I had envisioned this as a probability, and peered ahead, over Balchen’s shoulder. In the gray opacity where ice met sky a dark, provocative ribbon held my eyes. Land, I was sure, lay there and beyond to the northeast. But before I could exclaim, Balchen lifted his hand from the wheel and pointed a gloved finger to the east. The whole sector of the horizon had disappeared in a thickish haze. We were catching up with the storm that had passed over Little America the day before.
So near a perhaps important discovery, we were not easily to be turned aside. We flew on, at a slightly increased rate of speed.
We now could make out the dim outline of snow-covered land to the east and south, and presently came to a typical Antarctic mountain formation—a mountain entirely snow-covered, as round and uninteresting, at first sight, as the upper hemisphere of a billiard ball. We approached it at an altitude of 3,000 feet, and with some wonderment observed that a hollow depression, perhaps a channel, appeared to separate this peak from King Edward VII Land. Whether this channel was at sea level was, of course, impossible to determine.
Behind this peak lay a slightly uplifted, island-like formation, and between them ran a second channel. We examined this channel as carefully as we could, and though little could be judged by the naked eye, we were certain of at least one point: the ice to the north of the formation was sea ice.
Further inquiry was halted by the onrush of snow squalls. Actually, our rush of speed carried us into them; but the lack of things rapidly sliding past which we associate with motion gives the aerial traveller rather the impression of things advancing upon him. We saw long fingers of gray shadows stretch and feather along the snow; here and there a darker shadow blotted out the surface, and its restless, rapid rotations identified it as a “whirlie.” The atmosphere about us thickened, the horizon was swallowed up in a gray indefiniteness and the impression we had at the moment was like nothing so much as flying in a bowl of milk. How very easy, I thought, for a careless or intimidated pilot to fly his plane straight down into the snow. There was no point on which to pin the nose of the plane for steady, level flight. Only a milky, trembling nothingness.
Balchen, undisturbed, attended to the minor oscillations of instrument fingers and from them evoked a true flight path. He dodged between several squalls, and, finding clear sky to the north, swung out over the Ross Sea. As we turned, we saw the sun, a red disc glowing in a rising murk.
We were reluctant to leave this fascinating area, for ten minutes more of flying, I believed, would have shown whether or not King Edward VII Land was an island cut off from the land to the eastward, as the conditions seemed to imply, or even a peninsula. There was no alternative, and we were compelled to turn back. So again this area had guarded its secrets—had added us to the long list of those whom it had turned back from its frontier’s north, east and west.
We flew well over the frozen surface of Ross Sea, noticing a number of rather large ice islands. Visibility to the south seemed to be good, so I asked Balchen to steer in that direction. We set our course toward the first small peak we had seen on the way to Scott’s Nunatak.
The air turned very bumpy. One shock caused us to drop for 600 feet, and the gear in the plane was wildly tossed about when the wing met a rising column of air. It was quite like meeting a solid obstacle.
June handed me a slip of paper. It was a message from the operator at Little America. “Boiling sighted.” Receiving this encouraging news at this time, nearly a mile high above and in the midst of this unknown area was one of the most exciting incidents of the flight.
Balchen suddenly turned and beckoned to me to come forward. I looked out over the nose of the ship, through the shimmering play of the propeller. Far ahead, but perfectly distinct, was a splendid mountain peak, with the slate gray of bare rock showing. Then as we advanced a second peak, then a third, and more lifted their summit above the southern horizon until we had counted fourteen.
This was our first important discovery. I had never seen Balchen so delighted. His splendid face was one long smile.
I could not help but think, as we approached them, what an immense advantage the airplane gives the modern explorer. Prestrud’s sledges passed within a few miles of this range, yet in the restricted visibility had failed to see them.
We approached the mountains at an altitude of 4,000 feet. Here was no jammed-up, continuous range, but rather a group of highly individualistic mountains, solitary and stern, many of them with patches of gray rock showing on their northern profiles, their spurs and crags clothed in snow. They lay in the shape of a crescent, and the northernmost peak we judged to be approximately 50 miles from Scott’s Nunatak, in a west by south direction. We were impressed by the surprisingly large amount of bare rock exposed, in contrast with the Nunatak and the Alexandra Mountains. As we drew nearer, the gray overtone of the rock was modified, and some of it had an interesting brown and black coloration. I knew then that when he learned about this discovery, our geologist, Dr. Gould, would insist upon flying to these mountains to make a special investigation of their structure.
Anticipating, as I was, the making of a preliminary aerial reconnaissance of the range, I was quite disappointed when Balchen handed me a note saying that fuel was running low, and suggesting we return to the base. We could not afford to extend our journey: in flight, gasoline allows of no compromise; so we pointed the nose of the plane for Little America, and raced home.
For a long time the peaks of this range danced across my vision, gradually growing smaller while the bare rock diminished to mere pin points, and I found myself wondering what we should name it. The names of several of the men who had befriended the expedition came to my mind; and foremost among these was that of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. And it occurred to me that his true inner life is as little known as these peaks which we had just seen. His character is in keeping with that of these austere mountain masses. He stands, steady as a rock, in the chaos of life, and the great power he controls is directed wisely and unselfishly for the betterment of the world.
I could do no better than to name this range after him—Rockefeller Mountains.
To two of the peaks I decided to give the names of two of the most loyal men I have ever known. One of these is ‘’Chips” Gould, carpenter on both polar expeditions. It can be said of him that when there is anything to be done he never stops working during his waking hours. The other is George Tennant, the cook, also a veteran of both polar expeditions. I have never forgotten that he offered his meager pay, on the completion of the North Pole expedition, to help pay our deficit.
My musings were interrupted by June, with the news that the Boiling had come alongside the City and was now tied up to her. Another river crossed. And a larger task—the unloading—to face.
We drew within sight of Little America about eight o’clock, and from our lofty platform saw the two vessels, tiny and still, moored to the bay ice. I noted with pleasure that even during our short absence some of the ice had gone out.
Down below I saw a dog team making its way across the Barrier, and I recognized it as the team which I had asked Strom, Braathen and Erickson to take out in search of an easier and safer trail between the low Barrier and the base, which they were to mark with flags.
The scene, as we spiralled down, was one of wondrous beauty. An unbroken stillness, save for the hum of the propeller. The Barrier cliffs and slopes diffused the most exquisite colors, which changed and shifted as we watched. The lofty arch of sky was a clear blue, with friezes of perfectly stationary cloudlets, some rose, some mauve. A few icebergs glittered on a sea washed with gold; and in the west a range of the most beautiful mountains I have ever seen lifted purple peaks in tantalizing mirage.
A trembling, impermanent delicacy had taken full possession of this rugged immensity of ice. How still, how lovely, how perfect! One could understand, after this, why Scott, Mawson and Shackleton returned to this continent. The shock of the skis on the snow was an alien note snapping the thread on which th
e spell hung suspended.
Now we hustled. Nature, after begrudging us our needs so long, relented a trifle, and during the flight sped out the ice between the ships and the low Barrier until only a few feet of ice remained. Our hours of ramming with the City had not been wasted. Captain Brown brought the Boiling into action, and with the aid of her sharp steel prow and superior · horsepower she attacked the remaining ice and sheered off 150 yards of it. This gave us a fine pier on the ice foot about 50 feet from the Barrier. Directly opposite, the Barrier descended in an easy slope to the ice foot, and near its northern end the snow was firm enough, an’1 the incline sufficiently easy, to justify hauling stores up to the Barrier by means of a block and tackle which could be operated by the Boiling’s winch. To the right and left the Barrier rose steeply to heights of 60 feet or more. This place was exactly suited to our needs. We were then only five miles by trail from Little America. Unloading operations were resumed at once.
Monday
January 28th,
Bay of Whales
Things are humming once more. We have a block and tackle rigged up, and this is hauling stuff up to the Barrier at the rate of two or three sledge loads every half hour. As they arrive, the sledges are towed a safe distance back from the Barrier edge, and the loads dumped, to await the arrival of the dog teams. If we can continue at this speed, we shall have the Bolling unloaded within five days. But for the life of me, I cannot see how she can accomplish a second round trip, unless we get exceptional breaks.
I am slightly concerned as to the permanence of this ice foot to which we are anchored. I examined it very carefully, and am most certainly of the opinion it will break up soon. I was apprehensive enough to order all hands to remove to the Barrier the materials deposited on the ice foot. Among these was the heavy crate containing the two outboard engines of the Ford.
Captain Brown must have had a real battle in the ice. He says that when the Bolling bucked the pack her sides vibrated and bent as the ice closed in. It is a wonder he did not lose a couple of plates. I like the way Brown does things. He may be given to taking long chances, but I feel that he can be trusted to get through, no matter what the difficulties. At any rate, he will get through or bust—but just at this time we don’t want anything to bust, especially the Bolling.
Tuesday
January 29, 1929
It happened, after all. This morning, at 9:30 o’clock, the ice foot to which we were moored broke without warning, and some of us are lucky to be here tonight.
We were not caught unprepared, however. Last night, in the midst of unloading, a squall blew in from the northwest, forcing us to call a halt. We rode out the storm, though not without misgivings, for constantly we heard the reverberating, long-sustained echoes of the Barrier crumpling to the west and north, and the sharper, more piercing reports of splitting bay ice.
Toward morning, the wind abated and shifted to the south. The temperature fell to several degrees below freezing. The blow filled the Bay with loose, broken pieces of ice. A vast amount of destruction had been wrought somewhere, to cause this.
We resumed our unloading at once. The one change in our surroundings was the discovery of a widening crack near the Barrier’s edge, and this, while seemingly not cause for alarm, caused us to proceed with greater care and to work as fast as possible. Among other things on the ice foot were part of the structure of the main house and the center section of the Ford wing, which had just been put ashore. The Fokker had just been hauled up the slope.
A number of men were working on the ice foot. Bubier and Balchen had just started up the slope, with Goodale behind them, and June and Demas were working on the ice. Suddenly Demas noticed a crack appear in the ice literally between boots, and before he could get the words, “The ice is breaking,” out of his mouth, the crack was several feet wide.
How things flew then!
The crisis came in an awful silence. The silence was the most striking thing about it. Without so much as a groan, our dock split open near the Barrier’s edge and then the whole area rose and swayed and disintegrated before our eyes. Then Goodale fled racing down the slope, yelling at the top of his lungs.
The entire slope fell like an avalanche into the sea. It tore out part of the Barrier, and the ice foot broke into three huge pieces, riven by cracks that ran parallel to the Barrier.
That portion which was nearest us rose under terrific pressure until it seemed it must reverse itself and fall against the ships. Brown’s whistle piped shrilly, and all hands were ordered to don life belts and shift the lines holding the Boiling to the Barrier. When this strain was relieved, the ice settled back into the water, and the immediate danger passed. The center section of the Ford lay on the broken fragment, nearest the Barrier, and this floe was tilting more and more as the crack between it and the ice nearest the ship widened gradually. I have never seen men work so fast. They planked the gap between the ice blocks with the sides of airplane crates, which had been broken open, and managed to haul the center section to the ice block nearest the ship just before the first ice block tilted at an angle that must have dumped it into the sea. It was a close call.
Meanwhile another floe, on which rested cargo quite as valuable, began to tilt, ever so slowly, and the upended edge hid the boxes from view.
Men were rushed out to retrieve them.
The tumult gradually subsided, all the gear and the houses were saved and it is difficult to realize that our only loss was a sack of coal and a few crates.
We’re back alongside the Barrier now, slightly to the south of the old position, still unloading. The Barrier here rises as high as the Boiling’s bridge, and as we rise and fall on the slight swell, the Boiling’s superstructure occasionally chips off a small piece.
Our position is far from being a safe one, but where else can we go?
We are racing to get the fuselage of the Ford unloaded. A block and tackle has been rigged, and stuff is going ashore at a furious rate. As the supplies accumulate we are moving them about 100 yards inland from the Barrier’s edge, where the dog teams can pick them up later. We are simultaneously discharging from the Boiling to the City.
I do not care to have the Bolling remain in these dangerous waters any longer than is absolutely necessary.
The bay is simply full of broken pack and small bergs.
We continued to work the 24 hours around, using two shifts. Balchen taxied the Fokker plane to the base. We then had two planes safely at Little America. With considerable difficulty we landed one of the Ford wing tips. Wednesday, January 30th, we had two block and tackles operating, which greatly simplified our problem.
We worked feverishly for fear the Barrier might let drop another berg. I issued rigid orders to the men that every man working near the overhang where we lay should wear a life line. The fear did not leave me, even after a day and night of security.
Wednesday night, about seven o’clock, shortly after supper, I was in conference with McGuinness in my cabin. Suddenly I felt a jar, followed by a succession of terrific shocks and then a tremendous explosion. It had happened after all. The Barrier had broken. We had taken the necessary chance and lost. Was the Boiling sunk? For a moment my heart stood still and my brain raced with self-condemnation. Ships and men lost. The City heeled sharply to port—so sharply I thought she must capsize. As I flung the cabin door open I saw the Boiling heeling in the opposite direction to starboard. I was sure, for a moment, she was capsizing, for I saw her keel and she was still leaning. No words can fit the horror of that moment. At such a time the mind sees a long story in an instant.
But as I watched, the Bolling reached the peak of her heeling movement, standing almost on her beam’s end, and then swung back. At the critical moment the lines from the City maintained the balance and offset the overbalance of the masses of ice and snow on her decks.
As the Boiling rolled back to port, Captain Brown, who had been on the City, made a flying leap from the rail to his bridge. It was a very daring
leap, but no more than one could expect from Brown. His own ship was his place in the crisis. Tons of snow lay on the starboard deck and gave the Boiling a heavy list.
Huge blocks of the Barrier floated in the water, which was still boiling from their impact, rivulets of ice were still streaming down the face of the cliffs, and falling, with a hissing noise, into the sea. The break, then, had come at a point where the Barrier attained a height of about twenty-five feet, and very near the point where we had landed the Ford fuselage a few hours before.
Only part of the iceberg, I noted, had fallen directly upon the Boiling’s deck. She had escaped the main stream of the avalanche by a few feet. Thousands of tons had fallen, enough to obliterate her. An iceberg had been born almost on her deck.
High up on the Barrier was a man clinging to a thread of rope, his feet dangling helplessly in empty space. I recognized him as Harrison. And in the water, clutching a small piece of floe, which was menaced by the newlyborn icebergs, was another man. It was Benny Roth who, I knew, could not swim. He had grabbed a piece of ice and was holding on to it for dear life, but it was round and slippery and he could not get a firm hold; it spun continually in his hands.
Were there any others in the water? No one knew. Both Melville and Brown had already begun to put the first boats overboard. While men on the City and Bolling set out after Roth, several men who had been working on the Barrier, notably Dr. Coman, Davies, Frank McPherson, E. J. Thawley, and Boehning set out after Harrison, who was clinging to a slippery line with bare hands. It did not seem possible that Roth could be saved. The disturbance was rapidly sweeping him sternward and I did not believe he could possibly hold on much longer. When the first boat was lowered, too many men jumped in it. Hanson, who was in the bow, made a very heroic and quick-witted move. Realizing that the boat was in danger of capsizing, he dropped overboard, in the chilling water, and begged the others to start out at once after Roth.
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