I can hardly claim to know anything about the inner mind and heart of the man, but I have long admired Captain Lawrence "Titus" Oates as one of my Stoic heroes.
The Scott Antarctic Expedition of 1911-1912 has always had historians in a tizzy. I imagine the truth, as always, is somewhere in between the attempts to paint Robert Falcon Scott either as a saint or as a buffoon. Scott surely made mistakes, far easier to see in hindsight, and my understanding is that Oates was never shy in his own criticisms of the expedition.
Scott made it to the South Pole, but found that Roald Amundsen had beat him there by a month. I can barely imagine the despair those fellows must have felt, and I suspect that a mood of melancholy did not help them in their return journey. Poor weather, supply problems, and unfortunate accidents made it all the worse.
Oates was weak and horribly frostbitten, and he knew he was holding up the other three remaining members of the team. They would be unable to cover the ground needed to reach the next supply depot while also dragging him along.
On the morning of March 17, 1912, Oates left the tent.
"I am just going outside and may be some time."
Now I think most of us, quite understandably, would be terrified of walking into a freezing wasteland, with the certainty of death. I imagine Oates felt the same way. But he knew he was a goner, and he did that great thing to help his friends.
Scott, Wilson, and Bowers made it a few more miles, but died in a blizzard on March 20, 1912. Their bodies, and Scott's diary, were eventually recovered. Oates was never found.
The greatness is not in the fact that politicians lauded him, or that a generation of British schoolchildren sang his praises. It was not about an honor of recognition, but about an honor of character. I hope I could be caring enough to die in the same manner.
Written in 7/2010
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