Amundsen issues a cloud of expletives. Almost immediately ice crystals gather on his hood, the long tips of fur becoming more like spiked winter foliage with every breath. There is nothing remotely pleasant about their journey. For the first time in years, Amundsen is cold. Not even his pride can keep him warm. The cold feels like a personal insult, a hateful jeering slight against his character, against his leadership. In this realm of deficits, where a slow subtraction of feeling is the norm, reindeer clothing can no longer offer protection. Even the milky speck in the sky that was once the sun cannot hold its own and shrinks into the gloom. Steeling himself, Amundsen drives onward.
Again he swears and shouts, ‘Go home!’
The puppies are oblivious to the abuse hurled in their direction. Playful and eager, these three pups from Camilla’s second litter do not understand the serious intent of this outing. Entertainment is their sole motivation. Nothing breaks their stride, not the cold, nor the wind, nor the fact that food is not forthcoming. Mile after mile they continue their lighthearted gambolling beside their mother’s sledge. Helmer serves up a sharp lick of his whip but still the puppies refuse to go home. The other dogs are unsettled, resentful of the youngsters’ larking while they chafe in their traces. One team sees a chance to lunge at the annoying threesome but instead of teaching them a lesson, the attackers end up embroiled in warfare with another team. Sverre’s teeth chatter as he attempts to untangle the traces, with Helmer and Johansen yanking on the dogs. It’s an hour of fumbling with frozen hands. Despite stamping their feet and slapping their sides with increasing violence, the other men get desperately cold standing for so long in one place.
The chief is a man obsessed by one goal to the exclusion of all others. Nothing must stand in his way. Amundsen loads his gun and shoots all three pups.
Through days of horror the men stay the course, even as their clothing becomes rigid with ice and the sledges grow a fur-like layer of rime frost from waves of dogs’ breath. The cold saps strength and adventurousness and any sense of shared purpose. Each man is an island of suffering that not even a night’s rest can relieve. Sleep has become an unattainable luxury. It’s as if the body, unable to trust itself to wake up, will not allow the kind of deep slumber the men so need. Even the gin Amundsen has packed for their moment of celebration at the pole has given up the ghost.
‘The flask’s cracked,’ he says, incredulous.
‘The aquavit’s still okay. Well, frozen solid, but the bottle’s still intact,’ says Helmer.
The men thaw the bottle slowly, turning it round and round in the precious warmth radiating from the Primus. Under normal circumstances no one would be permitted to take a drink, but it’s minus 56 degrees and the men are desperate for even the superficial heat of strong spirits. Johansen, who has so far made a point of abstaining, sucks the alcohol greedily into his frigid system without much effect. Outside, the dogs whimper.
‘I am colder than I have ever been in my entire life,’ says Bjaaland through gritted teeth. He remains completely still in his sleeping bag for fear of letting in more chill.
Finally it is so cold that the liquid in the compasses freezes.
‘Let’s call it quits.’ Amundsen’s jaw clenches as if in distaste. ‘There’s no point risking men and dogs.’
Relief crackles among the party. It’s been four days. They still must get to the 80 degrees depot to dump their supplies, but the thought of home provides them with the keenest motivation and they cover the distance in a day and a half.
A number of dogs grow too weak to continue. Rasmus falls dead in his tracks, signalling the end of the Three Musketeers. Another collapses mid-stride. When not on the move they repeatedly lift their paws off the snow in a display of frozen anguish. There is no need of the whip; the remaining dogs instinctively flee from the perilous south in the direction of home.
‘My watch has stopped,’ says Sverre.
‘My foot’s so swollen,’ Stubberud says, fear ringing in his voice. ‘I think I’ve got frostbite.’
A closer inspection reveals even more damage than he thought.
‘My heel’s come off,’ says Helmer with detached fascination. He holds up the wad of waxy flesh, a grisly curio. It’s a horrifying sight, particularly for Stubberud and Prestrud who wonder if that is what is in store for them.
Amundsen is horrified it has come to this. The next morning they rise at five and are away by seven. The weather is fast deteriorating. They must make Framheim in one stretch. The group splits in two. Helmer, Oscar and Amundsen lead off, setting a cracking pace with their largely empty sledges bouncing across the snow. Soon the only sign of them is their tracks, which Stubberud follows diligently. But the carpenter’s pace soon slows until his dogs simply refuse to advance. The aching cold stiffens his limbs; his frostbitten foot feels dead in his boot. He sits on his sledge and considers his predicament – no food, no tent, no fuel – while the weather thickens around him like a boiling cauldron of white. For some time he waits, hoping for Sverre, Bjaaland or anyone else behind him to help. But when a man finally arrives, he shoots past in a blur.
‘Alright?’ Bjaaland yells backwards, rattling past at speed.
‘What the heck!’ he yells back. To not even consider stopping to help – Stubberud’s mightily offended. But the sight and scent of Bjaaland’s dog team whizzing by has enlivened his own dogs and suddenly they’re on their feet and keen to mount a pursuit. It’s a minor miracle and they do not stop until they reach home.
Sverre covers distance as best he can, well behind Bjaaland and Stubberud. Slow and steady, he blocks out all thoughts of the two men trailing behind him. With this beastly cold strangling us, it’s each man for himself, he reasons. Johansen is strong, more experienced than anyone. And Prestrud, well … frankly, he’s the lucky one on skis without a dog team to worry about.
In truth, Prestrud has fallen over 20 kilometres behind the others. Bent almost double against the wind, he is close to giving in.
Sverre hears the cries off in the distance but he doesn’t want to believe his ears. He doesn’t want to turn around, even though he knows it’s Johansen. Mostly he doesn’t want to stop, so he ignores the cries and carries on.
For the past six hours Johansen has driven his team like a maniac intent on squeezing every last drop of life from their bodies. His own body is nearing its limits. He’s severely dehydrated, frozen to his core and exhausted beyond measure.
‘Sverre!’ he shouts.
Sverre slows his team even though he might not be able to get them going again. ‘Don’t make me wait,’ he implores Johansen. ‘I don’t want to die out here.’
‘And Prestrud?’ comes the angry reply from the iced-up hood of Johansen’s anorak. ‘He’s on his own. He won’t make it if we don’t wait for him.’
‘You wait. Why do you need me?’ Sverre can’t believe how unreasonable Johansen is becoming.
‘We don’t have anything! No tent, no food. They’ve left us with nothing,’ Johansen is shouting into the wind now.
Sverre fumbles a tent free from his sledge and thrusts it at Johansen. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ he states. He whips his dogs into renewed escape and the whiteness swallows them whole.
‘Where could they be?’ Oscar’s question hangs in the air. They’d all like an answer, if only to assuage their own guilt. Having secured their own safe retreat to Framheim, covering 64 kilometres in nine hours, the men’s thoughts now dwell on their two missing companions.
‘They’ve got a tent, at least.’ Sverre takes a sip of hot chocolate even though it will not sit well in his churning stomach.
All around them are untidy piles of iced-up clothing, hurriedly cast off and now in varying stages of thaw. The air is thick with the earthy smell of wet fur and the acrid stench of stress. Nobody makes an effort to clean it up. What’s the point? There’ll be more mess to tidy once the others arrive home, assuming they do – eventually.
‘Cold enough to catch your death out there,’ says Lindstrøm amid the hush that lingers over the table. For once there are no smiles. His comment has captured the mood and crystallised their worst fear: that Johansen and Prestrud are dead and it is entirely their fault.
‘Time to turn in, I think,’ says Amundsen crisply.