‘I miss trees,’ says Sverre after supper. ‘A hillside of green. You know, the way foliage moves in the breeze. I think that would be the most restful sight for my eyes right now.’
‘I miss the smell of damp earth. On a spring morning,’ says Oscar, indulging his poetic side. ‘When you go for a walk through the forest and that smell sort of engulfs you.’ He’s spent the evening engraving every item in their possession with the date and the location: Sydpolen – the South Pole.
Bjaaland smiles. ‘I want an apple. A crunchy one.’
‘I’d love to let everyone in the world know what we’ve just done,’ Helmer says. ‘Our families would be so proud to know where we’re celebrating tonight.’
‘Well, we’re not there yet.’ Amundsen raises his eyebrows. ‘We’ll need all day tomorrow to pinpoint the exact location of the pole. That means measuring the sun’s altitude at every hour from six in the morning until seven at night.’
‘You’re joking!’ says Helmer. ‘That cheeky bastard practically stays in the same spot all day and night.’
Laughter fills the tent.
Amundsen barely raises a smile. ‘That’s why our single observation is unreliable and therefore valueless. I want to take the first observation at midnight.’
‘Not sure I can help with that technical stuff,’ says Bjaaland, yawning. ‘My navigational skills are non-existent.’
‘Too technical for me too,’ says Sverre with a mocking smile.
‘Helmer and I will handle that side of things,’ says Amundsen. ‘I’ll give you lot another job.’
Amundsen explains how Oscar, Bjaaland and Sverre will need to ski off in different directions, two at right angles and one continuing their old course across the plain. They’ll need to cover a distance of 20 kilometres to be sure that the pole lies within the confines of the large square they will be marking out with flags made from dark fabric, attached to spare sledge runners along with a small bag containing a note giving the position of the Norwegian camp.
‘So you’re really saying we’re not there yet?’ Bjaaland sounds deflated.
‘We need to be triple sure of hitting the spot.’ The explorer’s face takes on a serious cast. ‘May I remind you of the fiasco when both Peary and Cook claimed to be first at the North Pole?’
Ceding victory to the British over a technicality would be a tragic end to their Antarctic journey. They sit in silence, each contemplating how it would feel to have their victory reduced in the public mind to deception and lies.
‘Why wait for morning then? The sun is shining,’ says Oscar with enthusiasm he’s unsure his colleagues will share. ‘We can call supper breakfast, and set out immediately. Put the matter to rest once and for all.’
‘Polheim’ is the name they give to their newly established camp 10 kilometres on from their original position. Three days of observations are complete. They stand at the South Pole. Bjaaland takes the photo of the silent ceremony, the Norwegian flag set atop their spare tent, which they will leave here to mark their conquest. Inside are a few sundry items, along with a brief note:
Dear Captain Scott
As you probably are the first to reach this area after us, I will ask you kindly to forward this letter to King Haakon VII. If you can use any of the articles left in the tent please do not hesitate to do so. With kind regards I wish you a safe return. Yours truly,
Roald Amundsen
It seems a fair request. Despite their success, there’s no guarantee they will get home alive.
Now that their official duties are complete, Helmer must attend to a rather more unpleasant task. There can be little doubt that Helge is spent. Helmer leans over to examine the dog, once such a powerhouse and now hunched up on the snow and refusing all food.
‘Helge, my friend,’ he says, patting his flank.
Nothing escapes in response save the weakest flutter of breath. Helmer grimaces and brings Helge’s life to an end with a swift blow to the skull. There is no justice in feeding a loyal and hardworking dog to the pack, and Helmer feels vile as he divvies up the remains. Within a few hours, there is no proof that Helge made it all the way to the South Pole, beyond a few teeth and the shaggy tip of his tail left on the snow.