 And now, tonight's presentation of Radio's outstanding theatre 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. AM, 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. That our hopes were dashed when Evan sighted a flag and a tent near the spot. The Norwegians have been stalled as our first to get here. In the empty tent under the name of their leader, Royal Amundsen, we're listed the five men who are with him. It's a terrible disappointment and I'm very sorry for my loyal companions. 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 called. 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? A bit frozen in, I suppose. Yes, I imagine. Wilson, do you vote to start? All the faster the better, Captain. Well, Bowers, can you get a sight and start us off on course? 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. PM. 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, but then arrived a dreary finish for the last hour and a half. The weather, 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 we were forced to stop when Wilson suddenly discovered that Evans' nose was frostbitten. There's no doubt that Evans is a good deal run 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 up. 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. That simply means that we're seven miles off schedule. I 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 coat and we absolutely cannot spare the time to camp as our rations are very low as well as our fuel. January the 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. Oaks is suffering from a very cold foot. Evans hands him face in a horrible state and tonight Wilson is suffering tortures from snow blindness. Bowers and I are the only ones without troubles at present. 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 a 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, Evans, 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. And everything will be all right. Yes, sir. All right. Now there'll be hot food in 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. The light was horrible. Doubled 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 than make camp. There is no getting away from the fact that we are not pulling strong. And the Himpony Slade. The right pony slade. Children, girls... Your eyes, Wilson, how are they? Better. I think... All right, let me see. Yes, I think they are. Oh, Evans. Evans. Yes? What are you saying? Was I saying something? I didn't think I was. I thought I was asleep. And perhaps you were. 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'll get as much rest as you can, Evans. We'll want an early start. Ah, you were. How's your foot? It's better, Captain. It bothers a bit in the morning, but then it gets better. Good. How'd you make it so well, Captain? Well, because I know that everything is going to be all right. Just cheering us up, do you really think so? No, of course I think so. You know as well as I what spending planning we've had. Everything's going precisely as it should. 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 as turn. And when we looked again he had fallen. Evans? Evans? Is he alive? Wait. Yes, get him up on his feet and get him moving. Evans! Let me go. Walk! Walk, man! Walk, Evans! Don't walk through that. 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! Okay, no further. Then 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 his usular 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. At the river 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. River of the 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. Oat's foot is almost completely gone and he is helpless. It leaves the pulling up to Wilson, almost totally blind now. By ours 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. Yes? What is it, Scott? Well, I heard something. I thought you said something, didn't you? No. Bowers. I've got to talk to you, Bowers. Of course. 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. I went home. I held her in my arms. We went up to see our son. It was night, and he was asleep. And 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. Oh, I know. 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, interested in the 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 fetus as great as ours, the years of planning. Eight hundred miles, we might, 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 when 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 is 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. I like it. I told you. Obviously, if it's 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 of nonsense. At least I owe you the privilege of getting some sleep. Good night, Bowers. You're married. March the first. 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 have 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. But they're with dog sledges. At that point, our dragging days are finished. And only 24 and a half miles away. March the second. 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, the oil supply is less than half of what he thought it was. Second, Titus Oates disclosed his feet. They show very bad indeed. They'll 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 so without something to say. I'm going to die and I know him. No, you aren't Oates and you mustn't talk like him. No, I am and I'm not afraid. Stop that, Oates. I know what I'm saying, sir. The quicker it happens, the better. I'm not going to hold the rest of you back. I know 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. No, please, Captain. I'm not afraid. I'd really like to go, sir. I'm tired and it hurts, sir. I'd like to go to sleep and not wake up. I have no family to leave 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 lost track of dates, but I think the last is correct. Poor Titus Oates is gone. For 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 shouldn'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 first. March the 21st. 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... 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? 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. Well, 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. 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, flowers. 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, a piece, 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. And, darling, we ask no more. 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 ovens, 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 Conreed, 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.