Monday, March 5.—­Lunch.  Regret to say going from bad to worse.  We got a slant of wind yesterday afternoon, and going on 5 hours we converted our wretched morning run of 3 1/2 miles into something over 9.  We went to bed on a cup of cocoa and pemmican solid with the chill off. (R. 47.) The result is telling on all, but mainly on Oates, whose feet are in a wretched condition.  One swelled up tremendously last night and he is very lame this morning.  We started march on tea and pemmican as last night—­we pretend to prefer the pemmican this way.  Marched for 5 hours this morning over a slightly better surface covered with high moundy sastrugi.  Sledge capsized twice; we pulled on foot, covering about 5 1/2 miles.  We are two pony marches and 4 miles about from our depot.  Our fuel dreadfully low and the poor Soldier nearly done.  It is pathetic enough because we can do nothing for him; more hot food might do a little, but only a little, I fear.  We none of us expected these terribly low temperatures, and of the rest of us Wilson is feeling them most; mainly, I fear, from his self-sacrificing devotion in doctoring Oates’ feet.  We cannot help each other, each has enough to do to take care of himself.  We get cold on the march when the trudging is heavy, and the wind pierces our warm garments.  The others, all of them, are unendingly cheerful when in the tent.  We mean to see the game through with a proper spirit, but it’s tough work to be pulling harder than we ever pulled in our lives for long hours, and to feel that the progress is so slow.  One can only say ‘God help us!’ and plod on our weary way, cold and very miserable, though outwardly cheerful.  We talk of all sorts of subjects in the tent, not much of food now, since we decided to take the risk of running a full ration.  We simply couldn’t go hungry at this time.

Tuesday, March 6.—­Lunch.  We did a little better with help of wind yesterday afternoon, finishing 9 1/2 miles for the day, and 27 miles from depot. (R. 48.) But this morning things have been awful.  It was warm in the night and for the first time during the journey I overslept myself by more than an hour; then we were slow with foot gear; then, pulling with all our might (for our lives) we could scarcely advance at rate of a mile an hour; then it grew thick and three times we had to get out of harness to search for tracks.  The result is something less than 3 1/2 miles for the forenoon.  The sun is shining now and the wind gone.  Poor Oates is unable to pull, sits on the sledge when we are track-searching—­he is wonderfully plucky, as his feet must be giving him great pain.  He makes no complaint, but his spirits only come up in spurts now, and he grows more silent in the tent.  We are making a spirit lamp to try and replace the primus when our oil is exhausted.  It will be a very poor substitute and we’ve not got much spirit.  If we could have kept up our 9-mile days we might have got within reasonable distance of the depot before running out, but nothing but a strong wind and good surface can help us now, and though we had quite a good breeze this morning, the sledge came as heavy as lead.  If we were all fit I should have hopes of getting through, but the poor Soldier has become a terrible hindrance, though he does his utmost and suffers much I fear.