It is full testament to his rapid progress that he became one of the most consistent ice travellers of the entire party. The expedition records show that Crean amassed a total of 149 days man-hauling sledges in just over two years with the Discovery in the South. Only seven of the 48-man party spent more time than Tom Crean in the sledging harness during the expedition. He was behind only Scott with 193 days, Taff Evans’ 173 days, Skelton’s 171 days, Albert Quartley’s 169 days, Barne’s 162 days, Wilson’s 158 days and Handsley’s 153 days.1 But it ranked him many weeks ahead of Lashly and Wild, two men who were to establish their own formidable reputations as sledge travellers in the South.
Crean accompanied Lt Barne on three notable sledging trips, which were a mixture of exploration and depot laying of supplies for other parties. These trips also provided early examples of the difficulties of sledge travel in the South and the serious dangers posed by the hostile polar climate, which brought him several narrow escapes. Crean endured a tough test of character in those early days on the ice as the party struggled to come to terms with the environment – and he passed with flying colours.
He also formed a close friendship with Evans and Lashly, two fellow sailors who, with Crean, were to become an influential triumvirate in the Age of Polar Exploration. Crean, Lashly and Evans, with their background in the navy, formed a strong bond as soon as fate threw them together at Lyttelton in New Zealand and before long the trio were inseparable. In time they would become the backbone of Scott’s sledging parties.
Crean remained unflappable and phlegmatic in most situations, even though he had an unhappy reputation for accidents and mishaps. But the imperturbable Irishman was rarely shaken despite finding himself in some nasty and potentially fatal tight spots on all three expeditions on which he sailed. Throughout his career in the South, colleagues remarked on his unending cheerfulness and constant habit of launching into a song at the slightest excuse. One fellow traveller said he had the ‘heart of a lion’.
The Discovery expedition was Crean’s Antarctic apprenticeship and there is little doubt that without the experience of those early years he would never have made the outstanding contribution to polar exploration which was to become so apparent in later journeys. Both Shackleton and Scott clearly recognised the Irishman’s qualities even at this early stage in his polar career and both readily took the Irishman on subsequent trips south.
Ice anchors had secured the Discovery in its temporary berth, but as an insurance against the threat of being crushed by the ice, the ship’s boilers were kept permanently lit. The theory was that, in the face of any threat from the ice, the ship could make a quick getaway. The reality was different. Discovery became trapped and would remain a prisoner of the ice.
However, Wilson said that Discovery’s winter quarters were the ‘most perfect natural harbour’, helped by the abundant stocks of Weddell seals. Wilson’s hope was that the regular supply of fresh meat would eliminate scurvy, the debilitating disease which is caused by lack of vitamin C and for centuries had plagued sailors on long voyages. But, rather like the wishful thinking over Discovery’s quick getaway from the ice, Wilson’s hope of avoiding scurvy was to prove optimistic. Indeed, it is likely that even in their winter quarters, the Discovery party suffered from the early effects of scurvy because they did not get enough fresh meat or vegetables. The men disliked the strong fishy taste of seal meat and instead preferred tinned meat. It is likely, therefore, that the party was weakened even before it began exploring.
Meanwhile, two observation huts were erected nearby and the men began the necessary but bloody business of slaughtering seals and penguins to provide food for the winter, despite their misgivings about the taste. Short reconnoitring trips across the ice were undertaken as the party began to familiarise themselves with the surroundings. Ski practice continued, although even at this early stage in proceedings Scott doubted their value. By contrast, some of the party had adapted well and Scott noted that Skelton, the chief engineer, was by far the best of the officers. He added that ‘some of the men run him close’ but he curiously did little to encourage their use. Scott’s discomfiture with skis may have been further hardened by a slight accident when he fell and damaged a hamstring.
Nor was there any real progress made in mastering the teams of dogs who had been taken south with the express purpose of pulling the party’s supplies as far as possible and saving the terrible toil of man-hauling sledges. As we have stated, dogs were to become the key method of travel across the ice, most notably by Amundsen, the finest of all polar explorers. But Scott, taking a lead from Markham’s antiquated methods, was already warming to the laborious and monotonous task of man-hauling sledges.
Man-hauling, the system of placing groups of men in harness and dragging heavy sledges on foot across the ice, is probably the most physically demanding form of travel anywhere on earth. The painfully slow, back-breaking work of hauling an 800-lb (360-kg) sledge over uneven and broken ground strewn with hidden crevasses is an exhausting exercise. But it becomes a debilitating ordeal in temperatures of –40 °F (–40 °C) and in the face of biting winds and a swirling blizzard.
The principal strain is taken on the waist but when the sledge became stuck fast, it requires a succession of heavy jerks to jolt the dead weight out of its imprisonment. On soft snow, the physical exertion is immense, reminiscent of pulling a dead weight across sand. It was one area of activity where class and rank did not matter, with officers and men in the same harness engaged in the same exhausting struggle, each man desperate to pull his weight.
The system also demanded that the haulers had to be well fed to compensate for the heavy work. But there were no seals, penguins or birds to yield fresh meat for hungry men once they left the shore-side base, so the long-distance travelling parties had to carry every ounce of food with them on any long journey.
Man-hauling over a long distance, therefore, became a vicious circle for the men, involving a life-or-death equation of weight versus distance. The farther they travelled, the more food they had to drag and the more food they had to haul, the weaker they became and the less they travelled. It became a delicate balancing act to measure the amount of food against the prospective distance to be travelled.
Although explorers developed a system of leaving depots of food brought out by supporting parties, it meant that man-hauling parties could only travel as far as the supplies of food they could carry on sledges weighing 700 or 800 lb. Each person in a typical four-man team was regularly pulling the equivalent weight of 200 lb (90 kg) a head across soft snow, occasionally sinking up to their midriffs and constantly battered by bitter, bone-chilling winds. Even worse was the fear that the fragile ice might crack, sending a man crashing to his death down a crevasse to a concealed abyss below.
However, successive expeditions underestimated the need to refuel the men with adequate amounts of food, and with the understanding of diets and vitamins still in its infancy, they also failed to ensure that the men ate the correct types of food. In addition, the men rarely consumed enough liquid because ice had to be melted in the primus stove to produce drinking water. But the precious fuel had to be carefully rationed to cook hot meals, which meant they rarely bothered to stop, pitch a tent and rig up the primus simply for a mug of tea.
Man-haulers during this era were plagued by the intense cold, frost bite, blizzards, hurricane-force winds, snow blindness, life threatening crevasses and one final indignity – they were always thirsty and hungry.
The British, influenced by Markham, took special pride in the ability to cope with hardship, the test of real men pitted against the worst the elements could throw at them. Men battled against each other in silent resolution to ensure that their own piece of the harness did not slack. They gloried in the hardship and seemed unable or unwilling to adapt to more modern, less arduous methods of travel, such as dogs and skis.
Amundsen, who would become the greatest of all polar explorers, mastered the art of dog travel and
skis long before travelling to Antarctica. He had travelled extensively in Norway and elsewhere in the frozen North, observing and learning the techniques and survival skills of the local people.
The preparation paid handsome dividends and during his successful journey to the South Pole in 1911, his party on occasions covered up to 60 miles (96 km) a day in ideal conditions. Overall, the Norwegian party averaged 23 miles a day while by contrast the man-hauling British explorers, Scott and Shackleton, covered the ground far more slowly. A distance of 12 or 13 miles (20 km) was considered very good going and 15 miles (24 km) a day was rarely exceeded.
At worst, British explorers of the Age covered only 3 or 4 miles a day after exhausting labour. Equally, the British parties were in their harnesses pulling about 200 lb per man for ten to twelve hours a day, sometimes even longer. It also meant that British teams had precious little strength left at the end of a day. The men were frequently only capable of erecting a tent, cooking a quick meal and collapsing into their sleeping bags. In contrast, Amundsen and his dog teams generally ran for only about five hours a day which meant longer breaks and a greater margin of time to cope with emergencies. The difference in the scale of work and the amount of rest between the British and Norwegians in the Heroic Age was enormous.
Bernacchi, writing in the late 1930s, said that even by 1902 the man-hauling of sledges was ‘an out-moded idea’. But the Discovery expedition was already unloading its equipment and preparing for a season of sledging journeys into the unknown. And the sledges would be largely man-hauled by men like Tom Crean.
The expedition, which had got off to an unhappy start with the death of seaman Bonner at Lyttelton, was struck by a second tragedy only weeks into its stay in the South. A simple journey across the ice rapidly deteriorated into a nightmare ordeal and another loss of life. It was an early and dire warning of the party’s vulnerability.
Crean was not in the party of twelve asked to travel 40 miles across the Barrier in early March to leave a note at Cape Crozier, a pre-arranged spot for any relief expedition to learn of Discovery’s winter position. It was to prove a costly postal delivery.
The Cape Crozier party was divided into two, with each pulling a single sledge and each helped by four dogs. But the men had picked up very little experience of ice travel and, to make matters worse, even the basic preparation was hopelessly inadequate. Scott confessed to being ‘ashamed’ by the inefficient way the sledges had been packed and the clothing worn by the men.
Although Scott was indisputably in charge, he somehow managed to assume a lofty detachment from overall responsibility, almost as though someone else was carrying the can. In his book, written after the expedition had returned home, he wrote a damning assessment of his own shortcomings:
‘But at this time our ignorance was deplorable; we did not know how much or what proportions would be required as regards the food, how to use our cookers, how to put up our tents, or even how to put on our clothes. Not a single article of the outfit had been tested and amid the general ignorance which prevailed the lack of system was painfully apparent in everything.’2
Despite the obvious dangers, the party set out on 4 March 1902. A blizzard struck soon afterwards and visibility was reduced to nil. The party’s inexperience and lack of control began to emerge with fatal consequences.
Although the tents had been pitched, the men, who were frightened at their vulnerability, panicked. It was the first time that many of them had been caught out in the open and they decided against sitting tight and allowing the blizzard to blow itself out. In their panic, they abandoned their tents and gear and blindly set out on foot to reach the ship. The party found itself on a steep icy slope, which ran down to a precipice overlooking the forbidding icy waters of the Ross Sea below. They began to slip and slide on the glassy slopes and soon realised that someone could slip and crash over the edge to a certain death.
George Vince, a seaman whose fur boots did not have spikes or modern day crampons, lost his footing with fatal consequences. He slipped and shot past his startled and helpless shipmates over the steep edge and down to a freezing, watery grave. Wild watched his messmate slide to his death and said it was a ‘straight drop of 300 ft into the sea’. His body was never found.
Far worse catastrophe threatened. The party, by now even more frightened and in disarray, was scattered across the swirling Antarctic landscape, with no one quite sure of their location or whether others had also been lost. Crean joined the search parties who soon came across Barne, Evans and Quartley dazed and wandering aimlessly about the slopes of nearby Castle Rock. By late evening Royds had somehow returned with most of his party, which left only two lost souls – Clarence Hare, the steward, and George Vince, now presumed dead.
Scott said it was ‘one of our blackest days’ and, like everyone else at Hut Point, assumed that Hare had died alongside the hapless Vince. But at 10 a.m. the next day a lone figure was seen approaching, crawling down a nearby slope. It was Hare. The young steward had survived some 36 hours in the open and had not eaten a hot meal for 60 hours. He had wandered around in confusion and eventually curled up in the snow and dropped off to sleep. According to Wilson, Scott looked as though he felt ‘the dead was really walking in’.
There is little doubt that Hare was extremely lucky. But the rest of the party had been given a very early and brutal lesson in the hazards of the Antarctic landscape and the rapid way in which the weather can change and bring catastrophe. A far worse disaster had only been narrowly averted and at least half the party had suffered bad frostbite.
Wild conceded that Evans had been ‘lucky not to lose an ear’ in the escapade. But the warning signs were starkly apparent and seaman Frank Plumley summed up the mood of the wintering party by reporting that all hands were ‘despondent’.
It was becoming colder as winter began to set in and on 23 April the sun disappeared for four months. But Bernacchi, who had seen it all before, was concerned about the experiences of the expedition so far and wrote:
‘Autumn was at an end. Sledging has been a failure. Food, clothing – everything was wrong. There would be much to think about and much to rearrange during the long winter night.’3
Scott insisted that naval routine and naval discipline would be maintained throughout the stay in the South, notably the forced separation of officers and men. The officers, for example, ate at different times from the men. The pettiness, particularly the unbending insistence on enforcing traditional rigid naval practice, irritated the men and seaman Williamson reported a ‘lot of discontent’ on the cramped mess deck. Only weeks after his remarkable survival in the snow, steward Hare complained in his diary about the monotony and low spirits.
Duncan also complained about the ‘sufficating’ sleeping accommodation and said the men were often kept standing out on deck in freezing temperatures for routine inspections. On one occasion his diary recorded:
‘All hands are swearing at being kept in the cold for 2 hours & it blowing a gale. (Temp) –23°. We are treated just as if we were children.’4
A typical day involved parties of men rising early and quarrying chunks of ice for melting as drinking water. They assembled for breakfast at 8.30 a.m., which was a major meal of the day, usually starting with lashings of hot porridge and dollops of treacle. Seal’s liver was a typical fare for those who fancied it and there was an endless supply of fresh-baked bread and sticky jam.
The men ate and slept together in close confinement with their hammocks strung across the mess deck. There was no privacy. In contrast, many officers and scientists enjoyed the privacy of their own small rooms and dined together around a delightful mahogany wardroom table adorned with silver cutlery and fine wines. In the corner was an Edwardian piano.
Prayers followed soon after breakfast and the men were then employed in groups to repair and maintain equipment. Lunch followed at 1 p.m. when the men were also allowed a daily ration of rum and tobacco. Routine for the scientists included regular readings of
the extensive meteorological, magnetic and other instruments, while others were busy on geology, biology, botany and physics. Supper was at the early time of 5 p.m. and the rest of the evening was free for sedate parlour games, such as ‘shove ha’penny’, chess or cards.
There was a permanent fog of smoke from the coarse, rough-cut Navy shag which, contrary to traditional regulations, the men were allowed to smoke at any time of the day. Crean, a pipe-smoker all his life, was in his element, though some non-smokers complained about the stifling atmosphere.
Some wrote letters home or filled in diaries, while others preferred conversation or, in typical naval style, the spinning of a yarn. It was cheerfully estimated that the ‘thrilling experiences’ of the cook, Charles Clark, in many parts of the world before the Discovery expedition alone would extend over a period of 590 years!
The monotony was occasionally broken by a lecture from one of the scientists or officers, while some seaman earned a few extra pennies by doing the weekly washing of the odd idle officer. Sundays saw a regular religious service, but Crean as a Catholic was excused and allowed to make his own private arrangements.
An Unsung Hero: Tom Crean - Antarctic Survivor Page 5