Little America

by Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.

  Realizing how important now was the need for haste, to compensate for the loss of time that must result from recurrence of the same situation, we impressed every free hand and every dog that could move its bones into the service of transport. Men who were not on watch on the ship volunteered to man-haul supplies to a safe place on the bay ice, where they could be picked up by dog teams sent out for the base. Dogs that were ignored in the first picking, because they had not been broken to harness or were less strong than the others, were welcomed into service like thoroughbreds. Saturday, the 5th, we had nine teams on the trail, and several of these made an extra trip to haul up the 4000 lbs. of supplies that nine men had laboriously hauled to the cache on the bay ice. That day we moved five tons to Little America.

  Sunday

  January 6, 1929

  Bay of Whales

  Worked like devils today—and a miserable four tons ashore to show for our efforts. We must do better. With the time at our disposal before the Boiling arrives, six tons per day is the minimum we can allow for: Ten would be more to my liking. But how to do better, is the question.

  I am delighted by the way in which the green drivers are handling their dogs. In a few weeks they will be veterans. Blackburn, de Ganahl and Siple are doing especially well, in view of the fact they never drove dogs before. Of course, the Three Musketeers and Walden are our mainstays. They have worked so long together that they know exactly what to do. Several of the new drivers, however, are having difficulty and today one of the teams broke loose half way between the ship and Little America, escaped from its driver and came running back to the ship. The driver came in much chagrined.

  The idea has been in my mind that we may have to freeze the City in for the winter, if we fail to land all supplies before the middle of February. The Boiling ought to reach here within a month; and she must be unloaded—absolutely! “Freezing in” the City would complicate matters terribly and would also be dangerous. It must mean increasing the winter party by at least twenty men, with attendant overcrowding, besides enlarging responsibility. I shall not like it. However, let us see what another week brings. The Boiling presents an equally trying problem. No matter how much we rush, unless the ice goes out much farther to the south, I doubt whether we should have time to unload her before the bay begins to freeze over late in February. She cannot possibly survive even a slight squeeze. Moreover, I am reluctant to unload the airplanes on the bay ice. A sudden break might drop them all to the bottom of the bay. Our only hope is to force the Bolling to the Barrier, unload her there, cache the supplies nearby and haul them to Little America after the ships go north. If we can get all the supplies on the Barrier during the next month, they will be reasonably safe there until we find time to move them to the base. From the rigging of the City we can see a place where the height of the Barrier drops to within 20 to 30 feet of the level of the bay ice, and what appears to be a tightly packed ramp of snow leads up to it gently. This would be just the place, but unfortunately at least two miles of thick bay ice lie between us and it. We must find a way to get in.

  A big lead opened up in the ice about four o’clock this afternoon, not far from the ship, forcing us to move our berth a quarter of a mile to the west, which means a longer journey for the teams.

  We tried breaking the ice this afternoon in an attempt to reduce the distance to the base—backed the City and charged it, full speed ahead. Gave it a number of fearful wallops, but with no success. The force of each charge carried the City well up on the ice, where she poised a moment, every yard clacking and loose things pounding in the ship, and then fell back, her screw protesting and churning the water at her best speed. The impact was enough to throw an unwary man to the deck.

  We had to give that up. Using too much coal. The best we did was to chip off a few slivers of ice.

  Now we pray for a storm, whereas a few days ago we begged to be delivered from one. A walloping storm from the north would make waves that would break up the seaward edge of the bay ice, and we could make our way to a low place in the Barrier to the eastward.

  We have had a really severe epidemic of influenza; about forty percent of the men are suffering, with varying stages of severity. Doc Coman believes the germ was spread by the dogs.

  Everyone is dreadfully tired.

  Next day there was some improvement. Part of the bay ice to which we were moored separated itself from the main pack under the gentle persuasion of a swell. We are able to make a new berth about half a mile to the south. By lightening slightly the weight of the loads, we found that four of the teams were able to make two round-trips in the same day. We now had ten teams on the ice, and I confess that even then I had my eyes on the last of the dogs, “the lame, the halt and the blind.” Dogs which everyone believed were wholly useless did excellent work. Chris Braathen made a splendid lead dog out of a motheaten husky that was blind in one eye. He calls him Moose-Moss-Mouse.

  Tuesday, the 8th, the lookout reported a lead running north and south had opened up to the eastward. We forced the City into it, and battered our way through a mass of drift ice to a position two miles nearer the base. With that our prospects brightened: if we could hold that position, all the teams ought to be able to average two trips per day.

  “Let’s go,” someone yelled. And instantly the discouragement seemed mysteriously to fall away. Fatigue that a moment before seemed overpowering was brushed aside. Instead of seeming as distant and inaccessible as the South Pole, Little America came magically nearer within reach. We had a pre-taste of victory, and it made all the difference in the world. I have seen the same thing happen to football teams, one moment in the slough of despond, and the next, owing to a fortuitous turn of fortune that brought them suddenly within striking distance of the goal, vividly infused with the psychology of victory. Here, on this forsaken tableland of ice, which Nature implacably refused to bend to our wishes, the thing was an interesting experience. We were close—closer than I care to remember—to humiliation, only to be carried ahead by a word we have, in the triteness and cynicism of our language, cheapened—the word faith.

  Footnotes

  1 The Boiling reached New Zealand on Dec. 20th, and was then making ready for a trip to the Barrier.

  1 Shackleton, “Heart of the Antarctic,” i, p. 233.

  1 Shackleton, “Heart of the Antarctic,” i, p. 81.

  2 Ibid., i, p. 75.

  3 Heart of the Antarctic,” i, p. 76.

  1 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” i, p. 47.

  2 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” i, p. 49.

  3 Hayes, “Antarctica,” p. 376.

  1 The Fram was moored 2.2 geographical miles from Framheim. “The South Pole,” i, p. 182.

  1 Amundsen. “The South Pole,” i, 173.

  CHAPTER V

  THE BATTLE TO UNLOAD

  WE did not lack for company. For all the tumult that accompanied unloading, the penguins continued to pay us formal calls, and it was not unusual to see as many as a score of them on the edge of the bay ice, watching operations with an unfeigned curiosity. The Emperors were in session most of the time, with the pompous gravity of state dignitaries. Standing three or four feet high, weighing 70 or 80 pounds, very handsome in their black coats, yellow waistcoats and orange-stained beaks, they strutted to and fro, giving voice every now and then to trumpet-like commands. When hunger moved them, they dived into the frigid waters in search of shrimp, swimming with astonishing grace and speed by rapid oscillations of their flippers. Seeing them waddle clumsily on land and swimming with the ease of fish, it was difficult to believe that these most primitive of birds once had the power to fly.

  The more comical and smaller Adelies were our constant companions. Their curiosity was insatiable and the undoing of many of them. Although we tried to frighten them away, from time to time one or two would insist upon investigating the dogs. Sometimes they came stealthily, heads cocked to one side; but other times they came impetuously, squawking lire threats and waving their flippers in
a military manner. Such visits generally ended in a funeral. When the dogs struck, they struck hard. There were many such tragic episodes, for the Adelies, shrewd little creatures though they seemed to be, could not quite get it into their pin-shaped heads that where the dogs lay, there also lay death. I once saw one little fellow attack single-handed a team of nine huskies. We plucked him from their jaws just in time. He showed no gratitude. When we set him free at a safe distance, his cocky attitude said plainly that he had certainly put it all over those strange beasts.

  The Adelies were absolutely without fear, which seemed strange in creatures so wild. Its absence, I think, is due to the fact that for centuries no surface animal, except the swooping skua gull, which attacks the penguin chicks, has been their enemy.

  The bay ice abounded with seals. These dull-witted creatures had none of the attractive qualities of the penguins, for they spent most of the time sleeping beside open leads. Two types were common—the Crab-eater and the Weddell seal. The Crab-eater’s coat is a light brown color, and in the younger seals has a rich sheen. The coats of the old bulls were quite white. They were from 6 to 8 feet long. The Weddell seal has a thick coat, with black and gray markings, and is much bigger than the Crab-eater. Both are rather stupid and uninteresting, but as they served as a food supply both for dogs and our own table we were constantly alert for them.

  They, too, had no fear of man. When approached gently, the Weddell seal simply opened sleepy eyes, stared at you a moment, then returned to slumber. But sometimes, on being prodded with a ski stick, they uttered an intimidating bellow, which so disconcerted some of our hunters that they retreated hastily, until they learned that this was just a hollow threat masking a craven heart. With that single show of force, the seal would make off in blubbery, undulating haste. The Crab-eaters were more courageous, and I came across one of them in a death struggle with two Eskimo dogs. It was sorely beset, but undismayed. It maneuvered swiftly, and feinted with rapier-like deftness, drawing its head in to escape a slash from a dog and darting it out again to deliver one in retaliation. The Crab-eater’s coat was quite badly torn, but the dogs had not come off unharmed. They were bleeding from half a dozen wounds.

  During the summer months, the Bay of Whales was truly a recreation ground for whales. It was not unusual to see schools of from 40 to 50 sporting in the bay, sending up long, plume-like vapors and thrashing the water with their tails. Several times the vindictive Killer Whales were seen. They aroused dread, with their ugly snouts and ominous, triangular fins cutting the water, but they did not trouble us. Many deep and half-healed lacerations on the bodies of seals, however, showed how narrowly some of these ill-protected creatures had escaped annihilation.

  After a two-day interruption due to a blinding snowstorm, the unloading proceeded at top speed. The storm itself was a trial, as it blew with such strength as to test severely the five anchor lines we had on the ice. We were constantly menaced by ice fields creeping into the bay from the northeast, and once or twice heavy bergs were carried off by submarine currents just when it seemed they must crash down upon the City. The storm ceased, however, as quickly as it had come; a clear sky appeared and presently the dog teams, which had lain snugly in the tents at Little America, came dashing across the ice, eager to renew the job. The drivers brought the news that the walls of the main building had been put up, and had withstood the storm. The roof, they said, would be put on that day, the 12th, and the American flag hoisted over the structure. Come what might, we had in that house shelter for thirty men. It was gratifying to know that. Gould, Balchen, Hump Creagh, McKinley, Davies, Teddy Bayer, engineer of the City, Jim Feury, a fireman, and Chips Gould, the carpenter, comprised the working force in Little America at the time. To Bayer and Feury had been given the disagreeable job of erecting the three 65 foot radio towers. This involved much handling of iron work with bare hands at punishing temperatures.

  We were then principally unloading the scientific gear. This material was bulky and heavy, but as the objects of the expedition were scientific, I was determined to get this stuff ashore at all costs. To the aviators was entrusted the task of getting the Fairchild on the ice and in flying trim. June was put in charge of this operation, and on Sunday, January 13th, he had the crate on the ice. In a few minutes they were ripping it apart with hammers. “We’ll have it in the air within forty-eight hours,” he promised.

  That same day we inaugurated a programme of economy. The so-called luxuries, butter, sugar, jam, etc., were thereafter rationed out, according to schedule. We had more than enough food to see us through, but I foresaw the possibility of running short in these items, if reckless use were permitted. Although we had fresh meat in plenty, Tennant continued to serve both whale and seal meat at the mess, and with some the food was popular. Although my own tastes were catholic, I confess that the meat of old whale and old Weddell seals has a very strong taste against which a sensitive stomach may rebel, but the meat of young whale and Crab-eater seal is quite good, and not unlike steak. Some of us regarded penguin a delicacy. It is a very dark, rich and gamey meat and tastes like nothing that we have in civilization, although it did remind me of the meat of small Auks that are found far North in the Arctic.

  To save coal, which was still a pressing concern, we closed the refrigerating plant on the City. We simply hung the meat on the rigging. It seemed absurd, suddenly, to continue to operate a little plant when the world’s largest cold storage plant was alongside.

  Sunday, we broke our unloading record—we put seven and one-half tons of stuff ashore.

  The following day we received word that the Boiling, loaded to the guards with supplies, including 7,500 gallons of aviation gasoline, had left Dunedin and was on her way south.

  She was about to undertake a significant experiment. Could so small a steel ship, even at this advanced stage of the season, safely run the gauntlet of the pack?

  Tuesday

  January 15

  Bay of Whales

  We feel repaid tonight for all the difficulties we have had in our 9000 mile journey from the United States. Today we made seven short flights in the Fairchild, and actually inaugurated the programme of discovery.

  I cannot speak too highly of the men. They have worked like dogs for the past three days getting the plane ready. The crate in which the ship rested was lifted by winch and swung thwartship, so that it rested half on the bulwarks and half on a block of timbers built up on the ice. Then, laboriously, it was let down an incline until it rested on the ice. The wings were carried down on the shoulders of a dozen men.

  It was hard work, for the weather was quite chilly, and it was necessary, while unscrewing bolts and making adjustments, to work with bare hands. But at last the sides of the box fell away, exposing the ship, the wings were bolted into place and Demas and Bubier, the mechanics, greased, oiled and otherwise anointed the engine. They were ready to start the engine at 2 A.M. this morning.

  In the midst of this, a snow storm came up, the bay ice began to disintegrate and there was a large possibility that, unless we quickly moved the plane to the Barrier, it might be swept out to sea on a broken floe. While we were debating this move, the sky was swept clear of the snow clouds and everything was serene once more.

  A bit of warm oil in the engine, the stimulation of a torch, a few whining turns on the inertia-starter—in a moment the engine was purring under Balchen’s hand on the throttle.

  Balchen ran the plane up and down on the ice a few yards, to test out the skis, and then turned over the controls to Parker, to whom had been promised the privilege of making the first flight. And because I felt that the mechanics, on whom every flight depends to large measure, are too frequently overlooked, I let them go as the first passengers.

  Sergeant Roth, of the Army, accompanied Parker on the first flight. Smith took Sergeant Bubier, of the Marine Corps, and Demas, on the second flight. The ship got off the ice each time very fast—in 15 seconds according to my stop-watch. Then Balchen and June to
ok off for a slightly longer flight, to test radio and flying performance. They reported the plane in perfect trim.

  With such fine weather at hand, it seemed a pity not to take advantage of it, so I instructed June and Smith to make the plane ready for a short flight of exploration. (I forgot to mention that Balchen took Owen and Teddy Bayer for a hop on the fourth flight.)

  We took off at 3-45 o’clock. Air clear, visibility about 50 miles. The few inequalities in the surface of the bay ice caused the skis to bang a bit, but the 425 h. p. engine lifted the light load clear with a rush. We were instantly on the threshold of the unknown.

  The first glimpse of the rolling Barrier to the south was a fascinating one. Snow, snow everywhere, as far as the eye could see, save behind, where the blue-green Ross Sea shimmered and glistened in the sun. The City was a toy ship with a black toothpick for a mast stuck against a curving crescent of flat ice. The orange sides of the house at Little America were just visible above the snow. And the trail, a thin, irregular line worn by dogs and sledges, twisted across the Barrier from the camp to the ship.

  The vagueness wrought by the effect of light on snow was quite disturbing. Instead of an horizon there was a curious dappled effect. Not an easy line to fly a ship by.