels on
the compasses. The compass was placed in the best position, where it
would be as far away as possible from every object likely to influence
it. Observations were taken on the 23rd and 29th of May, with the
results respectively, 39° 5′ and 30° westerly variation. This is
about 5° more variation than the chart allows. These observations
proved to be of great use to us when we started the homeward flight. By
calculating with these variations in arranging our starting course we
found we had achieved an important measure.

* * * * *

I will now briefly give particulars of our further equipment.

Photographic materials and binoculars, etc., were given to us by Goerz,
the cinematograph appartus was a gift from the “Hahn Aktiengesellschaft
für Optik & Mechanik,” Berlin. The films and plates for the camera,
also the cinema films, were given to us in generous numbers by the
“Goerz Photochemische Werke,” Berlin. It is quite unnecessary to
mention that all the things given to us by these firms were of first
class material and everything functioned to our greatest satisfaction,
giving excellent results in spite of the difficult conditions. Our snow
glasses were a present from the firm, Optikus, Oslo, and were specially
made for us. They could not have been better. When I count them as
amongst the most important part of our outfit, I have good grounds
for doing so. Any one wishing to choose glasses, and looking through
the different types, will find that there is a tremendous difference
between them both as regards suitability of color and other things.

There is a small detail which I should like to mention in this
connection. Many flying-men will have gone through the same experience
as I and realized how unpleasant it is to fly towards the sun when it
is at a low altitude, for, blinded by the sharp light, it is difficult
to see the instruments, and in many ways it causes a continuous strain.
As a deterrent we had small aluminium screens, made in the same shape
as the wind screen. These could be fixed as desired. At 10 P.M. on the
northward journey the sun was so dazzling that I placed the screen in
position, leaving it there until at 1 A.M. I began to look out for a
landing place, when I pushed the screen back, feeling satisfied with
its utility.

From the ski-factory, “Johansen and Nilsen A/S., Fin Schiander,” we
received the present of the most beautiful skiing equipment that any
one could wish for--skis with staves, and ski-sledges. On the old ice
the snow lay so deep that without the skis we should have sunk in well
over the knees. Had we to cross the water-lane to fetch provisions and
petrol from N 24, we were forced in many places to cross new ice, which
was in such bad condition that it would not have borne us unless we had
worn skis. For transport we made use of the ski-sledges. The transport
of the 200 kg. heavy petrol cans over the ice was, for the sledges, a
hard test which they successfully passed. (It was with intention that
we did not spare the sledges from the greatest strain during these
transportations. We learned, therefore, by experience what we could
safely expose them to, in the event of a possible march towards land,
during which we would have to avoid all possible loss of time, caused
by having suddenly to unstrap the sledges if we had to cross over
icebergs.) Had the sledges been affected adversely by these tests,
we had the means at hand for repairing them. It would have been much
worse if they had failed us during the march. The sledges, moreover,
were made with a wide surface so that the canvas boats could stand in
an unfolded position, “all clear” to be put into the water-lane in the
shortest possible time that necessity might demand. As the boats in
this position had to be protected against jagged ice on the icebergs,
we would have had to cut aluminium plates away from the flying boats’
bottoms before we left--using them as a protecting screen for the
canvas boats.

The reins and harness were made by Rönne, designed in such a way that
they could be placed both on the hips and on the shoulders.

We took for our cooking needs two kinds of stoves; namely, the Meta
apparatus and the ordinary Primus. When I say _ordinary_ Primus, it
is not quite correct. It was really extraordinary so far as quality
and utility go. The Meta apparatus, with plates, was a gift from the
factory’s Norwegian representatives, the Brothers Klundbye, Oslo, in
the same way as the Primus was a gift from the Christiania Glasmagasin,
Oslo.

The Meta apparatus was used by us for cooking during the time when we
were divided into two camps, but afterwards, when we were re-united
(making six in all), we found it more convenient to use the Primus.

In the way of weapons each flying boat had one gun for big game, one
shot-gun for fowl, and a Colt pistol. The last named we had taken in
case of a chance visitor coming to the tent in the form of a polar
bear; the pistol was also a lighter weapon to handle than a gun. We had
seen on landing that there was animal life in this district, so the
guard always carried a pistol on his nightly round. Polar bears are not
quite such friendly creatures as people are inclined to believe, and
so far north as we were they would most certainly be of an exceedingly
hungry type. However, during the whole expedition we did not see a
single one.

It was fortunate that we had taken pistols with us, for we found that
all our heaviest things had to be jettisoned to lighten the load, and
we came to the conclusion that if the worst came to the worst, after
letting the heavy guns go, we at least had the pistols left.

[Illustration: THE EDGE OF THE POLAR ICE PACK]

We had two kinds of smoke bombs with us. A smaller kind for throwing
out onto the snow immediately before landing to show us the
direction of the wind. A larger type had been brought for the following
purpose: We thought there might be a possibility of one machine having
to make a forced landing and that the other might have to search for
it while trying, at the same time, to find a suitable landing place.
To aid the crews in finding each other these smoke bombs were really
intended. As we had to economize in every gram of weight, we had to
keep the weight of these bombs so small that they proved hardly big
enough for our needs. We used a bomb the first day on board N 25 when
we did not know where N 24 was. The wind, however, was so strong that
the smoke lay in a long strip over the snow plains. Had the weather
been calm we might have had a more helpful result.

[Illustration: OUR LAST HOPE FOR A TAKE-OFF, FIVE PREVIOUS ATTEMPTS
HAVING FAILED]

People will no doubt say that we should have tested these bombs before
leaving, and had they proved too light, we should have ordered others
of the necessary weight. This was, in the first place, our intention,
but the order we gave for new bombs was unproductive, and it was only
owing to the great kindness of the firm, J. P. Eisfeld Silberhütte
(who undertook in the course of a few days to make our bombs and
deliver them to us), that we had them at all. I should have felt very
uncomfortable if I had started on a flight of this kind without bombs
to determine the exact direction of the wind in case we might have to
make a forced landing in difficult circumstances.

There has been a lot of talk about the possibility of using aniline
for marking the snow, and I should like to express an opinion on
the question. We had discussed the possibility of being short of
petrol during the return flight to Spitzbergen, and that we might
have to land and take all the petrol into one machine and continue
the journey with that one only. If the abandoned machine did not lie
too far to the north, we would return later to fetch it. In order to
make it easier to find it our intention was at certain distances from
the machine to make a number of marks by throwing out quantities of
aniline at certain spaces apart to mark the course of our continued
flight to Spitzbergen. Last winter we made a number of experiments
by throwing out large quantities of the powder at intervals from a
flying machine, but got no satisfactory results. During our stay in
Spitzbergen we experimented with marking the snow by scattering powder
out by hand. The result of this test was that if the snow was damp or
quite wet the effect was successful. If, on the contrary, there was
frost and the snow was dry no sign remained to aid us. The aniline
powder requires damp, therefore, before it can fulfill the purpose of
marking a track. As we might expect to find these conditions further
south in the Arctic Sea, and as we thought of the possibility of
making such marks during the return journey, we took with us a small
quantity of aniline. In connection with this we are indebted to the
Badische Soda & Anilinfabrik for the interest which they and their
firm’s representative, Erik Berrum (who gave us the idea), took in the
experiment.

Our ice-anchors were made by the factory in Marina di Pisa according to
Amundsen’s designs. We had at that time, however, no idea that these
would be considered later to be our best tool for hacking the hard ice.
As ice-anchors they were also particularly effective. It happened that
during the worst of the drifting we had to fasten the flying-boat to
hold it safe from the encroaching ice. When the ice edges were almost
setting together it was not so difficult to hold the nose direct
against the pressure. The trend, however, changed in the shortest space
of time so that the one ice-border “set” in an angle directly frozen
into the other, both pressing together sideways and overlapping like
the teeth of a ruminating cow. This was where we found it difficult to
raise the boat.

The footwear presented an important side of our rig-out. It might
happen that we should have to make a march of many hundred kilometers
back again. We were prepared to find that there would be deep mush on
the ice, as it was the warmest time of summer, and we would often have
to take off our skis for the purpose of clambering over the icebergs
and ice-banks. Skiing boots were therefore needed, knee-high, with
watertight legs. The long legs made the boots very heavy for anything
but skiing, for which they proved they were admirably suited when
we tried them in Spitzbergen. For ordinary wear, when we should be
resting, in a district where skis would not be of use, each man had
an extra pair of boots. We therefore took with us to Spitzbergen many
different kinds of footwear, so that each man could choose those which
he considered would suit him best. (If a man has had the opportunity of
choosing his footwear, he will find them much easier to wear when on a
long march and exposed to hardship.)

In order that we might have the opportunity to form an opinion of our
own we obtained samples of every suitable type. In the accompanying
photograph there is a complete row of the different kinds. From the
left it will be seen that we had long-legged boots--skiing boots
(fashioned like the Norwegian “lauparstövler”). These we could either
choose or reject. The next in the row are a pair of long-legged
kamikker, of which we had a considerable choice as also some with
shorter legs. By the side of these, stand boots designed for flying
and they are the kind which Roald Amundsen has described. Beside
these you will see a pair of Laplander’s boots and a pair of Canadian
lumber-man’s boots. In the foreground lie a pair of long rubber boots.

When I asked Ramm to take a photograph of this miscellaneous footgear
which--“we required at Spitzbergen”--he, like the humorist he is, could
not let such an opportunity pass without a joke, and therefore placed
on the extreme right a pair of dancing shoes!

The result of the selection was that Amundsen, Omdal and Feucht chose
Laplanders’ boots; the two latter because this type of boot was
practical when they had to climb from the motor gondola to the tank
compartment. Ellsworth and Dietrichson chose short-legged kamikker,
whilst I took the long-legged rubber boots. As every one, during and
after the flight, was particularly well pleased, and praised his own
selection in loud tones, it goes without saying that the original
purpose of individual selection was thus attained.

In accordance with the request of Rolls-Royce, we used Shell
Aero-petrol, and Wakefield’s Castrol R. oil. We cannot speak too highly
of both. The fact that N 25’s engine always started instantly on the
many occasions when we had to free the flying boat from the clutch
of the ice, without the use of naphtha, is a credit which Feucht and
Rolls-Royce must share with the petrol.

I come now to our provisions. There are many people who do not know
what pemmican is, so I shall tell them about it shortly here. Pemmican
is _not_ a bird, as several people have asked me, nor has it anything
to do with a pelican. The preparation of it is as follows: Beef is
dried in the lowest possible temperature in such a manner that it shall
not lose its tastiness. It is then ground to powder. This powder is
mixed with dried pulverized vegetables. The whole is mixed together
in melted fat, filled into molds and allowed to set. That this is
nutritious fare is shown by the fact that five kilograms of beef make
only one kilogram of beef powder. Our pemmican was a gift from the
Danish Wine and Conserves Factory. It was analyzed by Professor Torup
and was found to be in excellent condition. By cooking it with water,
the pemmican will make either soup or a kind of porridge, or something
between the two like gruel. Eighty grams of pemmican per man made a
most delicious cup of soup. In the ice regions pemmican tastes equally
good in its uncooked state. The little extra ration of forty grams
which we got during the last days for the evening meal we ate like
bread with our cup of chocolate.

The Freia Chocolate Factory made our chocolate according to a special
recipe and presented us with it. We were, however, unable to follow
the factory’s directions, which, inscribed upon the packet, informed
us that we should use 125 grams (one tablet) to half a liter of water.
We used a third part of a tablet to 400 grams of water, and it seemed
to us most excellent chocolate. As we later had to reduce our bread
ration from five oatcakes, we balanced it by adding Molico dried milk
to the chocolate (a gift from the Norwegian Milk Factories). Even now
as I write I see again the scene which was enacted each morning. We
came creeping out of our sleeping bags, tumbled to our places in the
mess, then sat and shuddered in our clothes as though to dispel the
cold, while we rubbed our hands together. The Primus stoves’ kindly
glow was warm and pleasant; we bent nearer to them, anxiously looking
into the chocolate pan to see if it would not soon begin to bubble and
steam. Soon it would bubble up in the middle, and a delightful steam
rising from the little pan, came streaming out into the tiny room and
enveloped us. We closed the trap doors to keep the warmth in the mess.
The three small breakfast biscuits were passed round to each man;
the cups were filled and sent after them; six pairs of hands clasped
themselves involuntarily round the six cups. (I can still feel the
warmth circulating from my hands up into my arms.) Faces were bent
over the cups to be warmed by the rising steam, while hungry mouths
cautiously and gratefully drank in the chocolate, which heated the body
as it glided downwards. After this we started to talk.

Many readers will be asking themselves the question, “Didn’t they take
any coffee with them?” No, we had no coffee with us, and even if we
had had it, it would not have been touched so long as any chocolate
remained. We five “new-beginners in the ice,” were almost ready to say
when we came back that we should _never_ have anything but chocolate
for breakfast. We _did_ say it in fact, but Amundsen only smiled and
reminded us that the moment we boarded the “Sjöliv,” on the evening of
June 15th, it was difficult for us to wait until the coffee was poured
into the cups.

The oatcakes were also specially made and supplied by Sætre
Kjæksfabrik, Oslo. In addition to the specified biscuit ration we
should have taken with us, Director Knutsen gave us a box of “Fru
Clausen’s cakes” for each machine. How grateful we were later for
these! Not only were the cakes delicious, but they helped us to
continue our long and tedious work, and augmented our rations in such a
way that we were provisioned for some time longer, thereby postponing
the possible need of our setting off on a march to Greenland, which we
should have had to do had we failed to start the machine.

In addition to this, Amundsen’s good friend, Mr. Horlick, had sent us
to Spitzbergen a supply of Horlick’s malted milk (malted milk in tablet
form). When we felt a little weak we took ten of these tablets per man
per day. The intention was that we should take one at a time at equal
intervals during the day’s course. I began by taking one as I crept
into my sleeping bag in the evening. In a few days I had got so used
to these tablets that I had to get out of my sleeping bag to fetch
another one. This course became burdensome, so I placed the box beside
me. Soon I found that I had to take five or six of them before I could
stop. They tasted like good sweetmeats, and the next step was to take
the box into my sleeping bag with me because I found it too tiresome
to crawl halfway in and out every time I wanted to reach a tablet. The
result was that I could sleep peacefully for the rest of the night. At
that time if one of us was on guard all night, he got an extra ration
of ten malted milk tablets, and could make a warm drink with them which
we called “a cup of tea” because it looked like tea with milk in it
and because it had a similar taste. We placed an incalculable value on
these tablets and felt how greatly they strengthened us.

Our full ration list comprised the following:

Per Man
Pemmican 400 grams per day. For 30 days 12.00 kg.
Chocolate 2 tablets each 125 grams 7.50 „
Oatcakes 125 grams per day (12 cakes) 3.75 „
Molico dried milk 100 grams per day 3.00 „
Malted milk 125 grams per day 3.75 „
In all per man for 30 days 30.00 kg.

The list of our additional equipment per man:

Rucksack, which held a change of underclothes (comprising woolen vests,
drawers, pair of stockings, a pair of goat’s-hair socks). Matches in a
waterproof bag. Automatic lighter. Housewife. A cup and a spoon. One
can. Tobacco. Pipe. Diary. Telescope and all small personal belongings.

In footwear we had ski boots and a pair of boots of our own selection.

One pair of skis, two staves, one set of reins.

Every man should have a clasp knife.

_List of “Mutual Belongings for Flying Boat Equipment”_

One canvas boat.
One sledge.
One medicine chest.
One tent.
Reserve ski straps.
Reserve pig-skin reins for sledges.
One Primus with cooking vessel (large).
One box, reserve screws, etc., for Primus.
Thirty liters petroleum.
Meta cooking vessel with case of plates.
One kilogram Dubbin.
Sail-cloth gloves, syringes, large nails and sail thread.
One sextant.
One pocket sextant (for sledge journey).
One spirit level.
One chart ruler.
Navigation tables.
One log-book.
Pair of compasses.
Two T squares.
Pencils.
Binoculars.
Six large and four small smoke-bombs.
Smoke-bomb pistol.
One leeway measure.
One solar compass.
One shot gun with 200 cartridges.
One rifle with 200 cartridges.
One Colt pistol with fifty cartridges.
One electric pocket lamp.
Motor reserve parts.
Motor tools.
One ax.
One snow shovel.
One rucksack.
Ropes.
One ice anchor.
One reserve ski pole.
One petrol bucket.
One petrol funnel.
One oil funnel.
One kilogram aniline.
One half sack senna grass.
Ski Dubbin.
Three pilot balloons.
Three pairs of snow-shoes.

On account of weight we were debarred from taking any reserve ski
equipment with us. In the event of our requiring new ski parts
before the end of a march, the sledges were arranged with a lower
part like skis, which could be detached and rigged out as skis with
reserve strappings. The idea was that towards the end of such a march
everything could, in the event of trouble, be put onto one sledge,
leaving the other free for us to dismantle and use. Should any
misfortune occur at the beginning of the journey, we would be in a much
worse position. For such an eventuality we took snow-shoes with us.

Of these we took a generous number as they weighed so little. Strange
to say we did meet with a misfortune. Dietrichson lost both his
skis; and one of Omdal’s, which he kicked off, fell through the ice,
disappeared in the water, and was carried away by the current.

With the weight divided equally between the two machines we had the
following load:

One large and one smaller cinematograph apparatus.
Six hundred meter film.
Two cameras with films and plates.
One petrol pump with long hose.
Behm sounding apparatus with charges.
Arctic maps.

* * * * *

The next thing I am going to write about is:--

_The Transport of the Machines from Italy to Spitzbergen_

The name of the ship broker, Axel B. Lorentzen, should be inscribed at
the beginning of this section of my story in large capital letters.
Without his help I don’t know how things would have gone. The work we
first set about was to find a means of conveying our large machine
cases and all our extra equipment from Norway to Spitzbergen.
Considering the time of year it was necessary that we should have a
ship which could cope with the ice conditions. Should we charter any
other kind we would risk incalculable delay. Out of the six large
crates the engine-cases must in every event find room in the hold. It
was out of the question for these to be stowed on deck. Lorentzen got
for us the “blueprints” of ship after ship, and I sat at home for hours
studying the plans and working out the dimensions of the cases and the
hatches. In the end we got a sketch of “Hobby,” just when I had almost
given up the idea of ever being able to get the motor cases down into
the hold, for it seemed that the only way would be to take the engine
gondolas out of the crates, and at least stow _them_ safely in the
hold. In the case of “Hobby,” from the figures given, it appeared that
the crates could just be passed through the hatches and lowered. Our
joy was great. The four other crates could be stowed on deck, so we
chartered “Hobby” to be taken over on the 5th of April.

We had believed that it would be an absolutely simple matter to get the
machines home to Norway from Italy, but we had miscalculated. We learnt
this very quickly! The regular lines went to ten or twelve different
ports taking on board parcels here and parcels there. Therefore this
means of transport was of no use to us. A Dutch line offered to take
the machines for 50 per cent of the ordinary freight to Amsterdam. This
was very tempting, but we should be under the necessity of transporting
them to Rotterdam in order to join the ore-boat leaving for Narvik. We
also tried other ways, but without result.

Then came Lorentzen one day and brushed all our troubles aside by
saying, “All we need to do is to arrange something for ourselves.”

He calculated that if a boat of the size of the usual coal-boat,
sailing from England to the Mediterranean, could carry our wing cases
and propellers on deck, taking the engine cases and extras in the hold,
there would be sufficient space left for the boat to carry 200 tons of
salt. Thus he calculated that the round tour--England, Mediterranean,
Norway (West Coast) (even after allowing for the unloading of the coal
and the journey to Sicily for the salt)--would only leave a reasonable
sum to be paid by us for our goods’ transport,--namely, the difference
in freight,--to which cost we agreed.

The next move was to examine plans of boats which were “in position”
(so far as jargon goes I became a perfect shipping man!), and to find
out if the holds were big enough to take our wing cases and propellers,
or if they could get protected positions on deck. The crossing of the
Bay of Biscay had also to be taken into consideration.

At last there was a suitable boat on the market, namely, the S. S.
“Vaga,” in charge of Captain Eriksen. The boat was “due Liverpool,”
at a suitable date, and belonged to the Norwegian-Russian Shipping
Company. They took the freight without haggling, and showed extreme
willingness to assist us in every respect.

In the middle of January Dietrichson went to Marina di Pisa and made a
trial flight with N 24. Omdal went to Pisa after he had spent some time
at the Rolls-Royce Factory. Dietrichson returned home in the middle
of February, but Omdal remained behind to make a wider study of the
machines, and to accompany them and all our belongings, on the S. S.
“Vaga,” on the voyage to Norway. I myself went down to Marina di Pisa
in February and made a trial flight with N 25. Just before the end of
my stay there Amundsen returned from America and joined me. And thus
our lengthy conferences by correspondence came to an end, and matters
could at last be arranged by word of mouth.

[Illustration: DISEMBARKING FROM THE _Sjoliv_ AT KING’S BAY]

Following a speedy journey home, word went round that our extensive
outfit should be sent at once by the different suppliers to Tromsö.
In the days which followed cases and crates bearing our address could
be seen being transported to us on most of Northern Europe’s routes
of communication; goods even came from over the Atlantic, while Oslo,
Bergen, and Trondhjem were the critical points. The Storthing consented
to supply the means to allow the naval boat “Fram” to be placed at
our disposal, and thus a large quantity of the goods arriving at Oslo
was re-directed to Horten so that we could save the extra carriage. I
learned in those days to set great value on the telephone, regarding
it as a marvelous institution. Indeed I felt I had not valued it
sufficiently, for the Oslo exchange appeared to be working day and
night. Roald Amundsen, for instance, would ring me before eight o’clock
in the morning to give me the day’s orders. At that hour Amundsen had
already breakfasted and was ready to begin his day, whereas I had
hardly finished with the night.

[Illustration: MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION AFTER THEIR FIRST DINNER
ASHORE]

[Illustration: OUR FIRST SOLID CAMP]

There was not the slightest use in trying to turn round for another
little five-minute snooze, for immediately after eight Dr. Ræstad
would come on with his orders. I was therefore very impressed by the
earliness of the hour at which the Doctor started his day, but it
was not very long before I learned just exactly what attire he was
in when he rang! (The last remark, to use a flying expression, was a
“side-slip.”)

Back to the spot where I began to glide.

None of our goods were delayed anywhere, not even the tiniest little
case. And for this we owe much gratitude to the Railway Goods Managers,
the Bergen Steamship Company’s Despatch Managers, and the Nordenfeld
Steamship Company’s Despatch Managers in Trondhjem, and also Einer
Sundbye of Oslo, and to Horten’s Quay.

In Tromsö our “Goods Manager,” Zapffe, collected and stored everything.
When we checked our lists everything was in order.

We should have taken over “Hobby” on the 30th of March. At that
date it lay at the shipyard without cylinders in the engine, but by
Tuesday the engines were in order. When, however, the boat should have
proceeded to the quayside to begin loading, the engines refused to
turn the propeller round. The explanation was that they had changed the
propeller for a new one which was too large. The boat went back into
dock and was fitted again with its old propeller. Fortunately the S. S.
“Vaga” was belated on account of stormy weather. This delay, therefore,
did not inconvenience us. As there were no cranes in Tromsö we had had
to order the S. S. “Vaga” to Narvik.

During Wednesday, the 1st of April, “Hobby” finished loading everything
which should go into the hold, and we left at night for Narvik,
arriving Thursday evening. On Friday, April the 3rd, “Vaga” arrived
at 6 A.M. The cases were undamaged to our great joy. The “Vaga” had
indeed had bad weather on several occasions during the journey, but
Captain Eriksen forgot the interests of his owners and steamed slowly
on account of our goods.

By Friday afternoon we had all our cases ashore and on the railway to
be run along under the cranes, and the loading of S. S. “Hobby” began.
The cases with the reserve parts went down into the hold.

The engine cases should also have gone down into the hold, but we found
that my measurements were for the outer edge of the hatches instead of
for the actual dimensions of the opening. The cases would not go down,
not even when we tried them on the slant. We took the engine gondolas
out of the cases, thus dividing them in two, and placed the first part
down in the hold, with the second part stowed on top of it.

On Thursday we had one case stowed away in the large hold and speedily
set about building a foundation for the wing cases, which should lie
on top of that hatch. The aft mast stood a foot further forward in one
sketch than it did in reality, therefore we could not get sufficient
room to lay the wing cases behind each other alongships. This was a
bad business. Either we must lay the cases across the decks where they
would stretch out one and one-half meters each side, or we must charter
an additional ship. I approached a Shipping Company, which had a small
boat lying at Narvik, but as they wanted 20,000 kronen to carry one
wing case to Spitzbergen, I had no choice left in the matter but to
carry on as well as possible with S. S. “Hobby.”

During Sunday night the whole expedition nearly came to a sudden end.
A hurricane of tremendous force suddenly arose. The wing cases and the
propellers, alongside the engine cases, stood directly in the wind
on a railway wagon on a branch line near by. The watchman called for
help and ran to the rescue, assisted by the despatching staff, and in
a short time they managed to get the cases securely fastened to the
railway wagon, which in turn they secured to the quay. Just as they
finished, the wagon which held the engine cases decided to set off on
its own account, and tore away, driven by the wind, at the very moment
when the brake was released inadvertently by some one during the course
of operations. Fortunately, in the center of the quay it collided with
a shed and came to a full stop by running into a stack of timber.

Had the watchman not called for help immediately, undoubtedly some of
the cases would have been blown out to sea. The wind got stronger and
stronger during the time that people were busy securing the cases, and
they all had to move with the greatest caution to prevent themselves
being blown off the quay. The explanation of this strong wind lies, I
believe, with the high hills which surround the harbor.

Several ore-boats drifted off in the dock and were damaged. As it
continued to blow all Sunday we had to discontinue loading. During
Monday we got the second engine case and both wing crates on board.
Those which were loaded aft we had managed to place alongships, but we
decided to lay the forward ones crosswise on the deck, well forward,
where they (on account of the curve in the boat’s build) lay higher
and out of line of any waves which the boat might ship and which would
leave her decks awash.

On Thursday, the 7th, by midday both propellers were on board, stowed
above the wing cases. It was a long, tedious piece of work, but the
main point was that everything went well. S. S. “Hobby’s” deck cargo
looked alarmingly high and when one realized that our course lay
amongst the ice, it made one apprehensive. For my part, when I thought
of what a bill for damages would mean to us--the sacrifice of the
expedition for that year--it was little wonder that I trembled. There
were plenty of people to utter cautions, but “Hobby’s” captain (Captain
Holm) and the ice pilot Johansen both said things would be all right
“if only luck went with us.”

The top weight was not alarming, but it was an anxious moment all the
same when we saw the deck cargo piled so high. As soon as we got away
from the quay and got up a little speed, we put the rudder hard over
to see if the boat was specially “tender.” S. S. “Hobby” listed over
considerably less than I had expected. I trusted we should have only
a small swell before we reached Tjellsund, but fortunately we found
smooth water. In view of what we learned later we have great reason to
be glad of this, for had we had an example there of “Hobby’s” rolling
abilities, we should certainly never have assailed the ice conditions
ahead. We should certainly have chartered the extra ship which I
mentioned and would have had 20,000 kronen bigger debt to-day.

We arrived at Tromsö on Wednesday, the 9th, at 9 A.M. It was a great
day for us all, and for me especially. Roald Amundsen and the other
members of the expedition had arrived. S. S. “Fram” was there as well.
For the first time we were all gathered together. I felt so confident
when Amundsen took over the direct leadership, that I went off to do a
little business of my own.

During the day Amundsen went through the whole outfit, and everything
which had been ordered in Tromsö was placed on board. The entire day
was given up to work and it was late at night when we began to make
ready for sea. All questions in connection with transport insurance
were attended to with the greatest of skill and of kindness by my
friend, Herr R. Wesmann.

In Narvik, during the loading, I had stepped inadvertently on a nail
which had penetrated my right foot. The day in Tromsö therefore proved
a very hard one, as I suffered extreme pain with every step I took. The
worst part of my affliction, however, was that so many people showed
their sympathy with me by relating all the dreadful things which had
happened to _this_ acquaintance or to _that_ one who had had a similar
accident, and they threatened me with blood-poisoning or something
equally unpleasant. Blood-poisoning would have rendered me useless for
flying and I swore to myself that I would go right round the old boat
many times in future without trying to take a near cut in rubber-soled
shoes along a plank or something similar, running the risk of treading
on another nail.

A newspaper suddenly made the discovery that Thursday was the
expedition’s lucky day, as we started from Spitzbergen on a Thursday
and came back with the “Sjöliv” on a Thursday! I can supplement these
facts by adding that some of us traveled home on a Thursday and the
expedition left Tromsö on a Thursday, which was also a day full of
fateful happenings during the entire course of the expedition.

On the morning of Thursday in Easter week at five o’clock we left
Tromsö with “Fram” just ahead of us. On board S. S. “Hobby” we were
busy fastening the last lashings to the deck-cargo, until 7 A.M., when
I went to bed. At 9:30 I was awakened suddenly by some one shouting,
“‘Fram’ is signaling.” Expecting something of the kind to happen, I
had gone to bed fully dressed, and was therefore prepared to rush on
deck almost before my eyes were opened. A man on board the “Fram” was
semaphoring ... I signaled that I was ready, and the communications
started. I had just received the words “We are going to ...” when the
“Fram’s” rudder was put hard over, and the rest of the sentence was
lost by the aftermast swinging round in my line of vision, cutting off
the signaler and his message from view. He missed my “repeat” signal
probably because I had not taken my flag with me in the hurry, and was
only replying with my arms. He must apparently have seen something
which he took for confirmation that his signals had been understood,
for he hopped away seemingly quite satisfied and the “Fram” continued
on her way. If “Hobby” had had her steam whistle in readiness I would
at once have blown the “repeat” blast, but it would have been necessary
to have got in touch with the engine-room first in order to get air
into the whistle. I gave it up, therefore, and came to the conclusion
that the “Fram” had no more serious intentions than merely to maneuver.
I had heard something about a good landmark on the other side of the
fairway, and thought thus that they were making a deviation from the
usual course. Knowing that the “Fram,” with her greater speed, could
soon overhaul us again, we continued straight on to prevent delay.
S. S. “Fram” in the meantime hurried across the fjord and, as it turned
westwards out of its course, I knew it had some special move in view.
We turned as quickly as possible, following behind with all possible
speed, but it was too late and “Fram” disappeared in the distance. We
believed it would appear again westward of Fugleö and stood by in the
hope of meeting it.

We had not been long in the open sea before we met heavy weather. How
the “Hobby” rolled! The wing-cases which lay across the decks were
dipped in the water at each side. I carefully surveyed the various
lashings to see that none were working loose as the boat tossed and
rolled. It was midday and a heavy sea was striking us abeam. Soon I
noticed that the securing-ropes of the forward case had slackened,
and it was sliding a couple of feet backwards and forwards as “Hobby”
continued rolling. We “hove to,” therefore, until we managed to fix the
cases with new lashings.

The situation was unpleasant. The “Fram” was not to be seen, and it had
the meteorologists on board and would thus get weather reports. I would
have given anything I possessed to have learned whether the weather
would get better or worse. I gravely considered the advisability of
turning back, but this proceeding would have meant giving up the idea
of “Hobby” carrying everything to Spitzbergen, as the ice-pilot’s only
hope was that we would find better weather to get through the ice at
this time of year with our high deck cargo. Much valuable time would
be lost if we had to go in search of an auxiliary ship, remove some of
the heavy cases from the “Hobby” and re-load them on the new boat. On
the other hand the welfare of the whole expedition was at stake, and
my thoughts turned to Amundsen. Had the cases only contained ordinary
goods, the sea could gladly have had them, but they contained our
flying machines! When we “hove to” to secure the lashings I noticed how
much steadier S. S. “Hobby” lay on the waves and decided that we could
perform the same tactics again at any moment if things got too bad. The
Meteorological Institute had promised us good weather so we decided
to continue in the present position for a little while even after the
cases were secured, until we should see if conditions were likely to
improve. Another thought came to me when things were at their worst.
Just before leaving Oslo I had been called before the Admiralty, and
it was pointed out to me that they had doubts about sending the “Fram”
amongst the ice at that time of year--not on account of the vessel
itself, but on account of the crew. I replied that “Fram” and “Hobby”
should always remain together so that “Hobby” would always be at hand
to render any necessary assistance. Simultaneously we got a message
from “Hobby’s” brokers to say they were very doubtful whether the
Board of Trade would permit “Hobby” to leave with a deck-cargo--not on
account of the vessel, but on account of the crew. I calmed them down
by assuring them that “Fram” and “Hobby” should remain together so that
“Fram” could go to “Hobby’s” assistance if necessary. Tragic as the
situation was, I could not help smiling, for both vessels instead of
being able to help each other had enough to do to look after themselves.

It seemed to me in one respect that it was a good thing the “Fram” was
out of our immediate neighborhood, as it would have been dreadful for
Amundsen to see how frightfully we rolled from side to side, without
being himself on board with us to know that in all the “happenings” we
remained masters of the situation.

Between Thursday night and Friday morning the weather improved--the
wind had lowered, but there still remained a heavy swell on the water.
If the “Hobby” got a little off the right course now and again, she was
steered round with a tremendous pull which brought me flying on deck
to see how things were going. Thus there was little sleep the whole
night, certainly never more than an hour at a time. On Thursday morning
we passed Björnöen to the westward without seeing the island, as there
was a thick fog. Here we passed the first ice, which was typical
pancake-ice.

During the day a southeasterly wind came up and increased later to a
stiff breeze. So long as the sea was moderately calm, we did not mind,
as the wind was blowing direct aft, and we were making good speed. By
midday the sea had become so rough and the wind so strong that we were
faced by the same dilemma which has faced many a seaman before us. How
long could we carry on without having to “heave to”? We altered our
course a little in order to get as quickly into the ice as possible
by way of Sydkap. We knew that if we could only get along in that
direction we would be sure to find smooth water, so we continued on
that course and made fair progress. If the sea should get too rough,
so that we could no longer keep going, it might be too late to “heave
to,” for during that maneuver we might steer into the wind, getting the
heavy seas abeam, and there was every possibility of our losing our
deck cargo. If, therefore, we were going to steer into the wind, it
would be advisable to do it in good time.

Occasionally “Hobby” rocked heavily when a heavy sea caught it astern.
We rolled violently, not nicely and comfortably, but with heavy violent
heaves so that the lashings cut into the planks which lay between them
and the corners of the cases. During one of these heaves the man at
the wheel was thrown across the wheel, against the rail, at the lee
side of the bridge. He hurt himself pretty badly, and was unable to
work for some time. The mate’s comforting remark was that conditions
might be much worse when we got nearer to the banks. I was more afraid
than I have ever been before in my life, and I hope sincerely that I
shall never get into a similar position again. It was not my life I
feared losing, for there was meantime no danger of this. It was the
deck cargo’s fate about which I was concerned, namely, the flying
machines. If the cases had been filled with gold they would have been
heartily welcome to go overboard, but we must at all costs keep the
flying-machines safe and sound. The expedition must not be put off
this year. I felt thankful again in my heart that the ships had got
separated, for “Fram” could have given us no help. Those on board that
vessel could only have stood as helpless spectators.

During the evening of Easter Saturday the wind stopped increasing, and
in the course of the night died down somewhat. On Easter Sunday evening
we got into the ice and calculated that we were almost in a direct line
with Spitzbergen. Under ordinary circumstances the proper thing to do
would have been to steer northwest into free water until we were level
with King’s Bay. Meantime there was a considerable swell, which now
came from the southwest. The fog still surrounded us, coming thicker
from the southwest. But the ice meant smooth water for us and safety
for the deck cargo. We were, therefore, in no doubt what to do. Hoping
that we might be able to keep on a clear water-course, we proceeded
through the ice towards the land. Little by little, as we got further
in, the swell decreased, and at last almost calmed down. How heartily
I blessed that ice. At eleven o’clock we could not risk going any
further, as we could no longer see anything ahead. “Hobby” was brought
into some compact ice, and we “laid to” for the night.

Even if we should still encounter difficulties in finding our way to
King’s Bay, and if the fog should not lift, at least we were now safe
for some hours, so I went to my bunk and slept like a log as soon
as my head touched the pillow. Six A.M. we were under way again. The
fog was still as thick as ever. During the trip we had not taken any
observations, apart from the “noon observation” on the day before
Easter. But even this was uncertain, as the horizon was hardly visible
on account of haze. We therefore did not care to go nearer to the land,
but steered along it as well as the clearings in the ice permitted.
Our course therefore varied between northeast and northwest. When we
thought we were abreast of King’s Bay, we steered right in towards the
land and got ready to “cast the lead.” We could now see far enough
ahead to stop in good time when necessary. Then it seemed suddenly as
if a curtain had been raised right abreast of us to starboard, and in
pale clear sunshine we could see the northerly point of Prince Charles
Foreland. Holm and Johansen can with good reason be proud of their
calculations and navigating. We had kept the right course, steamed full
speed and now we sailed right out into the radiant sunshine. Behind us
lay the fog like a high gray wall. It was “död dam stille” as we say,
and ahead lay King’s Bay. How glad we were. We just looked at each
other and smiled as we heaved deep sighs of relief. What a wonderful
sensation! We were there! Nothing could now impede the progress of the
expedition. How annoyed all the skeptics would be. They would have no
reason now to walk through the streets and shout: “I was right. I told
you so!” There was a strong feeling of thankfulness, mingled with our
satisfaction, that we had been able to get through all right and bring
happiness to Amundsen.

We were not long in getting shaved and letting our faces make the
acquaintance of fresh water again. Then we went up on deck to see
whether “Fram” had arrived. The burning question during the trip had of
course been, “Where can ‘Fram’ be?” We had also laid wagers and held
various opinions about this, but I believe we forgot these in our joy.

Yes, there she was right up against the ice-edge. “Hobby” had still
to force her way through an ice-belt, which was fairly clear, but
yet progress seemed to be terribly slow. We were overcome by our own
feelings, which seemed to shout the words, “Here we are and everything
is all right!” At last we were through, and right up to the edge of the
ice. We noticed that things became lively on the “Fram.” I went forward
onto the deck-cargo and waved my cap to show that everything was all
right. My challenge brought instant response. Ringing cheers reached
us. Naval flags were dipped confirming our supposition that they had
been anxious about us. When “Hobby” put its nose into the ice-edge we
were all on the forecastle. Amundsen came towards us with a broad
smile on his face. We knew and understood how pleased he was, and all
our anxiety and the terrible strain on our nervous system were soon
forgotten.

_In King’s Bay_

The remainder of my report will nearly be an illustrated book
accompanied by a little text in order to avoid what Amundsen has
already written in his account.

[Illustration: PREPARING THE PLANES, AT SPITZBERGEN, FOR THEIR ARCTIC
FLIGHT]

[Illustration: THE LAST VIEW OF SPITZBERGEN]

It was a disappointment that the ice stretched so far out. On the
ships’ arrival it was so thick that none of them could break it. The
next day, however, on account of the mild weather, the ice got so
brittle that “Knut Skaaluren” (although with difficulty) managed to
break up a channel for us all. As the “Skaaluren” had a good deal of
cargo to discharge “Hobby” could not get to the quay for several days.
It was a disappointment, but turned out to be a piece of good luck.
I had thought about rigging up some booms (which we had on board) to
the crane on the upper deck in order to discharge our large cases onto
the quay. We had no time to wait until “Skaaluren” was finished, so we
had to take our chance with “Hobby’s” own derricks and winches. The
last were not specially suitable for lifting heavy pieces. They were
electrical ones and could go full speed one way or the other. This
would mean stopping with a nasty wrench. In order to reduce this we
rigged up some tackle instead of leaving the single wire.

[Illustration: EDGE OF THE POLAR PACK. THE EXPEDITION FLEW 100 MILES
OVER THIS BEFORE REACHING SOLID ICE]

When I said that the disappointment turned out to be a piece of good
fortune, I meant that on account of these circumstances we saved a lot
of time by using “Hobby’s” own gear and discharging right onto the ice
without loss of time.

In order to reduce the weight of the bodies of the machines we first of
all took off the packing.

As the forward derrick could not swing the boats’ bodies clear of the
wing cases, which stretched over the railings, we had to take both
boats’ bodies in the after derrick. N 25, which stood aft, was lifted
first and swung out. It came nicely down onto the ice and N 24 followed.

The aft case with the wings was then turned so that it lay right across
the railings. Both cases were put on end so that we could get at the
hatches. The motor gondolas were then lifted up and put into their
places.

In the meantime the “Fram’s” boys hacked a glide from the fjord ice to
the land and the boats’ bodies were pulled along and taken straight to
the place which had been chosen for their mounting.

Our assistance for the mounting of them could not have been better. On
the one side a mechanical workshop and on the other a smithy, and a
big room which was put at our disposal. Here we had benches with vices,
etc.

For getting the wings ashore we had to get to the quay under all
circumstances, but there was no hurry now, as we had plenty to do
in getting the motors ready. It was not just the most comfortable
temperature to work in. Now and again one could see war-dances being
performed round the warming-pan.

In the meantime “Fram’s” boys cut the ice up round about the quay and
kept the water channels open so that the ships could change places more
easily.

Just when we had finished our work with the motors, “Skaaluren” left
the quay and “Hobby” came into her place. The wing-cases were just
lying at the same height as the quay, so that everything considered, it
was easy work to get them ashore. Luckily we had no wind that day, so
conditions permitted us to carry the cases on end, which was necessary
on account of the space.

Under the guidance of Schulte-Frohlinde we started immediately to mount
N 24, and soon it began to look more like a flying machine.

When taking N 24’s wings ashore, we had a good deal of wind. It was
therefore not easy to get them ashore on end. After landing them we had
to carry them in a horizontal position.

We could not wait for calm weather, as the meteorologists predicted a
long period of fresh breezes. The bringing ashore of the machines was
carried through without the slightest damage to the material, nor had
any damage taken place during the long transport from Marina di Pisa to
King’s Bay. All of us therefore had good reason to feel pleased that
day.

Whilst Schulte-Frohlinde, Feucht and Zinsmayer completed the mounting,
Green and Omdal continued their work with the motor and completed it by
putting on the propellers.

After everything had been tried and tested and proved to be in splendid
order, there arose the burning question, which had been in my mind for
the last half year, namely, how would the machines run on the snow?
Exactly in front of the mounting place were any number of suitable
spots where we could make a trial on level snow, so I made the first
test on May 9th. The boat, as was only natural, stuck fast at first,
but got free quite easily with a strong pull. It was a delightful
sensation to realize how easily it glided along. Had it sunk heavily
down into the snow and stuck there, matters would have looked less
bright for us.

Flying boats of this size had never been tried on snow before, but we
built on our own belief in its being possible; had it not been so we
should have been in an unpleasant position.

From the day we gathered all our material together, our program went
according to date, and in the beginning of May we were all in readiness
to set off in the second half of the month if conditions permitted.

That day was for me, therefore, a _great_ day in the expedition’s
course, and every one will understand my feeling of joy when after
testing the machine I was able to announce to Amundsen, “We are clear
to start the moment our leader says the word!”

PART IV

REPORT ABOUT N 24 FROM THE START UNTIL WE JOINED N 25 AND ITS CREW ON
THE 26TH MAY

BY L. DIETRICHSON

REPORT ABOUT N 24 FROM THE START UNTIL WE JOINED N 25 AND ITS CREW ON
THE 26TH MAY

I am sitting in the South in real, tropical, summer heat. Outside my
windows roses of all colors are blooming, and the air is positively
saturated with the perfume of flowers. Beyond the harbor, as far as the
eye can see, the water is like a mirror, clear and inviting.

I have to write a few words regarding our experience on the polar
flight. The events seem so far, so far away, that it appears almost as
a dream. The _present_ is a reality. It reminds me of the days when, up
in the ice desert, we had a similar if not quite so strong a feeling
that the glorious days which we had spent with Director Knutsen in
King’s Bay were mere fantasies.

Meantime my diary with its few daily notes lies before me, and with the
help of these I hope I can manage to give a correct description of the
events which I am trying to depict. I may add that I am principally
concerned in giving a correct narration of the actual happenings, and
nothing is further from my thoughts than literary ambition.

I will start by quoting my notes of the 21st May: “Easterly breeze,
clear weather, excellent conditions for starting. Hope that the great
day has now come. Try to start with 3,100 kilo weight, but am prepared
to have to reduce same.”

This was written on the morning of the 21st and my hope was to be
realized. Meteorologists predicted good weather conditions in the polar
basin and the plane was loaded and ready. In the afternoon the members
of the expedition, accompanied by friends and the people of King’s Bay,
went out to the plane. The lashings received final touches, instruments
were placed in position, and engines were started. In the half hour
during which the engines warmed up we said good-by to friends and
acquaintances, and we placed special value on the good wish, “God bless
your trip,” which we received from the miners’ representatives and the
crew of the “Fram.” Our tireless friend, Director Knutsen, gave us
practical proof of his kindness by handing us, when we were on board, a
parcel of sandwiches, cold meat and hard-boiled eggs as well as a box
of excellent oatcakes baked by Fru Director Clausen of Aalesund. As
transpired later, these provisions came in exceedingly handy.

At last both planes were ready. Omdal reported that the engines
were all right, and Ellsworth was ready with his navigating and
meteorological instruments. N 25 was lying with its nose facing the
fjord, where the start was to be made. N 24, somewhat further in,
lay parallel with the beach in order to escape the air pressure and
the snow spray from N 25’s propeller. The latter plane at last slid
down the hacked-out glide onto the ice, and N 24 proceeded in a half
circle in order to follow down the same track. Meantime it was no
easy task to raise the heavily laden plane 90°. At the same time as
the engines pulled the plane slowly forward something snapped through
the pressure on the tail. But there were plenty of willing hands--too
many in fact. Above the humming of the engine I suddenly heard a noise
which sounded to me as if a row of rivets in the bottom had sprung.
Meantime the plane was in starting position. The people were quickly
waved aside, and we glided down on the ice in the track of N 25.
Director Schulte-Frohlinde from the Pisa Works had undoubtedly heard
a suspicious noise when the rivets burst (that could be seen by the
concerned look on his face) although the noise probably sounded worse
in the plane than outside. I presume he calmed down when we continued
on our way, but I smiled to myself at the sight of his sudden shock.
As far as I was concerned the occurrence was quite clear. I knew that
some of the rivets were out, although I could not judge how many. But
I took it for granted that it would not place any special difficulties
in the way of our landing or starting, even on the water, after we had
lightened the plane by over 1,000 kg. of petrol and oil on the way up
to the Pole. Added to this was the chance that we might possibly land
and start from the ice, where the leakage would not matter. On the
other hand, repairs would have delayed the start indefinitely; then
again we might have periods when, impatiently waiting to start, every
minute of the day we would look concernedly at the weather conditions
becoming foggier and foggier and delaying us. My all-engrossing thought
was: “Now or never.” And thus we carried on.

The arrangement was that N 25 should start first. There was a slight
breeze from the end of the fjord, but in order to prevent a turning
of 180° with the heavy-laden plane, we decided to try first to make a
start beyond the fjord. We therefore stopped in the middle of the ice
and started to put our flying suits on, which we did not want to don
until the last minute in order not to get too warm before starting.
Suddenly we saw N 25 gliding landwards and flying past us with both
engines working at full power with constantly increasing speed. It
was clear immediately that the start would be successful. I did not
get time to see more nor to put on snow-glasses and gloves, for the
ice began to sink more and more under the plane’s weight. There was
already a foot of water on the ice round about us, and at the same
time Omdal informed us that the water was also rising inside fairly
rapidly. These conditions coming all at once made it imperative to act,
and a few seconds later I had given N 24’s 720-horsepower full scope.
It looked as if the plane spent a little time in consideration, then
started slowly to glide ahead, the water on the ice disappeared, and
quicker and quicker we drove over the lightly snow-covered ice-plain.
It seemed as if the high glacier at the end of the fjord was coming to
meet us at a dangerous speed. But a glance at the speedometer showed
a steady, regularly increasing speed which had a completely calming
effect. As the indicator showed 110 kilometers per hour I thought that
the plane could rise, but in order to make quite certain, I waited
until the indicator showed 120 kilometers before I let it rise slowly.

It was an inspiring feeling to be in the air at last. The fascinating
expedition had at last begun. The time of preparation was over.

Our admiration for the plane’s ability knew no bounds. As mentioned
before we were quite prepared to face the necessity of having to
jettison a part of the load, namely petrol. According to the contract
the plane was only bound to carry 2,500 kilos weight, but we got away
all right with 3,100 kilos. As we learned later, the starting track was
1,400 meters long, but if necessity had demanded it could have been
considerably shorter.

As soon as the nose of N 24 had been slowly and carefully steered round
outside the fjord, I started to look out for N 25. It is surprising
how difficult it often is to discover a plane in the air from another
one. But at last I saw it, and apparently on board N 25 they were also
on the lookout for us. All the circumstances which could possibly
arise had been thoroughly discussed before starting and the main thing
was, if possible, to keep together. Written orders were therefore not
necessary, and only one written order was issued as a guide in case we
should be separated, and it read as follows:

“In case the two planes and their crews should lose contact with one
another, N 24 and its crew shall continue operations under Lieutenant
Dietrichson’s leadership as agreed. Lieutenant Dietrichson has the
right in the name of His Majesty the King of Norway to take possession
of any land that may be discovered.”

As we then glided northwards along the west coast of Spitzbergen past
the seven glaciers and further past Dansköen and Amsterdamöen, it was
certainly our mutual wish that luck would favor us so that we should
never lose sight of one another. This wish was strengthened when early
in the course of the flight thick clouds and fog met us, forcing us
to rise to about 1,000 meters, where we found the sky beautiful, blue
and sunny, whilst the fog lay below us like a blanket stretching out
northwards as far as the eye could see.

The arrangement was that the flight up to the north coast should be
considered as a trial flight, and that both planes should return
to King’s Bay if everything was not going on all right; but if the
contrary was the case, to continue. With a feeling of relief I saw
that N 25 continued its course northwards, so that everything on
board there must be in order. But shortly afterwards I noticed by the
cooling-gauge that the temperature of the water had risen alarmingly.
Omdal, always practical, had been prudent enough to fix a bell from
my compartment to the petrol-store and to the engine-gondolas, and as
soon as I had pressed the button Omdal was beside me. I pointed to
the thermometer, which was steadily rising, and Omdal disappeared aft
again like a rocket. He is a phenomenon in wriggling round the engines,
where (to use a mild phrase) space is scarce. I glanced aft and saw
that the radiator blinds were not quite open, but even after they had
been opened wide, the temperature continued to rise. The indicator
had passed 100° and I felt sure that we would have to make a forced
landing. Through small holes in the fog we could see the drift ice
below us where a landing would certainly mean a wrecked plane. The
temperature rose higher and the last I saw was that it indicated 115°,
when the thermometer burst and my hopes sank to zero. I rang again for
Omdal, but a little time elapsed before he came, and I judged that he
was busy. Meantime I was astonished to see that the engines still went
as well as ever. I had throttled them down to 1,600 revolutions, but
expected to hear a crack any minute; and how goes it with the forward
motor? The two engines had a common radiator, but the thermometer
showed the temperature of the water after it passed the aft-motor, so
there was still a hope for the forward one. The radiator gauge for this
motor was, however, fixed in the engine gondolas out of the pilot’s
control. After what in my anxiety seemed to be several minutes, Omdal
appeared again, and when I asked him what was the matter replied that
everything was all right. I knew anyway that the expression “all right”
was (to say the least of it) an exaggeration, in view of the fact that
I had seen the temperature rise to over 115°. But at the same time I
knew that the engines worked with a regular hum, and if anybody could
manage to keep them going it was Omdal. I therefore hoped to keep in
the air by very careful flying. As minute after minute passed, without
catastrophe, my confidence rose.

Side by side these two gigantic birds flew northwards towards the
unknown, cold, inhospitable polar regions, which for centuries have
been the scene of so many men’s cravings and strugglings, where so
many defeats have been borne after unbearable sufferings, privations
and vain endeavors, and where also a few mighty victories have been won.

One could not avoid thinking about the difference between our present
journey and the previous expedition. Roald Amundsen thought of the
new element--the air as the connecting link--making use of it for the
first time in polar exploration (if one excludes the congenial Swedish
explorer Andre’s trial with his balloon in 1897, the result of which
has been lost to the world’s records). Would the world gather new
knowledge from our experiences? How far it would benefit depended, in
my opinion, on the landing possibilities. If we should be lucky in
finding suitable landing-places, at not too lengthy distances apart,
our undertaking would certainly succeed. If the opposite should be
the case, the chances would of course be small. But just the question
of landing-places gave an element of uncertainty to our expedition.
The presumptuous “specialists” gave distinctly opposite opinions
regarding the conditions of the water-lanes of the ice regions. All
these opinions showed one common result, namely, that we could not
depend upon any of them. Nobody had so far observed the conditions from
a flying-man’s point of view. This we were quite clear about, but we
depended upon the material at our disposal, namely, our flying-boats,
which, if the worst should happen, ought to be able to take us back
home without our making a landing.

I believe we all sat there thinking how previous expeditions had
advanced laboriously, kilometer after kilometer, had climbed over high
icebergs and passed water-lanes during exciting marches which lasted
days, sometimes their path was blocked by waterways which must be
crossed with the aid of the frail equipment which the explorers could
carry with them. In contrast to this we were now, three men in each
plane, steering, with slight touches and very little work, these flying
boats, which not only carried us but also our equipment high over all
obstacles with a speed of some kilometers per minute. Frithjof Nansen
mentions several times in his reports about his and Johansen’s journey
towards the North Pole that he wished he had wings in order to pass the
countless icebergs. The dream has become true. As long as we can remain
in the air the icebergs cannot hinder us.

But to return to the business of our flight. The fog extended further
north than we expected, and although this did not interfere with our
flying, it interfered with the deviation and speed observations--a
matter which was very annoying.

[Illustration: THE _Sjoliv_, THE SEALER THAT PICKED THEM UP]

Mr. Ellsworth told me later that he had been very impressed by the
flight over the fog-belt. Wherever our plane threw a shadow on the
fog-belt below, a double halo in all the colors of the rainbow
appeared, and in the midst of this the silhouette of N 24 could be seen
quite clearly. This phenomenon accompanied us all the time we were over
the fog-belt and was very impressive. Roald Amundsen had observed the
same thing in connection with the flight of N 25.

[Illustration: AT BRANDY BAY, NORTH-EAST LAND, ON THE WAY HOME]

Just after we had passed 82° north the fog disappeared and we continued
to fly over these boundless icefields, which stretched monotonously as
far as the eye could see. We flew at different heights, varying from
1,000 to 3,000 meters.

The ice looked quite different to what I expected. Instead of the
big kilometer-long ice plain, we saw ice plains which through cracks
or bergs had been divided into small irregular pieces, where it was
impossible to land. And open water-lanes! These were reduced to quite
small snakelike cracks, following a winding course on which it was also
impossible to land. As far as I was concerned, I consoled myself with
the belief that probably once we came nearer our goal, we should find
the ice plains a little larger and evener. But hour after hour passed
without the conditions below us changing to any noticeable degree.
Notwithstanding this and in spite of the fact that our second engine
had been exposed to extraordinary strain, I still felt quite safe. The
regular beat of our two Rolls-Royce engines, which never varied in the
slightest, and which might well be considered the height of perfection
in British workmanship and exactitude, gave one confidence. And it was
a necessary factor. Every flying man will understand this.

One question which always cropped up whenever the North Pole flight was
discussed was in regard to the cold, which one thought would be found
unbearable by the crew. Let me say at once that it did not bother us
in the least. Even in the case of the pilot, who is so closely tied to
his place, it proved to be of no great discomfort. This of course was
on account of the carefulness with which we selected our kit, thanks to
the long experience of our leaders in the polar regions. I was rather
afraid about my hands and feet, but the clothes, which are described in
another part of this book, stood the test splendidly.

Meantime one hour after another passed and we had soon made a flight of
eight hours duration. Reckoning on a speed of 140 kilometers per hour,
that ought to have brought us directly into the neighborhood of the
Pole. Our position now depended solely on how strong the wind had been
blowing against us, or in other words, what ground speed we had made.
But what was to be done? Landing places were still not to be found.
Omdal came forward to me and shook his head for once, pointing to the
icefields below us.

Then we suddenly saw--for the first time since we went above the
fog-belts at Spitzbergen--the sun playing on blue water, which was
rippling under the influence of a slight breeze. We could hardly
believe our eyes. N 25 changed its course down towards the tempting
water and started slowly to descend. We followed. The water-lane was
apparently large enough to land on, but was divided into several
portions by icebergs and banks of snow and ice. It was hopeless to
land on the ice round about and it presented an increasingly worse
appearance the lower we got. I saw N 25 land in an arm, or, speaking
correctly, in a branch of the waterway, where as far as I could see
there was very little room. I came to the conclusion, in any case, that
there was only room for one plane, and therefore I flew round a little,
and landed on an ideal place a little to the south, in a fine little
lake. With slow speed we proceeded on to the biggest ice-floe we could
see, and secured N 24 there. I noticed that the aft motor stopped of
its own accord as soon as I had throttled it down.

The first surprise we met with, as soon as we arrived on the ice, was
a big seal which, inquisitive as usual, put its head out and looked
enquiringly over us. I am not sure who was more surprised, we or it.
Never had we heard about animal existence so far north, and the seal
had certainly never seen a flying machine before, either there or
further south.

We of course went ashore immediately in order to look for N 25 and
its crew. I had taken note of the direction of their landing place,
and thought we would be about three-quarters of a mile away from them.
The sight that met us when we climbed the highest ice-clump was just
as depressing as it was surprising. No sign of N 25. As far as the
eye could see there was nothing but ice, and ice again, on all sides,
except in the direction of the water-lane from whence we had come. And
_what_ ice! Not large--not even small--plains of ice, but hills of it,
and long high icebanks which impeded the view on all sides. We had seen
from above quite plainly that landing-places on the ice were very poor,
but what we saw now affected us overwhelmingly and surprisingly. We
shuddered involuntarily, and yet at the same time we were gripped by a
sense of the wildness and beauty.

But we must get to work. We must find N 25, so out came the glasses.
After having eagerly looked for a little while, we discovered the end
of a propeller and a wing sticking out over an iceberg. We estimated
the distance to be three-quarters to one mile, and decided to walk
across to that spot as soon as we had eaten a little. Personally I
had not tasted anything (wet or dry) and had not missed it. But now I
had developed an appetite and Director Knutsen’s sandwiches were more
than welcome. Omdal immediately got busy with his beloved engines,
Ellsworth sacrificed himself to the studying of the meteorological
conditions, while I quickly “took the sun,” which showed that we were
about 87° 50′ north.

It appeared to us that the plane lay safe and sound and Ellsworth and
I decided to walk across to N 25. We expected that by walking along by
the water-lane we would be able to cover the distance in one and a half
hours, and for safety’s sake took the canvas boat along with us. We
did not bother about provisions or anything else. Before we started we
hoisted our brave Norwegian flag on the top of the iceberg.

Ellsworth and I set out most confidently, but reaped our first bitter
experience of marching on the polar ice. It _looked_ difficult to
get along, but it proved to be still more so. We climbed up and down
icebergs, carrying our canvas boat, of which we had to take the utmost
care so that no sharp piece of ice should tear a hole in it. Soon we
had to use the boat as a bridge in order to cross a small crack filled
up with broken ice and mush--or as an aid to fighting our way through
thin new ice in somewhat broader ditches. At last we got full use of
the boat in a broad water-lane, where we paddled along a good distance.
Now and again we got sight of N 25 above the icebergs as we approached.
Suddenly we saw the propeller moving. We were therefore certain that
the crew and also the plane were “all right,” and as the new ice was
completely blocking our course, we decided to return to N 24. With the
same toil (and after we had tumbled into the water several times) we
returned tired and fagged out.

Omdal awaited us with steaming chocolate and it tasted excellent.
Whilst we had been away he had discovered that several exhaust pipes
of the aft engine had become clogged, so they had to be exchanged
for spares. He expected that the work would take two or three days.
Meantime the ice started to close in round the plane, which we
therefore decided to turn round with the nose pointed out of the
water-lane so that, if necessary, we could leave by only using the
“fore” engine.

It was easier said than done because, first of all, the ice had to
be broken round about the flying machine, and more than once we got
thoroughly drenched. But after three hours’ work the plane was in the
desired position. The question now was whether the crew of N 25 had
seen us. We presumed they had seen our flag, but of course this was not
certain. If everything was in good order, they would start off to join
us as soon as they had been able to take careful observations. Anyway
we were sure that they would see us when they started out, and so we
climbed a little higher than we already were. We had nothing else to do
but to put our engines in order as quickly as possible, to be ready at
the earliest moment. We therefore put our tent up “_on the land_” of
the ice-plain, and took the necessary mess requisites and sleeping bags
with us. In addition we also armed ourselves with a gun and revolver,
in case we should be surprised by a polar bear. A seal we had already
seen, and a bear might also be lurking about. Omdal was to work solely
on the motor, helped if necessary by Ellsworth and myself, whilst we
had to do the cooking, take observations, keep a lookout and now and
again pump the boat free of water. The leakage proved to be less than
I expected, but still large enough to make us prefer to stick to our
tent. This was quite small and light, made of thin aeroplane cloth. The
bottom was of the same material. It was quite snug and warm when the
Primus stove was lit, but when the snow underneath started to melt, on
account of the heat in the tent, it got damp on the floor. We were of
course entirely cut off from wood, leaves or branches of trees.

At midday--still on the 22nd--the sky got overcast and we could no
longer see N 25. With our lack of experience in the ice regions
Ellsworth and I had the impression that we were quite safe where we
were. Omdal, who _had_ some experience from his sojourn in Alaska, was
not quite so calm about it, but thought that the new ice where we lay
would in any case act as a protection against possible drift ice.

In the afternoon the weather cleared again for about an hour and it
seemed to us that we could see the top of N 25 again. Later the sky
was overcast with threatening snow squalls. It was clear that the
ice was constantly on the move. Meantime the water-lane was so broad
that we were not afraid of it closing in. What concerned us most was
the uncertainty about N 25 and its crew. We reasoned out and imagined
every possible theory. If everything was all right, they would of
course fly down to join us in this place, where they could land without
difficulty. If the machine had been hopelessly damaged, they would come
on foot over the ice to us. We ruminated thus, because it seemed to us
that they _must_ have seen our flag, and, as meantime we saw nothing of
them, we presumed that they had some necessary repairs to effect.

The whole night, until the morning of the 23rd of May, we had
snow--with bad visibility. Omdal worked at the motors while Ellsworth
and I pumped. The leakage appeared to be getting gradually worse. We
had a northerly breeze and about -10° c.

At midday the weather cleared and the sun shone out from a clear sky.
In the course of the day I was able to make two good observations,
although the spirit level which Ellsworth had brought with him was
too small and besides was of a very unsuitable construction. I had
already pointed this out at Spitzbergen, but there was no opportunity
of getting a new one. I must admit that I was disappointed with the
result of our observations. I had believed that we were considerably
nearer the Pole. The others thought the same. Judging by the flying and
our speed through the air, we must have had a very strong wind current
against us. At that time, however, we did not doubt that we could
continue northwards as soon as the motors were in working order again.

At midday we saw N 25 again. It had drifted nearer to us, and we
noticed that tarpaulins had been put over the motor-gondolas and that
the flag was flying over it. If only the weather would remain clear
now, they ought to be able to see us. We tried several times to attract
their attention by using smoke-bombs, and now and again we fired a gun.

The part of the water-lane where we were encamped froze up more and
more, a condition which rather pleased us as we expected that we would
soon be able to make a start from the ice.

In the afternoon we at last noticed that N 25 must have observed us
because we noticed a flag being waved backwards and forwards. This
was the customary sign used in the Navy for starting flag-signaling.
I was not slow in taking up the challenge, and soon a connection was
established. The distance was so long that we had to use glasses, and
as these had to be dried continuously the signaling took some time. At
last we got the following message: “We are frozen in twenty meters from
the water-lane--working in order to get free. If your position hopeless
come to us, bring food, axes, deflection instruments, engine O.K.” We
replied: “Expect we can start on the ice from here, but are leaking
badly, therefore longer sojourn on the water impossible.”

I think few can imagine what relief it was to us to have established
signal-communication with each other. I immediately gave a grateful
thought to Riiser-Larsen and to my naval education.

The whole night, until the morning of the 24th of May, we had a fresh
breeze with drifting snow, the temperature being -11° to -12°. It was
bitterly cold in the tent and the wind was blowing right through it.
The sleeping-bags were very excellent, but really only meant for summer
use. We had the “Thermix” heating apparatus with us. It was really
extraordinarily good, but, as we had hardly any petrol to spare, we did
without the comfort of a heated tent. On our flight northwards we had
been exceedingly economical regarding the consumption of petrol, and we
therefore still had half a drum more than half our original quantity.
But one could not tell how much might be required for our return
journey.

In the course of the day (24th of May) the whole fjord was frozen over.
The leakage in the boat got continually worse, and thus we were quite
pleased to see the ice freezing round our machine as it would form a
resting place for the wings, and would prevent the machine sinking
further, even if we should stop pumping-work, which took up much time
and prevented us from performing other necessary tasks.

During the course of the afternoon Omdal finished changing the exhaust
ventilators, and we thought that the motors were now all ready. The
fact that they would not start in the severe cold, and especially in
the strong wind which hindered the warming of the motors, did not
concern us greatly. Spring was on the way, and the temperature would
soon rise.

The movements of the ice, however, disturbed us very much. We had the
feeling that the icebergs on the other side of the water-lane had come
somewhat nearer, and the whole “landscape” seemed to change from time
to time. In order to be on the safe side we decided to put all our
provisions and outfit ashore. We started this immediately, and in the
course of the forenoon everything was on the ice-plain near the tent.

Gradually the ice began to encroach more and more. To our joy we
noticed that the two machines got nearer together, and we decided to
try and get into communication with N 25. We were anxious to find out
their position in order to discuss things with our leader, the only one
with experience of drift ice, and the only one who could judge the
situation.

On account of the uncertain conditions we did not want to leave more
of our equipment behind than was absolutely necessary. We tried first
of all to put our canvas boat (loaded with provisions, etc.) on the
ski-sledge. This was the course we should have to adopt if for one
reason or another we had to march southwards. After a few hundred
meters of toil, fighting our way amongst the icebergs, we realized
that it would be quite impossible to get along in a reasonable time,
handicapped by this outfit, so we therefore took only the most
necessary things in our knapsacks. All the same it amounted to forty
kg. each, and with this on our backs we started off on our skis. We
toiled forward over high icebergs and ice-clumps, and crossed the most
fantastic and uneven territory, where skis of course could not be
used. Therefore we carried them again, and jumped over the water-lanes
or crossed the new ice which moved under our weight. This was very
exciting and tiring and I admired the progress made by Ellsworth, who
is not a skiing man. (In addition to his many excellent qualities he
is also a true sportsman.) Omdal’s Alaskan experiences also came in
handy. He was very clever in finding the easiest and safest passages,
and we progressed without accident. N 25 was getting nearer and nearer
with every minute’s march. After we had traveled about half the
distance a long water-lane covered with very thin new ice stopped
our progress. It was right across our path, about a quarter of a mile
broad, and reached as far as the eye could see. On the other side lay
N 25. We were so near that Riiser-Larsen and I could signal to each
other without difficulty and without using glasses. We received word
that they considered it impossible for us to get across, and we had
nothing else to do but to go back the way we had come. Before leaving
we arranged that we should signal to each other the next day at ten
o’clock Greenwich mean time.

After seven hours’ toil we were back again at N 24. It was lying just
as we had left it and all three of us went to “bed.” It was bitterly
cold, but we got the first decent sleep since we had left Spitzbergen.
We had gradually got more accustomed to the use of sleeping-bags; it
required a good deal of practice to get down into them with the thick
clothes we had to wear, for while sleeping we had to be clad in as many
clothes as possible.

The 25th of May dawned with the same hopeless overcast sky as before.
Now and again we had heavy snowdrifts. The temperature was about -10°
c. After having tried in vain to start the aft motor, Omdal worked
some time at the engine, but still it would not start. At 10 A.M. they
signaled from N 25 that it appeared as if we could now manage to get
to them if laden only with small packages and taking extreme care. We
replied that we first wanted to try our engines and endeavor to get
N 24 on to the ice-plain beside the tent, where it would be quite safe
under any circumstances. We therefore started to prepare a slide over
which we could push the machine. Whilst busy with this we received a
further communication from N 25 that they required help as soon as we
were ready to give it. We replied that we now expected an early result,
and that we then would cross at the first opportunity in order to help
them.

Meantime the aft engine was out of order and remained so. Compression
was poor and Omdal poured buckets of warm oil on the valves, lighting
all the Thermix apparatus and setting them in the motor gondola in
the hope that the engine might start. The water-lane where we had
landed was now nearly closed, and the icebergs on the other side
were encroaching nearer so that the situation was not particularly
bright. Until now we had lived only for lunch and dinner, eating the
traveling provisions which Director Knutsen had given us and taking a
cup of chocolate as well. For dinner we had a cup of pemmican soup,
but instead of using one and three-quarter tablets per man, which was
the original calculated ration, we only used two tablets altogether.
In order to be on the safe side we started rationing the biscuits by
allowing each man six biscuits served in threes, twice a day, although
none of us expected then that we should remain here for weeks.

After a hard day’s work we sat again in the tent enjoying a pipe of
tobacco after our evening meal, when I started to blink as my eyes
suddenly began to smart. At first I thought it was the smoke, but the
smarting did not stop; it got worse and worse. Tears flowed slowly and
scaldingly. There could be no doubt about it. I had become snow-blind.
It had come on me without any warning. We had had an overcast sky
and snow most of the time, but it had never dawned on me to use
snow-glasses. It seemed therefore that I would have to lie like a wreck
for a few days, and I admit it now seemed to me that the situation
was fairly precarious. I did the only things possible, namely, to get
into my sleeping-bag and shut my eyes. Notwithstanding the pain and
the trepidation, nature craved its right after the last day’s toil and
mental strain, and I slept soundly. Late in the forenoon the following
day I wakened somewhat confused in my head. To my great joy I could
open my eyes. I noticed that it was twelve o’clock, but whether day or
night I did not know. The other two slept, but as Ellsworth awakened
at that moment, I learned that it must be midday, as he had crept into
his sleeping-bag about 11 P.M. and had slept a long time. My eyes
pained a little, but I could see all right, and I put on my spectacles
immediately. We had a quiet meal and then arose the question of how
to start the engine. We worked and worked, but there was no result.
Probably it had been so warm that the valves must have got jammed, and
it would take Omdal a week to take the cylinders off and put things
right. After this discovery there was only one thing to do. We must
secure the machine in the best possible way and try to get across to
N 25. We presumed that with united efforts, we could have it ready for
flight in the course of a few days, and then Feucht could remain with
Omdal and help him to get the aft motor going.

[Illustration: AMUNDSEN--BEFORE THE TRIP]

[Illustration: AMUNDSEN--AFTER]

[Illustration: ELLSWORTH--BEFORE]

[Illustration: ELLSWORTH--AFTER]

We started the first motor, therefore, and with the help of this
got the machine as far as possible up the slip. Ellsworth and Omdal
worked like heroes in order to turn the machine, whilst I worked the
engine. But what could three men do with such a heavy machine? We got
it well up onto the ice-floe so that only the after-end and part of
the propeller remained in the water-lane. It could not sink now in any
case, and the new ice outside would in all probability prevent the
drift-ice from getting near it while we were away. We considered under
the circumstances that it was lying in as safe a position as possible,
and we got ready to go across to N 25. The ice in the water-lane did
not look very safe and N 25 had drifted somewhat nearer. We lightened
our packs, but they still weighed forty kg. It was impossible to
know beforehand how long the trip would take us. First there was one
thing and then another which we thought we ought to have with us. Off
we went right across the water-lane, although it presented such an
uncanny appearance. Omdal led. I followed, and then came Ellsworth.
As soon as we had to leave the new ice, it was a case of climbing up
and down high icebergs, where in addition to other things we had to
carry our skis. We remained as near as possible to the edge of the
water-lane, and everything went well until we were near the other
machine. We were already going to start boasting, as we had no idea of
any danger, when I suddenly found myself immersed in water up to my
neck. I noticed that my skis had disappeared, but my knapsack, which
weighed forty kg., was very embarrassing. I shouted loudly as soon as
I fell through, and Omdal quickly turned round. I had hardly seen his
face when he also disappeared like magic. There we both were. I managed
to get my gun up over the ice, which had broken several times under my
hands. I got a good firm hold and remained as quiet as possible because
I knew that Ellsworth would soon be with me--unless he also tumbled
in. The current was strong and pulled my legs up in front of me under
the ice so that my boot-tops actually touched it. To get out by my own
efforts with the heavy knapsack was hopeless. I was not going to risk
losing my knapsack, before I knew how it stood with Ellsworth. Omdal
called for assistance in the hope that the crew of N 25 would come and
help. In a little while Ellsworth, who had saved himself by getting
out of the water-lane, came to my rescue. He came creeping along,
and handed me a ski, which I got hold of, and by its help I wriggled
along to the edge of the firm ice. In a second I managed to slip off
my knapsack and its precious contents, and got it onto the ice, and I
scrambled up after it with Ellsworth’s help. Then Ellsworth dashed off
to Omdal, who was getting weaker and weaker. I stumbled to my legs and
ran as quickly as my tired condition allowed me. Omdal was so exhausted
that it was exceedingly difficult to get him out. I got my knife and
cut the straps of his knapsack, whilst Ellsworth held him up, and with
our joint efforts we at last got him safely onto the land. He could
not stand on his legs. We had both had a narrow escape, and we have
to thank Ellsworth’s self-possession and quickness that we escaped
with our lives. The honor which he received later--the gold medal for
bravery--pleased Omdal and myself as much as it pleased him. It was
well earned.

[Illustration: RIISER-LARSEN--BEFORE]

[Illustration: RIISER-LARSEN--AFTER]

[Illustration: DIETRICHSON--BEFORE]

[Illustration: DIETRICHSON--AFTER]

Our foresight in unstrapping the laces of the skis and putting our
boots loosely into the ski-shoes, putting on our air-filled lifebelts
was what made it possible to save us at all. How we blessed this,
our own farsightedness! By way of curiosity I may mention that
Riiser-Larsen and I bought the lifebelts in Bodö just as we were on
the point of starting. A man came on board and announced himself as
the manufacturer of the lifebelt “Tethys.” He brought a sample which
appealed to us, and so we ordered six belts. It is strange how life is
full of chance actions which lead to fateful results.

About forty minutes after the accident we reached the N 24. We received
a hearty reception, and as Omdal and I got a good drop of spirit and
some dry clothes, we soon started talking. Answers to innumerable
questions tripped off our tongues. I can well remember that I said,
“I am glad to see you again,” when I pressed Roald Amundsen’s hand.
It is a saying which generally does not mean much, but I believe
Amundsen understood. These few words, and still more the handshake,
were an expression of joy at being again with our beloved leader, whose
insight, experience and great capability, in conjunction with his
untiring energy, overcame all difficulties. I have the impression that
Amundsen’s few words to me, “same here” (“i like maate”), were just as
sincere. All three of us from N 24 had arrived with a whole skin, and
we could report that the machine in the meantime at least was safe,
and, with our combined efforts, could be got ready to start in a few
days’ time.

N 25’s position was such that only our united strength could save it
from its precarious situation. It had made a forced landing and was
lying worse than N 24, but both its motors were in working order. If
the machines had by chance separated instead of coming close together
we would probably not have been able to get into contact with one
another and one crew, unless reënforced by the other, could hardly have
managed to start its machine alone.

Even now, although we were six men all told, it seemed to us something
of a riddle how we, with our primitive implements, should manage to
get the machine onto the great ice-plain, which was our goal. But in
this difficulty our leader’s wide experience and inventive mind was
put to its full use. It became apparent that if six men are working on
a matter of life and death they can accomplish the unbelievable. Most
of us soon knew that our only salvation lay in getting one or both
machines in a good position to start. A march southwards would (no
matter which way we chose) have very little chance of success.

Our work and our mode of life in the weeks which followed are described
in another chapter, so I shall only add that we were disappointed in
our hopes of being able to get N 24 ready as soon as we had finished
with N 25. Instead we had weeks of strenuous work to get N 25 into
readiness for flight. It was absolutely a game of “cat and mouse,” but
it was a game in which life and death were the stakes.

The thought of leaving our machine there behind us, in the ice, was
very bitter at first. But as time passed and we saw the difficulties we
had to contend with on every side, the bitterness gradually got less
and less--especially when we found that it would be necessary to use
N 24’s supply of petrol to augment the other supply for the homeward
flight and for the various attempts to start which had to be made
before N 25 finally got clear away.

I might mention too that the absence of landing places made it seem
advisable for the return journey to be accomplished with one machine.
The risk of having to make a forced landing would thus only be half as
great, and the forced landing of one of the machines would have meant a
catastrophe for the whole expedition. (I personally did not share this
opinion, for in spite of the misfortune to the aft engines my trust in
both of these was great, as they had gone like clockwork during the
entire northward flight.) Circumstances however settled the question of
choice, and as we at last, on the 15th of June, found ourselves in our
right element again, it was only a passing thought which we gave to our
dear N 24 as it disappeared behind us in the fog.

PART V

WHILST WE WAIT

LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF FREDRIK RAMM

From May 21st to June 18th

WHILST WE WAIT

LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF FREDRIK RAMM

From May 21st to June 18th

Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. Thursday, 21st May. Now they have gone! The
daring journey has started! At five o’clock in the afternoon Amundsen,
Riiser-Larsen and Feucht were on board N 25, Ellsworth, Dietrichson
and Omdal on N 24, and we began to say farewell. Each one shook hands
and received a nod of courage from all who should remain behind. To
speak was impossible because of the noise from the four engines, which
had all been working for a couple of hours, making such a din that
our very words appeared to be torn in pieces and thrown into the snow
spray which was whirled up by the propellers. At 5:15 N 25 glides out
on to the ice. We are astonished, for there is no signal. Riiser-Larsen
simply lets his engine out; the propeller whirs and the machine glides
down from the strand onto the ice. The forward movement continues,
and before we realize what is happening, the machine is gliding over
the snow-clad plain and swings out onto the ice, suddenly giving a
mighty swerve right round, and with continued speed rushes forward. One
second--or is it a minute?--before Dietrichson’s machine follows? It
disappears onto the ice in a cloud of snow making us wonder whether we
are standing on our heads or our heels!

But what is this?

N 24 remains absolutely still on the plain, and where is N 25? There! A
little gray fleck on the ice traveling towards the foot of the glacier.
Will they have to lighten it? No! now it is in the air! No! Yes! Yes,
it is! Just the fraction of a second passes, and we know that the
start is successful in spite of the heavy load. We shout “Hurrah” as
we see the space between the ice and the gray machine increasing and
increasing till at last, there, high above the iceberg, and with the
sky for a background, they swing round and set their course direct
across the fjord. N 24 remains quite still. We cannot understand why
and are about to cross over to make inquiries. But almost before we
start the machine rises high into the clear blue sky and follows N 25
far out over the fjord. The two machines, so far as we can judge, are
about 300 to 400 meters high, with N 25 a few hundred meters in front
of N 24. We hear the even humming of the engines, echoing quite clearly
on account of the high hills on the fjord’s opposite side--the noise
decreases, ’tis now only like the humming of a fly. We follow the
machines through binoculars, clearly seeing the propellers, the motor
gondolas, the wings, and even the heads of the observers and pilots.
Their speed must be 150 kilometers per hour. The two machines get
smaller and smaller--the hum of the motors fainter and fainter. At last
they have disappeared altogether. We look at the clock, they had left
according to program and are in the air at 5:22--seven minutes after
N 25 glided down onto the ice--both flying boats out of sight! Seven
minutes.... It might almost have been seven hours. So much has happened.

_Later_

We remained standing as though suddenly realizing the difference in the
work of those six on board the machines and ourselves. Till now we have
all appeared to be actual members of the expedition. We have felt that
there was no great difference in our desires to reach a common goal.
We have lived under the same roof, fed in the same mess, have shared
the same work, but now the others have gone, and we have become the
land party again! The six ought to return after a few days’ absence
and we should again be part of the expedition. But the few hours which
have passed since 5:15 this afternoon have opened a tremendous gulf
between us. The six may now be fighting for their very lives, while
we hang around here exactly as we did yesterday, the day before, and
every other day in the six weeks we have been in Ny-Aalesund. We have
suddenly become superfluous! Until this afternoon we had tasks to
perform, but from now we can only wait, just like all the rest of the
world, for the six who have gone--and we know that we can give them no
more help than any one else can. We have become passive.

The humming of the motors can still be heard in our dreams; in fact the
whole occurrence appears only as a dream. Could it have really been we
who saw them off? We, who are now packing up and getting ready to go on
board the “Fram” and the “Hobby,” which lie ready by the quay to set
off northwards to Danskeöen. The landscape is unchanged. The sun still
shines high in the light blue polar sky, making the glacier scintillate
with lovely colors. But the six have gone! At the end of the fjord’s
north side lies Cape Mitra--that pointed corner which is one of the
best landmarks in the world.

During the evening meal on board the “Fram” we talk of nothing but the
start. We listen with pride to Schulte-Frohlinde’s praise regarding the
pilots’ management of the two heavy machines. He says no one could have
done it better, and we agree with him unanimously, although we don’t
know the difference between a sporting and a bombarding machine. He has
walked across the ice and examined the trails, and noted that the ice
was broken into small pieces at the spot where Dietrichson stuck, and
the same was the case in a 200–300 meter length along Riiser-Larsen’s
track before he had been able to rise. The starting track was about
1,400 meters long, and Schulte-Frohlinde says that the trail gets less
and less until towards its end it might only have been marked in the
snow with one’s little finger.

For the first two hours after the machines had disappeared we scanned
the heavens with our binoculars as, before starting, Amundsen had told
Captain Hagerup of the “Fram” that if everything should not be in
order, the machines would return again; and if one machine had had to
make a forced landing, the other would fly back to King’s Bay and warn
the ships to go quickly to their aid. It is seven o’clock. It is now
eight, and no machine is to be seen, so now we know that all is well.
Eleven o’clock, and “Fram’s” bunkers are well filled; the ship leaves
the quay. Half an hour later, when “Hobby” is ready, we steer out of
the fjord. We pass Cape Mitra, steering past the seven glaciers. So far
as we can see northwards, it appears to be clear. The sea lies calm
as a mirror. There is hardly any swell, and for the first time in the
open sea we are all at the same moment free from seasickness. Westward
above the horizon lies a low cloudbank. We ask Bjerknes and Calwagen
what it can be; can this gray cloud-mass threaten danger to the airmen?
No! It can’t do that, for it is only the dispersing fog which has hung
over King’s Bay during the last days, and which was blown away by the
northeast wind, making a start possible. During the night we passed
drift-ice. We all stand on the bridge looking northwards every second.

Here we pass along the Coast over which the two machines flew this
afternoon.

“The small hours begin to grow.” We bless the “Fram’s” steward, who
brings us coffee, and we go to our bunks. “Fram” is no passenger boat,
but we are quite happy to sleep wherever we can find a comfortable spot.

_Virgo-havn between Danskeöen and Amsterdamöen. Friday, May 22nd_

For the rest of the night and the early morning hours “Fram” steers
northwards, along the glacier coast. At 6:30 we enter South Gate
Sound, between Danskeöen and Spitzbergen’s mainland, where we lie
until midday. “Hobby” continues northwards, sailing round Amsterdamöen
towards Norskeöene to study the ice conditions, returning to fetch
“Fram” after the inspection. And now the two ships steer towards
Virgo-havn, and we drop our anchor at three o’clock in the afternoon.
The entire time on both ships we have kept a sharp lookout from the
bridge, carefully searching the horizon westward and northward for any
sign of life. It might have been possible that both boats, on account
of motor trouble, had been forced to land, and they might be lying
anywhere waiting for the ships. But on land we saw nothing but stones,
snow and ice, and to westward only the long stretch of gray water
broken here and there by white drift ice.

What a desert!... Local partisanship in Ny-Aalesund is right when it
maintains that King’s Bay is the best spot in Spitzbergen. The sound is
narrow and closed-in. The cliffs rise sheer from the sea, snow covers
them, there is hardly the sight of a stone to break the whiteness.
But there is an abundance of birds, auks, and little auks, black
guillemots, sea-gulls, etc., filling the air with their screaming and
chattering. They are a host in themselves. If we were only tourists,
and if we had nothing else to do but to wait for the six to return, we
could relieve the monotony by watching them. But we have got to keep a
sharp lookout in the direction in which the two machines may return.
What if we _do_ see them?--It is the whole subject of our conversation.
Bjerknes and Calwagen work out and discuss the meteorological
conditions, studying their chart’s mystic signs and wondrous curves
which we others cannot understand. Now it is evening and another day
has passed since the start. They may return to-day. We prick our ears
at every sound and if we are not on deck we rush out and scan the
horizon towards Amsterdamöen’s west point. The ordinary sounds of life
on board ship keep us in a state of nervous tension, for the churning
of the propeller and the humming of the engines can easily be mistaken
for a returning plane.

_Is_ there no watchman on deck? Is there any need for us to fly out to
see what is the matter simply because the steward drops a knife on his
pantry floor?

No, no, but the watchman is only human and may be sleeping.

Perhaps to-morrow? Or Sunday? At the latest Monday--four days after the
start--they _must_ return!

We really cannot seriously expect them back to-day. We all know that
when they land they must make observations: the place where they camp
must be exactly noted: the sea depth must be measured; and they may
even have to go on foot, or on skis, for the last little stretch.
According to the reports of the meteorologists the weather would seem
to afford them no reason to shorten their stay, so we must possess our
souls in patience.

[Illustration: OMDAL---BEFORE]

[Illustration: OMDAL--AFTER]

[Illustration: FEUCHT--BEFORE]

[Illustration: FEUCHT--AFTER]

_Virgo-havn. Thursday, May 23rd_

A change in the weather! When we went to bed at two this morning the
weather was still clear. The fog-bank which lay to the west from
the time we left King’s Bay was stretched out over the sky. The
meteorologists were very anxious about it. Northwards things did not
look quite so bad. Returning from the polar basin, the airmen would
be able to find landmarks in the high cliffs of Spitzbergen. A few
fleecy clouds were moving towards the southwest above Amsterdamöen
and did not present a very threatening appearance. But in these early
morning hours the picture has totally changed. The watchman tells us
that between three and four o’clock it turned thick and hazy. From all
corners the fog closed in, and drifting snow filled the air, so that
it was impossible to see the tops of the island’s cliffs. The swell
in the sound tells us that it is only a sea storm. In accordance with
the instructions given by Amundsen, “Hobby” sets off to inspect the
ice border at nine o’clock. Under the leadership of First Lieutenant
Horgen the boat is to sail as far north as possible, keeping eastwards,
but not sailing further in that direction than Yerlegen Hook. At 11
P.M. “Hobby” returns after sailing as far north of Norskeöene as
possible, where the ice was such that a journey further eastwards would
have been attended by grave risk, therefore, the boat turned back at
Biscayer Hook, returning through the sound between the Norskeöene.
Horgen, Johansen and Holm arrive after the trip on board the “Fram.”
They have seen nothing of the flying machines and they tell us that
the ice conditions eastward are bad. Tightly packed drift-ice lies
as far as the eye can see, but the weather was lighter there than
down here in the south, and visibility appeared to be much better for
maneuvering with flying machines. We play bridge the whole evening.
We continue playing for two complete days. Waiting has shown us that
we cannot bring the flying machines back simply by staring our eyes
out of our heads, gazing at Vest Pynt for the first sight of the heavy
gray propellers. The weather has improved a little; the driving snow
has stopped; the fog has thinned a little this afternoon; and the sun
suddenly breaks through.

[Illustration: THE EXPLORERS, AT OSLO, RETURNING FROM A SHORT VISIT TO
THE ROYAL CASTLE]

_Virgo-havn. Sunday, May 24th_

The weather is considerably better to-day. The meteorologists tell us
that the weather in the polar regions appears to be good, and there
is no ground for us to be worried about the fate of the flyers. It is
now over three days since they left. Even the most phlegmatic on board
the two ships are waiting every moment to see them return. We discuss
every possibility; we think of every difficulty, and still come to no
conclusion as to what is keeping them. We are no longer excited, the
thrill of the first days has changed to a numb resignation. As each
hour passes we seem to see more clearly what a dangerous task our
six comrades have undertaken. Several of us begin to think of all the
dreadful things which might or might not have occurred, but we do not
put our thoughts into words.

_Virgo-havn. Monday, May 25th_

The fourth day passes like the rest. On board “Hobby” they have had
their first false alarm. Amundsen’s old friend, sailmaker Rönne from
Horten, insisted yesterday evening that he saw two flying machines
appear from the north in full flight. He declared with certainty
that he had followed them with his eyes the whole way as they came
from behind Danskeöen through the fjord, until they were lost behind
Amsterdamöen’s west point. The others on board thought this seemed
unlikely and almost impossible.

Why in all the world should they fly in that direction? Had it been
southwards one might have understood it, but Rönne stuck to his point:
and so certain was he that the others on board heard of nothing else,
and consequently came across to “Fram” to tell us about it, relating
how they had shown Rönne a flock of gray geese flying in the same
direction which he insisted the aeroplanes had taken, making him admit
that he had been mistaken. We have had a similar occurrence on board
the “Fram.” It was five o’clock. The watchman stood on the bridge,
keeping a sharp lookout towards Vest Pynt, when suddenly he stood still
as though nailed to the deck. He shaded his eyes with his hand and
gazed over the sea directly into the stream of silver which the sun was
casting over the water. He picked up his binoculars....

What is it?

Another took up his glasses. There, at the spot where sea and sky met,
a gray-black object could be seen rocking on the water. Something
seemed to extend from each side of it, which could easily have been the
wings of a flying machine. None of us really believed that it was one
of the gray seaplanes we were waiting for. But all the same we fetched
Captain Hagerup and told him what we had seen. He shook his head, but
in spite of his doubt he went up the steps of his bridge much quicker
than usual, where, looking through his glasses, he discovered that
the gray mass was nothing but an ice-floe, which, aided by a little
phantasy, appeared like an approaching aeroplane. It is so easy to be
mistaken. Afterwards when we see gray spots on the horizon we shall
know that it is either a flock of geese on their way to their nests on
the cliffs or that it is a curiously formed ice-floe. Such occurrences
give us a little variation in the monotony of our waiting. We have now
got used to the noises on the ship, the churning of the propeller, the
noise of the pump and of the engines, and pay no attention to any of
them. But once we hear a deep humming sound from the coast and think it
is the throbbing note we are waiting for. It is only the waves beating
against the land as they wash up the broken ice, shivering it again
into a thousand pieces. But all the same we stand on the deck with
half-opened mouths and hands behind our ears listening to the sound.

_South Gate between Danskeöen and Spitzbergen’s Mainland. Tuesday, May
26th_

The First Engineer of the “Fram” told the Captain yesterday evening
that our fresh-water tanks were in bad condition. To get the tanks
filled at Virgo-havn was not possible, so we would have to go down to
Magdalena Bay on the mainland’s northwest point, and fill the tanks
with ice from an iceberg we had noticed standing high and dry in the
Bay as we passed northwards. It was a long business. The “Fram” was
steered towards the iceberg and the crew hacked away large lumps of ice
which were sent flying down from the top of the ice-hill direct into
the ship’s tanks. It was afternoon before the tanks were full, and a
shooting party which had landed returned on board, bringing with them
two seals which they had shot. So we weighed our anchor and sailed away
from the iceberg into brilliant sunshine over a glassy sea, turning
our course towards South Gate where we have now arrived and shall
remain for the night.

This evening we have had a long discussion as to whether it is right
to follow Amundsen’s instructions “to the letter” during the waiting
period. His orders are quite clear. “For a period of fourteen days
after the start ‘Fram’ and ‘Hobby’ shall lie in the fairway by
Danskeöen whilst the weather is clear. Should some become hazy ‘Fram’
shall continue standing-by, but ‘Hobby’ shall go north to reconnoiter
the ice border and patrol eastward, but not to pass Verlegen Hook.”
The ships up till now have done this: “Hobby” has been out several
times, but when the weather remains clear, and visibility is good,
both vessels lie at anchor as now at Virgo-havn. Meanwhile the days
are passing: it is now five days since the start, and many of us think
that “Hobby,” even in clear weather, ought to patrol the edge of the
ice the whole time. How can we tell what has happened? The flying
machines may have started homewards, and there is a possibility that
they are short of petrol, and may have had to land in the open sea,
which “Hobby” speaks of as lying between the ice edge and Spitzbergen’s
north coast--they may be stranded there waiting for a helping hand to
be stretched out to them.

On the other hand Amundsen has worded his instructions quite clearly.
He knows exactly where he can find the ships when he returns, and
he will wish to have them in the place, where he has given them
instructions to await him. We decide that so long as there are no
weighty grounds for disobeying these orders we shall follow them.

We shall remain here at South Gate till to-morrow; then “Fram” will
cross northwards to Virgo-havn, where “Hobby” awaits us.... And it is
not impossible that when we arrive in the morning, we shall see two
flying-boats lying by the vessel’s side. For five days have passed! Our
confidence is a little less assured. Doubts slowly develop into words.
But we keep telling each other that we do not need to fear for the
safety of our six comrades.

The discussions carried us on until 1 A.M. We have walked a little on
deck before we turn in, and, standing there, get a little illustration
of how quickly the ice conditions can change. When “Fram” anchored we
could see the snow-clad fjord ice lying flat and solid as far into
the Bay as the eye could reach, but now the tide has turned, breaking
the ice and carrying it in a steady stream of irregular lumps through
the fjord and out to sea. They are driving past as quickly as a boat
can row and ice-pilot Ness is watching them thoughtfully. “We shall
probably have to move out of here before the night is over,” he says.
“For the first of the lumps are already congregated at the side of the
ship.”

_Virgo-havn. Wednesday, May 27th_

Ness is right. We are hardly in bed before we hear a scraping noise
alongside, and we notice that the plates are sensitive to the pressure
as the drift ice turns against the ship. But we turn over and sleep all
the same on our mattresses on the saloon floor. At three o’clock we
rush on deck. We have the steering gear right over our heads and can
hear how it is working. There is a noise of the tramping of sea-boots,
and the engine-room telegraph keeps insistently ringing.

Should it be....

We had forgotten about the ice after we had gone to rest some hours
ago, and now it lies tightly packed around the whole vessel. The bay,
which was free of ice when we anchored, is now covered with drift-ice,
and in all circumstances Captain Hagerup has decided that he must leave
South Gate at once and make for Virgo-havn. We arrive there during the
day and find “Hobby” exactly where we had left it yesterday morning,
but no flying machines are to be seen. “Fram’s” wireless operator tells
us that America is sending out pessimistic messages as they think,
after six days have passed without news, that something must have
happened to the expedition. As he tells us this view down in the mess,
a shock passes through us. We feel that it is not only we who await the
expedition, but there are millions and millions in the five Continents
who are longing to hear how much further, between the known and the
unknown areas, the boundary has been moved northward as the result of
human enterprise’s latest move in the eternal search for knowledge. In
the few words of the American message we get certain proof that all
who have longed to do the same things which Amundsen, Dietrichson,
Ellsworth, Feucht, Omdal and Riiser-Larsen actually set out to
accomplish fear that the journey to the Pole will end in sacrifice. And
the fear which we have all sought to hide now rises up in us, that six
struggles against death are being fought out somewhere between 80° and
90° N. lat. The anxiety and excitement of the outer world reflects on
us, and the first uncomfortable thoughts are thoroughly discussed by
us, until little by little they are dispelled. Hardly a week has passed
since they left, and if we trust Amundsen’s own word, there is no need
to fear until fourteen days have elapsed since the 21st May.

_Virgo-havn. Thursday, 28th May. 5:15_ P.M.

It is now a week since we saw the two machines fly from King’s Bay and
disappear in the distance in the direction of Cape Mitra. The hope
which we journalists entertained of announcing their return a week from
the start has gone. The meteorologists have summed up the weather
conditions of the last seven days with a result which calms us.

When they started there must have been a good weather area over the
Arctic Sea, with its center not far away from the actual Pole-point.
During the entire flight the machines, therefore, have probably met
only the lightest winds and clear weather. In the days immediately
following the start the high pressure area was menaced by a depression
from the North American coast and by a bad weather area which passed
northeast from Russia to Siberia’s northern coast. There must have
been a light breeze blowing in the direction of Spitzbergen, but any
serious change in the weather is hardly likely to have taken place.
From the 25th of May (Monday) the Siberian bad weather center passed
eastwards, whilst that from Alaska passed towards Greenland. Between
these two bad weather centers there always lay a high pressure
area with its center at the Pole-point. These conditions continue;
therefore, from the meteorological deductions, we can come to the
conclusion that good weather has existed up till now, over the ground
covered by the expedition. The confidence of the scientists braces us
all up. We remember also the words which the airmen said before they
left--especially a remark of Riiser-Larsen’s to the meteorologists,
as he looked over the cliffs and saw the thick snow showers driving
through the air, “Only provide us with twelve hours good weather and
we shall reach the Pole. We don’t need any more to get there, but if
necessary we can spend fourteen days on the homeward trip.”

These words we repeat to each other over and over again, and comfort
ourselves with the knowledge of the excellence of the machines and
their crews, and the recollection that they warned us that in bad
weather they might only return after an absence of fourteen days.
Yet it seems strange that they should be so long away when, so far
as we can judge, the weather has been favorable. When Amundsen made
his rush to the South Pole he could only stay to make observations
for three days, as he had to trek back again and food allowance was
limited. In this case, however, he can return to his base in eight,
ten, or twelve hours so why should he jeopardize the benefit to the
world’s scientific knowledge by leaving his point of observation before
necessity demanded? If they have found land up there, they will wish
to make maps--to photograph it--to measure it--a week will soon go by.
But--but--but--this little word comes up every time we try to find a
reason for the delay--and yet it is absurd to give up hope so soon.

This evening a council of war has been held on board the “Fram.” An
announcement has arrived from the Norwegian Luftseiladsforeningen that
they are planning a reconnoitering expedition. Two naval hydroplanes
are to be sent north to help in the patroling of the ice borders.
Captain Hagerup, First Lieutenant Horgen, Shipper Johansen, and First
Mate Astrup Holm are to send word at once if such machines will be of
any use. To give an answer of this kind is difficult, for the ice this
year lies with a broad belt of drifting ice screwing in shoals in front
of the solid ice border. Thus the hydroplanes could not negotiate this
obstacle to any great distance. Should they themselves have to make
a forced landing any distance from the open sea, both they and their
crews would be lost. On the other hand, they would be able to fly over
the entire area of the fairway north of Spitzbergen in a few hours, a
distance which it would take several days for ships to cruise over, and
thus they would make the patroling much more effective. Our answer was
based on this latter consideration.

To-day it is _eight_ days since they started, and we enter a new phase
in our waiting time. Until to-day none of us have gone far away from
the ships. The American journalist, James B. Wharton, who is with
us, the film photographer, Paul Berge, and I had not set our feet
out of the ship. We have always waited in the expectation of seeing
the machines at any moment appear from behind Amsterdamöen. We have
lain fully clad on our mattresses, ready to set the wireless working
broadcasting the news. Berge’s film camera has stood on its three
legs on the bridge ready to turn out hundreds of yards of film. We
have always kept a boat ready at “Fram’s” side so that we could row
across to the flying machines the moment they landed, and every night
before we went to rest we instructed the watchman on deck that he must
waken us the first moment he heard anything. But this evening as the
telegraph station from the coast asked if they should keep open all
night with extra supervision, I had answered that it was no longer
necessary. As these words were broadcast from the little wireless
compartment, it seemed as though we had sent a telegram to a waiting
world that showed them that _even we_ had begun to doubt. The same
doubt is felt now by almost every one on the two boats. The possibility
of seeing them come flying back is gradually diminishing. We still
believe, but to-morrow our confidence will be less. We feel that on
the 9th day from the start we shall give up hope. To-day it is decided
that to-morrow “Fram” shall go down to Ny-Aalesund, partly for coaling
reasons, partly to take away those members of the expedition who wish
to take advantage of the opportunity to go down to Advent Bay, whence a
coal steamer can carry them to Norway. When we shall see our comrades
carried southwards while we are left behind, we shall enter into an
anxious period of waiting which will seem unending.

_Virgo-havn. 29th of May_

Is the weather going to change after all? Last night it turned cloudy
and before long snow began to fall thicker and faster. The atmosphere
became absolutely impenetrable, and “Hobby” was sent to patrol
the ice-border. The meteorologists think that the bad weather and
invisibility is traveling across the polar basin from the northern ice,
and that fog will probably cover the area up to 85° N. This gives us
grounds to believe that the machines will not return to-day, for if the
airmen have observed approaching fog, they will not risk flying through
it for the fear of being separated. “Fram” sets out in the evening to
King’s Bay.

_Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. 30th of May_

We arrived here this morning. The journey down past the seven glaciers
was like an adventure. As we left the Sound between Amsterdamöen
and Danskeöen we saw the high snow-clad hills of Prince Karl’s
Foreland--they were 100 kilometers away and blended into the clear
evening air in the distance like a white veil. We followed the coast
till we arrived opposite Seal Bay, and were able to observe the whole
time how the light of the midnight sun illuminated the hills of
the mainland with a rosy glow, so it was long before we sought our
bunks. We passed the seven glaciers one by one, which lie along the
coast, making it impossible to land anywhere between Cape Mitra and
Magdalena Bay--for the dark brown cliffs lying between each glacier
rise sheer from the sea, and here also the fairway is dangerous. Far
out, as we are, from the coast we can see the waves break over the
ground, although the sea is so calm and the swell hardly perceptible,
while “Fram” rarely gives a single roll. During the trip downwards
we had coffee in company with our comrades who should now leave us.
It was the last meal on board that we should have together for some
time, yet the final cup had to be quickly swallowed as those who were
leaving us had many things to pack. Bjerknes and Calwagen gathered
their meteorological instruments together--and the Amundsen-Ellsworth
Expedition’s weather service came to an end. The last report they made
showed us that the weather in the polar basin had not got much worse.
The depression from the North Atlantic was delayed.

We are now opposite the center glacier and can see all seven. One of
the expedition’s humorists asks us if we can tell him which two of the
glaciers have the greatest distance between them.

He is full of glee when we make him answer his own question and he
replies with the words, “The distance is naturally greatest between the
first and the seventh!”

We stand on the afterdeck and earnestly ask the Dornier-Wal factory’s
representative if it is not possible that one of the flying machines
has dashed down during the flight and crashed, and that the other has
probably got damaged in landing to go to its assistance. “Nothing is
impossible,” says Schulte-Frohlinde, “but the chance that one machine
has crashed during the flight is even less than that ‘Fram’ at the
present moment should suddenly break her back. And one must never
forget that skilled airmen are piloting N 24 and 25, making an accident
highly improbable.”

We are now nearing Cape Mitra and turn in for the night. As we
wake this morning we find we have arrived at the coaling quay of
Ny-Aalesund. Formerly we stayed in this little thriving mining town
for six weeks ere we left it nine days ago, yet we have to look long
at everything before we recognize the place, for while we have been
away the sun and wind have altered its appearance and left their mark
on it in every direction. The ice which had lain beside the quay to a
thickness of eight or ten inches was now only mush; the rest had been
carried away to sea by the currents and the tide. On the other side of
the fjord the fairway is clear and open, reaching to the foot of the
glacier and on the Ny-Aalesund side the ice has become so thin that
it will hardly bear the weight of a man. The track which the flying
machines had glided over is now clear of ice and people ashore tell
us that it was not many days after the start before the ice broke
up entirely. We have hardly finished breakfast on board when the
expedition’s good friend, Director Knutsen, comes on board to hear the
news. We have not much to tell him, but what we relate never shakes
his confidence in the least that the six will return to Ny-Aalesund,
and that this tiny outpost of civilization shall see the beginning of
their triumphal procession southwards. He declares further that so long
as he is on the spot everything shall be ready to receive them, or to
minister to their needs, and the table shall be spread within half an
hour of their setting foot in Ny-Aalesund. Greetings shall thunder out
and every flag the town possesses shall be flown mast-high. Everything
is ready! Just let them arrive! His confidence inflects us, and by
the time we sit at the luncheon table we all take a brighter view of
the situation. And this, although it is Saturday, nine days after the
start--the day we should have begun to doubt in earnest.

_Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. Sunday, May 31st_

This evening the first of the party, who arrived here on Easter Day
(April 13th) with the expedition, set off southwards. To-day is
Whitsunday; seven weeks have passed since “Fram” and “Hobby” sailed
to the ice border--five kilometers in front of the quay where “Fram”
now lies. It is a bitterly cold day--the air raw, and a biting wind
stinging one’s face and blowing through even the thickest clothes.
During the entire day we have had a clear blue sky which acts as a
background to the three mountains, Nora, Svea and Dana, the peculiar
formation of which in the strangely clear atmosphere makes them appear
to be only a stone’s throw away and not thirty kilometers from the spot
where we stand on the quay.

Towards the entrance to the fjord we see a long heavy smoke cloud;
it is the farewell greeting from the icebreaker “Pasvik,” which is
carrying our comrades away.

There were originally twenty members in the expedition which came to
help Amundsen. He and five others flew into the unknown on the 21st
of May. Here again in Spitzbergen are Horgen, the chemist Zapffe, the
film photographer Berge, the journalist Wharton, the stewart Einer
Olsen, and I. On board the “Pasvik” are Director Schulte-Frohlinde,
Dr. Matheson, Dr. Phil. Bjerknes, the meteorologist Calwagen,
sail-maker Rönne, the engineer Green, the mechanic Zinsmayer, and the
meteorological telegraphist Devoid, sailing southwards.

The twenty of us were not gathered together for so very many weeks,
but it is not the duration of time which determines good feeling
amongst men. The occurrence through which we have lived has bound us
together with mutual memories so exalted that even if we should never
meet again there will always be a Freemasonry amongst us. We saw six
men in two heavy gray machines place themselves in the hands of Fate,
a fate more relentless, more unknown, than Columbus and Vasco da Gama
encountered. If we should meet each other under different conditions we
should never be at a loss for a subject of conversation, for we could
always fall back on the eternal, “Do you remember ...?” by way of an
opening.

For the last time we all dined together with Director Knutsen to-day.
A feeling of depression lay over us all in spite of our host’s sturdy
optimism. We should soon be parted, and no longer could we hope
in each other’s company to witness the great home-coming. As Dr.
Matheson thanked Herr Knutsen in a little speech for all his kindly
hospitality, we are not ashamed to admit that we were weak enough to
have lumps in our throats. As we sat there we heard the shriek of the
“Pasvik’s” siren. Two hours afterwards all the baggage, many hundreds
of photographs, and 2,000 meters of film taken in the north were put
on board the icebreaker. We exchanged handshakes and greetings. The
“Pasvik” drew off from the quay; there was a waving of handkerchiefs
and scarfs ... and the last we heard from those on board was the
remark of Schulte-Frohlinde: “Don’t come southwards before you have
Amundsen and his five companions with you.”

The “Pasvik” had brought several mail-bags for the expedition from
Green Harbour. Some were for the land party and some for those who had
left. There were private letters for every one of us, and several were
addressed to “Roald Amundsen, The North Pole,” from all corners of the
earth. There was a large pile of newspapers from different lands in
which we read with great interest comments on our plans for the flight
and the progress of our work before the machines started.

_Virgo-havn. Monday, 1st June_

We left Ny-Aalesund in the evening yesterday, and arrived here again
this morning after a fine trip along the coast past the seven glaciers,
to which we bowed as though they were old acquaintances. “Hobby” lay
in the bay--alone! We have given up hope of seeing the machines again.
Whether we see our six comrades again is a subject I dare not think
about. There are two possibilities: Either both machines have been
damaged hopelessly in a landing on the ice, and their crews have set
off on foot to Cape Columbia in Grant’s Land, west of Greenland’s
north point, or the petrol supply came to an end on the return journey
and they are now probably trying to cross the drift ice towards Syöene
north of Northeastland. If they have done this it is possible that one
of the vessels may catch sight of them when they begin patrolling the
ice border next Thursday--the fourteenth day from the start. We take
the charts from the boxes and study the long route over which they
will have to pass to reach Cape Columbia, and therefrom down to Thule
on the north coast of Greenland. It is a distance of 1,600 kilometers
to walk and to row, so we know that if the machines have been damaged
in the landing, we shall not see our comrades again till 1926. The
canvas boats they have taken with them are so small that there is no
possibility of them being used for a crossing between Greenland and
Grant’s Land over the Kennedy Channel, if the ice has broken up, which
it generally does in the month of July--and there is no chance of them
reaching Cape Columbia before the end of June. Therefrom they would
have to go down to Fort Conger in Discovery Harbour, from whence they
must cross the Kennedy Channel (a march of several weeks).

If they are on the way to Spitzbergen and are crossing eastwards to
Northeastland, it will also take many weeks, but there is the chance
that they may meet with one or other of the seal hunters, who trek
northwards and eastwards at this period of the year--or they may trek
down the coast and in the late summer surprise us by appearing in
Ny-Aalesund or Advent Bay. Under these conditions we, on board the
vessels, feel that we are more superfluous than ever. We think with
envy of our comrades who set off on board the “Pasvik” southwards to
Norway--to summer, with green-clad mountain sides, and birds singing in
the woods--to warmth, and to a land where one day sleeps before another
is born--in light and in darkness. Yet here we must remain for another
four weeks amidst snow and ice, sleeping in uncomfortable bunks, and
tramping the same deck planks in a pale unwavering light which saps
the remaining calmness from one’s nerves. We have grown to hate the
midnight sun; it gives light pale as a white-washed hospital ward, yet
so strong that it is difficult to bear. Through the smallest holes and
cracks in the port-hole curtains, it pours in like Röntgen rays, and
burns one’s very soul and eyes. It has the same effect whether it is
day or whether it is what we, from force of habit, call night; either
the sun shines from a blue sky or gray clouds scurrying before a bitter
nor’-easter hide that same sun, which in the south is making the grass
grow and the birds sing love-songs from the tops of the beech trees.

I wonder if the others have the same thoughts. Now that the strain
of the early expectation is over and that a waiting period, which I
believe cannot bring a solution to the situation, has started, the
entire work of patrolling and reconnoitering from air and sea has
become so colorless--colorless and monotonous as the sea and the cold
naked hills, with their glaciers and their snow-drifts in the dales.
The deck planks are being worn down by incessant tramping. We wait
first for breakfast, then for lunch, and then for our evening meal.
We say the same things, look at the same views, and we play cards. I
get the same cards always and lose consistently. And this is only the
first day. On Thursday, three days hence, we are to begin patrolling in
earnest.

_Virgo-havn. Tuesday, June 2nd_

Our water supply is very low. To take ice on board is impracticable.
Down in the dark tanks the water only keeps a few degrees of heat,
the ice melts so slowly that in the after-tank large lumps are still
lying unmelted, since we put them in the tanks at Magdalena Bay. In a
handbook of Spitzbergen, which is found in the ship’s library, Captain
Hagerup discovers that at Seal Bay there is a small lake which never
freezes to its lowest depth. Perhaps we can get water there. The motor
boat is lowered, we take out guns and ammunition and accompany Hagerup
and the ice-pilot shore wards. Seal flesh is not altogether a luxury,
but it is at least fresh meat, and the steward on board has shown us
that auk can taste like ptarmigan when the gravy is made with cream and
butter. We push off, and the little trip to Seal Bay seems almost as
exciting for us as the reading of a thrilling novel, for it is such a
welcome change. The boat can approach quite near to land, where “Fram”
cannot steer, as there are many sand-banks and rocks, unmarked on the
charts. Lying in the sound just before we swing round and down the
coast to the open sea is a little island no larger than the floor of an
ordinary-sized room, ten or fifteen meters from Danskeöen. It is three
or four meters high and has a skull-cap of snow, on which is perched a
large sea-gull looking down at us. The bird is so glistening white that
the snow appears like a gray shadowed background for the heavy bird.
As we approach it flies upwards with long sweeping wings, and with a
hoarse scream disappears seawards. From the boat we can see on the top
of the snow-cap a green egg which is lying there.

There is a history attached to this little island--sad as are so many
of these fateful stories of the north. One winter before Wellman set
off in his balloon he had his big balloon shed ready, and in another
of his houses which stands there were stored provisions for a long
period. He had engaged two watchmen to look after his belongings. They
spent the time trapping foxes which at that time were to be found on
Danskeöen in great numbers. The two watchmen (Björvik and Johnsen they
were called) wished one day to go out to the little island. The sound
between it and the land is ten to fifteen meters broad. It was in the
month of May Johnsen went a little in advance of Björvik, who suddenly
saw his comrade disappear through the ice. Johnsen called for help, but
before Björvik could get to him the ice broke up entirely round the
spot where he was, and the stream carried him away under the ice while
Björvik could only stand helplessly by and look on. He lived there
alone afterwards for a long time before a ship arrived from Norway. For
the greater part of the time he sat by a signaling post and stared out
over the sea. He kept a diary of his life there: “It is the second time
I have had to see a good comrade die here in the north,” he writes,
“but this is worse than it is in Franz Joseph Land; I must pull myself
together and find something or other to do.” His remark applies to a
time when he had lived ten years ago on the above mentioned island,
when he and a man from the “Fram” named Bentzon spent the winter there.
Bentzon got scurvy and died. So that his corpse should not be eaten
by bears or foxes, Björvik kept it in the little hut beside him for
several months before a vessel came and carried him and the dead man
away to Norway.

Whilst this is being related, we steer out of the sound. We round
Danskeöen’s northwest point and turn down the coast past several 400 to
500 meter-high cliffs rising directly out of the sea. The waves toss
the motor boat up and down and wash over us. We send a shot towards
the cliffs; the echo reverberates and thousands of auks fly out. We
pick up our fowling pieces and aim at the birds which fly past in a
whirling flock, and we anticipate having auk for lunch. But we miss
our mark, for motor boats are not built with the idea of their being
a shooting ground for auk! We get proof of this when a shot aimed at
two birds falls directly into the sea sending the spray flying. The
non-sporting men in the boat rub their hands with joy when they see the
birds escape from the bloodthirsty marksmen. Occasionally we shoot a
brace of puffins; the small black and white birds with red parrot beaks
always lie rocking on the waves, and are an easy prey. They are clumsy
flyers and never try to escape until it is too late. We turn into Seal
Bay, and as we enter, the rolling ceases, for there is a sandbank which
acts as a breakwater, and beyond it the water lies like a mirror. It
is so clear that we can see the fine white sand at the bottom, where
the seaweed waves above in the gentle current. Here we are able to note
that the water in the neighborhood of Spitzbergen must indeed have
become warmer in recent years, for scarcely ten years ago it was a rare
thing to see seaweed growing so far north. Now it can be found on the
sea bottom of all the bays where current conditions are favorable.

We go ashore and try to break the ice on the lake. We hack and hack,
but never get through. If this lake is not frozen solid it is at any
rate frozen to such a depth that we shall require other tools to get
through the ice. As we return to the motor boat, Captain Hagerup points
to a little hillock saying: “That is where we found the bodies of two
meteorologists who drifted here in an open boat from Quade Hook on the
way to King’s Bay and lay here two months, where they slowly starved
and froze to death.”

We return to the “Fram” at 6 P.M. It seems to us that we have as much
to tell those on board as though we had been away three weeks instead
of only three hours. The sportsmen too receive grateful thanks for
bringing auk with them, “which taste nearly as good as ptarmigan.”

A telegram awaits us on board saying that MacMillan is to start his
expedition on the 20th of June from Boston to search for Amundsen and
his companions, north of Cape Columbia. We comment on this. If the
ice conditions in the north are favorable, he can be in Etah with his
ships and flying machines by the end of the month or the beginning of
July, and by sending his flying machines northwards from there he can
probably sight our airmen if they are walking towards Grant’s Land.

And why should they not have proceeded so far? The account which Peary
has given of the ice conditions between the Pole and Grant’s Land show
that it is even and flat so that a long day’s march is possible. His
accounts are backed up by the trappers, who describe the condition of
the ice as it drifts towards Greenland’s east coast. There great floes
can be seen, many kilometers long and without the slightest mooring. We
recall to memory what Amundsen said to Ellsworth one day when we walked
on ice as flat as a floor: “Landing places like these are numerous
where we are going.” Now we know that even if the machines have been
damaged in landing, the airmen will still be able to walk many miles a
day on the ice until they see land ahead.

And we reason further: even if one or two men have been so hurt in an
unfortunate landing that they must be helped by the others, the sledges
are not so heavy but that they can be pulled along, for all of them
have the will and the strength to get home. The more we discuss the
point, the more sure we are that there is a chance of the MacMillan
expedition joining up with our six. How astonished they will be to
hear of all the plans which have been made to search for them, for
they count on no help whatever (certainly not from Norway, for they
understood that they had received all the help they could from there
when the State aided the actual expedition). Twelve days since they
left us!--in two days “Fram” and “Hobby” must begin to patrol the ice
border.

_Virgo-havn. Wednesday, June 3rd_

The weather during the last days has been clear with good visibility,
and the airmen would have found no difficulty in steering for
Spitzbergen, as the high mountains must have been discernible for
several hundreds of kilometers, from the height at which the aeroplanes
would be flying.

But to-day there is a change. When we came on deck at 9 A.M. we found
a real polar fog around us; heavy, raw and forbiddingly gray it lay
over the “Fram.” The smoke could not rise, and soot fell everywhere.
Every breath filled our lungs with grime instead of the usual sparkling
air. Although we only lay 200 yards from land we could not see it. When
it was at its worst we could only just catch a glimpse of “Hobby’s”
clumsy hull, which lay just ahead. Our spirits were not so heavy as the
fog; even the crew found something to keep them interested.

This evening a telegram arrives to say that America is forming a
Committee to arrange a search for Amundsen in the neighborhood of Cape
Columbia. They are collecting the necessary funds. A brother-in-law of
Ellsworth’s is a member of the Committee.

_Virgo-havn. Thursday, June 4th_

Now the fourteen days have passed during which we should lie here in
the fairway, according to Amundsen’s orders, and wait for the airmen.
The “Fram” should now continue a course westwards from the northern
coast of Norskeöene, as the boat is not constructed for ice navigation;
“Hobby,” on the other hand, is built of wood and has a strong ice-bow
of solid oak, and can safely follow a course eastwards along the ice
border, probably being able to reach Northeastland. As soon as “Fram”
has got her tanks filled (which should be by to-morrow evening), the
patrolling shall begin. We shall remain here in the north till the
2nd of July--six weeks from the start (that is the limit Amundsen
fixed for the airmen to return to Spitzbergen on foot or in the small
canvas boats), after which the last members of the Amundsen-Ellsworth
expedition were to set off southwards.

This afternoon we live through an occurrence which smacks of sensation.
The fog had lifted and there was only a slight thickness remaining on
the high points of Spitzbergen’s mainland, the rest had been blown to
sea by a fresh breeze. Now visibility is good. We have just drunk our
coffee and come on deck, and we suddenly notice a little boat rowing
towards us. Instinctively we lift our binoculars. There are two men
in the boat, which lies deep in the water. Apparently it is one of
“Hobby’s” “seal-boats” which has probably been out and caught a number
of seals. The boat approaches, rows past our ship, and lies by the
side of a little hut on the beach at Danskeöen. This hut was built by
a Scottish scientist, and is called Pike’s House, after him. The two
men land and empty the boat of its load. We realize that they are two
trappers whom “Hobby” has met in the course of her patrolling near
Norskeöene, where they have remained since autumn trapping bears and
foxes. In a short time they come on board to learn if they can possibly
find a ship to carry them southwards.

With true Polar hospitality we invite them to have coffee with us and
tell them the news from the outer world which they have not been in
touch with since September. They listen with the same interest to our
news as we do to their tales of the life of a trapper in the polar
night. They have kept diaries and have made notes of wind and weather.

We borrow their diaries and read their accounts of the weather about
the time of the start. They have made the following notes: May 18th.
Calm, air very thick -3° c. 19th May. Fresh easterly wind, cloudy air,
-4° c. 20th May. Slight northeast wind, atmosphere thick, a little
snow, -3° c. Afternoon. Fresh easterly wind, snow. Evening. Easterly,
snow, -5° c.

Thus we arrive at the starting day, which gave us the brilliant
weather the airmen were waiting for, and which the meteorologists
believe continued straight to the Pole.

In the diary the notes were: May 21st. Fresh, north east, atmosphere
thick, and snow, -7° c. Evening, weather conditions the same -8° c. On
the following day, May 22nd, when “Fram” and “Hobby” came northwards,
they had noted clear weather in their diaries. These trappers’ diaries
give us a new subject for conversation. If their observations are
correct our airmen must have flown into thick fog opposite Danskeöen
and Amsterdamöen. Supposing they followed a northward course after
passing Amsterdamöen, it is not likely that the weather could have
changed extensively between there and Norskeöene, especially with such
a wind blowing as the diaries describe. We discuss it from every point
of view and arrive at the only possible result. Around Spitzbergen’s
northwest point and the islands immediately near it there has been a
local storm on the day of the start. The airmen could not have missed
seeing it, and the fact that they have continued northwards in spite of
it, is because they have seen clear weather ahead in the polar basin,
where they could make use of their sun compasses and deviation measures
for navigating. The trappers are of the same opinion--one of them
has spent many winters in Spitzbergen, and tells us that the weather
conditions there are often quite different to what they are a little
further south. The two trappers row away to their hut, where they
intend to live until “Fram” goes southwards to coal, when they will
accompany us in order to join a coal-boat from Ny-Aalesund to carry
them to one or other Norwegian port. They will sell the two polar bear
skins and thirty fox skins from their winter’s trapping and will live
on the proceeds for a few months in Norway, then return to Spitzbergen
again when they wish to gather a fresh harvest.

In the evening we hold a council of war in “Fram’s” mess regarding the
patrolling, and we arrange exactly which parts of the fairway each
boat shall cruise over. The first trip is to begin to-morrow, Friday,
June 5th, continuing until June 9th, when at eight o’clock on that day
“Hobby” and “Fram” shall be back in Virgo-havn again. There is a little
difficulty about the fact that “Hobby” is not fitted with wireless, and
for this reason we have made the first cruise of so short a duration,
as word may come at any moment which would do away with the necessity
for further patrolling.

Hardly any of us believe that there is a chance of our picking up
the airmen. With such good flying machines there is hardly any doubt
but that they must have reached the Pole before they had to land.
Therefore we conclude that any accident can only have taken place
where they have landed at the Pole point. It will, thus, be a shorter
distance to Cape Columbia than to Northeastland, especially taking
into consideration the fact that the going is easier over the flat ice
towards the American coast than scrambling over the screw-ice north
of Spitzbergen. From what the airmen said before they left it was
their intention to return to Cape Columbia, and we had often noticed
in King’s Bay during the conversation that Amundsen himself always
counted on the possibility of coming home on foot. Every small item
of the equipment which could be required on a march was gone through
most carefully by Amundsen himself and tested and examined over and
over again. He thought of everything, but when we remember what a small
space the entire equipment for a march took up in the two machines it
seems impossible that six men could have had enough material to keep
life and soul together and get clear away. But Amundsen has experience
from former years....

The first part of the waiting period is over. The thought of the last
fourteen days arouses a chaos of memories and sensations. The last
lunch in the mess on the starting day, three or four hours before they
left, seems to be as far away as a childhood’s memory. We sat round the
long table talking as usual, when suddenly the six men got up, saying:
“It is time we put on our flying clothes,” and the whole occurrence
appeared so natural to us all that many of us remained to drink an
additional cup of the extra fine coffee which the steward had made for
the occasion.

And thus they started, and we passed impatient days of anxious waiting
to see them return. And now we can hardly understand our first great
confidence. It seems to me quite impossible that for ten or fourteen
days I could have believed in their home-coming with a certainty as
firm as that of the six themselves. But should a miracle happen on the
other hand, and we should suddenly see them flying towards us, and hear
the thrumming of their engines, it would seem to be the most natural
thing that could take place.

_Virgo-havn. Friday, June 5th._

The “Fram’s” crew have continued filling the water-tanks to-day. They
fill the lifeboats with fresh water ice and the motor-boats tow them to
the ship’s side, where they empty bucket after bucket into the tanks.
They are finished by 5 P.M. and they are ready to sail northwards.

The weather prospects are good. The frost is over for this year and one
can see the bare patches amongst the snow growing bigger and bigger,
as it melts and runs away down the hillside in several little brooks,
which increase in size as they descend, carrying gravel and sand right
out to sea. A wide stretch in front of the beach is muddy and thick
in rainbow sections with one part gray, another brown, turning into
red or yellow, according to the color of the mud which the hill stream
has carried with it. The weather is mild and we no longer require our
mittens and leather hats. When we take a little walk ashore, we have
not gone far up the hill before perspiration breaks out on us.

This barren Virgo-havn which we came to a fort-night ago and which
seemed so deserted has now awakened to life. Even unaccustomed eyes
can see how the birds are preparing for the joys of family life. The
capercailzies, which were arriving in flocks when we first came, are
now settling down in pairs,--the dark brown hen flies seawards with a
crooning note, followed by her mate. With a splash they alight on the
water by the side of the island, where they land, and together search
like two every-day citizens for a suitable nesting place. A flock of
little auks flies throughout the day round a high hilltop which rises
from the beach. Their wings fill the air with a whirring noise, and
their squawking nearly deafens us as we pass near their nests, for they
are apprehensive of our intentions. Large plundering sea-mews swirl
around overhead in the hope of espying an egg.

Yes! spring is really here, taking hold of this island, where
conditions of life are so poor that only a great thaw gives anything a
chance to grow.

The last boat-load of water has been towed to the side of the “Fram”:
the whistle recalls those of us who are ashore, and we see that the
vessel is ready to leave. Everything on deck is secured and fast. The
photographer Berge, Wharton and I shall go eastwards with “Hobby”
towards Northeastland, where the chances of meeting the six are
greatest. We pack all our belongings together and row towards “Hobby,”
as “Fram” is to leave in half an hour’s time.

_“Hobby” Saturday, 6th June_

At 6 P.M. to-day “Fram” steamed off and disappeared along
Amsterdamöen’s east coast. “Hobby” made ready for sailing and at eight
o’clock we followed. To begin with we kept to the same course as
“Fram.” The weather was not of the best. Visibility was fairly good,
but the sky was covered with gray, low-lying clouds, while the air
was damp and heavy. A nor’-easter made our position on deck anything
but comfortable, but the mere fact that we were moving engendered
a satisfactory feeling and we sat up late into the night. Leaving
Virgo-havn we got a good chance to study, on Spitzbergen’s mainland,
how the glaciers here in the north have diminished in recent years. In
one of the dales we can see the remainder of a glacier which not so
many years ago reached right down to the sea. Now there is hardly a
small ice hillock left of it. The neighboring glaciers have also shrunk
and no longer fill the dales as they did formerly. We remember what
our friends in King’s Bay told us, that the large glaciers in the Bay
have moved 1,500–2,000 meters further out than they were ten years ago,
when the coal miners first started to work. During the trip through
the sound we are accompanied part of the way by a young seal, which
unconcernedly swims by the side of the vessel regarding us curiously
with black shining eyes. Our sporting instincts awaken--we have no
intention of shooting a young seal, but the sight of it reminds us that
there will be plenty of sport further north, where at this time of year
seals are plentiful. It is not impossible that we may also bag a polar
bear or two. “Hobby” in the meantime has passed Singing-Bird Island,
which could hardly have borne a more fitting name. Town dwellers
who are on board the vessel, to whom fifty or sixty sparrows appear
as a _crowd_ of birds, have always listened with skepticism to the
tales told of flocks of birds so dense that they obliterate the sun.
As we pass the Island we get a proof that these tales have not been
exaggerated. I admit that there was no sun to obliterate, but round the
high Island we can see flocks of auk flying in such numbers that they
look like big black thunder clouds driving before the wind. We turn
into the sound, passing Norskeöene and lose sight of Amsterdamöen’s
double-peaked top. In a small opening between Singing-Bird Island and
Cloven-Cliff Island we catch sight of “Fram.” It is lying still, and it
would appear that the officers on board have begun their hydrographic
work. They are quickly lost to sight as we pass Outer-Norskeöene, where
we see thousands of capercailzies flying backwards and forwards.

When we return after three or four days’ absence we shall be able to
gather enough eggs to last us a lifetime. The island is famed amongst
trappers as being one of the best nesting places on Spitzbergen. It is
almost as good as Moss Island at the entrance to South Gate and Dunn
Island outside Horn Sound. Through the glasses we can see that the
capercailzies are busy building their nests--the most fortunate of them
have found places to build in the crannies of the broken ice heaps.
Coming out of the sound, we have the whole polar sea lying in front of
us. Up till now fate has provided that we should only see the water
calm and in sunshine. (Although we had a storm crossing from Tromsö to
King’s Bay it is so long ago that we have forgotten it.) Now we get
raw, cold and stormy weather. The sea is not blue and pleasant-looking,
but gray and heavy as lead. The waves toss the ship about, and we
have to hold fast to anything near us to prevent ourselves being
slung overboard, whilst from the pantry we hear kitchen utensils and
cooking pots crashing about accompanied by the steward’s high-pitched
curses. We don’t see much ice! Here and there a small floe or a patch
of mush rocks past on the waves, strengthening the impression that this
deserted sea stretches to the world’s end. During a sea journey in the
south, even if land is not to be seen, one knows that in a few hours
a strip of coast line will appear--and behind that coast line there
is land, with people and life and new things to see, to hear, and to
learn, which gives the journey a purpose! But this sea! It stretches
northwards and northwards. The heavy lead-gray mass of water is never
broken by a bit of smiling coast, with green-clad mountain sides or
high hills, but goes on in an endless monotony of drifting ice. As
it lies before us now it has no charm; it only repels with its cold
indifference. We prefer not to look at it, and go down into the little
saloon, where we who have come to the “Fram” are delighted to find that
here also they have the praiseworthy habit of serving coffee at night
whilst the ship is at sea. We go to bed at ten o’clock, after which the
engines stop and “Hobby” lies drifting through the night (it is just as
well to spare our fuel). As we settled down for the night “Hobby” lay a
little northwest of Mofföen, almost directly north of Welcome Point in
Reindeerland.

When we wakened about ten in the morning, we still lay drifting, for
towards morning a heavy fog had descended and it was useless to try to
proceed. It would be impossible to see our course, and to get a sight
of the airmen was equally out of the question in such density. The
fog we experienced in Virgo-havn some days ago was nothing compared
to this, which seemed like a mass of thick wool enveloping us. There
was no rest for the eye, no gap in the foggy curtain. How long will it
last? People who know the conditions here shrug their shoulders....
There is nothing to be done but to remain where we are. There is a
little snow shower which does not improve matters. Should the weather
remain like this, it seems to us that a reconnoitering expedition will
have to be sent to search for us as well.

We go down, throw ourselves on our mattresses and sleep!

An hour or two after lunch time and the fog has lifted a little. We can
see several ship-lengths ahead, and above it is distinctly clearer; the
sun is still shining behind it all. A few ice-floes pass out of the
density and we follow them gladly with our eyes as they serve to break
the awful monotony. A small breeze begins to blow, bringing us the same
feelings which come to a prisoner when he hears the key turn in the
lock of his prison door, opening it for him. The fog disappears like
magic before the wind and as we stand on deck we hear a voice shout
something which makes us all stare excitedly at a large ice-floe to
starboard:

Polar bear!

Where?

There, on the top of the floe!

Right enough, there before us with the dispersing fog as a background
the bear stands like a yellow shadow. In less than a second we have
got the seal-boat out on the water; sportsmen and photographers all
tumble in, in company with their guns and their oars, so that five men
lie in a mixed heap at the bottom of the boat. It is not long before
the oarsmen are in their places and bearing down towards the ice-floe
where the polar bear is sending foam flecks flying over its shoulder.
It is a few hundred yards away--nearer and nearer we approach and see
the bear more and more distinctly. It is three or four years old, and
those of us who have never seen the polar bear living in its natural
surroundings are delighted to see it disporting itself on the floe. It
has not yet noticed the boat approaching. Contented to play with the
top of an ice-clump, it stands up on its hind legs, striking it with a
fore paw, and sending the snowflakes flying around it. Then it turns a
somersault, lies on its back and waves its four legs in the air, jumps
up and starts to play “peek-a-boo” with itself round the ice-clump. We
are close up to it ... twenty meters, ten meters.... Still it does not
see us, for it is lying behind the clump. We round it, and just when
we are five meters away the bear hears the splash of the oars. It rises
up on its hind legs, stands like a statue for a second, gazes at us
doubtfully, then turns round and rushes away in a heavy gallop over the
floe, sending the snow flying in all directions. From the other side of
the floe we hear a splash; it has jumped into the sea to try and save
itself by swimming....

The three oarsmen bend their backs; we round the floe and see the bear
swimming towards “Hobby.” It is a thrilling moment! Here are three
strong men rowing until the boat trembles under their exertions: while
the perspiration runs from them, the distance between boat and bear
increases, and we believe for a moment that it will be able to get
away by reaching an ice-floe on the other side of the vessel. Should
it manage to get there, it has a good chance of saving its skin. But
the poor beast cannot keep up this great speed for long; it swims more
and more slowly and, catching sight of “Hobby,” decides to change its
course towards a smaller floe onto which it jumps, gallops over it
and slips into the sea on the other side. Our boat gains on it now
with every stroke of the oars, and we can hear its heavy breathing. A
little later we are close up to the bear; it lifts its head and gives a
terrified glance at the boat, then turns towards “Hobby” and tries to
cast itself underneath while Berge stands filming on the deck. We are
three meters from the vessel’s side. The bear turns its tired shiny
eyes towards the boat, opens its large mouth and gives a hoarse roar.
An oar is stretched towards it which it bites into splinters.

There is a shot. The bear is hit in the neck. A stream of blood welters
out, coloring the water and the bear’s own skin with crimson. The heavy
body gives a mighty lurch and with its last ounce of strength attempts
to dive, and we can see when it is in the water how it tries with its
powerful claws to get deeper down. But its strength gives out, and,
turning on its back, it gives out a series of terrible roars. A shot in
the chest and now it lies still beside the crimson-dyed water. We cut
a hole in its neck and drag it across the ice-floe, where we proceed
to skin it. They watch us from the ship and, putting a boat out, row
across to where we are skinning the bear--an operation which is being
filmed and photographed. “Hobby’s” dog Sally accompanies them; she is a
mongrel resembling a fox terrier and has the name of every canine breed
included in her pedigree. The little animal snuffles around the bear
and is finally photographed, by her proud owner, sitting on its back.
We take the bear-skin on board, also the gall bladder, the contents of
which, according to Arctic traditions, constitute a cure for gout when
mixed with an equal quantity of brandy.

Safely on board again and we feel like new men. We forget that only
an hour ago we cursed the Arctic seas and everything connected with
them, whilst we only longed for sunshine and for warmth--for flowers
and leafy trees, and for the songs of woodland birds on a summer
evening. But now it is changed; we are no longer merely passengers on
board, we have become part of the actual life of the ice regions. We
at last begin to understand how it is possible for people, year after
year, to leave their summer homes and set off to journey amongst ice
and snowfields here in the north--not only is it a possibility, but a
necessity--for this region possesses a power which draws back to it
those who have once visited it. The fog has now vanished, and in the
distance we can see Spitzbergen’s coast quite clearly from Norskeöene
in the west, to Verlegen Hook in the east. Northwards and eastwards
the sea is almost free of ice, while a number of cracks break pieces
off the unending ice-plains. We hear an order given to set the engines
going, and we, who in the fever of the chase after the bear have
almost forgotten the reason we are here, are called back to a world
of reality by the first thrum of the motor-engines. “Hobby” is soon
steering towards the northeast, making for the most northerly of the
Seven Islands. This afternoon the weather has got clearer, and soon
after 7 P.M. we enter into the first belt of drift-ice. We understand
more and more the charm of life in these high latitudes. The sea is
blue, the sky is blue, and jolly little waves are washing over the
small ice-floes, while each ripple (under the influence of a northeast
breeze) is tipped with foam which glistens in the glorious sunshine,
making all on board feel well pleased with the world at large. We pass
one large iceberg after another, heavy, stranded icebergs, which stand
thirty, forty or fifty meters above the surface of the sea. They are
eight or nine times deeper than the part which we can see, and stand on
the sea bottom until such a time as sun and wind leave their mark on
them to such an extent that they overbalance and drift off southwards.
We ask if it is possible for “Hobby” to sail close up to them so that
we can get good photographs, but Captain Johansen says “No.” He has
experience in this matter and knows that an iceberg, which at the
moment is lying quite still, can suddenly topple,--and although “Hobby”
is a very strong ship, she could hardly stand being struck by such
a colossus. As we pass a heavy flat ice-floe, we see an interesting
sight. The waves are swaying it with a regular rhythm, and spouting
up from its very center there is a large column of water which rises
twenty to twenty-five meters into the air. The explanation of this
strange spring is simple enough. A caprice of nature has formed a hole
in the floe, and as the waves rock it, the water presses through the
hole with such force that the floe becomes a floating fountain.

We never tire of standing on the deck watching the drift-ice, which
has a charm for any one who is observing it for the first time, even
as it has for “old hands” in the northern regions. Against the sides
of the great icebergs waves are breaking, just as they do against the
island reefs of the Norwegian coast. The drifting pieces of ice have
ever-changing forms. During a thaw, sea, sun, and wind turn them into
shapes more weird and fantastic than even a sculptor could do. “Hobby”
passes every possible kind of fabulous animal; we see extraordinary
buildings, and twisted, stiffened trees; profiles of dead and living
people whom we recognize; Gothic and Grecian pillars; floating models
in a variety sufficient for a complete generation of artists and
sculptors. From the floating ice we can see dangerous projections which
are often many yards below the sea’s surface--projections which, should
they come in contact with a steamer’s hull, might be as fateful as
striking a rock. While we pass through the belt of drift ice we have a
watchman continually on the lookout for these projections--with a wave
of the hand he warns the man at the wheel each time it is necessary to
change our course; thus we do not follow a straight line, and if we
drew a plan of the course we pursue it would resemble an arabesque.

We pass out of the belt of drift-ice and after a half hour’s duration
are in a sea that is clear of ice. Looking back upon the belt we have
just left, we notice that it appears like a white strip between sea
and sky. Southwards through the hazy air we see Spitzbergen’s cliffs,
and westwards we can just glimpse the coast of Northeastland and the
ice which covers it. Straight ahead new masses of ice begin to appear
on the horizon. Is it another belt of drift-ice, or is it the border
of the polar ice? We can only answer this question in an hour’s time,
and we shall then know how soon “Hobby” can begin the first patrolling
operations.

It was only drift ice. We cross it in the same manner as we crossed
the former belt and continue northeastwards till late evening. The
unbelievable happens! On the eastern horizon one island after another
appears--and we have proof that in the _beginning_ of June “Hobby” has
managed without difficulty to break right through to the Seven Islands,
which, in a year of bad ice conditions, can only be approached in the
late summer, and in very bad years cannot be approached at all. Last
year at St. Hans’ time it was hopeless to try and pass Moffenöen. Thus
the conditions change from year to year with a capriciousness, the
factors of which scientists are beginning to understand at last.

At midnight we are in 80° 45´ N. lat., 18° 15´ E. long., and we cease
operations for the night, lying fifty yards from the border of the
polar ice, which stretches northwards and eastwards as far as we can
see through our binoculars.

_“Hobby.” Sunday June 7th_

Our awakening to-day was dramatic. Half asleep, we lay for some time
in our bunks as we heard and felt bump after bump on the ship’s hull,
so that in spite of its strong timbers it trembled under the force.
When we were wide awake, even the greatest landlubbers amongst us were
aware that the bumping came from the bottom and not from the sides, but
before we had time to utter an opinion about the occurrence, we saw the
skipper, who had been taking a well-earned sleep after his strenuous
work, disappear from his cabin with his trousers in his hand. We
stretched ourselves and turned over in our beds, for any help we could
give would be worthless, and therefore we settled down for another
little snooze.

The bumping continued and from the bridge we heard orders called in
language which might have been couched in more parliamentary form. A
noise like a storm issued from the engine room; they were trying at
all costs to get the engines to work. We scrambled into our clothes
and went up on deck, where we saw immediately the cause of the uproar,
and the reason why the Captain was shouting out hoarse orders, while
he still stood with his trousers in his hand. “Hobby” was lying “far
in,” amongst the drift ice, and it was necessary to get out of it as
quickly as possible, otherwise we might stick there for a much longer
period than we should care to do. We also saw at a glance the cause of
the bumping. A tremendous block of ice which lay close to the “Hobby”
had a long projection under water--of such large dimensions that it
stretched right under the vessel, and was visible at the other side
knocking against an ice-floe which was crushing in on the side of the
boat. Every time the floe heaved it struck the projection and drove it
against the ship. The situation was not one of imminent danger, but
it could become so at any moment, and we longed to hear the throbbing
sound which would tell us the engines had started....

At last our wish was gratified and a start was made. Gently and
carefully “Hobby” glided over the “ice-projection” which, by way of a
farewell greeting as we got free of it, gave us a heavy double bump. We
heaved a sigh of relief all round and the captain at last had leisure
to put on his trousers. We were not right out of our trouble, however,
as we had still 200–300 meters of ice to get through before we reached
a clear water-course, but after a good deal of maneuvering we got
through and steered eastwards. It seemed to us at first that the ice
lay in a straight line to Ross Island (the most northerly of the Seven
Islands), but after we patrolled its edge for an hour we found there
was a large bay at the middle island and from the deck we could already
see that the boundary between the loose “screw-ice” and the solid ice
continued eastward to North Cape in Northeastland. It appeared as
though the solid ice lay in a curve starting from a point within the
bay and stretching northeast from Seven Islands, where we then lay.

The engine stopped, and “Hobby” “lay to.” The sea was still and not
even the smallest puff of wind ruffled its surface. We were far away
from the great “ocean-highways” at a spot where neither the charts
nor the northern seamen on board could give us much information. New
charts had to be drawn according to photographs and descriptions
(for _exact_ measurements and observations can never be taken), nor
can much reliance be placed in the existing charts, for good ones of
this district are scarce. The seal-boats which sail these waters get
through, guided by the wits of their skippers, who mostly possess the
explorer’s sense of direction. The landscape is different in this
part to that of the coast lying westward. There the hills are high
and jagged, a condition which rightly caused the Dutchmen to call the
island-group “Spitzbergen” (spits, point; bergen, hills) when they
discovered it in 1596.

Here the hills are lower, more rounded,--sloping evenly towards the sea
and ending in long tongues of rock which stretch out from the coast.
The Seven Islands have a formation which is characteristic of the whole
district; they rise right up from the sea 200–300 meters high. One of
them--the chart calls it Nelson Island--presents the appearance of
the façade of l’Eglise de Notre Dame of Paris. We wished to call it
Cathedral Island, but several people said the Island had been called
after Admiral Nelson so we decided to let it keep its name.

We lay on the deck in the grateful warmth of the sun, while the captain
stood with his glasses ranging the entire landscape for a sight of
the airmen. He has traveled the polar seas for twenty-five years; his
father, uncles and grandfather have done the same before him, for he
belongs to a race, found frequently in Northern Norway, which has
wrested its living from the ice regions. The other evening as we sat
in the cabin and studied the Arctic charts, we noticed a little spot
called Lonely Island lying beyond the Taimur Peninsula in Siberia, and
in parentheses under its name stood the name “Johannessen 1878.” It
turned out to be the uncle of our Captain, Kristian Johannessen. He
had sailed round Novoje Semlia before any one else and had been with
our skipper’s father many times on the polar expeditions of the Swede
Nordenskiöld.

He has a history of northern custom and tradition behind him, for his
people have often left their work of trapping if they believed that
there was some geographical secret to be unraveled or some new road to
be opened up. The Hammerfest skipper, Elling Carlsen, came into this
neighborhood where we are now lying with a little vessel in 1863 in
order to follow his calling as a trapper. As the fairway northwards
appeared to be free from ice, he did not turn back the way he had come.
He steered eastwards, sailed round Northeastland, and set his course
southwards towards Norway, passing Giles Land, Barentsöen and Hopen.
For such enterprise (in days when ice-boats only had sails) he got a
well-deserved reward from the Royal Geographical Society in London.

How much this skipper’s experience has helped in our present expedition
it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that many an explorer
has been aided considerably by this man’s discoveries and by his
accounts of conditions in districts hitherto unexplored and unknown.
Polar explorers have always worked in company with the trappers in
the Arctic--and Nansen, Sverdrup and Amundsen all made their first
expedition in a seal-boat. Can one not regard their enterprise as a
continuation of the work done by brave skippers in earlier days who
took advantage of every opportunity which offered?

Nothing is to be seen of the airmen. On an ice-floe near the coast
Johannessen notices that a number of seals are lying sleeping and
sunning themselves. The seal-boat has been hanging on its derricks
since the bear-hunt, so we quickly lower it and some of our party row
towards the floe. They have to row very quietly (and have not gone far
from the side of the vessel when we on board can no longer hear the
sound of the rowlocks) for the slightest noise will waken the seals,
which are light sleepers, and once awake they will flop into the sea
and dive. Through our glasses we follow the progress of the boat. They
crouch over their oars, and we can see nothing but their heads over
the side of the boat as with long steady strokes they approach the
ice-floe. The seals lie in such a position that if they are to be shot
the boat will have to round the floe. At last they are within shooting
range and the man with the gun rises noiselessly and takes aim. All
the same the seal wakens, lifts its head and looks at him. It amazedly
catches sight of the boat and we can see it draw itself together for
a plunge into the sea. But it has been a good shot, and the fear that
the animal would escape is groundless, for it remains lying on the
outer edge of the floe with only its head lying in the water. The boat
then draws alongside and the boys jump onto the ice, stick a hook into
the heavy, slippery skin and haul the animal into a more favorable
position. The shot has struck it behind the ear, killing it instantly.
In a few moments the big heavy body is skinned, several pounds of
seal-flesh are cut off and all carried on board the boat. Then the men
row on to where the next seal lies on a floe some hundred meters away.
Hardly has the boat rowed off when the remains of the dead animal are
being fought over by flocks of sea-gulls and sea-mews. They tear the
remainder of the fat and flesh into pieces, swallowing one big lump
after another, until there is not one morsel to be found. But, even
then, they cannot leave the place, as they have become so heavy it is
impossible for them to fly.

An hour after the boat returns with four seal-skins as their “bag,”
also provision for the larder:

“Fresh meat this evening, Steward!”

Then the engines start again and “Hobby” continues southwards along
the coast. About 10 P.M. we “lay to” for the night, slightly to the
northeast of Lavöen outside Brandy Bay. The seal-boat rows out once
more as the crew wish to make the little extra money which a night’s
seal-hunting will bring them. From the deck we watch them row away
between the ice-floes. We hope it will not turn out for these three men
on board the little boat as it did for the three others who once landed
east of Spitzbergen and went inland to search for eggs and eiderdown
on the Tusindöene. We heard of them from a seal-skipper whom we met
in King’s Bay. “They took with them only a hook in a small lifeboat,
and hardly had they landed when the drift-ice closed in between the
island and the vessel, which lay some hundreds of meters away. The
fog descended around them and everything disappeared in its density.
The three men decided to wait. They waited eight days before the fog
cleared. They turned the ship’s boat over them to give them shelter
from snow and wind, while they lived on eggs and uncooked birds,
for any available fuel was too wet to use. When the fog lifted the
vessel had disappeared, and they had no other way to save themselves
but to cross over the ice-floes in their little boat towards the
mainland-coast round South Cape, and nineteen days afterwards they
arrived thin and emaciated, but otherwise in good condition, at the
Swedish coal-fields in Bellsund. From there they were able to get a
coal-boat to Tromsö. Arriving home, they found that their vessel had
not returned, however, as it had remained to search for Kristian and
his companions, and when it arrived several days after their return it
was flying its flag half-mast, causing Kristian, who stood on the quay,
to burst out in loud laughter as he shouted, ‘Hullo, father, what have
you done with the top of the flag cord?’

The weather is still calm, and the seal-boat does not row very far
away from the vessel. One could not imagine a calmer night. The barren
landscape is as still as death. The only noise that we can hear is an
occasional clang from the boat when an oar strikes the ice. The echo of
it rolls from cliff to cliff along the coast. The sky is cloudless,
but the atmosphere is hazy, so that the sun, which blazes high in the
north, appears distant and unreal. The cliffs with their icy crests are
reflected in the water. We hang over the side and gaze upon it all. It
would be delightful if only we knew that the six airmen were safe. It
is Riiser-Larsen’s birthday. We remember a remark of his early in May,
“Now we must _really_ start so that I can spend my birthday at home in
Norway.”

_“Hobby.” Monday, June 8th_

There is not a great difference between night and day up here. When we
went on deck in the morning the sun was shining from another part of
the sky, otherwise everything was as before. The birds, after having
taken two hours’ rest at midnight, were also full of activity. Auks
in dress-coats and white shirts are still in full flight and whizz in
flocks upon flocks from the land to the open sea in order to catch
food. Black guillemots and little auks fly madly away, their direction
being determined by the higher air currents. Sea gulls rest on their
wings and keep moving round and round the boat, waiting for the
steward to heave the contents of the rubbish bin overboard. They hover
untiringly, hour after hour, though now and then one hears a beat of
their wings when they have to change from one air-current to another.
During the night a seal-boat has come along--it lies some hundreds
of meters away from us and we pass alongside of it. We row up to it
and explain “Hobby’s” mission up here--the captain promises to keep a
good lookout for our airmen and also to warn any other “sealers” he
may possibly get into touch with. No doubt there will be plenty of
them up here as the conditions for making good catches are specially
promising this year. (We can _already_ see the mast-tops of another
boat appearing on the horizon.) We also request the captain to warn
those trappers who spend the winter in the huts along the north coast,
if some of them by chance should visit him. He promises this, and as a
farewell gift gets some packages of tobacco, because his supply is low,
for his boat has been a long time at sea.

“Hobby” moves off; the course is set northwards to the ice-edge;
we shall steer past it westwards until we reach a point north of
Norskeöene. The trip back to Virgo-havn on Danskeöen has started. After
a few hours we near the ice-edge again, directly west of Ross-öen, and
proceed along it: little by little Syvöene and Northeastland disappear
in the horizon and we see no more land. Northwards is only ice and the
edge stretches westward as far as we can see. We continue our course
past it at a distance of 50–100 meters. A fresh breeze is blowing from
the southward, which produces white crests on the waves--it must have
been blowing the whole of the previous day, because during the course
of the day we notice that the belts of drift-ice, which we passed
through on the way up, have disappeared. The wind has driven them
northwards and pressed them into the edge of the pack-ice.

On the trip along the ice-edge we help the crew in “blubbering” the
sealskins. During the work Wharton makes a strange discovery. The crew
he is working with had, during the war, served on the western front in
the same American division to which he had belonged.

Having finished with the “blubbering,” we see another polar bear. It
is standing on a high ice shoal at the extreme edge. We put a boat
out and row towards it, climb ashore, and try to get within shooting
range. Slowly we approach from shoal to shoal. In the excitement we
fire from too long a range; the bullet passes the bear, which becomes
alarmed, and, looking like a yellow-white streak on the drift-ice, it
jumps from one shoal to another and speedily disappears from sight.
Shall we leave it in peace or shall we try to find it again? We climb
an iceberg and sight the bear through the glasses some hundred meters
further ahead. One of the shots we fired after it when it sprang away
must have injured it, for it appears to be lame on one side. It is not
running any longer, but jogs along slowly over the ice. We follow it
with glasses. Then it stops, and we see it lying down at the foot of
a big iceberg about a kilometer from us. We speculate what to do. To
proceed across the pack-ice is impossible. Most of the shoals lying at
the outside are not sufficiently large to bear the weight of a man, and
between the bigger pieces there are either big cracks or wide openings
filled with mush and small lumps of ice.

If we have to get hold of the bear we must pull the boat along with us,
push it over the shoals and row where we can. We look at each other and
come to a quick decision. It will mean hard work! One man goes forward
with the boat-hook, which has to be hooked into the shoals so that
the boat can be hauled along; two men push with the oars, and two men
jump now and again onto the shoals to help to push the boat over the
mush. But they have to be nimble-footed, because many of the shoals
they trust themselves on are not big enough to carry them and sink
immediately. Then it is a question of getting on board again before
they get too wet. (Now and then they are _not_ quick enough.) In such a
manner we get slowly along. The bear is still lying at the same spot.
At last we get into gun-range and shoot. It jumps up, we shoot again,
it collapses and we run towards it and fire a mortal shot. We skin it
and take the skin with us to the boat, which we have left in a clearing
between two shoals. Then we sit down to enjoy a few moments’ rest
which is very necessary. It took us one and one-half hours in the snow
to cover one kilometer from the ice-edge to the bear, and we are wet
through, partly from perspiration and partly from sea water.

Then we press on again. The same toil on the return journey has to be
gone through and about three hours after having left the “Hobby” we are
on board again. They had been a little anxious when they noticed how
far we had ventured onto the ice, because a fog-bank was approaching
from the south. We had not noticed it in the excitement of hunting the
bear. Barely half an hour after we are safely on board, the fog gets
so thick that we only proceed at half speed along the ice-edge, which
we can just catch a glimpse of fifty to sixty meters away from the
ship. We are exactly north of the “worst-weather-corner” in Svalbard:
Hinlopen Strait (between Spitzbergen and Northeastland), where there is
always fog or wind at sea. The fog-belt we have got into is not very
extensive. After an hour’s steaming we are out of it; we get clear
weather again, but the sky is still a little overcast. We continue full
speed along the ice-edge.

Throughout the evening we discuss the result of the trip. The experts
on board are unanimous in the opinion that if the airmen get to
Svalbard, the only place where one could expect to find them would be
Northeastland, and the greatest chance of picking them up, if they
get near land, would be on the east side of Syvöen and Nordkap, where
the distance from the solid ice to the land is shortest and where the
belt of pack-ice is smallest. It is practically impossible that they,
with their primitive outfit and scanty remaining provisions, can manage
to trek westwards to the ice-edge here, and if they _should_ succeed,
their position would be infinitely more difficult than further east.
How broad the belt of pack-ice in front of the solid ice may be is of
course a matter we cannot judge. But right away from Syvöen we can see
it stretching as far as our glasses can range, namely, about fifteen
kilometers. The further westward one goes the broader the belt probably
gets. Seeing we took one and one-half hours to cover a bare kilometer
when we chased the bear, although we had good assistance in having the
boat to help us and nothing to carry, it would take a much longer time
for the airmen to force their way forward over a similar distance. They
would have to carry a burdensome pack, and the small canvas boats are
far too fragile to carry the heavy packages when being pulled through
the ice. If, notwithstanding all this, they manage to get westwards to
the ice-edge, they will have to go along to Northeastland, because from
the edge of the ice to the north coast of Spitzbergen there is an open
sea channel to a breadth of about 100 kilometers, and to try and row
across this in canvas boats means certain death.

We are further agreed that if flying-machines come northwards in order
to take part in reconnoitering, they would be of most service if they
chose Lavöen, on the west coast of Northeastland, as a basis for their
operations. Therefrom they can fly westwards and eastwards as far over
the ice as is considered justifiable.

_Virgo-havn. Tuesday, June 9th_

We proceed the whole night, steering along the ice-edge, which north of
Moffenöen bends southwards and at 80° 14′ bends again westwards. During
the night the watchman on the bridge has seen four bears on the ice.
Almost due north of Norskeöene we left the ice-edge and set our course
for the islands.

We lie a few hours in the sound between the Islands to collect eggs,
and then continue down to Virgo-havn, where we arrive about half-past
seven. “Fram” is not here, but inside the hut--Pike’s House--is a
message from Captain Hagerup, also the following telegram dated Oslo,
June 6th, from the Aero-Club:

“Decided last night establish safety polar-flyers following places
Spitzbergen East Greenland West Greenland Cape Columbia, stop. At
Spitzbergen it is considered that the two vessels and two aeroplanes
are sufficient but will warn Norwegian seal-hunting vessels, search
also Eastside Spitzbergen, East Greenland in all probability by French
explorer Charcot with Ritmester Isachsen stop Approaching committee New
York to take over work at Northeast Greenland and Cape Columbia.”

In the message from Captain Hagerup of the “Fram” to First-Lieutenant
Horgen he informed us that orders had arrived from the Commanding
Admiral that the ship was to go to Advent Bay to coal, and meet the
two flying boats which were on the way northwards from Horten with a
collier. “Fram” had gone southwards last night, and if she had not
returned to Virgo-havn by Tuesday, June 16th, at 8 A.M., “Hobby” was
to go down to King’s Bay again. In the meantime “Hobby” was to go
northwards and eastwards on a new reconnoitering trip. As there was
a possibility that “Fram” might arrive before “Hobby” returned from
its other reconnoitering trip we journalists were to go ashore at
Danskeöen, and wait for four or five days in Pike’s House until “Hobby”
or “Fram” should return.

_Danskeöen. Wednesday, June 10th_

We are living _here_ now! “Hobby” went north at 4 P.M. and we have
established ourselves as well as possible in the little hut. During
the few days we have been with “Hobby” it has practically turned to
summer here. Snow lies only on the high hillsides and in occasional
heavy layers here and there in the bottom of the valleys. Otherwise
the fields are bare--to says “fields,” by the way, is not to use the
right expression, because the whole of Danskeöen is one complete heap
of stones! In course of time water and ice have burst the sides of the
hills into pieces, and it is only the very steepest of the precipices
which are not covered with loose stones. We hear the water trickling
everywhere, deep down between the stones, which lie so loosely that
we have to be more than careful in climbing over them. To-day it has
rained for the first time during our stay in Spitzbergen. It is nice
and homely to sit in the hut and listen to the rain lashing against the
glass windowpanes, and to watch it splashing onto the ground outside.

_Danskeöen. Thursday, June 11th_

During the night whilst we slept we were aroused by a rustling outside.
Wharton (who having met so many bears had the feeling that we might
meet some here) wakened me with a hard dig in the ribs, shouting: “Load
your gun. Polar bear outside.” It was, however, only three hunters who
had spent the winter on the east side of Spitzbergen in a little arm
of Hinlopen Strait, called Lommebukten (or Pocket Bay). They had rowed
the long distance round the north coast in a little boat which was
deeply laden with fox-skins, the remainder of their provisions, and
all the outfit they had used during the winter. The use of their boat
afforded us a great deal of pleasure. We rowed about auk-shooting in
the forenoon, and later we went out in it round the islets collecting
fresh eggs.

There we were received by eider-duck and gulls, kittiwakes,
sea-swallows and geese, which flew up in thousands from the nests,
chirping, whistling and shrieking as they in desperation swooped down
over the heads of the robbers of their nests, flapping their wings
about our eyes. We hit out at them with our caps, but did not allow
ourselves to be frightened back to our boat again. Nest after nest has
to be looked into--it is principally the nest of the eider-duck we
care about. There are about five or six eggs in each and a handful of
down. We are not actual robbers for we leave one egg in each nest and a
little bit of down so that the hen will continue to lay--she will come
back and bustle about till the nest is all right again. (If we removed
all the eggs and the down, the hen would desert the nest.) Egg and down
collecting is not a pleasant occupation from the point of view of smell.

When we get to within about ten to fifteen meters from the nest, the
male bird starts to cry “Oi-oi-oi-oi-e,” while the hen sits close over
her eggs. She sits immovable, only a blink now and again of her black
eyes betrays that she is watching us. (Will she manage to deceive us
into believing that her nest is a moss-covered stone?) But like all
menfolk the male bird is frightened at the bottom of his heart. We
only take two or three steps towards the nest when he rises up and
sets noisily out towards the sea. The deserted hen follows. But at the
last moment when she rises she makes one final frantic effort to save
her eggs. Had we not been coarsened by our stay up here she might have
succeeded in saving them, but as it is, we plunder the nest.

It has stopped raining. White clouds drive across the blue sky and it
is warm in the sun. The air is fresh and mild; to lie here now on the
island is like being in the fields at home in Norway in the summertime.

_Danskeöen. Friday, June 12th_

We have plenty to do in the hut. Roasting, cooking and making coffee
the whole day, but we have plenty of time to look at the remains of
André and Wellmann’s expedition equipment, which lies spread about in
the valley where the hut stands. They are not just small things. The
apparatus they used to make the gas for filling the balloon, which is
lost forever, and the airship, which fell down immediately after the
start, lie in a heap, rusted and weather-stained during the passage
of time. Heaps of cases filled with filings, damaged acid-balloons and
heaps of timber from the collapsed balloon sheds lie spread about.
On the lids of the packing cases we can still read the half-blurred
addresses. In Wellmann’s house the stonework is still standing
practically untouched, and there is a kitchen range which looks much
better than the old trumpery one we have in our hut. The other part of
the house has disappeared--until some years ago it was still there, but
then it was stolen (in the true sense of the word). An enterprising
skipper who had bagged no seal that year pulled it down and took all
the timber on board, covering his expenses for the trip (and even more
than that) by selling it all to one of the collieries.

The northwest corner of Spitzbergen is, on the whole, one of the
most classical parts in the history of Arctic expeditions. The first
expedition which started from here for the North Pole was a British
one. Two men-of-war passed here in 1773, but they did not get further
north than 80° 36′ when the ice forced them south again. On board one
of these was Nelson as midshipman, and during this trip he was not far
from being killed by a polar bear. In the following decades several
attempts were made to get northwards from Spitzbergen, but all the
experiences which these expeditions showed was that it was impossible
to reach the great goal from this side by sailing ship. The ice
stretched too far down, and the current turned the boats southwards
as soon as they had got well amongst the ice, so that maneuvering was
difficult. For a long time no attempt was made--the next was André and
Wellmann’s. It was left to Fridtjof Nansen to show the way to the North
Pole, with the “Fram.” This last-named boat when it came out of the ice
in 1896 passed Virgo-havn steering southwards to Norway. That summer
André was on Danskeöen waiting anxiously for a favorable wind to allow
him to start his balloon trip, but it did not take place that year and
it was only in the following summer that he got away.

_Danskeöen. Saturday, June 13th_

Weather fine, calm and clear with slightly blurred sky.

_Danskeöen. Sunday, June 14th_

Same as yesterday.

_Danskeöen. Monday, June 15th_

About four o’clock “Hobby” returns from the second trip. It has had a
spell of drizzly weather, has rolled a lot and has seen nothing of the
airmen. Ice was about the same as on the first trip; north of Syvöen
it had successfully forced its way right up to 81°. “Fram” has not yet
got back. If it is not here by 8 A.M. to-morrow “Hobby” will go to
King’s Bay.

_Ny-Aalesund. King’s Bay. Tuesday, June 16th_

“Hobby” arrived here at 4 P.M. after a good trip along the coast past
the seven glaciers. A fresh wind blew, and now and then the vessel
took a little water on deck. During our stay up north great things
have happened. There is a telegram for us from Advent Bay telling us
that two naval flying-boats have arrived with a collier from Horten.
“Fram,” which has to be taken over by a scientific expedition, has
gone southwards to Norway, and the naval patrol-boat “Heimdal” will be
the flying-boats’ mother-ship. We communicated immediately by wireless
with “Heimdal,” which had also arrived at Advent Bay. The flying-boats
are on the water and can start whenever the weather conditions permit.
We have put out buoys at places where they can moor, but we advise
“Heimdal” that it is blowing so hard here that the start must be
delayed until the wind abates.

_Ny-Aalesund. Wednesday, June 17th_

When we wakened in the morning the weather was good for flying. The sky
blue, clear and high, the fjord ruffled a little by a slight breeze
from the east, First-Lieutenant Horgen informed the airmen in Advent
Bay that everything was all right for their reception here, and we
received word that they had set off immediately on receipt of Horgen’s
message. That was at 9:35. A little after eleven o’clock we expected
them, and we had hardly begun to look for them over the entrance to the
fjord when we heard their engines in the distance. Soon afterwards we
saw them appear like two small specks 1,200–1,500 meters up in the air
over the flat tongue of land at Quade Hook. A few minutes after F 18,
piloted by First Lieutenant Lutzow-Holm, and F 22, piloted by First
Lieutenant Styr, landed and moored by the buoys. We were naturally very
pleased to see the boats and the airmen, but our pleasure was mixed
with sadness. To-morrow, Thursday, 18th of June, it will be four weeks
since N 24 and N 25 started. That day the weather was just as fine and
ideal for flying as to-day.

In company with the newly arrived airmen we got by the starting place,
which is quite free from snow. On the beach still lay some of the
petrol cans from which we filled the tanks of the two machines the
night before they started. We ask about the news from the south, and
then we tell them what has happened up here. It seems that the opinions
at home are the same as up here--nobody thinks that the six will be
able now to come _flying_ back; every one is of the opinion that most
likely the machines have got damaged through landing in the ice region
and that the airmen are now on their way to Cape Columbia. But as there
is a possibility that the six may be on the way to the north coast of
Spitzbergen, it is thought that the expedition which has arrived here
_must_ be sent there to search for them.

“Heimdal” arrived at 8 P.M. to-day. Captain Hagerup is on board and
is now to lead the expedition. He has not got special instructions
how long “Heimdal,” “Hobby” and the two flying-boats shall patrol,
but probably we shall still be here for two more weeks. On Thursday,
2nd July, “the six weeks from the start” are up--the time limit which
Amundsen laid down in his instructions for patrolling the ice-edge.
Plans for the coming fourteen days are being made, and in accordance
with the experience which “Hobby” has garnered on the two trips, it is
agreed that Lavöen by the West coast of Northeastland is the best base
for the two flying boats to operate from, and it is settled that the
two vessels shall go northwards to Danskeöen at midnight. They will be
there to-morrow 8–9 A.M., and the flyers are to follow.

The uniformed officers and the naval armaments remind us of a world
from which we have been cut off for the last six weeks, and they have a
stranger and more unfamiliar effect on us than one might have expected
in such a short time. We have had a taste of both winter and spring
up here and now we are experiencing the short summer of the Arctic
regions. Our thoughts go back to the start--to the long weeks preceding
it in Ny-Aalesund, and to the still longer weeks we have spent in the
ice area since the six departed. We have seen men whom we (until they
disappeared outside the fjord in two gray flying-machines) considered
as ordinary mortals, but who are now regarded by us as something apart,
since the light of adventure started to shine over them. Shall we see
them again? We put the matter out of our minds, but the thought returns
to us again and again. It is even stronger to-day than it has been
recently because “Heimdal” and the flying-boats are lying here,--actual
proof that the world at large is possessed by the same doubts and the
same fears as we are.

We also think about all the types of humanity we have met in this
frozen northern area. People who wrest their living from the ice. In
milder climes they could earn more and live under better conditions,
but the “unknown,” the danger, the ice and the love of adventure all
call to them just as they called the six. With modest outfits and
simple means they answered the call and set off to the sound of the
enthusiastic jubilation of mankind: a jubilation that has turned into
doubt and fear. But now an expedition fitted out with all the aid that
science can offer is to look for the explorers or at least to try and
find trace of them.

We have dined with the newly arrived flying-men and the officers of
the “Heimdal” at Director Knutsen’s to-day. We were in the same room
where we had been so often with those six, and where only two or three
weeks ago we had said good-by to those comrades of ours who had first
traveled south. Our host, who at that time had been very optimistic,
tries to buoy us up with hope. But we notice that he himself is no
longer confident, doubt has entered into his optimism. It has taken
longer to come to him than to the rest of us, but it has come in spite
of himself, all the same. Conversation drags. Here we sit--more than
fifteen men--all different in mind and character, and all following
different occupations, and we are trying to find a theme that will
interest us all. But there are long intervals, because our thoughts
are all on the one subject, which we do not want to mention. One
after another goes down to the ships, which will soon carry us north
again, where we are to wait for the end of the fourteen days when
we can return to Norway. That will be a sign to the waiting world
that all hope of finding the six in these regions has been given up.
(Spitzbergen will then glide away out of our consciousness.)

_Ny-Aalesund. King’s Bay. Thursday, June 18th_

The last guests left Director Knutsen’s at 1 A.M. and went on board.
“Heimdal” was under steam and ready to start. In a few minutes the
third and last period of the reconnoitering was to begin. We approach
the quay and can see the tops of the masts over the crown of a little
hill. People from the mining village, who are not used to any great
excitement, stand “en masse” on the high loading-pier. We are right
down below them and only forty to fifty meters away from them. Then
the great thing happens! A man comes tearing along the loading-pier
towards the shore. He waves his hands to us, bends over the side of
the railings and shouts: “Amundsen has arrived.” Then he dashes on and
his voice is hoarse and rough. “Only a drunken man can make such a bad
joke,” we say to each other, and continue on our way for another four
or five steps.

What can be taking place?

People on the pier are waving their hats. We hear hurrahs and shouts
and see a new vessel lying alongside the quay. We know immediately
that they have come. We dash along the short distance so that the mud
splashes over us whilst the cheers from down below increase. We spring
on board the “Heimdal,” which lies nearest the quay, then onto the
“Hobby,” which is lying outside.

Lord! it is true!

From “Hobby’s” rail we look down upon the deck of a small sealer
which lies alongside. There they are, all six! Amundsen, Dietrichson,
Ellsworth, Feucht, Omdal, Riiser-Larsen, dirty and grimy, but living
and safe and sound, surrounded by workers and seamen, a motley crowd
who shout hurrah, clap their hands and carry them shoulder high. We
jump down on to the overfilled deck, we cry and we laugh, we pat their
cheeks, we embrace them and words fail us. Not a sensible word could be
spoken. Surely it can’t be true! We must be dreaming! Is it really they?

We reflect about matters a little, and then Director Knutsen takes them
up to his house. The rooms are filled both by invited and uninvited
guests who suddenly begin to sing “Ja vi elsker.” Little by little we
get to know what has happened to them. We don’t learn much to begin
with.

We learn enough, however, to understand why they seem to have two
different mentalities. A present one which sees and understands all
that happens around about them,--and a past which is part of their life
in the north, and which will not leave them for a long time to come.
They get food, a hot bath and a bed with fresh white sheets. In the
course of the day their long four-weeks-old whiskers disappear.

The people who were at the quay when the motorboat “Sjoliv” arrived
tell us about the unbelievable moment when they realized who it was
who stood on the vessel’s deck. When it had become known in Ny-Aalesund
that “Heimdal” and “Hobby” were to go northwards to Danskeöen at
midnight, many people collected in the twilight on the quay in order
to watch the departure. The midnight sun, which stood high in the sky
over the hills on the other side of the fjord, shone through a light
cloud bank. At the mouth of the fjord was a little cloud-belt and the
people noticed how a little sea-boat came in through the evening haze.
Nobody took special notice of it or showed special delight, as they
all thought it was one of the many vessels which in the course of the
summer call in at Ny-Aalesund to get coal and water. People watched
indifferently remarking only that it seemed to carry an unusually big
crew for such a small vessel. Forward stand some heavily fur-clad men
who wave their arms towards the land. The vessel approaches quickly.
Then somebody shouts: “It’s Amundsen!” At the same moment everybody
knows it. Cheers are given. The six on the foredeck wave shorewards and
the vessel berths alongside the “Hobby.” All six are with us, safe and
sound. A few minutes later the quay is black with people. One would
have thought that the inhabitants of Ny-Aalesund had slept with their
clothes on, for in a second the “Sjoliv’s” deck is filled with people
who go mad with joy.

_Oslo. July 1st_

This morning I arrived home. I now read through my diary of the trip
and understand little of the whole. All that happened during the first
hours on the deck of that little polar seal-boat is like a fog in my
mind. The whole seems so far away. If I shut my eyes and try to charm
those fourteen days back I feel bewildered in mind and in spirit.

For now we all stood there beside them--beside the six.

We looked into their faces, which bore signs of all they had suffered
and gone through, and then we asked them to tell us about the four
weeks of hope and doubt.

All power of thought seemed to leave us and our souls were filled with
feelings both boundless and indescribable. Could this be on account of
the pleasure of seeing our comrades again?

Or have our souls been touched by the Unknown Being to whom all turn
in moments of trouble when things have to be settled which are beyond
human power?

PART VI

THE WEATHER

BY JAKOB BJERKENS

THE WEATHER

This part does not contain any scientific accounts of the
meteorological observations undertaken by the expedition in King’s Bay,
during the flight or during the twenty-four days’ stay in 87° 43′--this
will be left for the scientific journals to publish. I shall only give
here a characterization of the “polar-weather” as it was during 1925
and what was done in order to determine the best date for the start.

What kind of weather conditions must the flyers have for their journey
towards the Pole?

First of all there must be no fog at the place where they have to land.
Even if there is only a fog-belt extending a few meters above the
ground, a landing is impossible and a “forced-landing” would almost
certainly end in a catastrophe.

Further, the flyers must avoid passing through thick snow. The two
flying-machines might easily lose sight of each other, and if, in order
to keep in contact with each other, they should fly close together,
there is always the danger of a collision.

An overcast sky without rainfall is also useless. At least it must
clear now and again sufficiently to make it possible to navigate by
the sun. It is of course known that steering by the magnetic compass
is very uncertain so far north, as the extent of the deviations in the
Arctic is not sufficiently known.

Luckily so much is known about the weather in the polar ice region that
it is possible to choose in advance the most suitable time of year for
a polar flight. First of all, Nansen’s expedition by the “Fram” in
1893–1896 has given us this knowledge about the polar weather. During
almost the entire time of their drift across the Arctic observations
were made nearly every two hours in the course of the day, so that a
singularly rich stock of information exists. The observations have been
thoroughly gone through by the late Professor H. Mohn, so that we have
got them set out now in a most perspicuous form. Both the observers’
and Professor Mohn’s calculations are published in the work, “The
Norwegian North Polar Expedition XVII Meteorology.”

[Illustration: THE TWO METEOROLOGISTS]

[Illustration: N 25 ON THE WAY TO OSLO]

I am going to cite some figures from this book which give a clear reply
to the question, Which time of the year is the best for flying to the
Pole?

In the three years which the drift lasted the approximate number of
clear days per month were:

In January 14
„ February 12
„ March 9
„ April 8
„ May 7
„ June 0
„ July 0
„ August 0
„ September 0
„ October 4
„ November 11
„ December 15

Thus in midwinter (December and January) nearly half of each month is
composed of clear days, but the number quickly declines towards the
summer and there are none in the four months from June to September. It
happens, of course, that in the summer time the sun breaks through the
sky at some time of the day, but even _that_ is not very often. June
had on an average twenty-six overcast days, July twenty-seven, August
twenty-four, and September twenty-seven days.

[Illustration: ROUTE OF THE AMUNDSEN-ELLSWORTH FLIGHT]

As might be expected, downpours are much more frequent in the gray
summer months than in the other part of the year. The number of days
with rainfall were, on an average, as follows:

In January 11
„ February 11
„ March 13
„ April 13
„ May 20
„ June 20
„ July 21
„ August 19
„ September 22
„ October 14
„ November 9
„ December 9

Therefore one can count that two-thirds of all the days from May to
September have rain or snow-falls. In the winter time, on the other
hand, only one-third of the days have downpours.

Fog--the flyer’s worst enemy--also collects during the summer half of
the year. Foggy days on an average were:

In January 0
„ February 0
„ March 2
„ April 1
„ May 2
„ June 10
„ July 20
„ August 16
„ September 10
„ October 4
„ November 1
„ December 0

One is therefore pretty sure to be without fog until May, but from June
to September it is general. First, in October the fog begins to get
less and then disappears altogether in the middle of winter.

It appears quite clearly from the “Fram” observations that only the
dark period of the year has somewhat stable weather conditions, with a
clear sky. During the light period of the year the weather is gray and
thick.

These conditions are as unfavorable as possible for all flying
expeditions towards the Pole. The good weather during the
winter--October to March--cannot be taken advantage of on account of
the darkness, and it is necessary to be satisfied with the much more
unfavorable weather during the lighter period of the year.

Luckily there is, however, an intermediate condition of weather, when
the light is still there, but the summer’s gray weather has not yet
set in properly. April with its eight clear weather days, seventeen
days without downpours, and only one foggy day ought to offer the
best conditions for flying. Only one has to remember that when flying
over a longer distance the chances of getting into ugly weather are
much greater than one would imagine from the impression given by the
figures. In a distance of an extent equaling that from Spitzbergen to
the Pole, during a good month such as April, one will in most cases
have to pass through a bad and good weather-zone. In April, too, one
has to reckon with severe cold. “Fram” had a temperature as low as
-38° 4 c. in the month of April and even at the end of that month it
can go down to -29° c. If it is, therefore, one’s intention to fly on a
day of good weather, it is necessary to be well protected against the
severe cold.

In 1925 the polar flight could not be undertaken as early as April.
Notwithstanding the fact that the journey from Norway was undertaken
before the real opening of the shipping season, and that the
preparations in King’s Bay proceeded quickly and according to program,
our machines were not ready to start until the beginning of May. An
earlier start might well have been possible if the previous winter had
been spent in Spitzbergen.

It was the business of the meteorologists to determine which was the
best day in the month of May for the start. With “Fram’s” experiences
before us the prospects of finding a good starting day were not very
rosy. In May, 1896, when “Fram” was about halfway between Spitzbergen
and the Pole, there were twenty-five days with rainfall, and only three
days at the beginning of the month had clear weather. Should May, 1925,
turn out just as bad as May, 1896, the polar flight would take place
under very risky meteorological conditions.

What resources were now at our disposal to determine what kind of
weather was expected? First were the telegrams from the stations in
the neighborhood, indicating the kind of weather which was approaching.
This system is commonly used by all meteorological institutions which
have something to do with weather reports, and it was therefore
only natural that this should be made use of for the polar flight.
One can, however, know beforehand that to make weather forecasts at
Spitzbergen is much more difficult than at other places where it
has been tried before. For instance, Southern Europe is covered by
a network of telegraph stations which can report the approaching
weather. But in Spitzbergen it is not so easy. The network of European
stations certainly give reports of every condition approaching from
the south, but no telegraphic weather reports can be obtained from the
west, north, or east. There are, therefore, many situations where the
meteorologists, notwithstanding all the aid, can give no reply to the
question: “What will the weather be like to-morrow?”

And that is the case in Spitzbergen. But the polar flight had to be
undertaken from there, and had to extend more than 1,000 kilometers
above unknown regions in unknown weather conditions! How could any one
guarantee good weather for the whole distance?

I know that many meteorologists would reply to such a question that
this is beyond science. To prophesy what the weather will be like near
the Pole is pure guesswork. As now and again stress has been put upon
this view in the press, may I be permitted to defend the foolhardiness
I showed by venturing to tackle this problem? I admit that it is very
often quite impossible to say what the weather will be like on the way
from Spitzbergen to the Pole, and still less possible to predict how it
is likely to turn out in a day or two’s time. But meteorology allows
us to determine by indirect conclusions whether the prospects of good
weather are bright or whether the situation is too risky. That these
weather forecasts are based on very weak foundations, and therefore can
easily turn out wrong, was known by the airmen from the first hour.
Still they preferred to follow the advice science could give, even if
it was often vaguely formulated and given with all sorts of provisos.

The plan was not to risk a flight in any case through fog and thick
snow, where the aeroplanes would certainly lose sight of each other,
but to turn back if the weather should begin to look too threatening.
It would then be the meteorologists’ problem to find another occasion
when it would be again worth while to try and see whether in a renewed
attempt the way to the Pole would be clear.

For several years the exchange of meteorological weather reports had
been broadcast by wireless so that everybody who had a receiving
apparatus could make free use of the same. “Fram’s” receiving
apparatus was of the latest type and worked very well, even receiving
meteorological messages from countries very far distant. Mr. Devoid
attended to the receiving of nearly all the weather reports--a job he
was well acquainted with, through his position as assistant at the
Geophysical Institute at Tromsö. It can safely be said that we could
not have got a better man for the handling of all the radio weather
news which came to hand. He was untiring in trying to pick up and read
communications which were very weak, coming from far distant stations,
and it was, thanks to him, that the weather forecasting station
at King’s Bay was able to work with nearly the same full range of
meteorological observations as any southern weather forecasting station.

The meteorological despatches are broadcast by international
agreement and, with one single apparatus, one can receive accounts of
observations from the whole of Europe, North America and North Asia.
That has been made possible by the various countries all having come to
an agreement, in which they have arranged to send despatches following
each other closely according to a prearranged time-table. On the “Fram”
we regularly received the following despatches:

_Observations from eight o’clock in the morning_

A.M.
4:30 Stavanger (repetition of Annapolis U.S.A.)
7:00 London (English observations at 2 A.M.)
8:12 Tromsö (+ polar station Jan Mayen, Björnöya)
8:20 Königswusterhausen (Germany)
8:25 Haapsalu (Estland)
8:35 Lyngby (Denmark)
8:40 Karlsborg (Sweden)
8:50 Oslo (Norway)
9:00 London (England and Faroe Islands)
9:15 Grudziadz (Poland)
9:20 Paris (France, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland)
9:30 Sandhamn (Finland)
9:35 Budapest (Hungary)
9:40 London (ships’ observations)
9:50 London (collected messages)
10:00 Tromsö (collected messages)
10:15 Dietskoje Selo (Russia)
10:30 Vardo (North Russia)
10:40 Paris (collected messages)
11:45 Oslo (Norwegian observations 11 o’clock)
11:50 London (English observations 11 o’clock)
12:00 Dietskoje Selo (Russia and Siberia)

_Observations from two o’clock in the afternoon_

P.M.
2:12 Tromsö (+ polar station Jan Mayen, Björnöya)
2:20 Königswusterhausen (Germany)
2:35 Lyngby (Denmark)
2:40 Karlsborg (Sweden)
2:50 Oslo (Norway)
3:00 London (England and Faroe Islands)
3:15 Grudziadz (Poland)
3:20 Paris (France, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland)
3:30 Sandhamn (Finland)
3:50 London (collected messages)
4:00 Tromsö (collected messages)
5:00 Paris (collected messages)
5:45 Oslo (Norwegian observations 5 o’clock)
5:50 London (English observations 5 o’clock)
6:30 Stavanger (repetition of Annapolis, U.S.A.)

_Observations from seven o’clock_

P.M.
7:12 Tromsö (+ polar station Jan Mayen, Björnöya)
7:20 Königswusterhausen (Germany)
7:35 Lyngby (Denmark)
7:40 Karlsborg (Sweden)
7:50 Oslo (Norway)
8:00 London (England and Faroe Islands)
8:15 Grudziadz (Poland)
8:20 Paris (France, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland)
8:30 Sandhamn (Finland)
8:40 London (ships’ observations)
8:50 Tromsö (collected messages)
9:15 Haapsalu (Estland)
10:00 Paris (collected messages)

As will be observed Mr. Devold had a lengthy time-table each
day--Sunday as well as week day. The despatches which arrived during
the night and the early morning were received by the ship’s own
operators, who besides had, as part of their duty, to attend to the
expedition’s very large press correspondence when not attending to the
meteorological telegrams.

Nearly all the north, west and middle European states are represented
in the list. Observations from those countries, the despatch stations
of which one could not hear direct (for instance certain south and east
European), were received indirectly through the “collected messages”
from London and Paris, which give extracts of all the observations from
the whole of Europe.

Special mention should be given to the despatches which were sent
out specially for the expedition. First come the extra observations
which the U. S. A. started broadcasting from Alaska, Canada, and
the United States. These formed a very important addition to the
general meteorological observations which America usually sent out for
European use. It was especially important for us to get the complete
observations from Alaska--the nearest inhabited land--on the other
side of the Pole. The whole of this extensive observation material was
supplied gratis by the United States of America Weather Bureau, and
telegraphed free of charge by the U. S. A. Naval Station, Annapolis. It
gives me great pleasure to mention the tremendous assistance which the
United States gave us in this connection, and I herewith offer them the
expedition’s grateful thanks.

Despatches from Annapolis were received by the Stavanger station,
which repeated them to the “Fram.” This was also done free of charge.
The Norwegian telegraph authorities also showed their goodwill to the
expedition by instructing Vardeo Radio Station to receive despatches
from North Russian and North Siberian stations and repeat same to the
“Fram,” which hardly could have got them direct. I must also mention
the help the radio station in Green Harbour gave us by assisting in
receiving messages and forecasts during the critical days just before
the start.

The Geophysical Institute at Tromsö, which is the central station
for the weather-forecastings for North Norway, sent from its radio
station, three times daily, the Norwegian observation material.

The institute in Tromsö also deserves thanks for all the assistance
it has given to the expedition by sending out weather forecasts from
the moment the trip was planned, and whilst we made our preparations
in the winter 1924–5. It was a great help to be able to sometimes
consult the nearest meteorological neighbors in the south, who had many
years’ experience in the Arctic Sea’s meteorological readings. I will
specially mention a telegram we received from Director Krogness a few
days before the start which informed us that his analysis suggested
that a period of _stable_ weather conditions was now approaching. This
was of great assistance when the starting day had to be fixed.

When the whole apparatus was in working order we could receive
meteorological despatches from nearly all the stations. The network of
stations is closest in Europe, so close that we often saved work by
making a choice of stations. Asia and America have not such a close
net, but even here it is possible to draw a weather chart which is
largely correct.

[Illustration: THE COURSE OF THE SHIPS ON WATCH, “FRAM” AND “HOBBY,”
DURING THE COURSE OF THE EXPEDITION

The dotted area indicates the pack ice.]

Furthermore, in the English, French and Norwegian despatches there were
a certain number of observations from ships in the Atlantic, which in
themselves formed a bridge between the American and European stations.
The whole station system therefore formed an almost complete circle
round the polar regions, with the exception of Northeast Siberia, where
telegraphic communications are still bad, and this of course makes a
wide gap.

[Illustration: THE DOTTED AREA, ABOUT 12,000 SQUARE MILES, SHOWS THE
TERRITORY EXPLORED BY THE FLIGHT EXPEDITION]

The point now was (with the assistance of this net of stations round
the Arctic regions) to control an account of conditions moving inside
the polar area, and thereby draw conclusions as to what the weather
might be like along the flight route. With this in view the weather
chart for the whole region was drawn twice a day. Besides this, two
charts were prepared daily showing the reports of the European net of
stations, so that the weather conditions were being calculated every
six hours.

The drawing up of the weather charts took place in one of “Fram’s”
afterholds, which (with this end in view) had been prepared as a
“weather forecast salon.” There was not overmuch room for all the
charts, instruments and other apparatus which had to be kept there,
especially as the hold also served the purpose of an office for Dr.
Matheson, the expedition’s doctor. But with goodwill from both sides it
worked smoothly the whole time, combining the weather forecasting with
the doctor’s practice in the same room.

After the weather forecasting was properly established I often had the
pleasure of receiving visits from the members of the expedition who
were housed on land. During the quiet periods when nothing special was
being accomplished, our two journalists were frequent visitors. In lieu
of something better to do, they wrote about the weather, simply because
it is always possible to say something regarding this subject. As the
time for starting approached, Captain Amundsen and the other polar
flyers often visited me in order to see what the prospects were. During
the times that “Fram” was not lying in safe harborage Captain Hagerup
was constantly in communication with the weather-forecasting station
in order to ascertain in good time whether wind was approaching which
might drive the drift-ice towards us. On the whole I could not complain
about the amount of faith that was placed in the weather forecasts, but
it was often necessary to reduce this trust by reminding every one how
little we really knew.

All the outside observations were made by the meteorologist, Calwagen,
Manager of the Meteorological Observatory in Bergen. His duties were so
numerous that they deserve a whole chapter in this report, but as it
has so far been impossible to make any preparation of the observations,
Mr. Calwagen’s calculations must be reserved for later publication
in scientific journals. With Mr. Calwagen’s permission I shall only
mention here that part of his activity which was of direct use in the
weather forecasts.

In order that nothing which happened concerning the weather conditions
should pass us unnoticed, Mr. Calwagen made observations as far as
possible each hour of the day, continuing until late at night. These
observations included wind, sky, cloud movements, cloud structure,
cloud altitude, rainfall, atmospheric visibility, atmospheric
temperature and dampness, the readings of the barometer, etc. Further
we had brought with us a case of self-registering instruments for
measuring the atmospheric temperature and the dampness. Inside were two
barographs--one in the ship’s instruments’ compartment, and one in the
weather-forecast compartment, which both gave information about the
changes in the air pressure.

As often as we got rid of the low clouds, Mr. Calwagen sent up the
pilot balloons for observing the wind’s direction and strength. These
observations were of the greatest value for judging the weather
conditions, and I will therefore mention them in a few words here. The
observations took place as follows: A colored rubber balloon is filled
with water gas until it is one-half meter in diameter. One weighs its
buoyancy and thereby knows the speed with which it will rise into the
air. After the balloon has been sent up it is observed through glasses
which have graduated scales for calculating necessary horizontal and
vertical adjustments--this is called a theodolite. The theodolite’s
indications are read and noted each half minute whilst the balloon
rises. Afterwards it is possible to reconstruct the course which the
balloon has followed, and to ascertain hereby the course of the wind at
the different heights.

It was not always easy to find a suitable place to set up the
theodolite. On board the “Fram” it very often happened that the balloon
after some minutes got behind the ship’s masts or funnel, and thereby
was lost from view. On the ice in the fjord it was generally possible
to find a good spot with the exception of the days when there was a
heavy swell on the water outside, which also set the fjord ice making
slight undulating movements, and which were disturbing enough when it
was a question of reading one-tenth of a degree on the theodolite. Near
Danskeöen, where there was no useful fjord ice, Mr. Calwagen had to be
rowed ashore for each pilot observation in order to have firm ground
below the theodolite. Generally he chose the little islet “Likholmen,”
where he could sit and have an uninterrupted view on all sides. When
the “Fram” went out to get fresh water-ice from an iceberg which had
got aground, Mr. Calwagen was there immediately and set his apparatus
up on the iceberg. This is probably the first time that pilot balloon
observations have been made from an iceberg.

With the execution of all these pilot balloon observations, under
conditions which were continually changing and often difficult,* Mr.
Calwagen had to use all his care and all his skill. It can certainly
be said that he made use of every possibility imaginable in order to
collect data which might be helpful in supplementing the expedition’s
weather forecasts.

* After having sent in this report, the sad news had just been
received that Mr. Calwagen has been killed in a flying accident at
Kjeller, near Oslo, on the 10th of August, 1925. Immediately after
arriving home from Spitzbergen he commenced to work on that branch
which he was the first to start in Norway, namely, the reading
of the atmospheric conditions by self-registering instruments
installed in aeroplanes. In the course of the last year he has
personally taken part in many flights in order to complete the
registering-dials of the instruments from his own observations. The
accident happened during such a flight, just when he was engaged in
collecting observations for determining the atmospheric belts.

All who were with the expedition will no doubt remember Mr. Calwagen
as a practical man, helpful, impulsive, bubbling over with merriment,
capable but at the same time possessed of a modesty which was the
natural result of his noble altruistic nature. We all feel very grieved
at such a man’s death.

When it was necessary to have two men for the pilot balloon ascents,
Mr. Calwagen got excellent assistance from ice-pilot Ness, who,
according to what he himself said, was only too glad to be employed a
little on such an occupation during the long hours in which “Fram” lay
idle, not giving him enough to do.

Altogether sixty-two pilot balloons were sent up between the 15th
of April and the 29th of May. It was possible to follow one of them
through glasses to a height of 10,500 meters. This, however, was only
possible because there was very little wind all the way up. Generally
the wind was so strong that the balloon was lost sight of at a much
lower height.

It will lead us too far into scientific spheres to describe all the
methods used in determining the weather conditions from weather-charts
and from observations which were made. I shall have to content myself
by just mentioning the main principles which must be taken into
consideration when choosing the starting day.

It is the general experience that the regions which have low air
pressure mostly have cloudy weather and rainfall, whilst places with
high air pressure have fine weather with a clear sky. The point was
therefore to avoid conditions where a depression was moving towards the
Pole.

In order to be pretty safe from bad weather it was necessary to choose
a high pressure condition. Further, the high pressure would have to lie
north of Spitzbergen so that the aeroplanes should not fly out of good
weather directly into bad on the way north. A high pressure condition
over the Pole would necessarily bring with it northeasterly winds and
cold weather in Spitzbergen. This northeasterly wind would (at West
Spitzbergen) be an off-shore wind and therefore would signify clear
weather. Along the north coast of Spitzbergen the weather would be more
doubtful, with a northeast wind which would cause the air to rise up
against the hills and form clouds. But these cloud-masses on the north
coast would very often only stretch out over a limited area which the
flyers could pass in a short time, preferably by flying over the clouds.

One has the best guarantee for stable weather conditions when the
pilot balloons show that northeast winds are not only to be found on
the ground but also higher up. One knows then that the high pressure
condition around the Pole will reach high up in the atmosphere and is
not just a low formation which could be swept away by the first attack
of a storm center from elsewhere.

The first high pressure condition in May occurred on the 4th, just when
the aeroplanes were finished mounting. This favorable condition did
not last long. The low pressure over North Norway increased and passed
northeast (along the dotted line on the chart) by pushing the polar
high pressure aside towards Greenland. Before the final preparations
were finished on the 8th of May the low pressure had got so near the
Pole that it was not advisable to start.

A period of drizzly weather followed now when it was impossible to do
anything else but wait. The wind was mostly between west and south, and
the sky was overcast and we often had snow showers. Only now and again
it cleared for half a day, but never long enough that there could be
a question of starting. This state of affairs lasted until the 18th
of May, when a change took place. A heavy storm center, which passed
Björnöya, turned the wind easterly at Spitzbergen, and behind the bad
weather a high pressure region appeared which moved from Labrador via
Greenland towards the Pole. The wind was still too strong, and it was
not quite clear at Spitzbergen, but there were good prospects that the
next few days would bring good weather conditions for the flight. The
planes were therefore made ready to start at short notice.

We had still to wait three days before the weather was as it ought
to be. The high pressure region had spread itself long ago over the
Arctic Sea, and the bad weather which passed Björnöya had moved to
North Siberia, but right up to the morning of the 21st we had dull
weather with snow now and again in King’s Bay. The reason was a slight
local depression which had remained persistently over the warm current
which the Gulf Stream sends along the west coast of Spitzbergen. On the
21st there was, for the first time, sufficient easterly wind to drive
the snowy weather out to sea, so that from midday on we had radiant
sunshine and a cloudless sky.

At last the condition had arrived for which we had waited so long, the
first useful condition since the planes had been ready to start. It
_had_ to be used, especially as the season was getting on towards the
end of May and the danger of fog was increasing each day.

So far we had not seen any fog at Spitzbergen and if one had not had
the knowledge about polar fogs which “Fram’s” observations, 1893–6,
had given us, it would have been tempting enough to wait longer. It
was still pretty cold, -9° c. in King’s Bay on the 21st of May and at
the Pole one might risk calculating that the temperature would be down
to -15° c. Both for the planes and the crews it would have been better
and more comfortable to have had a more summery temperature. But of two
evils choose the lesser. As soon as the summer arrives in North Europe,
North Siberia, Alaska and North Canada, fog starts to reign over the
polar sea. Each air current above the Arctic, no matter from which
direction it comes, will bring with it warm air, which is exposed to a
lowering of the temperature on contact with the polar ice. This cooling
of the warm air which contains a great deal of dampness causes fog.
This formation takes place quite independently regardless of whether
there is high or low pressure. Even the best high pressure condition
in the summer, might therefore be useless for flying. During the high
pressure one will certainly be free from the clouds which produce snow
and rain, and the flight can take place in radiant sunshine, but fog,
even if it only reaches twenty meters up from the ground, will make a
landing impossible.

Fog of that kind was very unlikely on the 21st, in fact, one might say
the possibility of its existence was quite excluded. The northeast
wind on that day was so cold (-9° c.) that it must have come from the
very central regions of the polar ice, and it is hardly probable that
on its way to Spitzbergen it should have been exposed to the further
lowering of temperature, which would have been necessary to produce fog.

All these observations led to the following result: “Conditions to-day
are as favorable as can be expected so late in the summer. It was not
without nervousness that I advised the airmen of this result on the
morning of the 21st--never have I given a weather forecast with such a
heavy sense of responsibility. It was almost weighing me down with its
fateful importance, but on the other hand it was bracing to note how
the airmen arrived at their _much more responsible_ decision: “We start
to-day.”

And it was so! The last reports which were received at midday did
not show any change for the worse, so there was not the slightest
reason for calling off the start. The sky grew clearer continually;
Mr. Calwagen had the opportunity of following the ascension of a
pilot balloon with binoculars to a height of 4,000 meters. It showed
a northeasterly wind, apart from the lowest belt, where the wind blew
southeast from King’s Bay. The northeast wind high up had a speed of
between eighteen to twenty kilometers per hour. Therefore if this
strength should continue throughout the eight hours of the flight
towards the Pole, it would give the planes a deviation of 130–160
kilometers. So much petrol was to be kept in reserve that the last
stretch could also be flown, especially if one could reckon on the wind
being _with_ the planes throughout the flight homeward. Mr. Calwagen
wrote down the results of the pilot’s calculations and handed them over
to Captain Amundsen to assist him in the work of navigation.

Herewith the task of the meteorologists was ended, and in the last
unforgettable minutes we all stood as spectators, filled with
admiration for the six brave men who smilingly said good-by as if
they were just going on an everyday flying-trip. Not long afterwards
both machines were out of sight in the bright blue sky flying in the
direction of Cape Mitra.

* * * * *

Forty-five days later the polar flyers are home in Oslo again and
Captain Amundsen and Ellsworth’s meteorological notes are handed over
to us. We read them through with excitement. They contain news from
that part of the world which otherwise is out of the meteorologists
reach. They give him something to think about--especially after he has
dared to predict what kind of weather the polar flyers were likely to
meet in the unknown.

We start with the reports referring to the very beginning of the flight
from King’s Bay and see what the meteorological notes tell us.

After flying along the coast and passing the seven glaciers, the flyers
find Danskeöen’s and Amsterdamöen’s hills enveloped in fog which
continues northwards as far as the eye can see. What can this have been
caused by?

I cannot judge by personal examination because when twelve hours later
we ourselves arrived up at Danskeöen on board the “Fram” there was not
a sign of fog to be seen. But I am inclined to believe that the fog
has been composed of a layer of certain low-lying clouds, which had
often been seen by us at the beginning of May while we were lying in
Syd Gat waiting for suitable weather for the expedition’s start. These
clouds will often just form suddenly when a cold wind blows from the
polar ice towards the open sea. The moment the air arrives over the
first water-lanes or open sea it gets heated from below. The heated
layer rises above and whilst ascending forms clouds. Other colder
parts of the air then come into contact with the water, get heated and
rise also forming clouds, etc. According to the observations which we
had occasion to make at Danskeöen in the beginning of May, the lower
surface of these clouds is about 200 meters from the ground. Below this
there is generally a thick mist of fine snow which reduces atmospheric
visibility and will certainly be very disturbing for flying. Luckily
these clouds do not reach to any great height, seldom over 1,000
meters, so that one can easily fly above them. Besides, one can count
on their not forming further north than where one finds open water
channels of fairly large dimensions. It is therefore not _too_ risky to
undertake a flight above the cloud-belt towards clearer weather farther
north.

The polar flyers took this risk, and quite rightly too. After two
hours’ flight from Danskeöen going northwards there were no clouds, and
on the remainder of the flight there was nothing that obscured the view
over the polar ice.

The expedition has here made a meteorological reconnaissance of great
importance to all later flying explorations in the Arctic.

If a cold wind blows from the Pole one must reckon with the formation
of a low cloud belt over the wider water channels, even if it is
cloudless nearer the Pole. These clouds will form at all seasons of the
year, but perhaps mostly in the colder periods, when the difference in
temperature between ice and sea is greatest.

The landing took place in a light wind, therefore probably near to the
center of the high pressure region, which covers the Arctic Sea. On the
way into the high pressure region the wind, however, must have been
considerably stronger as is shown by the very considerable deviation
of 250 kilometers on an eight hours’ flight. In the middle period of
the flight it must therefore have been thirty kilometers per hour,
which is considerably more than the pilot observations over King’s Bay
had shown, namely, twenty kilometers per hour. The aeroplanes must
have flown, therefore, through a zone with strong northeasterly winds
blowing north of Spitzbergen, and then later come into calmer wind
conditions nearer the Pole.

This raises the question: Could one not have found a day with a gentler
wind blowing, when the deviation would have been less and the Pole
might have been reached? Probably the next day, 22nd of May, would
have been better as far as wind was concerned. Mr. Calwagen measured
the speed that day at Danskeöen, finding an east wind blowing three
kilometers per hour at a height of 500 meters. This wind would only
have brought a deviation of about 100 kilometers. But according to
Amundsen’s observation reports there was, on the same day, a little
northerly breeze at the landing place at 87° 43′, which means that a
contrary wind was also blowing on that day over the district nearest to
the Pole. And what was worse, on the 22nd May there was no longer clear
weather near the Pole.

The observations were as follows: During the last two hours of the
flight slight high clouds had begun to appear, but not so dense that
they could prevent the taking of solar observations immediately after
landing. The next day the clear weather was gone and solid gray cloud
layers covered the whole sky. It was the polar summer weather which had
started, just as we calculated it would from the “Fram” expedition’s
observations. And it did not improve during the following days; the
23rd, 24th and 25th were all gray-weather days, certainly without
rainfall, but also without sunshine. A northerly breeze was blowing on
the 22nd, 23rd and 24th, but it got calmer on the 25th.

The big high-pressure region which we had over the Arctic Sea on the
starting day continued, and the polar flyers must have been very near
the high pressure center as they now had calm weather. As far as
could be seen everything looked favorable, and whilst we were lying
and waiting at Danskeöen in radiant sunshine, the whole day long, I
personally thought that this good weather would certainly stretch right
up to the Pole. But here the expedition’s observations have taught us
something else, that in the best of weather conditions there is gray
weather at the Pole when the year is so far advanced as the end of
May. This is also one of the new meteorological results which this
expedition has brought to light--in regard to the “Fram’s” expedition
it happened that they did not meet any high pressure regions at the end
of May.

There were a few occasions when the clouds broke up at 87° 42′;
for instance, the 29th of May “dawned with sunshine from an almost
quite clear sky.” But this was only a sign that worse weather was
approaching. In the night, between the 28th and 29th, snow had passed
Spitzbergen on the way north. It reached the polar flyers on the
30th in their camp 87° 43′. The clearing on the 29th was therefore
just a passing phenomenon, and if the aeroplanes had started that
day southwards they would after a few hours’ flight have got right
into a heavy snowfall. These clearings, before the large wandering
snow-masses, are well known in lower latitudes. It is, however,
interesting for meteorologists to find that the same rules also apply
to the weather conditions at the Pole.

Now follows a period of prevailing southerly and southeasterly winds
which cause the temperature to rise quickly. On the coldest day, the
24th of May, there had been -12.5° c., but at the end of the month we
already had +7° c. and on the 7th of June the temperature was up to 0°.
This enormously quick change from winter to “summer temperature” is
typical of the polar conditions.

“Spring” does not last “month’s,” as in the lower latitudes--it is
finished in a few weeks’ time.

From the 7th of June onwards the temperature did not rise much; it
remained about 0°. Sometimes a little over, sometimes a little under.
One can say that 0° is the characteristic summer temperature of the
Arctic region. Warmer air than 0° is very often carried there from
lower latitudes, but this gets cooled down immediately through contact
with the ice, and gets a temperature of about 0°. As mentioned before,
it is this cooling down which is responsible for the fog because it
causes the air’s moisture to condense. The first fog, which extended
right down to the ground, was observed on the 2nd of June; the next was
on the 8th of June, and thereafter happened fairly often, so in the end
whole days free of fog were exceptions.

Luckily on the 15th of June, when the starting place was ready, there
was sufficient visibility for them to start and to find their way out
of their “Foggy” home.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.

Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between paragraphs
and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook that support
hyperlinks, the page references in the List of Illustrations lead to
the corresponding illustrations.

The table on page 175 was printed in a way that was difficult to
understand, so its appearance in this eBook may be incorrect.

Page 249: “we reached the N 24” was printed that way, but the narrative
suggests that it should be “N 25”.

*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Our polar flight" ***

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