by Stephen Bown
Four men crawled into the back of the flying boat while Amundsen sat next to Riiser-Larsen, the pilot. The Rolls-Royce engines “trembled and shook, shivered and piped” as the N25 bumped along on the rough ice on its fuselage and lower half-wings, nearly flipping on its side before righting itself. As its speed increased, the airplane began to make terrifying screeching sounds. The 7-metre high ice ridge at the end of the runway loomed ahead in the fog, and Riiser-Larsen gave full throttle ahead. The plane first skipped down into a small pool and then slowly began to rise as it approached the ice ridge. It seemed to take “terrible hours. . . . Thoughts and sensations crowd fast at such a moment,” Amundsen recalled.
The Dornier-Wal lurched upward and cleared the ice ridge by mere centimetres, and the men released weeks of tension in a ragged cheer as the airplane continued rising and began heading back to Spitsbergen. Amundsen could now see the discarded equipment piled on the ice below, and a little distance away the carcass of the other flying boat. The flight home was accomplished in dense fog that the plane alternately flew under and over, sometimes nearly skimming the ice to get a better view ahead. Its only navigational tool, the compass, did not work properly because the plane was so near the North Magnetic Pole. The fuel gauge showed an alarming decline as the airplane hauled the six men southward across the ice for eight and a half hours, with no land in sight. Then, with only half an hour of fuel remaining, the men spied the distant, snowy peaks of Spitsbergen jutting from the frozen sea. In celebration they ripped open the final remaining package of chocolate bars that Amundsen had ordered kept closed in case of a further emergency, and wolfed them down; Ellsworth gobbled seven of them right away and was soon feeling sick.
In Amundsen’s world, nothing was easy. It soon became apparent that part of the plane’s steering mechanism, the lateral control, was malfunctioning. It was a minor problem during the flight, but Riiser-Larsen finally announced that he no longer had control and would have to drop the plane instantly. Yet landing on the ice would rip the fuselage to shreds and probably kill all the occupants in a crash. The only option was a small open lead of water. Spotting one, Riiser-Larsen masterfully brought the N25 down in Hinlopen Strait, where the airplane taxied to shore in a deserted ice-bound bay on the far side of the island from Kings Bay.
Before Amundsen could even calculate how long it would take to traverse several glaciers on the uninhabited region of the island in order to reach Kings Bay, the men noticed a sail on the horizon. They jumped up and down on the stony beach, yelling and waving their hands, but men on the boat—sealers preoccupied with pursuing their quarry on the ice floes—sailed on. The adventurers once more leaped into the airplane and Riiser-Larsen fired up the engines. The flying boat rushed across the choppy grey waters, pursuing the sealers’ boat. Begrimed, sunburned, unshaven, weary and half-starved, Amundsen wasn’t recognized by the sealers until he displayed his famous beaked profile.
“You’re all supposed to be dead,” they claimed.
The Dirigible and the Fascist
It was only a year ago that the German airship flew over to this country. It is going to be the great means of transportation in the north. There will be regular routes over the North Pole. It may take a few years, but it is bound to come.
AMUNDSEN, ELLSWORTH and the others had indeed been given up for lost. When their flying boats had failed to return within a few days, newspapers began speculating on their fate. Rescue expeditions, too, had been mobilized; ships began to patrol the waters around Spitsbergen searching for evidence on the ice floes. But after three weeks, everyone had given up hope that the adventurers could possibly have survived—after all, they hadn’t taken with them any survival equipment, surplus food or even a radio. Several rescue plans were being discussed in Europe and in the United States; maps were brought out and scanned. Could they have tried to ski to Greenland? What if they had discovered new islands or the continent that Robert Peary claimed to have seen on his expedition?
All the speculation proved unnecessary when the six dishevelled adventurers turned up on June 18, thirty-two days after taking off from Kings Bay. Once the sealers had recovered from their surprise, the old sealing ship attached tow ropes to N25 and slowly hauled the flying boat along the Spitsbergen coast to Franklin Strait, where it was safely moored. Then they continued to Kings Bay, arriving in the harbour in time to see two rescue ships, Hobby and the larger warship Heimdal, preparing to depart for the search. As they neared shore, Amundsen and his five compatriots waved vigorously to onlookers and were soon met with jubilation and astonished shouts. A small crowd gathered on shore as they strode up to the small town. Fritz Zapffe, Amundsen’s friend from Tromsø and the expedition’s storekeeper, who had been nervously waiting for days, now smiled and rushed to get the box of celebratory cigars to hand them around. The exhausted, dirty explorers stood around and smoked, just as they had after the South Pole success, and photographers snapped their pictures. The gathering crowd of miners and the sailors from the rescue ships broke into song, the Norwegian national anthem. Amundsen recalled that “it was hard to remain dry eyed.”
During the next several days, the explorers cleaned themselves up while the news of their dramatic struggle for survival was cabled around the world to newspapers that had paid for the exclusive rights to the story. Dozens of congratulatory telegrams flooded in from old acquaintances and former adventuring comrades, including one from Kristine Bennett in London. Several days later, after a small fireworks display and to the rhythms of a brass band, the explorers marched down to the bay and boarded a coal ship that would take them and the now-famous N25 south along the Norwegian coast to Horten, from where they would fly to Oslo for a grand celebration. The Norwegian public quickly forgot its general condemnation of Amundsen the previous year, in the aftermath of his public bankruptcy; he was again the hero of the nation, his position as the king of explorers restored by his latest heroic deed and miraculous survival. It was the first and last time that Amundsen completed one of his adventures in Norway.
In Oslo, the whole city was celebrating. Huge crowds lined the streets, and thousands of small boats cruised the harbour, which also hosted a British fleet of thirteen Royal Navy ships. As the hastily repaired Dornier-Wal circled overhead, the sound of its engines booming across the water, the great guns of the fort gave them a thirteen-gun salute. They were rowed ashore and, like Roman generals returning from an ancient victory, were paraded down the crowded streets in an open horse-drawn carriage to a ceremonial platform at the residence of the king and queen. Speeches were made and anthems sung. The reception was “royal,” exceeding even the pomp following Amundsen’s South Pole success. Ellsworth was given a gold medal for saving the lives of Dietrichson and Omdal, and Amundsen publicly praised him for saving the entire expedition and all its participants’ lives. The acclaim was overwhelming and unexpected: after all, they hadn’t even reached the North Pole—they had crashed on the ice and barely survived. But it was grand entertainment: the danger, the heroism, the dramatic struggle, the adventure. Amundsen provided Norwegians with a vicarious escape from the humdrum routine of daily life. Over the next few days the adventurers were treated to a series of public lunches and celebration dinners. If fame and public recognition were what Ellsworth was seeking from his association with Amundsen, then he got his money’s worth.
The next adventure in Amundsen’s career had been secured before the two flying boats had even launched from Spitsbergen in May. When Amundsen’s crew returned in June to find that the world had given them up for dead, Ellsworth discovered that his father was the one who had died—on June 2, while the son was struggling to clear ice and snow to make a runway. The younger Ellsworth had come into a vast inheritance, enough to finance any number of ambitious expeditions. He soon returned to the United States to deal with his father’s estate, but not before agreeing to put $100,000 toward the purchase of the Italian airship. As soon as they arrived in Oslo, Amundsen sent off a telegram to Italy, asking
Colonel Nobile to meet him, Ellsworth and Riiser-Larsen in Oslo to discuss the purchase of his airship, in order to complete what Amundsen called “the big trip.” The meeting took place at Uranienborg in mid-July. But what Amundsen, Ellsworth and Riiser-Larsen didn’t fully appreciate at the time was that Nobile was more than just the designer of an airship; he was also, and perhaps foremost, a senior officer in the Military Air Service of Benito Mussolini.
Amundsen stayed at Uranienborg for a rare few months. He began working on his book and preparing the slides and talking points for his new lecture, with the help of Riiser-Larsen. In mid-August, he delivered the premiere of his latest lecture to a full audience and rave reviews at the National Theatre in Oslo. A week later, on August 22, the Maud, having completed her Arctic survey, docked in Nome and was seized by the bailiffs as part of Amundsen’s ongoing bankruptcy proceedings, while its crew quietly made their way home. Amundsen and Riiser-Larsen then took the train to Rome to continue negotiations with Nobile and Mussolini for the purchase of the airship. The two Norwegians continued on the lecture circuit in a few European cities en route, where their reception was astounding—except in Germany, where public antipathy was high because of Amundsen’s public denunciation of German actions during the war, and because he and Riiser-Larsen had selected an Italian airship instead of a German one. Amundsen let the younger members of the expedition take a greater role in the publicity than they had in the past, by giving speeches and lectures themselves. So, in the fall, while Amundsen toured the United States, Riiser-Larsen lectured in Europe and Dietrichson toured Great Britain, Sweden, Denmark and Norway. Some primitive films of the expedition were also being shown in Europe.
Amundsen briefly returned to Norway before again setting off for London and America. His stay in London was short. After thirteen years, he and Kristine Bennett had finally ended their sporadic relationship, and Amundsen’s emotional attachment to her dwindled. At first he tried to claim that a minor ailment would prevent him from lecturing in Britain, but his financial and moral obligations prevented this social retreat. It was a London correspondent for the New York Times who interviewed him and provided some insight into his plans for the next year. “I expect to start next May from Spitsbergen,” Amundsen claimed, “where the airship will be taken from Italy in March. I shall fly from Spitsbergen right across Alaska.” Always looking to the future, he took the opportunity to recast his past adventure in a way that would promote his upcoming venture. “That flight largely was made in order to gather information for the coming expedition,” he claimed. “On our last trip we passed over more than 200,000 square miles of unexplored country, which must have tremendous potentialities.” According to the new spin, the thrilling flight of a few months ago wasn’t a stand-alone adventure, made possible only because of the timely intercession and financial support of Ellsworth. This random stitching-together of opportunities as they arose was actually part of a long-term strategy. Before Amundsen even boarded his ship for New York, the planning for his airship expedition was underway, organized primarily by Riiser-Larsen with the help of the Norwegian Aero Club. Nobile was working on the agreed-upon adjustments to the airship, while a location for a hangar in Kings Bay was being scouted and material to build it was being ordered.
Amundsen again had to raise some money and generate publicity in America—a task for which he was uniquely suited. He arrived in New York on October 9 and once again booked into his favourite hotel, the Waldorf-Astoria. He was immediately interviewed by newspaper reporters. It was all about the new expedition: its dangers, its goals, his likelihood of success. A great talker, Amundsen delivered what the reporters needed to fill their papers: opinions on undiscovered lands, risks to be taken, problems to be overcome. A favourite topic was the future of dirigibles. Dirigibles were much better suited to Arctic travel than airplanes were, Amundsen claimed, “experience having shown that when a plane once descends near the Pole it is a great hazard whether it will ever rise again.” He also predicted a secure future for them as a means of transportation. “It was only a year ago that the German airship flew over to this country. It is going to be the great means of transportation in the north. There will be regular routes over the North Pole. It may take a few years, but it is bound to come.”
The newspaper stories about his lectures and ideas were now complete with pictures of airships and portraits of the aging adventurer, looking like a weather-beaten old Viking from another age, although in person he was always dressed impeccably for any public display or talk, with a fondness for double-breasted suits and bowler hats. While in New York, Amundsen was also continuing his affair with Bess Magids. Although still married, she was seen dining with Amundsen at the Waldorf-Astoria. Her nephew William Hensley recalled that “she was a dynamo. She loved politics; loved to gamble, party, and drink. And she loved to spend money.” Like Amundsen, Magids was apparently equally at home dining in a fine New York hotel and driving a dogsled around the Arctic. Amundsen’s involvement with Magids was the relationship that probably allowed him to free himself from his unrewarding and hopeless romantic entanglement with Kristine Bennett. Although he remained friends with Bennett and her sons, he had moved on—as, indeed, she probably had, years ago—but there was no bitterness.
Amundsen rode the train from the U.S. east coast to the west, visiting most large cities in between. His lecture tour, however, was a mixed success. He received excellent press coverage for his polar flight and his planned airship expedition for the following year, but the crowds attending his lectures were less predictable. He had some full halls, but also others with some empty seats. Playing to his American audience, Amundsen astutely highlighted the role and heroic actions of Ellsworth whenever he spoke, emphasizing the American element in the next expedition even though it would be flying the Norwegian flag: “Explorer tells Carnegie Hall Audience that Ellsworth’s Rescue of Two Saved Entire Party,” read one headline. He had many opinions and an amusing, folksy way of expressing them. “The exploration of this great area can be accomplished in no other way except from the air,” he pronounced. “You cannot reach it from a ship because of the ice. I tried that for three years.” The failure of the expedition to reach the North Pole must have been on his mind. “I’d rather fly over the Arctic Circle in a dirigible than over Ohio,” he declared. “Air conditions are better. The air isn’t so bumpy.” He conveyed a manner and personality that people wanted to see and hear: a sort of swaggering, devil-be-damned attitude, far removed from the prosaic and mundane aspirations of the average person. Certainly it was an act—Amundsen had a great flare for theatre—but it was also the truth.
Newspapers were fond of reporting on things that had nothing to do with his current adventure at all, just about his life and plans. In Los Angeles he suffered an attack of the flu, and of course the papers reported on it—in case readers wanted to know, Amundsen’s physician told him to stay in bed for a day and he was recovering nicely. Reporters would also occasionally remind readers that Amundsen was “at 53, still blessed with the physical strength and enthusiasm of a man twenty years younger.” When he was in Edmonton, Alberta, after taking in ski races in Canada’s Jasper National Park, a reporter asked him: “What new thrill is there for you after you have conquered both Poles?” Amundsen replied, “Nothing probably, but marriage . . . although I have yet to find the girl.” When one reporter from the New York Times asked him what his plans were for the coming years, Amundsen answered, “I have been at it a long time, you know. After next year, I might want to leave it to my partner, Mr. Ellsworth.” It was the first public hint that he would ever consider retirement.
During this latest tour, Amundsen had some fun with Ellsworth when the two explorers met to do some planning for the next year’s expedition. With Ellsworth, Amundsen could drop the frosty reserve that had enveloped him in recent years and reveal his lighthearted self: “Nobody was warmer hearted, no boy could frolic more joyously than Amundsen in his fifties,” Ellsworth recalled fondly.
Their book Our Polar Flight: The Amundsen-Ellsworth Polar Flight was published in the United States in late 1925, to positive reviews and strong sales. (The Norwegian edition had been a bestseller a few months earlier.) The New York Times called it “an epic of Arctic adventure,” praised Amundsen’s “indomitable spirit” and concluded: “Out of the vast ‘whiteness,’ out of its clutches, away from its sentence of death, the Norwegian Captain, the young American Ellsworth and their stout-hearted companions had flown back to amaze the world that had given them up for lost.”
One event sounded a sour note near the end of his nearly five-month American tour: Amundsen went to visit his old companion Dr. Frederick Cook, the same Cook who had been publicly discredited and blacklisted over a decade earlier for his false claims to have reached the North Pole ahead of Robert Peary. Cook was now serving time in Leavenworth Prison in Texas for property fraud. Amundsen stopped in to visit his old friend—“I could not have done less without convincing myself of base ingratitude and contemptible cowardice”—and was beset by reporters looking for a story immediately afterward. Apparently people were still interested in the controversial feud even after a decade had passed. After he had been asked about his opinions on Cook and the North Pole, it was soon in the news—owing either to a misinterpretation of his remarks because of his Norwegian accent or, most likely, a deliberate “misinterpretation” by the reporter—that Amundsen had suggested that Cook’s evidence of reaching the North Pole was as solid as Peary’s (both claims are now generally considered to be false).