by Chris Turney
Shackleton’s efforts in Antarctica greatly appealed to the young German. Although the British team had blazed trails around McMurdo Sound, the other side of the Antarctic remained largely unknown. The sealer James Weddell had seen birds during his furthest-south voyage, in 1823, but could only speculate he was close to land. In 1902 the Scottish scientist and explorer William Speirs Bruce had fallen well short of Weddell’s mark, due to particularly thick sea ice, but had discovered Coats Land in the eastern Weddell Sea. Filchner’s plan was in the Shackleton mould: to push through the Weddell Sea ice and cross the interior of the unexplored continent, all the way to the Ross Sea.
Although the limits of Antarctica were still hazy at best, this had not stopped scientists around the world continuing to theorise. Some, like Nansen, considered Antarctica to be a number of ice-covered islands. Others, among them Shackleton, thought Antarctica was a single landmass.
A third view was championed by Friedrich Albert Penck, a colossus in German science who held the prestigious Chair of Geography at Berlin University. To Penck, there was no doubt a continent lay in the south; but it was divided in two by a frozen strait, of which the Weddell and Ross seas formed the extreme ends. Antarctica was made up of two large landmasses, east and west.
Penck’s idea depended on what the known Antarctic mountain chains did in the interior. Before 1912 it was fairly clear that what we now know as the Antarctic Peninsula was a geological continuation of the South American Andes. The question was whether the Antarctic Andes joined up with those in Victoria Land, or went elsewhere—and if they did not connect, might Bruce’s Coats Land be joined in some way? Penck made an enticing case for two continental-sized landmasses.
Filchner was intrigued and resolved to test the idea, travelling via the South Geographic Pole. Unlike the Norwegians and Japanese, however, Filchner was determined to gain as much knowledge as possible on the journey to Antarctica. Major questions remained about the surrounding regions. How did the various oceans in the south link up—if at all—and what effect did this have on the world’s climate? Scientific observations would start from day one of the voyage. Filchner approached the Berlin Geographical Society in 1909, and received a positive response. Penck was so enthusiastic that he took Filchner’s plan to the public in March 1910.
Filchner was not the first to lead a German expedition south. One of his renowned predecessors was Eric von Drygalski, who travelled a decade earlier. A contemporary of Scott’s Discovery expedition, von Drygalski’s Gauss party nobly agreed to forgo McMurdo Sound and investigate an unknown part of the East Antarctic coastline, near where the American Charles Wilkes had claimed to have been sixty years before. Aiming to be the first to the South Magnetic Pole, the Germans never made it. Reaching the edge of the Antarctic in January 1902, the Gauss became locked in sea ice.
The Germans were prepared for winter. Drawing on the local wildlife—especially penguins, as both food and fuel—they set about making as much of the situation as possible. All manner of scientific observations of the elements were made, carefully arranged in advance to be directly comparable to Scott’s. Alongside these efforts a hot-air balloon was sent aloft and, reaching a height of nearly five hundred metres, von Drygalski saw what appeared to be ice-free land to the south. Sledging there, the Germans discovered an extinct volcano and ramparts of rubble that spoke of an ice sheet considerably larger than today’s.
Though the summer sun returned, the ice remained stubbornly opposed to releasing the Gauss, and no amount of dynamite would free the vessel. Only when ashes from the ship’s boilers were put on the ice did the surface warm and weaken. Although the Germans had been frustrated in their efforts to reach a high latitude, they could at least show that in the south Indian Ocean there did indeed exist land—to which they attached the moniker Kaiser Wilhelm II Land. They returned home to international acclaim.
Filchner sought to repeat the success of von Drygalski with an equally well-organised and well-equipped expedition. Ambitiously, he wanted the Germans to work in an entirely different part of the Antarctic, addressing a great scientific question while also claiming the South Geographic Pole for his nation.
A common theme of Antarctic expeditions is a shortage of funds, and Filchner’s was no exception. The original proposal for two ships came in at a cost of two million mark. With limited funds from the outset, the expedition was looking decidedly rocky. Where others gave up on their Antarctic ambitions, though, Filchner would prove to be considerably more imaginative in raising money.
In early 1910 the expedition organisers hosted a formal dinner for the Kaiser, with the aim of gaining royal approval. To one outside observer, the German monarch was not impressed. ‘So, you want to go to the South Pole?’ he reportedly said. ‘Wait, if you please, till Zeppelin gets that far with his airship. He’ll do in a couple of days what takes you three years. You will not make this expedition—understood?’
Filchner is said to have replied, ‘Majesty, I have resolved already to lead the expedition’—and the Kaiser turned his back and left the hall. Afterwards Filchner was diplomatic about the exchange, remarking that the Kaiser listened ‘benevolently’ to his plans before turning him down.
The day after his tête-à-tête with the Kaiser, Filchner travelled to Munich for an audience with Prince Regent Luitpold of Bavaria. At the time Luitpold was effectively ruler of Bavaria, in place of his nephews Ludwig II and Otto, who were considered too mentally incapacitated to fulfil their formal roles. Luitpold presided over a cultural renaissance in central Europe, with Munich the capital. He was considerably more excited by the prospect of a German Antarctic expedition and agreed to assume the role of ‘honorary patron’.
The expedition’s plans were scaled back to one ship, costing 1.1 million mark. A national committee was set up and fundraising efforts were re-energised. One of the most successful was a public lottery. By the following year Filchner had his money: the Germans had the best funded expedition of 1912.
Keen to maximise scientific effort and avoid duplication on the ground, the German leader worked hard to develop research links and reassure other national groups heading south. Leaders of these efforts responded in kind, freely giving advice on planning and equipment—even those who were in direct competition for the South Geographic Pole. Shackleton was particularly keen to be involved and visited Germany, giving public lectures and advising on the ice-strengthening of the expedition vessel, the Deutschland. Less usefully, Shackleton also passed on Jackson’s obsession with horses; Filchner was so enthused that he immediately went out and bought a number from northeast China to complement his Greenland dogs.
The media were aware of the rights Scott and Bruce might claim for their attempts on the South Geographic Pole. By focusing on the other side of the Antarctic, Filchner hoped to avoid any misunderstanding with the British explorers, much as von Drygalski had done. He need not have worried. Filchner travelled to meet the two leaders in the spring of 1910 and found both remarkably relaxed about this new European expedition.
In Edinburgh, Filchner agreed to work west of Coats Land and leave the region east to Bruce’s proposed Scottish expedition. The Scot’s plans were similar to Filchner’s and included an extensive oceanographic survey of the Weddell Sea, from where he intended to cross to the Ross Sea. Bruce, though, believed Penck to be wrong and argued that the mountain range of Victoria Land continued across to the Antarctic Andes. While waiting on funding that never came, Bruce generously gave the German leader ideas for research and equipment to use while at sea.
The meeting in London was arguably even more successful. Scott was keen to share ideas, equipment—including the latest plans for motorised sledges—and even men with the German expedition. Scott was later quoted as saying, ‘Lieutenant Filchner and I have agreed, as far as possible, to work our scientific programme in unison.’ As a final goodwill gesture, Scott invited Filchner to the official British Antarctic Expedition farewell at Waterloo station on 16 July.
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br /> Returning to Germany with an expedition that was now gathering serious momentum, Filchner set about gaining polar experience. He wanted to test his men and equipment—including the ponies—on icy mountain passes, and soon headed off to the Arctic archipelago of Svalbard. Filchner found the shipping space he had bought for transporting his ponies north was too small and the animals had to be sold en route, forcing him to fall back on the first part of his motto, ‘Optimist in execution, pessimist in preparation.’
Once there, he found the conditions were considerably worse than anticipated, and the men had to hunker down for longer than planned, cut off from the rest of the world—leading to news reports they had perished. And yet there were positives: the men survived and the equipment seemed up to the task.
When news of the German expedition south was announced, there was a flood of applications. Filchner could pick from an impressive list of scientists: there was a German astronomer, Erich Przybyllok; an Austrian biologist, Felix König; and the rising star of German oceanography, Wilhelm Brennecke. Other applicants were less welcome; some were arguably outrageous. One of the most bizarre was a former Tibetan expedition ‘colleague’, Albert Tafel, who had first approached Penck about joining the expedition. Tafel seems to have been Filchner’s nemesis.
There had been problems almost from the start of their travels in Tibet. Tafel, from all accounts an angry man, seemed keen to fight the locals whenever a problem flared, and Filchner reportedly spent a considerable time talking him down, so that the two men could pass along peacefully. On their return to Germany, the junior man had accused the expedition leader of cowardice and public flatulence, and openly questioned the authenticity of his maps. Now here he was asking to join the Antarctic expedition and threatening to undermine it from afar if refused. Filchner was not having any of it. Tafel’s application was rejected.
Shortly after, rumours started circulating about the expedition and its leader, many harking back to Filchner’s trips in Asia. Threats and counter-threats followed, many involving the ship’s captain for the German expedition, Richard Vahsel. On paper Vahsel seemed a good appointment. He had been second officer on the Gauss, giving him invaluable Antarctic experience, which few other German naval captains possessed. On learning of the appointment, however, the Gauss’s former captain, Commodore Ruser, wrote to warn Filchner: Vahsel was trouble.
The expedition committee insisted on Vahsel and, further confusing matters, made the Deutschland fly under the Imperial Navy flag. The captain was in charge of the vessel and the lives on board while at sea: Filchner had suddenly lost absolute leadership of the expedition. With his appointment confirmed, Vahsel soon started throwing his weight about, threatening to put Filchner ‘in irons’ during the voyage if he felt it necessary. The early promise of success in the south was fast disappearing.
Deciding to ignore his problems, Filchner instead concentrated on what he could control: the expedition’s plans in Antarctica. He reasoned that it would be easiest to answer the question of a two-part Antarctica by travelling over the Great Ice Barrier, and could not understand why the British or Norwegians were not tackling the issue. When he heard the Japanese were also in the Ross Sea, Filchner felt the last thing needed was another expedition operating there. Instead he bravely decided to try somewhere different: the Weddell Sea.
The Deutschland would go via Buenos Aires and use South Georgia, in the South Atlantic, as a springboard for the Weddell Sea in December 1911. Following the coastline of Coats Land south, Filchner hoped to establish a base as far south as possible, making scientific measurements through the winter. With the onset of summer, four men would then push on to the South Geographic Pole, sledging with dogs, the much-vaunted Manchurian horses and motorised sledges—though the last ended up being dropped.
Meanwhile, having delivered the men in Antarctica, the Deutschland would return north, making oceanographic measurements as it went, supported by the latest wireless telegraphy, which would allow contact with the outside world. If the worst came to the worst, the ship was stocked with enough supplies to survive a winter trapped in the ice. Not much was being left to chance.
Filchner’s thinking on the Weddell Sea was remarkably clear. He had heard reports that conditions in the region were favourable. Large numbers of icebergs had been seen in the north, calved from the Antarctic the previous summer. After consulting Shackleton and others, Filchner decided the stock of ice in the Weddell Sea would not have had time to rebuild and the way should remain relatively clear. If ever there was a time to beat Weddell’s record in the south and make landfall, this was it.
Seeing off the Deutschland from Bremerhaven in May 1911, Filchner was left to finish the expedition paperwork and set out later in a fast boat to Buenos Aires. It was a disastrous mistake. Although the Deutschland collected a wealth of oceanographic data as it travelled south, Vahsel argued with the scientific director for almost the entire journey. Things were so bad that Filchner received a telegram while travelling to Argentina: the expedition captain was resigning his post. Filchner must have been mightily relieved, given Vahsel’s disturbing behaviour.
Filchner met a promising naval officer called Albert Kling aboard his passage ship and, not one to miss an opportunity, offered him Vahsel’s post. But by the time Filchner reached Buenos Aires, in September, Vahsel had changed his mind and the scientific director had walked instead. Frustrated, Filchner was forced to accept the situation; but Kling stayed, keen to continue with the expedition, albeit not in charge of the vessel.
Reaching Buenos Aires the Deutschland met the Fram, recently returned from Antarctica having dropped Amundsen and his team off at the Bay of Whales. The Norwegians were about to start a survey across the Atlantic, to Africa and back. The teams apparently got on well, and the Fram saw the Germans off with three cheers. If Amundsen and Scott failed to reach the Pole, Filchner was ready to make his bid; in the meantime, the scientific work would continue. Filchner had prepared meticulously—but it remained to be seen whether things would go to plan.
German interest in the Antarctic had blossomed in 1882, during one of the first global scientific endeavours: the International Polar Year. Affectionately shortened to IPY, this global effort was designed to focus research on the polar regions during a single year and share the resulting data. Its revolutionary idea was the pursuit of scientific knowledge through international co-operation and not geographic conquest, which had been the norm up to that point. Unlike the Magnetic Crusade, which focused on magnetic observations around the world, the IPY was limited mainly to high latitudes and looked at the gamut of scientific interests. Two expeditions went south, one of which was a German team that based itself in South Georgia and undertook the infamous corseting of penguins, tethering them for research.
These early efforts also looked at the make-up of the oceans. But the teams involved were hampered by instrument failure, as the equipment was rarely up to scratch. First attempts involved dropping thermometers over the side, unprotected, to obtain maximum and minimum temperatures. Unfortunately, the changing salt levels and higher pressures experienced in deep water skewed the results. At two thousand metres below, for instance, the pressure is two hundred times greater than that at the surface, distorting any measurement made by an unprotected instrument. Different designs were tested, with varying degrees of success, culminating in an effort led by the great Nansen, who with his team designed a deep-ocean thermometer that could withstand the tremendous pressures and preserve the measurements accurately.
By the time of the Deutschland expedition it was understood that ocean properties were not the same the world over. The HMS Challenger expedition of the 1870s had gleaned that south of 65° the surface water was cold and remarkably low in salt; deeper down below, the opposite was true. In the tropics, however, the same cold, fresher water was just below the surface. By measuring the temperature and saltiness it was possible to map these water masses relatively easily.
In the seas surroun
ding Antarctica, de Gerlache’s Belgica party had fleshed out more detail using modern, deep-sea reversing thermometers and showed the cold surface water extended all the way south and sat over a warmer layer below, which was in turn underlain by yet more cold water towards the bottom. It suggested the oceans were made up of different masses of water that originated in different parts of the world and were modified as they moved around the planet. But how this happened was still a mystery.
On the way to Buenos Aires, along with recording the ocean-water temperature and how much salt it contained, the Deutschland team was interested in other characteristics, especially how biologically active the ocean was. Even before the ship had reached South America, the tropical cold-ocean mass that the Challenger had suggested originated from Antarctica had been shown to have unusually high amounts of nitrate. Nitrate is a crucial nutrient, sustaining small, single-celled organisms known as phytoplankton. In the past we called these plants, but things get hazy when you are dealing with single cells; today the problem is bypassed by describing them as protists. These particular protists photosynthesise carbon dioxide dissolved in ocean water and are the food of choice for krill, a small shrimp-like crustacean found in Antarctic waters. In the summertime melting ice and constant daylight fuel massive plankton blooms, which support huge krill populations—and with them most of the Southern Ocean food chain. The Deutschland measurements implied the Antarctic waters were some of the most productive in the world. And yet, somehow, the nutrient levels of the Southern Ocean were being replenished.