again. They were wretchedness itself, standing heads down, feet together,
knees bent, the picture of despair. Hard and cruel as it may seem, it was
planned that we should keep them alive, ekeing out their fodder until
December 9, when it was proposed that we should use them to drag our
loads for 12 miles and shoot them, the last pound of work extracted from
the wretched little creatures.

I am ashamed to say I was guilty of an unuttered complaint after visiting
the ponies, for I wrote in my diary for December 6 concerning the five
remaining Siberian ponies:

"I think it would be fairer to shoot them now, far what is a possible
12 miles' help? We could now, pulling 200 lb. per man, start off with
the proper man-hauling parties and our total weights, so why keep
these wretched animals starving and shivering in the blizzard on a
mere chance of their being able to give us a little drag? Why, our
party have never been out of harness for nearly 400 miles, so why
should not the other eight men buckle to and do some dragging instead
of saving work in halfpenny numbers?"

Still, it is worthy of mention that on the day the ponies did their last
march every man amongst their leaders gave half his biscuit ration to his
little animal.

This dreadful blizzard was a terrific blow to Oates. He of all men set
himself to better the ponies' state during the bad weather. The animals
lost condition with a rapidity that was horrible to observe. The cutting
wind whirling the sleet round the ponies gave them a very sorry time, but
whenever one peeped out of the tent door there was Oates, wet to the
skin, trying to keep life in his charges. I think the poor soldier