THE LAST OUTWARD MARCH 



for two or three more days. Never once has the 

 temperature been above zero since we got on to the 

 plateau, though this is the height of summer. We have 

 done our best, and we thank God for having allowed us 

 to get so far. 



January 6. — This must be our last outward march 

 with the sledge and camp equipment. To-morrow 

 we must leave camp with some food, and push as far 

 south as possible, and then plant the flag. To-day's 

 story is 57° of frost, with a strong blizzard and high 

 drift; yet we marched 13% geographical miles through 

 soft snow, being helped by extra food. This does not mean 

 full rations, but a bigger ration than we have been 

 having lately. The pony maize is all finished. The 

 most trying day we have yet spent, our fingers and 

 faces being frost-bitten continually. To-morrow we 

 will rush south with the flag. We are at 88° T 

 South to-night. It is our last outward march. Blowing 

 hard to-night. I would fail to explain my feelings 

 if I tried to write them down, now that the end has 

 come. There is only one thing that lightens the dis- 

 appointment, and that is the feeling that we have done 

 all we could. It is the forces of nature that have 

 prevented us from going right through. I cannot 

 write more. 



January 7. — A blinding, shrieking blizzard all day, 

 with the temperature ranging from 60° to 70° of frost. 

 It has been impossible to leave the tent, which is snowed 

 up on the lee side. We have been lying in our bags all 

 day, only warm at food time, with fine snow making 

 through the walls of the worn tent and covering our 

 bags. We are greatly cramped. Adams is suffering 

 from cramp every now and then. We are eating our 

 valuable food without marching. The wind has been 

 blowing eighty to ninety miles an hour. We can hardly 



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