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Polar Flight

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#1 ·
Polar Flight Survival Story


Part 1
Over the vast, frozen wastes of the Artic is the last place anyone
would want his airplane to quit.

To the six aviators stranded on the Arctic ice, the future looked
bleak but not hopeless. Engine trouble had forced their pair of
Dornier-Wal flying boats to put down on the shifting ice. With
makeshift tools and grim determination, the men not only had to fix
the engines but also had to stave off the drifting ice floes that
threatened to crush their frail craft, and prepare a runway across
the rough pack.
The 1925 expedition to fly over the North Pole was led by renowned
Norwegian polar explorer Roald Amundsen. Amundsen had gained
international fame two decades earlier when he had searched for the
elusive Northwest Passage from Baffin Bay and Lancaster Sound
through the maze of islands and straits of the Canadian Arctic
aboard the ship Gjöa.


In December 1911, Amundsen and his party became the first to trek to
the South Pole. Always on the prowl for more adventure; Amundsen
purchased a Farman biplane in 1914, intending to mount skis on the
craft and use it to fly over polar obstacles. World War I ended that
endeavor, but the explorer continued to dream of flying over the
great ice cap.
Amundsen purchased a Junkers J-13 monoplane in 1922, satisfied that
the craft's aluminum shell would withstand the rigors of the Arctic
clime. Unfortunately, the airplane crashed during a practice flight
over Pennsylvania. Amundsen scraped together enough cash to purchase
another just in time for his expedition across the Arctic coasts of
Europe and Asia to reach Nome, Alaska, aboard the sailing ship Maud.
Neither the Junkers nor a small Curtiss Oriole biplane loaned by the
Curtiss factory survived much beyond the opening leg of the journey.
Still convinced that the airplane was the best machine for polar
exploration, Amundsen sought help from the Norsk
Luftseiladsforeningen, a Norwegian air club. The club
enthusiastically promised what aid it could, but Amundsen was still
sorely lacking funds. He traveled to New York in 1924, hoping a
lecture tour would provide some of the necessary monies. but he was
unprepared for the chance phone call he received. Lincoln Ellsworth,
the son of a multimillionaire, promised him $85,400 for a joint
flight over the North Pole.
Ellsworth had attended both Columbia and Yale universities and had
been trained as an aviator during World War 1. Illness kept him out
of combat, but Ellsworth had met Amundsen while stationed in France
and briefly discussed polar exploration by air with him. The
Norwegian quickly forgot the encounter, but the seed of an idea had
been planted in the American's mind. After the war, Ellsworth led a
geological survey to the Peruvian Andes for Johns Hopkins
University. When he returned to New York in 1923 and discovered that
Amundsen was in the city, Ellsworth immediately telephoned the
famous explorer. "I met you several years ago in France, during the
war," Ellsworth said. "I am an amateur interested in exploration,
and I might be able to supply some money for another expedition." An
excited Amundsen immediately invited him to his room.
With Ellsworth's money in hand, Amundsen telegraphed his pilot,
Norwegian naval Lieutenant Hjalmar Riiser-Larsen, with instructions
to purchase a pair of Dornier-Wal flying boats. Both men had decided
on the Dorniers for several reasons. The aircraft sported twin
Rolls-Royce 365-hp water-cooled Eagle engines mounted on top of the
wing structure, one facing forward, the other aft. The location and
power produced by the engines "make it possible for a weight equal
to that of the machine to be lifted," noted Riiser-Larsen. The
Dorniers also featured a duralumin flat-bottomed fuselage with
projecting sponsons, or flynders to the Norwegians, which helped to
stabilize the craft in the water. The flynders would tend to be less
fragile in icy seas than wingmounted stabilizer floats.
The Dornier-Wals were being built in Pisa, Italy, by the firm of
S.A.I di Construzioni Mecchaniche i Marina di Pisa because German
manufacture of such aircraft was prohibited by the Versailles
Treaty. Rather than ship the flying boats halfway around the world
to an Alaskan starting point, Amundsen planned to begin his
expedition from King's Bay on Spitsbergen, only 750 miles from the
North Pole.
Amundsen and Ellsworth quickly began to make preparations for their
flight. The Dorniers, simply named N24 and N25 after Amundsen and
Lincoln Ellsworth in 1924. Ellsworth first met the Norwegian
explorer in 1918. Five years later, he offered to finance a joint
polar expedition.
their registry numbers, were being crated and shipped to Tromso,
Norway. The two men assembled their support staff and aircrews. N24
was to be piloted by Norwegian naval Lieutenant Lief Dietrichson,
with Ellsworth and mechanic Oskar Omdal aboard. Riiser-Larsen would
fly N25, with Amundsen and a German mechanic, Ludwig (named Karl in
some sources) Feucht, as crewmen.
Waiting at Tromsö, about 300 miles to the southeast, was the
Norwegian naval transport Fram and the motor ship Hobby, which would
transport survival gear, including a light sled and a canvas boat as
well as spare parts. The Dorniers, crated in sections, were
carefully lifted and lashed to the deck of Hobby. "Hobby had already
given up trying to be a boat," Amundsen wrote later. "She looked
like a mass of gigantic cases which was wandering along over the
sea."
When the ships departed in early April, high winds and ice squalls
battered them on the four-day voyage from Tromso to King's Bay. The
vessels became separated, and Amundsen feared that the heavily
burdened Hobby would founder in the crashing waves. Seasickness took
its toll, even though many of the crew were experienced sailors.
Fram steamed into frozen King's Bay on April 12, 1925, anchoring at
the rim of the ice sheet covering the bay. A short time later, to
the cheers of all, Hobby hove into view. A Norwegian ship preceded
them and broke a passage through the ice for Fram and Hobby to
eventually tie up at quayside. Booms began to lower gear and
airplane parts to the icy surface of the bay.
Amundsen, Ellsworth and the pilots believed that the flying boats
were capable of taking off fully loaded from the ice-covered bay.
Snow and ice would actually offer less resistance than a takeoff
from open water. Once the planes were airborne, they would proceed
to the North Pole, verify their location, then return to
Spitsbergen. Although the planes carried extra fuel, they would not
both be able to make the round trip. There was little doubt that on
the return trip the Dorniers would have to set down on the ice,
where the tanks of one plane would be emptied into the other, and
the emptied flying boat would then have to be left behind.
The aviators chose their gear carefully because of weight
limitations. A lightweight sled would provide some movement of
equipment if they were forced down onto the ice. A canvas boat would
allow the crews to cross patches of open water in the ice pack.
There was the usual assortment of guns, tents and compact stoves.
Food consisted of salted beef, chocolate, biscuits, dried milk and
malted-milk tablets. A camera was brought along to verify the
expedition's findings and record events.
As the planes were assembled, the polar summer crept ever closer.
Although the bay's ice sheet remained relatively solid, the weight
of the Dorniers caused the surface to sag and buckle, forcing water
up around the hulls, which could cause additional drag on takeoff.
The Rolls-Royce engines functioned perfectly, but Amundsen resisted
any attempt to take the planes skyward on a practice flight. He
reasoned that a single takeoff from the ice was perilous enough, and
he did not want to jeopardize his frail planes with a practice
effort. Instead, trial runs consisted only of taxiing.
Several weeks passed with storms or gusty winds prohibiting the
flight. Finally, on May 21, the expedition's meteorologist
proclaimed the weather would clear for takeoff. The engines were
warmed up and last-minute adjustments were made. Since the Dorniers
had open cockpits, the fliers wore heavy flying clothes, thick
underwear of wool and leather and capacious canvas boots padded with
senna grass.


End part 1

Part 2
Polar Flight Survival Story

At 5:10 p.m., N25 with Riiser-Larsen at the controls roared across
ice-covered King's Bay. The additional weight of extra fuel drums
and equipment caused the icy sheet to bend, and water surged up,
increasing the drag on the plane. As the Dornier clawed slowly
skyward, the hulk of King's Bay Glacier loomed in its path. An
emotionless Riiser-Larsen had a firm hand on the stick. "Had he been
seated at the breakfast table he could scarcely have looked less
concerned," noted Amundsen. With its engines roaring at 2,000 rpm,
N25 climbed above the glacier.
N24, meanwhile, swerved along the path N25 had created on the ice
and eased into position to start its run. The crew had to manhandle
the flying boat for proper positioning, and they had to strip off
some of their outer clothing as their bodies heated from exertion.
Just as the Dornier was about to start its takeoff run, pilot
Dietrichson detected a problem. "Above the humming of the engine I
suddenly heard a noise which sounded to me as if a row of rivets in
the bottom had sprung," he later wrote. As the crew hastened to put
on their heavy flight suits, the ice began to sink under the plane's
weight. A foot of water closed in against the hull and began to
stream into the fuselage through a broken seam in the metal skin.
Dietrichson chose to continue the flight, thinking that the ruptured
seam would not prove a problem when landing on the solid ice of the
pole and that immediate repairs would have meant an aborted mission.
In moments, N24, with its unwanted cargo of water, sped across the
ice and soared into the cold air.
The two airplanes of the Amundsen-Ellsworth expedition cruised at
2,000 feet. They passed over the west coast of Spitsbergen, leaving
behind Cape Mitre and the Amsterdam Islands. Fog boiled above the
sea, forcing the planes up to 3,000 feet. A little after 8 p.m., the
fog thinned. "And there below us and in front of us lay the great
shining plain of the notorious pack ice. How many misfortunes have
you been responsible for during the passage of years, you vast
`Whiteness'?" mused Amundsen.
After several hours' flying above the frozen mass, the dazzling
whiteness forced the fliers not only to don snow goggles but also to
fit special blinders over their windscreens. To escape the glare,
the planes climbed to their maximum ceiling of 10,000 feet. The
aviators could discern nothing from that altitude. To conserve fuel,
the Dorniers returned to 3,000 feet, where the engines ran more
smoothly.
Things seemed to be fine aboard N25, but pilot Dietrichson on N24
was concerned. The temperature indicator for his engines had begun
to rise while they were still over the fog bank, and nothing he
tried seemed to improve the situation.
The gauge soared to 229 degrees Fahrenheit and burst. Incredibly,
the Rolls-Royce engines continued to hum without a hitch.
At about 5 a.m. on May 22, Feucht informed Amundsen that that N25's
fuel level had dropped below half capacity. The Norwegian determined
that it would be a good time to set down on the ice, fill the tanks
of both planes from the reserve drums, then abandon the empty
barrels and continue on to the Pole. Once their goal had been
achieved, the planes would return on the fuel remaining in their
tanks. If they ran short of fuel, they would land on the ice, pool
the remaining fuel in one plane and abandon the other. Then, with
extra human cargo, a single Dornier would continue to Spitsbergen.
Riiser-Larsen began to descend in slow spirals toward the ice pack,
hoping to find a smooth landing area. The trio debated setting down
on the water but were concerned that ice freezing around the plane
could crush the hull. The ice pack appeared deceptively smooth from
their altitude. Once they began descending, however, they realized
the surface was a tortuous maze of pressure ridges piled into
mountain-like ice walls. As the Dornier continued to descend, the
aft engine suddenly sputtered and died.
Amundsen spotted a distant ice dam that promised a relatively smooth
landing, but with the loss of power and the extra weight aboard the
machine, he knew it would be impossible to reach. The crew decided
on a slush-choked arm of water dotted with icebergs leading toward
the dam. The arm was wide enough to accommodate the Dorniers
wingspan, but with icebergs flanking the passage there was no room
for error.
The Dornier slapped down into the slush and began to zigzag. "We
were passing a small iceberg on the right," recalled Amundsen. "The
machine turned to the left with the result that the wings stroked
the top of the iceberg and loose snow was whirled in the air." With
thick slush spraying about, N25 eased to a stop at the end of the
arm, its nose pushing up against yet another iceberg.
Dietrichson, aboard N24, saw the after engine of N25 quit and
watched the plane descend to the slush. He circled as the crew of
N25 jumped out of their plane and began kicking and hacking at the
ice to keep it from freezing around the hull. Dietrichson realized
there was not enough room for both machines in the arm, so he slowly
descended to a watery lake that appeared to be near N25. As he
throttled back, N24's aft engine also quit. Fortunately, the landing
was smooth, and he taxied across the surface and anchored his plane
to a large ice floe.
Ellsworth and Dietrichson searched for N25 while mechanic Omdahl
examined the engines. Compression in the aft engine had weakened
considerably, and part of the exhaust system had burned out.
Repairs, if possible, would take a long time. To make matters worse,
sea water was leaking into the hull where the rivets had torn loose
during takeoff.
It was noon before Dietrichson and Ellsworth finally spotted N25
from atop a high ice hummock. The plane lay about three-quarters of
a mile away with her nose sticking into the air at a 45-degree
angle. Ellsworth took meteorological readings and found they were
about 150 miles short of the Pole and had drifted off course to 22
degrees west.
The pair unlimbered their canvas boat and had a light lunch before
setting out for N25. Three-foot-deep snowdrifts slowed their
progress on the ice, as did patches of slushy water that had to be
negotiated with the boat. Even worse were the jagged ice ridges that
had been thrust upward when shifting sheets of ice collided.
Dietrichson and Ellsworth searched for an easier route but only
found more ice ridges. After several hours of incredible exertion,
they gave up and returned to N24 thoroughly exhausted. They hoisted
a Norwegian flag atop the highest hummock, pitched their light tent
next to their plane and crawled inside to rest.
Amundsen and his crew, meanwhile, were busy trying to stave off ice
closing in around N25's hull. Extra room in the plane had been
devoted to drums of fuel, so ice tools and even radio equipment had
had to be left behind. Using knives, an ax and an ice anchor, the
trio finally managed to chip enough ice away so their plane could
float freely for several hours. Though exhausted, the men
fruitlessly scanned their surroundings for N24 before finally taking
refuge in the Dorniers compartments.
Snow squalls buffeted the area during the night, and movement of the
ice sheets brought the two planes closer together. The morning of
May 23 was clear and bright. Amundsen climbed to a wing of the
Dornier and scrutinized the monotonous horizon. Suddenly he noticed
the flag, tent and N24 itself. He called for Riiser-Larsen to start
waving their own Norwegian flag, and within moments contact was
established with Ellsworth and crew. It was decided, via Morse code
signals with the flags, that each crew would work on their own plane
for the rest of the day.

End part 2

Part 3

Polar Flight Survival Story

Omdahl poured buckets of warm oil on the valves and placed camp
stoves under the engine gondola in a vain attempt to start N-24's
aft Rolls-Royce. Amundsen, Riiser-Larsen and Feucht chopped and
slashed at the ice encroaching on N25. Slowly they began to fashion
a ramp onto which they hoped to maneuver N25 away from the clutches
of the slushy pool. For the next two days, both crews tried to
prepare their respective planes for takeoff.
May 26 brought startling changes to the ice pack. Shifting had
occurred throughout the night, so by morning the two Dorniers had
drifted within easy visual contact with each other. At 3 p.m., with
temperatures at 14 F, Ellsworth signaled that he, Dietrichson and
Omdahl would try to cross to N25. Within 20 minutes, the trio had
worked their way to within 200 yards of a mundsen. Riiser-Larsen
took N25's canvas boat to meet them.

Ellsworth's crew had marched too close to a patch of thin ice.
Suddenly, Dietrichson crashed through into the freezing water.
Fortunately, the men were carrying their skis rather than wearing
them, but the pilot's 80-pound backpack was pulling him down. At
Dietrichson's cry, Omdahl turned and also plunged through the ice.
Both men scrambled at the surface, only to have the thin ice break
under their hands. Dietrichson managed to get his rifle on top of
the flimsy sheet.
When the two men crashed through the ice, Ellsworth managed to jump
sideways as the sheet sagged beneath him. Finding a solid spot on
some old ice, he reached his ski toward Dietrichson and managed to
pull him partially onto the firmer ice. Omdahl cried out, "I'm gone!
I'm gone!" as his head began to submerge. The American managed to
hook the strap of the mechanic's backpack and hold on until
Dietrichson could crawl over to help. "It took all the remaining
strength of the two of us to drag Omdahl up onto the old ice,"
Ellsworth later wrote. The three managed to struggle to
Riiser-Larsen's boat, and he quickly transported them to the
relative comfort and warmth of N25.
The six men decided their best chance of escape from the Arctic ice
was to abandon N24 with its disabled engine and work to get N25
aloft. Amundsen's Dornier, however, was still threatened by the icy
slush freezing around the fuselage. Working with their makeshift
tools, the party succeeded in freeing N25 and cutting a shallow ramp
onto the ice pack. With a nearly superhuman effort, they hauled the
Dornier onto the surface of the floe.
Fuel was drained from N24 to N25 while Amundsen and Ellsworth worked
on a list of necessities. Any item not needed would be left on the
ice. To make sure the food supply would last until they could get
airborne, the rations were cut from two pounds per day to
three-quarters of a pound.
Even allowing for abandoned equipment, N25 would have to take off
with the added weight of more fuel and three more men. Amundsen and
Riiser-Larsen reckoned that because there was no open water nearby,
they would need at least 500 yards of relatively smooth, hard ice as
a runway-and there was nothing smooth about the ice surrounding
them. The only alternative was to use their makeshift tools and
fashion a path for their plane.
On June 1, after the men had chipped and scraped ice for days to
form a firm runway, N25 was ready to fly. The air intake on the aft
engine had been repaired, and both Rolls-Royce engines ran smoothly.
After manhandling the Dornier through deep, soft snow, the men
clambered aboard. No sooner had they begun their takeoff run than
the ice path they had so laboriously cut began to sag under the
plane, and slushy water splashed against the duralumin skin. Worse
still, fog suddenly blanketed the ice floe, forcing them to cancel
their takeoff attempt.
For two days, the explorers battled ice threatening to crush the
Dornier as they worked to chisel a new runway. On June 2, a second
liftoff was aborted when the flying boat broke through the ice of
the new runway. By June 4, heavy fog enveloped them and brought a
new onslaught of ice pressure. "There were pipings and singings all
round us as the ice jammed against the machine," Amundsen later
recalled. To make matters worse, the shifting ice was inexorably
heaving a forbidding iceberg which they nicknamed "the Sphinx"-in
their direction.
Riiser-Larsen reconnoitered the area and discovered a patch of ice
roughly 600 square yards that could be leveled as a runway.
Unfortunately, it was nearly 1,000 feet from N25. The men began
shaping an icy ramp over which they could maneuver their plane
toward the patch for a takeoff run. After hours of backbreaking
labor, they pushed the Dornier into place between two icebergs that
would have to be partially leveled to permit takeoff. But the short
Arctic summer was approaching, and daylight hours were becoming
warmer. If N25 did not get airborne soon, the drag from the sticky
snow on top of the ice would be too great.
Amundsen knew there was nothing to do except shovel the snow aside.
He calculated the men would have to create a track more than 1,500
feet long and 40 feet wide. The snow was nearly three feet deep and
would have to be shoveled about six yards away from each side of the
runway so it would not interfere with the takeoff. Such a task was
beyond what the crews could produce on less than half rations, but
they knew an effort had to be made before they became progressively
weaker.
June 9 through June 11 found the men struggling to level the
surface. Suddenly Omdahl shouted, "See, this is what we can do
instead of shoveling." Stupefied, the other crew members watched as
the mechanic began to stomp the wet snow into solid patches.
Following suit, they began to trample the area into a useable
runway. Ice ridges still had to be chipped and removed by hand.
"On the 14th of June as we laid down our tools I don't think I
exaggerate when I say that, all in all, we had removed 500 tons of
ice and snow," noted Amundsen. Unfortunately, thawing conditions
prevented two more attempts to get airborne. Amundsen worried that
the continuing spate of warm, foggy weather would frustrate every
takeoff attempt. As their supply of food dwindled, he wrestled with
the notion of heading southward on foot; perhaps they could reach
solid land in a few weeks. But in their weakened state, they might
not be able to cross the broken snow ridges or open leads in the ice
in their canvas boat. He finally decided they must wait for proper
conditions and attempt another takeoff.
On June 15, with the temperature hovering around 28 F, the Norwegian
explorer inspected the runway they had chipped, shoveled and stamped
into the snow and ice. The 1,500-foot expanse was relatively smooth
and had seemed to firm up a bit in the chill air, but small cracks
had developed just in front of N25. And 250 yards down the track, a
7-foot-wide crack threatened to expand and ruin their runway. Beyond
that, a 10-foot-wide open lead of water led to another 45-yard plain
of stable, flat ice. Amundsen and his crew felt the time to fly was
now or never.
By 9:30 p.m., the engines on N25 had been sufficiently warmed up to
attempt a liftoff. The six men had unloaded all cargo except for a
few bare necessities lest they be forced back onto the ice and, of
course, the extra barrels of fuel. With rueful glances at the
crippled N24, perched awkwardly on the ice in the distance, they
clambered aboard the remaining Dornier.
Riiser-Larsen, in the pilot's seat, opened the throttle and N25
began to move across the icy plain. With engines roaring at 2,000
rpm, the big Dornier shook and rattled as it scraped over the
runway. The ice sheet held firm. Dashing over the 10-foot-wide
crack, N25 rushed along the last flat piece of ice. "The scraping
noise stopped; only the humming of the motor could be heard,"
recalled Amundsen. "At last we were in flight."


End part 3

Part 4
Polar Flight Survival Story

Navigator Dietrichson plotted his course southward using magnetic
compasses. Within two hours the sun broke through the fog, and the
solar compass showed they were exactly on course. Below them, a
twisted mass of ice ridges flanked basins of open water choked with
icebergs. If engine trouble developed now, there would be no safe
place to land.
Heavy, low-lying clouds developed as N25 approached 82 degrees north
latitude. Riiser-Larsen hoped to fly below the haze to conserve
fuel. At 120 mph, the plane threaded a course through what seemed a
forest of icebergs laced with wisps of fog. Clouds, fog and ice
blended into a treacherous and indiscernible expanse. The pilot was
finally forced to climb above the thick quilting to avoid the ice
outcrops.


Hour after hour sped by as N25 clawed its way to safety. Amundsen
continuously checked the fuel reserves, noting that the gasoline
supply would soon run dangerously low. "Suddenly," the Norwegian
recalled, "a big, heavy fog-cloud tore itself away and rose slowly,
disclosing a high glittering hilltop. There was scarcely any doubt.
It must be Spitsbergen."
Although N25 was buffeted by strong winds, Riiser-Larsen eased the
flying boat toward the choppy waters of Hinlopen Strait. The rest of
the crew retreated toward the tail of N25 to allow the nose to lift
as high as possible. Waves slammed against the duralumin hull as the
plane set down. The pilot, drenched in his open cockpit, fought the
controls in the heavy sea. By 8 p.m. on June 16, N25 finally cruised
into the relatively calm waters of a small shoal bay.
Like children, the aviators leapt onto the rocks after securing
their plane. After a brief meal, they began to gather driftwood for
a fire. Riiser-Larsen suddenly straightened as he scanned the
horizon.
"There is a ship!" he cried.
A small Norwegian seal-hunting cutter sailed across the face of the
bay, seemingly oblivious to the anchored plane. With barely a word,
the explorers scrambled back aboard N25 and restarted the engines.
In moments, they had taxied across the water and eased close to the
sealer Sjoliv. Startled sailors gazed in disbelief at the
Dornier-Wal bobbing on the waves. The famished men boarded the
vessel and were greeted with coffee, cooked seal meat and egg
pancakes.
Nils Wollen, Sjoliv's captain, reported that rescue ships had plied
the seas for weeks in a vain attempt to find the missing aviators.
He agreed to tow N25 to King's Bay. At first the towing went
smoothly, but as the night wore on the winds increased and Wollen
was forced to anchor in a protected cove. By 11 a.m. on June 17,
gale force winds aborted any further attempt at towing the
Dornier-Wal. A safe anchorage for the plane was found in Brandy Bay,
and by 8 p.m., Sjoliv and its cargo of survivors was finally on the
two-day journey to King's Bay.
The ice in the bay had long since melted, and tiny blue flowers now
colored the surrounding hills. Hobby was anchored at quayside, but
Amundsen and his companions were surprised to see the Norwegian
Coast Guard vessel Heimdahl also secured there. A pair of
Hansa-Brandenburg W33 seaplanes rode the bay's calm waters as well.
The ship and the planes had been scouring the polar regions in
search of them.
The population of King's Bay poured onto the docks to welcome the
lost aviators. A band struck up the Norwegian national anthem amidst
a flurry of toasts and handshakes. Telegraphers at the coaling
station and aboard Heimdahl began to tap out the joyful news, and
photographs were snapped. The explorers found the clothing they had
left behind at the beginning of their expedition was now too large
for their emaciated frames.
By June 25, N25 was safely recovered and stored aboard a transport
ship for the voyage to Norway. Amundsen, Ellsworth and crew boarded
Heimdahl. Four days later they neared Tromso Sound, where they were
welcomed by Norwegian cruise ships packed with jubilant crowds.
Outside Kristians and, four naval Hansa-Brandenburgs circled
overhead in salute. At the Norwegian naval base at Horten they
received another ovation.
A reassembled N25 rode the waters near Oslo on July 5. Roald
Amundsen, Lincoln Ellsworth and their crew once more clambered
aboard the Dornier-Wal to fly the final few miles to the Norwegian
capital. "Good old N25!" recalled a tearful Ellsworth. "We dropped
down into the fjord amid a pandemonium of frantically shrieking
river craft and taxied on through the wildly waving and cheering
throngs." King Haakon of Norway feted the explorers, whom he
described as being "once dead and returned to life."


End part 4
 
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#4 ·
Amundsen

As I orignates from Tromsø, it's interesting to see that the story and life of Amundsen and his crew can inspire to creative wrightings.
But tell me, how much of this is fiction?
It's been many years since I read the story of Amundsen, Noblile, Riiser-Larsen and Co.

June 18-1928 Amundsen disappeared flying out from Tromsø. The history sais that he crashed outside Bjørnøya, near Svalbard, but new evidences shows that it could have been Bjørnøya not far from Tromsø.

In Tromsø there are a polar museum with alot of artifacts from Amundsen, Nansen and other polar explorers.
The stories of survival in arctic conditions is just unbelivable. Seeing what they had, and surviving with places our own survival prepparations in a strange light,

The Americans have all the stories of western explores and gold miners, We, the scandinavian (Norwegian) has the stories of polar expeditions and polar life of ordenary people.

Thank you.
 
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