Endurance Read online

  However the work I read most was the Encyclopaedia Britannica, usually with the Oxford Dictionary alongside. I was assiduous in making up for my lack of formal schooling. Every day I learned new words and tried them out in my diary.

  With the onset of winter the water in Commonwealth Bay commenced to freeze. Standing on the edge I could see water turn into blocks of ice in the midst of the kelp. The kelp was then stretched to breaking point as the ice floated upwards, sometimes breaking free and taking a small forest with it. Smaller crystals of ice were constantly freezing and drifting to the surface. This ice was then immediately blown northwards. If the wind paused, these crystals would cling together and form a serrated crust on the sea. If the wind held off for a few hours, the crust would become thick and strong enough to bear the weight of a man.

  After a still day, virtually the whole bay had frozen. The temperature was some sixty degrees below freezing point. The iceshelf presented a spectacular promenade around the base of the frozen white cliffs, which were unapproachable for much of the year. I lugged my camera and tripod out onto the ice, which readily took the combined weight. I walked over a mile, following the edge of the sea cliffs to the north-east. The crystal walls rose some two hundred feet above me, often in a sheer vertical rise.

  I had set out alone, driven by the novelty of the opportunity. The isolated location gave rise to that sense of one’s insignificance. I looked up at the unclimbed precipices and drew my breath nervously, wondering how best to capture the sense of awe they created in me. In the absence of the blizzard my breathing and the crunch of my boots on the ice were the only sounds I could hear.

  It was first a groan then a slow grinding crack which loosened the plate of ice on which I stood. In slow motion my legs descended, the tripod wobbled and the heavy camera fell away from me, but without breaking through the ice. My outstretched arms arrested my descent through the ice plate. Apart from shock from the cold, I could feel a strong westwards current dragging me under the ice. Instinctively I kicked and launched my torso out of the water and up onto the ice. As I put weight on my elbows the ice gently continued to crack and I was swimming again. My legs were being swept sidewards under the ice and I tried lifting myself more frantically, but the ice, once fractured, would not hold my weight. As all feeling in my legs drained away, the stupid futility of my predicament began to overwhelm me. I had pursued my own company once too often and there was no one to assist, let alone observe my demise. Fighting against rising panic, I pushed the camera forwards using a leg of the tripod and dragged myself towards a lump of berg that was wedged in the plate ice. The iceberg had solid handholds; grabbing them I dragged my frozen body out of the sea.

  I lay prostrate only momentarily, as I knew I would die of exposure if I did not make it back to shelter quickly. I moved as carefully as I could back across the plate ice. Even as I did, snowdrift commenced swirling wildly off the cliff tops, the wind picking up and the sky darkening. The blizzard whipped along the shoreline of the bay, fracturing small ice formations, and here and there the ice plate broke and wind waves formed in the newly opened stretches of water. Within minutes the scudding wind and the turbulence of the waves broke up the entire mile or so of plate ice that I had walked across. The ice was driven northwards and the whole of Commonwealth Bay became a tumult of whitecaps.

  My heart raced as I pushed myself homewards through the freezing chill of the blizzard. My saturated clothes gave no protection and were heavy as lead. The wind leached away any body warmth I had left. My legs chafed badly in trousers as solid as stovepipes. I fell down the entrance to the hut and delivered the badly knocked-about camera to a stunned-looking Ninnis. With my remaining energy, and cheered on by my amused colleagues, I stripped in front of the stove. It was some time before I could control my jaw so as to speak.

  Midwinter, and the sun appeared less and less, until it stayed away altogether, though a few hours of twilight each day reminded us of its existence. I yearned to be outside using the cameras but it was gloomy at best and opportunities were few. I was confident I knew the kind of pictures that would sell well. My images would not just be for scientists but for the general public. Winter, however, meant staying in the hut, waiting for the weather to improve. Tempers frayed. On Midwinter’s Day Azzi, in a fit of pique with Mawson, walked out of my carefully planned flashlight portrait of our whole group and could not be persuaded to return.

  We were kept busy with preparations for spring and Mawson’s plans for multiple sledging expeditions. Our tents were restitched and reinforced, sledging harnesses adjusted and crampons fashioned and fitted. The biologists and geologists were busy poring over and labelling specimens spread across the trestle table. I stumped them all for a short time with a curious piece of moraine I found. ‘Volcanic pumice,’ they confidently opined until I eventually disclosed it was a discarded attempt at fruit loaf the dogs had dug up.

  I remained in awe of Mawson and sought to impress him with my enthusiasm for the expedition. I fervently hoped that once winter was over there would be ample opportunities for camera and cinematograph. I had no idea what scientific advances could be made, but I knew my photographs would be unique.

  It was during the winter that I realised not everyone was as enamoured with Mawson as I was. I had naively assumed that the other expedition members, being handpicked by Mawson, well-educated and from similar backgrounds, would be entirely harmonious and stick together like glue. I was surprised when I first heard criticisms of Mawson’s leadership. Mawson did not pursue popularity and things had not been going well. Instead of three Antarctic bases we only had one, maybe two if Wild had found a landfall. We had failed to get beyond five miles from our hut and no inland depots had been established. Hunter could do no marine dredging due to the loss of our boat, our aeroplane had no wings and the blizzard prevented any testing of its use as a tractor. Wireless transmission had proven impossible and was a most depressing failure. The blizzard also prevented geographic work and it was plain to all that sledging trips would be perilous. Madigan and Azzi openly questioned Mawson’s geological fieldwork. It was Madigan who first described Mawson as ‘Dux Ipse’, which Azzi explained meant ‘the leader himself’. Mawson was an authoritarian. He behaved like a schoolmaster and Dux Ipse, or DI, became his nickname. I never used it. I knew that life for him was a serious business. He was able to take conflict in his stride. He was damn keen the expedition be a success and so was I.

  Every Sunday morning Mawson gave a religious service. He called everyone to the table and, once we were seated, he would stand and ask God to bless the work of the expedition. Then he read aloud the Gospel from his prayer book and sometimes Bage or Madigan did a scripture reading. Not being overly familiar with the Common Book of Prayer I always took a back seat. Prayers were followed by the singing of hymns, which we all joined in. A small pedal organ had been shipped on Aurora but it sounded dreadful. Bickerton tinkered with it till all its pipes were in working order. He now accompanied the hymns, growing louder as his confidence grew. ‘Nearer My God to Thee’ was a favourite. I imagined I was the only Catholic among the expeditioners. In Mawson’s circles a Catholic upbringing was a liability and I kept it to myself. Much to Ma’s disappointment I had stopped going to church after running away from home.

  And it was in the darkness of winter, and despite our weekly religious services, that I witnessed fracturing in the naive picture I had of our small community. By that time many days passed in mundane repetitive activities and mood swings created a tetchiness from which not even Mawson was exempt. During one of my weeks rostered as cook, I experienced a lot of trouble with Whetter. As a medical doctor he was luckily not in demand. Instead, Mawson had given him the daily task of cutting and retrieving blocks of ice to maintain our water supply. This was a constant and laborious job and Whetter resented it greatly. After initially appearing not to hear my requests for ice, he said, ‘I’ve already brought in the ice for today, Hurley. You’ll have to organise yoursel
f better tomorrow.’ He continued reading as he lay on his bunk. He had a superior air about him and I knew enough not to take him on. Mawson, however, had also sought his assistance digging out snowdrift from the entrance.

  ‘Why on earth have you come on this expedition if you have no intention of helping?’ Mawson’s raised voice froze all activity and conversations throughout the hut.

  ‘Well I certainly didn’t come to do labouring and cleaning all day!’ Whetter retorted.

  ‘What on earth did you expect? You’re a blasted fool if you believed others were going to do all the jobs for you.’

  ‘We’ll see who’s a blasted fool!’

  There was a long silence and then Mawson dropped his voice and the conflict moved into Mawson’s tiny room, and we were all able to listen without having to feel embarrassed.

  Any vanities or personal failings were dealt with mercilessly by our hut society.

  ‘Championship, championship!’ was the sarcastic cry in vogue with the university set, and was soon adopted by all who witnessed any act of human folly. Bob Bage left a frozen tin of red kidney beans on the stove to thaw and forgot about it. The tin exploded, spraying red kidney beans through the hut, the bunks, the clothes drying and all who were nearby. This was followed by cries of ‘Championship!’ The red kidney bean stains could still be seen on the roof and walls the following year.

  Though, for my part, I did not fancy being the object of ridicule and kept my gaffes to myself, I was always keen however to lighten the mood. A dead penguin in Hunter’s bed was a good start. For the gamblers among us I converted a cinefilm winder into a roulette wheel and ran a chocolate bank. Together, Hunter, Bage and I devised all sorts of pranks and tricks to stir things up. This developed into the Society for Prevention of the Blues, with its crowning achievement being a midwinter operetta. I put to good use tricks and practical jokes I had seen Big Bill perform at Sandford’s in Lithgow. On one occasion when tensions developed across the work table I attached thin acetylene tubing from my mouth through my beard. After lighting my pipe I broke the sombre mood by appearing to blow smoke out my ears. I was quite happy being the centre of attention if it was comical. When I’d had enough company I would retreat to the darkroom.

  When the blizzard was at its most turbulent, the aurora was most dramatic and Azzi’s magnetograph most erratic. Late one evening, Azzi came in from the magnetograph hut. ‘It’s a clear night outside for the lights.’

  Mertz jumped up. ‘I vill come.’

  He and I quickly grabbed our Burberry jackets and mitts, and stood in the lee of the hut, unable to converse due to the din of the wind off the roof. The three of us peered up into the northern sky. Low in the sky to the north-east was a flat yellow glow. It pulsed softly then unfurled upwards a shimmering green, flickering in the darkness and transforming like flames to shades of red and purple, fading then glowing then fading into a blackness in which the southern constellations of stars reappeared. The aurora was a mystery. I could not register the colours of its emanations on a glass plate. It was a creature of the Antarctic night that defied photography.

  Without warning the blizzard eased, then stopped altogether. The drift swirled upwards then settled. We stumbled away from the hut and looked back to see the dark line of the Antarctic plateau. Azzi and Mertz went inside to warm up but, driven by restlessness, I strode down to the edge of the bay and along the western shore. It was bitter. I had reindeer-fur boots, finneskos, on my feet without crampons and it was a rare pleasure to walk without being belted by the wind. I pushed on up the rise till I had a fine view across the plate ice and the ocean beyond. My finneskos squeaked as I stepped through snow.

  At the edge of the cliff I stopped. I heard the muffled sound of footsteps behind me and turned, but saw no one there. To the north, above the distant glimmer of sea and beyond, the ice plate was darkness, though somewhere beneath that darkness was home. I revelled in this small interval of solitude. My body would soon be shaking with cold and I knew I must return to the society of the hut, but the overwhelming silence held me in a trance and my legs refused to turn about.

  From where I stood I could make out the faintest sound of bells as small icicles snapped off and rolled down the ice slope to the frozen sea, tinkling as they bounced from top to bottom. A memory stirred within and I uttered Tennyson’s ‘Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O sea’. There were no stones visible here. ‘I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me.’ I thought of a tram in George Street and a middle-aged man in a suit slumping forwards from his seat. I thought of my mother having to move out of our family home. Since departing on the expedition I had barely spared a thought for family. I felt both shame and sadness welling up, and regret that I, of all people, did not have a single photograph of my own parents.

  ‘Hurley, you’ve no crampons on, and the wind will be back up in a matter of minutes, man!’ It was Mawson, calling through the still night air. ‘What were you thinking?’

  I turned away from the scene, my face deep within the hood of my jacket.

  4

  South Magnetic Pole, 1912

  The four of us huddled together around the table in the hut, our faces only a few feet apart so we could hear each other above the roar of the blizzard.

  ‘Azzi,’ said Mawson, ‘I want you to leave everything to Bob apart from magnetic readings. This is your opportunity to get the first set of truly accurate readings all the way to the South Magnetic Pole. But Bob will be in command. It will be his decision that determines how fast you go, how far you go and which way you go.’

  I was pleased to be sledging with Bob and Azzi. Bob Bage was an Australian army lieutenant with an engineering degree and skilled in astronomy. I assumed he was older than me, but this was due more to his neatly trimmed beard, balding pate and pipe. Whatever the scrape, he was always calm. Our objective was the South Magnetic Pole, which Azzi informed me was not as distant as the South Geographic Pole, but was constantly moving. Not only that, so close to the pole compasses ceased to be reliable. Mawson had arranged other parties to map the coastline both east and west of Commonwealth Bay. Mawson, Ninnis and Mertz were doing the longest trip; using dogs to pull the sledges, they were heading east to join up on the map with the areas explored by Scott and Shackleton.

  Azzi looked up. ‘What if, once we are up on the plateau, magnetic south turns out to be an entirely different direction to its current bearing? What if there is no reliable heading?’

  Mawson nodded. ‘If the compass needle starts taking you in circles, it will be Bob’s call as to whether you follow a bearing or simply head geographic south. I’m afraid it’s going to be a massive dash to get as far as you can.’

  Mawson then turned to me. ‘Frank, your priority is to help Azzi get the best readings he can up there without losing your hands to frostbite. Take photographs when you can, but no cine camera. Eight hundred pounds is already too much weight on the sledge.’

  And so, on 10 November 1912, Bage, Azzi and I left the hut and made our way the five miles to Aladdin’s Cave, which had been dug out in the spring as a supply depot and emergency accommodation. It was no more than a vertical shaft leading into our manmade cavern with room for four to sleep. Mawson, Ninnis and Mertz were at Aladdin’s Cave that day. They had two sledges and dog teams, and were making their final adjustments. They expected to travel the greatest distance but we would be going the furthest south. We were both due to return in twelve weeks.

  We loaded some extra supplies onto our sledge and attached a mileage wheel at the back. Bob was anxious to keep moving. Mawson decided his party would stay overnight in Aladdin’s Cave. There was a high level of excitement and nerves. I took photographs of our two groups, then we said our farewells.

  I joked with Mertz as we removed mitts to shake hands, ‘If you bump into Captain Scott or the Norwegians make sure you get their autographs.’

  ‘Ya, I can say hello to Captain Scott. He vud be surprised to see Ninn and
I here with the Australians.’

  ‘We’re not as famous but we’ll do alright. Though I reckon our journey would be faster if we had you and your dog team.’

  ‘Ya, you like zee dogs. The Doctor is not so keen. He is telling me Norwegians eat their dogs. I would like to bring them home. Vee vill see. God speed you.’

  ●

  Starting at Aladdin’s Cave saves us having to pull a full sledge up the steep slope from the hut. However, it is still uphill from Aladdin’s and this is our first crack at man-hauling an eight-hundred-pound sledge. Half this weight is food, though, so we can look forward to the load gradually lightening. Mawson has calculated the amount of food our bodies require to pull the sledge four hundred miles in adverse conditions.

  That first few hundred yards from Aladdin’s is daunting. None of us say it, but pulling that load is backbreaking. The harness has shoulder straps as well as a belt and it is the shoulders that take most of the load. It’s hard to believe we could possibly make anything like the distances required. Over winter there has been no opportunity to train. We are out of condition and our technique and coordination are poor. It is a case of putting our heads down and pulling together as best we can. We have a support team waiting for us at Eleven Mile, which is the furthest food depot we established in spring. John Hunter, Herbert Murphy and Joe Laseron should be there, and I am determined to reach them that evening, if only to have help the next day.

  The harness pinches and rubs as I shift my weight. Several times I drop down through soft snow to my waist. On one occasion I look up to see Bage and Azzi have likewise dropped through a snow-filled crevasse. The weight of the sledge starts to drag the three of us backwards through the snow until Azzi forces the brake lever into the snowdrift so we can find our feet.

  Any loss of momentum is energy-sapping, so we avoid stopping. Even so, it is almost midnight when we finally come upon Eleven Mile camp. The three-man support crew there have a meal ready and help to set up our tent. We collapse inside and do not emerge for twelve hours, feeling very stiff and sore.