Show Me a Hero

by Jeremy Scott

  In the hazy light the runway ahead was picked out by dark objects, the possessions they had discarded. All braced themselves as the pilot opened the throttles and the engines roared just above their heads. The hull began to move, scratching, grating, screeching on the ice, rivets ripping off as the aircraft gained speed and began to bump – huge bumps, wider and wider spaced, lunging forward and thudding down to bounce again… until suddenly they were airborne.

  I believe I have asked God for help a thousand times during these weeks, and … I firmly and surely am of the opinion that He reached out His hand to us… (Amundsen’s diary)

  The N25 almost made it to Spitsbergen when the elevators jammed. With great skill Riiser-Larsen brought it down on the sea and they taxied through the waves toward the coast until they spotted a ship. But the crew of the sealing vessel did not see them as they were chasing a wounded walrus. So the N25 had to pursue the ship, wallowing across the troughs at speed until someone on the sealer glanced around to spy them. ‘They received us with every manifestation of joy,’ Ellsworth records. The flyers secured the aircraft on land to be recovered afterward, and sailed on in the sealer, arriving back at their base in Kings Bay three days later. Their attempt to reach the Pole had failed, but they had survived it.

  9.

  FAT EXTRA BRINGS DOWN THE CURTAIN

  In a fair breeze under a sunny sky the two ships of the MacMillan– McDonald–Byrd Expedition set sail for Greenland from the US Navy Yard at Charleston, Virginia, two days after Amundsen and Ellsworth are reported safe in Spitsbergen. With no cause now to attempt the flyers’ rescue, the expedition can resume its original purpose – together with Commander Byrd’s to reach the Pole, which lay within that plan.

  The Peary and Bowdain forced their way through the pack ice to reach Etah in north-west Greenland on 1 August. The sections of the aircraft were off-loaded from the Peary, and the three Loening amphibians, NA1, 2 and 3, assembled on shore and then moored to buoys off the beach. The Naval longwave radios Byrd had insisted on were installed and tested, as were McDonald’s shortwave sets. In an uneasy compromise it had been agreed that the former would be used while the planes were in the air, the latter when on the ground. Relations between Byrd and McDonald were strained. As he’d threatened, the Chicagoan had seized every opportunity to cause Byrd problems. Twice he had prevented the service radios from being loaded aboard the Peary. It had taken a cable from the Naval Secretary to settle the matter. The two men were barely on speaking terms.

  As expected, radio transmission at this high latitude was poor and subject to interference. Fall-back emergency methods of communication were also tested. The expedition had brought with them ten carrier pigeons. After a week’s feeding and orientation in Etah they were taken some miles away and released separately on trial flights. But Arctic falcons cruising the upper air in predatory surveillance targeted these plump messengers dutifully hurrying home and hurtled down upon them, striking and killing six before they could make it back.

  On 8 August Byrd flew with two planes to look for a suitable site to establish a forward base. The amphibians’ take-off was attended by an unusual hazard, for the aircraft were attacked by a herd of walrus which the pilots escaped only by gunning the engines hard. Their search for a base was unsuccessful as the churned ice was nowhere suitable for landing, and aerial navigation proved even more complex than Byrd had imagined. Compass needles swung wildly in an erratic arc, the instruments were useless this close to the magnetic pole. The sun compass worked, but the sun could not be relied upon to remain visible.

  During the following days all three planes flew further reconnaissance missions but failed to locate a landing site. Then in the night a storm blew up and the NA2 began to fill with water and sink at her mooring. After frantic efforts she was attached to the Peary’s hoist and lifted aboard, but the aircraft never flew again. The storms continued, but whenever weather permitted Byrd tried again with his two remaining planes. Only after several attempts did they find open water and succeed in setting up an advance base at Flagler Fjord. Mooring the amphibians off the beach, they waded ashore carrying 200 pounds of food and 100 gallons of gasoline, together with oil and cooking equipment. Establishing this ill-supplied depot behind the beach, they flew back to Etah.

  On the night of 17 August disaster struck. Gasoline leaked from one of the fuel drums on board the Peary, spilling into the sea. Surrounding the NA3, which was moored in the shelter of the vessel, it somehow ignited and the plane caught fire. The aircraft was cut loose and set adrift to prevent it setting light to the ship. With rash courage its pilot leapt aboard the burning plane clutching a fire extinguisher and managed to save the fuselage, but the wings were ruined.

  Only the NA1 still remained operative, the plane in which Byrd flew as navigator with his pilot/mechanic Floyd Bennett. Aboard the Peary on the way here and during the missions they’d made together since arriving in Etah, Byrd had gained increasing confidence in the man he’d chosen to be his pilot in his planned dash to the Pole. Two years younger than himself, Bennett had left the family farm in early adolescence to enrol in mechanics’ school, then managed a garage until enlisting in the Navy, where he’d learned to fly. Laconic, undemonstrative, dependable, his origins and personality contrasted markedly with Byrd’s, yet the two understood one another in all that mattered. They trusted each other.

  At the end of every day Byrd sent the Naval Secretary a report on his activity. These cables to Washington were transmitted in cypher on shortwave from the radio cabin on the Bowdain, often under the sardonic eye of McDonald, for this was also his office. Time was now crucial for an attempt on the Pole. In Etah the temperature dropped below freezing at night; the sun remained low in the sky, and winter would return at the start of September. Byrd found the delays deeply frustrating as did all the Naval group aboard the Peary. On the Bowdain Professor MacMillan and McDonald – particularly the latter – were impatient with the flyers’ setbacks. They had completed their scientific work and wanted to sail south before becoming iced in for the winter.

  By 30 August a new set of wings had been fitted to the NA3. The weather was fine and, while Byrd and Bennett watched from the deck of the Peary, the pilot took it up on a test flight. From the deck it looked good, but when the pilot landed he said the aircraft wasn’t handling right. It was intensely disappointing for the two to hear. The wind had dropped and the sky was pale blue with not a cloud in sight; flying conditions were perfect for the Pole. Byrd and Bennett each knew what the other was thinking. They could go for it. They could go for it this very moment.

  Byrd crossed to the Bowdain to inform Professor MacMillan – who listened to what he had to say then gave it to him full on. They’d been stuck in this Godforsaken spot for Byrd’s convenience, kept here for almost three weeks waiting for him to mount the promised flights – and with what result? Two planes wrecked and a single inadequate fuel depot less than one hundred miles from base. Airplanes had proved useless in the Arctic, MacMillan stated. There was nowhere for them to land and they couldn’t operate in the prevailing weather. He’d already radioed to the Naval Secretary to say so, informing him that the expedition was leaving Etah to sail home – today.

  For Byrd the decision was crushing, a door slammed shut in his face. But he contained his anger in front of MacMillan, he was capable of great restraint. He said he wished to send a cable to the Naval Secretary. He drafted one on the spot, explaining the situation and the vital importance of seizing this gap in the weather. He coded the text in the cipher he’d used before, then took the sheet to the ship’s radio cabin where he found McDonald seated with the telegraph operator. Laying the paper on the desk, Byrd told the operator to send the message, but it was the other man who snatched it up to read. Which of course he was unable to, because it was in code. But McDonald was well aware of its content: Byrd’s plea for delay in their departure so he could launch this final attempt to reach the Pole. It was so little time he was asking for, twenty
-four hours would be enough.

  At his most needy vulnerable point Byrd had delivered himself into the fat man’s hands. And for McDonald it must have been a delicious moment, a revenge more exquisite in cruelty and humiliation than any he could have imagined. He flatly refused to send Byrd’s message.

  For a few moments Byrd stood rigid as the two glared at each other – and was there a twitch of satisfaction on the fat man’s face? Then Byrd wheeled about and strode stiffly out of the radio cabin.

  Later on that windless sunny afternoon of optimum flying conditions both ships pulled anchor and the expedition sailed for home.

  10.

  ENTER FOOL

  The scene is a crowded street in Rome, backed by Italian street noise at its most lively and exuberant. But now another discord intrudes upon the usual din and grows in volume as it approaches… The sound of a driver jabbing on his motor horn as he draws near. A new character in this drama is about to come on stage.

  There is a place in drama for the Fool; even in tragedy a part exists for him. His role is that of a clown, to subvert the action. Even here, in this loud and strident city, his noisy buffoonery signals his approach. You can hear him coming even before the little upright car speeds around the corner into sight tettering sideways on its narrow wheels, tyres squealing on the cobbles, scattering children and pedestrians who dodge from his headlong path, then turn to shake their fists and shout abuse after the vehicle as it roars away in a fume of blue exhaust. Nobile is an instinctively bad driver. In his recently purchased family saloon he races through the streets of the Eternal City with a small dog perched on his lap, crashing gears, sounding the horn and late for work as usual.

  This is our first fleeting glimpse of Umberto Nobile as he dashes across stage in urgent motion as always, but it is characteristic of the man. The start to every day is as loud and chaotic as this one. His young daughter means that start is agitated and inevitably there are other members of the extended family staying in the apartment. Nobile has seven brothers and sisters living in Naples, all married, all with children, and all know there is a free bed in Rome in Umberto’s big flat. The place is always crowded and turbulent with the unbuttoned nature of the south, warm and redolent of cooking, garlic and Latin domesticity. He loves it; family, noise and exuberance are life, but by the time he’s snatched breakfast and kissed his wife a fond goodbye he is invariably late in starting for the factory. Not that it matters, he is the boss.

  As he turns into the entrance to the works in Avenue Giulio Cesare the soldier at the gate springs to the salute. Nobile has not yet quite got used to the gesture and it still gives him a small throb of satisfaction. Pulling up at the administration building, behind which stand the huge hangers in which the airships are constructed, he parks and opens the car’s door. At once the little terrier leaps from his lap and races for the entrance. Reaching it she spins around and bounds back to him, barking excitedly. He crouches in welcome and she springs into his outstretched arms. Carrying her, he walks into the building.

  Nobile is a small man, slightly built, who like many small men tries to make the very most of his height. His service uniform with its breeches, high boots and peaked cap encircled impressively with gold braid is of great help to him in this. Dressed in civilian clothes he looks rather insignificant. He has dark expressive eyes and a sensitive mouth; at rare moments when his face is in repose it had the anxious sadness of a hungry child but normally, as today, it is vivid with animation. ‘Ciao signorina, Ciao signore,’ he calls out to those he passes on the way to his office and they greet him respectfully with a smile. He is well liked by people working here, but then he is no authoritarian figure. He was a designer not management, a civilian till he was appointed a colonel only a year ago.

  It is true the Factory of Aeronautical Construction is somewhat disorganised and operatic in its operation but it is successful and its hangars all are busy. In each a gang of men are assembling an airship Nobile has designed for the Army or Navy. Airships are a high priority for the new Italy and its charismatic minister for aviation, Benito Mussolini. Militarily and commercially, airships and aeroplanes are considered to be the future.

  Nobile admires Il Duce unreservedly. He can see his own future in the new order Mussolini is creating for the country. But exactly where that future lies he is not sure. Hard work, application to his studies and ambition, combined with the fear of letting down his parents who went short to provide his education, have made him what he is: a well-regarded senior technician. But he knows that he is made for more than this, and that he will respond to the call of destiny when it sounds.

  Nobile bustles into his outer office and sets Tintina down. She runs at once to his secretary, one of the two women at work here, who pets the little dog, feeding her the expected sweet biscuit. ‘The mail is on your desk Colonel,’ she tells Nobile. ‘And there is a cable. From Norway.’ The telegram lies on top of the small pile of correspondence. On picking it up his eyes go first to the signature and the name gives him a small jolt of recognition. He is old enough to remember when Roald Amundsen became world famous by conquering the South Pole. And, because of Nobile’s own involvement in aviation, he’s followed closely the newspaper reports of Amundsen’s adventures with Ellsworth on the pack ice only a few months ago.

  The cable, sent from Oslo that morning, enquires whether Colonel Nobile in his capacity as a respected designer and constructor of airships could be available to come to Norway ‘for an important and secret conference’. That telegram represents a key moment for the man who had just received it. The wording offers promise, and a thrill of excitement and anticipation runs through Nobile’s small frame as he reads its text. He senses a door opening, and through the crack he catches a bright glint of destiny.

  That is how it was for Nobile that morning in Rome in the winter of 1925/6, on the day that his life changed. But hindsight has a way of remoulding the past. Thirty-three years later, when he will sit down to record the event for a book, that spin which in the course of time we all put upon our past has worked its effect upon him and he has come to remember the circumstances a little differently. He writes: ‘I myself had been thinking for some time about the possibility of using a dirigible to explore the Arctic regions, and I was convinced that, with one of my own ships, it might very well be successful…’ After a while he would grow to believe the whole thing was his idea in the first place.

  Ten days later Nobile met Amundsen at his house on Bundefjord. Also present were Riiser-Larsen and Dr Rolf Thommessen, newspaper owner and president of the Norwegian Aero Club, who would be handling the administration and finances of the new expedition. The money to mount it was already largely in place. Ellsworth’s father had died while he and Amundsen were lost on the ice. Become a rich man, he’d put up $125,000 toward the cost of the flight, which would be to the Pole, then continue to Alaska to complete a Europe–America crossing of 3,400 miles. An airship rather than an aircraft was more suitable for the long flight, Amundsen and Riiser-Larsen had decided. Though slower than a plane, if an engine failed they could land and anchor while it was repaired. An airship could carry a comprehensive range of spare parts, even a replacement engine. An airship was more reliable – and safer.

  If the attempt was to take place next spring there was no time to build a specially designed dirigible for the flight, Colonel Nobile informed the group. However, nearing completion in his factory was the latest of the N series he had designed for the Army. Lighter than earlier models, it had a larger load capacity, which could give it the necessary range if extra fuel tanks were fitted. A further advantage to the craft, Nobile went on to tell them with the confidence of an expert, was the fact that it was semi-rigid, safer in gales than an all-rigid version; the airship was the ultimate in design and technology.

  Though he missed his family and Tintina, Nobile was pleased as Punch to be here holding the floor. During the last few days in Rome he’d stepped into another world. He’d walked the corrid
ors of power, talked as an equal with government ministers, met Mussolini – unadmittedly only briefly, though during Il Duce’s few words he’d looked him in the eye and felt a thrilling bond. And he’d come to Norway as an envoy invested with actual power, come not just to listen but to propose. He’d arrived briefed and well prepared. The Italian government would make a free gift of the airship to Amundsen if the expedition to the Pole flew under the Italian flag.

  The proposal had originated with Mussolini and Nobile thought it a fine and generous offer. He was disconcerted that Amundsen took it so amiss. The suggestion made the old fellow angry. There was absolutely no question of that, he stated. He’d sailed under the Norwegian flag through the North-West Passage, he’d carried it to the South Pole. This was his last expedition and he was flying with it to the North. It was inconceivable this should be anything but a Norwegian venture. He wished to buy the airship outright, free of all conditions.

  Nobile quoted a price of $75,000 (almost $1 million in today’s money). Following which he brought up the question of his own fee as pilot. A sum of 40,000 Kroner was agreed (worth $80,000 today). Next day in a second meeting he announced that an attempt on the Pole next May was not possible for him; he was already under contract to pilot a flight in Japan at that date. Addressing himself to Thommessen as treasurer, he asked for and obtained the promise of a further 15,000 Kroner.