by Chris Turney
It was a bold vision—or foolhardy, depending on your point of view. Certainly the Japanese government was not particularly impressed. Shirase later wrote that the response was: ‘First, we don’t have the money and second exploration isn’t exactly in our line.’ Eventually Shirase argued round the doubters, and was offered a healthy ¥15,000 and a vessel from the naval fleet. First impressions die hard, however, and the support did not materialise: the navy was unhappy with the idea of giving one of its ships to an army man and the government’s promised money never came through.
‘I might as well argue with dumb Buddhist idols as with Government officials,’ Shirase later commented. He turned to others to help finance the trip. In a canny move, he went to Count Shigenobu Okuma, one of the young samurai who had started the Meiji Restoration, later becoming finance minister and then prime minister. By this time well into his seventies, this national treasure was excited by Shirase’s plan. Ignoring government ridicule and hoping to overcome widespread uncertainty, Shirase made a public call for funding. Speaking to a large and enthusiastic crowd in Tokyo in July 1910, Okuma announced the formation of the Antarctic Expedition Supporters’ Association, with himself as president.
With Okuma’s backing, public funding started to flow in. The government, though, seemed to take delight in trying to thwart the nascent Antarctic effort with what Shirase described as its ‘frequent officious meddling’. And yet Shirase showed aptitude for fundraising, cutting deals here, seeking sponsorship there. He negotiated with the popular magazine Expedition World to advertise his polar activities, in return for the rights to publish the expedition’s first reports.
Unlike his European counterparts, Shirase found it hard to obtain the sort of support from the learned societies that may have helped leverage further funds. Whereas the other expeditions of 1912 received the stamp of approval from their national geographical fraternities, Shirase failed to get the backing of the Tokyo Geographical Society. Given the parlous state of the expedition’s funding, so dependent on public subscription, Shirase’s scientific program had to be scaled back. Reaching the South Geographic Pole was the priority.
Not only this, but without official backing few professional scientists would risk their careers—or lives—on the proposed trip. Of the hundreds of applicants, only two of the men accepted could be said to have any sort of scientific background, and one of those had cold feet and fled the day before departure, leaving Terutaro Takeda, a teacher with a background in Earth sciences. Nevertheless, the expedition team obtained a serious amount of scientific gear, much of it for measuring the weather while travelling south and on the ice.
Things were not helped when the British expedition members Cecil Meares and Wilfrid Bruce visited Japan in August 1910, en route for New Zealand, with Scott’s ponies and dogs. The Japanese press interviewed the men, and Bruce was reported as saying that without scientific experts any expedition south would have no value, and that the Japanese effort was a ‘mistake’. Whereas the local scientific community had been lukewarm, it now became hostile. Indeed, while the journal of the Tokyo Geographical Society would report details on the numerous planned international polar trips, both north and south, it did not mention a word of the home-grown effort.
There was some support from military quarters. An army general, Tsuchiya Mitsuhara, was disgusted with the scientific community and argued that, like his soldiers, scientists should ‘be prepared to die for the cause of their work’ instead of favouring a ‘comfortable livelihood’. Similarly, in the House of Representatives Kokubo Kishiichi gave the profession a public dressing-down, saying: ‘in truth, no men are more feeble-minded than scientists.’ But, Kishiichi said, Shirase’s Antarctic expedition had no need for them anyhow. Ultimately ‘anyone can record meteorological conditions…and bring back fossilized things or indigenous wildlife specimens.’
If Shirase was going to counter his critics and avoid cancelling his Antarctic effort like the Americans and the Scottish, he had to leave with his team by the end of 1910—even if they were not fully prepared. In September, Shirase found a ship that would fit the bill. It was a wooden three-masted vessel, the Daini Hoko-maru, weighing just 204 tonnes. This was small compared to the others used in Antarctic waters: Amundsen’s Fram weighed in at four hundred tonnes, while Scott’s Terra Nova was seven hundred. Designed for fishing the northern waters of the expanding Japanese empire, the Daini Hoko-maru was only a year old and large enough for the planned twenty-seven men, supplies and equipment. There was only one problem: the vessel’s captain was Gunji, Shirase’s former leader in the north.
Time had not healed all wounds and Gunji was not delighted at the prospect of helping his former subordinate. Count Okuma stepped in, buying the Daini Hoko-maru for ¥25,000 and registering it in his own name. They renamed the ship the Kainan-maru, meaning Southern Pioneer, overhauled and refitted it with an eighteen-horsepower auxiliary steam engine, and buttressed it with iron plating.
The British enthusiasm for horses in Antarctica had not escaped the notice of Shirase and his team. The plan was to follow Shackleton’s approach, and use ten Manchurian ponies to reach the South Geographic Pole. After all, Shackleton had nearly reached his goal; it was widely believed that if the horse Socks had not fallen down a crevasse on the Beardmore Glacier with most of the supplies, the team would have made it. But the Kainan-maru was too small for horses, and the team decided to switch to dogs. It turned out to be an inspired move, even if there had been little choice.
Preparations started straight away, testing the dogs’ capacity to drag sledges along dirt tracks. Shirase was convinced, and the official report of the expedition commented, ‘A dog can pull one and a half times as much as a man can on just one man’s ration of food, whereas horses are comparatively useless.’
The day of departure had been set for 28 November, the same date Magellan had left Europe on his famous expedition around the world. The crew would re-provision in New Zealand and go from there to Antarctica. This was far too late to credibly reach the Antarctic and establish a winter base that summer, but the public did not know any better and remained upbeat about the enterprise.
The expedition members swore on a scroll ‘on which the vow of our intent was sealed with our own blood’ at the official farewell ceremony, in front of ‘the milling throngs of tens of thousands of well-wishers’. But the Kainan-maru was not ready to sail, and few people turned up the following day, causing Shirase to remark it was the ‘most dismal sort of send-off ever accorded to any polar explorer’.
There was much to be nervous about—not least that the expedition was ¥10,000 in debt. ‘Skimming south like an arrow’, though, the Kainan-maru headed for New Zealand, aiming to cross the equator by the end of December. Not everyone was convinced they would make it to Antarctica.
While the Japanese had been frantically preparing for the journey south, the rest of the world was oblivious. After crossing the Pacific, Shirase’s team had their first major challenge: facing the international press. Nothing could have prepared the Japanese for the incredulity they faced in Wellington on their arrival, on 7 February 1911. To New Zealanders and to the wider western world, the Japanese plan did not make any sense. There were several expeditions making an attempt on Antarctica; they had all left civilisation by December to give themselves time to work their way through the sea ice, establish a base on the icy continent and lay depots south for the following summer’s work.
Scott had come through the New Zealand port of Lyttleton the previous November, while Amundsen had headed into Antarctic waters in January. Yet here were the Japanese turning up in New Zealand in February, with all their dogs dead from the Pacific crossing—most likely from parasitic worms. Perhaps most suspicious of all, they did not seem overly concerned that time was pressing.
With hardly any of the crew speaking English, confusion was rife. Rumours spread that the Japanese were spies; they were publicly mocked. Shirase later wrote, ‘The New Zealand press vi
ewed our attempt with ridicule. The New Zealand Times was particularly poignant in its comments upon us. It remarked that we were a crew of gorillas sailing about in a miserable whaler, and that the polar regions were no place for such beasts of the forest as we. This zoological classification of us was perhaps to be taken figuratively, but many islanders interpreted it literally.’
Unpleasant as much of the commentary was, there is no doubt that the expedition was at this point a comedy of errors. The Japanese were not aware of what faced them in Antarctica. And from the locals’ point of view, their presence did not add up; given Japan’s recent military engagement with Russia, the press saw a risk of Asian political interests expanding south.
The men spent much time on shore, looking for books and newspaper reports that might help them with their efforts on the ice. Some of the local press were won over. After the Japanese had restocked supplies and pushed on southwards, New Zealand had ‘the honour of offering the last Godspeed to the plucky little band of explorers from the Far East’, in the more gracious words of the Lyttleton Times.
Being ‘helplessly late in the season’, the Kainan-maru struggled to make headway, carrying on as best it could. On 17 February the Japanese had their first experience of a penguin, which swam towards the ship. The unlucky creature was captured in a bag and assessed: ‘It walked upright, looking for all the world like a gentleman in an overcoat. We immediately instructed the ship’s carpenter to make a cage for it and we gave it something to eat. As it showed no interest in the food offered we crumbled up some bread to make pellets which we forced into its beak.’
Eleven days later they saw their first ice floe and berg, which ‘resembled a gigantic bullock with its head submerged and only its back and hindquarters showing above the surface of the water.’ By the morning of 6 March the mountains of the Admiralty Range in Victoria Land ‘towered into the sky like the pointed cones of inverted suribachi mortars’. The men were so excited that ‘they were girding their loins for a landing before we had even thought of dropping anchor.’ Alas, icebergs passed by—‘with their flat tops they looked like the batteries out in Shinagawa Bay’—and on 9 March the sea started to freeze. ‘At first the ice took the form of small lotus leaves, which as we watched gradually spread out over the sea so as to cover the whole surface.’ To make matters worse, the compass needle started to swing wildly. They were beginning to experience the effects of proximity to the South Magnetic Pole.
By now winter was fast on its way. ‘The ice started to form as particles…and these would at first be about one shaku [thirty centimetres] in diameter and one sun [three centimetres] thick. They then gradually turned into disks of ice with an area approximately two ken square shaku [four metres] which drifted on the surface of the sea,’ the official account of the expedition later stated. ‘As far ahead as the eye could see the surface of the water was completely packed with these disks, and it was now quite probable that they would bring the ship to a halt.’ Recognising the risk of becoming trapped, the Japanese tried to find an alternative route. ‘The sea was silver white as far as the eye could see, waveless and flat as the surface of a frozen lake.’ By 12 March the sea ice had thickened to two shaku (sixty centimetres) and the vessel could go no further. ‘The crunch and crack every time we smashed through a floe were not at all pleasant.’
The crew attempted to turn the Kainan-maru around quickly, desperate to avoid the fate of de Gerlache, who had been beset by the Antarctic winter. Shirase realised they were in no position for such a stay, and headed for Australia. This was easier said than done, and the pack ice caused considerable damage to the hull as the vessel was swung north. The Kainanmaru had reached 74°16’S, a respectable latitude for the time of year.
After a rough passage the Japanese limped dejectedly into Sydney on 1 May 1911. The Australian scientist Edgeworth David interceded on their behalf, and the authorities were supportive, giving a berth and exemption from harbour dues.
Newspaper coverage, however, remained tainted by scorn and suspicion. Britain’s Observer commented dryly that the Japanese had fallen nearly 15° short of Shackleton’s efforts: ‘The whole incident illustrates the inadvisability, not to say danger, of attempting great undertakings with inadequate means. In the opinion of most observers, the Japanese Government would have been well advised had they interdicted the departure of the expedition until at least they were satisfied that, although there might be failure, there would be no fiasco.’ A minor American paper, the Tacoma Times, led with the impressive headline ‘Swore by Buddha they’d find South Pole but Jap expedition was miserable failure’ and wrote of mutiny, with Captain Nomura allegedly taking over from Nobu Shirase and a Japanese government embargo supposedly slapped on the crew once the expedition reached Sydney.
While waiting for the next Antarctic season and for their ship to be refurbished, the expedition members were granted permission to settle in Parsley Bay. The site today is surrounded by dense bush rolling down to the water’s edge, with a stunning view of Sydney Harbour. In 1911 the area was largely clear of bush, with more of an English-lawn effect. The Japanese set up their camp among the few remaining tall eucalypts. The main hut and tents, all originally intended for the ice, were used for storage and bathing.
With few funds, the men ‘lived almost a beggar’s life’. Shirase later wrote: ‘There were some who criticised our endeavours, some who mocked us, and some who were even downright abusive.’ The shortage of money concerned Shirase, who was not sure the expedition would be able to muster a second attempt the following year. In May, Nomura was sent back to Japan with a report on what had been achieved and the team’s future plans: a renewed attempt on the pole, to be reached in February 1913. The expedition’s supporters maintained that to give up now would mean Japan ‘will be ashamed’—a desperate bid to secure extra funds.
The Australian military became twitchy over the presence of a foreign expedition so close to the fort at South Head. Extra pickets were mounted and all leave was cancelled. The newspapers were keen to know whether an official complaint had been lodged at the Japanese consulate. The Clarence and Richmond Examiner published a short piece entitled ‘Japanese Espionage’, indignantly reporting that a Japanese representative had declared rumours of spying to be ‘too ridiculous to entertain seriously’.
Calmer heads prevailed. On 15 May, under the title ‘The Mysterious Japs’, Sydney’s Sun wrote that ‘Shirase and his merry men’ could not be spies: ‘No nation—and certainly not a shrewd and intelligent nation like the Japanese’ would attempt such surveillance. Describing the Japanese as scientists, Edgeworth David argued in a Daily Telegraph interview that ‘to raise an outcry against them on the purely imaginary grounds that they are spies is worse than inhospitable—it is sheer nervous stupidity.’
The intervention did the trick, and the hysteria subsided. Now the Japanese camp was swamped with visitors and supporters, many keen to have their photos taken with the team and even getting Shirase to pose with their children. He enigmatically observed that the Japanese were the ‘enviable recipients of bouquets from many admiring maidens of the island’.
At home, news of the Japanese return to Australia spurred the organising committee to raise more funds. The risk of disgrace in having to abandon the expedition in Sydney was too much to bear. Count Okuma again spearheaded the effort, and expedition supporters lectured across the nation. In a July interview with the Japan Times, Okuma lambasted the government for its broken promises and its reticence to support the team in the field:
There are men on board the ship who have sufficient knowledge of astronomy and navigation. What more is necessary?… only strong physique, unflagging determination, and the money to back them up are what are wanted, and not learned men. This being the case, we appeal to the generosity of our countrymen…Only the small sum of 70000 yen is needed. We are not Europeans: we need a fifth less provisions and clothes than they do. We have wonderful stomachs whose chemistry can produce much energy fro
m a little amount of food. And our constitution can stand almost any kind of hardship. When we are thus fitted for the task better than any people, why should we abandon the hope of reaching the Pole and let foreigners get the glory? Some may ask ‘What’s the use of finding the Pole’? Did the Americans get any benefit from the North Pole? If they succeed in the attempt this time, they will bring back a chart of the seas around the Pole which task has not been done by anybody. When well explored the Antarctic seas will offer us a rich field of fishery. When things are becoming harder for us in the northern seas, a new field of freedom will be welcomed. As to the distance there is but a difference of two thousand miles. Is 70000 yen too big a price to pay for the seas of inexhaustible wealth?
The hyperbole seemed to work. In October, Nomura returned to Sydney with the news that they had at least enough money to continue, bringing with him fresh provisions and other supplies. Shortly after, some of the crew were sent home sick, dogs were delivered and two new expedition members joined the team: Masakichi Ikeda, who bolstered the scientific side of the expedition with his degree in agricultural science, and Taizumi Yasunao, a cameraman from the Japanese film company M. Pathe (not to be confused with the international Pathé Film Company). Shirase could prepare for his second attempt south.
The expedition’s original aim was to dash to the South Geographic Pole, but Scott and Amundsen were now firmly ensconced in Antarctica and had a significant start. Shackleton was sceptical of the Japanese bid for the pole and, by 1912, so was Shirase. The expedition duly changed its focus, and science became the primary reason for the trip.