PART V

WHILST WE WAIT

LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF FREDRIK RAMM

From May 21st to June 18th

WHILST WE WAIT

LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF FREDRIK RAMM

From May 21st to June 18th

Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. Thursday, 21st May. Now they have gone! The

daring journey has started! At five o’clock in the afternoon Amundsen,

Riiser-Larsen and Feucht were on board N 25, Ellsworth, Dietrichson

and Omdal on N 24, and we began to say farewell. Each one shook hands

and received a nod of courage from all who should remain behind. To

speak was impossible because of the noise from the four engines, which

had all been working for a couple of hours, making such a din that

our very words appeared to be torn in pieces and thrown into the snow

spray which was whirled up by the propellers. At 5:15 N 25 glides out

on to the ice. We are astonished, for there is no signal. Riiser-Larsen

simply lets his engine out; the propeller whirs and the machine glides

down from the strand onto the ice. The forward movement continues,

and before we realize what is happening, the machine is gliding over

the snow-clad plain and swings out onto the ice, suddenly giving a

mighty swerve right round, and with continued speed rushes forward. One

second--or is it a minute?--before Dietrichson’s machine follows? It

disappears onto the ice in a cloud of snow making us wonder whether we

are standing on our heads or our heels!

But what is this?

N 24 remains absolutely still on the plain, and where is N 25? There! A

little gray fleck on the ice traveling towards the foot of the glacier.

Will they have to lighten it? No! now it is in the air! No! Yes! Yes,

it is! Just the fraction of a second passes, and we know that the

start is successful in spite of the heavy load. We shout “Hurrah” as

we see the space between the ice and the gray machine increasing and

increasing till at last, there, high above the iceberg, and with the

sky for a background, they swing round and set their course direct

across the fjord. N 24 remains quite still. We cannot understand why

and are about to cross over to make inquiries. But almost before we

start the machine rises high into the clear blue sky and follows N 25

far out over the fjord. The two machines, so far as we can judge, are

about 300 to 400 meters high, with N 25 a few hundred meters in front

of N 24. We hear the even humming of the engines, echoing quite clearly

on account of the high hills on the fjord’s opposite side--the noise

decreases, ’tis now only like the humming of a fly. We follow the

machines through binoculars, clearly seeing the propellers, the motor

gondolas, the wings, and even the heads of the observers and pilots.

Their speed must be 150 kilometers per hour. The two machines get

smaller and smaller--the hum of the motors fainter and fainter. At last

they have disappeared altogether. We look at the clock, they had left

according to program and are in the air at 5:22--seven minutes after

N 25 glided down onto the ice--both flying boats out of sight! Seven

minutes.... It might almost have been seven hours. So much has happened.

_Later_

We remained standing as though suddenly realizing the difference in the

work of those six on board the machines and ourselves. Till now we have

all appeared to be actual members of the expedition. We have felt that

there was no great difference in our desires to reach a common goal.

We have lived under the same roof, fed in the same mess, have shared

the same work, but now the others have gone, and we have become the

land party again! The six ought to return after a few days’ absence

and we should again be part of the expedition. But the few hours which

have passed since 5:15 this afternoon have opened a tremendous gulf

between us. The six may now be fighting for their very lives, while

we hang around here exactly as we did yesterday, the day before, and

every other day in the six weeks we have been in Ny-Aalesund. We have

suddenly become superfluous! Until this afternoon we had tasks to

perform, but from now we can only wait, just like all the rest of the

world, for the six who have gone--and we know that we can give them no

more help than any one else can. We have become passive.

The humming of the motors can still be heard in our dreams; in fact the

whole occurrence appears only as a dream. Could it have really been we

who saw them off? We, who are now packing up and getting ready to go on

board the “Fram” and the “Hobby,” which lie ready by the quay to set

off northwards to Danskeöen. The landscape is unchanged. The sun still

shines high in the light blue polar sky, making the glacier scintillate

with lovely colors. But the six have gone! At the end of the fjord’s

north side lies Cape Mitra--that pointed corner which is one of the

best landmarks in the world.

During the evening meal on board the “Fram” we talk of nothing but the

start. We listen with pride to Schulte-Frohlinde’s praise regarding the

pilots’ management of the two heavy machines. He says no one could have

done it better, and we agree with him unanimously, although we don’t

know the difference between a sporting and a bombarding machine. He has

walked across the ice and examined the trails, and noted that the ice

was broken into small pieces at the spot where Dietrichson stuck, and

the same was the case in a 200–300 meter length along Riiser-Larsen’s

track before he had been able to rise. The starting track was about

1,400 meters long, and Schulte-Frohlinde says that the trail gets less

and less until towards its end it might only have been marked in the

snow with one’s little finger.

For the first two hours after the machines had disappeared we scanned

the heavens with our binoculars as, before starting, Amundsen had told

Captain Hagerup of the “Fram” that if everything should not be in

order, the machines would return again; and if one machine had had to

make a forced landing, the other would fly back to King’s Bay and warn

the ships to go quickly to their aid. It is seven o’clock. It is now

eight, and no machine is to be seen, so now we know that all is well.

Eleven o’clock, and “Fram’s” bunkers are well filled; the ship leaves

the quay. Half an hour later, when “Hobby” is ready, we steer out of

the fjord. We pass Cape Mitra, steering past the seven glaciers. So far

as we can see northwards, it appears to be clear. The sea lies calm

as a mirror. There is hardly any swell, and for the first time in the

open sea we are all at the same moment free from seasickness. Westward

above the horizon lies a low cloudbank. We ask Bjerknes and Calwagen

what it can be; can this gray cloud-mass threaten danger to the airmen?

No! It can’t do that, for it is only the dispersing fog which has hung

over King’s Bay during the last days, and which was blown away by the

northeast wind, making a start possible. During the night we passed

drift-ice. We all stand on the bridge looking northwards every second.

Here we pass along the Coast over which the two machines flew this

afternoon.

“The small hours begin to grow.” We bless the “Fram’s” steward, who

brings us coffee, and we go to our bunks. “Fram” is no passenger boat,

but we are quite happy to sleep wherever we can find a comfortable spot.

_Virgo-havn between Danskeöen and Amsterdamöen. Friday, May 22nd_

For the rest of the night and the early morning hours “Fram” steers

northwards, along the glacier coast. At 6:30 we enter South Gate

Sound, between Danskeöen and Spitzbergen’s mainland, where we lie

until midday. “Hobby” continues northwards, sailing round Amsterdamöen

towards Norskeöene to study the ice conditions, returning to fetch

“Fram” after the inspection. And now the two ships steer towards

Virgo-havn, and we drop our anchor at three o’clock in the afternoon.

The entire time on both ships we have kept a sharp lookout from the

bridge, carefully searching the horizon westward and northward for any

sign of life. It might have been possible that both boats, on account

of motor trouble, had been forced to land, and they might be lying

anywhere waiting for the ships. But on land we saw nothing but stones,

snow and ice, and to westward only the long stretch of gray water

broken here and there by white drift ice.

What a desert!... Local partisanship in Ny-Aalesund is right when it

maintains that King’s Bay is the best spot in Spitzbergen. The sound is

narrow and closed-in. The cliffs rise sheer from the sea, snow covers

them, there is hardly the sight of a stone to break the whiteness.

But there is an abundance of birds, auks, and little auks, black

guillemots, sea-gulls, etc., filling the air with their screaming and

chattering. They are a host in themselves. If we were only tourists,

and if we had nothing else to do but to wait for the six to return, we

could relieve the monotony by watching them. But we have got to keep a

sharp lookout in the direction in which the two machines may return.

What if we _do_ see them?--It is the whole subject of our conversation.

Bjerknes and Calwagen work out and discuss the meteorological

conditions, studying their chart’s mystic signs and wondrous curves

which we others cannot understand. Now it is evening and another day

has passed since the start. They may return to-day. We prick our ears

at every sound and if we are not on deck we rush out and scan the

horizon towards Amsterdamöen’s west point. The ordinary sounds of life

on board ship keep us in a state of nervous tension, for the churning

of the propeller and the humming of the engines can easily be mistaken

for a returning plane.

_Is_ there no watchman on deck? Is there any need for us to fly out to

see what is the matter simply because the steward drops a knife on his

pantry floor?

No, no, but the watchman is only human and may be sleeping.

Perhaps to-morrow? Or Sunday? At the latest Monday--four days after the

start--they _must_ return!

We really cannot seriously expect them back to-day. We all know that

when they land they must make observations: the place where they camp

must be exactly noted: the sea depth must be measured; and they may

even have to go on foot, or on skis, for the last little stretch.

According to the reports of the meteorologists the weather would seem

to afford them no reason to shorten their stay, so we must possess our

souls in patience.

[Illustration: OMDAL---BEFORE]

[Illustration: OMDAL--AFTER]

[Illustration: FEUCHT--BEFORE]

[Illustration: FEUCHT--AFTER]

_Virgo-havn. Thursday, May 23rd_

A change in the weather! When we went to bed at two this morning the

weather was still clear. The fog-bank which lay to the west from

the time we left King’s Bay was stretched out over the sky. The

meteorologists were very anxious about it. Northwards things did not

look quite so bad. Returning from the polar basin, the airmen would

be able to find landmarks in the high cliffs of Spitzbergen. A few

fleecy clouds were moving towards the southwest above Amsterdamöen

and did not present a very threatening appearance. But in these early

morning hours the picture has totally changed. The watchman tells us

that between three and four o’clock it turned thick and hazy. From all

corners the fog closed in, and drifting snow filled the air, so that

it was impossible to see the tops of the island’s cliffs. The swell

in the sound tells us that it is only a sea storm. In accordance with

the instructions given by Amundsen, “Hobby” sets off to inspect the

ice border at nine o’clock. Under the leadership of First Lieutenant

Horgen the boat is to sail as far north as possible, keeping eastwards,

but not sailing further in that direction than Yerlegen Hook. At 11

P.M. “Hobby” returns after sailing as far north of Norskeöene as

possible, where the ice was such that a journey further eastwards would

have been attended by grave risk, therefore, the boat turned back at

Biscayer Hook, returning through the sound between the Norskeöene.

Horgen, Johansen and Holm arrive after the trip on board the “Fram.”

They have seen nothing of the flying machines and they tell us that

the ice conditions eastward are bad. Tightly packed drift-ice lies

as far as the eye can see, but the weather was lighter there than

down here in the south, and visibility appeared to be much better for

maneuvering with flying machines. We play bridge the whole evening.

We continue playing for two complete days. Waiting has shown us that

we cannot bring the flying machines back simply by staring our eyes

out of our heads, gazing at Vest Pynt for the first sight of the heavy

gray propellers. The weather has improved a little; the driving snow

has stopped; the fog has thinned a little this afternoon; and the sun

suddenly breaks through.

[Illustration: THE EXPLORERS, AT OSLO, RETURNING FROM A SHORT VISIT TO

THE ROYAL CASTLE]

_Virgo-havn. Sunday, May 24th_

The weather is considerably better to-day. The meteorologists tell us

that the weather in the polar regions appears to be good, and there

is no ground for us to be worried about the fate of the flyers. It is

now over three days since they left. Even the most phlegmatic on board

the two ships are waiting every moment to see them return. We discuss

every possibility; we think of every difficulty, and still come to no

conclusion as to what is keeping them. We are no longer excited, the

thrill of the first days has changed to a numb resignation. As each

hour passes we seem to see more clearly what a dangerous task our

six comrades have undertaken. Several of us begin to think of all the

dreadful things which might or might not have occurred, but we do not

put our thoughts into words.

_Virgo-havn. Monday, May 25th_

The fourth day passes like the rest. On board “Hobby” they have had

their first false alarm. Amundsen’s old friend, sailmaker Rönne from

Horten, insisted yesterday evening that he saw two flying machines

appear from the north in full flight. He declared with certainty

that he had followed them with his eyes the whole way as they came

from behind Danskeöen through the fjord, until they were lost behind

Amsterdamöen’s west point. The others on board thought this seemed

unlikely and almost impossible.

Why in all the world should they fly in that direction? Had it been

southwards one might have understood it, but Rönne stuck to his point:

and so certain was he that the others on board heard of nothing else,

and consequently came across to “Fram” to tell us about it, relating

how they had shown Rönne a flock of gray geese flying in the same

direction which he insisted the aeroplanes had taken, making him admit

that he had been mistaken. We have had a similar occurrence on board

the “Fram.” It was five o’clock. The watchman stood on the bridge,

keeping a sharp lookout towards Vest Pynt, when suddenly he stood still

as though nailed to the deck. He shaded his eyes with his hand and

gazed over the sea directly into the stream of silver which the sun was

casting over the water. He picked up his binoculars....

What is it?

Another took up his glasses. There, at the spot where sea and sky met,

a gray-black object could be seen rocking on the water. Something

seemed to extend from each side of it, which could easily have been the

wings of a flying machine. None of us really believed that it was one

of the gray seaplanes we were waiting for. But all the same we fetched

Captain Hagerup and told him what we had seen. He shook his head, but

in spite of his doubt he went up the steps of his bridge much quicker

than usual, where, looking through his glasses, he discovered that

the gray mass was nothing but an ice-floe, which, aided by a little

phantasy, appeared like an approaching aeroplane. It is so easy to be

mistaken. Afterwards when we see gray spots on the horizon we shall

know that it is either a flock of geese on their way to their nests on

the cliffs or that it is a curiously formed ice-floe. Such occurrences

give us a little variation in the monotony of our waiting. We have now

got used to the noises on the ship, the churning of the propeller, the

noise of the pump and of the engines, and pay no attention to any of

them. But once we hear a deep humming sound from the coast and think it

is the throbbing note we are waiting for. It is only the waves beating

against the land as they wash up the broken ice, shivering it again

into a thousand pieces. But all the same we stand on the deck with

half-opened mouths and hands behind our ears listening to the sound.

_South Gate between Danskeöen and Spitzbergen’s Mainland. Tuesday, May

26th_

The First Engineer of the “Fram” told the Captain yesterday evening

that our fresh-water tanks were in bad condition. To get the tanks

filled at Virgo-havn was not possible, so we would have to go down to

Magdalena Bay on the mainland’s northwest point, and fill the tanks

with ice from an iceberg we had noticed standing high and dry in the

Bay as we passed northwards. It was a long business. The “Fram” was

steered towards the iceberg and the crew hacked away large lumps of ice

which were sent flying down from the top of the ice-hill direct into

the ship’s tanks. It was afternoon before the tanks were full, and a

shooting party which had landed returned on board, bringing with them

two seals which they had shot. So we weighed our anchor and sailed away

from the iceberg into brilliant sunshine over a glassy sea, turning

our course towards South Gate where we have now arrived and shall

remain for the night.

This evening we have had a long discussion as to whether it is right

to follow Amundsen’s instructions “to the letter” during the waiting

period. His orders are quite clear. “For a period of fourteen days

after the start ‘Fram’ and ‘Hobby’ shall lie in the fairway by

Danskeöen whilst the weather is clear. Should some become hazy ‘Fram’

shall continue standing-by, but ‘Hobby’ shall go north to reconnoiter

the ice border and patrol eastward, but not to pass Verlegen Hook.”

The ships up till now have done this: “Hobby” has been out several

times, but when the weather remains clear, and visibility is good,

both vessels lie at anchor as now at Virgo-havn. Meanwhile the days

are passing: it is now five days since the start, and many of us think

that “Hobby,” even in clear weather, ought to patrol the edge of the

ice the whole time. How can we tell what has happened? The flying

machines may have started homewards, and there is a possibility that

they are short of petrol, and may have had to land in the open sea,

which “Hobby” speaks of as lying between the ice edge and Spitzbergen’s

north coast--they may be stranded there waiting for a helping hand to

be stretched out to them.

On the other hand Amundsen has worded his instructions quite clearly.

He knows exactly where he can find the ships when he returns, and

he will wish to have them in the place, where he has given them

instructions to await him. We decide that so long as there are no

weighty grounds for disobeying these orders we shall follow them.

We shall remain here at South Gate till to-morrow; then “Fram” will

cross northwards to Virgo-havn, where “Hobby” awaits us.... And it is

not impossible that when we arrive in the morning, we shall see two

flying-boats lying by the vessel’s side. For five days have passed! Our

confidence is a little less assured. Doubts slowly develop into words.

But we keep telling each other that we do not need to fear for the

safety of our six comrades.

The discussions carried us on until 1 A.M. We have walked a little on

deck before we turn in, and, standing there, get a little illustration

of how quickly the ice conditions can change. When “Fram” anchored we

could see the snow-clad fjord ice lying flat and solid as far into

the Bay as the eye could reach, but now the tide has turned, breaking

the ice and carrying it in a steady stream of irregular lumps through

the fjord and out to sea. They are driving past as quickly as a boat

can row and ice-pilot Ness is watching them thoughtfully. “We shall

probably have to move out of here before the night is over,” he says.

“For the first of the lumps are already congregated at the side of the

ship.”

_Virgo-havn. Wednesday, May 27th_

Ness is right. We are hardly in bed before we hear a scraping noise

alongside, and we notice that the plates are sensitive to the pressure

as the drift ice turns against the ship. But we turn over and sleep all

the same on our mattresses on the saloon floor. At three o’clock we

rush on deck. We have the steering gear right over our heads and can

hear how it is working. There is a noise of the tramping of sea-boots,

and the engine-room telegraph keeps insistently ringing.

Should it be....

We had forgotten about the ice after we had gone to rest some hours

ago, and now it lies tightly packed around the whole vessel. The bay,

which was free of ice when we anchored, is now covered with drift-ice,

and in all circumstances Captain Hagerup has decided that he must leave

South Gate at once and make for Virgo-havn. We arrive there during the

day and find “Hobby” exactly where we had left it yesterday morning,

but no flying machines are to be seen. “Fram’s” wireless operator tells

us that America is sending out pessimistic messages as they think,

after six days have passed without news, that something must have

happened to the expedition. As he tells us this view down in the mess,

a shock passes through us. We feel that it is not only we who await the

expedition, but there are millions and millions in the five Continents

who are longing to hear how much further, between the known and the

unknown areas, the boundary has been moved northward as the result of

human enterprise’s latest move in the eternal search for knowledge. In

the few words of the American message we get certain proof that all

who have longed to do the same things which Amundsen, Dietrichson,

Ellsworth, Feucht, Omdal and Riiser-Larsen actually set out to

accomplish fear that the journey to the Pole will end in sacrifice. And

the fear which we have all sought to hide now rises up in us, that six

struggles against death are being fought out somewhere between 80° and

90° N. lat. The anxiety and excitement of the outer world reflects on

us, and the first uncomfortable thoughts are thoroughly discussed by

us, until little by little they are dispelled. Hardly a week has passed

since they left, and if we trust Amundsen’s own word, there is no need

to fear until fourteen days have elapsed since the 21st May.

_Virgo-havn. Thursday, 28th May. 5:15_ P.M.

It is now a week since we saw the two machines fly from King’s Bay and

disappear in the distance in the direction of Cape Mitra. The hope

which we journalists entertained of announcing their return a week from

the start has gone. The meteorologists have summed up the weather

conditions of the last seven days with a result which calms us.

When they started there must have been a good weather area over the

Arctic Sea, with its center not far away from the actual Pole-point.

During the entire flight the machines, therefore, have probably met

only the lightest winds and clear weather. In the days immediately

following the start the high pressure area was menaced by a depression

from the North American coast and by a bad weather area which passed

northeast from Russia to Siberia’s northern coast. There must have

been a light breeze blowing in the direction of Spitzbergen, but any

serious change in the weather is hardly likely to have taken place.

From the 25th of May (Monday) the Siberian bad weather center passed

eastwards, whilst that from Alaska passed towards Greenland. Between

these two bad weather centers there always lay a high pressure

area with its center at the Pole-point. These conditions continue;

therefore, from the meteorological deductions, we can come to the

conclusion that good weather has existed up till now, over the ground

covered by the expedition. The confidence of the scientists braces us

all up. We remember also the words which the airmen said before they

left--especially a remark of Riiser-Larsen’s to the meteorologists,

as he looked over the cliffs and saw the thick snow showers driving

through the air, “Only provide us with twelve hours good weather and

we shall reach the Pole. We don’t need any more to get there, but if

necessary we can spend fourteen days on the homeward trip.”

These words we repeat to each other over and over again, and comfort

ourselves with the knowledge of the excellence of the machines and

their crews, and the recollection that they warned us that in bad

weather they might only return after an absence of fourteen days.

Yet it seems strange that they should be so long away when, so far

as we can judge, the weather has been favorable. When Amundsen made

his rush to the South Pole he could only stay to make observations

for three days, as he had to trek back again and food allowance was

limited. In this case, however, he can return to his base in eight,

ten, or twelve hours so why should he jeopardize the benefit to the

world’s scientific knowledge by leaving his point of observation before

necessity demanded? If they have found land up there, they will wish

to make maps--to photograph it--to measure it--a week will soon go by.

But--but--but--this little word comes up every time we try to find a

reason for the delay--and yet it is absurd to give up hope so soon.

This evening a council of war has been held on board the “Fram.” An

announcement has arrived from the Norwegian Luftseiladsforeningen that

they are planning a reconnoitering expedition. Two naval hydroplanes

are to be sent north to help in the patroling of the ice borders.

Captain Hagerup, First Lieutenant Horgen, Shipper Johansen, and First

Mate Astrup Holm are to send word at once if such machines will be of

any use. To give an answer of this kind is difficult, for the ice this

year lies with a broad belt of drifting ice screwing in shoals in front

of the solid ice border. Thus the hydroplanes could not negotiate this

obstacle to any great distance. Should they themselves have to make

a forced landing any distance from the open sea, both they and their

crews would be lost. On the other hand, they would be able to fly over

the entire area of the fairway north of Spitzbergen in a few hours, a

distance which it would take several days for ships to cruise over, and

thus they would make the patroling much more effective. Our answer was

based on this latter consideration.

To-day it is _eight_ days since they started, and we enter a new phase

in our waiting time. Until to-day none of us have gone far away from

the ships. The American journalist, James B. Wharton, who is with

us, the film photographer, Paul Berge, and I had not set our feet

out of the ship. We have always waited in the expectation of seeing

the machines at any moment appear from behind Amsterdamöen. We have

lain fully clad on our mattresses, ready to set the wireless working

broadcasting the news. Berge’s film camera has stood on its three

legs on the bridge ready to turn out hundreds of yards of film. We

have always kept a boat ready at “Fram’s” side so that we could row

across to the flying machines the moment they landed, and every night

before we went to rest we instructed the watchman on deck that he must

waken us the first moment he heard anything. But this evening as the

telegraph station from the coast asked if they should keep open all

night with extra supervision, I had answered that it was no longer

necessary. As these words were broadcast from the little wireless

compartment, it seemed as though we had sent a telegram to a waiting

world that showed them that _even we_ had begun to doubt. The same

doubt is felt now by almost every one on the two boats. The possibility

of seeing them come flying back is gradually diminishing. We still

believe, but to-morrow our confidence will be less. We feel that on

the 9th day from the start we shall give up hope. To-day it is decided

that to-morrow “Fram” shall go down to Ny-Aalesund, partly for coaling

reasons, partly to take away those members of the expedition who wish

to take advantage of the opportunity to go down to Advent Bay, whence a

coal steamer can carry them to Norway. When we shall see our comrades

carried southwards while we are left behind, we shall enter into an

anxious period of waiting which will seem unending.

_Virgo-havn. 29th of May_

Is the weather going to change after all? Last night it turned cloudy

and before long snow began to fall thicker and faster. The atmosphere

became absolutely impenetrable, and “Hobby” was sent to patrol

the ice-border. The meteorologists think that the bad weather and

invisibility is traveling across the polar basin from the northern ice,

and that fog will probably cover the area up to 85° N. This gives us

grounds to believe that the machines will not return to-day, for if the

airmen have observed approaching fog, they will not risk flying through

it for the fear of being separated. “Fram” sets out in the evening to

King’s Bay.

_Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. 30th of May_

We arrived here this morning. The journey down past the seven glaciers

was like an adventure. As we left the Sound between Amsterdamöen

and Danskeöen we saw the high snow-clad hills of Prince Karl’s

Foreland--they were 100 kilometers away and blended into the clear

evening air in the distance like a white veil. We followed the coast

till we arrived opposite Seal Bay, and were able to observe the whole

time how the light of the midnight sun illuminated the hills of

the mainland with a rosy glow, so it was long before we sought our

bunks. We passed the seven glaciers one by one, which lie along the

coast, making it impossible to land anywhere between Cape Mitra and

Magdalena Bay--for the dark brown cliffs lying between each glacier

rise sheer from the sea, and here also the fairway is dangerous. Far

out, as we are, from the coast we can see the waves break over the

ground, although the sea is so calm and the swell hardly perceptible,

while “Fram” rarely gives a single roll. During the trip downwards

we had coffee in company with our comrades who should now leave us.

It was the last meal on board that we should have together for some

time, yet the final cup had to be quickly swallowed as those who were

leaving us had many things to pack. Bjerknes and Calwagen gathered

their meteorological instruments together--and the Amundsen-Ellsworth

Expedition’s weather service came to an end. The last report they made

showed us that the weather in the polar basin had not got much worse.

The depression from the North Atlantic was delayed.

We are now opposite the center glacier and can see all seven. One of

the expedition’s humorists asks us if we can tell him which two of the

glaciers have the greatest distance between them.

He is full of glee when we make him answer his own question and he

replies with the words, “The distance is naturally greatest between the

first and the seventh!”

We stand on the afterdeck and earnestly ask the Dornier-Wal factory’s

representative if it is not possible that one of the flying machines

has dashed down during the flight and crashed, and that the other has

probably got damaged in landing to go to its assistance. “Nothing is

impossible,” says Schulte-Frohlinde, “but the chance that one machine

has crashed during the flight is even less than that ‘Fram’ at the

present moment should suddenly break her back. And one must never

forget that skilled airmen are piloting N 24 and 25, making an accident

highly improbable.”

We are now nearing Cape Mitra and turn in for the night. As we

wake this morning we find we have arrived at the coaling quay of

Ny-Aalesund. Formerly we stayed in this little thriving mining town

for six weeks ere we left it nine days ago, yet we have to look long

at everything before we recognize the place, for while we have been

away the sun and wind have altered its appearance and left their mark

on it in every direction. The ice which had lain beside the quay to a

thickness of eight or ten inches was now only mush; the rest had been

carried away to sea by the currents and the tide. On the other side of

the fjord the fairway is clear and open, reaching to the foot of the

glacier and on the Ny-Aalesund side the ice has become so thin that

it will hardly bear the weight of a man. The track which the flying

machines had glided over is now clear of ice and people ashore tell

us that it was not many days after the start before the ice broke

up entirely. We have hardly finished breakfast on board when the

expedition’s good friend, Director Knutsen, comes on board to hear the

news. We have not much to tell him, but what we relate never shakes

his confidence in the least that the six will return to Ny-Aalesund,

and that this tiny outpost of civilization shall see the beginning of

their triumphal procession southwards. He declares further that so long

as he is on the spot everything shall be ready to receive them, or to

minister to their needs, and the table shall be spread within half an

hour of their setting foot in Ny-Aalesund. Greetings shall thunder out

and every flag the town possesses shall be flown mast-high. Everything

is ready! Just let them arrive! His confidence inflects us, and by

the time we sit at the luncheon table we all take a brighter view of

the situation. And this, although it is Saturday, nine days after the

start--the day we should have begun to doubt in earnest.

_Ny-Aalesund, King’s Bay. Sunday, May 31st_

This evening the first of the party, who arrived here on Easter Day

(April 13th) with the expedition, set off southwards. To-day is

Whitsunday; seven weeks have passed since “Fram” and “Hobby” sailed

to the ice border--five kilometers in front of the quay where “Fram”

now lies. It is a bitterly cold day--the air raw, and a biting wind

stinging one’s face and blowing through even the thickest clothes.

During the entire day we have had a clear blue sky which acts as a

background to the three mountains, Nora, Svea and Dana, the peculiar

formation of which in the strangely clear atmosphere makes them appear

to be only a stone’s throw away and not thirty kilometers from the spot

where we stand on the quay.

Towards the entrance to the fjord we see a long heavy smoke cloud;

it is the farewell greeting from the icebreaker “Pasvik,” which is

carrying our comrades away.

There were originally twenty members in the expedition which came to

help Amundsen. He and five others flew into the unknown on the 21st

of May. Here again in Spitzbergen are Horgen, the chemist Zapffe, the

film photographer Berge, the journalist Wharton, the stewart Einer

Olsen, and I. On board the “Pasvik” are Director Schulte-Frohlinde,

Dr. Matheson, Dr. Phil. Bjerknes, the meteorologist Calwagen,

sail-maker Rönne, the engineer Green, the mechanic Zinsmayer, and the

meteorological telegraphist Devoid, sailing southwards.

The twenty of us were not gathered together for so very many weeks,

but it is not the duration of time which determines good feeling

amongst men. The occurrence through which we have lived has bound us

together with mutual memories so exalted that even if we should never

meet again there will always be a Freemasonry amongst us. We saw six

men in two heavy gray machines place themselves in the hands of Fate,

a fate more relentless, more unknown, than Columbus and Vasco da Gama

encountered. If we should meet each other under different conditions we

should never be at a loss for a subject of conversation, for we could

always fall back on the eternal, “Do you remember ...?” by way of an

opening.

For the last time we all dined together with Director Knutsen to-day.

A feeling of depression lay over us all in spite of our host’s sturdy

optimism. We should soon be parted, and no longer could we hope

in each other’s company to witness the great home-coming. As Dr.

Matheson thanked Herr Knutsen in a little speech for all his kindly

hospitality, we are not ashamed to admit that we were weak enough to

have lumps in our throats. As we sat there we heard the shriek of the

“Pasvik’s” siren. Two hours afterwards all the baggage, many hundreds

of photographs, and 2,000 meters of film taken in the north were put

on board the icebreaker. We exchanged handshakes and greetings. The

“Pasvik” drew off from the quay; there was a waving of handkerchiefs

and scarfs ... and the last we heard from those on board was the

remark of Schulte-Frohlinde: “Don’t come southwards before you have

Amundsen and his five companions with you.”

The “Pasvik” had brought several mail-bags for the expedition from

Green Harbour. Some were for the land party and some for those who had

left. There were private letters for every one of us, and several were

addressed to “Roald Amundsen, The North Pole,” from all corners of the

earth. There was a large pile of newspapers from different lands in

which we read with great interest comments on our plans for the flight

and the progress of our work before the machines started.

_Virgo-havn. Monday, 1st June_

We left Ny-Aalesund in the evening yesterday, and arrived here again

this morning after a fine trip along the coast past the seven glaciers,

to which we bowed as though they were old acquaintances. “Hobby” lay

in the bay--alone! We have given up hope of seeing the machines again.

Whether we see our six comrades again is a subject I dare not think

about. There are two possibilities: Either both machines have been

damaged hopelessly in a landing on the ice, and their crews have set

off on foot to Cape Columbia in Grant’s Land, west of Greenland’s

north point, or the petrol supply came to an end on the return journey

and they are now probably trying to cross the drift ice towards Syöene

north of Northeastland. If they have done this it is possible that one

of the vessels may catch sight of them when they begin patrolling the

ice border next Thursday--the fourteenth day from the start. We take

the charts from the boxes and study the long route over which they

will have to pass to reach Cape Columbia, and therefrom down to Thule

on the north coast of Greenland. It is a distance of 1,600 kilometers

to walk and to row, so we know that if the machines have been damaged

in the landing, we shall not see our comrades again till 1926. The

canvas boats they have taken with them are so small that there is no

possibility of them being used for a crossing between Greenland and

Grant’s Land over the Kennedy Channel, if the ice has broken up, which

it generally does in the month of July--and there is no chance of them

reaching Cape Columbia before the end of June. Therefrom they would

have to go down to Fort Conger in Discovery Harbour, from whence they

must cross the Kennedy Channel (a march of several weeks).

If they are on the way to Spitzbergen and are crossing eastwards to

Northeastland, it will also take many weeks, but there is the chance

that they may meet with one or other of the seal hunters, who trek

northwards and eastwards at this period of the year--or they may trek

down the coast and in the late summer surprise us by appearing in

Ny-Aalesund or Advent Bay. Under these conditions we, on board the

vessels, feel that we are more superfluous than ever. We think with

envy of our comrades who set off on board the “Pasvik” southwards to

Norway--to summer, with green-clad mountain sides, and birds singing in

the woods--to warmth, and to a land where one day sleeps before another

is born--in light and in darkness. Yet here we must remain for another

four weeks amidst snow and ice, sleeping in uncomfortable bunks, and

tramping the same deck planks in a pale unwavering light which saps

the remaining calmness from one’s nerves. We have grown to hate the

midnight sun; it gives light pale as a white-washed hospital ward, yet

so strong that it is difficult to bear. Through the smallest holes and

cracks in the port-hole curtains, it pours in like Röntgen rays, and

burns one’s very soul and eyes. It has the same effect whether it is

day or whether it is what we, from force of habit, call night; either

the sun shines from a blue sky or gray clouds scurrying before a bitter

nor’-easter hide that same sun, which in the south is making the grass

grow and the birds sing love-songs from the tops of the beech trees.

I wonder if the others have the same thoughts. Now that the strain

of the early expectation is over and that a waiting period, which I

believe cannot bring a solution to the situation, has started, the

entire work of patrolling and reconnoitering from air and sea has

become so colorless--colorless and monotonous as the sea and the cold

naked hills, with their glaciers and their snow-drifts in the dales.

The deck planks are being worn down by incessant tramping. We wait

first for breakfast, then for lunch, and then for our evening meal.

We say the same things, look at the same views, and we play cards. I

get the same cards always and lose consistently. And this is only the

first day. On Thursday, three days hence, we are to begin patrolling in

earnest.

_Virgo-havn. Tuesday, June 2nd_

Our water supply is very low. To take ice on board is impracticable.

Down in the dark tanks the water only keeps a few degrees of heat,

the ice melts so slowly that in the after-tank large lumps are still

lying unmelted, since we put them in the tanks at Magdalena Bay. In a

handbook of Spitzbergen, which is found in the ship’s library, Captain

Hagerup discovers that at Seal Bay there is a small lake which never

freezes to its lowest depth. Perhaps we can get water there. The motor

boat is lowered, we take out guns and ammunition and accompany Hagerup

and the ice-pilot shore wards. Seal flesh is not altogether a luxury,

but it is at least fresh meat, and the steward on board has shown us

that auk can taste like ptarmigan when the gravy is made with cream and

butter. We push off, and the little trip to Seal Bay seems almost as

exciting for us as the reading of a thrilling novel, for it is such a

welcome change. The boat can approach quite near to land, where “Fram”

cannot steer, as there are many sand-banks and rocks, unmarked on the

charts. Lying in the sound just before we swing round and down the

coast to the open sea is a little island no larger than the floor of an

ordinary-sized room, ten or fifteen meters from Danskeöen. It is three

or four meters high and has a skull-cap of snow, on which is perched a

large sea-gull looking down at us. The bird is so glistening white that

the snow appears like a gray shadowed background for the heavy bird.

As we approach it flies upwards with long sweeping wings, and with a

hoarse scream disappears seawards. From the boat we can see on the top

of the snow-cap a green egg which is lying there.

There is a history attached to this little island--sad as are so many

of these fateful stories of the north. One winter before Wellman set

off in his balloon he had his big balloon shed ready, and in another

of his houses which stands there were stored provisions for a long

period. He had engaged two watchmen to look after his belongings. They

spent the time trapping foxes which at that time were to be found on

Danskeöen in great numbers. The two watchmen (Björvik and Johnsen they

were called) wished one day to go out to the little island. The sound

between it and the land is ten to fifteen meters broad. It was in the

month of May Johnsen went a little in advance of Björvik, who suddenly

saw his comrade disappear through the ice. Johnsen called for help, but

before Björvik could get to him the ice broke up entirely round the

spot where he was, and the stream carried him away under the ice while

Björvik could only stand helplessly by and look on. He lived there

alone afterwards for a long time before a ship arrived from Norway. For

the greater part of the time he sat by a signaling post and stared out

over the sea. He kept a diary of his life there: “It is the second time

I have had to see a good comrade die here in the north,” he writes,

“but this is worse than it is in Franz Joseph Land; I must pull myself

together and find something or other to do.” His remark applies to a

time when he had lived ten years ago on the above mentioned island,

when he and a man from the “Fram” named Bentzon spent the winter there.

Bentzon got scurvy and died. So that his corpse should not be eaten

by bears or foxes, Björvik kept it in the little hut beside him for

several months before a vessel came and carried him and the dead man

away to Norway.

Whilst this is being related, we steer out of the sound. We round

Danskeöen’s northwest point and turn down the coast past several 400 to

500 meter-high cliffs rising directly out of the sea. The waves toss

the motor boat up and down and wash over us. We send a shot towards

the cliffs; the echo reverberates and thousands of auks fly out. We

pick up our fowling pieces and aim at the birds which fly past in a

whirling flock, and we anticipate having auk for lunch. But we miss

our mark, for motor boats are not built with the idea of their being

a shooting ground for auk! We get proof of this when a shot aimed at

two birds falls directly into the sea sending the spray flying. The

non-sporting men in the boat rub their hands with joy when they see the

birds escape from the bloodthirsty marksmen. Occasionally we shoot a

brace of puffins; the small black and white birds with red parrot beaks

always lie rocking on the waves, and are an easy prey. They are clumsy

flyers and never try to escape until it is too late. We turn into Seal

Bay, and as we enter, the rolling ceases, for there is a sandbank which

acts as a breakwater, and beyond it the water lies like a mirror. It

is so clear that we can see the fine white sand at the bottom, where

the seaweed waves above in the gentle current. Here we are able to note

that the water in the neighborhood of Spitzbergen must indeed have

become warmer in recent years, for scarcely ten years ago it was a rare

thing to see seaweed growing so far north. Now it can be found on the

sea bottom of all the bays where current conditions are favorable.

We go ashore and try to break the ice on the lake. We hack and hack,

but never get through. If this lake is not frozen solid it is at any

rate frozen to such a depth that we shall require other tools to get

through the ice. As we return to the motor boat, Captain Hagerup points

to a little hillock saying: “That is where we found the bodies of two

meteorologists who drifted here in an open boat from Quade Hook on the

way to King’s Bay and lay here two months, where they slowly starved

and froze to death.”

We return to the “Fram” at 6 P.M. It seems to us that we have as much

to tell those on board as though we had been away three weeks instead

of only three hours. The sportsmen too receive grateful thanks for

bringing auk with them, “which taste nearly as good as ptarmigan.”

A telegram awaits us on board saying that MacMillan is to start his

expedition on the 20th of June from Boston to search for Amundsen and

his companions, north of Cape Columbia. We comment on this. If the

ice conditions in the north are favorable, he can be in Etah with his

ships and flying machines by the end of the month or the beginning of

July, and by sending his flying machines northwards from there he can

probably sight our airmen if they are walking towards Grant’s Land.

And why should they not have proceeded so far? The account which Peary

has given of the ice conditions between the Pole and Grant’s Land show

that it is even and flat so that a long day’s march is possible. His

accounts are backed up by the trappers, who describe the condition of

the ice as it drifts towards Greenland’s east coast. There great floes

can be seen, many kilometers long and without the slightest mooring. We

recall to memory what Amundsen said to Ellsworth one day when we walked

on ice as flat as a floor: “Landing places like these are numerous

where we are going.” Now we know that even if the machines have been

damaged in landing, the airmen will still be able to walk many miles a

day on the ice until they see land ahead.

And we reason further: even if one or two men have been so hurt in an

unfortunate landing that they must be helped by the others, the sledges

are not so heavy but that they can be pulled along, for all of them

have the will and the strength to get home. The more we discuss the

point, the more sure we are that there is a chance of the MacMillan

expedition joining up with our six. How astonished they will be to

hear of all the plans which have been made to search for them, for

they count on no help whatever (certainly not from Norway, for they

understood that they had received all the help they could from there

when the State aided the actual expedition). Twelve days since they

left us!--in two days “Fram” and “Hobby” must begin to patrol the ice

border.

_Virgo-havn. Wednesday, June 3rd_

The weather during the last days has been clear with good visibility,

and the airmen would have found no difficulty in steering for

Spitzbergen, as the high mountains must have been discernible for

several hundreds of kilometers, from the height at which the aeroplanes

would be flying.

But to-day there is a change. When we came on deck at 9 A.M. we found

a real polar fog around us; heavy, raw and forbiddingly gray it lay

over the “Fram.” The smoke could not rise, and soot fell everywhere.

Every breath filled our lungs with grime instead of the usual sparkling

air. Although we only lay 200 yards from land we could not see it. When

it was at its worst we could only just catch a glimpse of “Hobby’s”

clumsy hull, which lay just ahead. Our spirits were not so heavy as the

fog; even the crew found something to keep them interested.

This evening a telegram arrives to say that America is forming a

Committee to arrange a search for Amundsen in the neighborhood of Cape

Columbia. They are collecting the necessary funds. A brother-in-law of

Ellsworth’s is a member of the Committee.

_Virgo-havn. Thursday, June 4th_

Now the fourteen days have passed during which we should lie here in

the fairway, according to Amundsen’s orders, and wait for the airmen.

The “Fram” should now continue a course westwards from the northern

coast of Norskeöene, as the boat is not constructed for ice navigation;

“Hobby,” on the other hand, is built of wood and has a strong ice-bow

of solid oak, and can safely follow a course eastwards along the ice

border, probably being able to reach Northeastland. As soon as “Fram”

has got her tanks filled (which should be by to-morrow evening), the

patrolling shall begin. We shall remain here in the north till the

2nd of July--six weeks from the start (that is the limit Amundsen

fixed for the airmen to return to Spitzbergen on foot or in the small

canvas boats), after which the last members of the Amundsen-Ellsworth

expedition were to set off southwards.

This afternoon we live through an occurrence which smacks of sensation.

The fog had lifted and there was only a slight thickness remaining on

the high points of Spitzbergen’s mainland, the rest had been blown to

sea by a fresh breeze. Now visibility is good. We have just drunk our

coffee and come on deck, and we suddenly notice a little boat rowing

towards us. Instinctively we lift our binoculars. There are two men

in the boat, which lies deep in the water. Apparently it is one of

“Hobby’s” “seal-boats” which has probably been out and caught a number

of seals. The boat approaches, rows past our ship, and lies by the

side of a little hut on the beach at Danskeöen. This hut was built by

a Scottish scientist, and is called Pike’s House, after him. The two

men land and empty the boat of its load. We realize that they are two

trappers whom “Hobby” has met in the course of her patrolling near

Norskeöene, where they have remained since autumn trapping bears and

foxes. In a short time they come on board to learn if they can possibly

find a ship to carry them southwards.

With true Polar hospitality we invite them to have coffee with us and

tell them the news from the outer world which they have not been in

touch with since September. They listen with the same interest to our

news as we do to their tales of the life of a trapper in the polar

night. They have kept diaries and have made notes of wind and weather.

We borrow their diaries and read their accounts of the weather about

the time of the start. They have made the following notes: May 18th.

Calm, air very thick -3° c. 19th May. Fresh easterly wind, cloudy air,

-4° c. 20th May. Slight northeast wind, atmosphere thick, a little

snow, -3° c. Afternoon. Fresh easterly wind, snow. Evening. Easterly,

snow, -5° c.

Thus we arrive at the starting day, which gave us the brilliant

weather the airmen were waiting for, and which the meteorologists

believe continued straight to the Pole.

In the diary the notes were: May 21st. Fresh, north east, atmosphere

thick, and snow, -7° c. Evening, weather conditions the same -8° c. On

the following day, May 22nd, when “Fram” and “Hobby” came northwards,

they had noted clear weather in their diaries. These trappers’ diaries

give us a new subject for conversation. If their observations are

correct our airmen must have flown into thick fog opposite Danskeöen

and Amsterdamöen. Supposing they followed a northward course after

passing Amsterdamöen, it is not likely that the weather could have

changed extensively between there and Norskeöene, especially with such

a wind blowing as the diaries describe. We discuss it from every point

of view and arrive at the only possible result. Around Spitzbergen’s

northwest point and the islands immediately near it there has been a

local storm on the day of the start. The airmen could not have missed

seeing it, and the fact that they have continued northwards in spite of

it, is because they have seen clear weather ahead in the polar basin,

where they could make use of their sun compasses and deviation measures

for navigating. The trappers are of the same opinion--one of them

has spent many winters in Spitzbergen, and tells us that the weather

conditions there are often quite different to what they are a little

further south. The two trappers row away to their hut, where they

intend to live until “Fram” goes southwards to coal, when they will

accompany us in order to join a coal-boat from Ny-Aalesund to carry

them to one or other Norwegian port. They will sell the two polar bear

skins and thirty fox skins from their winter’s trapping and will live

on the proceeds for a few months in Norway, then return to Spitzbergen

again when they wish to gather a fresh harvest.

In the evening we hold a council of war in “Fram’s” mess regarding the

patrolling, and we arrange exactly which parts of the fairway each

boat shall cruise over. The first trip is to begin to-morrow, Friday,

June 5th, continuing until June 9th, when at eight o’clock on that day

“Hobby” and “Fram” shall be back in Virgo-havn again. There is a little

difficulty about the fact that “Hobby” is not fitted with wireless, and

for this reason we have made the first cruise of so short a duration,

as word may come at any moment which would do away with the necessity

for further patrolling.

Hardly any of us believe that there is a chance of our picking up

the airmen. With such good flying machines there is hardly any doubt

but that they must have reached the Pole before they had to land.

Therefore we conclude that any accident can only have taken place

where they have landed at the Pole point. It will, thus, be a shorter

distance to Cape Columbia than to Northeastland, especially taking

into consideration the fact that the going is easier over the flat ice

towards the American coast than scrambling over the screw-ice north

of Spitzbergen. From what the airmen said before they left it was

their intention to return to Cape Columbia, and we had often noticed

in King’s Bay during the conversation that Amundsen himself always

counted on the possibility of coming home on foot. Every small item

of the equipment which could be required on a march was gone through

most carefully by Amundsen himself and tested and examined over and

over again. He thought of everything, but when we remember what a small

space the entire equipment for a march took up in the two machines it

seems impossible that six men could have had enough material to keep

life and soul together and get clear away. But Amundsen has experience

from former years....

The first part of the waiting period is over. The thought of the last

fourteen days arouses a chaos of memories and sensations. The last

lunch in the mess on the starting day, three or four hours before they

left, seems to be as far away as a childhood’s memory. We sat round the

long table talking as usual, when suddenly the six men got up, saying:

“It is time we put on our flying clothes,” and the whole occurrence

appeared so natural to us all that many of us remained to drink an

additional cup of the extra fine coffee which the steward had made for

the occasion.

And thus they started, and we passed impatient days of anxious waiting

to see them return. And now we can hardly understand our first great

confidence. It seems to me quite impossible that for ten or fourteen

days I could have believed in their home-coming with a certainty as

firm as that of the six themselves. But should a miracle happen on the

other hand, and we should suddenly see them flying towards us, and hear

the thrumming of their engines, it would seem to be the most natural

thing that could take place.

_Virgo-havn. Friday, June 5th._

The “Fram’s” crew have continued filling the water-tanks to-day. They

fill the lifeboats with fresh water ice and the motor-boats tow them to

the ship’s side, where they empty bucket after bucket into the tanks.

They are finished by 5 P.M. and they are ready to sail northwards.

The weather prospects are good. The frost is over for this year and one

can see the bare patches amongst the snow growing bigger and bigger,

as it melts and runs away down the hillside in several little brooks,

which increase in size as they descend, carrying gravel and sand right

out to sea. A wide stretch in front of the beach is muddy and thick

in rainbow sections with one part gray, another brown, turning into

red or yellow, according to the color of the mud which the hill stream

has carried with it. The weather is mild and we no longer require our

mittens and leather hats. When we take a little walk ashore, we have

not gone far up the hill before perspiration breaks out on us.

This barren Virgo-havn which we came to a fort-night ago and which

seemed so deserted has now awakened to life. Even unaccustomed eyes

can see how the birds are preparing for the joys of family life. The

capercailzies, which were arriving in flocks when we first came, are

now settling down in pairs,--the dark brown hen flies seawards with a

crooning note, followed by her mate. With a splash they alight on the

water by the side of the island, where they land, and together search

like two every-day citizens for a suitable nesting place. A flock of

little auks flies throughout the day round a high hilltop which rises

from the beach. Their wings fill the air with a whirring noise, and

their squawking nearly deafens us as we pass near their nests, for they

are apprehensive of our intentions. Large plundering sea-mews swirl

around overhead in the hope of espying an egg.

Yes! spring is really here, taking hold of this island, where

conditions of life are so poor that only a great thaw gives anything a

chance to grow.

The last boat-load of water has been towed to the side of the “Fram”:

the whistle recalls those of us who are ashore, and we see that the

vessel is ready to leave. Everything on deck is secured and fast. The

photographer Berge, Wharton and I shall go eastwards with “Hobby”

towards Northeastland, where the chances of meeting the six are

greatest. We pack all our belongings together and row towards “Hobby,”

as “Fram” is to leave in half an hour’s time.

_“Hobby” Saturday, 6th June_

At 6 P.M. to-day “Fram” steamed off and disappeared along

Amsterdamöen’s east coast. “Hobby” made ready for sailing and at eight

o’clock we followed. To begin with we kept to the same course as

“Fram.” The weather was not of the best. Visibility was fairly good,

but the sky was covered with gray, low-lying clouds, while the air

was damp and heavy. A nor’-easter made our position on deck anything

but comfortable, but the mere fact that we were moving engendered

a satisfactory feeling and we sat up late into the night. Leaving

Virgo-havn we got a good chance to study, on Spitzbergen’s mainland,

how the glaciers here in the north have diminished in recent years. In

one of the dales we can see the remainder of a glacier which not so

many years ago reached right down to the sea. Now there is hardly a

small ice hillock left of it. The neighboring glaciers have also shrunk

and no longer fill the dales as they did formerly. We remember what

our friends in King’s Bay told us, that the large glaciers in the Bay

have moved 1,500–2,000 meters further out than they were ten years ago,

when the coal miners first started to work. During the trip through

the sound we are accompanied part of the way by a young seal, which

unconcernedly swims by the side of the vessel regarding us curiously

with black shining eyes. Our sporting instincts awaken--we have no

intention of shooting a young seal, but the sight of it reminds us that

there will be plenty of sport further north, where at this time of year

seals are plentiful. It is not impossible that we may also bag a polar

bear or two. “Hobby” in the meantime has passed Singing-Bird Island,

which could hardly have borne a more fitting name. Town dwellers

who are on board the vessel, to whom fifty or sixty sparrows appear

as a _crowd_ of birds, have always listened with skepticism to the

tales told of flocks of birds so dense that they obliterate the sun.

As we pass the Island we get a proof that these tales have not been

exaggerated. I admit that there was no sun to obliterate, but round the

high Island we can see flocks of auk flying in such numbers that they

look like big black thunder clouds driving before the wind. We turn

into the sound, passing Norskeöene and lose sight of Amsterdamöen’s

double-peaked top. In a small opening between Singing-Bird Island and

Cloven-Cliff Island we catch sight of “Fram.” It is lying still, and it

would appear that the officers on board have begun their hydrographic

work. They are quickly lost to sight as we pass Outer-Norskeöene, where

we see thousands of capercailzies flying backwards and forwards.

When we return after three or four days’ absence we shall be able to

gather enough eggs to last us a lifetime. The island is famed amongst

trappers as being one of the best nesting places on Spitzbergen. It is

almost as good as Moss Island at the entrance to South Gate and Dunn

Island outside Horn Sound. Through the glasses we can see that the

capercailzies are busy building their nests--the most fortunate of them

have found places to build in the crannies of the broken ice heaps.

Coming out of the sound, we have the whole polar sea lying in front of

us. Up till now fate has provided that we should only see the water

calm and in sunshine. (Although we had a storm crossing from Tromsö to

King’s Bay it is so long ago that we have forgotten it.) Now we get

raw, cold and stormy weather. The sea is not blue and pleasant-looking,

but gray and heavy as lead. The waves toss the ship about, and we

have to hold fast to anything near us to prevent ourselves being

slung overboard, whilst from the pantry we hear kitchen utensils and

cooking pots crashing about accompanied by the steward’s high-pitched

curses. We don’t see much ice! Here and there a small floe or a patch

of mush rocks past on the waves, strengthening the impression that this

deserted sea stretches to the world’s end. During a sea journey in the

south, even if land is not to be seen, one knows that in a few hours

a strip of coast line will appear--and behind that coast line there

is land, with people and life and new things to see, to hear, and to

learn, which gives the journey a purpose! But this sea! It stretches

northwards and northwards. The heavy lead-gray mass of water is never

broken by a bit of smiling coast, with green-clad mountain sides or

high hills, but goes on in an endless monotony of drifting ice. As

it lies before us now it has no charm; it only repels with its cold

indifference. We prefer not to look at it, and go down into the little

saloon, where we who have come to the “Fram” are delighted to find that

here also they have the praiseworthy habit of serving coffee at night

whilst the ship is at sea. We go to bed at ten o’clock, after which the

engines stop and “Hobby” lies drifting through the night (it is just as

well to spare our fuel). As we settled down for the night “Hobby” lay a

little northwest of Mofföen, almost directly north of Welcome Point in

Reindeerland.

When we wakened about ten in the morning, we still lay drifting, for

towards morning a heavy fog had descended and it was useless to try to

proceed. It would be impossible to see our course, and to get a sight

of the airmen was equally out of the question in such density. The

fog we experienced in Virgo-havn some days ago was nothing compared

to this, which seemed like a mass of thick wool enveloping us. There

was no rest for the eye, no gap in the foggy curtain. How long will it

last? People who know the conditions here shrug their shoulders....

There is nothing to be done but to remain where we are. There is a

little snow shower which does not improve matters. Should the weather

remain like this, it seems to us that a reconnoitering expedition will

have to be sent to search for us as well.

We go down, throw ourselves on our mattresses and sleep!

An hour or two after lunch time and the fog has lifted a little. We can

see several ship-lengths ahead, and above it is distinctly clearer; the

sun is still shining behind it all. A few ice-floes pass out of the

density and we follow them gladly with our eyes as they serve to break

the awful monotony. A small breeze begins to blow, bringing us the same

feelings which come to a prisoner when he hears the key turn in the

lock of his prison door, opening it for him. The fog disappears like

magic before the wind and as we stand on deck we hear a voice shout

something which makes us all stare excitedly at a large ice-floe to

starboard:

Polar bear!

Where?

There, on the top of the floe!

Right enough, there before us with the dispersing fog as a background

the bear stands like a yellow shadow. In less than a second we have

got the seal-boat out on the water; sportsmen and photographers all

tumble in, in company with their guns and their oars, so that five men

lie in a mixed heap at the bottom of the boat. It is not long before

the oarsmen are in their places and bearing down towards the ice-floe

where the polar bear is sending foam flecks flying over its shoulder.

It is a few hundred yards away--nearer and nearer we approach and see

the bear more and more distinctly. It is three or four years old, and

those of us who have never seen the polar bear living in its natural

surroundings are delighted to see it disporting itself on the floe. It

has not yet noticed the boat approaching. Contented to play with the

top of an ice-clump, it stands up on its hind legs, striking it with a

fore paw, and sending the snowflakes flying around it. Then it turns a

somersault, lies on its back and waves its four legs in the air, jumps

up and starts to play “peek-a-boo” with itself round the ice-clump. We

are close up to it ... twenty meters, ten meters.... Still it does not

see us, for it is lying behind the clump. We round it, and just when

we are five meters away the bear hears the splash of the oars. It rises

up on its hind legs, stands like a statue for a second, gazes at us

doubtfully, then turns round and rushes away in a heavy gallop over the

floe, sending the snow flying in all directions. From the other side of

the floe we hear a splash; it has jumped into the sea to try and save

itself by swimming....

The three oarsmen bend their backs; we round the floe and see the bear

swimming towards “Hobby.” It is a thrilling moment! Here are three

strong men rowing until the boat trembles under their exertions: while

the perspiration runs from them, the distance between boat and bear

increases, and we believe for a moment that it will be able to get

away by reaching an ice-floe on the other side of the vessel. Should

it manage to get there, it has a good chance of saving its skin. But

the poor beast cannot keep up this great speed for long; it swims more

and more slowly and, catching sight of “Hobby,” decides to change its

course towards a smaller floe onto which it jumps, gallops over it

and slips into the sea on the other side. Our boat gains on it now

with every stroke of the oars, and we can hear its heavy breathing. A

little later we are close up to the bear; it lifts its head and gives a

terrified glance at the boat, then turns towards “Hobby” and tries to

cast itself underneath while Berge stands filming on the deck. We are

three meters from the vessel’s side. The bear turns its tired shiny

eyes towards the boat, opens its large mouth and gives a hoarse roar.

An oar is stretched towards it which it bites into splinters.

There is a shot. The bear is hit in the neck. A stream of blood welters

out, coloring the water and the bear’s own skin with crimson. The heavy

body gives a mighty lurch and with its last ounce of strength attempts

to dive, and we can see when it is in the water how it tries with its

powerful claws to get deeper down. But its strength gives out, and,

turning on its back, it gives out a series of terrible roars. A shot in

the chest and now it lies still beside the crimson-dyed water. We cut

a hole in its neck and drag it across the ice-floe, where we proceed

to skin it. They watch us from the ship and, putting a boat out, row

across to where we are skinning the bear--an operation which is being

filmed and photographed. “Hobby’s” dog Sally accompanies them; she is a

mongrel resembling a fox terrier and has the name of every canine breed

included in her pedigree. The little animal snuffles around the bear

and is finally photographed, by her proud owner, sitting on its back.

We take the bear-skin on board, also the gall bladder, the contents of

which, according to Arctic traditions, constitute a cure for gout when

mixed with an equal quantity of brandy.

Safely on board again and we feel like new men. We forget that only

an hour ago we cursed the Arctic seas and everything connected with

them, whilst we only longed for sunshine and for warmth--for flowers

and leafy trees, and for the songs of woodland birds on a summer

evening. But now it is changed; we are no longer merely passengers on

board, we have become part of the actual life of the ice regions. We

at last begin to understand how it is possible for people, year after

year, to leave their summer homes and set off to journey amongst ice

and snowfields here in the north--not only is it a possibility, but a

necessity--for this region possesses a power which draws back to it

those who have once visited it. The fog has now vanished, and in the

distance we can see Spitzbergen’s coast quite clearly from Norskeöene

in the west, to Verlegen Hook in the east. Northwards and eastwards

the sea is almost free of ice, while a number of cracks break pieces

off the unending ice-plains. We hear an order given to set the engines

going, and we, who in the fever of the chase after the bear have

almost forgotten the reason we are here, are called back to a world

of reality by the first thrum of the motor-engines. “Hobby” is soon

steering towards the northeast, making for the most northerly of the

Seven Islands. This afternoon the weather has got clearer, and soon

after 7 P.M. we enter into the first belt of drift-ice. We understand

more and more the charm of life in these high latitudes. The sea is

blue, the sky is blue, and jolly little waves are washing over the

small ice-floes, while each ripple (under the influence of a northeast

breeze) is tipped with foam which glistens in the glorious sunshine,

making all on board feel well pleased with the world at large. We pass

one large iceberg after another, heavy, stranded icebergs, which stand

thirty, forty or fifty meters above the surface of the sea. They are

eight or nine times deeper than the part which we can see, and stand on

the sea bottom until such a time as sun and wind leave their mark on

them to such an extent that they overbalance and drift off southwards.

We ask if it is possible for “Hobby” to sail close up to them so that

we can get good photographs, but Captain Johansen says “No.” He has

experience in this matter and knows that an iceberg, which at the

moment is lying quite still, can suddenly topple,--and although “Hobby”

is a very strong ship, she could hardly stand being struck by such

a colossus. As we pass a heavy flat ice-floe, we see an interesting

sight. The waves are swaying it with a regular rhythm, and spouting

up from its very center there is a large column of water which rises

twenty to twenty-five meters into the air. The explanation of this

strange spring is simple enough. A caprice of nature has formed a hole

in the floe, and as the waves rock it, the water presses through the

hole with such force that the floe becomes a floating fountain.

We never tire of standing on the deck watching the drift-ice, which

has a charm for any one who is observing it for the first time, even

as it has for “old hands” in the northern regions. Against the sides

of the great icebergs waves are breaking, just as they do against the

island reefs of the Norwegian coast. The drifting pieces of ice have

ever-changing forms. During a thaw, sea, sun, and wind turn them into

shapes more weird and fantastic than even a sculptor could do. “Hobby”

passes every possible kind of fabulous animal; we see extraordinary

buildings, and twisted, stiffened trees; profiles of dead and living

people whom we recognize; Gothic and Grecian pillars; floating models

in a variety sufficient for a complete generation of artists and

sculptors. From the floating ice we can see dangerous projections which

are often many yards below the sea’s surface--projections which, should

they come in contact with a steamer’s hull, might be as fateful as

striking a rock. While we pass through the belt of drift ice we have a

watchman continually on the lookout for these projections--with a wave

of the hand he warns the man at the wheel each time it is necessary to

change our course; thus we do not follow a straight line, and if we

drew a plan of the course we pursue it would resemble an arabesque.

We pass out of the belt of drift-ice and after a half hour’s duration

are in a sea that is clear of ice. Looking back upon the belt we have

just left, we notice that it appears like a white strip between sea

and sky. Southwards through the hazy air we see Spitzbergen’s cliffs,

and westwards we can just glimpse the coast of Northeastland and the

ice which covers it. Straight ahead new masses of ice begin to appear

on the horizon. Is it another belt of drift-ice, or is it the border

of the polar ice? We can only answer this question in an hour’s time,

and we shall then know how soon “Hobby” can begin the first patrolling

operations.

It was only drift ice. We cross it in the same manner as we crossed

the former belt and continue northeastwards till late evening. The

unbelievable happens! On the eastern horizon one island after another

appears--and we have proof that in the _beginning_ of June “Hobby” has

managed without difficulty to break right through to the Seven Islands,

which, in a year of bad ice conditions, can only be approached in the

late summer, and in very bad years cannot be approached at all. Last

year at St. Hans’ time it was hopeless to try and pass Moffenöen. Thus

the conditions change from year to year with a capriciousness, the

factors of which scientists are beginning to understand at last.

At midnight we are in 80° 45´ N. lat., 18° 15´ E. long., and we cease

operations for the night, lying fifty yards from the border of the

polar ice, which stretches northwards and eastwards as far as we can

see through our binoculars.

_“Hobby.” Sunday June 7th_

Our awakening to-day was dramatic. Half asleep, we lay for some time

in our bunks as we heard and felt bump after bump on the ship’s hull,

so that in spite of its strong timbers it trembled under the force.

When we were wide awake, even the greatest landlubbers amongst us were

aware that the bumping came from the bottom and not from the sides, but

before we had time to utter an opinion about the occurrence, we saw the

skipper, who had been taking a well-earned sleep after his strenuous

work, disappear from his cabin with his trousers in his hand. We

stretched ourselves and turned over in our beds, for any help we could

give would be worthless, and therefore we settled down for another

little snooze.

The bumping continued and from the bridge we heard orders called in

language which might have been couched in more parliamentary form. A

noise like a storm issued from the engine room; they were trying at

all costs to get the engines to work. We scrambled into our clothes

and went up on deck, where we saw immediately the cause of the uproar,

and the reason why the Captain was shouting out hoarse orders, while

he still stood with his trousers in his hand. “Hobby” was lying “far

in,” amongst the drift ice, and it was necessary to get out of it as

quickly as possible, otherwise we might stick there for a much longer

period than we should care to do. We also saw at a glance the cause of

the bumping. A tremendous block of ice which lay close to the “Hobby”

had a long projection under water--of such large dimensions that it

stretched right under the vessel, and was visible at the other side

knocking against an ice-floe which was crushing in on the side of the

boat. Every time the floe heaved it struck the projection and drove it

against the ship. The situation was not one of imminent danger, but

it could become so at any moment, and we longed to hear the throbbing

sound which would tell us the engines had started....

At last our wish was gratified and a start was made. Gently and

carefully “Hobby” glided over the “ice-projection” which, by way of a

farewell greeting as we got free of it, gave us a heavy double bump. We

heaved a sigh of relief all round and the captain at last had leisure

to put on his trousers. We were not right out of our trouble, however,

as we had still 200–300 meters of ice to get through before we reached

a clear water-course, but after a good deal of maneuvering we got

through and steered eastwards. It seemed to us at first that the ice

lay in a straight line to Ross Island (the most northerly of the Seven

Islands), but after we patrolled its edge for an hour we found there

was a large bay at the middle island and from the deck we could already

see that the boundary between the loose “screw-ice” and the solid ice

continued eastward to North Cape in Northeastland. It appeared as

though the solid ice lay in a curve starting from a point within the

bay and stretching northeast from Seven Islands, where we then lay.

The engine stopped, and “Hobby” “lay to.” The sea was still and not

even the smallest puff of wind ruffled its surface. We were far away

from the great “ocean-highways” at a spot where neither the charts

nor the northern seamen on board could give us much information. New

charts had to be drawn according to photographs and descriptions

(for _exact_ measurements and observations can never be taken), nor

can much reliance be placed in the existing charts, for good ones of

this district are scarce. The seal-boats which sail these waters get

through, guided by the wits of their skippers, who mostly possess the

explorer’s sense of direction. The landscape is different in this

part to that of the coast lying westward. There the hills are high

and jagged, a condition which rightly caused the Dutchmen to call the

island-group “Spitzbergen” (spits, point; bergen, hills) when they

discovered it in 1596.

Here the hills are lower, more rounded,--sloping evenly towards the sea

and ending in long tongues of rock which stretch out from the coast.

The Seven Islands have a formation which is characteristic of the whole

district; they rise right up from the sea 200–300 meters high. One of

them--the chart calls it Nelson Island--presents the appearance of

the façade of l’Eglise de Notre Dame of Paris. We wished to call it

Cathedral Island, but several people said the Island had been called

after Admiral Nelson so we decided to let it keep its name.

We lay on the deck in the grateful warmth of the sun, while the captain

stood with his glasses ranging the entire landscape for a sight of

the airmen. He has traveled the polar seas for twenty-five years; his

father, uncles and grandfather have done the same before him, for he

belongs to a race, found frequently in Northern Norway, which has

wrested its living from the ice regions. The other evening as we sat

in the cabin and studied the Arctic charts, we noticed a little spot

called Lonely Island lying beyond the Taimur Peninsula in Siberia, and

in parentheses under its name stood the name “Johannessen 1878.” It

turned out to be the uncle of our Captain, Kristian Johannessen. He

had sailed round Novoje Semlia before any one else and had been with

our skipper’s father many times on the polar expeditions of the Swede

Nordenskiöld.

He has a history of northern custom and tradition behind him, for his

people have often left their work of trapping if they believed that

there was some geographical secret to be unraveled or some new road to

be opened up. The Hammerfest skipper, Elling Carlsen, came into this

neighborhood where we are now lying with a little vessel in 1863 in

order to follow his calling as a trapper. As the fairway northwards

appeared to be free from ice, he did not turn back the way he had come.

He steered eastwards, sailed round Northeastland, and set his course

southwards towards Norway, passing Giles Land, Barentsöen and Hopen.

For such enterprise (in days when ice-boats only had sails) he got a

well-deserved reward from the Royal Geographical Society in London.

How much this skipper’s experience has helped in our present expedition

it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that many an explorer

has been aided considerably by this man’s discoveries and by his

accounts of conditions in districts hitherto unexplored and unknown.

Polar explorers have always worked in company with the trappers in

the Arctic--and Nansen, Sverdrup and Amundsen all made their first

expedition in a seal-boat. Can one not regard their enterprise as a

continuation of the work done by brave skippers in earlier days who

took advantage of every opportunity which offered?

Nothing is to be seen of the airmen. On an ice-floe near the coast

Johannessen notices that a number of seals are lying sleeping and

sunning themselves. The seal-boat has been hanging on its derricks

since the bear-hunt, so we quickly lower it and some of our party row

towards the floe. They have to row very quietly (and have not gone far

from the side of the vessel when we on board can no longer hear the

sound of the rowlocks) for the slightest noise will waken the seals,

which are light sleepers, and once awake they will flop into the sea

and dive. Through our glasses we follow the progress of the boat. They

crouch over their oars, and we can see nothing but their heads over

the side of the boat as with long steady strokes they approach the

ice-floe. The seals lie in such a position that if they are to be shot

the boat will have to round the floe. At last they are within shooting

range and the man with the gun rises noiselessly and takes aim. All

the same the seal wakens, lifts its head and looks at him. It amazedly

catches sight of the boat and we can see it draw itself together for

a plunge into the sea. But it has been a good shot, and the fear that

the animal would escape is groundless, for it remains lying on the

outer edge of the floe with only its head lying in the water. The boat

then draws alongside and the boys jump onto the ice, stick a hook into

the heavy, slippery skin and haul the animal into a more favorable

position. The shot has struck it behind the ear, killing it instantly.

In a few moments the big heavy body is skinned, several pounds of

seal-flesh are cut off and all carried on board the boat. Then the men

row on to where the next seal lies on a floe some hundred meters away.

Hardly has the boat rowed off when the remains of the dead animal are

being fought over by flocks of sea-gulls and sea-mews. They tear the

remainder of the fat and flesh into pieces, swallowing one big lump

after another, until there is not one morsel to be found. But, even

then, they cannot leave the place, as they have become so heavy it is

impossible for them to fly.

An hour after the boat returns with four seal-skins as their “bag,”

also provision for the larder:

“Fresh meat this evening, Steward!”

Then the engines start again and “Hobby” continues southwards along

the coast. About 10 P.M. we “lay to” for the night, slightly to the

northeast of Lavöen outside Brandy Bay. The seal-boat rows out once

more as the crew wish to make the little extra money which a night’s

seal-hunting will bring them. From the deck we watch them row away

between the ice-floes. We hope it will not turn out for these three men

on board the little boat as it did for the three others who once landed

east of Spitzbergen and went inland to search for eggs and eiderdown

on the Tusindöene. We heard of them from a seal-skipper whom we met

in King’s Bay. “They took with them only a hook in a small lifeboat,

and hardly had they landed when the drift-ice closed in between the

island and the vessel, which lay some hundreds of meters away. The

fog descended around them and everything disappeared in its density.

The three men decided to wait. They waited eight days before the fog

cleared. They turned the ship’s boat over them to give them shelter

from snow and wind, while they lived on eggs and uncooked birds,

for any available fuel was too wet to use. When the fog lifted the

vessel had disappeared, and they had no other way to save themselves

but to cross over the ice-floes in their little boat towards the

mainland-coast round South Cape, and nineteen days afterwards they

arrived thin and emaciated, but otherwise in good condition, at the

Swedish coal-fields in Bellsund. From there they were able to get a

coal-boat to Tromsö. Arriving home, they found that their vessel had

not returned, however, as it had remained to search for Kristian and

his companions, and when it arrived several days after their return it

was flying its flag half-mast, causing Kristian, who stood on the quay,

to burst out in loud laughter as he shouted, ‘Hullo, father, what have

you done with the top of the flag cord?’

The weather is still calm, and the seal-boat does not row very far

away from the vessel. One could not imagine a calmer night. The barren

landscape is as still as death. The only noise that we can hear is an

occasional clang from the boat when an oar strikes the ice. The echo of

it rolls from cliff to cliff along the coast. The sky is cloudless,

but the atmosphere is hazy, so that the sun, which blazes high in the

north, appears distant and unreal. The cliffs with their icy crests are

reflected in the water. We hang over the side and gaze upon it all. It

would be delightful if only we knew that the six airmen were safe. It

is Riiser-Larsen’s birthday. We remember a remark of his early in May,

“Now we must _really_ start so that I can spend my birthday at home in

Norway.”

_“Hobby.” Monday, June 8th_

There is not a great difference between night and day up here. When we

went on deck in the morning the sun was shining from another part of

the sky, otherwise everything was as before. The birds, after having

taken two hours’ rest at midnight, were also full of activity. Auks

in dress-coats and white shirts are still in full flight and whizz in

flocks upon flocks from the land to the open sea in order to catch

food. Black guillemots and little auks fly madly away, their direction

being determined by the higher air currents. Sea gulls rest on their

wings and keep moving round and round the boat, waiting for the

steward to heave the contents of the rubbish bin overboard. They hover

untiringly, hour after hour, though now and then one hears a beat of

their wings when they have to change from one air-current to another.

During the night a seal-boat has come along--it lies some hundreds

of meters away from us and we pass alongside of it. We row up to it

and explain “Hobby’s” mission up here--the captain promises to keep a

good lookout for our airmen and also to warn any other “sealers” he

may possibly get into touch with. No doubt there will be plenty of

them up here as the conditions for making good catches are specially

promising this year. (We can _already_ see the mast-tops of another

boat appearing on the horizon.) We also request the captain to warn

those trappers who spend the winter in the huts along the north coast,

if some of them by chance should visit him. He promises this, and as a

farewell gift gets some packages of tobacco, because his supply is low,

for his boat has been a long time at sea.

“Hobby” moves off; the course is set northwards to the ice-edge;

we shall steer past it westwards until we reach a point north of

Norskeöene. The trip back to Virgo-havn on Danskeöen has started. After

a few hours we near the ice-edge again, directly west of Ross-öen, and

proceed along it: little by little Syvöene and Northeastland disappear

in the horizon and we see no more land. Northwards is only ice and the

edge stretches westward as far as we can see. We continue our course

past it at a distance of 50–100 meters. A fresh breeze is blowing from

the southward, which produces white crests on the waves--it must have

been blowing the whole of the previous day, because during the course

of the day we notice that the belts of drift-ice, which we passed

through on the way up, have disappeared. The wind has driven them

northwards and pressed them into the edge of the pack-ice.

On the trip along the ice-edge we help the crew in “blubbering” the

sealskins. During the work Wharton makes a strange discovery. The crew

he is working with had, during the war, served on the western front in

the same American division to which he had belonged.

Having finished with the “blubbering,” we see another polar bear. It

is standing on a high ice shoal at the extreme edge. We put a boat

out and row towards it, climb ashore, and try to get within shooting

range. Slowly we approach from shoal to shoal. In the excitement we

fire from too long a range; the bullet passes the bear, which becomes

alarmed, and, looking like a yellow-white streak on the drift-ice, it

jumps from one shoal to another and speedily disappears from sight.

Shall we leave it in peace or shall we try to find it again? We climb

an iceberg and sight the bear through the glasses some hundred meters

further ahead. One of the shots we fired after it when it sprang away

must have injured it, for it appears to be lame on one side. It is not

running any longer, but jogs along slowly over the ice. We follow it

with glasses. Then it stops, and we see it lying down at the foot of

a big iceberg about a kilometer from us. We speculate what to do. To

proceed across the pack-ice is impossible. Most of the shoals lying at

the outside are not sufficiently large to bear the weight of a man, and

between the bigger pieces there are either big cracks or wide openings

filled with mush and small lumps of ice.

If we have to get hold of the bear we must pull the boat along with us,

push it over the shoals and row where we can. We look at each other and

come to a quick decision. It will mean hard work! One man goes forward

with the boat-hook, which has to be hooked into the shoals so that

the boat can be hauled along; two men push with the oars, and two men

jump now and again onto the shoals to help to push the boat over the

mush. But they have to be nimble-footed, because many of the shoals

they trust themselves on are not big enough to carry them and sink

immediately. Then it is a question of getting on board again before

they get too wet. (Now and then they are _not_ quick enough.) In such a

manner we get slowly along. The bear is still lying at the same spot.

At last we get into gun-range and shoot. It jumps up, we shoot again,

it collapses and we run towards it and fire a mortal shot. We skin it

and take the skin with us to the boat, which we have left in a clearing

between two shoals. Then we sit down to enjoy a few moments’ rest

which is very necessary. It took us one and one-half hours in the snow

to cover one kilometer from the ice-edge to the bear, and we are wet

through, partly from perspiration and partly from sea water.

Then we press on again. The same toil on the return journey has to be

gone through and about three hours after having left the “Hobby” we are

on board again. They had been a little anxious when they noticed how

far we had ventured onto the ice, because a fog-bank was approaching

from the south. We had not noticed it in the excitement of hunting the

bear. Barely half an hour after we are safely on board, the fog gets

so thick that we only proceed at half speed along the ice-edge, which

we can just catch a glimpse of fifty to sixty meters away from the

ship. We are exactly north of the “worst-weather-corner” in Svalbard:

Hinlopen Strait (between Spitzbergen and Northeastland), where there is

always fog or wind at sea. The fog-belt we have got into is not very

extensive. After an hour’s steaming we are out of it; we get clear

weather again, but the sky is still a little overcast. We continue full

speed along the ice-edge.

Throughout the evening we discuss the result of the trip. The experts

on board are unanimous in the opinion that if the airmen get to

Svalbard, the only place where one could expect to find them would be

Northeastland, and the greatest chance of picking them up, if they

get near land, would be on the east side of Syvöen and Nordkap, where

the distance from the solid ice to the land is shortest and where the

belt of pack-ice is smallest. It is practically impossible that they,

with their primitive outfit and scanty remaining provisions, can manage

to trek westwards to the ice-edge here, and if they _should_ succeed,

their position would be infinitely more difficult than further east.

How broad the belt of pack-ice in front of the solid ice may be is of

course a matter we cannot judge. But right away from Syvöen we can see

it stretching as far as our glasses can range, namely, about fifteen

kilometers. The further westward one goes the broader the belt probably

gets. Seeing we took one and one-half hours to cover a bare kilometer

when we chased the bear, although we had good assistance in having the

boat to help us and nothing to carry, it would take a much longer time

for the airmen to force their way forward over a similar distance. They

would have to carry a burdensome pack, and the small canvas boats are

far too fragile to carry the heavy packages when being pulled through

the ice. If, notwithstanding all this, they manage to get westwards to

the ice-edge, they will have to go along to Northeastland, because from

the edge of the ice to the north coast of Spitzbergen there is an open

sea channel to a breadth of about 100 kilometers, and to try and row

across this in canvas boats means certain death.

We are further agreed that if flying-machines come northwards in order

to take part in reconnoitering, they would be of most service if they

chose Lavöen, on the west coast of Northeastland, as a basis for their

operations. Therefrom they can fly westwards and eastwards as far over

the ice as is considered justifiable.

_Virgo-havn. Tuesday, June 9th_

We proceed the whole night, steering along the ice-edge, which north of

Moffenöen bends southwards and at 80° 14′ bends again westwards. During

the night the watchman on the bridge has seen four bears on the ice.

Almost due north of Norskeöene we left the ice-edge and set our course

for the islands.

We lie a few hours in the sound between the Islands to collect eggs,

and then continue down to Virgo-havn, where we arrive about half-past

seven. “Fram” is not here, but inside the hut--Pike’s House--is a

message from Captain Hagerup, also the following telegram dated Oslo,

June 6th, from the Aero-Club:

“Decided last night establish safety polar-flyers following places

Spitzbergen East Greenland West Greenland Cape Columbia, stop. At

Spitzbergen it is considered that the two vessels and two aeroplanes

are sufficient but will warn Norwegian seal-hunting vessels, search

also Eastside Spitzbergen, East Greenland in all probability by French

explorer Charcot with Ritmester Isachsen stop Approaching committee New

York to take over work at Northeast Greenland and Cape Columbia.”

In the message from Captain Hagerup of the “Fram” to First-Lieutenant

Horgen he informed us that orders had arrived from the Commanding

Admiral that the ship was to go to Advent Bay to coal, and meet the

two flying boats which were on the way northwards from Horten with a

collier. “Fram” had gone southwards last night, and if she had not

returned to Virgo-havn by Tuesday, June 16th, at 8 A.M., “Hobby” was

to go down to King’s Bay again. In the meantime “Hobby” was to go

northwards and eastwards on a new reconnoitering trip. As there was

a possibility that “Fram” might arrive before “Hobby” returned from

its other reconnoitering trip we journalists were to go ashore at

Danskeöen, and wait for four or five days in Pike’s House until “Hobby”

or “Fram” should return.

_Danskeöen. Wednesday, June 10th_

We are living _here_ now! “Hobby” went north at 4 P.M. and we have

established ourselves as well as possible in the little hut. During

the few days we have been with “Hobby” it has practically turned to

summer here. Snow lies only on the high hillsides and in occasional

heavy layers here and there in the bottom of the valleys. Otherwise

the fields are bare--to says “fields,” by the way, is not to use the

right expression, because the whole of Danskeöen is one complete heap

of stones! In course of time water and ice have burst the sides of the

hills into pieces, and it is only the very steepest of the precipices

which are not covered with loose stones. We hear the water trickling

everywhere, deep down between the stones, which lie so loosely that

we have to be more than careful in climbing over them. To-day it has

rained for the first time during our stay in Spitzbergen. It is nice

and homely to sit in the hut and listen to the rain lashing against the

glass windowpanes, and to watch it splashing onto the ground outside.

_Danskeöen. Thursday, June 11th_

During the night whilst we slept we were aroused by a rustling outside.

Wharton (who having met so many bears had the feeling that we might

meet some here) wakened me with a hard dig in the ribs, shouting: “Load

your gun. Polar bear outside.” It was, however, only three hunters who

had spent the winter on the east side of Spitzbergen in a little arm

of Hinlopen Strait, called Lommebukten (or Pocket Bay). They had rowed

the long distance round the north coast in a little boat which was

deeply laden with fox-skins, the remainder of their provisions, and

all the outfit they had used during the winter. The use of their boat

afforded us a great deal of pleasure. We rowed about auk-shooting in

the forenoon, and later we went out in it round the islets collecting

fresh eggs.

There we were received by eider-duck and gulls, kittiwakes,

sea-swallows and geese, which flew up in thousands from the nests,

chirping, whistling and shrieking as they in desperation swooped down

over the heads of the robbers of their nests, flapping their wings

about our eyes. We hit out at them with our caps, but did not allow

ourselves to be frightened back to our boat again. Nest after nest has

to be looked into--it is principally the nest of the eider-duck we

care about. There are about five or six eggs in each and a handful of

down. We are not actual robbers for we leave one egg in each nest and a

little bit of down so that the hen will continue to lay--she will come

back and bustle about till the nest is all right again. (If we removed

all the eggs and the down, the hen would desert the nest.) Egg and down

collecting is not a pleasant occupation from the point of view of smell.

When we get to within about ten to fifteen meters from the nest, the

male bird starts to cry “Oi-oi-oi-oi-e,” while the hen sits close over

her eggs. She sits immovable, only a blink now and again of her black

eyes betrays that she is watching us. (Will she manage to deceive us

into believing that her nest is a moss-covered stone?) But like all

menfolk the male bird is frightened at the bottom of his heart. We

only take two or three steps towards the nest when he rises up and

sets noisily out towards the sea. The deserted hen follows. But at the

last moment when she rises she makes one final frantic effort to save

her eggs. Had we not been coarsened by our stay up here she might have

succeeded in saving them, but as it is, we plunder the nest.

It has stopped raining. White clouds drive across the blue sky and it

is warm in the sun. The air is fresh and mild; to lie here now on the

island is like being in the fields at home in Norway in the summertime.

_Danskeöen. Friday, June 12th_

We have plenty to do in the hut. Roasting, cooking and making coffee

the whole day, but we have plenty of time to look at the remains of

André and Wellmann’s expedition equipment, which lies spread about in

the valley where the hut stands. They are not just small things. The

apparatus they used to make the gas for filling the balloon, which is

lost forever, and the airship, which fell down immediately after the

start, lie in a heap, rusted and weather-stained during the passage

of time. Heaps of cases filled with filings, damaged acid-balloons and

heaps of timber from the collapsed balloon sheds lie spread about.

On the lids of the packing cases we can still read the half-blurred

addresses. In Wellmann’s house the stonework is still standing

practically untouched, and there is a kitchen range which looks much

better than the old trumpery one we have in our hut. The other part of

the house has disappeared--until some years ago it was still there, but

then it was stolen (in the true sense of the word). An enterprising

skipper who had bagged no seal that year pulled it down and took all

the timber on board, covering his expenses for the trip (and even more

than that) by selling it all to one of the collieries.

The northwest corner of Spitzbergen is, on the whole, one of the

most classical parts in the history of Arctic expeditions. The first

expedition which started from here for the North Pole was a British

one. Two men-of-war passed here in 1773, but they did not get further

north than 80° 36′ when the ice forced them south again. On board one

of these was Nelson as midshipman, and during this trip he was not far

from being killed by a polar bear. In the following decades several

attempts were made to get northwards from Spitzbergen, but all the

experiences which these expeditions showed was that it was impossible

to reach the great goal from this side by sailing ship. The ice

stretched too far down, and the current turned the boats southwards

as soon as they had got well amongst the ice, so that maneuvering was

difficult. For a long time no attempt was made--the next was André and

Wellmann’s. It was left to Fridtjof Nansen to show the way to the North

Pole, with the “Fram.” This last-named boat when it came out of the ice

in 1896 passed Virgo-havn steering southwards to Norway. That summer

André was on Danskeöen waiting anxiously for a favorable wind to allow

him to start his balloon trip, but it did not take place that year and

it was only in the following summer that he got away.

_Danskeöen. Saturday, June 13th_

Weather fine, calm and clear with slightly blurred sky.

_Danskeöen. Sunday, June 14th_

Same as yesterday.

_Danskeöen. Monday, June 15th_

About four o’clock “Hobby” returns from the second trip. It has had a

spell of drizzly weather, has rolled a lot and has seen nothing of the

airmen. Ice was about the same as on the first trip; north of Syvöen

it had successfully forced its way right up to 81°. “Fram” has not yet

got back. If it is not here by 8 A.M. to-morrow “Hobby” will go to

King’s Bay.

_Ny-Aalesund. King’s Bay. Tuesday, June 16th_

“Hobby” arrived here at 4 P.M. after a good trip along the coast past

the seven glaciers. A fresh wind blew, and now and then the vessel

took a little water on deck. During our stay up north great things

have happened. There is a telegram for us from Advent Bay telling us

that two naval flying-boats have arrived with a collier from Horten.

“Fram,” which has to be taken over by a scientific expedition, has

gone southwards to Norway, and the naval patrol-boat “Heimdal” will be

the flying-boats’ mother-ship. We communicated immediately by wireless

with “Heimdal,” which had also arrived at Advent Bay. The flying-boats

are on the water and can start whenever the weather conditions permit.

We have put out buoys at places where they can moor, but we advise

“Heimdal” that it is blowing so hard here that the start must be

delayed until the wind abates.

_Ny-Aalesund. Wednesday, June 17th_

When we wakened in the morning the weather was good for flying. The sky

blue, clear and high, the fjord ruffled a little by a slight breeze

from the east, First-Lieutenant Horgen informed the airmen in Advent

Bay that everything was all right for their reception here, and we

received word that they had set off immediately on receipt of Horgen’s

message. That was at 9:35. A little after eleven o’clock we expected

them, and we had hardly begun to look for them over the entrance to the

fjord when we heard their engines in the distance. Soon afterwards we

saw them appear like two small specks 1,200–1,500 meters up in the air

over the flat tongue of land at Quade Hook. A few minutes after F 18,

piloted by First Lieutenant Lutzow-Holm, and F 22, piloted by First

Lieutenant Styr, landed and moored by the buoys. We were naturally very

pleased to see the boats and the airmen, but our pleasure was mixed

with sadness. To-morrow, Thursday, 18th of June, it will be four weeks

since N 24 and N 25 started. That day the weather was just as fine and

ideal for flying as to-day.

In company with the newly arrived airmen we got by the starting place,

which is quite free from snow. On the beach still lay some of the

petrol cans from which we filled the tanks of the two machines the

night before they started. We ask about the news from the south, and

then we tell them what has happened up here. It seems that the opinions

at home are the same as up here--nobody thinks that the six will be

able now to come _flying_ back; every one is of the opinion that most

likely the machines have got damaged through landing in the ice region

and that the airmen are now on their way to Cape Columbia. But as there

is a possibility that the six may be on the way to the north coast of

Spitzbergen, it is thought that the expedition which has arrived here

_must_ be sent there to search for them.

“Heimdal” arrived at 8 P.M. to-day. Captain Hagerup is on board and

is now to lead the expedition. He has not got special instructions

how long “Heimdal,” “Hobby” and the two flying-boats shall patrol,

but probably we shall still be here for two more weeks. On Thursday,

2nd July, “the six weeks from the start” are up--the time limit which

Amundsen laid down in his instructions for patrolling the ice-edge.

Plans for the coming fourteen days are being made, and in accordance

with the experience which “Hobby” has garnered on the two trips, it is

agreed that Lavöen by the West coast of Northeastland is the best base

for the two flying boats to operate from, and it is settled that the

two vessels shall go northwards to Danskeöen at midnight. They will be

there to-morrow 8–9 A.M., and the flyers are to follow.

The uniformed officers and the naval armaments remind us of a world

from which we have been cut off for the last six weeks, and they have a

stranger and more unfamiliar effect on us than one might have expected

in such a short time. We have had a taste of both winter and spring

up here and now we are experiencing the short summer of the Arctic

regions. Our thoughts go back to the start--to the long weeks preceding

it in Ny-Aalesund, and to the still longer weeks we have spent in the

ice area since the six departed. We have seen men whom we (until they

disappeared outside the fjord in two gray flying-machines) considered

as ordinary mortals, but who are now regarded by us as something apart,

since the light of adventure started to shine over them. Shall we see

them again? We put the matter out of our minds, but the thought returns

to us again and again. It is even stronger to-day than it has been

recently because “Heimdal” and the flying-boats are lying here,--actual

proof that the world at large is possessed by the same doubts and the

same fears as we are.

We also think about all the types of humanity we have met in this

frozen northern area. People who wrest their living from the ice. In

milder climes they could earn more and live under better conditions,

but the “unknown,” the danger, the ice and the love of adventure all

call to them just as they called the six. With modest outfits and

simple means they answered the call and set off to the sound of the

enthusiastic jubilation of mankind: a jubilation that has turned into

doubt and fear. But now an expedition fitted out with all the aid that

science can offer is to look for the explorers or at least to try and

find trace of them.

We have dined with the newly arrived flying-men and the officers of

the “Heimdal” at Director Knutsen’s to-day. We were in the same room

where we had been so often with those six, and where only two or three

weeks ago we had said good-by to those comrades of ours who had first

traveled south. Our host, who at that time had been very optimistic,

tries to buoy us up with hope. But we notice that he himself is no

longer confident, doubt has entered into his optimism. It has taken

longer to come to him than to the rest of us, but it has come in spite

of himself, all the same. Conversation drags. Here we sit--more than

fifteen men--all different in mind and character, and all following

different occupations, and we are trying to find a theme that will

interest us all. But there are long intervals, because our thoughts

are all on the one subject, which we do not want to mention. One

after another goes down to the ships, which will soon carry us north

again, where we are to wait for the end of the fourteen days when

we can return to Norway. That will be a sign to the waiting world

that all hope of finding the six in these regions has been given up.

(Spitzbergen will then glide away out of our consciousness.)

_Ny-Aalesund. King’s Bay. Thursday, June 18th_

The last guests left Director Knutsen’s at 1 A.M. and went on board.

“Heimdal” was under steam and ready to start. In a few minutes the

third and last period of the reconnoitering was to begin. We approach

the quay and can see the tops of the masts over the crown of a little

hill. People from the mining village, who are not used to any great

excitement, stand “en masse” on the high loading-pier. We are right

down below them and only forty to fifty meters away from them. Then

the great thing happens! A man comes tearing along the loading-pier

towards the shore. He waves his hands to us, bends over the side of

the railings and shouts: “Amundsen has arrived.” Then he dashes on and

his voice is hoarse and rough. “Only a drunken man can make such a bad

joke,” we say to each other, and continue on our way for another four

or five steps.

What can be taking place?

People on the pier are waving their hats. We hear hurrahs and shouts

and see a new vessel lying alongside the quay. We know immediately

that they have come. We dash along the short distance so that the mud

splashes over us whilst the cheers from down below increase. We spring

on board the “Heimdal,” which lies nearest the quay, then onto the

“Hobby,” which is lying outside.

Lord! it is true!

From “Hobby’s” rail we look down upon the deck of a small sealer

which lies alongside. There they are, all six! Amundsen, Dietrichson,

Ellsworth, Feucht, Omdal, Riiser-Larsen, dirty and grimy, but living

and safe and sound, surrounded by workers and seamen, a motley crowd

who shout hurrah, clap their hands and carry them shoulder high. We

jump down on to the overfilled deck, we cry and we laugh, we pat their

cheeks, we embrace them and words fail us. Not a sensible word could be

spoken. Surely it can’t be true! We must be dreaming! Is it really they?

We reflect about matters a little, and then Director Knutsen takes them

up to his house. The rooms are filled both by invited and uninvited

guests who suddenly begin to sing “Ja vi elsker.” Little by little we

get to know what has happened to them. We don’t learn much to begin

with.

We learn enough, however, to understand why they seem to have two

different mentalities. A present one which sees and understands all

that happens around about them,--and a past which is part of their life

in the north, and which will not leave them for a long time to come.

They get food, a hot bath and a bed with fresh white sheets. In the

course of the day their long four-weeks-old whiskers disappear.

The people who were at the quay when the motorboat “Sjoliv” arrived

tell us about the unbelievable moment when they realized who it was

who stood on the vessel’s deck. When it had become known in Ny-Aalesund

that “Heimdal” and “Hobby” were to go northwards to Danskeöen at

midnight, many people collected in the twilight on the quay in order

to watch the departure. The midnight sun, which stood high in the sky

over the hills on the other side of the fjord, shone through a light

cloud bank. At the mouth of the fjord was a little cloud-belt and the

people noticed how a little sea-boat came in through the evening haze.

Nobody took special notice of it or showed special delight, as they

all thought it was one of the many vessels which in the course of the

summer call in at Ny-Aalesund to get coal and water. People watched

indifferently remarking only that it seemed to carry an unusually big

crew for such a small vessel. Forward stand some heavily fur-clad men

who wave their arms towards the land. The vessel approaches quickly.

Then somebody shouts: “It’s Amundsen!” At the same moment everybody

knows it. Cheers are given. The six on the foredeck wave shorewards and

the vessel berths alongside the “Hobby.” All six are with us, safe and

sound. A few minutes later the quay is black with people. One would

have thought that the inhabitants of Ny-Aalesund had slept with their

clothes on, for in a second the “Sjoliv’s” deck is filled with people

who go mad with joy.

_Oslo. July 1st_

This morning I arrived home. I now read through my diary of the trip

and understand little of the whole. All that happened during the first

hours on the deck of that little polar seal-boat is like a fog in my

mind. The whole seems so far away. If I shut my eyes and try to charm

those fourteen days back I feel bewildered in mind and in spirit.

For now we all stood there beside them--beside the six.

We looked into their faces, which bore signs of all they had suffered

and gone through, and then we asked them to tell us about the four

weeks of hope and doubt.

All power of thought seemed to leave us and our souls were filled with

feelings both boundless and indescribable. Could this be on account of

the pleasure of seeing our comrades again?

Or have our souls been touched by the Unknown Being to whom all turn

in moments of trouble when things have to be settled which are beyond

human power?