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.

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.

JUST BEFORE THE TAKE-OFF

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.

TAKING THE WINGS OUT OF THEIR BOXES

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.

MOUNTING THE WINGS

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:

1925.22/5N. 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.

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.

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 days12.00 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 days30.00 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.

List of “Mutual Belongings for Flying Boat Equipment”

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:

* * * * *

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.

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.

MEMBERS OF THE EXPEDITION AFTER THEIR FIRST DINNER ASHORE

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.

PREPARING THE PLANES, AT SPITZBERGEN, FOR THEIR ARCTIC FLIGHT

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.

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.

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.

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.

AMUNDSEN—BEFORE THE TRIP

AMUNDSEN—AFTER

ELLSWORTH—BEFORE

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.

RIISER-LARSEN—BEFORE

RIISER-LARSEN—AFTER

DIETRICHSON—BEFORE

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.

OMDAL—-BEFORE

OMDAL—AFTER

FEUCHT—BEFORE

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.

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