THERE were two fairly good reasons for our wanting to fly to the North Pole: first, by traveling at high altitude over unexplored regions we might discover some new land or unexpected scientific phenomena; second, a successful flight would, like the first crossing of the Atlantic, be sure to accelerate public interest in aviation.
We could have used any one of three places for our attack upon the Pole: Point Barrow, Etah and Spitzbergen. Of course there were an infinite number of potential bases on or near the shores of the Polar Sea; but all had the characteristics of at least one of the three named.
Point Barrow, Alaska, is not accessible on account of the ice until late summer, except by a long flight over the mountains. By that time clear weather over the Polar Sea is replaced by fog. Also Point Barrow though it is the northernmost point of Alaska is nearly 400 miles farther from the Pole than Etah or Spitzbergen. Etah is reasonably accessible by August I, but presents no good take-off for a land plane. Moreover, it is foggy and the local winds are sudden and strong. In contrast, the ice surrounding Spitzbergen, is subject to the warming influence of the Gulf Stream. On that account, Kings Bay which is only 750 miles from the Pole, can be reached as early as April. Unquestionably it is best suited for an attack on the earth’s north polar axis.
My plan was to fly westward at first and explore that part of the north end of Greenland known as Peary Land. I hoped to come down on some large snowdrift, using skis, and leave supplies in case we were forced to walk back from near the Pole.
Many explorers claimed that we could never get back should we have a forced landing on the ice. Others thought that there might be a possibility of getting back in two years by working our way down to Etah.
Neither Bennett nor I could begin serious work of preparation on our return from Greenland in the fall of 1925. Official duties engaged us both until the middle of January 1926. Then Secretary of the Navy Wilbur and my Chief Admiral Moffett allowed Bennett and me leave. We were going this time on our own hook. We didn’t even ask the navy to send us as we felt the hazardous nature of the undertaking made it unfair. From then on came a crescendo of toil which culminated when we sailed from the Brooklyn Navy Yard on April 5th.
After carefully weighing our own experience, as well as the opinion of aeronautical experts, we selected for our flight a Fokker three-engine monoplane.
One was available that had already flown 20,000 miles. It had 200 horse-power Wright air-cooled motors, any two of which would keep it up for a certain reduced distance. That, of course, added to our chances of success.
The plane was 42 feet 9 inches long in body, with a wing spread of 63 feet 3 inches. Two 100 gallon gasoline tanks were set in the center of each wing; and two others, each holding 110 gallons, were carried in the fuselage. The additional gasoline we might need we decided to carry in 5-gallon cans.
We named the plane Josephine Ford in honor of Edsel Ford’s three-year-old daughter, as Edsel had taken a greater interest in our expedition than anyone else. Careful tests of the plane were made before we sailed. Its fuel consumption at cruising speed was 27 or 28 gallons per hour—lower than was anticipated, and therefore most encouraging. It was capable of a speed as high as 120 miles an hour.
Through the generosity of the Shipping Board I was able to secure the steamer Chantier. She was of about 3500 tons displacement and had ample deck space for our flying gear, while her hold took the plane’s wings and body.
There were half a hundred members of the expedition, nearly all volunteers, all young and full of the zest of great adventure. I selected them primarily by writing to nearly all of the men who had had 16 and 20 years in the Navy and were then in the reserves. We obtained the others by culling out the best of the thousands who had volunteered from all over the country. This was a difficult job. I think I could have successfully manned a dozen expeditions with what I had at my disposal.
The Commandant of the Marine Corps gave two of his best men leave, Charles Kessler and R. McKee, a private and a corporal. My two radio operators were ex-marines who had just resigned from their service, Lloyd K. Greenlie and George H. James. Another marine, Touchett, had just been paid off. Aviation Machinist’s Mate Leo M. Peterson was given leave from the Navy. The Marine Reserves granted Lieutenant A. N. Parker permission to leave the country.
Through the help of the Shipping Board I secured Captain M. J. Brennan, an ex-naval reserve man; F. deLucca, ex-bluejacket; J. A. Slaughter, a second mate, and E. J. Nolan a third mate. The Weather Bureau in Washington loaned me W. C. Haines, one of their most valuable physicists. My boatswain, Jim Madison, was an old navy shipmate of mine. A. C. Geisler, who went as a seaman, had become a friend in a Washington gymnasium I frequented, where he was known as the “strong man.” Johns Hopkins University loaned us the services of Daniel O’Brien to go as expedition surgeon.
It was Geisler who took an oath not to shave until we had flown across the North Pole. He grew a huge bush during the weeks of preparation. When the time came for his great shave he found himself in the hands of the whole crew who took delight in doing the job for him.
Joe Deganahl came aboard with bag and baggage the day we left New York and said he had to go. I looked him over, sized him up as a good man and took him. He turned out to be a perfect wonder. Winston Ehrgott and Paul Todaro also came aboard with baggage on the last day and announced that they had to go. Mind you, I had never even heard of them before. They were ex-West Pointers. I had a hunch and took them. They, too, lived up to expectations. In the interests of truth I must record that Ehrgott was put to work at washing dishes. But when he broke twenty dishes in the first five minutes I had to shift him to a detail that could better withstand his energy.
Roy Bryant, a captain in the Army Reserves during the war, and John Reed, a lieutenant in the army reserve, both heroes, went as ordinary seamen. Utterly without sea experience, they knuckled down and stood hardship and toil like old mariners. The eight seamen had a terrific job and it is remarkable that they could stand what they did.
It was Bryant who amused the real sailors when we got up anchor. Madison told him to “shake a leg” and “get the fire hose started,” routine procedure in washing mud off the anchor chain and anchor as they come off the bottom. Bryant, thinking the ship was on fire, sprang aft, seized a patent fire extinguisher and dashed to the forecastle. The boatswain nearly collapsed when he was handed the extinguisher.
Of course there were feminine applicants for jobs on the expedition but not many of them. Just before we left New York harbor a very pretty young lady came out in a launch with her complete baggage and declared that she was going along. She wanted to write the history of the expedition. It took a good deal of tact to persuade her that our quota was already full.
I think the most heartbreaking, job I had before we left was that of raising funds. I hated to be a beggar. A few men were so generous that I disliked asking them for more. But several times I was on the verge of bankruptcy before we sailed. And if the expedition had failed, which it might well have done with all hope centered in just one plane, I should still be trying to pay back my obligations.
In spite of many supplies and much equipment that were either donated free or given at cost by patriotic business concerns, we had to raise over $100,000. As it was, I left with a deficit of more than $20,000. Being personally responsible for this amount and since it would grow during my absence, life was not the only thing I was risking.
After months of toil on the part of all hands, we left New York on April 5, 1926, with half a hundred men and six months’ food supply aboard. I suspect to this day that Captain Brennan and his three mates from the Merchant Marine had many misgivings in starting out on a 10,000 mile cruise with a ship’s company made up mostly of rank landlubbers. I knew he and De Luca would have a great time getting sea legs on to them, but they did it. As for Chief Engineer Mulroy, I look on his achievement of steaming north and back without a single breakdown as something close to a miracle. He claimed afterwards that his assistants were to blame for his “luck” as he called it. But I happen to know he did his share.
At first our green helmsmen took us on a course as tortuous as a snake’s crawl. One night one of the landlubber lookouts insisted that the evening star was a light from a ship ahead.
We had coal for 15,000 miles of steaming stowed away in the bunkers in the hold. It was a stiff job shifting this coal from the hold to the bunkers, a very dirty job that had to be done every single day. Most of the landlubbers were staggering with seasickness while they worked. In time the following ditty grew up amongst the shovelers:
Sweet little coal bunker, don’t you cry;
You’ll be empty by and by.
When our Commander is crossing the Pole,
We’ll be in the bunker shoveling coal.
The second night out from port a fellow tried to slouch past me on deck. When I shot my flashlight into his face to my astonishment I recognized my old friend, Malcolm P. Hanson, civilian employee of the Naval Research Laboratory in Washington. “I confess to stowing away, Commander,” he said. He had not quite finished his work on our radio before we left. It was too late for him to get leave. So he took the bull by its horns and stowed away. He did not want to give me the responsibility of taking him so he took the responsibility himself though he was due for a promotion. I’ve been thrown with many hard-working men but never anyone who could stand as much or who did as much work as Hanson. He was a corker. That was a big thing he did for us. When we returned the Navy had in mind adequate punishment since Hanson’s desertion was a serious offence. But the end of it all was that he got his promotion and his absence was booked as leave.
We arrived at Kings Bay, Spitzbergen, at 4 P.M. April 29th and found the Amundsen-Ellsworth-Nobile Expedition members well under way in their preparation to receive the great Italian dirigible Norge. This revelation of the energy of another air expedition had a tonic effect on the eager young American spirit of our crew.
Fate lost no time in placing serious obstacles in our path. The little harbor of Kings Bay was choked with ice, but skillful work by Captain Brennan brought the Chantier to anchor within 900 yards of the shore.
To my dismay I found that there were no facilities for landing my heavy plane. I had counted on the dock at the coaling station. Previous inquiry told me the water there was deep enough for our ship; and permission was only a matter of asking the local manager.
Now we found tied up to this sole landing a small Norwegian gunboat, the Heimdahl, taking coal. Of course I went ashore immediately and asked if we could have the dock for a few hours, at least.
“Sorry but our ship was nearly lost a few days ago,” I was informed. “ Drifting ice caught her and carried her helplessly toward the land.” I knew the danger from the drifting ice.
I could see it was no use to argue. Reports indicated that the Norge was on its way north. While I was not actually racing to be the first man to fly across the Pole, I knew the public construed our relative expeditions this way. If I beat Amundsen and Ellsworth at the expense of losing one of the Norwegian gunboats, had I in any way been able to force the Heimdahl to clear the landing, I should be thought guilty of poor sportsmanship, though Amundsen and Ellsworth also did not consider themselves racing.
The only thing for us to do was to anchor as close as possible to the shore and send our plane through the drift ice by means of some sort of raft. When the Norwegians heard what we planned to do they sent word urging us to desist. “You know nothing about ice,” was the gist of their message, “or you would not attempt such a thing. The ice is almost certain to start moving before you can get ashore.”
I do not mean to imply that the people there were in any way discourteous. Their warning was solely for our own good; and a very sound warning it was, too. I shudder now to think of the risk we took. But it was the only answer to our problem.
By laying heavy planks across the gunwhales of our four whaleboats the crew constructed a big raft. Of course that left the Chantier without boats, which I did not like on account of the dangers from the ice. It began to snow; and the air was cold and raw as all hands worked at top speed to meet the emergency of a landing that was far from safe. I was secretly bursting with pride in my shipmates for the job they did that day.
The First Mate, de Lucca, a great fellow, hoisted the body of the Josephine Ford from the ship’s hold in a swirl of flakes. A change in tide began to close the lane we had opened among the heavy cakes of ice that blocked our course ashore. Yet by tireless work and unswerving determination our men managed to prop the awkward body of the plane on its frail support.
We were taking a tremendous chance in doing this, for had a wind sprung up the pontoon would have been crushed or blown out to sea. It was either get our personnel and equipment ashore this way or come back to the States ignominious failures. My men were anxious to take this risk with their lives. They wouldn’t have had me do otherwise. This great struggle and great hazard set our expedition apart from the other spectacular flights I had taken part in, where hangars and fields were nearby. Here we had great risks even getting the equipment ashore and we knew greater risks were ahead before we could get into the air for the final flight.
No wage or ordinary urge could have evoked such enthusiastic industry and courage as the men displayed during those first nerve-racking days.
We had plenty of narrow escapes, especially for the plane and equipment. For example, just as we were about to hoist the wings out and bolt them on the body now waiting on its raft, the wind rose and threatened the safety of the whole structure. We had to secure the great wing firmly to the deck of the ship to prevent it being blown away. As we had only one plane for our polar flight even a slight accident at this juncture would have been fatal to the whole project; the reputation I had spent my life making in the navy would be gone and I would be a bankrupt as I would not be able to pay my debts from newspaper stories.
Just as we finished the raft the very thing we dreaded happened. The ice started moving with great force and we had quite a struggle saving the raft and even the steamer itself. A big iceberg came galloping in with the tide. On account of drifting snow we did not see it until it was almost upon us. It seriously threatened the ship’s rudder and we had to rush dynamite to the corner of the oncoming monster and split it into pieces that could be handled or were swept clear by the current.
We had an amusing, though semi-tragic time battling our way shoreward through the ice. Most of the men had never had an oar in their hands before. When I would order “give way port” half of the lubbers would begin to row with starboard oars. Engineer Grey who had never rowed before, insisted on using his oar backwards all the way to land.
During this crazy maneuver, in spite of the seriousness of the moment, I could not help thinking of the time George Washington crossed the Delaware.
It was anxiety for my shipmates that made that trip a most anxious one for me. I felt entirely responsible for their safety.
My relief was great when we at last reached the ice foot protruding from the beach. Great luck was with us—we must admit that.
The Norwegians gallantly lined up and gave us a ringing cheer.
When the plane was pulled over planking from the ice foot the wheels sank deep down in the snow. We replaced them immediately with skis. Little did I realize then how soon those great looking skis which I had had made with a tremendous factor of safety would be broken like paper in the rough snow.
No one knew what a big plane like the Josephine Ford would do taking off the snow with skis. We had much to learn. We were truly pioneering.
The start of the landing field was about a mile from the ice foot. If it was a very big undertaking for my men to get the plane ashore it surely was a muscle-tearing job for them to get the plane and equipment up to the top of the long incline through the deep snow in a temperature 15 degrees below zero.
A field-kitchen was put up in the vicinity of the plane and meals were served in the open in the cold as we worked. No one even thought of sitting down for a meal. Fuel drums were hauled up by hand and sled, heavy parts brought alongside, equipment and instruments for the flight assembled near by under cover, and all was made ready for a hop-off the minute we felt it safe to hazard a full flight.
We found that we had to dig down through the snow and build a fire and put the cans of oil in the fire before we could pour it into the engines which had already been heated by a big fireproof canvas bag covering them leading by a funnel down to a pressure gasoline stove below.
As there was no level stretch available that was smooth enough to take off from with a heavy load we were forced to try another new stunt—to take off going down hill. To get the snow on our takeoff field smooth was the biggest job of all. The boys had to work 18 hours a day but never did I hear a single complaint from any of them.
The plane’s first attempt to take off for a trial flight ended in a snowdrift and nearly upset—which not only would have hurt us, but would have upset the expedition as well! A ski was broken to bits and the landing gear bent and broken.
Things then looked black, but the men refused to lose heart. Then twice again we broke our ski in pretty much the same way. We were having difficulties—that would never be experienced in the States—in getting off the snow with the lightest possible load. What would happen when we tried our total load of about 10,000 pounds?
Noville, Mulroy and “Chips” Gould the carpenter worked two days and two nights making new skis, whose strength was doubled by using some of our oars. There was no other hard wood available in all Kings Bay. Profiting by our first experience, we treated the bottom of the skis with a mixture of rosin and tar. The runway was fairly smooth for the second attempt and the plane was lightly loaded. We held our breath.
This time our airplane moved forward rapidly, then rose gracefully into the air. With Lieutenant Noville and Lieutenant Parker aboard, in addition to Bennett, she made a tral flight of more than two hours and showed a remarkably low gas consumption. The cold-weather cowling on the engines came up to our highest expectations. Our worst fears were at an end.
At this point came a complete and sudden reversal of our plans. The trial flight and the low gasoline consumption showed that we could probably take off the snow with sufficient fuel to visit Cape Morris Jesup and the Pole in one non-stop flight. It had been our intention to land at Cape Morris Jesup. But since we could explore the whole distance without landing, the question naturally arose, “Why not go direct to the Pole and return via Cape Morris Jesup?” Especially since we had learned that landing with skis in strange areas meant taking big risks. So it was decided.
Final preparations were completed on May 8. W. C. Haines, a meteorologist loaned us by the U. S. Weather Bureau, told us that the weather was right. Haines was a splendid weather man and a great shipmate.
We warmed the motors; heated our fuel oil; put the last bit of fuel and food aboard; examined our instruments with care. Bennett and I climbed in and we were off. Off, but alas, not up. Our load proved too great, the snow too “bumpy,” the friction of the skis too strong a drag. The plane simply would not get into the air. It was an extremely anxious moment. We went a little too far and got off the end of the runway at a terrific speed, jolted roughly over snow hummocks and landed in a snowdrift, coming within an ace of upsetting, which, of course, would have smashed the plane.
A dozen of our men ran up to us weary, heartsick and speechless. They had worked almost to the limit of their endurance to give us our chance. I waded through the deep snow to the port landing gear. Great! Both it and the ski were O.K. Then I stumbled to the other side and found that they also had stood the terrible pounding.
My apprehension turned to joy, for I knew that if the landing apparatus would stand that strain we would eventually take off for the Pole with enough fuel to get there.
We took off hundreds of pounds of fuel to lighten the load; dug out of the snowdrift and taxied the Josephine Ford up the hill to try again. We held another council, and concluded to work through the night lengthening and smoothing the runway. At the same time we would take out of the plane as much equipment as we could spare, and attempt a take-off with a little less fuel.
One little discovery I made was interesting, also characteristic of the truly boyish spirit that prevailed throughout. In searching the plane for gear with which we might dispense and so lighten her, I found that nearly every man on the expedition had hidden some souvenir aboard. No doubt this weight was a factor in keeping us from taking off. However, I never did find a ukelele secreted aboard by the notorious “Ukelele Ike” Konter. He produced it out of the plane after we returned from the Pole and now has it back home as a wonderful souvenir of the trip.
It went against the grain to be severe about such trifles. But we were on the ragged edge of failure and couldn’t spare an ounce of weight. As it was, we had cracked up three times in the snow already. One more smash and it would be all off. We had no more material out of which to makes skis. The last pair had been put together by enormously painstaking efforts of my artisans.
The weather was still perfect. We decided to try to get off as near midnight as possible, when the night cold would make the snow harder and therefore easier to take off from. Finally, at a half hour past midnight Greenwich time, all was in readiness to go. Bennett and I had had almost no sleep for 36 hours, but that did not bother us. Dr. O’Brien and Captain Brennan begged us to get a good sleep before making another attempt. But our opportunity was at hand.
We carefully iced the runway in front of the skis (so that we could make a quick start), while Bennett and Kinkaid made their motor preparations. The crew put the finishing touches on the runway.
Bennett came up for a last talk and we decided to stake all on getting away—to give the Josephine Ford full power and full speed—and get off or crash at the end of the runway in the jagged ice.
A few handclasps from our comrades and we set our faces toward our goal and the midnight sun, which at that moment lay almost due north.