Our Polar Flight

Part I — The Expedition — By Roald Amundsen

Through the Air to 88° North

The day the brothers Wright rose and flew the curtain went up on a new era in the history of mankind. Many were certain that they could see great possibilities opening up for mankind in general, and particularly for them in their own branch of work, but few, I think, saw such possibilities of making a full and complete change in his work as the Polar explorer. What he has tried for years to accomplish would now be possible for him to achieve in a very short space of time. Century after century had he worked with his primitive means, the dog—the sledge. Day after day he had exerted himself with all his craft, all his intelligence, and all his will, yet had only covered a few miles over the vast ice desert. What courage, what tenacity, had been shown in the fight against cold, hunger and hardships. What a brilliant example of sacrifice and self-denial. Year after year shut up in a tiny little ship, surrounded by the same people, equipped with only the most necessary things, he had worked up to this time through the greatest of difficulties, through the hardest tests—cold and darkness. And now, all at once, in one moment, the whole of this was to be changed. Cold and darkness should be dispersed becoming warmth and light instead; for the complete and troublesome journey should be changed now to a speedy flight. In truth the possibilities were great. No rationing, no hunger or thirst—only a short flight. As in a dream, seen as a far-away possibility, there was ignited that day a small spark which should quickly blaze up to a mighty fire and in the course of a few years become one of our most important means of communication. Emerging from its swaddling-clothes, flying freed itself and went into its cradle when Bleriot flew across the Channel. It was then speedily led by the world’s war through its childhood where it (developing with the years—slowly or quickly who can say?) was led into youth—into manhood! What the possibilities would become it was difficult to say, but one had to be satisfied with what was there—flying’s childhood. The young inexperienced birds leaving their nests show us an example. Some will hurt their wings, others will break them altogether, but, it is just as certain that, just as they do, so will mankind also succeed in reaching his goal in the world of flying.

As I learned of Bleriot’s flight, I knew at once that the time had come to think of using the air to help the Polar expeditions. Certainly human power and skill had overcome and conquered vast tracts of this mighty unknown whiteness, but enormous tracts remained unexplored—tracts which now could be reached from the air. My thoughts turned especially to the enormous area in the Arctic which until now had withstood every attempt. Certainly Nansen, the Duke of the Abruzzi, and Peary had drawn lines through the unknown doing great and brilliant work, but colossal and unknown tracts still lay in front of them unexplored. Should we have had to continue exploration in the same old manner we should have had to wait many years before our knowledge had become complete. If one had used the word “impossible” it seems absolutely reasonable to have used it in connection with the exploration of this immense ice desert; but it seems that the word “impossible” has been scratched out of the dictionary of mankind. How often have we seen the impossible made possible! What was impossible yesterday is an easy matter to-day. Bleriot’s flight across the Channel showed me the conquering of the impossible. When I, in the year 1909, equipped the “Fram” for a trip to the Arctic, I had a conference with one of the most esteemed aviators of the day. He declared himself as willing to go with me. But it never came off, a fact which probably was for the best, as in the case of both parties it was put off on economical grounds. I mention this in order to draw attention to the fact that the idea of exploring the Polar regions from the air is not a recent plan. I have been attacked from many sides because I have “stolen” the plans of others; this seems to me childish and scarcely worth talking about, but many people take childish things for grim earnest if they have not a closer knowledge of the circumstances. Therefore, these few words.

In 1914 I managed to get sufficient means to buy my first aeroplane for use in Arctic exploration. As an independent means of transport in those vast tracts it certainly could not be used where all circumstances seemed to be against it, but, in conjunction with a mother-ship, would be of invaluable service. It was therefore my intention to take it on board the “Fram,” which at that time was ready to begin its journey north, and there to use it in the best possible way. What immense areas would it not be possible to observe in an Arctic trip if one only was able to rise a few thousand yards? By what I had seen of the ice I was certain one could always find flat places to rise from and to land on. But later experience showed me that it takes an aviator to express an opinion about landing conditions amidst Polar ice, and not an Arctic explorer. What the second considers to be a flat plateau can be absolutely useless in the opinion of the first.

My first aeroplane was a Farman biplane mounted on skis. We scarcely could have got any benefit from this. Later years’ experience shows me that. The war broke out in the meantime and put a stop to that part of my program. But then, as so often later in life, I experienced the fact that an apparent obstacle often had the opposite effect. Flying technique at that time took enormous steps forward; the child shot up, grew, and learned to move on its own account.

In 1921 the world’s record for the longest sojourn in the air reached about twenty-seven hours on a Junker machine in America. It was a monoplane, built entirely of aluminum, and therefore specially suitable for working in the Polar regions. Sun, cold, snow, and rain would not hurt it. I was living at that time in Seattle, Washington, where “Maud” lay, being equipped for a new journey north. As soon as that news reached me my decision was made. Such a machine I must have at all costs. With such an apparatus the impossible would become almost possible. The door to the Unknown seemed to me to be opening, but my hopes were dashed and the door remained locked for many years still. The machine at last was obtained and Lieutenant Omdal appointed to be its pilot. In May, 1922, we decided, as soon as we had learned to know the machine, to fly from the works in New York over America to Seattle. The engine failed as we were over the town of Marion in Pennsylvania, and we had to make an irritating forced landing in the Oil Fields. The machine was entirely ruined; a new one was hastily ordered, sent through America by rail just in time to be taken on board the “Maud.” Simultaneously the well-known American Curtis Aeroplane Factory put at our disposal a small reconnoitring machine. Therefore, as the “Maud” sailed in 1922 she was completely equipped, not only for a trip through the ice, but also for exploration from the air. The Curtis machine should be used for reconnoitring and accompany “Maud” all the time. I promised myself endless results from it. Whilst “Maud” went on right into the ice and explored sea, ice and air, Omdal and I went ashore at Wainright on Alaska’s north coast from whence we intended to trek as far as possible into the unknown territory to the north of that Coast, but everything went to pieces. On account of the stormy summer and autumn Omdal and I could not leave the place as arranged, but must build a house and spend the winter there.

In May, 1923, we were ready for flight, but already on our first trial flight the Junker broke the whole of its underpart in landing and became so damaged that all hope of repairing it had to be abandoned. Thus we gathered no experience. Things went somewhat better however with the little machine on board the “Maud.” A wireless telegram announced that it had been twice in the air with Odd Dahl as pilot and Wisting as observer, but it was crushed in the second landing. So far as I understand these two flights had not been of long duration; therefore it was scarcely possible to have studied anything of the immense area. It is, however, certain that these two were the first to fly over the actual drift ice. Thus we hear from them, for the first time, of the great difficulties which flying in this district presents. It was impossible from the air to determine the condition of the ice they said; it appeared to be absolutely flat, but it was quite different as results showed. The prospects now were not any brighter. On my return to Seattle I had only my two empty hands and a ruined aeroplane which nobody would have. I did not, however, give up, but continued to work in order to get a new equipment. Nineteen twenty-four passed, up till now, without luck. In September of the same year I went to the Norsk Luftseiladsforeningen (Aero Club of Norway) and proposed that they should work with me; I was received with open arms. Whilst they should try to do what they could at home I should travel to America to see what I could do there. I had already held some lectures on the subject, and sat one morning in my hotel deeply engrossed in reckoning out how long it would take me with my earnings to pay my creditors and start a new flight. The result was not heartening. I found out that if nothing unforseen happened I should be clear by the time I was 110 years old! But see, the unexpected did happen just then. The telephone rang and a voice said, “Are you Captain Amundsen?” (They always called me Captain Amundsen in America, but as all the negro conductors receive the same honor it does not make me proud.) “Yes, I am.” “Well,” continued the voice, “I am Lincoln Ellsworth.” That was how I became acquainted with the man to whom I should later owe so very, very much. The Luftseiladsforeningen (The Aero Club) will certainly agree with me when I say that without his assistance the expedition could hardly have taken place. It is not my intention by this to belittle the great and excellent work which the Club did; in deep thankfulness will I always remember the names of the three members of the Board with whom I came into direct touch: the president, Dr. Rolf Thommesen, and the two members, Dr. Ræstad and Major Swerre. Thanks to their energetic work, together with the State’s kindly aid, the expedition was soon ready to start. During my stay in America all the winter, the entire organizing of the work fell on these gentlemen, but the technical part of the arrangements fell on First Lieutenant of the Royal Norwegian Navy—Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen.

Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen had already taken part in the spring attempt to get the expedition going, so he was quite familiar with everything. It was therefore both with gladness and with trust that I was able to telegraph to him $85,000—James W. Ellsworth’s gift—begging him to order the two seaplanes. From this moment Riiser-Larsen got permission for leave and was able to give himself up entirely to the expedition. As a flying man he is so well known by every person in the land that it is superfluous and stupid to mention more. But he has dozens of other notable qualities which I need not enumerate and which made him specially qualified to fill his difficult post. With such an assistant a difficult trip becomes for the leader a pleasant and light effort.

He was assisted in his work by First Naval Lieutenant Leif Dietrichson and Flight Lieutenant Oskar Omdal. Both these gentlemen had been in the spring fiasco and thus knew all the details. It is quite unnecessary to talk about Dietrichson. His skill as a flyer is recognized by all. His bravery and resolution will stand out clearly later in this record. With his light outlook on life, his glad smile, and happy nature, he was an invaluable comrade on the flight. Omdal is known. If things went with him or against him it was all the same. Nothing seemed to depress him. He stood beside me in my two unhappy attempts in 1923 and 1924, and you can believe that it took a real man to show courage and keenness in a third attempt, but Omdal did not disappoint me. “So long as you don’t give in,” he said to me, “you shall always find me ready.” He is a marvelous being; he seems to have several limbs more than the rest of us. He moves slicker and thinks quicker. It is impossible to depress him. With three such men I knew that the technical part of the expedition was in the very best hands. The objective of the expedition was to trek in, as far as possible, over the unknown stretch between Spitzbergen and the Pole in order to find out what is there, or what isn’t there. It was not only to substantiate evidence of land, but to make a geographical research. This substantiation was as equally important as learning the composition of the land. From Nansen’s, the Duke of the Abruzzi’s, and Peary’s discoveries we had certainly good reason to believe that no land existed in that part of the Arctic Ocean, but our knowledge must be built on certainties, not on beliefs. Modern exploration insists on certainties. How miserably our maps have suffered in this district just on account of “beliefs.” Land has been put down instead of ocean, ocean instead of land, all on account of these same “beliefs.” More accidents have been caused by this than one would think; many people have lost their lives.

Apart from this we hoped to be able to make a number of meteorological observations which, even although they would not bring us many rich scientific results, would still give us interesting enlightenment. In the end we hoped, as at first, to harvest great and rich experiences which could be, to us and to others, of the greatest help when we once should be ready to start for the long arranged flight from Spitzbergen to Alaska. I lay special weight on the fact that I hope our experiences will be found of use by others. I do not belong to that class of explorer who believes that the North Pole is a place for himself alone. My outlook shows that I have an absolutely opposite disposition; “the more the better,” say I. Rather, let all of us be at the same time at the same place. Nothing stimulates like competition, nothing encourages exploration more. How would it appear if, for example, a man made public his intention to fly across the Polar regions, but for some unforeseen reasons could not accomplish it? Should every one therefore stay away from the place so long as the first one was alive? It seems to me an absurdity which is little in keeping with the sporting spirit one would expect to reign in these regions. “He who comes first to the mill gets his grist first milled,” says an old proverb. I hope to be able to make an attempt to fly from Spitzbergen to Alaska next summer. I must not, however, declare this to be my private ground, but I wish, on the contrary, that many will go there too. All the experience which I have stands at their disposal.

The trend of a wireless telegram from Dr. Sverdrup on the “Maud” in the summer of 1924 intimated that large tracts of land were not likely to be found north of Alaska. This theory he has based after careful tide observations. I have great faith in Sverdrup; I have never met a cleverer man than he, in his own line, but I feel absolutely certain that he will agree with me that one should go further in and explore the place. Without having actually seen it one cannot substantiate the evidence.

Our hope to get right along to the Pole was very small, for that our radius of action was too limited. Apart from that I had not any great interest in reaching the Pole, as I had always regarded Peary as being the first on the spot. Our objective was only, therefore, to cover the great distance by flying over it and over the great area we were exploring.

On the 9th April all the long and many preparations were finished, and we left Tromsö at five in the morning. The expedition had two ships. The motor ship “Hobby,” which should bring the two seaplanes up to Spitzbergen, and the Navy’s transport ship “Fram” which the State had placed at our disposal for the undertaking. On board the “Hobby” were Riiser-Larsen, Dietrichson, Omdal, Berge, the photographer, and the Rolls-Royce mechanic Green.

On board the “Fram”—Captain Hagerup, the second in command Lieut. Torkeldsen, ice-pilot Ness, Dr. Matheson, Director of the Pisaverkene Schulte-Frohlinde with two mechanics Feucht and Zinsmayer, the journalists Ramm and Wharton, the meteorologist Dr. Bjerknes, the guide Calwagen, also Devold, the cook Olsen, Sailmaker Rönne, Horgen, the chemist Zapffe, Lincoln Ellsworth and myself. This may appear almost unbelievable, but that part of the journey was regarded by us as one of the most anxious. It was still early in the year and the fairway between Norway and Spitzbergen was anything but safe for two smacks like ours. The “Fram” is a midsummer boat, intended for an ice-free sea, sunny and calm. But in the month of April one must not reckon with these three factors. One would be much cleverer to expect lots of ice, no sun, and heavy storms, and for that “Fram” is not a suitable ship. “Hobby” was more of an ice-ship and would in general plow her way as well as any other, but this was an extraordinary occasion. The tremendous cases which the flying boats were packed in had no other place to lie but on deck and in consequence of this “Hobby” became in very truth not much of a sea ship. The ubiquitous prophet had foretold her death and her sinking, and I must say that I was almost inclined to agree with him when I saw the big boxes lifted in the air. After leaving Tromsö “Hobby” had already given up trying to be a boat; she looked like a mass of gigantic cases which was wandering along over the sea.

The arrangements were that both ships should keep together in order to be of mutual assistance and cheer. It is always comforting in the loneliness of the sea to be cheered by the near presence of another ship; assistance too we might both have need of.

It was a dark unpleasant night as we left Tromsö—wet and black. A foreign film photographer, who accompanied us to Spitzbergen, showed his spirit by operating his camera under all conditions and filming for all he was worth. (Had he wished to take a film of a dark night he must in very truth have been lucky.) Just outside Skaarö Sound we got into tremendous snow-storms and the meteorologists at the same time announced that the storm center was in the west. I decided along with the “Fram’s” captain, Hagerup, that it would be advisable to go into Skaarö Sound, anchor there and wait. The meteorologists thought that the bad weather would be of short duration. We signaled to “Hobby”: “We shall anchor at Skaarö,” after which we steered towards land. We lost “Hobby” in a snow shower. At 11:45 A.M. we anchored and expected “Hobby” to arrive soon. Frequent blasts amidst thick snowfalls made the atmosphere impenetrable. We waited in vain for our comrade.

At four o’clock P.M. the storm center passed and we set off again. We passed close to Fugleö, peering and glancing into all the creeks and inlets looking for “Hobby,” but there was nothing to be seen. We understood, therefore, that she must have mis-read our signal and steered in a direct course for Björneöen.

In spite of the officers’ and the men’s unchanging kindness and willingness, the journey was not altogether pleasant. We were packed as tightly together as it was in any way possible to pack human beings, and then as the boat began to roll, so the air got thicker and thicker—I refer to the inside air—and what under normal conditions would have been perpendicularly hanging things, such as towels, coats, etc., all stood right out from the wall in such a way that people began to feel themselves a little uncomfortable—I say uncomfortable, for nobody would ever be sea-sick! Now I have been at sea for over thirty years, but I have yet to meet the person who will admit to being sea-sick. Oh, no, not at all! Sea-sick? Far from it: only a little uncomfortable in the stomach or the head. In my diary I believe I have written that there were a number of sea-sick people on board, but I ask all the people to excuse me if I have been mistaken! I am also so very frank in my diary that I remark that I, too, am not so sure of myself, but that remark was presumably only meant for my private eye. The night of the 10th was particularly unpleasant: Zapffe, Ellsworth and I lay in the dining-room. Zapffe reclined in a corner of the sofa looking very pale, but insisting that he had never felt better in his life. Ellsworth and I lay in our sleeping-bags and, should I judge from the sounds and movements I heard and saw, I should be bold enough to say that we were in the same condition of well-being as Zapffe. Everything that could tear itself free did it, the chairs in particular appeared to have taken full possession of the dining saloon; the tricks they performed during the night were absolutely unbelievable. Now and again they performed alone, now and again they united and performed in troops. They had also been joined by a box of cigars which fell down and performed with them, and I can remember how these cigars flew round our ears. In spite of his paleness Zapffe had not lost his good-humor. “I thought I was in Havana,” came calm and dry from him as the first cargo of cigars struck him. I asked him if he would not be satisfied with Bremen, but that he would not agree to at all. In the pantry, which lay beside the saloon, there seemed to be a veritable and forcible jazz band now playing. Which instrument was being used at the moment was not quite clear to me, but in every case a zinc bucket was certainly doing its best. The rolling calmed down on the following day and most of the “souls” showed themselves on deck, with a pale sleepy look in their faces. I asked one who seemed in a bad way if he had been sea-sick, but I should never have done that. With cold scorn he replied that he had never felt such a thing in his life. What he felt half a minute later when a sudden roll landed him between two boxes and deprived him of the last part of his breakfast I don’t know. Certainly not sea-sick!

It is astonishing to notice how people’s interests can change in one moment. Yesterday we went round Tromsö and not the finest drug store, or the most tempting grocery shop, or the best set-out shoemaker’s window would have made us turn our heads to look at them. But this afternoon one of the members of the expedition had opened a box, which he had kept standing on the afterdeck, apparently with a view to taking something out. In a second he was surrounded by a curious crowd. The object of interest felt himself particularly flattered by so much notice being taken of him and he took out one thing after another. First came a tube of tooth paste. All necks were stretched, each one longer than the other, to get a sight of the wonderful thing. After that came a tablet of chocolate. What comments this brought forth I am unable to say as my point of observation was so far away. Certain is it, however, that the interest in the chocolate was quite intense. A pair of shoes came next. Had they been new and fine, I could have understood it. But that anybody could show any interest in these old, worn, down-trodden shoes is to me unbelievable. A snow storm closed the entertainment.

Word came that Björneöen was free from ice and we could approach without fear of meeting any. At four o’clock in the morning of the 11th we passed the island’s most southerly point. We had built on the possibility of seeing “Hobby” there, but in vain. We sent Björneöen a wireless and asked them to keep a lookout for “Hobby” and to inform us immediately if they sighted her. Simultaneously we telegraphed to King’s Bay and asked them for information regarding the ice conditions there. Beside the island we ran into a southeasterly wind, which during the day developed into a fresh breeze. At five o’clock in the afternoon we came into small ice, but, steering a westerly course, got quickly clear of it. On the 12th we passed through some fields of mush and quite small ice. The “Fram” is far from being an ideal ship for ice navigation, but so well did Captain Hagerup and Ice Pilot Ness guide us through in such a careful and comfortable manner that they earned our fullest appreciation. A less worthy man could have sent a boat such as “Fram” to the bottom in much less ice than we passed through. The atmosphere was impenetrable during most of the day. At ten o’clock in the evening—in a little clear glow—land was discernible. It was Quade Hoock in King’s Bay. At two o’clock we arrived at the edge of the ice and moored fast to it. The “Knut Skaaluren,” a little steamboat which had brought the two Directors, Brandal and Knutsen, here, lay there already.

King’s Bay had been free from ice the whole winter. Only in the last two days had the ice acquired a temperature of -26°c. We naturally regarded this as a great misfortune as it seemed that we should be prevented from getting in to the Coal Company’s quay where we were to begin the unloading of our boats. So far from being a misfortune this proved itself later to be our first and greatest piece of luck, that King’s Bay was icebound.

At ten o’clock in the morning I went ashore in order to pay the Directors a visit to see what they could do for us. The distance from where we had moored the “Fram” up to the quayside was a good three miles; there was a lot of water on the ice, dark and mushy. It was not easy to see Ny Aalesund, which was snow covered. But the moment I arrived at the quay and climbed from the ice a hand was stretched out giving me a warm handshake and a cheery welcome. It was Director M. Knutsen who, with the Company’s other Director, was to show us the most glorious hospitality during the whole of our long stay in King’s Bay. I may as well say it now as later, that without these practical men’s assistance we could scarcely have brought our arrangements to completion as they eventually were.

It was soon fixed up that all who were participating in the expedition should come ashore and stay there where room must be found for them. “Where there is room in the heart there is room in the house,” they said. Nothing greater than the “heart room” of Knutsen and Brandal could any one ever wish to find.

Now there was a matter which weighed on my mind—depressing me in a high degree. Where was “Hobby”? I went on board the “Fram” at eventide and walked up and down on the deck. It was about seven o’clock at eventide when Horgen came up to me and said that he saw something which stood high above the ice, and according to his opinion only “Hobby” could present such an appearance. Up with the glasses! Yes!—quite right, there came a heavy-looking box rustling and crushing through the ice. “Hobby” itself I could not see even now, but I could see that there was life on board. Every one ran around and shouted, “‘Hobby’ comes!” “‘Hobby’ comes!” In a second all hands were called on deck and to the accompaniment of ringing hurrahs “Hobby” lay by the side of the ice. All was well on board. The first part of the journey was over. Our boats were safely in King’s Bay. Honor where honor is due and it should be given to the expedition’s airmen, Captain Holm, Pilot Johannesen and the whole of “Hobby’s” crew. It was no small act of seamanship which they had accomplished.

The next day was very wintry—sea fog with a temperature -10°. We took advantage of this for the members of the expedition to flit ashore and make themselves at home in the Coal Company’s station. The airmen—Riiser-Larsen, Dietrichson, Horgen, Omdal, in company with Ellsworth and Ramm—got their cozy little house. Zapffe and I were quartered in the Directors’ house and the others in the hospital. The sailing-boat workshop was cleared and prepared as a dining-room. This was baptized “the salon.” Here the scepter was waved by our steward, purser, chemist, and purveyor of entertainment. Yes, dear steward, you won all hearts with your glad, happy spirit. To me you were an invaluable and priceless aid with your dutiful and conscientious work.

The newly frozen ice, which prevented us from approaching the quay, might have become embarrassing had not Captain Jensen of the “Skaaluren,” on the 15th April, become tired of waiting and decided to make an attempt to force it. The attempt was crowned with success in the highest degree. Never, I believe, had the “Skaaluren” been so absolutely astonished at herself. She broke through very quickly and lay a short time afterwards by the quay. “Fram” and “Hobby” followed behind her in line, and by the evening we all lay alongside the quay. There we had a northerly breeze of about -13° c.—Mid-winter!

By the following day every one was fully occupied taking our belongings ashore. Riiser-Larsen organized the work with the frequent assistance of his comrades and the officers from the “Hobby.” At this point I would like to hand out a few compliments to the crew of the “Fram.” When and where they could help, they were always at hand. Quick, skillful, and willing at all times. Fortunately the ice here was so strong that one could discharge the seaplanes on to it. This was a great help and lightened the work considerably. Everybody at the same time hauled them along a natural slide towards land and placed them outside the station-workshop, where all the necessary help was obtainable. Director Schulte-Frohlinde from the Pisa Works, with his two mechanics, Feucht and Zinsmayer, along with Omdal and the Rolls-Royce mechanic, Green, who had got the very worst jobs, remained in charge. In spite of snow and cold they continued “hard at it” from morning until evening without any one ever hearing them grumble once; but they were men of steel!

It was gratifying to see how the machines grew from day to day. Frohlinde believed that he could have them completed by the 2nd of May, and it very nearly proved so. There was another duty which had to be carried out each day under the same difficult conditions and with the same unabated energy. This was the weather report service. No matter how it blew, no matter how it snowed, nor how bitterly cold it was, Bjerknes and Calwagen were always “on the go.” Nothing seemed to tire these two young scientists and the expedition owes them the greatest gratitude for their splendid work. They were assisted in their work by Devold, who was principally employed receiving messages from the numerous stations in Europe, Canada, Alaska, and Siberia. The weather report service is still in its swaddling clothes, but there is no doubt that in time it will become a strong factor in our progress. Already we could see the benefit to be derived from this particular service by any expedition whether it should go north, south, east or west.

Others of our “most occupied men” were the photographer Berge, and the journalist Ramm. The first of these two could always be seen with his camera in his hand and his tripod on his shoulder. He was everywhere. One could not even blow his nose without Berge being there to immortalize the event. Ramm kept the world advised of the expedition’s progress; if we did anything, it was immediately telegraphed. If we did not do anything, it was likewise immediately telegraphed. His strongest competitors were the meteorologists; not that they were giving news to the world’s press in competition with Ramm. No, they did not do that, but they were in frequent use of the wireless. Between the two parties there arose a burning question as to which was the more important—the weather reports or the news reports. The meteorologists voted for the weather, Ramm for the news. And so it remained. Dr. Matheson acted as the “Fram’s” and the expedition’s doctor. As a doctor he fortunately did not get much to do, but it seemed safe and comforting to know that he was near if anything should happen.

I now come to the expedition’s most occupied man. That was my old traveling companion from the “Fram” and the “Maud” trips, Sailmaker Rönne. Since he first joined my service for the “Fram” expedition in 1910—fifteen years ago—any weakening in his work was undiscernible by me. In view of what he did on this trip one could only come to the conclusion that he had improved. He was the first man up every single morning, and in full swing long before any one else. But it was quite necessary for him to do this if he was to complete in good time all the little orders which came streaming in to him every day in large numbers. At one moment he was sewing shoes, soon afterwards trousers, then tents and sleeping bags. He worked at the boats and made the sledges ship-shape. His strongest forte was to bring along with him everything that other people had forgotten. If anything was missing any one could be absolutely sure that Rönne would be able to help him out of the difficulty. His greatest service at this time was that during the flight to the North he gave me a long knife made from an old bayonet which was to prove our best ice-tool. It was during our last dinner in the “salon” that he came to me and honored me with the knife. I had a splendid clasp-knife already, but accepted his gift in order not to offend him. I intended to lay it away in one or other of my lockers as it was too big to carry about. But how it happened I cannot say—the knife appeared in my rucksack and was of invaluable use to us later. Ton after ton of ice has been shifted by my comrades and myself with this same knife. When I travel next time I shall have at least a dozen with me.

Our cook, Einer Olsen, could prepare a rum omelette—now, I must not let my tongue run away with me—just as well as any chef in the best hotel of any seaside resort, and that is not saying enough. Apart from this he absolutely astonished us with what he called “gateau danoise” (Olsen was a linguist). I sought in vain, from the point of view of a baker, to analyze this confection, but without success. The nearest I can describe it is a cross between a cream bun and a “gateau de mille feuilles.” He got up still earlier in the morning than Rönne and thus deprived him of his record-breaking honor.

Our stay in King’s Bay began really with the baptism of the “salon.” That was on Sunday April 19th. The furniture of the “salon” was quite different from what it originally had been. Its contents were composed of a long board and four trestles. In addition to this, and on account of the shortage of room elsewhere, it was necessary for the “salon” to house the pantry. This stood beside the entrance. A little gramophone supplied us with all the jazz we desired. In addition to this it could play music! But what was missing in the way of furniture in the “salon” was made up for by the culinary masterpieces. And here competition was strengthened by originality. Yes, there were even a few who risked saying that.... No, I won’t repeat it, as one says so many things. On the evening of the christening there were twenty-six people round the table. I see by my diary that the number was “legion,” but my diary has to be discreet, so it keeps silent about the rest.

There is nothing particular to relate about the days which followed. One followed the other just exactly as ordained by the almanac. Some (yes, the most) were beautifully sunny and beautifully colored from the magnificent glaciers. Others were overshadowed with fog and snow. The day in the week which we looked forward to with the most pleasure was not Sunday, as you might be inclined to believe, but Friday. Every Friday at 5:30 P.M. there was a steam bath; a proper, really good steam bath. There was nothing mean about the heat in this as we had coal all around us, wherever we went, and wherever we stood. It was far meaner as regards the quantity of water, but we did not bother about that. The bath was naturally very popular. In the morning the ladies had their turn; in the afternoon the Directors with their staff along with the members of the expedition. Saturday was bath day for the miners.

Over and above this a very important piece of work had to be done in these days: i.e., getting the provisions and equipment ready for the flight. In case it should interest anybody, I will here repeat my list exactly as it appeared: