TITUS

TITUS

So, when all is said and done, this is how it’s to end? Is there no hope? None it seems. I am done for anyway but I am determined that Titus Oates will not be blamed for holding back the others.

How did I end up in this God forsaken place with these people, these idiots, for whom I have no respect whatsoever? Under the dire leadership of this vain, self-glorious, mis-trusting, neurotic who has, somehow, led us to...what, our doom?

Was there ever a chance that our quest, years in the planning, could, in reality, be achieved? Think back, Titus. Cast aside your pain and think.

The outward voyage on the Terra Nova was, by any stretch of the imagination, an utter nightmare, with Scott not joining us until we reached South Africa, then behaving as though he was still unsure of how best to set about our task, calling endless meetings to question our strategies, over and over, with all of the other pseudo- scientists repeating their gobbledygook mantras until even I, a mere soldier, found myself lying atop my bunk at night with my head swimming with their nonsense and preventing me from sleeping. They all acted as though they were so far superior to myself, only taken on for this venture because of my previous ability with horses. They looked down upon me, disliked me from the off and I, in turn, despised them all for their aloofness and condescending airs.

They could not even address me by my given name, with Scott, himself, having set the tone by referring to me as “Soldier” prior to our departure from Cardiff and the others following his lead in his absence. I have a name, you sons of whores!

Which of them had contributed one thousand, hard earned pounds to the cost of this expedition, the attempt to be the first of mankind to reach the South Pole? None I wager. Yet, I, Lawrence Edward Grace Oates, nicknamed Titus, did have the wherewithal and put my money in to strengthen my application to be a part of this epic adventure. I have earned the right to be addressed as something other than “Soldier”.

Mea culpa! I have nobody but myself to blame therefore for my own undoing. When I first set sight on the ponies that Scott had purchased to help us negotiate the ice ahead, I could have cried. Never had I seen such decrepit animals, fit only for the slaughterhouse. How could this man have put so much faith in such beasts? Naturally, I made my feelings clear only to be shouted down by the others for failing to show respect and questioning the Captain’s ability. Did I, they asked, think the Captain foolish enough to have paid five pounds each for beasts that were destined to be dog food? Yes, I answered and you shall see me proven right. I don’t believe they ever forgave me for casting doubt on the man they looked to as a Demi-God, incapable of a misjudgement of any kind.

Who had ever heard of ponies being able to traverse ice, in the first place? Another hare-brained scheme of this mad man; one that nobody but I chose to question. But, despite all, I did my job, no easy task either; I kept those animals in the best possible health throughout the voyage and no man could have done more.

Yet, I asked myself, if he had such faith in ponies, why did he also bring motorised sleds to aid his attempt? To my mind, this, too, was folly but they would brook no argument, believing that the Captain was actually doubling our chances of success.

Dogs, too, were aboard the Terra Nova but I discovered that not a man among us had any experience of handling pack dogs with sleds. Was Scott, therefore, of the mind that he was tripling our options?

Why, also, did he not join the ship until South Africa? When I asked, I was told that he had been “gathering funds”. Was it not a bit late in the day to be still attempting to raise capital for this expedition?

And the ship, itself, this Terra Nova, a whaler, used to Scottish waters, how would it withstand the Arctic conditions. Why was I the only one to ask this question? After we had departed New Zealand, we were caught up in a storm that came close to sinking us but, somehow, the ship held its own and I was mocked for my earlier doubting of the old boat. But, when we reached the ice, we became stuck for almost three weeks, the ship’s engines struggling and unable to drive us forward, seriously shortening our ability to disembark and prepare for the epic march to the Pole, so late in the season was it, forcing us to winter on the ice.

A portent of what was to come, one of the motorised sleds, that Scott had placed so much faith in, fell and sank below into the icy sea when being unloaded. The rest of them should have joined it, in my opinion. Great gloom descended upon us all, worsened by Scott’s revelation that we faced competition from the Norwegian, Amundsen. Yet, in the days that followed, my concerns deepened as it became clear to me, if not to others, that Robert Falcon Scott had not a clue about handling either dogs or ponies on the ice. With the fuel for the sleds tending to freeze, rendering them unreliable, each day, it became more and more obvious that, although they were difficult to handle and needed much time and patience to master, the dogs held our best hopes of success for they could pull great weights, quickly and forcefully, across the ice and were inured to the freezing conditions.

Imagine my horror, therefore, when Scott announced that we would use the ponies to lay food depots during our first winter at our base camp. Why were others so slow to join me in questioning this mad man’s decision making?

Our first dump, One Ton Depot, was to have been 80 degrees South but deteriorating weather conditions, and the inability of my poor beasts, despite their valiant efforts to haul in the snow and ice, meant that we were forced to stop 35 miles short. Several times, I urged Scott to kill the animals and put them out of their misery, the meat to be stored at the dump as extra provisions but he stubbornly refused. In the event, we lost four ponies, their bodies left to rot and waste in the snow. Back, once more, at camp, two more ponies met their end when they crashed through the ice and drowned. At least, I thought, he must now decide on the dogs as his best chance of success when the time came to make the push for the Pole. How wrong could a man be?

This flawed person, prevaricating, unable to make a crucial decision, announced that fifteen of us would set off initially, in three seperate parties. One to take the motor sleds, one the ponies and one with dogs. Utter lunacy. No clue would he give as to which three of us would accompany him on the final march. Of course, everybody wanted to be part of that final assault for the fame and prestige it would bring us, myself as much as anybody. Conditions were treacherous. The motorised vehicles spluttered and delayed progress, the ponies, tough little creatures that I had grown fond of, could not handle the freezing conditions and, purely because not enough time had been spent training the dogs, they became fractious and unruly.

I had always been in excellent physical condition and, apart from Crean, the Irishman, believed myself to be as fit, if not fitter, than everybody else and a prime candidate for the final march. Naturally, Scott surprised us all, yet again, when he announced that, though, he now intended for four men to accompany him instead of three, Crean, the strongest and fittest, would not form part of the final onslaught. Yet, I, “Soldier” was in.

I could feel the silent wave of resentment from the others gathered that day but they, and I, were further shocked when told that no motorised sleds, nor dogs, nor ponies would make the final march. All those years of planning, all that unnecessary expense, the countless hours of attempting to overcome the difficulties presented by all three options and, yet, when the crucial moment was reached, Scott, in his self deluded fallibility, perceived that our best hope of success lay in man-hauling.

Oh, how cruel the whims of fate; four men, exulting at having been chosen, above all others, by our flawed leader to make this final surge, expectant of glory and fame, yet, so soon to succumb to the agony and brutality of this Antarctic landscape. How awful the Polar days of hauling sleds through that freezing snow and ice while the bitter blizzards ravaged those parts of our faces exposed so that we could breathe and see. Yet, beyond any horrors that can be imagined, were those Polar nights, when we were forced to face our vulnerabilities, the shortage of food weakening our bodies, the self inspections confirming the onset of frostbite to our extremities, yet none of us prepared to admit the helplessness of our situation, determined to carry on like the good Englishmen that we were. Yet, each day, slower were we to pack up our camp, less miles were we able to cover.

And yet, somehow, against all odds, we made it to the Pole. Scott, Evans, Bowers, Wilson and I, Titus Oates. But no words can begin to describe the depths of despair that was our reward when we discovered that Amundsen had beaten us to it by several weeks, leaving us the humiliating sight of his Norwegian flag. I believe that moment, for all of us, was the realisation that we would never again see our loved ones; that we would die out here in this Godforsaken wilderness.

Scott rallied us for a photograph to commemorate our ‘achievement’. I could not bring myself to stand close to them, these so called scientists whose endless insistence on experiments, collecting of rocks, fauna and such like had been allowed to take precedence over all other preparations for this venture. How different, with proper leadership, it could all have been.

The agonies of the outward journey were nothing compared to the return, dehydrated, hungry to the point of starvation, suffering untold agonies from our injuries but, now, aware that it had all been for nothing for we had failed in our attempt to be the discovers of the South Pole.

When Evans fell on the Beardmore Glacier, perhaps the one man among us that I had some respect for, a doughty Welshman, he suffered a concussion and was unable to continue. We had to leave him behind, forge on to a food depot, so desperate were we for provisions, then return for him for Scott’s decision to take four men, instead of three had diminished our supplies rapidly. But Evans was in dire condition and died that night. Coming back for him, in fearsome weather, weakened us further. Again, I questioned Scott’s decision making. Would it not have been better to have left the Welshman behind so badly injured had he been?

Yet, still, we struggled on but, in my own muddled brain, I had determined that I would not become a hindrance to the rest of the party if I felt I could no longer carry on.

And, here we are, on another agonising Polar night, huddled in our tent, perfectly pitched in blizzard conditions because Scott insisted upon nothing less, no matter our suffering or the external conditions, and, idiots that we are, we must obey our lord and master.

I am dehydrated, suffering from malnutrition, can barely think straight but the pain in my feet is my overriding concern. Against Scott’s dictate, agonisingly, I remove my right boot and I am immediately assaulted by the stench of my rotting toes; gangrene. I do not bother removing my other boot, knowing full well that it is in even worse condition. I try my hardest to put my boot back on but the pain hinders me. My fingers, too, are touched by the ice and in poor condition.

I turn to Scott and beg that, on the morrow, he leave me behind for I can go no further. Once again, he refuses to acknowledge my logical, selfless request.

“Out of the question “Soldier”. We all stick together”.

He leaves me no choice. They are all, Scott included, in just as much pain and distress as myself but none will admit it. Titus Oates will not be blamed for their demise. I force my foot into my boot haphazardly, not bothering to fasten the laces, stifling my agony by biting down on my saturated scarf. Half staggering, I rise and walk towards the flap of the tent, the roaring of the blizzard deafening. I turn to our illustrious leader and say:

“I am just going outside. I may be sometime”.