by Brad Borkan
There are too many examples to name, but here are a few of the very best. Scott brought his two seamen back from the plateau in 1904. Shackleton brought his three men back from nearest the Pole in 1909. Wilson brought Bowers and Cherry-Garrard back from the winter trek to Cape Crozier in 1911, “the worst journey in the world.” Amundsen led his team to the South Pole and made it seem like an easy walk. Victor Campbell brought back his five men after one of the hardest winters ever endured, surviving in an ice cave. Frank Wild was left in charge on Elephant Island, and kept the men safe until Shackleton’s return in a relief ship.
Each of these men had a definite aura of self-confidence in his chosen role, which, even in the darkest nights, in the face of unimaginable travail and certain doom, inspired the men in their command. It may seem like a hyperbole to say that men would follow these leaders to the ends of the earth, but in fact, they did. Without such inspiration, in many cases the exploration party would have lost faith, weakened, and some or all would have perished.
Who is on your team?
If the members have been well chosen, everyone from the experienced leader at the top, down to the raw recruit with everything to learn, will pull together towards a common goal, working as a team and becoming stronger as a result. Shackleton was blessed to have had someone as hard-working, agile, and dedicated as Frank Wild, but his presence was the result of Shackleton’s skill in choosing.
Take a moment to ask yourself: What teams are you on? Can you rely without question on your teammates? Do your collective skills complement one another? How good are your leaders? Most important of all, would you go with them to the ends of the Earth?
Who’s on your team?
* * *
Seven men followed Robert Scott to the high plateau in an attempt to reach the South Pole first. Five headed onward for the Pole itself; three, serving as the support team to get Scott and his team to this point, turned about and headed for home. While still hundreds of miles from home, one of them became so ill from scurvy he could barely walk. Sometimes extreme demands are made on us, and we are forced to make decisions and take risks that seem impossible. In the Antarctic, life and death might hang in the balance, and the outcome might depend on one man to pull through against all odds, or all would face certain death.
One man had to, with only three biscuits, and thirty-five miles (56 km) of frozen terrain to cross. Would you have volunteered to do it?
Chapter 7
Three Biscuits And Thirty-five Miles To Go
Would you do it?
Think of a city 750 miles (1,200 km) from where you are right now. Imagine yourself walking there, cross-country in the dead of winter, pulling with you everything you will need along the way. “Everything” includes your tent and sleeping bag, all your food and the means to prepare it, the fuel to melt the ice for drinking water, heavy navigational instruments, and of course a sledge on which to haul it all.
The moment you arrive, you turn around and start walking all the way back to where you started.
Imagine that you have embarked upon this journey with seven others, and that during your two months together all of you became closer through this shared experience. Soon you will be parting company—some to continue on toward a still more distant goal, and some to return. The four who will go on are of course those most fit to do so; those sent home have not quite made the grade. Your leader will decide today who stays and who returns.
For those returning, there will be nothing new—no discovery, no glory—just a long and dreary walk until you reach base once more.
There is no desert in the world so bare as this, so empty and devoid of any scrap of life—not even a stone—to delight the eye or interest the mind. It goes on like this for hundreds and hundreds of miles, to the far side of the continent, without so much as the nunatak peak of a buried mountain to mark a way across. The coldest of winds sweeps the drifts of snow in every direction. There is no way out but the return of the way in, where the meagre depots are planted at the slimmest of margins, to guide and sustain the traveler home.
The Pole itself, 172 miles (277 km) farther on, is clearly in hand, and the time has come for the last supporting party to detach itself and return home. The question on your mind is will you be one of the team to go on to the Pole? Will you want to be?
The best-laid plans
January 3, 1912. Captain Robert Scott’s assault on the South Pole has made good progress. His men have reached their goal on schedule, this parting-place on the South Polar Plateau. Eight men in two four-man teams have been working steadily since the beginning of November, 1911 to reach this place, first with the aid of ponies, and since December 9, man-hauling their gear over an eight-thousand-foot (2,414 meters) ascent up the Beardmore Glacier to this plateau.
Scott comes into the tent of the returning party and delivers a startling announcement: he will take one person from the four-man team and add him to the team who will be going forward with him to the South Pole. The new idea is that if four could make the final dash, then five can do it faster, so much so that they will catch up with the three-man support party just before they reach home base. The fourth man, Birdie Bowers, goes over to Scott’s tent to join the Polar Party, leaving Tom Crean and Bill Lashly to turn homeward under the command of Lt. Edward Evans.
So, this is the way it would be—five men to go on, three to return. There was nothing for it but to trust Scott’s wisdom, follow his orders, and believe that all would be for the best. After a long parley over things in general, Scott, confident of success, thanks them one and all for the generous way in which they have assisted in the final goal, and assures them that he will be sorry when they part.
The change from two four-man teams meant that much of the depot supplies would have to be recast into three- and five-man units, with no mistakes in the division. Scott asks the men of the supporting party if they will be all right making the 750-mile return trip as a party of three. “Of course,” responds the leader of the party, Lt. Edward Evans. The two others, Tom Crean and Bill Lashly, mutely nod their assent.
Experience had shown that four-man teams worked best in man-hauling long distances, but in the 1900s, an order from a commanding officer had to be obeyed. Would you have dared to voice your opinion?
Facing difficulties as they arise
It was a day of cold drift, as cold as any they’d yet encountered. Even so, they all made one good last outward march together, twelve more miles (19 km) toward the Pole. There had to be a point, a place where no further help was needed, and each team must look to its own affairs. Here was the true farewell, the final goodbye. The fates of all who had struggled equally to gain this far advance would now fall out to different advantage. The empty plain surrounded them in their parting. A vast cathedral with no walls was now instead an airy vault that could not contain the awesome consequence of this moment. The last supporting party gave three cheers for their friends and said goodbye. Now, watching the others disappear into the white wilderness ahead, the supporting party turned in their tracks to take those first steps, dragging their sledge behind. Their own story was just beginning.
There were, perhaps, no three men lonelier in all the world. The remoteness of their advanced position was exceeded by only that of the five who were now on their way to glory and the Pole. But, in their suddenly diminished company, they felt their isolation yet more acutely. It drew them together, men and officer, encircled them, and seemed to ease the proper distinctions of rank and class.
The journey back to Hut Point and safety would be a long one—a minimum of forty-four days. That timing depended on perfect Antarctic weather and good snow conditions, both of which were unlikely, and achieving their desired seventeen miles (27 km) per day—a dreadfully extended haul under any circumstances. Coupled with the outward march to this godforsaken place, it would give them, for a brief moment, the distance record for the longest polar march ever done—fifteen hundred miles (2,400 km) for the roundtrip, give or
take a few. It was not a record that brought much joy to contemplate. Before long it would be exceeded by that of the Polar Party, who would also expect to enjoy that other, dearer, record—that of having been the first men to stand on the South Pole of the Earth.
Taking up their load with a will, they made thirteen miles (21 km) before camping for their first night on the homeward trail. Here on the plateau, they had no landmarks of any kind to triangulate their progress. They would be dependent on sighting the outward-bound cairns they had built of blocks of snow set at predefined distances apart, to show them where they were. All of a sudden it seemed as though the unequal division of the company was a huge mistake, and the burden of it must be borne by these three men. No great matter; these things are what they are. Success comes from not dwelling on why they were in the situation, but on moving forward in their new circumstances as a team of three.
The eye searches in vain for some dark object, some shadow to break the white monotony of the trail ahead, but there is nothing. Snow goggles are well enough for the pullers, but the man leading the way needs better vision to pick out the indistinct humps of weathered snow-cairns in the distance. Up and on the road after breakfast, Crean led the way, his eyes fully exposed to the strong light above and reflecting off the snow. By early afternoon the telltale stinging told him it was too late to stop the damage. He wouldn’t be sleeping much; zinc tablets from the medicine kit gave but scant relief. He’d march blind while the others took the lead.
They led him seventeen miles (27 km) that second homeward day, and another sixteen-and-a-half the next. Along the way they passed the remains of their old depot camp with four pairs of skis sticking up out of the snow—one pair for each of them, and one for Birdie to pick up on his way home. Evans kept them going at a pace, anxious to make the Upper Glacier Depot before their oil for cooking and melting snow into drinkable water ran out.
The descent became more difficult, and the sledge harder to control as the glacier beneath them inclined down into the upper reaches of the gorge. They had reached the head of the icefalls found by Shackleton on his own return from the plateau in 1909. This torrent of ice, fractured by deep blue crevasses crossing in every direction, descended abruptly into the upper reaches of the Beardmore Glacier. From the top, there was no way through to be seen; circling around the ice falls would add days to the journey risking further exposure and starvation. Coyly beckoning, the smooth traveling surface of the upper glacier lay in full view hundreds of feet below.
The party crept along, lost in a welter of dangers at every turn. They came at last to a brink over which they could not hope to control the sledge. If they were to go forward at all, it would be aboard, as passengers on a runaway, to whatever fate might deal them at the bottom of the slope. There would be no going back.
The men inched along toward the brink, grabbed on, and tipped themselves into the drop. The sledge ran down the slope, picking
up speed beyond any sort of control. It must have reached sixty miles (96 km) per hour, and yet by some miracle kept upright and on course, bumping mightily over unseen obstacles, clattering uncontrollably over hummocks of hard ice. Without warning it left the ice altogether and leapt into the air, catapulting clear over the blue depths of a yawning crevasse. By a divine miracle of coincidence, the sledge was brought up to a hard standing by an old lunch camp near the Upper Glacier Depot they had used on the outward journey.
Given the choice of destruction by accident versus death by starvation and exposure, which would you have chosen?
Bridges to be crossed
Carefully dividing the rations in the depot and taking no more than their fair share of pemmican, biscuits, and oil, they moved on. Another hundred miles (160 km) down the glacier, and another four hundred (640 km) across the relatively easier flat barrier would see them home. Bright sunshine gave way to a low-lying cloud that filled the valley with a dense fog. The slope of the glacier drove their route far to the west where a pair of tributary glaciers flowed into the Beardmore Glacier at the same level, churning up a perfect nightmare of crevasses. These mazes are hard to see even in good light, and easy enough to work into. By the second day it was clear the party had slipped into a trap.
Great tumbled blocks of ice the size of churches loomed through the floating crystals. A tangled web of passages ran between them. Enormous chasms, deep enough to swallow whole the biggest ship afloat, appeared abruptly.
The three men came to a decisive halt at the brink of yet another yawning chasm. Into the abyss, a narrow snow bridge, sunken in the middle like a saddle, led to the other side. The top along its length was a knifelike ridge, an inverted “V” so narrow that the sledge runners would not grip. The sledge would have to be dragged along it, inch by inch.
In a sense, the decision to take this enormous risk was made for them; there was no other option. Lashly went first, with the alpine rope tied about his waist, straddling the bridge’s swaybacked spine as he would a horse, and shuffling his way along, not daring to look into the awful void that lay to either side. Under the weight of this one man, the bridge held. The rope was long enough—barely—to give him scope to climb up the snowbank that rose at the opposite end. Gaining its slight summit, he turned toward his companions. Across the gulf, Crean and Lt. Evans could see his face gone white with fear. Now it was their turn. They wasted no time.
They sat face-to-face astride the bridge, with the sledge between them, its runners just resting on the snow on either side. The blue depths of the chasm dropped away beneath their feet. The slightest shift of balance, or the collapse of the bridge with two men and a heavy sledge on it, would doom them all. One slip, one false move, and the sledge and all their hopes with it would go tumbling into the abyss. There was no panic—only a quickly-laid plan, a few well-chosen moves, and the sledge was secured.
They took a moment to look around; there was no way out of the maze. The three men sat wearily on the sledge: they were well and truly done in, and there was not a single ledge wide enough to hold the tent. They had worked all this day without food, saving their last bits until the starkest necessity drove them to eat. Evans went on alone, looking for a way out. How frail and insignificant he looked, and he was their only hope in the immensity of this wilderness.
He returned after an hour, bearing good news. There were some rough patches yet to cross, but they had made it to the bottom of the icefall. Threading along the path he’d found, they emerged that afternoon onto the smooth ice of the glacier. Lashly had been hoarding oddments of food from their regular ration for just such a time, and produced a modest supper. Here they ate the last of their biscuits, and everything else but a little tea and sugar. They were within an easy downhill march of the Middle Glacier Depot. Once there, they camped and had another meal, this time a full one. Replete and relieved, the three men crawled into their reindeer-fur bags and were quickly sound asleep.
Determined to make a better show with the next day’s march, they covered twenty miles (32 km) on ski and reached the Lower Glacier Depot at the end of the march a half-day ahead of schedule. The three men had improved on the work allotted to four, and now stood every chance of making it home in good time, perhaps even ahead of schedule.
The Barrier, now so close at hand, had somehow the feel of home. Three hundred and sixty miles (580 km) still lay between the three men and ultimate safety, but the old familiar Barrier promised a straightforward and level road, and better weather than the stiff plateau wind that must be even now battering away at Scott’s Polar Party.
It’s your call
(The continuation of the story told in the opening paragraphs of this book.)
They were off the glacier; the hard way now lay behind, and a long straight road before. But their elation would not last long. In camp that night, Lt. Evans complained for the first time of stiffness at the backs of his knees. Any sailor worth his salt knows this is one of the first signs of scurvy. Crean and Lashly had noted their officer’s general declin
e in recent weeks, and now began to secretly examine his gums as he spoke, looking for the telltale swelling and discoloration there. For the time, they kept their concern between themselves.
Looseness of the bowels was beginning to afflict the lieutenant, interrupting the march along the homeward track. He was clearly weakening, complaining daily of stiffness in his legs, and of his skin turning black and blue and other colors as well. The effects of scurvy as it ravages the body include a weakness and lassitude that renders a man helpless, and a swelling in the joints that will cripple before it kills. The skin turns all colors; teeth fall from their sockets.
The two sailors now made clear to Evans what they had long suspected; their words confirmed his own suspicions. This bad news was coupled with a shortage of oil in the tins uncovered at the Mid-Barrier Depot. They could be sure that none of the previous returning parties would have taken more than their share. (It was later determined that the seals on the canisters were damaged by the prolonged cold when buried in the depot.) Taking the barest minimum of oil for their own needs, they left the rest for the returning Polar Party and headed out again.
Evans’ condition and the pain it brought grew worse by the day, but he was still able to pull the sledge—barely—in his harness. He suffered his agony in silence, keeping up a cheery front for the benefit of his tent-mates. By now he was passing large amounts of blood daily. Even so, they had been making good mileages—sixteen, fourteen, thirteen, thirteen—but this, too, began to diminish.
On the morning of February 3, still well south of the plenty that lay ahead at One Ton Depot, Evans was barely able to stand without help. Crean and Lashly lifted him and strapped his feet into his skis. The south wind was a help, but even so their daily distances were not enough to assure a safe arrival for all three, with still 180 miles (290 km)—only two more Sundays—to Hut Point.