Out of the Arctic

King Haakon wired: "The Queen and I bid you and your companions welcome.''

Portuguese, French and Italian Ministers at Oslo, the Speaker of the German Reichstag, wired felicitations. The German fleet at Oslo fired a royal salute.

For a great feat had been performed and great hardships had been endured and the heroes were home from the wastes, home with a story:

First there was Roald Amundsen, intrepid wanderer in frozen places, who had planted the flag of Norway on the nether extremity of the globe. Then there was Riiser Larsen, his airplane pilot, and Lincoln Ellsworth, who piloted another airplane. Ellsworth, 45, son of an Ohio magnate, who first tasted the Arctic on an extensive survey for the Canadian Pacific R. R. in the Peace River area of Northwestern Canada, jumped to the tropics and reported on animal and vegetable life in Yucatan for the Smithsonian Institution, then north again to Baffin's Bay for the American Museum of Natural History. He taught Americans to fly during the War in the French school at Tours, "did a cross section of the Andes" for Johns Hopkins University and researches in Astronomy at Mt. Wilson Observatory. In addition, there were three others making six in all.

Up. These six, in two planes, hopped off from Spitzbergen, headed for the North Pole, 680 beeline miles away.

Almost at once, a solid cushion of fog robbed them of all observation of drift and ground speed. A powerful gale sprang from the northeast, forced them west, cost them heavily in priceless gasoline. Two hours later, they outran the fog, came out above a solid white of the polar ice, ridged, hummocked, corrugated like a sheet of twisted steel.

For eight hours, at 85 miles an hour, they flew, always north. They had used nearly half their gasoline. If the planes were ever to take them home again, they must descend. And there below them the first streak of blue seen in eight hours indicated water, a "lead" in the pack ice. Down nosed Amundsen in the N-25, the N24 following suit. Suddenly, a break in the steady roar of the motors, as startling as a shout, smote Amundsen's ear. N-25's engine had died. The pilot, Riiser-Larsen, now must land wherever he could. God help him ! He made the water, but not the main "lead." The plane torpedoed into a hummock, quivered and lay still, stuck fast.

N24 had disappeared. Amundsen found her next day on the other side of the "lead." The ice closed in on her and crushed her promptly.

Ice. Six men with a month's rations, 157 miles from the Pole, 450 miles over the Polar ice from the nearest hope of rescue, without dogs, too far north for animal food. They must choose between walking and striving to lift a 6-ton plane onto the ice and clearing a take-off over corrugated ice which might split at any moment. They chose the latter.

With a two-pound pocket safety-axe and sheath knives, tied to skiis, the three men of the N25 began hacking at the ICe by hand, cutting away the hummock and making a slip to run the plane up on the ice. On the fourth day, Ellsworth and his two companions started across the young ice to join them. A cry of fear suddenly rose. One Dietrichsen had plunged through the thin ice, followed an instant later by one Omdahl. The current sucked them down. Ellsworth shook his skiis loose, pulled out Dietrichsen first; then, lying flat on his stomach on the thin ice, ripped off Omdahl's 80-pound pack with his knife, enabling the latter to rise. The temperature was 10DEG Fahrenheit.

For 20 endless days they chopped uncounted tons of ice. The only heat came from burners in the cold, damp cabin of the plane. The men chewed a pound of food a day. Always there was the fear of the ice splitting their runway. Fifteen times they strove to get off into the air and 15 times they failed. They threw off every extra ounce of equipment in order to lighten the plane, even their furs. The 16th time she moved; the ice caught and recaught the sled. With the nose in to the very edge of the clearing and disaster, N25 lifted.

They had gas enough for eight hours flight, but skilful Pilot Riiser-Larsen stretched that an extra 35 minutes--a life-saving 35 minutes that enabled them to clear the Polar ice and come down in open water. For 25 miles, they taxied over the open sea to the coast of Northeast Land, Spitzbergen.

There they were sighted by the dirty little twelve-ton sealer, Sjoeliv, piloted by Captain Wolan. "Any news of Amundsen?" shouted the Captain. "Keep that filthy wharf-rat off my paint," roared the Captain of the Hobby, Amundsen's base ship, as the Sjoeliv came sneaking impertinently close at 1 a. m. The sealer paid no attention. Six bearded men stood grouped about the foremast, silent, watchful.

"Who are those strangers?"

Beyond the Thrill. Some things had been learned: 1) The practical certainty that no land exists between Spitzbergen and the Pole, certainly none over an area of 160,000 square kilometers;

2) scientific data on meteorological conditions and oceanographic currents of first importance to shipping and fisheries ;

3) proof that airplanes can swiftly penetrate far into the Polar regions and a greater or less chance that they may return.