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 51/2 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 worn 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 91/2 miles for the day, and 27 miles from depot.  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 31/2 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...”

“Wednesday, March 7. A little worse, I fear.  One of Oates’ feet very bad this morning; he is wonderfully brave.  We still talk of what we will do together at home.

“We only made 61/2 miles yesterday.  This morning in 41/2 hours we did just over 4 miles.  We are 16 from our depot.  If we only find the correct proportion of food there and this surface continues, we may get to the next depot [Mt.  Hooper, 72 miles farther] but not to One Ton Camp.  We hope against hope that the dogs have been to Mt.  Hooper; then we might pull through.  If there is a shortage of oil again we can have little hope.  One feels that for poor Oates the crisis is near, but none of us are improving, though we are wonderfully fit considering the really excessive work we are doing.  We are only kept going by good food.  No wind this morning till a chill northerly air came ahead.  Sun bright and cairns showing up well.  I should like to keep the track to the end.”