Our polar flight

by Roald Amundsen; Lincoln Ellsworth

THE CREW OF N 24

ELLSWORTH, DIETRICHSON, OMDAL

It was now ten minutes past five. The motors were quite warm and Green nodded approvingly. His smile expressed complete satisfaction. A last handshake from Director Knutsen and then good-by. The motor was running at top speed as N 25 trembled and shook. The plan was that our machine should make the first start and try if possible to start out over the fjord with the wind in order to glide and swing at a low altitude between the fjord boundaries. If this were not successful we were to set our course direct against the wind, towards King’s Bay Glacier. It was also agreed that the machines should try to keep together during the entire flight. What the one did the other should do afterwards. One last pull and then N 25 was free and glided gracefully down the slide on to the frozen fjord. The trip was started. “Welcome back to-morrow,” was the last I heard as with tremendous speed—1,800 revolutions a minute—it set off towards the starting place in the middle of the fjord. There we noticed all at once that the ice was bending right over and the water surging up. In a second the machine was across the fjord heading straight for the glacier and making 2,000 revolutions. This was one of the most anxious moments. Could the machine bear the tremendous excess weight or must we stop and lighten it? The pilot sat at the wheel. Had he been seated at the breakfast table he could scarcely have looked less concerned. As the speed still continued, and we were nearing the glacier at a mighty rate, the pilot’s coolness seemed greater than ever. His mouth was the only indication of his resolution and determination. We went over the ice like a hurricane. The speed continued and continued; then suddenly the miracle happened. With a mighty pull the machine raised itself from the earth. We were in the air. The master stroke was accomplished. It seemed to me after the breathless anxiety that I at last heard a light Ah! which grew into a ringing shout of joy.

PHOTOGRAPH OF AMUNDSEN’S MACHINE TAKEN FROM ELLSWORTH’S WHILE IN FLIGHT, SHORTLY BEFORE LANDING AND WITHIN 250 MILES OF THE POLE

After this calmness again took possession of the man who had performed this master stroke, and it left him no more during the whole trip. Feucht was always going up and down between the tank compartment and the motor; his duty was to keep the pilot advised of everything: how the engine worked: how much petrol had been used, etc. All seemed in the finest order and Feucht announced, “All clear.” Before we rose I had tried to get my things in order as the space was limited and my belongings numerous.

Over Cape Mitra we had already risen to 400 m. and everything beneath us seemed exceedingly small. Time after time I turned round and looked for the other machine, but never managed to discern it. Therefore we turned our plane completely round, flying back to look for N 24. One never knew what might have happened. It was possible that something had struck it as it tried to rise. The ice might have broken, or its load might have been too heavy for it. Suddenly something blazed in the sun; it glittered like gold. It was the sun playing on N 24’s wings. There it came in full flight to meet us. Everything seemed to be in order. Had I known then what I know now, I should have held my breath for a moment and taken off my hat to the man who sat at the wheel. But more about that later. Then the machine turned its nose again towards the north, and the two enormous birds started their flight together towards the “Unknown.”

My feelings at that moment were one whirl of burning gratitude. I gave a bow and a grateful glance to the man sitting behind me who had accomplished this brilliant master stroke—a warm silent thank-you to those who had just joined us; a thank-you so deep and so heartfelt to my five comrades, who have all willingly placed their lives upon the scales—a thank-you because the heavy yoke was at last lifted from my shoulders (the disdainful scorn which I had been forced to feel so many times during the last year of constant misfortune had disappeared for ever). Even if we fell right down now where we were this proof of our earnestness could nevermore be taken away.

We passed quickly over the northwest coast of Spitzbergen, where the sea below us was entirely free from ice. Then we reached Magdalena Bay, the South Gate with the Moss Islands, and then came the Danske Öen. I knew them all again from my trip with Gjoa in 1901. After an hour’s flight we were level with the Amsterdam Islands. Here we met most unpleasant weather. Fog as thick as porridge. First it came densely, thickeningly, from the northeast—then thicker—thicker. The pilot rose higher and we were flying above the woolen blanket. The other machine accompanied us at a somewhat lower altitude. Here I saw the strangest optical illusion I have ever seen and nothing seems to me to have ever equaled it in beauty. Directly pictured in the fog I could see a complete reflection of our own machine surrounded by a halo of all the spectrum’s colors. The sight was miraculously beautiful and original.