We had a great piece of work before us that day nothing less than carrying our flag farther south than the foot of man had trod.  We had our silk flag ready; it was made fast to two ski-sticks and laid on Hanssen’s sledge.  I had given him orders that as soon as we had covered the distance to 88deg.S., which was Shackleton’s farthest south, the flag was to be hoisted on his sledge.  It was my turn as forerunner, and I pushed on.  There was no longer any difficulty in holding one’s course; I had the grandest cloud-formations to steer by, and everything now went like a machine.  First came the forerunner for the time being, then Hanssen, then Wisting, and finally Bjaaland.  The forerunner who was not on duty went where he liked; as a rule he accompanied one or other of the sledges.  I had long ago fallen into a reverie —­ far removed from the scene in which I was moving; what I thought about I do not remember now, but I was so preoccupied that I had entirely forgotten my surroundings.  Then suddenly I was roused from my dreaming by a jubilant shout, followed by ringing cheers.  I turned round quickly to discover the reason of this unwonted occurrence, and stood speechless and overcome.

I find it impossible to express the feelings that possessed me at this moment.  All the sledges had stopped, and from the foremost of them the Norwegian flag was flying.  It shook itself out, waved and flapped so that the silk rustled; it looked wonderfully well in the pure, clear air and the shining white surroundings. 88deg. 23’ was past; we were farther south than any human being had been.  No other moment of the whole trip affected me like this.  The tears forced their way to my eyes; by no effort of will could I keep them back.  It was the flag yonder that conquered me and my will.  Luckily I was some way in advance of the others, so that I had time to pull myself together and master my feelings before reaching my comrades.  We all shook hands, with mutual congratulations; we had won our way far by holding together, and we would go farther yet —­ to the end.

We did not pass that spot without according our highest tribute of admiration to the man, who —­ together with his gallant companions —­ had planted his country’s flag so infinitely nearer to the goal than any of his precursors.  Sir Ernest Shackleton’s name will always be written in the annals of Antarctic exploration in letters of fire.  Pluck and grit can work wonders, and I know of no better example of this than what that man has accomplished.

The cameras of course had to come out, and we got an excellent photograph of the scene which none of us will ever forget.  We went on a couple of miles more, to 88deg. 25’, and then camped.  The weather had improved, and kept on improving all the time.  It was now almost perfectly calm, radiantly clear, and, under the circumstances, quite summer-like:  -0.4deg.  F. Inside the tent it was quite sultry.  This was more than we had expected.