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  We also listened with open-mouthed amazement to learn that the European war was still being fought, despite modern weaponry taking an unbelievable toll in human lives. We heard that soldiers lived like rats in the ground to escape constant artillery bombardments directed by observers in zeppelin airships. There were stories of poison gas, machine guns and bombs dropped from aeroplanes. German U-boats were sinking all merchant ships. Yet despite horrendous casualties, the war showed no sign of stopping. We heard for the first time names such as the Somme, Verdun and Gallipoli, and stories of the sinking of Lusitania and the murder of Nurse Cavell.

  In the midst of these stories I leap to my feet to take my last view of Elephant Island. Despite the great height of its peaks, it has gone. The icecap and icebergs have all gone. Out of sight below the horizon, it is as though that world no longer exists. But for the images captured on my film, the quality of which is still uncertain, who would believe what we have experienced? And what is this strange feeling of emptiness welling up inside me? I feel numb. Having heard enough of the catastrophic events in Europe, and feeling overwhelmed by a strange sense of exhaustion, I seek out a small corner, where I lie down alone on the deck wrapped in charcoal-coloured blankets. I should be warm, but my body is shivering. The deck below me vibrates with the deep loud throbbing of Yelcho’s engines. Soon my whole body is racked by sobs as my mind relives its suspended disbelief at the loss of Endurance, our escape in the boats, our entombment on Elephant Island, and the survival and return of the boss. Whether it is the swells or the strangeness of the food I have just consumed I know not, but I am sick right across the deck where I am lying.

  ●

  On arrival in Punta Arenas we were treated as heroes. Shackleton, being Shackleton, had gone ashore several miles before the main port to alert the local governor and the press. By the time we arrived, a crowd lined the jetty and a Chilean naval band was playing stirring music to greet us. Within a short time the crowd had swelled to some several thousand people cheering in Spanish, tooting whistles and waving flags.

  The boss had forbidden us to shave our beards or change clothes, so the populace could see what real castaways looked like. Shackleton preceded us as we walked down the gangplank in our rags, and one by one our names were called and we were introduced to the governor. The Red Cross carried Blackborow away on a stretcher.

  There followed the strangest of street parades as, led by the governor, Shackleton and Captain Luis Pardo of Yelcho, we marched into the town square with crowds lining the footpaths. After a few words from the governor and the boss and photographs by the local press, and despite our odorous state, it was open slather as we were greeted warmly on all sides. The men of Punta Arenas kissed us on both cheeks, women wept and children snuck up to touch our filthy garments. Well-to-do families and citizenry came forwards and insisted on having one or two survivors each to care for as their houseguests. I refused several entreaties from disappointed dignitaries and eventually an arrangement was made for Wild, Clark and I to have rooms at the Royal Hotel. What I craved more than anything else in the world was escape from my fellow man.

  It is hard to explain the pleasure of those moments of closing a door behind me and having a room completely to myself. The room had a bed and two chairs to sit on and running water from a tap. Most extraordinary of all, the hotel rooms had electric lighting so that, at the pull of a cord, there need be no night-time. Night had brighter light than day. Most unnerving was a large vanity mirror. Who was the frightening, dishevelled man that stared back so suspiciously? I inspected my appearance closely, then ran a hot bath and removed the clothing I had worn for a year. Applying a sharp razor, I rediscovered my face beneath tangled hair and matted beard. My delicious solitude was eventually disturbed by Wild delivering fresh clothing and requiring my presence at the British Club for the first of innumerable celebratory functions.

  The morning papers told our story—ALL SAVED AND ALL WELL. Shackleton’s reputation as a popular hero now knew no bounds. The world took respite from its utilitarian politics and war-obsessed front pages to revel in the heroism of men who were explorers for a common good, not soldiers of a nation state. Having been offered the darkroom of a local photographer, I again found solace under the ruby lamp, developing and checking the glass plates and cinefilm and making a series of lantern slides. With the exception of the small Kodak film taken on Elephant Island, which suffered from overlong storage, all the photographs were fine. The glass plates taken over a year ago, and which had been underwater, sealed in a tin container in the wreck of Endurance, proved to be excellent.

  The genuine warmth of the Chileans was overwhelming and I was at my wit’s end devising excuses to escape their constant offers of hospitality. Luncheons, dinners, theatre boxes, drinks, midnight cocktails—the celebrations went on and on. Fortunately, the demands of my work as expedition photographer provided an excellent reason for my absence. Despite the comfort of my room at the Royal Hotel, I had trouble sleeping and found myself staring at the patterned tin ceiling and listening to the banter in Spanish from the hotel corridor. I dealt with this insomnia by spending long nights working in the darkroom until eventually I could lie down and sleep.

  Three days after our arrival, Wild turned up at the photographic studios where I was working with an ‘order’ from the boss that my presence was required that evening for a reception at the Magellanes Club. This proved to be a most magnificent affair, attended by the leading citizens of Punta Arenas. We were guests of honour in a large banquet hall festooned with flowers and blazing with electric lights. An orchestra played popular songs, as well as the British and Chilean national anthems. I was captivated by the dusky beauty of the womenfolk, richly attired in vivid dresses and shawls, their olive-tinted complexions aglow. In between numerous speeches in Spanish and English, course after course of Chilean dishes were served.

  Festivities continued through to the early morning. I found myself avoiding eye contact as this led immediately to a cry of ‘Salu!’ and the obligation to drain my glass. Champagne flowed like water and I could not help but wonder at the number of bottles consumed. My enquiries revealed the cost per bottle was not insignificant. The result was much gaiety and bonhomie as alcohol papered over the contrasting social positions between the Endurance crew and our generous hosts. An inability to understand the crew’s language spared the Chileans from some of the worst crassness. I was forced to endure being dragged to a table where that vulgar greaser Stephenson, dressed in a starched white-collared shirt and borrowed dinner jacket, was arm in arm with two Chilean millionaires who good-naturedly filled his champagne glass while he puffed luxuriously on a cigar.

  As a result of the lateness of the evening and close quarters with our hosts, especially being kissed on both cheeks by the men which I could not get used to, I was not surprised when I felt poorly the next day. I caught my first cold in over two years, after being protected all that time by Antarctic temperatures. Having tolerated my Endurance companions throughout the deprivations of Elephant Island, I was now heartily sick of them. Drinking and womanising became an obsession with them all. Wild was frequently incomprehensible from the grog and I feared for his health.

  In short time, a number of the sailing crew were in gaol for drunk and disorderly conduct. To preserve the reputation of the British in neutral Chile, the boss wisely arranged for the crew to be shipped back to England on the next boat. This left just the officers, scientists and myself to enjoy a celebratory tour to the national capital, Santiago. I was pleased to have an opportunity to see the coast and countryside, but the Latin American hero worship of Shackleton was nauseating. The boss said the tour was to encourage the Chileans to side with the Allies in the war, but in reality it was a blatant Shackleton publicity tour. I had to admire his ability to charm an audience, however, and armed with my lantern slides he gave a number of successful lectures to packed town halls in Valparaíso and Santiago. I could readily see his Irish blarney was more entertaining
than the dry, though more accurate, Mawson monologue.

  A week after our arrival, there was much cause for excitement when a mailbag for Endurance arrived. There were several letters from Elsa, but none from my family. The first letter I opened was over a year old, posted by Elsa in August 1915:

  Dear Frank,

  I hope this letter finds its way to you and that you are safe and well.

  My parents and I are well. I think of you often, of course, and when I do I wonder just where you are. I received your letter from South Georgia. I have read and reread it so many times. I hope you don’t mind, I read it aloud to my parents. My father was very excited and has told everyone at his work about you. Just about everyone here has now read Sir Douglas Mawson’s book The Home of the Blizzard, with all your wonderful pictures.

  The newspapers, however, have space for nothing but the war. I do not know what news you have received. I am sorry to tell you that the newspapers here have reported that your friend Lieutenant Robert Bage was killed by enemy fire in the first fortnight of the fighting at Gallipoli. The newspaper mentioned his Polar Medal. There was no other information about the circumstances. Australian casualties have been high . . .

  That was the end of my excitement. I had no more stomach for reading letters. How could this be? And what was Bob doing in Turkey? Without Bob, I would not have made it back to Cape Denison.

  There seemed to be little good happening in the civilised world. All of us who received mail had similar news of friends and family. Frank Wild told me he learned that Harrisson, with whom I tramped the length of Macquarie Island, had been lost at sea.

  The business of the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition was sadly not complete, and on 8 October the boss left for Australia and New Zealand to participate in a rescue of the Ross Sea party on the other side of the Antarctic continent. While Shackleton had been quaffing Chilean champagne, those expedition members whose job it was to lay food depots from the Ross Sea to the South Pole were still stranded on the ice, waiting and no doubt wondering what had become of our Trans-Antarctic party. This meant Shackleton had to deputise me to get the films safely to Perris in London. I was keen to do this, despite reports of indiscriminate U-boat attacks on shipping. Any thought I had of returning home to Ma and Elsa in Australia was now vanished. I had said to Ma and, more importantly, had promised Elsa I would return to Sydney as soon as I could. But there was no doubt in my mind I had to go to London rather than going home. Everything I had achieved, everything I had endured, would be wasted if I did not take this chance. But still I could not bring myself to write and tell Elsa until mid-October, shortly before boarding the England-bound RMS Orissa in Montevideo.

  . . . of course, Elsa, I know this decision means it is only right that you be released from our engagement, and from waiting any longer for your languishing, travel-weary correspondent—and a poor correspondent at that. I will be several months at least working in London, and Shackleton insists I am the only man who can do the job, so vital for the expedition finances . . .

  Spending almost four weeks at sea on board Orissa, without any opportunity to work on the films and liberated from the boss and the entire Endurance crew, was a most restorative experience. I was at last my own man again. No one was dependent on me nor I on them.

  I was honoured to be invited to join the captain’s table for meals, and soon found myself in the centre of a pleasant circle of travelling companions. French, Italian, American—the cacophony of foreign tongues and accents was quite exciting. All the talk was of U-boat 53 and its whereabouts. Curiously, I felt no anxiety about the risk of coming under attack, notwithstanding my companions rattling off the names of ships sunk in the last several weeks.

  In the civilised society on board ship, I was fascinated by the number of stylish and engaging female travellers, married and unmarried. They were endlessly inquisitive about how I lived on the ice, and much time was spent bringing me up to date with the events and fashions of the last two years. I found my services in much demand for playing deck golf. Unbeknown to my shipboard companions, I had turned thirty-one years of age on the very day I boarded Orissa. I was aware that others would be thinking I should be married, but it made no sense to me, despite my affection for Elsa, that I should rush back to Australia with this purpose in mind.

  Anxiety on board about U-boats and mines in the shipping lanes increased sharply as Orissa reached Lisbon and then La Rochelle. But I was too excited to be nervous. At that time I did not really believe my fellow man could be so deadly. And I had the strangest sense that in going to ‘old England’—with all the picture-book images of patchwork fields, ivy-covered stone cottages and, of course, Buckingham Palace—I was going home.

  12

  London, November 1916

  In mid-November Orissa eventually found a berth in the crowded port of Liverpool. Everywhere were troop transports and barges full of khaki-clad men.

  ‘Mr Hurley, sir, Mr Hurley!’ I was accosted before disembarking by a bespectacled balding man in a grey suit and red bowtie. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr Bussey from the Daily Chronicle. Mr Perris has asked me to meet you, sir, and help you through customs. Did you see any U-boats, sir?’

  Bussey turned out to be very helpful, as there was a lot to carry. To my surprise, uniformed customs officers weighed my films to estimate their length, and then charged five pence a foot. Bussey handed over a cheque for one hundred and twenty pounds and rushed me through. He collected the bags and together we boarded the 4 p.m. London express.

  It was darkish as we left the station, and I did not get to see the patchwork countryside as the train noiselessly reached an astounding speed well over fifty miles per hour. Within a little more than four hours, the train arrived at Paddington Station in London. Bussey whisked me into a cab and it was about 9.30 p.m. when I first met Ernest Perris in his office on the top floor of the Daily Chronicle building.

  Perris had weary eyes and neatly combed dark hair, though it was more hair oil than hair and I couldn’t help but notice crumbs on his waistcoat which several weeks earlier I would have been glad to consume. He left me in little doubt he was sizing me up, and I guessed Shackleton had been in his ear about me. After a lengthy dialogue about the extent of photographs and film which I handed over, he had Bussey drop me at the Imperial Hotel in Russell Square with instructions to bring me back to the Chronicle at nine the following morning.

  I had no complaint with the Imperial Hotel, which soon became my London home. In fact I felt that hotel life suited me. The next three days I spent with Perris and his staff, going through the entire footage and all the glass plates. Afterwards, Perris called me in for a meeting in his large office, from which there was a fine view of Fleet Street and the busy London traffic.

  ‘Hurley, the glass plates are excellent. We will start using some of them in the Chronicle immediately. Most of them, though, will have to wait for Shackleton to get here, and we can then book a London theatre for travelogue lecture presentations. We will do an illustrated book of the expedition, but that could be several months away.’

  ‘I am quite used to narrating my own lantern slides and would like to do some of the shows,’ I told him.

  ‘We can talk about that. Do you know Ponting? Went with Scott?’

  ‘Of course. I intend to meet him if I can.’

  ‘He has some London shows coming up. Get along, will you, and see what he does.’

  ‘I certainly will. And about my cinefilm?’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m afraid there is a problem there, my dear fellow.’

  He sat back in his chair. ‘Hurley, we need a moving picture that tells a strong story. Shackleton’s story is very good, mind you, and you have plenty of film—and it’s good film; your camera work is first class. But it has to entertain. This war has been so depressing and drawn out. People—the public, that is—need some relief, some escape from it all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do I mean? I mea
n, Hurley, there are not enough penguins!’

  ‘Penguins?! There are penguins.’

  ‘Not nearly enough penguins and penguin antics. Not enough seals and seal antics. Not enough wildlife, generally—but, mainly, not enough penguins.’

  ‘But we didn’t go to visit penguin colonies. And you know I had to abandon most of my glass plates on the ice. For goodness sake, Perris, we were stuck on the icecap. Penguin and seal colonies are on land. Most of the time we were the only living creatures. If we saw penguins, we ate them!’

  ‘My good fellow, I’m not blaming you. But your Mawson film had lots of penguins.’

  ‘Mawson had a land base at Commonwealth Bay. I could use some of that footage, if you like.’

  ‘No, no, I’m not paying anyone else.’

  ‘Well, what do we do?’

  ‘What do we do? Well . . . we can’t risk filming in the zoological gardens. There’s nothing else for it. You’ll have to go back.’

  I could hardly believe my ears. ‘You want me to go back?’

  ‘Well, you don’t have to go all the way back do you—to Antarctica?’

  ‘I suppose South Georgia has some seal and penguin colonies that haven’t yet been wiped out.’

  ‘Well, that would do. I can organise the equipment. Damn the U-boats! How much time would you need?’

  I was halfway out the door when Perris called out, ‘Oh and, Hurley, I liked the dogs, especially the cinefilm of the puppies. Did you eat the dogs too?’