The Last Viking

by Stephen Bown

  The previous fall, a London physician had minced no words: “No more expeditions! If you expect to live more than a few years longer you must avoid all strenuous exercise.” Amundsen proudly paid no attention to this advice and wrote, “I started on foot from Point Barrow through the snow with a native mail carrier and made the run of 500 miles to Kotzebue in ten days, at an average speed of 50 miles a day. The next two days I ran 90 miles from Kotzebue to Deering to Nome; and in the following four days, I ran 200 miles from Deering to Nome. In other words, after having been ‘counted out’ by a heart specialist in February, I did the hardest travelling of my life in November, covering practically 800 miles through the snow at an average speed of nearly 50 miles a day, stopping only a few hours every night to sleep.” He wrote this not to “boast,” he claimed, but to demonstrate the result of “a conscientious regimen of life from youth onward to preserve it in the prime condition in which nature intended it to function.” This account was written five years later, when Amundsen was in his mid-fifties and showing a preoccupation with his continued strength—the concern of an athletic man in later middle age worried about the inevitability of physical decline. In 1921, many of Amundsen’s teeth had been pulled and replaced with gold teeth, so “my mouth looks like a true Klondike man’s unfortunately” (probably the reason why Amundsen is seldom seen fully smiling in any photographs from this time).

  Amundsen briefly visited Magids on his way through Deering, but he spent most of the winter in Nome, taking advantage of the free accommodation on account of his celebrity and enjoying festivities that included dancing, drinking and dogsled races. In Nome, he also had to face the realization that once again his finances were in trouble. He had burned through his modest fortune and most of the new government funds, and his expedition was again in debt, particularly in the United States. Haakon Hammer, Amundsen’s new American business agent, wrote a letter to Leon in Norway and asked for funds to cover the U.S. debt, but he was rebuffed; Leon did not trust the man, even though Hammer claimed to be paying various ongoing costs from his personal funds. Even if Hammer was not entirely trustworthy, Amundsen was notorious for racking up expenses without a care for how they would be repaid; it was a strategy that had worked so far in his life. The problem was that he was now trying to finance two expeditions—a scientific voyage with the Maud and a daring polar flight—but with financing in place for only one. As usual, he was sanguine, believing that his flying stunt would vanquish any problems that presented themselves. He sold a small property in Norway and used the proceeds to satisfy the immediate claims of various U.S. creditors who had contacted him through a bank in Nome.

  While Amundsen was essentially incommunicado in Alaska during the winter of 1922–1923, a scandal was developing in the southern United States. A rival explorer, Edwin Fairfax Naulty, a man of lofty ambitions who had never been to the Arctic, claimed that Amundsen had stolen his plans for the polar flight. Naulty pronounced that Amundsen was a foreign agent bent on deceiving the United States by using its territory to launch an expedition to claim new land for Norway. He also complained that Amundsen was stealing an “American” plan—that is, his own—in the same manner, he falsely claimed, that Amundsen had stolen Scott’s plan and route to the South Pole. Although Naulty’s was a strange and illogical argument, he was getting coverage in newspapers, probably for this very reason, and because Amundsen was a celebrity.

  Amundsen had no idea that he was being slandered, but Hammer responded to the challenge for him in a special to the New York Times. Hammer wrote about the absurdity of someone claiming priority in the idea or concept of a polar flight, something Amundsen had been considering for nearly a decade, and something that Peary had also mused about for many years. In his final paragraph, Hammer wrote,

  I know the real American admires a true sportsman, regardless of nationality; admires the man of daring, the man of action, the man who really does things and thereby proves that he is a two-fisted, red-blooded human; that is Amundsen, the man who is now about to attempt one of the most daring feats in exploration annals, and I am quite sure that in spite of Mr. Naulty’s talk a large majority of Americans are proud to regard Captain Amundsen not as a citizen of any specific country, but as a citizen of the world. . . . His discoveries, geographic or scientific, are the property of the world and not the property of a specific country.

  Certainly Amundsen spent far more time in the United States than he did in Norway. Legality aside, Amundsen was more American than Norwegian at this point in his life.

  Naulty’s claims were also quickly discredited by Henry Woodhouse, president of the Aerial League of America, who pointed out that he was with Amundsen, Peary and the explorer Robert Bartlett in 1916 when the three of them had discussed the logistics of a polar flight. Amundsen never bothered to personally reply to Naulty’s claims, and the issue faded from interest after a few months. But it was also around this time that Leon sent his brother a telegram detailing Hammer’s shady business dealings in Denmark. However eloquent the Danish American businessman appeared to be, his history was enough for Amundsen to hastily rescind Hammer’s power of attorney over his expedition and return it fully to Leon, at least temporarily.

  In the spring of 1923, excitement was building for the polar flight, and Amundsen was making the final preparations. Many people wrote letters to newspapers offering their opinion on how he should proceed or organize his expedition, while others complained that he had wronged them or made other spurious claims. One writer advised him to use walrus-skin pontoons, another predicted his failure, and yet another advised him on how much fuel to take. One writer of a letter to the New York Times wondered “just what [Amundsen] expects to accomplish, outside of a long-distance airplane flight under ideal weather conditions.” A New York woman claimed to be Amundsen’s long-lost daughter (this was proven false). A report, following an X-ray he had in Nome, announced that “Arm Troubles Amundsen.” One day the papers reported that he was about to leave on his flight, and a few days later the report was that the flight had been delayed. One day the Norwegian government was supposedly planning a “relief expedition” and a few days later, the relief expedition had supposedly been called off. Amundsen was in the media circus, part of a never-abating commentary on his life and actions. Fortunately for him, he was insulated from most of the hoopla by the remote regions of his endeavour and the lack of efficient communications technology.

  Amundsen set off from Nome to Wainwright by dogsled in April 1923, travelling over the snow of early spring with a handful of stories for his planned book and the foreboding knowledge of his foundering finances. He arrived on May 9, and after consulting with Omdal fixed the date for the great trans-polar flight, announcing that it would take place on June 20. During the winter, Omdal had assembled the Junkers from the parts that had been shipped in three giant crates and had replaced the landing wheels with skis. On May 11, he fired up the engine while the plane rested on a flat patch of ice out on the bay. The propeller roared to life, and the machine taxied along the icy expanse before lifting into the air. Omdal cruised in circles over the village of Wainwright for a while and then steered the plane back to the cleared runway. As soon as it touched the ice, the left ski “crumpled like a piece of cardboard” and the Junkers spun in a circle over the ragged frozen surface of the water, scraping a wing. Omdal was uninjured, but an investigation of the inner structure of the airplane revealed that it was severely damaged. Worse, the structure of the airplane was so ill-suited to the impact of landing on skis that Amundsen and Omdal feared it would never work as planned. The company that designed the airplane in Germany knew of Amundsen’s plans and should have warned him of the risk, but Amundsen should have done a better job of inspecting it before testing it. He was no longer adhering to the philosophy guiding his earlier expeditions. So much planning and testing had gone into his Northwest Passage and South Pole ventures, but so little into this polar flight scheme, and the results confirmed that. In his defence i
t must be said that aviation technology was primitive, although rapidly evolving, and Amundsen was attempting something never accomplished before.

  In frustration, Amundsen initially blamed Omdal for the crash, even though as the leader he was more to blame for attempting a polar flight without first checking his equipment. Omdal and Amundsen attempted to repair and reinforce the landing structure with the limited supplies on hand, but when they tested the airplane again on June 10 it again crumpled. The entire scheme had to be called off. All the air mail that had been pre-sold would now remain undelivered. Added to this was the disappointment of all the other sponsors, the numerous creditors and the Norwegian government, which had sent a ship to Spitsbergen to await the historic arrival of Amundsen’s airplane from across the top of the world. Amundsen had finally failed. The next year would bring what he later described as “a series of events that led to the most distressing, the most humiliating, and altogether the most tragic episode of my life.”

  Although he might have been feeling dejected and humiliated, the public fascination with Amundsen did not abate. People were as interested in his failures as his successes. Newspaper articles continued to detail his plans, to print defences of him and attacks against him. One article mocked him, saying he orchestrated the crash because he was afraid, that it was all just for publicity; another accused him of abandoning his ship for the attention-seeking stunt of a polar flight. What is true about celebrity culture now was true about the activity surrounding Amundsen in the 1920s: interest in celebrities is greater when they are experiencing personal setbacks or in the midst of a scandal. Seeing a great man fall, and recording his ordeal and his actions, are all part of the story. The newspapers, and therefore presumably their readers, were caught up in the ongoing Amundsen saga. What would he do next? How could he possibly recover from this humiliating failure? When Amundsen retreated ignominiously to Seattle in September 1923, newspaper reporters had their proverbial knives out, and were looking for a story to carve.

  The events that Amundsen described as the worst in his life began with his association with Hammer in Seattle, and he attributed them to his “lack of business experience.” Of course, he could not admit defeat. He had not lost faith in his scheme; he knew it could be done with the proper equipment. He planned another polar flight and just needed money to purchase the proper planes. Hammer had written him en route to Spitsbergen, where he had travelled to await Amundsen, about the possibility of getting several new Junkers aircraft from Germany, but Amundsen now knew that they were unsuitable for Arctic flying. He needed money for new machines that suited his plans: he wanted “flying boats,” airplanes equipped with pontoons rather than skis or wheels. Amundsen met Hammer in Seattle, and Hammer promised he would raise the money; in desperation Amundsen believed him. “I had never had any opportunity to acquaint myself with business methods,” he wrote in his own defence a few years later. “I had always had to rely upon others for the management of any business details. Thus far my trust in others in these matters had never caused me any trouble. I did what I was told and everything came out all right.”

  While Hammer went to work searching for financing, Amundsen rode the train from Seattle to New York, and then sailed to London before making his way back to Norway in November. He again handed over his business affairs to Hammer, along with power of attorney. This time, his reception in Norway was frosty. Once the man who could do no wrong, he was now attacked for mismanaging the Maud expedition and for failing in his ridiculous stunt of a polar flight. Under Hammer’s management, Amundsen, with the bad press, seemed amateurish, and the financial support provided by the Norwegian government and people appeared to have been a bad investment. As usual, Amundsen kept a low profile at home, researching airplanes and visiting with his foster daughters—whom, he was pleased to note, were doing excellently at school. Despite the general antipathy toward him in Norway, he was able to persuade the government to issue a special stamp to commemorate the new polar flight, from which he would gain additional financing: most of the stamps would never be used, but would be kept as collector’s items. Back in the United States, Hammer printed about seventeen thousand postcards advertising “The Trans-Polar Flight Expedition,” with an image of a chart projection of the North Pole and an airplane zooming toward it. The caption read “In commemoration of Amundsen’s trans-Polar flight, 1924.” Hammer sold about ten thousand of them for a dollar each. He also went ahead with signing newspaper and magazine deals, and even film rights.

  After a few weeks, Amundsen departed for Copenhagen to meet with aircraft manufacturer Claud Dornier at his factory to discuss the possibility of using his planes in the Arctic. At first, Amundsen liked the Dornier Delphin, but he soon calculated that its range was too limited. He settled on the larger, newly designed and more expensive Dornier-Wal flying boat. Equipped with two 360-horsepower Rolls-Royce Eagle engines, mounted in tandem (one pulling and the other pushing), it had twice the range of the Delphin, enough for him to fly to the pole from Spitsbergen. The design element that interested Amundsen was that the Dornier-Wal had no landing gear; the aircraft was like a giant metal tube that had wings and engines bolted to its exterior. By his calculations, he would need three flying boats, one of which would carry extra fuel that would be pumped into the other two planes before being abandoned on the ice so that the remaining two flying boats could continue on to Alaska. On January 7, 1924, Amundsen signed a contract for the delivery of three planes, to be built in Pisa, Italy, to his specific requirements, at a price of $40,000 each. They would be ready for pick-up in June. Hammer negotiated a minimal down payment, using Amundsen’s celebrity and good name as assurance. He then convinced Amundsen that the funds would be in place by spring. Ever the optimist, Amundsen went to work on planning the expedition and hiring the crew, apparently unaware of the old maxim, “If something looks too good to be true, it probably is.” Another truism comes to mind: “What we wish to be true, we readily believe.” Amundsen was merely the latest in a great parade of the optimistically deluded, a gathering that would include a great many famous explorers as well as military commanders, gamblers, lovers and investors.

  His partnership with his brother Leon was an ideal match. Roald’s daring and preoccupation with the details of an expedition’s field were was balanced by Leon’s tact, diplomacy, gravitas and responsibility: piratical gambling and a mastery of hardship, balanced against caution, respectability and social standing. But with the portly Hammer, who had pretensions to call himself a polar explorer and who was mocked for it in the press, the partnership was a disaster. To make money from an expedition as a business enterprise, more was needed than just the execution of the deed—someone had to be the face and the voice of the expedition when the explorer was incommunicado. The “Amundsen” enterprise was indeed a business, and if the explorer himself wanted to participate in only half of it, he needed someone else to manage the other aspects of the expeditions, such as paying wages and dealing with creditors, quietly and confidently reassuring officials, and pursuing new fundraising and advertising opportunities. Amundsen provided the daring spectacle, but he needed someone else to ensure that money was being made while everyone was paying attention.

  An awkward situation arose relating to the possible discovery of new land during the flight. A great swath of the Arctic was essentially unknown. It was still a realistic possibility that a yet-to-be discovered landmass existed somewhere in the Arctic. If so, it would be the last great undiscovered and uncharted land on the planet. Who would own it? Which flag would be planted when the airplanes landed on the ice? Amundsen let it be known in Norway that he would of course plant the Norwegian flag; after all, he still depended upon some government financing, and the expedition planned to fly from Spitsbergen. Yet in the American papers he intimated that he would not claim any new land for Norway, and he let this vague, noncommittal statement stand. Hammer, meanwhile, was promising potential American backers that of course the new lands would belong t
o the United States. The American and Norwegian foreign officers began talking about the theoretical new land. Amundsen, however, had not lost his touch for diplomacy. He had arranged special permission to enlist Lieutenant Ralph Davison of the Naval Air Service, selected from over thirty American applicants, to be one of his pilots, a move that not surprisingly generated positive press in the United States.

  In April 1924, Amundsen rode the train to Pisa to inspect the new aircraft during their construction. Although Dornier-Wal was a German company, under the terms of the Treaty of Versailles that ended the First World War, Germany was prohibited from constructing large airplanes at home and had to contract out the work. Everyone at the factory seemed optimistic and excited about the new airplanes, but Amundsen heard some rumours about Hammer that began to disturb him. Apparently Hammer was bragging to the Italians about his flying prowess, claiming to be an Arctic explorer and boasting that he would be included in the flight party to the North Pole. “Nothing could have been more absurd than the idea of taking such an utterly inexperienced person as he upon an expedition which at best was fraught with the greatest hazards.” At first Amundsen found the claims hard to credit, but then they were confirmed by some of his Norwegian compatriots, at which point Amundsen began to suspect (or finally admitted that he suspected) that all was not well as far as Hammer was concerned. Because the stories were “so numerous and explicit,” Amundsen fired Hammer and publicly announced that their business relationship had ceased. Hammer quickly fled to Japan, and Amundsen was left to unravel the tangle of strange and complicated business dealings that he left behind. Hammer had “made commitments far beyond any resources I could possibly muster,” Amundsen related, and had set the entire expedition upon a fraudulent foundation, leaving Amundsen, in his own words, “humiliated beyond my powers to express it.”