And now, tonight's presentation of Radio's outstanding theater of thrills, Suspense.
Tonight, we bring you the true story of five polar explorers and their race against death.
We call it the Diary of Captain Scott.
So now, starring Ben Wright, here is tonight's Suspense play, The Diary of Captain Scott.
Wednesday, January the 18th, 1912.
Camp 69.
Temperature minus 22 degrees.
A.M.
The South Pole.
We have arrived, yes, but under very different circumstances from those expected.
We have had a horrible day.
Elation ran high all morning since we were nearing our goal and thought to be the first
five men to reach the pole.
But our hopes were dashed when Evan sighted a flag and a tent near the spot.
The Norwegians have forestalled us and are first to get here.
In the empty tent, under the name of their leader, Roald Amundsen, were listed the five
men who are with him.
It's a terrible disappointment and I am very sorry for my loyal companions.
Ah, there's no doubt of it now.
They did find an easier way up over the barrier.
We thought as much back at Cape Armitage.
Well, it's a rotten shame, men, and I'm sorry.
Good Lord, Captain Scott, you've done everything you could.
Well, there's more to do.
More for all of us.
Eight hundred miles, as a matter of fact.
Are you ready to start back, Evans?
I can't think of a reason to stay in this miserable place.
Is the sledge ready, Oaks?
It's a bit frozen in, I suppose.
Yes, I imagine.
Wilson, do you vote to start?
The faster, the better, Captain.
Well, Bowers, can you get a sight and start us off on course?
Well, the sky's a bit overcast, but I think so.
Yes, I think I can.
We'll go then as quickly as we can.
A minute saved here will mean a minute more of comfort aboard the ship.
January the 18th, temperature minus 20 p.m.
The moment of departure is here.
It is impossible to collect our thoughts, since few of them are voiced.
But I know that the same are with all of us.
Can we pull the heavy sledge that great distance, eight hundred miles over trackless, windswept
barrier and drift?
Can we find the carefully arranged supply camps we left on our trail?
Can we trust our navigation instruments?
Can we survive?
January the 20th, night camp.
Temperature minus 25.6.
Came along well this afternoon for three hours, then arrived at dreary finish for the last
hour and a half.
Another very curious snow clouds looking very dense and spoiling the light pass overhead
from the south, dropping very minute crystals which absolutely spoil the surface.
We had extremely heavy dragging and were forced to stop when Wilson suddenly discovered that
Evans' nose was frostbitten.
There's no doubt that Evans is a good deal running down.
His face and hands are badly blistered.
Oaks too.
Now Bowers comes into the tent to report his last sighting.
I can't get an accurate one with this sky.
I don't like it.
I don't like it either.
What do you think it means?
The weather's breaking out.
I don't know, Oaks.
How accurate was your sight, Bowers?
I can't be sure.
I should say that if we aren't on our line of march that we're very close.
A few points could be quite important.
I know, but our next camp is no more than seven miles.
Well, that simply means that we're seven miles off schedule.
I'd plan to be there tonight.
I can go on, Captain.
I feel better now.
No, Evans, no.
We'll stay the night and get up early in the morning, but we must have fewer delays.
January the 21st, temperature minus 38.4.
This morning while freeing the sledge from ice, Evans slashed his hand.
I'm afraid the poor chap is in for trouble, as wounds will not close in this cold and
we absolutely cannot spare the time to camp, as our rations are very low, as well as our
fuel.
January 28th, night camp, temperature minus 27.
The miles continue to fall behind us, but with painful slowness.
Our diet and with it our general condition has improved since finding our half degree
supply camp.
Only 42 miles to the next one.
But we are not without ailments.
Oats is suffering from a very cold foot.
Evans' hands and face are in a horrible state, and tonight Wilson is suffering tortures
from snow blindness.
Bowers and I are the only ones without troubles at present.
Wait!
Hold on!
I've got to rest.
Don't try to help, Evans.
Just hold to the sledge.
I wasn't helping, Captain, but I've got to rest anyway.
I get dizzy.
Don't sit down, Evans.
Stay up on your feet.
Can't we put him in his sleeping bag?
Put him on the sledge?
No!
I won't do that.
We can pull him.
I won't do it.
If it's for the good of the rest of us, we'll do it.
No, I'll stay here first.
Then if it's an order.
No, not that kind of an order.
I won't be dragged on by the rest of you.
Then you've got to come along seven or eight more miles, Evans, and then we'll be stopping
for some rest and a hot meal.
I'm not thinking of those miles.
How many more seven miles are there?
Let's cover these.
How many more?
Evans!
I'll do the best I can.
I'm sure of it, Evans.
Everything will be all right.
Yes, sir.
All right.
I'll have a hot food and a few more hours.
Let's move on.
February the 11th, temperature minus 26.2, the worst day we have had during the trip
and greatly owing to our own fault.
We started on a wretched surface, pulling on ski.
Light was horrible.
Dulled by fog, it made everything look fantastic.
As we went on, the light grew worse, and we found ourselves in pressure.
Then came the fatal decision to steer east.
The disturbance grew worse, and my spirits received a very rude shock.
The farther we plunged ahead, the less possible it seemed that we could find a way out.
We struggled until 9 p.m. and could do nothing more but make camp.
There is no getting away from the fact that we are not pulling strong.
Are those your eyes, Wilson?
How are they?
Better?
I think.
All right, let me see.
Yes, I think they are.
Or Evans?
Evans?
Yes.
What do you say?
Was I saying something?
I didn't think I was.
I thought I was asleep.
And perhaps you were.
You know what you were saying, Evans?
You were naming the schools that donated sledges for the expedition.
Oh, I thought I was asleep.
I must have been dreaming about home.
I like it better there than I do here.
I mean, I like dreaming about it.
I like it asleep.
You get as much rest as you can, Evans.
We want an early start.
You were at house of foot.
It's better, Captain.
It bothers a bit in the morning, but then it gets better.
Good.
How do you make it so well, Captain?
Because I know that everything is going to be all right.
Just cheering us up, do you really think so?
Oh, of course I think so.
You know as well as I what splendid planning we've had.
Everything's going precisely as it should.
And the line of supply camps right back to the ship.
All we've got to do is to follow it.
February the 17th.
A very terrible day, although we got out of the turmoil.
Evans looked a little better after a good sleep and declared that he was all right.
He started in his place on the traces, but half an hour later he had to leave the sledge
and follow behind.
At the first rest stop he came up very slowly.
He stayed with us for a while and then dropped out again.
We tried to pull him onto the sledge, but hadn't the strength.
And so he had to walk again and again fell behind.
At lunch camp we saw him coming far astern.
And when we looked again, he had fallen.
Evans?
Is he alive?
Wait.
Huh?
Yes.
Get him up on his feet and get him moving.
Come on, Evans.
Evans?
Evans!
Let me go.
Walk.
Walk, man.
Walk, Evans.
I don't want to.
Go on.
Get the others bowers and bring the sledge.
Right.
Evans.
Evans, will you listen to me?
You can't lie there.
You've got to move.
Evans, come on.
Get up.
You have to do it.
I can't lift you.
Over there.
Over there, my king.
Over there.
And we got him into the tent.
He was quite comatose.
And he died quietly at 12.30 p.m.
It is a terrible thing to lose a companion that way.
His passing is a frightfully personal thing to each of us.
As is usual, our doubts and fears are not voiced.
But I don't think that one of us does not wonder
how many of the remaining four can survive.
February 22nd, night camp.
Temperature minus 22.9.
There is little doubt that we're in for a rotten, critical time going home.
And the lateness of the season may make it really serious.
We never won a march of 8.5 miles with greater difficulty than we did today.
We have come now a bit more than half the distance,
which leaves almost 400 distressing miles of dragging still before us.
On the bright side, we found another supply camp
and have 10 full days of provisions
and have less than 70 miles to the next camp.
February 25th, night camp. Temperature minus 23.2.
A little despondent again.
A really terrible service.
It surely will be a bad business if we are to have this pulling all the way through.
I don't know what to think, but the closing of the season is ominous.
Oates' foot is almost completely gone and he is helpless.
It leaves the pulling up to Wilson, almost totally blind now.
I, Bowers and myself, and we do not do well at all.
The truth is that there is not enough energy in our rations.
Without tremendous intakes of energy in this cold, the physical system suffers.
The mental system too.
There is little communication between us in the tent at night now.
Bob? Bob? Oh Bob? Oh Bob?
Yes?
What is it, Scrut?
What? I... I thought I heard something. I thought you said something, didn't you?
No.
Bowers. I've got to talk to you, Bowers.
Of course.
I... Bowers, I'm terribly worried. I didn't think it was you that called. I heard my wife.
Under these conditions, hardly...
No, wait. Let me tell you. It started last night. I was with her, Bowers, and it wasn't a dream.
I was lying awake looking up at the peak of the tent and suddenly I was with her.
In our library at home.
You must have been dreaming.
No, I wasn't. I could feel everything, smell everything, the perfume she was wearing.
The warmth from the fire. I was warm, Bowers. I was warm even after I came back here. No dream can accomplish that.
Went home, I held her in my arms. We went up to see our son. It was night and he was asleep.
Then we went back to the library and sat before the fire and it was warm.
I'm sorry that he's asleep, Bob, but it's late.
Why, no. There'll be time. You know what tales I'll have to tell him.
Of courageous men serving their country. I'll make him proud to be an Englishman.
I'm sure he will be, darling.
Above all, we must guard him against indolence. We must make him a strenuous man, interest him in natural history.
That's better than games.
He'll be a good man.
And you, Kate. Oh, if I could tell you of the millions of thoughts I've had of you.
I was with you, I think. I worried, sir. I knew you must have been suffering.
Well, there was some. There's bound to be when a foetus as great as ours.
The years of planning. Eight hundred miles we marched to the pole and eight hundred back.
But what wealth we brought to the scientists and what honor we brought to England.
Your home, darling. And that's more important than science and honor.
Your home and you won't ever go away again.
No. No, I've served my term of duty, I think. I shall collect and arrange my notes.
Perhaps I shall write a book and describe the bottom of the world and living there.
But never go back.
It drifts snow like finest flower flickering up under one's clothing and stinging as a sandblast.
Never go back.
The great cloudy columns of snow drift advancing from the south and heralding the storm.
But never go back.
No, I like it here. I'm warm. Warm. I'm warm.
It was a dream, Scott. Good Lord, there's nothing to worry about. It was not a dream.
All of your senses don't coordinate in a dream. You don't smell and touch and feel.
Well, I... I told you. And I was the... it was the first sign of a breakdown. I wanted you to know.
Of course it isn't. You're in splendid shape.
Thanks, Bowers. I owe you a great deal.
Oh, nonsense.
At least I owe you the privilege of getting some sleep. Good night, Bowers.
Good night.
March the 1st. Lunch. Very cold last night. Minimum minus 41.5.
But our fortunes have changed. At least the future looks brighter.
Bowers' excellent navigating has kept us precisely on course.
And on it we found an unexpected supply tent containing rations and a note addressed to me.
The men at the Cape had taken it upon themselves to change plans for which we are very happy.
The next camp, we expected only supplies, has been enlarged and manned.
We are to be met there with dog sleddies. At that point, our dragging days are finished.
And only 24 and a half miles away.
March the 2nd. Night camp.
All the elation of yesterday has been crushed.
This fortune rarely comes singly.
This day we have suffered three distinct blows.
First, through some oversight of fuel oil supply is less than half of what we thought it was.
Second, Titus Oates disclosed his feet.
They show very bad indeed. They will never be saved.
Lastly, the weather has turned on us. Blizzard conditions are extreme.
We are in a very tight place indeed.
But none of us is despondent. Or at least none shows it.
March the 10th. Things steadily going downhill. Midday. Minus 43.
Blizzard still with us. Oates unable to go on, so I camped at noon.
I've covered only 11 miles in the eight days past.
Captain. Yes, sir.
It's quite difficult to say this without something heroic.
I'm going to die and I know it. No, you aren't, Oates, and you mustn't talk like that.
I know I am and I'm not afraid. Stop that, Oates.
I know what I'm saying. The quicker it happens, the better.
I'm not going to hold the rest of you back. I know how I felt about poor Evans.
He was holding us back and I knew he was going to die.
I was angry with him for keeping on as long as he did. Oates!
What kind of talk is that, Oates? It's the truth and I don't care.
When he was holding us back, I knew there was no chance for him.
I wanted him to die. I don't know what the rest of you are thinking, but that's what I was.
Now I'm holding you back and I won't have it. I want you to leave me.
We'll not leave you, Oates. Please, Captain, I'm not afraid.
I'd really like to go, sir. I'm tired and it hurts.
I'd like to go to sleep and not wake up.
I've no family to live like the rest of you have.
We won't leave you, Oates. You'll know that.
Please, Captain, what if I did get through?
There isn't a chance. What if I did?
I'd have my feet cut off. I'd rather die than have that done.
Please, Captain, I'm not thinking of anybody but myself. I want it that way.
I'll get into my sleeping bag and I'll go to sleep.
I'm not afraid. I want to.
We can't do that, Oates, even if we agreed with you. We couldn't leave you.
Please, Captain. You know I'm right, sir.
All of you know.
Please, Captain. Please, sir.
March 16th or 17th.
I've lost track of dates, but I think the last is correct.
Poor Titus Oates is gone.
Should this journal be found, I want these facts recorded.
This was his end.
He woke in the morning yesterday. It was blowing a blizzard.
He said, I'm just going outside. It shan't be long.
He went out into the blizzard, and we have not seen him since.
March 18th. Night camp.
We're still about 14 miles away from the sledge camp, but ill fortune presses.
My right foot has gone.
Two days ago I was proud possessor of the best feet.
Now one is gone.
But my companions are still confident of getting through.
I don't know.
We have the last fill of oil in our Primus.
This alone between us and thirst.
March 21st.
We got within 11 miles of dog sledge camp yesterday, but blizzard forced us to lie up.
We cannot move against it.
We do not dare to leave the tent.
They would surely die if we did.
If conditions do not...
Bob! Bob!
Bob!
Here I am, Bob!
Here I am!
Here I am, Bob, over here.
Oh, I didn't see you.
It's so nice in the sun, I thought I'd sit out for a bit.
Yes, it is nice.
Nothing like this at your precious South Pole.
Nothing like this, no.
Down there, even when the sun is high, it's always weak and diffused, you know.
And because of the reflection from the ice from every side, there never is a definite shadow.
There's always a number of shadows on any man or subject.
I would say that your South Pole would drive anyone to insanity.
I think it has.
And then, when it's low, the sun...
there's a never-ending twilight that holds today and yesterday together for months instead of moments.
I remember when we reached the pole, the endless white deserts undulating,
but offering nothing to stop the frigid winds that sweep endlessly on.
I think you love it.
No, I hate it.
Because five men march to the pole and they say they've conquered it.
But they haven't.
It will conquer them.
You'll never go back, will you?
No.
I didn't want you to go, remember?
I was afraid that you wouldn't come back.
Do you remember when I said that?
Yes, yes, I remember. I laughed at you, didn't I?
I was such a coward.
I laughed and told you that I'd conquer it just for you, that I'd name a glacier for you.
And I asked you how a woman should act when a glacier is named after her.
Well, I didn't name a glacier for you, but I...
I thought of you, Kate.
I thought and dreamed of you so often.
It's important that you know that.
Scott!
Kate, I love you.
And at this sacrifice...
Scott!
What?
Oh, yes, bothers.
Wilson.
Dead.
Oh.
Wilson?
Oh.
Wilson is dead.
March the 29th.
Since the 21st, Bowers and I, surviving Wilson, have had a continuous gale and blizzard from west-southwest and southwest.
We had fuel to make two cups of tea apiece and bare food for two days.
On the 20th, every day we've been ready to start for the dog-sledge camp 11 miles away.
But outside the door of the tent, it remains a scene of whirling drift.
I do not think we can hope for any better things now.
We shall stick it out to the end, but we're getting weaker, of course.
And the end cannot be far.
It seems a pity, but I do not think that I can write much more.
This rough journal and our dead bodies must tell the story.
In dying, we ask...
Bowers!
No more!
Bowers!
Then...
The following year, an expedition formed by Captain Scott's comrades at the main depot at Cape Armitage set out and found his body, along with that of Bowers and Wilson.
Search was carried on for oats and Evans, but they were never found.
A great cairn was built at the site of Scott's final camp, a trivial monument to the courage of five men, and especially to the complete devotion to duty of Robert Falcon Scott, who until his dying breath, continued to keep a record of the fatal journey.
Suspense.
In which Ben Wright starred in tonight's presentation of the Diary of Captain Scott. Next week, we bring you the story of three convicts on a road gang in Florida who planned the perfect escape through the Everglades. We call it Quiet Night.
That's next week on...
Suspense.
Suspense is produced and directed in Hollywood by Anthony Ellis. Tonight's script was adapted for suspense by Gil Dowd. The music was composed by Lucian Morrowek and conducted by Wilbur Hatch. Featured in the cast were Ellen Morgan, Jane Avello, Richard Peele, Raymond Lawrence, Hans Conrad, and George Walsh.
For another fast moving demonstration of how the FBI in peace and war fights crime, don't miss the next dramatic episode over most of these same stations tomorrow night at this time.
Stay tuned for five minutes of CBS News to be followed on most of these same stations by The Jack Carson Show.
The Radio Workshop presents the new and unusual Friday nights on the CBS Radio Network.