When Your Life Depends on It

by Brad Borkan

  They made One Ton Depot, the last major port of call before Hut Point, in the late afternoon of February 9. Here they had a last change of diet, a good feed of oatmeal, and at last a surplus of fuel over which to stir their hooshes to a proper boiling. They loaded the sledge with nine days’ provisions; no more. Only Crean and Lashly were pulling at all now. Evans was walking slowly alongside the sledge, silent in his pain, alone in his thoughts. He required help to attend to the simplest of matters—even to get into or out of the tent.

  As their own pace slowed, the certainty grew in them that the five-man Polar Party, now homeward bound, must be steadily gaining on them. Evans did his best to keep up and vowed to do so until the very end, but all knew he would have to ride on top of the sledge before long. In the long marches they were still pulling in eleven miles (17 km), but it was a struggle for two men. Eleven miles a day might not get them home in time.

  On February 12th, the smoking summit of Mount Erebus (the second highest volcano in Antarctica) appeared on the horizon ahead. The image did not last; its encouragement was not enough to keep Evans from fainting more than once, to be revived with difficulty by a drop of brandy. The following day he could not go on. He begged his two companions to save themselves and leave him to his fate. Then as their commanding officer, he ordered them to do so.

  Had you been Lt. Evans, would you have had the bravery to order your men to save themselves while they could, and leave you to your fate?

  It might be mutiny to disobey a direct order, but Crean and Lashly would hear nothing of it: “We shall stand by him to the end, so we are the masters today.” After a council of war they concluded to drop by the wayside everything they could possibly get along without, and go on with only the tent, sleeping bags, cooker, and what little food and oil was left. They would carry Lt. Evans on the sledge, and win through all three, or not at all.

  Carrying Evans on the sledge this way would slow the party’s progress to the point that it might very well leave them stranded without food or oil, to slowly starve out on the Barrier. No one would be coming to rescue them in the short term. If Scott and the Polar Party had successfully reached the South Pole, they would still be too far behind Evans, Crean and Lashly to reach them in time.

  This was a brave yet highly risky decision. Lieutenant Evans was likely to die anyway. Knowing that, would you have acted as Crean and Lashly—reducing your own likelihood of surviving to save a dying man?

  Do the best you can with what you’ve got

  It added hours to the day’s work, to break down the tent around Evans and get him ready to lie on the sledge. Longer hours on the march gave some progress, but at a pitiful rate, even with the help of a sail attached to the top of the sledge and favorable winds. During the heavy drag of February 16, Castle Rock and Observation Hill came occasionally into view. They were close to home, and looking for relief from the dog teams, but there would be no dogs. They would have to make it in under their own steam, even on half-rations.

  What a pleasant surprise it was to see the last abandoned, broken-down motor sledge announcing Corner Camp just ahead. Crean and Lashly uncovered Lt. Evans enough to let him have a look. They picked up some biscuits at the camp, but that was all. With lower temperatures all the time and Evans so weak, they were almost afraid to go to sleep that night for fear he’d freeze.

  He hadn’t frozen to death when they awoke the next morning, but he was so weak as to be totally helpless, and when Lashly tried to move him he fainted dead away. Crean saw the collapse and thought he had died outright. It was all too much—they’d come so far together, and faced so many hardships, to have it come to this. There were still a few drops of brandy in the medicine chest, just enough to bring him around one last time.

  Clearly Evans could not be moved again. They’d come to the end of their food; one more day’s oil remained. They’d made the long journey, advanced the Polar Party to within striking distance of the goal, and returned thus far, only to be waylaid by misfortune and stranded hopelessly on this desolate ice plain.

  Crean and Lashly stood outside the tent and talked over what to do next. The hut was thirty-five miles (56 km) farther on. Someone might be waiting there, ready with the dog teams to come out to meet the Polar Parties surely close at hand, to help them in. Just as likely, the hut might be empty, and the relief parties still waiting at Cape Evans farther north, assured by recent reports that both Polar Parties were going strong, and able to return home under their own steam.

  Although it was risky for anyone to set out alone on this last thirty-five miles, the odds were better than the certain death that would occur for all three by remaining in camp. They had reached the limit of their common endurance. Little food remained for them, and only the merest glimmer of oil for the lamp. Left alone in the tent, Evans would surely, and quickly, die. The other two were almost equal in their waning strength, diminished as it was from the hardy manhood of but a few months past. Together they might have made it in, but neither would agree to leave their lieutenant behind alone to die.

  What would you have done?

  Crean and Lashly decided that one man must go forward to get what help there may be, or quite literally die trying. For them, it mattered little who drew the short straw, and who the long—who died on the trail, and who in the tent with Lt. Evans. Thirty-five more miles to the hut demanded more strength than either of them could muster. Still, no British seaman would, or could, forget this admonition from the English Admiral Lord Nelson, in the 1700s: “Do the best you can with what you’ve got.” One man would go forward and bring back aid or die in the attempt.

  Three biscuits

  Crean was the one to go on. He made his farewells—they might well have been his last—to Bill Lashly the stout-hearted stoker, and Lt. Evans, too sick to come to the tent’s door to wave goodbye. Two sticks of chocolate and three biscuits in his pocket were all he took. Whether or not it was enough he would find out, but it mattered little. There was not another ounce of food to be taken for the journey. With no tent and no sleeping bag, if Crean stopped for an extended rest along the way, he would likely die in his sleep from exposure and frostbite.

  He stopped, as he supposed, near the halfway point. The chocolate in his outer pocket was frozen hard as a brick, and broke up like sand in his parched mouth. He sat down on the snow to rest his legs, but Tom Crean wasn’t done yet.

  If he weakened and fell short on this final stretch, if he stopped to rest a moment and fell asleep, if a blizzard closed over him and blotted out the light one final fatal time, then so be it. Who was he to challenge God’s will? But it was Crean’s will now, and it was one foot in front of the other with only another fifteen level miles (24 km) left to go. What were they to the almost fifteen hundred (2,400 km) out-and-back already done?

  Five hours of steady going later, he passed Safety Camp. Behind, the weather was beginning to come on thick. No time to slow up now. As he headed toward Cape Armitage, the wind and snow were increasing. He felt, rather than saw, the surface slush he was walking into. Better to try again to scout out a way up and over the gap between Observation Hill and Castle Rock after all, or he’d never get in. He managed—barely—and through rifts in the ragged drift he made out the hut in the distance. There was no sign of life; no sledges or dogs in sight. The place might well be cold and empty, but it lay just ahead. A few more steps and he was at the door.

  Edward Atkinson and Dmitri Gerof were warming themselves by the blubber fire inside, listening to the rising wind, and glad they were safe and secure. It looked to be a long hard blow coming on; outside the dogs began their infernal howl. Suddenly Crean appeared at the wooden door and took them by surprise—the supporting party was not unexpected, and anyone on the trail would surely be holed up in his tent for a blow like this. He was covered with new-blown snow, thin and ragged and barely recognizable, “Crean!” They swung the door wide and ushered him in.

  Outside the wind kicked up fiercely, battering at the wood
en walls of the hut, but sparing the weary traveler home from the trail. No sooner was he safely inside than the storm buried the hut in a whirl of drift. Despite the desperate situation of Evans and Lashly out on the Barrier, there would be no going out to save them until this blizzard subsided. Crean had done all that a man could do.

  All day and night until the next morning, the blizzard surged around the hut. The three men drew close to the blubber stove and worried over the fate of the two still out on the Barrier. By afternoon, the storm had abated enough for the doctor and Dmitri to make a start with the dogs, leaving Crean—who wished to go but was ordered to stay behind—alone in the hut.

  On the afternoon of February 22, Crean saw the rescue party, their mission accomplished, come round Cape Armitage and clatter up to the hut. Lashly was all right, but Lt. Evans was nearer death than a man had any right to expect a return from. He had suffered greatly bumping over the ice on the road home, but having come this far, amazingly, he would survive. Their terrible ordeal was over, and the success of the great endeavor assured. After a brief reunion and a short rest for the dogs, Crean and Gerof were off for the warmth and plenty at Cape Evans Hut. Lieutenant Evans would need a few more days’ lie-in before he could travel again.

  Lessons learned Lieutenant Evans later said that the refusal of Crean and Lashly to leave him to die on the ice was the only time in his military career that anyone had defied a direct order. To have done so would be considered mutiny, yet these two men held their duty to him as their friend higher than their duty to him as commander. Evans dedicated his 1921 book about the expedition, South with Scott, to Crean and Lashly.

  It is amazing the power that exists within us. Like Crean, we all have hidden reserves of physical strength, bravery and mental willpower, all the more powerful when coupled with a desire to not let one’s friends down.

  A memorable footnote to this story: when Crean was about halfway through his march he sat down to eat some food. He put one of the three biscuits back in his pocket. Later, when asked why, he simply replied that he was, saving it for an emergency.

  Chapter 8

  Promises, Promises

  How good are you at keeping yours?

  At a young age we learn the importance of promises. As we grow older we discover there are many types of promises: promises to friends or work colleagues; promises to spouses; promises of a financial nature such as a mortgage or loan.

  However, in the process of growing up we also learn that it is okay to occasionally break promises. Circumstances change; everyone understands that. With the best intentions, in today’s world, we can easily say one thing and mean another, and not feel bad doing so. Politicians do this on a regular basis. On a personal level, how many of us have made a promise to our spouse or partner to come home from work on time, only to break it when an important customer needed attending to?

  Rarely do such modern day broken promises so impact another person that they result in their death or suffering. Nowadays, at worst, most broken promises might result in hurt feelings, a damaged relationship, or a financial penalty—but not life or death.

  However, life or death is exactly what Shackleton’s Ross Sea Party faced in 1914 and 1915—an impossible task, an unbreakable commitment, and with many lives in the balance, including their own, all depending on the decisions they made.

  As described in Chapter 3, after the South Pole was conquered by Amundsen, Shackleton sought a new Antarctic challenge: to be the first to walk across continental Antarctica.

  His Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition plan would require two ships. The Endurance, leaving from South Georgia, near South America, would carry Shackleton and his team to the Weddell Sea side of Antarctica. The Aurora, leaving from Australia, would take another party, led by Aeneas Mackintosh, to the Ross Sea area on the opposite side. The plan seemed simple enough—Mackintosh and his men would lay depots from the Ross Sea toward the South Pole, so Shackleton and his men, who were going to trek across Antarctica, could pick up food and supplies once they had passed the South Pole and were homeward bound.

  In reading the Ross Sea Party’s awe-inspiring story, consider what you would have done. Would you have risked everything to keep your promise to Shackleton?

  A shared understanding

  Promises and commitments are the outward signs of mutual trust between parties, a shared understanding, and a bargain to be upheld at each end. This was especially true before the dawn of instantaneous radio communication, when months might elapse between the writing of a letter and its delivery, and between the making of a promise and its fulfilment.

  A contract might be drafted to spell out the particulars of an agreement—who should have delivered what by some specified date—but there was more to the commitment than the paper it was written on. There was a sense of honor between the parties that transcended the written contract—that the keeping of one’s word after the handshake was, or should be, all that was needed.

  Thus, in 1914 it was relatively simple for Shackleton to arrange —through Aeneas Mackintosh—the purchase of Mawson’s wooden ship the Aurora. Mawson had just returned from his Australian Antarctic Expedition and at that moment the ship was being refit in Hobart, Tasmania. A proven Antarctic vessel, she would be the ideal ship for use by the Ross Sea section of the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. Shackleton and Mackintosh were old friends and experienced hands at this exploring business through their shared experiences on Shackleton’s 1907-1909 Nimrod Expedition.

  The plan for the Ross Sea Party of the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition was to land the Aurora on Ross Island at the site of the old Discovery Hut built by Scott’s 1901-1904 expedition. Using that as a base, Mackintosh and his men, supported by a team of dogs, would then lay a series of supply depots along the trail from the Discovery Hut to the base of the Beardmore Glacier some four hundred miles (640 km) south towards the Pole.

  Shackleton and the men who would traverse the continent with him depended for their survival on these supplies being in the designated locations along the Great Ice Barrier. Failure in any part of this plan would doom them to starvation on the ice.

  The plan was deceptively simple. Past experience had shown that with proven leadership, a solid team and a bit of luck, a trans-continental journey could be done. All that would be needed for Mackintosh to complete his part would be to obtain the necessary gear and supplies to stock the depots, a number of good men to lay them, and the use of the Aurora to get them from Tasmania to Ross Island in the Antarctic and back. It would not be easy, but great plans rely on great expectations.

  The two men parted ways in London in September 1914, bound for opposite ends of the Earth, each to the intended completion of his part of the bargain, never to meet again. For his part, Shackleton’s Endurance was crushed by the shifting ice of the Weddell Sea, as described in Chapter 3: What Do You Do When Luck Runs Out? Shackleton failed to land his Trans-Continental Party, but Mackintosh was never to know that. There was no radio or other long-distance communication in or near Antarctica in the early 1900s. The promise had been made, and it was now Mackintosh’s job and duty to fulfil it.

  Mackintosh arrived in Australia the second week of October 1914 to find that Shackleton had been lax in holding up his own end—promised funds were sadly lacking, and the ship was in a poor state of repair. The scientists who were to have rounded out the Aurora’s staff were actually aboard the Endurance that was bound for the Weddell Sea with Shackleton; some of the seamen whose names were on the Aurora roster were nowhere to be found. Shackleton’s agents in London were uncooperative and unwilling to release funds (which were in fact not available.)

  But Mackintosh had given his word. There was no question of yielding to this inadequate support. So began a long cascade of decisions playing out over many months and thousands of miles, all of them aimed toward one overarching goal—making the Ross Sea side of the expedition successful. Regardless of the untenable situation facing Mackintosh in Tasmania, Sh
ackleton’s Trans-Antarctic overland party would be looking for their depots, possibly as early as the coming Antarctic autumn. Mackintosh immediately began networking and fundraising, and in the end cobbled together enough of everything needed to set sail on December 23, 1914. A few weeks late, but still in time—barely—to get at least a few of the depots laid out upon the South Polar Trail.

  A question of authority

  Mackintosh had an invaluable ally to help wring success out of the confusion reigning in Tasmania. Ernest Joyce was the one true Antarctic veteran on hand. He had first been south with Scott’s Discovery Expedition, and then again with Shackleton’s Nimrod Expedition. He was a well-established handler for the eighteen dogs that would accompany Mackintosh to the Ross Sea. Joyce was also familiar with the specialized stores and equipment of a polar expedition. Unlike Mackintosh, who was a seasoned ship’s captain and chosen leader of the Ross Sea Party, Joyce for all his braggadocio and his sea and sledging experience, had no instinctive capacity for leadership. The two men found themselves in a sometimes uneasy partnership, directing the work of the unlikely team brought together in the port of Hobart, Tasmania.

  Their work was hindered from the beginning by the lack of funds, insufficient supplies, and the late start. These were factors whose ultimate consequences had yet to be fully realized. The primary, unavoidable decision was this: they would keep their promise and on no account would Shackleton’s overland party be abandoned to their fate.

  Upon landing at Ross Island

  Some, but not all of the necessary stores were landed at Discovery Hut, and the Ross Sea Party managed to place them in depots as far south as the waning season would allow, seventy miles (112 km) to the distinctive headland known as Minna Bluff. These preliminary advance depots were intended to support the real work of the expedition to be undertaken in the following spring—the laying of well-stocked depots all the way to the Beardmore Glacier.