Show Me a Hero

by Jeremy Scott

  Bennett was his closest friend, a buddy of the heart, and the news was wretched. Already sick and weary, Balchen was swamped by grief. This he records, and movingly, in the memoir he would write much later, but what he does not recount is the thought which must have trickled into his mind only moments after: that he was now the only man alive who knew the secret of Byrd’s fraud. With such knowledge, what forgiveness?

  22.

  RE-ENTER FOOL

  We are aboard the airship Italia, approaching Kings Bay.

  Umberto Nobile struts back into the scene in full costume, overdressed for the environment but it is his nature to be theatrical. In the belted tunic of an Italian general, decorated with gold buttons, braid and bling, he looks as if he has stepped out of a band-box, but the fur coat he wears over his uniform, which reaches to the calf of his highly-polished jackboots, is more than sufficient to keep out the cold. Nor does its sumptuous bulk much impede him in his executive duties as he gathers up Tintina from her basket and moves into position at the forward observation window of the Italia to take charge of the descent at Kings Bay after a 3,300 mile flight from Milan.

  Safely stowed in the airship’s command cabin is an oak crucifix presented to him by His Holiness the Pope at the start of this voyage. The cross has been hollowed out to contain a document written in Latin script. The words are also inscribed on Nobile’s heart: This emblem has been entrusted by Pope Pius XI to Umberto Nobile, to be dropped over the Pole; thus to consecrate the summit of the world.

  So sanctified, Nobile is leading his own expedition to the Pole – and further. His life has been transformed since his intercontinental flight with Amundsen and Ellsworth. Unsuccessful and acrimonious though that flight proved, it had not been perceived so in Italy and by Italians in America. Following his triumphant entry into Seattle, Nobile made a speaking tour of Italian communities throughout the US. He was rapturously received everywhere and returned home to a national celebration in Rome. Mussolini delivered a speech of welcome in ‘profound admiration’, saying he had ‘written an indelible page in the history of Italy’.

  Nobile had come a long way from his humble beginnings. His own hard work had made him head of the Factory of Aeronautical Construction in Rome and the leading designer of airships in Italy. Today of course he was more than that, much more. He was famous, and he found the taste of fame’s nectar wonderfully delicious; he felt he could achieve anything.

  About his plan he writes: ‘To tell the truth, so far as scientific observations were concerned the Norge expedition had not done much.’ The hazardous nature of the flight ‘in such a small airship had obliged us to concentrate our attention on the aeronautical problem at the expense of the purely scientific side’. But Nobile’s new expedition would be the first scientific aerial exploration of the Arctic. ‘I outlined to Mussolini, in an interview at which Balbo was also present, the programme of the expedition…’ Balbo, was Italy’s Minister for Air, who had vaunting ideas of his own for flying spectaculars and at this meeting he conceived a powerful dislike for Nobile which was both personal and professional. A reaction which Nobile in describing the encounter seems to have been blithely unaware of, but which would show its effects soon after. Nobile records only that Mussolini listened attentively, then said he recognised the scientific importance of the concept and that they would talk again the following week.

  On that casual promise of Il Duce’s – never fulfilled – Nobile obtained the official sponsorship of the Italian Geographical Society. His hometown Naples was too poor to supply anything, but the rich city of Milan offered to raise a private subscription of 3½ million lire to cover the cost of the expedition. Its base ship, the Città di Milano, was provided by the Navy. The airship, designed by Nobile, was a sister of the Norge. Its crew would be all Italian, but of the three scientists making up the party one, Dr Behounek, was Czech and another, Dr Malgren, Swedish. Among all those aboard Malgren was the only man with experience of ice.

  It was while coming into Kings Bay that Nobile received his first hint that everything was not exactly as he had hoped. Radioing to the Città di Milano that they were approaching and the ground crew should assemble on the snow to assist the landing, Captain Romagna informed him he could not provide Naval ratings to help until he’d received orders from Rome; it made a poor beginning, and relations with Romagna remained frosty. Nobile became aware that the chill was originating from Balbo. He’d asked for two seaplanes to be used for rescue work should it become necessary, now he learned the Air Minister had vetoed the request.

  On 10 May the Italia started on her first Arctic mission, but almost immediately encountered bad weather and had to return to Kings Bay. On the 23rd the airship was ready to take off to fly to the Pole. Nobile writes: ‘The engines were already running … I gave the order, “Let go!” The men loosed the ropes … And so the Italia left for the Pole on her last voyage of exploration, from which she was fated never to return…’

  The route they flew at 1,800 feet was ‘unknown to man’, Nobile records, ‘but with the wind astern increasing our speed, the journey to the Pole proceeded in joyous excitement.’ At midnight on the 24th they were over the Pole. Circling above it, they held a solemn ceremony, dropping first the Italian flag then the Pope’s crucifix attached to a tricolour sash. Zappi, one of the Naval navigators, cried out, ‘Long live Nobile!’ The General adds, ‘We were all moved, more than one of us had tears in his eyes.’

  Then they set a course back to Spitsbergen, facing into a headwind which reduced their speed to 40 mph. They flew low beneath a layer of fog which hid the sun, so were unable to fix their position. Fuel was low, ice coated the hull and formed on the propeller blades. The atmosphere on board had grown tense but Nobile says, ‘The difficulties excited my energy; I did not feel tired but even more alert than usual.’ He glanced at a photograph of his daughter fixed on the wall. ‘Maria’s lovely eyes looked back at me – they seemed to be misted with tears.’

  Having designed the airship himself, he was keenly aware of the strain upon its frame and fabric from battling against the wind. He decided to reduce speed, but Dr Malgren the Swedish meteorologist came to him to say, ‘It’s dangerous to stop here. We must get out of this zone as quickly as possible.’ Nobile at once ordered full speed. Earlier at the Pole, it was Malgren who had dissuaded him from continuing with the following wind to Alaska, insisting it was better to return to Spitsbergen. The young Swedish professor was a dominant personality, who throughout the flight had definitely influenced the decisions of its commander.

  At 9.25 a.m. on 25 May – thirty hours after leaving the Pole – the Italia was flying nose-down at 750 feet when the elevator jammed. Nobile at once had the engines stopped but under its own momentum the craft continued to slant down toward the ice. Nobile was leaning out of the porthole dropping glass balls filled with crimson dye, timing their fall with a stopwatch, when he heard Cecioni, the chief technician, shout excitedly, ‘We are heavy!’

  The danger was grave and imminent, the stern of the airship was only feet above the ice. ‘Stop the motors!’ Nobile yelled, and pulled back into the cabin. Instinctively he grabbed the helm… but it was too late to steer. The command cabin smashed into the ice. There was a fearful noise, something struck him on the head. A weight fell on him, he felt himself crushed, he heard his bones breaking. He shut his eyes and thought, ‘It’s all over.’

  When he opened his eyes Nobile found himself lying on the rough surface of the jumbled pack ice. He heard a dog barking. Fifty yards away the Italia was rising slowly, drifting away in the mist. One side of the command cabin was ripped away; from it trailed strips of fabric, ropes and wreckage. It was only then he felt his injuries. His right arm and leg were broken, his chest felt crushed. He tried to raise his head. All around him lay the pack ice, scattered with debris, a formless chaos of crags, ridges, fissures stretching far as he could see. A few yards away Malgren was sitting on the ice. Cecioni was lying a little further off, moaning i
n pain. Other figures were standing dazed, staring after the vanished airship. Beside Nobile was an enormous liquid crimson stain. Blood, he thought, then realised it was dye where a glass ball had shattered. Tintina was running around, barking with excitement. The pain in his chest made it hard to breathe, he knew that death was near. ‘I was glad of this,’ he writes. ‘What hope was there? With no provisions, no tent, no wireless, no sledges – nothing but useless wreckage – we were lost, irremediably lost, in this terrible wilderness of ice. I turned towards the men, “Steady my lads! Keep your spirits up! Don’t be cast down. Lift your thoughts to God!”’ Suddenly he was seized by strong emotion. ‘Something rose up from my soul… stronger than the thought of approaching death. And from my straining breast broke out, loud and impetuous, the cry: “Viva L’Italia!” My comrades cheered.’

  Beside Nobile, Malgren was still sitting silent, holding his right arm. On his face was an expression of blank despair. Nobile said, ‘Nothing to be done, my dear Malgren!’

  The Swede turned his head to look at him, ‘Nothing but die. My arm is broken.’ He struggled to get up, his injured shoulder twisted him sideways. He said, ‘General I thank you for the trip … I go under the water.’

  Nobile stopped him. ‘No Malgren! You have no right to do this. We will die when God has decided. We must wait.’

  Malgren stared at him in surprise. For a moment he stood still, as if undecided. Then he sat down again.

  Six of the Italia’s crew had drifted off on the ruined airship. With Nobile on the ice were eight survivors and one man who was not. They found the body of the mechanic Pomella seated by the wreckage of the stern engine. Apart from Nobile, the group consisted of the scientists Malgren and Behounek; three Naval officers, Mariano, Zappi and Viglieri; the mechanics Cecioni and Trojani; and the wireless operator, Biagi. The unhurt men began to wander about the ice, which was littered with fallen debris. The came upon some cans of gasoline and about ninety kilos of supplies, mostly pemmican and chocolate. They found a sack containing a tent, a sleeping-bag and a blanket, which had been prepared for a possible landing at the Pole. It also contained a sextant, astronomical tables, a signal pistol and a revolver. Malgren asked to borrow it and for the second time that day Nobile stopped him killing himself.

  The sleeping-bag was brought over to Nobile and he was eased into it while Tintina frisked around the men, wagging her tail and sniffing at everything. The tent was erected. The sleeping-bag was slit open and Cecioni, who weighed fifteen stone, laid beside the general. Then there was a shout from Biagi who was searching among the wreckage, ‘The field-station is intact!’ This was a portable radio transmitter/receiver which had been in the command cabin. For Nobile ‘a ray of light pierced the darkness’.

  Biagi switched on the set and tried to call the Città di Milano. There was no response. He kept on trying… and then the radio broke down. It was the final blow. Nine men and a dog crammed into the four-man tent. Around them spread a landscape as desolate and chill as the surface of the moon. The wind moaned, rhythmically flapping the canvas of the tent. Finally, from sheer exhaustion they fell asleep.

  23.

  THE OLD CONTENDER MAKES A COMEBACK

  The Grand Hotel – Oslo’s most prestigious venue – exists in a time warp untouched by twentieth-century modernity, which anyway is not much evident in Norway at this period. Behind the ornate façade, its cavernous interior is decorated in the oppressive style of the Belle Epoque with potted palms and much dark-patterned upholstered furniture. The ballroom, which is also used for receptions and civic occasions, tonight is arranged with long tables and gilt chairs to accommodate a banquet. The elaborately moulded ceiling, crystal chandeliers and swagged velvet drapes lend an air of slightly faded grandeur and importance to whatever the event being staged there.

  This particular evening is in honour of Hubert Wilkins, who has recently flown the Arctic rim on no money in a makeshift plane he largely cobbled together himself and frequently had to repair on route. Soon to be made a ‘Sir’ for his achievement, tonight he has been invited by the Norwegian Geographical Society. Two places down the table from him, Amundsen sits among the guests, straight-backed in wing collar and ancient evening suit, a glass of aquavit beside his plate. Food is a matter of indifference to him, he can eat or drink anything, what it consists of is immaterial; those with him in the Arctic noted he could drink tea poured straight from a boiling kettle. To dine out is unusual for him; invariably these days he eats alone at home in the house on Bundefjord which he has managed somehow to hang onto amid the ruin of his fortune. Still bankrupt, proud, oppressed by creditors, he lives a stern and frugal life, yet to attend this evening honouring another younger explorer is an obligation it would have been churlish to avoid.

  The banquet has advanced through its several courses and is coming toward coffee and the inevitable speeches which will culminate this evening… when there occurs a slight disturbance, a divergence from the normal progress of the event. A servant enters the room bearing a telegram on a tray. He is seen to whisper something to the president at the head of the table, who opens and reads the message. By now the attention of the guests is upon him and when, a moment later, he stands up with the paper in his hand, conversation in the ballroom dies away to silence. The president reads out the news that the airship Italia, commanded by General Nobile, has gone down somewhere on the ice while returning from the Pole. The telegraph message is from the Norwegian government. It calls upon the country’s veteran explorer, Roald Amundsen, to lead an attempt to rescue Nobile and his men.

  It is a startling moment for Amundsen. Hearing the president’s words, he sits in silence, showing no reaction or hint of what he is feeling. It is perhaps five seconds before he rises to respond, but in that short while an entire cinema of incident surely must have flickered through his mind. He knows all about Nobile’s present vainglorious and idiotic expedition, knows the man’s hysterical and indecisive nature, knows he is a bumptious ass unqualified to lead anything. He knows he is a fool and he has contempt for him. All this is so… yet Amundsen is a man who lives by a certain code and surely behind that impregnable façade his heart is racing. For here he has been sitting at a dull dinner, a disconsolate old warrior obliged to put away his sword – and suddenly he has received a call to arms. What he must do is clear to him. His seamed face is expressionless as a tribal mask as he rises to answer the challenge.

  24.

  RESUME ICE

  The pack ice somewhere in the high Arctic on which Nobile and the eight other men are stranded is an uneven ridged and craggy terrain split into a vast mosaic by cracks and leads of water separating the floes, some of which are a square mile or more in size. In every direction the scene is all-white, dead. The surface looks like snow but is as hard as sandstone and almost imperceptibly in constant queasy motion. The ground the men stand on, sleep on, is infirm; it could split and give way beneath them at any moment.

  Except for Malgren and Behounek, these are men of the south. Latins, they are used to noise and colour, warm blood, food and wine, children and the comfortable joys of married life. Now abruptly they have been cast into stark hell. Nothing they know, nothing they are trained in, has any application here, no one can do anything. Only Biagi, the radio operator, has any occupation. The rest can only freeze and starve and wait.

  And pray, Nobile exhorted them. He was fervent in his belief that God would rescue them. Their second day on the ice Biagi succeeded in fixing the radio. Five minutes before each hour he transmitted a signal, SOS ITALIA, to the base ship, which was about 150 miles away. They received no reply, though on the wavelength they could hear the operator aboard the Città di Milano sending dozens of messages to family, friends and newspapers in Italy. On other frequencies they could listen to the world talking about the Italia disaster and the plight of the survivors, if survivors there were. They heard pundits speculating on their whereabouts. It was thought they were down in north-east Greenland … in Franz Josef L
and … that the airship had crashed into a mountain in Siberia.

  Every hour Biagi tapped out his distress call… and heard nothing in return. Periodically the Città di Milano would transmit the same routine message: We imagine you are near the north coast of Spitsbergen between the 15th and 20th meridian east of Greenwich [in fact they were on the 26th meridian, far from the area of search]. Trust in us. We are organising help. We are listening out for you. But the men on the ice knew it was not true, the radio aboard the base ship was continuously in use and no one was listening.

  Nobile was in constant pain from his broken arm and leg and his busy tormented thoughts. The tent contained a huddle of humanity, its space largely taken up by Cecioni, who had to lie outstretched because of his broken leg. He was suffering greatly, groaning and crying out throughout each night. At times he seemed to be almost mad, says Nobile. ‘Wide-eyed with terror, he would throw his arms around my neck and ask me if there were any hope. I tried to calm and encourage him.’

  Out of the wreckage spilled from the Italia they had gathered 280 pounds of food. Enough to keep the group alive for forty-five days. They knew their position, the sun had come out long enough to take a fix on it. They were off the archipelago of Spitsbergen. During their third day on the ice, a look-out standing on a crag reported that he could see a shape in the distance: Foyn Island. It looked to be only ten miles away. They were drifting past it at a rate of a few miles each day.