by Chris Turney
For all its challenges, wireless operation indirectly opened up another area of research. Because radio messages follow a straight line through the atmosphere, they cannot follow the curved surface of the Earth. Instead, they are reflected off a region of the upper atmosphere known as the ionosphere, more than sixty kilometres above the surface. Here the thin air works like a mirror, reflecting any message and allowing it to travel vast distances over the horizon. Mawson used this to great effect, sending messages from Antarctica, but he soon saw there was a relationship between what could be seen in the atmosphere and the quality of the messages being sent and received.
It had been known for some time that the eerie light displays of the Aurora Australis over Antarctica affected the Earth’s magnetic field. But now it seemed to Mawson that they might also affect the wireless signals. The relationship was not clear-cut: somehow the shape, colours and length of the display conspired to disrupt broadcasts.
Even though Mawson had suffered greatly during the previous summer, he was intrigued by the irregular poor radio reception in Antarctica and suspected it was more than just new technology struggling with the windy conditions. The line would go dead when there was bad static, and this coincided with the light displays of the aurora.
During Shackleton’s Nimrod expedition Mawson had spotted that the aurora took place at the same time as interruptions to telegraph services across Australia, suggesting the overhead lights may be linked to electrical currents in the atmosphere. On the Australasian expedition detailed descriptions of the frequency and type of aurora were made, and the first reasonable photograph of a display in the south—with a ten-second exposure—was taken.
It was an area of research ripe for analysis, but Mawson was frustrated in his attempts to study it properly. Jeffryes and Bickerton were not interested. ‘I can’t get him [Jeffryes] or Bickerton to take the subject up scientifically,’ an infuriated Mawson wrote. ‘If I were choosing another staff I would get specialists for each branch, true scientists capable of assisting with sledging.’
Working out what created the aurora was a major line of scientific enquiry in the early twentieth century. Pioneering work in the 1880s and 1890s had showed that some kind of discharge emanated from the sun during times when there were large numbers of spots on its surface. Shortly after, it was found that something similar to an aurora could be mimicked in the lab by exposing a magnet to electrons in a vacuum.
On board the Terra Nova, Simpson and Wright came close to putting it all together by measuring the changing electrical charge of air molecules as they travelled south, and deduced that something was originating from outside the Earth to cause this effect. But it was only in 1911 that a brave soul flew in a balloon to a frighteningly high five thousand metres and found a stream of high-energy electrically charged particles were striking the upper atmosphere from the sun and outer space. Cosmic rays had been discovered.
We now know that an aurora is caused by cosmic rays funnelled into the Earth’s magnetic field above the geomagnetic poles, those marking the theoretical magnetic axis of our planet. Colliding with oxygen and nitrogen molecules in the upper atmosphere the rays produce the luminous streams of light we know as aurora. When the sun is particularly active the flow of charged particles increases massively, causing a visual treat that disrupts the ionosphere. But the first report of a polar radio blackout caused by auroral activity would not come until 1966. Mawson had again been ahead of the game.
Back in civilisation Davis and Edgeworth David worked financial miracles—even returning to London—and somehow found the extra money to support the expedition for another year. It was not enough to cover all the costs, but at least it meant Mawson and his men could be brought home. The Aurora returned to Cape Denison in December 1913 and a relieved team left the Winter Quarters.
Even with the prospect of returning to Australia, Mawson could not leave research alone. Insisting they head west, he convinced his long-suffering captain to return to Wild’s base and Drygalski’s winter position of 1902, undertaking soundings as they went.
Davis was exhausted from the strain and Mawson started to suspect he had pushed the captain too far. On 21 January, ‘4 pm: suggest sounding to Capt Davis who has turned in since 2 pm… However, now a case of sleepy bad temper: “Christ Almighty, leave me alone, look after your own business,” etc which nevertheless is best for me to waive. It is with great difficulty that one assumes the tactful position.’
They turned north for home soon after.
Heading to London in 1914 Mawson received a knighthood and worked hard at finishing a book on the expedition for a general readership. The Home of the Blizzard was published by Heinemann a year later. Reviews were positive, with the Observer remarking, ‘Nothing could better prove the contention that, though the explorer’s quest is knowledge, the world’s test is heroism. This record of the Mawson Expedition answers both demands.’ The British media could not resist a dig at Amundsen: ‘In this respect of comparisons, it is fair to say that Sir Douglas deferred to Captain Scott’s wishes in framing his programme, and thus avoided that un-English form of competition which has stripped Amundsen of half his laurels.’
Scientific communication was key. When Frank Hurley returned to Australia on the Aurora, in 1912, the public were enthralled. Around 2500 photographs, some in colour, and hundreds of metres of film were shown around the country. Images of expedition members, the sweeping landscape and blizzards of Commonwealth Bay, and the obligatory penguins captivated audiences. An hour of silent but stunning film footage under the same title as Mawson’s book brought the public ever closer to visiting Antarctica. It was the basis of one of the first—and most successful—documentary films. The Australians were telling a story of epic proportions and Antarctic science was in the lead role.
In London, Mawson reported to the RGS. The new president, Douglas Freshfield, who had just taken over from Lord Curzon, remarked in his introduction: ‘All men of science will confirm what I say, that there has been no Antarctic expedition the results of which, geological, glaciological, or in the way of throwing light on the past history of our planet, have been richer than that of which we are going to hear an account.’ Mawson was only thirty-two, but his contribution ranked among the greatest the RGS had witnessed.
When Mawson showed images taken by Hurley of their Antarctic home and its local inhabitants, the president was glowing in his praise: ‘We are told that geography has connections with every other science. We have seen in what an extraordinary way, with the aid of photography, it can throw light on zoology. One does not expect, when taken to the Antarctic Regions, to go there for the sake of seeing life; but I think to-night we have seen to the full the bird-life of the Antarctic brought before us in a most wonderfully vivid way. We owe our thanks, not only to Dr. Mawson, but to the very able photographer, or photographers, who have secured for us the pictures.’
The weather observations paid handsome dividends. When Mawson had first suggested his expedition, newspaper wags produced cartoons depicting Antarcticasas a new health resort. But once the wireless system was fully operational, daily coded reports immediately began to improve weather predictions across the region. Although initially disbelieved by some, film footage in Home of the Blizzard and tests on the instruments provided irrefutable proof that Cape Denison suffered from massive blasts of cold air that poured off the plateau, frequently hurricane in strength.
There had been other successes as well. While not opening the floodgates to mining companies, the expedition produced the first discovery of gold in Antarctica, with significant finds of silver and copper. The newspapers declared it to be a development of great economic value.
Magnetic measurements proved to be a greater challenge. The huge amount of data, and the onset of World War I, caused significant delays. Webb went to fight and, although he continued to correspond with Mawson, the data was worked up by twelve young female students in University College, Christchurch, New Zealand, who
became known as ‘the magnetic ladies of Canterbury College’ and ‘the Mawson club’.
The results were a revelation. Between April and October 1912 the Australasian and British Antarctic observations had been made at exactly the same time. The data showed the horizontal part of the magnetic field had an effect over a far greater area than first expected, and this explained the exasperating sluggishness of the compasses that the sledging parties had complained of in 1909 and 1912. Although neither group had achieved a true vertical alignment, all was not lost. Enough data had been collected to get the most accurate fix yet for the South Magnetic Pole: the results allowed a best estimate of 71°10’S 150°43’E. Bage, Hurley and Webb had turned back 113 kilometres short. The average position meant the pole probably lay about 130 kilometres northwest of that reached by David, Mawson and Mackay.
And still the pole continues to move. Since Ross’s stab at its location, in 1841, the pole has migrated at an average rate of nine kilometres a year. Mawson’s expedition data was forcing Antarctica to give up its secrets—and with them, clues to the workings of our planet.
On his return from Antarctica, Mawson faced a debt of £7000, despite David’s and Davis’s best efforts. The sales of Home of the Blizzard were disappointing, badly hit by the war, and the publisher remarked that he hoped things would improve once the public’s love of reading about ‘blood and bloodshed’ had passed.
‘Had I perished, possibly an appeal would have brought forth funds,’ Mawson observed. ‘As I survived, there is a debt and the publication account to face and I trust this appeal will not be in vain.’ Funds came in slowly, but he was plagued with the debt for years afterwards. To make matters worse, Vickers complained that it had not been paid the hundreds of pounds owed for the plane. Mawson had to plead poverty, asking that the craft might be considered a donation to the expedition. No doubt thanks to booming military sales during World War I, the debt was written off.
Slowly Mawson collected funding to publish the expedition’s scientific reports. The sums involved were almost pathetic: £50 here, £100 there. With the help of the New South Wales state government the reports were published over the following decades. But in return, scientific samples, diaries and gear from the expedition had to be delivered from South Australia, where Mawson lived. He was forced to agree, though he was reticent. There were times when Mawson loathed the effort involved, sometimes describing the process of raising funds and cajoling authors as ‘tedious’ in his introductions to the reports. By 1947 the job was finally done: twenty-two volumes made up of eighty-nine individual scientific reports, describing for the first time in glorious detail the excitement of discovering a whole new part of Antarctica.
The Australasian expedition was of a scale never previously attempted: three bases, thirty-one land-based members, seven major sledging journeys and a full oceanographic program. Mawson’s venture gave the world its first complete scientific snapshot of a new continent. The men had explored a vast stretch of eastern Antarctica; discovered new bays, mountains and glaciers; and linked up areas that had previously been discovered only in isolation. The scientific volumes described Antarctica’s violent and extreme weather, its flourishing plant and animal life, the ocean’s fickleness.
The polar historian Gordon Hayes wrote a glowing assessment in 1928: ‘Mawson’s Expedition, judged by the magnitude both of its scale and of its achievements, was the greatest and most consummate expedition that ever sailed for Antarctica… Its excellence lay in its design, its scope and its executive success; and [in its origin and conduct] by scientists of administrative ability…Mawson’s was the first British Expedition which had clearly passed beyond the novitiate stage in Antarctic exploration, previously so painfully evident.’
But perhaps the highest praise came from Frank Hurley, who succinctly summed up the Australasian effort: ‘Shackleton grafted science on to exploration—Mawson added exploring to science.’
The first recognisable photograph of an auroral display in the south, with a ten-second exposure, 1912. By Frank Hurley. Courtesy of the Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, Sydney (36856).
CHAPTER 8
MARTYRS TO GONDWANALAND
The Cost of Scientific Exploration
Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges—Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!
RUDYARD KIPLING (1865–1936)
On 11 February 1913 England woke to the Daily Mail headline ‘Death of Captain Scott. Lost with four comrades. The Pole reached. Disaster on the return.’ Just a day before, the press had reported that Scott was back in New Zealand; the Royal Geographical Society had even prepared a telegram congratulating him on his success. The palpable sense of anticipation and excitement now turned to despondence.
A few days later a hastily organised memorial service was held in St Paul’s Cathedral, London. The numbers attending were staggering, exceeding those at the service for the 1500 lives lost on the Titanic in the same year. ‘The presence of the king,’ The Times declared, ‘conveyed a symbolism without which any ceremony expressive of national sentiment would have been inadequate.’ The Empire grieved.
The details of what had happened in Antarctica appeared contradictory. The five men had last been seen heading confidently towards the South Geographic Pole. They were well provisioned, and fit and strong. What had happened did not make sense—but the latest reports from Antarctica had a frightening ring of truth.
These accounts described a team returning from the pole in deteriorating weather conditions, the likes of which had never been seen before. Pushing on in the bitter cold the expedition had continued its scientific program, making observations and collecting geological samples as it travelled back to the Cape Evans base. And yet the journey proved fatal.
Petty Officer Edgar Evans (not to be confused with Scott’s deputy, Teddy Evans) was the first to die, apparently from the effects of concussion at the base of the Beardmore Glacier. Later, suffering from frostbite and exhaustion, and recognising his ever-slowing pace was threatening the others, Captain Oates famously walked out into a blizzard with the words, ‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’ Struggling forward with limited food and fuel, in plummeting temperatures, the remaining three men continued their trek to base.
In late March 1912 a nine-day blizzard pinned down Scott, Wilson and Bowers in their tent. There would be no escape. All three wrote messages for loved ones until the end, which came sometime around 29 March. Scott’s diary reads: ‘Every day we have been ready to start for our depot 11 miles away, but outside the door of the tent it remains a scene of whirling drift. I do not think we can hope for any better things now we are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far. It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more. R. Scott. For God’s sake look after our people.’
They died disappointed men, 150 days out from base and a mere eighteen kilometres from salvation at One Ton Depot.
In his ‘Message to the Public’, Scott wrote one of the finest short pieces of English prose:
We took risks, we knew we took them; things have come out against us, and therefore we have no cause for complaint, but bow to the will of Providence, determined still to do our best to the last. But if we have been willing to give our lives to this enterprise, which is for the honour of our country, I appeal to our countrymen to see that those who depend on us are properly cared for. Had we lived, I should have had a tale to tell of hardihood, endurance, and courage of my companions which would have stirred the heart of every Englishman. These rough notes and our dead bodies must tell the tale, but surely, surely, a great rich country like ours will see that those who are dependent on us are properly cared for.
Scott wrote to his ‘wife’—a word he later struck out and changed to ‘widow’—and said of their two-year-old son, Peter: ‘Make the boy interested in natural history if you can; it is better than games.’
On 12 November a search party from C
ape Evans came across the frozen remains of the three men. Apsley Cherry-Garrard later wrote, ‘We have found them—to say it has been a ghastly day cannot express it—it is too bad for words.’ But Cherry was amazed: ‘We have everything—records, diaries, etc. They have among other things several rolls of photographs, a meteorological log kept up to 13 March, considering all things, a great many geological samples. And they have stuck to everything. It is magnificent that men in such case should go on pulling everything that they have died to gain.’ With the papers and samples collected, the tent was collapsed over the men and, after a failed search for Oates’s body, the search team returned to base.
Scott’s death with his men was a defining moment early in the twentieth century, not least for those connected to Antarctic exploration. Sir Clements Markham eulogised in his diary: ‘There has passed away, if it is really true, a very exceptionally noble Englishman. What struck me most was his chivalrous generosity in dealing with contemptible self-seekers such as Shackleton and Amundsen. Very rarely have so many great qualities been combined in one man. Perhaps the greatest was that which won him the love of all who served under him.’
Overseas, the shock was no less. Roald Amundsen was quoted as saying, on hearing the news, ‘horrible, horrible’; while Count Okuma, Nobu Shirase’s public champion, wrote, ‘Scott rests forever in that frozen realm, and his great spirit watches for all eternity over the Antarctic’s icy wastes.’
Lord Curzon reflected: ‘Arm-chair geographers were sometimes disposed to complain that the days of adventure and risk in exploration were over. The last year gave the melancholy lie to such fireside fallacies. The toll of human life was still demanded, and was still cheerfully paid. Should the day ever arise when it was not, then indeed might geographical societies shut their doors and hand over their work to an educational bureau of the State.’ The loss of life counted for something.