Endurance Page 10

  As we continue northwards, nimbus clouds roll overhead and soon there is heavy snow falling and the sledge loses glide as its runners clog up with soft snow. Bob keeps tripping and falling on the jagged sastrugi. Azzi and I confer. Bob’s eyesight is completely gone. If he gets a bone fracture we’ll all be in trouble.

  ‘Bob, Azzi’s got your sleeping bag out and we want you in it and on the sledge just for this next bit.’

  ‘Thanks, Frank, but I’ll just walk behind on my rope.’

  ‘Don’t think so, Bob—we can’t afford a broken bone.’

  ‘I won’t be carried.’

  ‘Then you’d better get on the sledge. If you don’t, you’ll force us to camp now and we need to get a few more miles up today.’

  I have to first get into Bob’s bag myself to force an opening and then together Azzi and I shove Bob’s legs in and make him a space on the sledge.

  After a few days of travelling like this, I recognise a large pile of ice ramps: one of our bearings for Southern Cross Depot. Bob’s eyes improve a little and he is able to resume walking.

  On 5 January the clouds remain low and the conditions stay gloomy. It is impossible to check our present latitude, but the depot must be very close. The compass remains unreliable due to the closeness of the magnetic pole. We reach agreement on a bearing and set off, but after four miles there is nothing. We discuss changing direction but Bob decides to stay put and camp. We have halved our rations and should have enough for another two days. Bob directs us to get into our sleeping bags as quick as we can to maintain body heat and save energy.

  On 6 January it is snowing and visibility is down to several yards. Bob again decides we should stay put. I find it hard to lie still in my sleeping bag for a whole day. Azzi is nervy and jumps up at any lift in the gloom, hoping to secure an accurate latitude bearing, but the sun stays away. I am nervy too, but I manage to occupy myself by making up rhyming doggerel about our Christmas Day feast in the snow:

  There was Azzi Webb and old Bob Bage, and me they nicknamed ‘Hoyle’,

  No better chums I’ve had, who didn’t mind the toil . . .

  My poem gets a good laugh. I’m sure Bage and Azzi are surprised at my ability to string these lines together, though not as surprised as me. I fancy it must be due to our dire predicament. Bob then replies with his best Browning, but changing the names:

  I sprang to the stirrup, and Azzi and he;

  I galloped, Hoyle galloped, we galloped all three;

  ‘Good speed’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;

  ‘Speed!’ echoed the wall to us galloping through;

  Behind sank the postern, the lights sank to rest,

  And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

  Not a word to each other we kept the great pace

  Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place . . .

  The wind dissipates to nothing, but snow continues to fall through the night. The seventh remains dark and gloomy with low cloud. Our sledge is buried under thick snow, though at least without the wind it is relatively warm lying in our bags in the tent, where we stay until 5 p.m. We have a quarter of our usual ration of hoosh, and then break camp, digging out the sledge. Within an hour we are moving east, looking for the depot. But it does not emerge through the low cloud and fog, and we are using up energy looking for something we will never find in these conditions. I feel a niggling anxiety start to grow.

  ‘Bob, we’re wasting our rations here. We need to go north to the coast before we have nothing left.’

  Bob responds calmly, ‘Frank, if we can’t find this depot, which must be within five miles, how can I be confident we will find the hut? There are seventy miles between us and the hut, and no supplies on that route.’

  ‘But you’re just punting on the weather,’ I argue. ‘If tomorrow’s the same, we’re as good as dead.’

  ‘Frank, we’ll stop here. If tomorrow’s the same, we’ll make a run north.’

  There is not much said that night; we each keep our own counsel. I am a bit shocked by the plummeting of my mood. Bob and Azzi go through the ration bags and reorganise what we have. Importantly, we still have fuel to make water, about a pint of alcohol and a small amount of oil. We have just over one ration of pemmican, five Plasmon biscuits, four ounces of sugar and a small amount of cocoa mixture. Bob and Azzi conclude this is enough food to make Cape Denison on a straight run. We go to sleep hungry.

  At 3.30 a.m. Bob is up and the tent illuminated by sunlight. Azzi goes straight out and obtains a good latitude bearing. Surely we will now find the supply depot. However within minutes heavy nimbus clouds again roll up from the south, threatening more blizzard conditions. Bob doesn’t wait. He starts removing from the sledge any equipment not critical for survival. The dip circle, thermometers, hypsometer, camera, wet and spare clothing and much of the medical and repair kits are left behind, but we keep Azzi’s and Bob’s logbooks and records and my exposed glass plates.

  We give up on Southern Cross Depot and head north. Bob’s aim is for us to do three days of not less than twenty miles each. We repack the sledge and Bob has Azzi lead off in conditions which would normally see us calling a stop. The blizzard whips up all the recently fallen snow, but at least it is on our backs. Without the sun or a compass or any horizon or landmarks we rely on the wind to point us northwards. Azzi is just several yards in front, but I can’t see him, only the rope disappearing into the drift. Every so often the wind feels it is swinging around to the east. We put crampons on to stop ourselves being blown off course. It feels like the sledge is dragging sideways and one of the runners is constantly catching on sastrugi.

  Bob sets a schedule by which we go nonstop for an hour on his watch, followed by a five-minute break. We do this till we agree ten miles have been done, and then stop for a ‘lunch’ break. Late that day, when we are confident we have done twenty miles, Bob calls a halt. Our dinner is watered-down hoosh, followed by alcohol in warm water.

  The next day the blizzard continues, with the wind about sixty miles an hour. All our eyes are suffering badly, but when we camp we can make out the ocean in the distance ahead of us. It seems we have underestimated our mileage—but where exactly are we? In the morning Azzi and Bob decide we have come too far east. We tramp west for five miles then turn north, looking for a way to the coast. Before long we find ourselves in badly serrated and churned ice with crevasses. This slows me down to a virtual crawl as I have lost all sight in one eye, which I have bandaged for protection, and the other is little better. It is as if I have sand stuck in my eyelids. I am using hands and feet to feel my way forwards and am slowing down the other two.

  Bage calls back to me that we are climbing up and over a pressure ridge. I hear him call out again and the rope connecting us jerks taut and pulls me forwards. He has fallen, and I hear Azzi sliding forward and calling out to Bob. I stay put, keeping tension in the rope, and let Azzi do whatever he can. Then I hear Bob catching his breath as he clambers back towards us and excitedly cry out, ‘I saw the islets, Mackellar Islets.’ Soon Azzi is calling out and I move up alongside them, but I am snow blind and see nothing.

  Bob and Azzi are very excited, and despite my protests they pull out and cook up in advance our evening ration of hoosh.

  After lunch we are in trouble straight away with crevasses which I am unable to see. Bob has to talk me over each one. Progress then stops completely as Bob and Azzi reconnoitre, leaving me wrapped in a groundsheet, shivering, alongside the sledge. After they return we have to retrace our steps and find another way down off the plateau. We keep tramping. On the downhill slope I am forced to glissade out of control on my backside. I am physically and mentally done in. I am doubtful of where we are and our distance from Cape Denison. I have the doggedness to keep going but nothing more.

  About midnight I hear Azzi call out he has seen a marker pole for Aladdin’s Cave, our Five Mile Camp where we know there is shelter. We are soon there, and Bob is hugging me and Azz
i. I would cry, but my tear ducts are frozen dry.

  Azzi finds dog biscuits and offers them to me, but the effort to eat them frozen is too much. Bage then finds a tin with chocolate inside; this at least melts once in your mouth. Azzi locates a shovel and excavates the entrance which I slide through. Snow is melted on the cooker and something is added to it and heated till I feel the steam rising. Azzi puts zinc and cocaine tabloids in my eyes and I sleep the sleep of the recently saved.

  In the morning I have partial sight but Bob has overdone it and is completely snow blind, and we have to bandage both his eyes. Because it is a reasonable downhill slope and we hoist a smallish sail, he agrees to sit on the sledge. Azzi and I have a lot of difficulty keeping it upright.

  Before long our dilapidated craft has been spotted and we see the hut and figures emerge from it.

  Bickerton and Dad McLean are the first to reach our sledge. It is hard to describe the feeling of being greeted by friends after believing we might perish in the blizzard. We have dragged the sledge some six hundred miles across the Antarctic plateau and are now safe. I can’t help but cry a little at their kindnesses; their help with removing our harnesses and crampons, and being given dry warm clothes and served hot chicken broth while Dad McLean examines our frostbitten feet and faces. We had been overdue and are the second-last party back. Dr Mawson’s party is yet to return and so far there has been no sign of Aurora.

  ●

  It was 10 January 1913 when we reached the safety of winter quarters. The following day Captain Davis unexpectedly walked in the door without anyone having observed the arrival of Aurora. Davis was dismayed to learn that Mawson was not present because of the uncertainty this created.

  By the eighteenth there was still no sign of Mawson, Mertz and Ninnis, and a search party was organised. I had recovered and volunteered, as did Hodgeman. Dad McLean offered his services as doctor. Davis ordered we return in five days. We set off in a blizzard, but the temperatures were comparatively high, the surface soft and mushy, and the drift soon drenched us. Soft snow made crossing snow bridges quite perilous. We could not see anything in these conditions and could easily pass Mawson’s group.

  On our fourth day out, with twenty-five miles covered, the blizzard began to lift and we built a cairn of ice above a box of rations. With binoculars I could see a few miles to the east, but saw nothing human. It seemed so long ago that Mertz, Ninnis and I had shaken hands at Aladdin’s Cave. They were out there, but who knew how far away, and if were they alive. Their rations would have been exhausted, but they had dogs and, if near the coast, seals and penguin meat. Crevasses were a concern, but surely could not wipe out three men.

  On our return to the hut, decisions had been made. Captain Davis had to leave to find Frank Wild and his party at the Western Base before the sea froze. He had brought ashore fresh provisions for a group to stay through the coming winter to await the return of the Mawson party. There was much anxiety and unspoken sadness. Madigan, despite not being Mawson’s biggest supporter, agreed to stay on. He would be in charge. Bage, always dutiful, also offered to stay, along with Bickerton, who was needed for any mechanical maintenance. Dad McLean volunteered, knowing a doctor was required. Hodgeman agreed to stay, and Jeffryes, the wireless operator on board Aurora, volunteered to stay in place of Hannam. Jeffryes was the only person who showed any enthusiasm for the prospect. The rest of us were all anxious to escape this hostile place.

  Madigan cornered me. ‘Hoyle, we would like you to stay and do more photographic work. Your cine camera and projector could help with morale.’

  ‘But it will soon be winter,’ I objected.

  ‘Exactly. Bage and I thought we could do with your clowning to lighten the mood.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said reluctantly, and made my escape.

  From the beginning of February, an extraordinarily fierce gale hit Commonwealth Bay and did not stop for a week, threatening to destroy Aurora and halting any chance of loading. I could not help but think of my friends still out on the ice in the blizzard. Their empty bunks were a sombre reminder. On the eighth the gale eased, and Davis ordered those departing to board immediately. I was torn. My staying could do nothing to save Mawson, Mertz and Ninnis. The Doctor’s party was now a month overdue, and if they were dead, there was no benefit to my being here another year. It was intolerable that my photographs and film, which had already been loaded on board Aurora, should reach home without me and be exhibited by someone else. They were the key to my future. Any accolades would not wait my return in a year’s time. The role of unreturned hero was not for me and there was no fame here. Madigan had a hide to ask me to stay, I fumed. I felt bad about leaving Bob behind—but he had volunteered. Azzi was returning. I told Bage I was leaving. He accepted my decision without complaint. I said a quick farewell to those staying. They were taking on the burden of waiting in a desolate place which they were heartily sick of, for three companions who in the unspoken truth were not expected to return, likely already dead and of whom nothing more might ever be known.

  I busied myself aboard Aurora, but could not shake a sense of guilt; I was returning and Douglas Mawson was not. What would we say on our return, and what was I to do with my photographs and film? It was all so unresolved and must remain unresolved for another year. Davis had been very close to Mawson, but was now thoroughly preoccupied. He had one and a half thousand miles to cover to reach the Western Base and then must head north before Aurora became frozen in the ice.

  The one improvement at Cape Denison winter quarters was that wireless masts had been successfully erected to withstand the blizzard and contact was established with Macquarie Island. Hannam, in the meantime, had erected a makeshift aerial on Aurora, and as we steamed westwards that first evening he received a message from Jeffryes at Cape Denison. ‘Mawson returned: Ninnis and Mertz dead: return immediately and pick up all hands.’

  The news went around Aurora in minutes as Davis turned and headed back to Commonwealth Bay. We arrived next morning. No sooner was a boat made ready to go ashore when the wind started to freshen and soon was gale force as the barometer plummeted. Captain Davis looked highly agitated. Aurora struggled to maintain position and avoid drifting bergs. One quick shore trip would see Mawson and the whole party safely on board, but permission to launch was not forthcoming from Davis.

  Our anxiety continued till early evening, when Captain Davis called a meeting in the wardroom.

  ‘Gentlemen, it has been a difficult day. The winds have made it impossible to launch a boat to bring on board the shore party without risking loss of life. However, all members of the shore party are accounted for. The seven expedition members ashore here are all safe and have adequate supplies to last the winter. As to the Western Base party under Mr Wild, their predicament is unknown and their available supplies are unknown. Every hour we wait here in Commonwealth Bay makes it less certain we can reach them without being trapped in the ice. Aurora has just enough coal to reach the Western Base and complete the homeward journey. The barometer has shown no sign of rising. Accordingly, I believe I have no alternative but to immediately resume the relief of Mr Wild’s party.’

  There were numerous mutterings until finally Azzi said, ‘We are in your hands, Davis.’

  Gloomy Davis was not the type to invite further opinions and with that he left the room, and Aurora steamed to the west.

  Our trip westwards was both hazardous and spectacular. I spent a lot of time on deck. It was hard to feel too excited, despite the imposing cliffs and icebergs we passed. Though I had been expecting the worst, I was nonetheless shocked by the loss of our friends Xavier Mertz and Belgrave Ninnis.

  Davis told us Amundsen had reached the South Pole ahead of Scott and that word had not yet come through from Scott’s expedition. We certainly kept a lookout for icebergs after Davis dourly told us of the loss of over a thousand souls on the ocean liner SS Titanic in the North Atlantic. This news of the outside world left me numb.

  D
avis suggested I set up a darkroom, which I did without enthusiasm. I talked a little with Azzi, but I wanted now to be home and I mostly kept to myself. It was almost three weeks of steaming before we spotted a flagpole and small human figures at the top of an ice cliff some hundred and fifty feet high. Wild and his party were all alive. Their existence on the ice shelf must have been more desperate than life at Cape Denison. Within a few hours they were aboard and we turned north. Our return voyage was uneventful save for Gloomy Davis interrupting Azzi, Frank Wild and me in the mess room one morning with some news.

  ‘Terra Nova has arrived back in New Zealand,’ he told us. ‘It seems Captain Scott did reach the South Pole after all, one month after Amundsen, but Scott and four of his party died on the return journey. They died in March 1912, two months after we first reached Cape Denison. The bodies were actually found last November. They had run out of food and fuel.’

  I spent a few days in my bunk with a head cold and fever. My thoughts went back to the excitement of first setting foot on the Antarctic continent. I looked through my diaries and was surprised by my boyish zeal of just one year earlier. I had experienced what I craved: the adventure that accompanied the discovery of new horizons. But it had involved a degree of hardship that, naively, I had not expected. It had at times been touch and go between surviving and perishing. With Bob and Azzi I experienced something I had never felt before, a rare sense of oneness, that despite our differences we strived for ourselves and each other. I had learned something of my fellow man; there was much I admired about certain of my AAE colleagues,but others I had little time for. Looking back, I was proud of how I had handled myself, but had no immediate desire to repeat the experience.

  On the other hand, to return in the absence of our leader seemed a hollow victory. What would the public think of our efforts? Mawson’s absence would limit the use I could make of my photographs. I was going to need an income immediately, but Mawson couldn’t raise funds to pay expeditioners when he was stuck in Commonwealth Bay. Most of the scientific staff had university salaries to fall back on, but I was not so fortunate. I did not want to take on the burden of running my own photography business, and in any case I did not have money to do so. The more I thought about it, the keener I was to travel back with Captain Davis to ‘rescue’ Mawson and the rest of the expedition at the beginning of summer. That would be the real homecoming; this present trip was doomed to be an anticlimax. The public would only respond to Mawson’s return.