Little America

by Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.

  Footnotes

  1 Chasers are small, tug-like craft, carrying harpoon guns, which seek out the whales and kill them. The Larsen, a factory ship, acts as “mother ship” to these chasers and converts the whales into oil on the spot. The chasers are very strongly built and with the proper shape and curves to contend with the ice.

  1 Willard Van der Veer, photographer assigned to the expedition by Paramount News. He was also on the North Pole Expedition.

  2 Joseph Rucker, also of Paramount News.

  1 Also cook on the North Pole Expedition.

  1 Position of the island is Long. 179° 51’ 30” W., Lat. 67° 25’ S.

  1 Lt. Harry Adams, second mate of the City, a retired naval officer with thirty years service and a very splendid record.

  CHAPTER IV

  WE ESTABLISH A BASE

  ON our second Christmas Day (we had two because we recrossed the 180th Meridian) an imperceptible brightening in the southern sky—”barrier blink”—suggested the proximity of the Barrier. As the second was the official Christmas Day, I sacrificed a ton or two of coal for sentimental reasons, in speeding up engine revolutions, hoping thereby to make the Barrier before the end of the day. I felt that a glimpse of this mysterious Antarctic rampart which we had fought so hard to gain would be an exciting gift to the men. The Ross Sea was smooth as a mill pond, and the air so fresh and pure that breath was a delight. For all the anxiety with which we anticipated landing, we went forward with our celebration. It was a most excellent affair. Tennant served a fine dinner, Lofgren as toastmaster kept things humming, and our physicist, Taffy Davies, took the part of Santa Claus as only a Welshman can. With journey’s end so near, our happiness was sincere and infectious. In the midst of this, Strom’s voice from the crow’s nest—”Barrier on the starboard bow”—fell with the especially abrupt swiftness that long awaited news always assumes. There was a clatter of dishes hastily dropped or pushed aside, the race of footsteps up the companionway and a wild crowding of men on the fo’c’s’le head and in the rigging. The thing we had come so far to see was before our eyes, a far-flung reach of lifted ice, stretching east and west as far as the eye could see. In the distance it appeared low and flat, not yet impressive, but there it was, the mysterious Barrier. Simultaneously excitement laid hold of the crew: they cheered enthusiastically and pounded on one another’s back.

  The City drove slightly to the right, to avoid a large pack of ice which stood between us and the Barrier. The course was then laid for Discovery Inlet. In the back of my mind was the idea that, if we should be unable to base in the Bay of Whales, we might find a base in Discovery Inlet. The Barrier grew steadily before our gaze, and we saw that its sheer white cliff rose eighty or ninety feet from the sea at its foot. Awe seized one with the realization that this towering rampart, which extended east and west for more than four hundred miles, and south for an equal distance, was, except in the few places where it apparently touches land, floating on the sea. If the high cliffs which show above the surface are majestic, how much more majestic must be the mass submerged? Five or six to one would be a conservative estimate of the proportion below sea level. This immense moving, water-born ice sheet is the last retreating remnant of a colossal sheet of ice which, during the period of maximum glaciation, completely covered the continent and lay on the floor of the Ross Sea. With this creation of an ancient ice age before us, inspiring reverie, it was rather shocking to find that the provocative sounds which the ear was trying to pick up came from the loudspeaker in the fo’c’s’le—a jazz band broadcasting from a radio station.

  We reached the Barrier at Long. 177° 25’ W., came alongside and cruised all night and part of the next day almost in its shadow. Caution stifled our curiosity, and we rarely ventured nearer than a mile from the base. The scarred and jagged wall commanded respect; one had the fear that an overhanging cliff might let go with scant warning. For here were the breeding grounds of the icebergs, and deep wounds in the Barrier walls told of the labor that brought forth the bergs that prowled the Ross Sea. Near the water’s edge, the Barrier in places was honeycombed with caves, of bewildering shapes and sizes, which, when the sun struck them at just the right angle, blazed with a rich blue coloration. We took soundings every hour, and they showed an average of 250 to 300 fathoms of water. Davies and Quin Blackburn, the surveyor, were meanwhile busy with their pencils, sketching the Barrier as it paraded past.

  We made out the mouth of Discovery Inlet shortly after eight o’clock in the morning, and three hours later were inside. We found ourselves in a long narrow harbor, running east and west, imprisoned between cliffs which rose, perpendicularly in places, 100 feet above sea level. These walls were smooth for the most part, but here and there were shattered and cracked as by some great disturbance. Even though it was mid-summer in the inverted seasons of these polar regions, we found the harbor filled with bay ice for more than three quarters of its length; a minor wall, it curved crescent-like between the precipitous sides of the Barrier, effectively halting our advance. As we prepared to moor off its edge, the aviator Parker made a flying leap ashore with the cry: “The Marines are always the first ashore.” A dozen more tumbled after him; in a moment the silence of the bay was broken with their shouts. Plankings were hastily put to use as gangways, a bunch of the dogs were let loose for much needed exercise, and a number of the men, who had been instructed in skiing by the Norwegians, made ready to try their luck under polar conditions.

  The need for haste, which was always with us, reasserted itself; and Balchen, Braathen, Strom, Petersen and I set out on skis to the eastward, in search of a possible landing field; meanwhile another group of men started out to explore the fascinating caves in the Barrier. Our trip proved worthwhile from a geographical point of view, for it greatly extended the known size of the Inlet. Instead of running east and west and ending about ten miles from the mouth, as shown on the charts, we found there is a general curve from the east to the south. At the beginning of the curve, the inlet narrowed down into an inner bay, on the western side of which we observed two snow-covered ice hills rising forty or fifty feet above the Barrier, which was very nearly 150 feet high at this point. These little hillocks (relatively) were fissured by pressure, a most interesting discovery, for it suggested an explanation as to why this harbor keeps its shape: beyond a doubt land lies underneath, holding the Barrier intact at this point. Beyond these hillocks the bay widened slightly, continued in a southerly direction for several miles and appeared to end in front of an enormous boulderlike formation of ice, behind which we saw a wide crevasse extending four or five miles.

  In making this survey, we found a place about three quarters of the distance between the ship and the end of the harbor where the Barrier fell in a gentle slope to the bay ice, and up this we made our way: we managed to climb 150 feet, and yet did not attain the level floor of the Barrier. From this eminence, however, we had a fine view of the inlet and the mysterious hinterland beyond, stretching empty and rolling to the south. I wished I might have spent more time exploring this glaciological perplexity, but we had already been out several hours and I was anxious to get on to the Bay of Whales. We found no good landing field. So we turned back.

  For the first time, we had to cope with the extraordinary visibility with which the Antarctic baffles all travellers. An impalpable haze took possession of the atmosphere, in which the eyes became uncertain and the relative distance of objects confused. We stumbled across little rises in the snow we did not see, and breathlessly plunged down declines before we knew we were on them. A hump of snow that seemed under our noses turned out to be fifty yards away. It was all very confusing, and we were tired when we reached the ship. We had covered about twenty miles on skis, a lengthy journey for those of us who were not used to them. I must confess that I was a lame duck on the journey.

  On reaching the ship, we found her rising and falling on a strong swell. The ice where she lay was broken up and had already begun to go out, and several large
floes were bumping her sides. Realizing that a storm might be a serious matter under these conditions, I gave orders to have all men brought aboard and to put out at once. A warning blast was sounded on the whistle, and a moment later the last stragglers came dashing across the ice.

  Midnight

  Dec. 26, 1930

  En route to Bay of Whales

  We’re at sea now, coasting along the edge of the Barrier, heading for the Bay of Whales. We’re under sail alone—trying to save coal. We now have constant daylight. At midnight it is scarcely less bright than at noon.

  Getting the City started was a job. The men who had been ashore came back exhausted, and after dinner were asleep in their chairs. Scarcely enough hands could be mustered into action to get sail, and the second watch is still on duty—sixteen hours of work for them. This must not be allowed to happen again. Until we know more about this region, we must be constantly alert.

  Every one commented on the penetrating quality of the cold. For all the heat of the sun, the light wind cut through light clothing like a knife; and on the Barrier especially, it was so cold that one could not stand still for more than a few seconds at a time.

  My mind as to the men is now made up. Gould I have made Second in Command. A splendid fellow, competent, a brilliant geologist, and popular with men. He has proper respect for the seriousness of the job. Naturally, he is greatly interested in the scientific results, and this is most important in the Second in Command. He will do well, I am sure, and I am fortunate to have him. I am now casting about for a Third in Command; McKinley, I think, will be the man. He is one of the most delightful and charming men I have ever known. Reserved to the point of reticence, he nevertheless is outspoken when the proper time for speech comes. He is a former army officer, with years of experience in handling men, and seems to possess that tactfulness and sympathy that makes for efficient leadership.

  Picking the senior in charge of the aviation unit was a more difficult thing. For here I had the job of selecting a man from four specialists, each with his special qualifications and claims, and all of them unusual men. I had selected them from hundreds. In the end my choice was Balchen, because of his service with me in the past, his knowledge of polar conditions and, above everything else, his great loyalty to whatever cause he serves. It was the latter quality, I think, that moved me most. We have been through much together—Bernt and I—and I know him. His service alone entitles him to the senior post in aviation. I cannot speak too highly of the manner in which Dean Smith, June and Parker took the news. With such splendid fellows with me, I can await the future with untroubled mind.

  Brophy, however, has begun to worry me. The tone and wording of his radios indicate that something is decidedly wrong. His messages are verbose and erratic. The job of getting the Boiling ready1 seems to have vexed his patience, and now I find myself compelled to make decisions on the loading of a ship more than 2,000 miles away. Such matters have kept me up most of the night for nearly a week. Brophy was on the verge of a nervous breakdown when we left, and it may be that he is seriously ill. I must ask him to be frank on this point.

  Twenty-four hours now will tell the story. Shall we be able to get into the Bay of Whales? Shall we find a low place in the Barrier where we can unload supplies? Our fate turns upon these things. But I am too exhausted to bother. The sound of the wind in the rigging, the soft slap of the waves against the sides of the ship are an irresistible suggestion to sleep. Cheerio.

  It was only a cat’s-nap, however. I was up and about in time to see the City round the eastern portal of Discovery Harbor at about four A. M. The four to eight watch proved so drowsy, however, it was hours before we had all sails set. I urged Captain Melville not to use the engines except when absolutely necessary. Drawing near the end of the journey, I saw the need for greater caution, and took advantage of the time to prepare a number of safety rules, with the assistance of Gould, which I caused to be posted on the bulletin board. It was natural that the men should have little respect for ice conditions, none of them, with the exception of Ronne, having been in the Antarctic before: and Ronne had remained only a few weeks. My own knowledge came largely from our two Arctic expeditions, Antarctic literature and discussion with explorers, still it was sufficient to instill in me a great distrust. The danger of falling down an unseen crevasse or floating away on a piece of bay ice that suddenly detaches itself from the main body is always present: and the last thing I wanted was a casualty. So I announced, that the regulations restricting the movements of landing parties would be strictly enforced.

  These regulations said, in part:

  “Crevasses in the ice barrier and floating bay ice, and getting lost in storms are, it appears, the biggest hazard that the expedition (other than flyers and trail parties) will encounter.

  “Fortunately, the Ross Ice Barrier, except in the proximity of land, has, so far as we know, very few crevasses. However, men out on unknown terrain should keep constantly on the alert for crevasses.

  “Except in cases of extreme emergency, travelling over unknown areas shall be done by not less than three men, and whatever party sets out should use Alpine rope and bamboo poles.

  “Frequently there is no indication on the snow to warn of a dangerous crevasse. If Alpine ropes are used, together with the bamboo pole or skis, there will be little or no danger.

  “Some crevasses, of course, are not covered by a snow bridge. Some that are so covered show a slight rounding of the snow above the level of the Barrier area. Whatever crevasses may be near the base should be inspected by every member of the expedition so that he may familiarize himself with their character.

  “The first scouting party to leave the ship for the proposed base will use special care in searching for crevasses. Skis distribute the weight in such a way that, in passing over a snow-covered crevasse, there is less danger in falling through. Snow shoes also distribute the weight, and long snow shoes have been provided for the reason they distribute the weight more widely than shorter ones.

  “The ship will probably unload alongside the bay ice. Cracks may appear in this ice at any time, and therefore every man should be on the watch for them. The weather is fairly cold, and frequently a man falling into cold water in heavy clothes cannot drag himself back onto the ice. Where practicable, therefore, men should travel over the bay ice in pairs or groups.

  “To prevent casualty from getting lost in a storm, parties should not go any distance from the base without having a competent navigator along. There is considerable variation in the compass in this district—about 106 degrees from true.

  “It is very easy to lose one’s way in a snow storm. Storms here may rage for days. On a number of occasions it has happened that men on exploring parties have lost their lives by losing their way only a few miles from base. I wish to emphasize this point especially.

  “There are two competent weather men on the expedition, and weather predictions will always be available at the base.

  “Special parties going out from the ship shall be designated Nos. 1 and 2, and will respond to the following signals:

  “1 blast on ship’s whistle: Party No. 1 returns at once.

  “2 blasts on the ship’s whistle: Party No. 2 returns at once.

  “3 blasts on ship’s whistle, or flag on mainmast: Storm warning, and all hands will return to ship at once.”

  As the day wore on, and we busied ourselves preparing for the manifold tasks that would attend landing, an air of uncertainty descended upon the City. So much did depend upon what we found! Even the dullest men sensed the magnitude of our problem. If the ice in the Bay of Whales had not gone out, we faced the heart-breaking tasks of sledging several hundred tons of supplies over miles of treacherous ice. Even with favorable conditions, the operation would be difficult and perilous; if conditions were bad, it might be impossible. Leaving the dog men to their duties of overhauling gear and sledges for the first dash, I returned to the library, to refresh my mind for the last time with the l
imited information about this place that I now knew nearly by heart.

  What would we find at the end? Shackleton passed the Bay of Whales in January, 1908, and James Murray, his biologist, described it thus:1

  “The desolation and lifelessness of the Antarctic were fully realized as we approached the great Ice Barrier. There was no living thing in sight as we steamed eastward, tracing the line of this immense glacier. Towards midnight there opened suddenly on our sight a scene of a bounding life. The cliff of the Barrier terminated, and a wide bay opened up, extending far to the south, and partly filled by fast ice of one season’s growth. Away to the eastward the cliff recommenced. This bay, which we afterwards referred to by the appropriate name of the Bay of Whales, was teeming with all the familiar kinds of Antarctic life. Hundreds of whales, killers, finners and hump-backs, were rising and blowing all around. On the ice groups of Weddell seals were basking in the midnight sunshine. Emperor penguins were standing about or tobogganing in unconcerned parties. Skua gulls were flying heavily, or sitting drowsily on the ice …”

  But the spectacle that delighted the eyes of the biologist Murray did not have the same effect on the explorer Shackleton, in search of a place for a base, and harassed by the pack ice menacing his ship. He recognized it as the place where Borchgrevink landed in 1900, and believed that Scott’s Discovery expedition, of which he was a member, passed the same inlet in a fog two years later.1 But he saw that something colossal had meanwhile happened. Miles of the Barrier had apparently calved off, in a magnificent, unseen demonstration, the inlet was swallowed up, leaving a long wide bay joining up with Borchgrevink’s inlet, and the whole “was now merged in what we had called the Bay of Whales.”2 To Shackleton, the discovery of this change was a great disappointment, and complimenting himself upon having escaped a terrible fate, he sped the Nimrod out to the Bay, with the thought in mind that this disturbance might have occurred while his party was there: “(it) made me decide then and there that under no circumstances would I winter on the Barrier, and that wherever we did land we would secure a solid rock foundation for our winter home.”3