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  ‘No, we didn’t eat the dogs. We shot them, though.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. Anyway, I’ve organised two Pomeranian puppies for you to take with you. Maybe you can get them in some shots with the penguins.’

  I walked back to the hotel not unhappy, but wondering how I would explain this to Ma and Elsa.

  I soon had no doubt I had been right to come straight to London. Perris looked after my accommodation and arranged a modest advance. The return to South Georgia would take several weeks to organise. There was, of course, an enormous amount to do on the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition film and photographs if they were to make a financial return. More than that, however, London was the focal point of the war effort, and many of my expedition colleagues were here or coming through here on their way to the front or to go on leave. There were huge numbers of ‘colonials’ in London from all over the Commonwealth: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, India and Africa.

  In that first week, Perris took me to a packed Philharmonic Hall to see ‘90 Degrees South: With Captain Scott in the Antarctic’. I was spellbound by Herbert Ponting, the photographer who had travelled with Scott’s expedition in 1911. His photographs were projected on a huge screen and were stunning in their detail and perfection. He personally narrated the story with such delicate poignancy there were many in the audience in tears. But there was humour, too, and one emerged with an overwhelming sense of pride at the achievement of this British expedition. Ponting presented what his audience wanted to see and hear; they came with handkerchiefs at the ready. And of course the most moving photographs were not taken by Ponting at all. They were the grainy enlargements from the camera found in Scott’s tent. I could see what I needed to do with the Shackleton film.

  While working at the Chronicle I was visited by my Endurance colleagues Clark, James and Wordie. Also Mawson—who by then was Sir Douglas Mawson and had been commissioned as a captain in the British Army—was a regular visitor to London. We had a lot to talk about, but my asking about the chance of royalty payments from the AAE struck a raw nerve.

  ‘Hurley, you must have heard I am struggling to clear the debts of the expedition. The film was not all it should have been, and proceeds in Australia and here have been very disappointing, frankly. And America has been a disaster.’

  ‘I could have told you that would happen.’

  ‘Well honestly, Hurley, it was not helped by you disappearing with Birtles and then with Shackleton. That’s when we needed your help. We never received the Paget colour plates you promised to send and we couldn’t find all the Macquarie Island plates you said were at Kodak’s offices.’

  ‘But, Doc, the money that has been raised is from my photographs and I have received nothing for them. And why should I assist with AAE lectures if I am to get nothing for it?’

  He gave me a dark look but did not lose his temper.

  ‘Well, you are Shackleton’s man now. I assume you are committed to getting his film released. Look, I daresay the war has not helped with any of this.’

  Mawson put me in contact with other AAE expedition members in London. ‘You must visit Bickerton,’ he said. ‘He is not long out of hospital and lucky to be alive.’

  ‘What about Dad Mclean?’ I said. ‘I gather he worked closely with you on the expedition book.’

  ‘Well, he’s just married my stenographer, if that’s what you mean. Actually, he’s been a great support. He spent months working on the proofs of Home of the Blizzard—including, of course, your photographs.’ He added rather pointedly, ‘I haven’t been able to pay him anything.’

  Dad McLean invited me to dinner at his home in the London suburb of Shepherd’s Bush and it had a remarkably salutary effect on me to see two lovebirds enjoying domestic bliss around the hearth of their tiny flat. Mrs McLean was both beautiful and very intelligent.

  In those first weeks in London before Christmas, I often walked through Hyde Park and I could not help but notice the number of soldiers arm in arm with their sweethearts. It must be something to do with being a soldier in uniform, I thought. Then out of the blue one morning, Clark turned up at my hotel and to my astonishment asked me to be the best man at his wedding the next day. He was such a shy fellow, I had no idea he was capable of any romantic achievements. I was quite taken aback and had to explain I had appointments.

  ‘But, Hoyle, my fiancée would be so pleased if ye could coom along fer a wee drink. And och, she has a fine-looking sister.’

  The thought of Clark matchmaking for me was too much.

  ‘I’d love to, old chap, but I am really jammed.’

  A few days later I met up with Bickerton, who had left the ITAE to enlist in the British Army at the end of 1914. I knew he had been wounded, but was not prepared for the sight of his disfigured face. A line of white pulpy skin ran like a geological fault line from his jaw to his temple. An anti-aerial gun had exploded in his hands. His thumbs hung down uselessly on both hands. He was a sadder version of his old self.

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I? Not quite “unbowed”, but there’s others a lot worse,’ he said.

  My good friend Azzi Webb returned on leave from the front at the end of November 1916. He had enlisted with the Australian 7th Field Engineers. We spent a number of days walking the London streets, and in the evenings went to the theatre. Azzi opened up about how ghastly things were at the front and just how frayed his nerves were. Only after spending time with Bick and Azzi did I realise what little consideration I had given to the horrendous war on the Continent and the personal sacrifices made by Bick, Azzi and Bob, and others like them who had felt compelled to enlist.

  One of Azzi’s officers had been with Bob Bage when he was killed at Gallipoli.

  ‘It was the second week after the landing at Anzac Cove,’ Azzi said, ‘in a salient they called “the Pimple”. The Australians had succeeded in forcing back the Turks. Bob was given an order to go out into no-man’s-land and mark out a new trench with survey posts and string to straighten up the Australian line. The Turks were just a few hundred yards away. You can imagine Bob; he doesn’t suggest it wait till after dark. He’s under fire the whole time and just as he’s finishing he cops a burst of machine gun fire that brings him down. He’s then stuck in no man’s land till a Turk sniper finishes him off. It’s all so stupid, isn’t it? I mean, he was a scientist—what’s he doing marking up frontline trenches in Turkey, of all places?’

  I pictured Bob in a soldier’s uniform. He would have his pipe firmly clenched between his teeth. I could not picture him being shot by anyone. He was such a gentle soul.

  ‘It is stupid . . . Bob of all people—it’s just so unfair.’ I remembered how I wouldn’t have made it back to Commonwealth Bay without him. I had been completely snow blind, crawling across the ice, listening for his voice calling out what was in front of me.

  Together we visited Bob Bage’s mother and sister, who were also then in London. Bob had told them quite a lot about us both. Azzi was good and spoke about Bob and our trip back from the South Magnetic Pole. I felt very uncomfortable talking about it all with these two ladies over a cup of tea. Mrs Bage cried into her handkerchief the whole time until I felt I could not stand it any longer and we just had to leave.

  In general, though, getting around London with Azzi cheered me up enormously. I discovered I liked musicals, especially big musicals with big orchestras, and music revues with comedy and variety. Azzi and I obtained excellent seats to see George Robey in The Bing Boys Are Here. As we emerged the whole audience seemed to be humming:

  Sometimes when I feel low

  And things look blue

  I wish a girl I had . . . say one like you.

  Someone within my heart to build a throne

  Someone who’d never part, to call my own

  If you were the only girl in the world

  and I were the only boy.

  Robey had the audience in the palm of his hand. He made them laugh and he made them cry. I wondered how he di
d that and I wondered why they liked it so much. Azzi said with the war on everyone wanted to laugh and cry. This soon became my favourite London show. I went back many times. London had any number of concerts and performances. There seemed to be an insatiable need for music revues and romantic comedies to help forget the war. There were also many shows I found vulgar, though this did not detract from their popularity with the masses.

  On one of his London trips, Mawson promised to introduce Azzi and me to Lady Robert Scott. We met Mawson beforehand in Hyde Park.

  ‘She’s expecting you,’ he said. ‘I have told her about you both.’

  Mawson set a cracking pace and Azzi and I hurried along on either side of him. It was a delight to be together again and to be, if only briefly, men of leisure and to walk unimpeded in normal clothes in the bracing but snowless winter. Thankfully, Mawson and Azzi were in their civvies and so I felt less conspicuous. It seemed nearly all the other men we passed were in khaki. They stared at us, wondering—or so it seemed to me—who these three tall colonials might be.

  Just on dark we rounded a corner into Buckingham Palace Road and presently Mawson mounted the steps to an impressive-looking home and rang the bell before Azzi and I had time to scamper.

  ‘Lady Scott will see you in her bedroom,’ said the butler.

  Azzi and I sheepishly followed Mawson up the staircase and along a hall lined with fine statuary and paintings, and were shown into a large well-lit room. Sure enough, sitting up with a tray of books and papers in the middle of a rather grand bed was a most attractive woman—beautiful, actually—in a white satin gown. Mawson kissed her hand and before I knew it she was warmly shaking mine.

  ‘Sir Douglas has told me of your daring exploits with the camera. And Mr Webb, a true scientist and so loyal throughout.’

  ‘Lady Scott saw your photographs in the Daily Chronicle, Frank,’ added Mawson.

  ‘We would all be the poorer without your pictures, Mr Hurley,’ said Lady Scott. ‘I had grave fears for your expedition after two years without news from Sir Ernest. How relieved I was when news came through that you were saved—and all alive. And now we have your photographs to show the world the hardships you endured.’

  ‘I think the papers were pleased to have a break from the wretched war, ma’am,’ I replied. ‘My photographs were an all-too-brief distraction.’

  Our hostess bade us sit down around her bed and asked Mawson to pour four glasses of whisky from a nearby cabinet.

  Our conversation was very convivial and Lady Scott proved well informed on matters of polar exploration. She asked me quite directly, ‘How do you compare Sir Ernest’s venture to your expedition with Sir Douglas? Never mind that Douglas is listening, I am sure you have already had this discussion.’

  In fact we had not. Mawson smiled sheepishly as I paused before answering,

  ‘Strange as it may seem, the expeditions are not readily comparable,’ I said. ‘With Sir Douglas we had a base and did sledging and mapping. We brought back fossils and specimens. As you know, with Sir Ernest we were so soon trapped by ice we had no chance of achieving our goal.’

  Lady Scott looked at me quite intently. ‘You explorers are all the same; you are quite obsessed. Do you know, Mr Hurley, to achieve your goals can be quite disillusioning. And as I know only too well, it is not so much about reaching your goal as the returning. Sir Ernest did not reach his goal . . . but he returned and got you all home safe.’

  ‘That he did, ma’am—though we are yet to hear from the Ross Sea party.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what gave me great comfort,’ she continued, ‘was that when Sir Robert knew he would not return he made sure that his diary would. He left a note that his diary was to be recovered. Without that, his death would have been a far greater tragedy. And you have your photographs. They are very special; they are better than words. I think you are all heroes, like Jason and his Argonauts—and what’s more, like Jason you have returned to your loved ones.’

  ‘My loved one has had to be very patient,’ said Mawson. ‘And now, with this war, who knows when we will be home?’ ‘There are too many, Douglas, who do not return home from this war, and those that do have nothing good to say about it. I’m afraid your achievements in Antarctica have been overshadowed.’

  Mawson replied drily, ‘Yes, sadly war bonds are more important these days than raising money to pay the expenses of old explorers.’

  Lady Scott returned her attention to Azzi and me. ‘And are you both like Sir Douglas, happily married but separated by vast oceans? Who do you write your letters home to?’

  ‘I’m afraid the only Mrs Hurley is my mother, and she says I am a poor correspondent,’ I confessed.

  Mawson chipped in, ‘Frank’s mother loves him so dearly she wrote to me after I first offered him the AAE job. She told me he had consumption, was unsuited for the life of an Antarctic explorer, and should be discharged. Well, that cost us a bit in medical tests!’

  This caused much hilarity.

  ‘You do not look one bit like you are dying of consumption, Mr Hurley.’ Lady Scott stared at me and I ducked my head shyly as she went on, ‘If you stay away from France, you can marry and live to a ripe old age. Forget about being an explorer. The poles have been trampled on by men; the age of heroic discovery, I am afraid, is gone. Instead you men are now obsessed with killing one another.’

  Mawson responded, ‘But you ignore the increasing discoveries in science.’

  ‘Radioactivity? I have been reading about it; a cure for consumption would be more useful. And as for the benefits of scientific discovery, Sir Douglas, I know you are only doing your duty, but I cannot approve your current occupation. Supplying poison gas to the Russians, of all people, makes us British no better than the Germans.’

  As we left, Lady Scott counselled Azzi and I to find sensible wives, not as opinionated as her. ‘And if you must go on long expeditions, remember to plan your return carefully lest you make her a widow. Though ’tis not so bad; I was a widow for a year before I knew it.’

  The weather grew colder and more dismal. It was dark by mid-afternoon. In the evenings a combination of the famous pea soup fog and wartime blackouts meant I frequently lost my way walking the London streets. Several times, bombs dropped by zeppelin airships fell close to my hotel. Waking and half waking from my sleep on these occasions, I often found myself in a place which could only be Elephant Island. I am lying in foul oily liquid and try as I might I can’t get up. I am held down by a weight which I cannot lift. Somehow I know that my companions have all left and I am stuck in this place alone. When I wake, I am clammy with sweat.

  Most days I spent at the Chronicle, working on the glass plate negatives and cinefilm, and afterwards I dined alone or with friends who were passing through London.

  Perris and I had a tense week arguing over the terms of my agreement to return to South Georgia, which ended in him accusing me of being greedy. This was a bit rich coming from him. He and Shackleton had still not paid my wages from the Endurance expedition. Still, I could not help but admire him as a businessman.

  A week or so before Christmas I was woken after midnight by a persistent tapping on my door. I opened it, and in walked Leslie Blake, one of my first friends from the AAE and who had been in the Macquarie Island party. Azzi had given him my address and I was pleased to see him—at first. Blake seemed to misapprehend my bachelor status and assumed I had the same proclivities as himself; namely, to importune any attractive young woman who passed by. We soon argued and I told him his behaviour was immoral. He stared at me disbelievingly.

  ‘Immoral! Hoyle, have you any idea what things are like? Do you know what I do at the front? I am a captain of a battery of howitzers. I have killed more men than I will ever know. My own men have died in my arms. But I’m still a bloody virgin! I have hardly kissed a girl. I am not going back to the front without having a go!’

  Even allowing for the time he had been at the front and the shortness of his leave, Les Bla
ke’s conduct left a lot to be desired. He drank heavily. I told him I didn’t drink and was engaged, but he was incorrigible. On our first evening at the theatre, to avoid becoming his partner in crime I was forced to dash out saying I had another appointment. Next day he called me a ‘bloody wowser’.

  ●

  Christmas Eve. Blake, thank God, has gone back to the front. My head is crowded with memories of Christmases past, but my hotel room is empty of both company and conversation. I have spent the last five Christmas Eves on the ice or at sea, but I had my fellow travellers as companions. Now I am here in the middle of this congested city, in the heart of so-called civilisation, and I am alone. And I am coming down with a bout of influenza. Ma and Elsa are on the other side of the world and I wish I could be with them. The crowds outside the hotel have disappeared indoors to their private celebrations. I think with envy of those soldiers on leave who have girls under their arms.

  Christmas Day is worse. The theatres are all closed, and the shops too. London is grey and damp. I pride myself on my stoicism, but I cannot stop a few tears in the quiet of my hotel room as the voice of George Robey warbles in my head:

  I wish a girl I had . . . say one like you . . .

  If you were the only girl in the world

  and I were the only boy.

  It is a relief when Christmas festivities are finished and life returns to normal—well, normal for London in wartime that is. Thick fog means the German army could be on the other side of the street and you wouldn’t know. And inside the restaurants and even my hotel lobby there is a stench of cigarette smoke. On the crowded tube and in the theatre there is constant coughing. And everywhere I look there are ladies of the night, outside all the theatres and clubs. There is deplorable immorality among a certain class of women in London, and it is the Australians and colonials that swarm like bees to the honeypot. Just outside my hotel there is an attractive young woman who stands alongside the same column every night and who now nods to me and says, ‘Evening, guv’nor.’ Blake assumed I knew her and asked to be introduced. So numerous are the prostitutes, it is safest not to let my eyes wander and to keep to myself and certainly not risk starting a conversation with a stranger.