Just before the skis hit, Smith nosed the plane into a power stall. We landed at a speed of about 50 miles per hour and the Ford was severely tested on the rough, very hard snow before it came to a stop. Smith’s landing was perfect. We had surmounted the first big obstacle between us and the Pole.
Smith remained in the cockpit, carefully nursing the engines, while June, McKinley and I prepared to build the depot. I paused long enough to take several sights of the sun, which gave us a longitude line on the chart and indicated that we were about where we thought we were. That done, I pitched in and helped the others unload.
Building the depot took very little time. We simply piled the cans of fuel and oil and the bags of food in a high mass. The food, however, we covered with snow blocks. The gasoline stove for which the Geological Party had asked was set on top of the mound, which was several feet above our heads. We finished with some satisfaction at this southernmost base in the world. I named it after Josephine Ford—the same name which was given to the North Pole plane.
“Well, that’s done,” June said. “Boy, what scenery !”
To the north the Barrier invaded the horizon. The rolling troughs and crests which seemed none too conspicuous from the air were immense. Nansen’s group of foothills had become full-fledged mountains, which effectively shut off Nansen from view.
How much more—and yet how very much less—the surface traveller sees. And how different the point of view.
The area in the vicinity of the base was heavily scored with sastrugi. Those nearby which we examined were quite deep and firm, and curved up to a sharp icy overhang. Quite plainly they showed that the prevailing easterly winds in this area were severe at times. There was, to our surprise, little evidence of recent movement in the ice in the immediate vicinity except where a few glaciers debouched from the mountains. Farther to the west, where Liv’s discharging stream, freighted with millions of tons of ice pouring from the plateau, met the Barrier we saw a series of huge crevasses which ran in parallel cracks more or less to the northeast. These were partly drifted over.
The engines purred constantly. Smith, who was anxious about fuel consumption, slid back one of the windows in the cockpit and yelled : “We’d better not hang around here too long.”
We hustled into the cabin, and rose in a long glide and headed east. With the first phase of flight operations successfully accomplished, I was eager to make a thorough investigation of Carmen Land. It was my intention to fly at least 100 miles to the east. McKinley’s camera went into action again, mapping the face of the Queen Maud Range as we flew parallel to it.
The main structure of Queen Maud, we saw, trended to the southeast, and presently we saw the same smaller range we had seen before, which extended indefinitely to the eastward.1
The Ford had risen to an altitude of 3,000 feet and we had visibility to the east for at least 50 miles. Again I looked for Carmen Land, but in vain. I could see only the Barrier rolling endlessly to the east. A great pressure ridge or perhaps a mirage may have misled Amundsen into believing that land was there. So, from a geographical point of view, the base-laying flight had great significance in that we were now able definitely to extend the known limits of the Barrier at least 100 miles to the east. But I did not want to announce this until we had made still further investigation.
At this moment, as we stood again on the threshold of discovery, June, who had been sounding the fuel tanks, moved down the cabin and told me, with a grave face, that the fuel supply was dangerously low.
I shouted: “How can that be ! Surely we must have gas for nearly seven hours’ flying.”
June took off his glove and raised four fingers, “Very heavy consumption. Don’t know why.”
When we were about an hour out from Little America June had discovered a fairly rapid leak near the hand fuel pump underneath the pilot seat. He had plugged this with chewing gum and then dammed it with heavy tape. At the time, we believed it had stopped the flow.
There was nothing to do but turn back at once. We should have to run for it, as it was. Smith turned the plane, and as it wheeled I stared up the valley of a steep mountain glacier which debouched from Nansen’s flank. Far up, over a saddle where Nansen appeared to merge with a second mass of foothills, I caught sight, for a moment, of the blue-white flooring of Axel Heiberg. From it a mighty ice fall descended to the mountain glacier.
Studying it, I was moved to wonder if we could hurl our heavily loaded plane over its pass, which we could not see. I looked at it anxiously, and wished that I might be able to see what lay hidden in the heights.
We swung over Josephine Ford cache, turned north and I laid a straight course for Little America. There could be no following of the southern trail on the return trip. With a diminishing fuel supply, a straight line recommended itself overwhelmingly. We should depend wholly upon the drift indicator, the sun compass (and astronomy if necessary) to get us back. Fortunately the weather continued excellent, the sun was visible and as long as it was there I could get a line on it with the sun compass.
I glanced for a last time at Liv’s Glacier, and the idea occurred that it might offer better passage over the “Hump” than Axel Heiberg.
Far to the west a tracery of cloud crept over the highest peaks.
We flew now at an altitude of about 2,000 feet, with the engines turning over at the most economical revolutions, while Smith endeavored to “lean” the mixture as much as possible.
I studied the eastern horizon with my glasses. Still no signs of Carmen Land.
I sent Smith a message: “We will pick up the trail just north of the crevasses.”
We were over the crevasses shortly before 7:00 o’clock, and sure enough at approximately the point at which the calculations indicated we sighted the trail. We were then about 150 miles from Little America.
About fifty miles on, the engines began to miss. Directly ahead was an area which Thorne and de Ganahl, both of them flyers, had reported, on their return from their dog team journeys, was impossible for landing. It was furrowed with sastrugi, and we could see that the surface was still very rough.
Smith worked the throttles anxiously, trying to restore the engines to their former fluency, but to no avail. All three stopped at once. June looked up from the main gas tank. “No gas,” he yelled in the sudden quiet that followed the cessation of the engines.
Smith brought the plane down in a superb manner, squeezing the last inch of altitude from the glide. We barely crept over the edge of the worst area and landed with a bump. Nevertheless everything held. Luck and a fine piece of work by Smith saw us through.
It was then 7 :29 o’clock.
The moment the plane stopped, all hands scrambled out, snatching empty cans from the racks in the fuselage and made ready to drain the oil from the engines. We pulled out the plugs and caught the warm oil as it fell. A goodly percentage of it went into the cans, but a considerable amount fell on us. In a very short time we were reeking with oil and unquestionably the dirtiest persons within thousands of miles. The oil congealed on our clothes and we were very uncomfortable.
June assembled the emergency radio set and tried to send an S.O.S. to the camp, but for some reason, which we were unable to determine at the time, he could not raise the operator.
We then set up a tent not far from the plane, and tried to get some rest. It had been a busy day. But we could not remain still for long, for we were greatly concerned as to the safety of the plane. If a blizzard should come before we could get in touch with the camp, we might lose it. The weather, however, remained perfectly clear and calm.
About 11 o’clock, when we were on the verge of giving up the hope of establishing communication with the camp, and when McKinley’s arm was about used up in cranking the hand generator, we heard the sound of an airplane. It was the Fairchild, with Balchen and Petersen. It made an extremely rough landing and taxied alongside. Balchen was piloting and Petersen was radio operator. To our delight Balchen reported that he had 100 ga
llons of fuel aboard.
“When we heard the transmitter stop,” Balchen said, “we knew you had come down and figured you were about 100 miles out. Haines waited to hear from you by radio, and then decided to send the Fairchild out. Lack of gas, we decided, brought you down.”
Our joy at seeing Balchen and Petersen was equalled only by our respect for Haines’ good judgment.
This incident illustrates the value of radio. Had Balchen not known our position, searching for us in that vast expanse of snow would have been as hard as trying to find the proverbial needle. The radio men, at Little America, who had been listening in on the flight, heard the engines stop. Knowing the rate of speed at which we were flying, Balchen was able to figure out our approximate latitude; and knowing that we had been following the trail, he knew our longitude. For a second time, our rescue plans functioned smoothly.
Balchen and Petersen immediately unloaded the fuel cans and we dumped them into the Ford’s wing tank. Then the Fairchild took off for Little America, expecting us to follow.
When we began to figure out the high fuel consumption, we realized that we had been a bit hasty in promising to follow. Not knowing exactly the cause of this excessive consumption we were afraid that the 100 gallons would not be sufficient to carry us back to base. Another forced landing might prove disastrous. We decided, therefore, to fly two-thirds of the distance to the base, select a good place to land and there await the arrival of more gas.
It had turned colder and we had a difficult time getting the engines started. We heated them first with the blow torch and then the three of us threw our weight on the long crank which turns the inertia starter. We finally managed to get one engine going but were then so fatigued we were almost reluctant to tackle the second. When we finished cranking and thrust home the pin which engages the engine, instead of the whine of high speed revolutions which we waited to hear, we heard instead a blank silence. We tried again, and yet again, but without success. The “booster” had frozen solid and we were guests of the Barrier for the night. We stopped the first engine and tried to renew radio communication with the camp.
McKinley crawled into the fuselage and went to sleep. We found him sprawled across a four-inch upright, sleeping as soundly as if he was in a feather bed. Smith served a supper of cocoa and biscuits, the predominant taste of which was oil, and we arranged watches for the night.
For a time we were baffled as to the cause of the excessive consumption. It did not seem possible that the small leak near the fuel pump could have caused it alone. It was finally decided that the jets were still too large.
June worked on the radio set all night, having finally taken down the transmitter in an attempt to locate the trouble. He found a rupture in the high tension lead in the hand generator. Smith, who is a capable operator, relieved him, and June finally crawled into his oily sleeping bag. My bag I stretched on the snow, and slept fairly well.
We were still waiting at 7 o’clock the next evening. Not long afterwards June made contact with the base. I sent a message to Bill Haines, asking him to send out the Fairchild with more fuel and another man to help us crank the engine. Haines replied instantly that the Fairchild had left some time ago, with more gas and oil, and should reach us very soon. Bill thought of everything. A moment later June heard the transmitter of the Fairchild and we established communication. Balchen was piloting and Petersen was radio man.
A few moments later Balchen landed safely. We borrowed the booster from the Fairchild, got the three motors started in jig time and took off. At 2,000 feet we met a walloping 30-mile tail wind and rode it to Little America, swinging above the wireless towers a few minutes before midnight. The Ross Sea, to the north and east, was choked with drift ice.
An hour later Balchen returned in the Fairchild, and the incident, which had been full of potential dangers, was closed.
The mechanics took over the Ford, and we turned in. We were ready, then, to tackle the polar flight.
Meanwhile the Geological Party, burdened down by heavy loads, was making heavy going of it to the mountains.
Saturday
November 23rd
The mechanics have made the necessary engine adjustments on the Ford, and it is ready to go.
All gear is ready. We are waiting now for the Geological Party to reach the mountains and a favorable weather report from Gould.
The Geological Party reached Depot No. 5 tonight.
Sunday
November 24th
McKinley’s photographs of the Queen Maud Range and the mountains to the westward are excellent. I have notified Gould by radio that I shall drop him a batch of these photographs when we pass over him on the way to the Pole. They will give him a much clearer idea of the area than he can get from the surface. At least, it may simplify his geological work.
Monday
November 25th
Sky partly overcast, temperature as high as 12° today. The wind is a gentle southwesterly.
The Geological Party has the mountains in sight. Gould reports they put down Depot No. 6 this morning and are pushing ahead. He reports also that they have had no sun for three days.
The sun is absolutely necessary on the polar flight, not only from the point of view of navigation but also of survey photography.
We must wait.
Tuesday
November 26th
Still cloudy here.
Gould reported at 6 A.M. that “a heavy cloud bank to the south completely hides the mountains.”
So we must defer the start. We cannot risk an assault on the “Hump” unless the air is absolutely clear. It will be a close squeeze as it is, just with the heavy load, without the added danger of colliding with an unseen mountain peak.
For the 1000th time I have calculated expectancy and performance. We can do it by the skin of our teeth.
The total weight of the Ford, including personnel, is nearly 15,000 pounds.
Wednesday
November 27th
This execrable cloudiness continues. The temperature was 6° below this morning but has since risen above zero. The wind is ESE. A 30 mile wind and heavy drift were reported by Gould this morning.
We have asked the Geological Party to stand by until 1 P.M. for a radio schedule to advise us on weather.
Later
Gould radioed at 1 o’clock that the weather at the foot of the mountains is “excellent,” with a five mile wind from the southeast, and a few thin clouds above the mountain peaks.
It looks good.
Midnight
In its 10 o’clock P.M. report the Geological Party says the weather continues unchanged—“excellent.”
Haines is making his charts. He believes that within another ten or fifteen hours we shall have the weather we want.
It would be asking too much to demand perfect weather throughout the flight. A south wind, for example, which generally brings clear skies, must of necessity be a head wind on the outward trip, when the Ford will be carrying its heaviest loads. But a north wind, which might provide a very helpful boost, unfortunately brings as a rule clouds formed by the condensation of the warmer air from the water as it strikes the Barrier.
As I have done on equally critical occasions in the past, I shall have implicit confidence in Bill Haines. He knows exactly what we need, and will not give the word until conditions are adequate.
Footnotes
1 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” ii, p. 45.
2 Ibid, ii, 44.
3 Ibid, ii. 30.
1 Amundsen “The South Pole,” ii, 44
2 Ibid, ii, 47
3 Ibid, i, The First Account, xiii.
4 Ibid, ii, 54.
5 Ibid, ii, 30.
1 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” i, “The First Account,” xviii.
2 Ibid, ii, 170–171.
3 Ibid, ii, 31.
4 Ibid, ii, 45.
1 This mountain was named Fisher Mountain, after the Fisher brothers of Detroit.
1 These we
re named the Charles V. Bob Mountains.
CHAPTER XIV
FLIGHT TO THE SOUTH POLE
THANKSGIVING DAY, November 25th, gave us what we wanted. At noon the Geological Party radioed a final weather report: “Unchanged. Perfect visibility. No clouds anywhere.” Harrison finished with his balloon runs, Haines with his weather charts. The sky was still somewhat overcast, and the surface wind from the east-southeast. Haines came into the library, his face very grave and determined. Dear old Bill, he always takes his responsibilities seriously. Together we went out for a walk and a last look at the weather. What he said exactly I have forgotten, but it was in effect: “If you don’t go now you may never have another chance as good as this.” And that was that.
There were a few things to be done. Every possible thing that could happen and some that could not possibly happen we had attempted to anticipate and prepare for. First, I delivered to Haines, who would be in charge of the camp during our absence and until the return of Gould, a set of instructions suggesting his procedure in case we should fail. It was, of course, necessary to anticipate this contingency. There were, besides, a number of sealed instructions, to be opened only if no word came from us within a fixed period. These provided for the organization of a relief expedition, the allocation of responsibility, the return of part of the expedition to the United States and the messages which a thoughtful man must leave behind before undertaking such a flight. These last I gave to Lofgren, who had served the expedition faithfully and than whom there is no squarer or truer man.
The mechanics, Bubier, Roth and Demas, went over the plane for the last time, testing everything with scrupulous care. A line of men passed five-gallon cans of gasoline to several men standing on the wing, who poured them into the wing tanks. Another line fed the stream of gear which flowed into the plane. Black weighed each thing before passing it on to McKinley and June, who were stowing the stuff in the cabin. Hanson went over the radio equipment. With de Ganahl I made a careful check of the sextant and the watches and chronometers, which were among the last things put aboard. For days de Ganahl and I had nursed the chronometers, checking them against the time tick which was broadcast every night from the United States. We knew their exact loss or gain. We had to know. An error in time would put the Bumstead sun compass off and our geographical position as well.
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