Amundsen’s journey was perhaps the easier one. It was so for several reasons. He chose dogs for transport, whereas Scott, who had little faith in dogs, threw in his lot with Manchurian ponies. Amundsen also took his risks. He was the first man to dare to winter on the Barrier: and in doing so reduced his southern journey by 100 miles. This, was a bold stroke recommended by judgment. And, finally, he cut out for himself an entirely new route to the Pole, with all the risks involved in that choice, whereas Scott knew what he had to face, as he pursued the route by means of which Shackleton had come within 97 miles of the Pole in 1908.
This is no criticism of the gallant Scott. There were variables in his problem that no one, save the excellent men who lie with him in his whitened sepulchre, are qualified to determine. In dying, in failing, he gave the world something much more worth while than success. He gave it an intellectual experience worth the attainment of a dozen South Poles.
But let us bear with the living. There can be only one Scott, and martyrdom, whatever our distinguished critic might have thought, was not to be our destiny, if we could help it. We were humble workers, as afraid to fail as we were eager to succeed. “Victory awaits him who has everything in order—luck, people call it? Defeat is certain for him who has neglected to take the necessary precautions in time: this is called bad luck.”1 Even so, the caprices of the polar regions may upset the best laid plans.
The hours and hours we spent in working out every detail of the planning that preceded every journey can be taken as evidence of the care with which we approached these particular problems. Nothing was left to chance. Committees were appointed to investigate all propositions, and to work out the most feasible plan of operations and the most effective equipment with which to accomplish the job. We had with us one of the best polar libraries in the world, and this was used extensively, to supply information that we lacked in personal experience. By the end of winter the volumes on the Antarctic had been worn shabby and were discolored from uninterrupted use.
There was, for example, the committee on the Polar Flight, consisting of Balchen, McKinley, June, Smith, Parker and myself; mechanics Bubier, Demas and Roth sat in on these conferences and gave us valuable advice. This committee had the task of working out the specific operation of getting the Ford to the Pole and back. This was no mere matter of gassing it up, and flying there and back. Apart from the difficulties of navigation, which must be anticipated and prepared for, there were scores of problems on the proper solution of which would rest the success of the flight. How much fuel and oil would be required to accomplish the flight? What constituted a safe reserve? What was the maximum weight that could be allowed for emergency food and sledge equipment in case of a forced landing? What was the minimum that could be taken, to insure the safe return of personnel? How much weight could be allowed for engine repair equipment in case a forced landing can be made without injury to the plane? What separate courses of procedure would be most effective for relief of the Polar Party in case of a forced landing some distance from the base: (a) for the Polar Flight group, (b) for the base party and (c) for the dog parties in the field?
These were but a few of the problems that bore on this single undertaking: and the pros and cons were argued and discussed all through the winter night, before the final plan was drafted.
Perhaps it would be interesting to sit in, for a few moments, on one of the sessions of this committee. It convened after supper generally in the library, which served also as my office. Three sides of the library were taken up by shelves, on which Owen had neatly stacked the books. The only picture on the wall was that of Floyd Bennett, for whom we named the Polar plane. It was draped with an American flag. Near the center was a small caboose stove which threw off a ruddy glow. In one corner was Lofgren’s desk, and in another was Owen’s with his portable typewriter on it. There were three different types of collapsible chairs. We were jammed rather closely together, as the library was only about twelve feet square. Often a blizzard, which raked the Barrier mercilessly, howled and moaned in the ventilator, a sound like nothing else on this earth.
Even intimate friends would scarcely have recognized in the group the men who had started from the United States. June’s luxuriant black beard gave him such a convincing resemblance to General Grant that one looked quickly for the loose-fitting campaign coat, and the right hand hanging limply at the lapel. No less startling was Smith’s resemblance to Lincoln, for his beard was cut in the same way, and his tall, loosely-hung body and high brow were more than a passing parallel. Were it not for the heavy clothes which we all wear this might have been a conference in a campaign shack on the Potomac. In spite of the warmth of the stove, there was always a cold draught circulating about one’s back and feet when the wind is blowing.
Byrd: “It would now appear definite that the Polar flight cannot be made non-stop.”
Balchen, with a smile at McKinley: “Not unless we make McKinley walk. His weight and food and extra clothes and the weight of the camera and film make the difference. If we took gasoline instead we could do it.”1
McKinley, with a broader smile: “If I wasn’t partially deaf, I would knock you down for that, Bernt.”
Byrd: “Well, we can’t get around that. McKinley and his camera have to go. Mapping the area between the base and the Pole is as important, to our purposes, as reaching the Pole itself. Let’s make this definite: hereafter, in all calculations the weight of McKinley and his camera are to be considered essential load.”
Balchen: “Of course the limiting factor on the range of the polar flight is the ceiling of the Ford. If we expect to clear the ‘Hump,’2 we should have a minimum service ceiling1 of 11,000 feet. The maximum load that will give that service ceiling is, if I recall correctly, 12,500 pounds. If we take off with a load of say 14,500 pounds, we will use up the difference in fuel on the way to the Mountains. We have worked out the Ford’s range both graphically and with Brequet’s formula as modified by Diehl, and they check, giving a range, with the gasoline and the heavy load of equipment we must carry, of about 1700 miles. That’s not enough to take us from Little America to the Pole and back. But if we plan to lay down a base in the vicinity of Queen Maud Mountains it would give us a fuel reserve of about 15 percent over needs from Little America to the Pole and back to the mountain base.”
Smith: “I don’t think it would be wise to attempt the flight, non-stop or with two stops, with less than a 20 percent factor of safety. If we meet head winds, we’ll be out of luck. Winds are so changeable down here that we may have head winds both going in and coming out. What do you make the distance to the Pole?”
Balchen: “820 miles.”
Byrd: “I make it 790. Well, we must get this more accurately, and run some careful fuel and altitude tests next spring. We may get an improved or lesser performance down here. So our figures now must be tentative. Taking everything into consideration—food, tools, sledges, medical supplies, tents, scientific gear, radio, etc.—what do you estimate to be the minimum take-off load from Little America?”
Balchen: “About 14,500 pounds, maybe a little more.”
Byrd: “I’ve got it nearly to that figure.”
June: “We have now figured out that a month’s supply of food is enough, allowing 75 pounds of food per man.”
Byrd: “Not enough. We would be foolish to start with less than two months’ supply, and I prefer three. We cannot afford to experiment with food. Man-hauling is the toughest kind of pulling. If we are forced down at the Pole, or near it, it will take us at least two months to walk back to the base of the mountains, and we might not be able to do it at all with any amount of food. If Amundsen were here he would say it couldn’t be done. I have talked this over with him a number of times. He had no faith in men man-hauling long distances, specially without depots, and pulling on a plateau 10,000 feet high. Dean, will you please read Shackleton’s, Scott’s and Mawson’s books, and draw up in table form the distances that have been travelled by man-haul
ing? We are probably over-estimating our abilities.”
McKinley: “Personally, I’m in favor of two flights—a base-laying fight and the polar flight. It will give me two chances to photograph the Queen Maud Range. Visibility may be so poor on the polar flight, if it is tried non-stop, that we won’t be able to get decent pictures. But from your point of view, two flights are not good. It will involve two landings away from base.”
Byrd: “Well, the second is the lesser of two risks. Suppose we do put down a base at the foot of the Queen Maud Range, to be picked up on the return from the Pole. We ought to be able to cache enough gasoline to make a flight over Carmen Land before returning to Little America. That is, if weather permits. We could then make two flights in one. Besides, with a lessened load we ought to be able to improve performance on the plateau.”
Parker: “Where do you believe the base ought to be put?”
Smith: “About 400 or 500 miles out, and I’m in favor of putting it right at the foot of Axel Heiberg Glacier, if we can find a smooth place. It will be easier to find and, on the flight back, we won’t have to fly so far to reach it. The distance is about 350 miles, I think. Now the limiting factor on the base-laying flight is the amount of load we can land safely at this base. It would be hazardous, in my opinion, to try to land with a load of much over 13,000 pounds. To land with more would put a wicked strain on the ship.”
Balchen: “We figured we could land with 13,000 pounds. We allowed a month’s supply of food for four men for emergency on this flight, and considered 450 miles as the distance of the base from Little America. Weight of the plane, less gasoline and with all other essential load, in rough figures, is 8,490 pounds. Gasoline required for flying 800 miles, plus 20 percent safety factor, is 2,800 pounds, assuming consumption of 53 gallons per hour. Total, 11,290 pounds. If we take-off with a load of 14,500 pounds, that leaves us 3,210 pounds for gasoline and oil to be dropped at the depot, which is equivalent to 500 gallons of gasoline and 25 gallons of oil. We will use about 1,500 pounds of fuel flying to the base. Our landing load then will be about 13,000 pounds. We get away with that.”
Byrd: “I don’t see how we can allow for less that 440 miles to the base. Here is my list of ideal equipment for the base-laying flight.”
“Even with a take-off load of 14,600 pounds, we then could only carry about pounds of oil and gasoline to the base.”
June: “The amount of gasoline you can cache also depends upon whether you carry it in cans alone, or in cans held in boxes. In 5 gallon cans, the gasoline averages 7 pounds per gallon; with the boxes, 9 pounds per gallon. If the field is bumpy, you ought to have boxes. The cans won’t stand much pounding around.”
Byrd: “We shall figure on that later. But first of all, let us figure out our needs for the polar flight, and from that work backward to the base-laying flight. Here’s my list of ideal equipment for this flight:
“We may assume an average speed of 100 m.p.h. The distance from Little America to the Pole is approximately 790 miles, and back to the mountain base 1135 miles. That means 11.35 hours flying time, if all goes well. If we take 780 gallons of gasoline from Little America, we shall have enough for 15 hours, or 3.65 hours above expected needs. That gives us a safety factor of 24%. We shall then have 190 gallons of gas in the tanks. If we carry out the schedule for the base-laying flight, there will be an additional 265 gallons which can be picked up there, or a total of 455 gallons, equivalent to 8.7 hours. With that amount, we could make a 100 mile flight to the East, to investigate Carmen Land, and return to Little America with a safety factor of 25%. That ought to be about what we want.”
Parker: “I think that some of your weights are too high. The weight you give for sledging equipment can be reduced, and also the repair equipment.”
Byrd: “We ought to get correct figures on these things immediately. Harold, you start the fellows moving on this. Hanson has promised to give me the exact weights on the radio equipment within the next few days. Blackie ought to be able to help you with the other things. Every item must be weighed carefully, even to the fractions. If it is possible, we ought to try to get away from here with a take-off load of less than 14,500 pounds for the base-laying flight.1 By cutting down equipment to bare necessities, and reducing the rations to two months, we can reduce the weight to 13,800. But I am not sure that this skimping is wise.”
Balchen: “Smith and I have worked up the performance tables, and they show that we can’t expect very much in case of engine failure on the plateau. If one of the engines fail while we are over the plateau we shall have to come down. Whether we can bring down that heavy load safely on the rough surface is doubtful.”
Parker: “A single-engined plane would be the most efficient plane for this hop. The fact that we have three engines will offer no protection on the plateau. If any one of the engines stops, we shall have to come down. As a matter of fact, the risk of a forced landing on the plateau is substantially increased with three engines over a single engine. There are three that might fail instead of one. And there is little gain in safety to compensate for it.
McKinley: “It’s a pity we lost the Fokker.”
Smith: “Well, we can still greater improve performance here by decreasing the pay load.”
Byrd: “All right. Let’s see what we need. Harold, what is the minimum weight you allow for tools?”
And so it went on, as Mr. Webster’s comic strip says, long into the (winter) night, until reams of paper had been covered with scribbling and figures, and the library was blue with tobacco smoke.
Meanwhile, Professor Gould and his aides were working out the journey of the Southern Party, which became known as the Geological Party. The planning of this journey was no less complicated than that of the Polar flight. The purposes of this journey were several. Primarily, the party proposed to make extended glaciological and geological studies in the central area of Queen Maud Range, in Carmen Land and in the unnamed highlands which Amundsen had noted between Latitudes 81° and 82° S.1 The Queen Maud Range was one of the most important places left in the world to investigate geologically. Then it would be a great help to have the party in the vicinity of our base at the foot of Queen Maud Range before the polar flight was attempted for two reasons: (1) to relay daily weather reports to Little America, so that Haines might be able to predict with greater certainty the weather conditions we were likely to meet in the flight: and (2) to stand by as a relief unit in the event of failure of the flight. Altogether the scope of the Southern Party was one of the most extensive and significant single efforts of the expedition.
The physical difficulties alone involved in the journey would be great. It called for 1,300 miles of sledging, and, if successful, would be one of the longest and most important sledge trips on record made in the interest of pure science.
The objects of this journey were considered so important that during the winter night the activities of the entire camp revolved about its preparation. It was planned that they should leave on the main advance about the middle of October. The Supporting Party, which would assist the Geological Party in advancing its loads out, was to start about two weeks earlier. Next to the routine scientific work, the preparations for this journey took precedence over everything else. Proper preparation was absolutely essential, for the reason that none of the men who would compose the two parties, with the exception of Mr. Walden, had had any previous experience in long-distance sledging. Walden was a veteran dog musher of the old school, and had had a great deal of experience hauling freight in Alaska. But this experience, of course, had nothing to do with the intricate planning of food, tents, cookers, distribution of loads, bases, et cetera, which are essential to a prolonged sledging trip in the Antarctic.
But these two parties were fortunate in having the two geniuses—the machinist Czegka, and the tailor Ronne—to help them. They worked at fever heat during the winter to turn out material for both the Supporting Party and the Geological Party. In fact, every man in the camp was behind
these operations, and it was one of the most splendid cooperative efforts I have ever had the privilege of seeing. June, for example, placed his mechanical talents unreservedly at their disposal, and Demas slept out doors in a tent during some of the coldest nights in order to get information by means of which the troublesome accumulation of ice in reindeer sleeping bags might be defeated. From beginning to end, the project was a matter of infinite detail, the smallest unit of which could not be ignored.
Space does not permit of a full recital of the planning that went into the development of this unit. It is possible to do no more than hint at them. As we grappled with the intricacies of load on the polar and base-laying flights, so Gould and his men were at grips with the same enemy, but in a different dress. Food—just enough of it, no more, no less than was absolutely necessary—was their problem. They would be out nearly three months, and had to feed not only six men, but also 54 dogs. If we racked our brains on the problem of laying down a single base, they tortured theirs in the planning of eight. In planning the polar flight, we weighed time almost down to the seconds. They doled it out in days, then hours. Time is the universal measurement in the Antarctic. For us, hours spoke for gasoline, gasoline meant flight, and flight meant accomplishment and also safety. For them, days spoke for food, and food for everything.
Buried in the snow behind our colony we had a finished and excellent vehicle to carry us whither we planned: it needed only the application of mathematics, about eighteen hours of good weather and perhaps a bit of boldness and good fortune to see it through. They had to build their sledges, and if weather would inconvenience them only when excessively bad over long periods, certainly they had need of boldness—great boldness, resourcefulness and unremitting physical effort—to see them through. We were fortunate in knowing our jobs more or less exactly: airplanes and flights were our particular business, and the fundamentals had been drilled into us. Long-distance sledging was a new thing to them. However, they made it their business during the winter, poring over books until they knew them nearly by heart. And if, when they started, their knowledge was partly the theoretical knowledge of the academician, at least they knew what it was all about.
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