Little America

by Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.

  Roth by then was near the end of his strength. He had meanwhile grabbed a second small cake of ice, and had one under each arm. But his head would go under every now and then, as his numbed hands slipped and his heavy clothes, which had frozen hard, dragged him down. He called out that he could not hold on much longer, but he remained very calm.

  De Ganahl came paddling past the City, astride a plank, which had carried down with the avalanche from the Barrier. He had seized it when it floated past the Bolling and was paddling fiercely in the direction of Roth, through the debris. When the life boat beat him to Roth, he scrambled aboard a sluggishly moving floe, sat down, carefully removed his shoes, and with arms folded about his knees, calmly watched the rescue.

  Were any other men still in the water? Lofgren was assigned to call the roll and as man after man was accounted for, it was an indescribable relief. I am sure I was the happiest man in the world at that moment.

  Harrison’s rescue was accomplished when Coman, with real coolness, dropped a looped rope to him, in which he could put his foot and so relieve the strain on his hands. Then Thawley, with a line tied to his ankles, which the others held, crawled out on the overhang, into which Harrison’s line had cut several feet, so that he could not be pulled up, reached down, secured a firm hold on Harrison’s wrist and lifted him, unhurt and unruffled, to the top.

  The whole incident took no more than twenty minutes, but it seemed hours.

  When the second party came aboard I ordered the ships to tie up to each other, and we discharged the Bolling directly into the City. It was a very fortunate thing that the unloading was nearly accomplished when the break came. I would never again tempt fate by trying to unload on the Barrier. We moored at our old berth on the bay ice.

  Saturday, February 2, we finished unloading the last of the Boiling’s 440 tons of supplies into the City, while the City discharged more slowly on the bay ice. The same day, the Boiling put out for New Zealand, with the U. S. Mail Flag flying from her mast, carrying the first mail from an American colony in Antarctica. She went with our most sincere, but none too confident, hopes of seeing her again, with the last of our supplies, before the end of the month.

  Bitter days followed.

  With twenty-seven dogs hauling, we managed to move the Ford fuselage to Little America. Seven more dogs carried in the radio transmitter, which weighed about 1,000 pounds. And another group, using two teams hitched to a sledge, transported the second wing tip. We had the polar plane at the base at last.

  Sunday, February 3, a severe wind from the north and a heavy swell which set the immense ice cakes dashing and grating, forced us out to sea. Beset by encroaching ice, it was necessary to force our way astern, a very risky maneuver, as it exposed the propeller to contact with ice. The whole ice-littered surface near the edge of the bay ice was then in the throes of tempestuous motion, and the friction of many pieces of ice made an ominous noise. Time and time again, large cakes of ice, lifted by the swell, smashed down upon the propeller, and the wheel spun with such force that three men could not hold it still. We finally broke into clear water, and spent the night cruising at sea, with the engines at full speed to prevent us from being hurled back by the gale on to the Barrier. Many times I wished for greater power and speed.

  Next day we berthed again on the bay ice, and resumed unloading.

  Wednesday

  February 6

  Bay of Whales

  Two large fields of ice, at least ten feet thick, drifted down upon us last night. I was up most of the night, on guard lest they threaten to catch our rudder and smash it. The rudder has taken a terrific pounding. It is a good thing that we had the foresight to put in a massive rudder before we left the United States, but for all its great strength I am not eager to expose it more than necessary. This morning, a small berg drove toward us, and we had to abandon our berth. The wind was so strong it took us three hours to come alongside the bay ice again.

  This is indeed a place of chastisement. And of change.

  A visit to the base was encouraging, but I am afraid that I did not make myself popular. Work had progressed amazingly well under Gould’s direction, and my sole objection was that the foundation for the Administration Building had been dug quite near the edge of the Barrier and smack against the mess hall, which is already up, and is only 100 yards from the rim. I have no desire to place any building nearer than that. The houses must be separated because of the fire hazard.

  It may very well be that this is undue caution, yet I did not feel like surrendering my convictions. Consequently, it will be necessary for the men to dig a new foundation 200 yards inland. Not a very pleasant job.

  The performance of the snowmobile is gratifying. Arnold Clark is doing a good job with it. It is nothing more than a Ford chassis, fitted with skis in front and double caterpillar treads behind. It has attained a speed as high as 25 miles per hour on the smooth Barrier surface, and, in hauling loads from the Barrier cache to the base, has equalled the work of five or six dog teams. I wish we had another.

  We shall have a very snug camp this winter. Gould and McKinley have made the most of the material.

  Thursday, after supper, the menacing movements of a large iceberg, that was propelled by a strong wind, expelled us hastily from our berth, and we passed the night drifting about the Bay. We returned, early the next morning, to renew the discharging of cargo, but the wind stiffened nearly to gale force and we had to desist, although we remained anchored to the bay ice until late in the evening. By that time our situation had become so precarious, we had to depart quickly, losing two ice anchors.

  The weather turned very thick, and the wind being from the east, we hugged the eastern cliffs of the Barrier, in search of lee. We were unpleasantly close, and could hear the seas crashing against the cliffs.

  The wind blew with increasing force, and it required the full horsepower of the City to keep her head into it. Four or five times we were thrown into a mass of drift ice which had piled up against other masses of bay ice; and the pounding to which the wooden sides of the vessel was subjected seemed more than any ship could endure. As we struggled to get clear, the consolidated masses rose and fell with the waves, grinding against the City and testing her sides severely. We finally fought our way to the mouth of the Bay. Visibility was reduced to about twenty yards, and for a moment we were uncertain as to our position. We made a slow and cautious easting, until we saw the Barrier cliffs dimly through the driving snow; and by means of these occasional glimpses and the smashing of the waves, Melville and Strom guided the ship during the night.

  Saturday

  February 9

  Bay of Whales

  Sea quieting today.

  We are cruising alongside the bay ice, seeking smooth water for landing. Time is precious.

  A short time ago a vast explosion came from the Barrier—? like the sound of big guns firing. More of the Barrier hai apparently disintegrated.

  City jogging along under jib, staysails and spanker.

  Last night was a tough night for amateur sailors. It was bitterly cold. The crash of ice against the vessel—the rumbling of disintegrating Barrier and the soupy mixture of fog and snow were a disconcerting experience.

  Several times we nearly collided with Barrier cliffs, but we came about smartly, with rattling stays and flapping canvas.

  What makes waiting hard is that we could complete the unloading if given forty-eight hours of good weather.

  Sunday

  February 10

  Bay of Whales

  Managed to tie up to the bay ice today after spending another night at sea in storm. The dog teams started out with loads after supper. The weather is very thick, snow soft, and the pulling very difficult. The dogs were up to their bellies in snow.

  Gould, in a radio from the base, reported the weather quite bad there and urged the departure of the teams be postponed. But we cannot afford to continue to postpone unloading, even if the weather is not all that we might wish for.


  Monday

  February 11

  Bay of Whales

  More dirty weather. Soon after the dog teams put out, the sea roughened and drove heavy fragments of bergs against the ship. We had to put out to sea again. Drove into the bay ice again this morning, and radioed Gould to send out the dog teams. He reported conditions were bad at the base.

  At 9:30 P.M. the sea is calming, and arrival of the dog teams is promised in the morning.

  Such delays are distressing.

  Tuesday,

  February 12

  Bay of Whales

  The teams arrived, as promised, but a shift of the wind to the north, which repeatedly jarred the City against the ice, forced us to dump our load on the bay ice and make for the open sea. In turning at full speed, the stern sheets came within a few feet of the ice—quite the closest shave we have yet had.

  The continuous, strong northeasterly winds have so choked the mouth of the bay with pack that no safety can be found there. As any increase in wind would have driven this mass straight down on us, we dodged our way through it and stood for the Ross Sea.

  All day long we have been under steam and sail, dodging ice and trying to prevent the wind from blowing us far to leeward. As it is, our strongest efforts seem pitiful: we have drifted at least eight miles and more likely ten, through a narrow lane of water between two packs.

  There seem to be no signs of let-up in this storm. The barometer is rising slightly, but that does not necessarily mean anything down here.

  Wednesday

  February 13

  At Sea

  The storm seems to be over at last. The sun shone this morning, the wind has shifted to the southeast, and though the sky is overcast a line of blue can be seen in the southern horizon.

  We punched a hole through the pack defending the entrance to the bay, and made for our old berth. It was so cluttered up with bergs and drift that we could not tie up.

  Piles of this stuff were rafted tightly against the bay ice from the east to the west walls of the Barrier.

  It was then decided to attempt to make a trip to King Edward VII Land.

  We are now in an extensive field of loose, but heavy, floes, and about 20 miles northeast of the Bay of Whales. Under sail and steam combined, we are making about 5 knots—a merry gait for the old City.

  First signs of winter darkness tonight—a faint darkening in the southern sky.

  The sea is full of bergs, of various sizes. One mighty fellow was at least a mile long, and 40 feet high.

  Thursday

  February 14

  Bay of Whales

  This eastern sortie came to a quick end about five o’clock this morning. An impenetrable pack was sighted dead ahead, stretching from the Barrier to the north as far as we could pee.

  I gave orders to steam northward, in search of a passage, but the solid front of the pack remained unbroken. At six o’clock, no way through having been found, it was decided to return. There was little to gain by continuing, and much to lose if we became trapped in the ice.

  We took soundings on the way back.

  Returning to the Bay, we found a fairly good berth slightly to the west of the old one. A radio summons brought out the teams, and a heavy load was sent to the base.

  Our own difficulties in the Bay of Whales were not the only ones that troubled the expedition. On the way back, the Bolling ran into frightful weather. A radio from Captain Brown on the 11th disclosed she was running before a wind of Force 8—a wind of hurricane force, and listing 56°. The chart house, he reported, was awash at times, and there were moments when he thought the ship would capsize, as she carried very little ballast. But she defeated the gale, and on the 15th reached Dunedin, having taken four days to make the last 150 miles.

  On the same day, the Fokker completed three successful trials. Our unloading was nearly done, and the situation was sufficiently promising to cause me to attempt a second flight to the east, in an effort to reach the land from which we were turned back twice by sea and once by air. Accordingly I gave orders that the two planes, the Fokker and the Fairchild, be checked and made ready for a seven-hour flight.

  Sunday, the 17th, I went into Little America by dog team. The sun was swinging low in the west, and the whole sky was a pool of gold. In a rainbow arc there trembled a number of mock suns. The richness of the radiance fell in a golden torrent on the Barrier, rendering a scene of ineffable beauty. A gorgeous setting for a flight of discovery. However, before we reached the base, the sky turned misty and the air became full of snow crystals. On Haines’ advice, the take-off was postponed.

  Footnotes

  1 This bay was named Hal Flood Bay.

  1 “The South Pole,” ii, “The Eastern Sledge Journey,” 247.

  CHAPTER VII

  DISCOVERY OF A NEW LAND TO THE EASTWARD

  BOTH planes, the Fokker and Fairchild, took off on Monday, February 18. The Fokker was off first, and the Fairchild took and held a position about twenty yards astern. In the Fokker with me were Balchen, as pilot, and Berkner, as radio operator. Parker and June comprised the crew of the Fairchild. The temperature was 14° above zero,1 and we were warmly dressed. We laid our course for Scott’s Nunatak, as before.

  We flew high, the engine at cruising revolutions. The Ross Sea now lifted a face marked by infinite desolation. Its surface for miles was littered with grayish patches of pack, sometimes consolidated, sometimes scattered, and through its interstices the water cut dark and irregular patterns. It suggested a mosaic laid by a madman.

  It was apparent that while we strove to find a passage with the City the pack had disassembled somewhat, and a bold assault might now carry its outworks. At any rate, I decided to make the attempt on return.

  To the north a dark water sky, of decidedly threatening appearance, indicated the Ross Sea was open. The extensiveness of this darkness appeared to influence the horizon ahead, for, as we advanced toward it, the cloud sheet was suffused with a uniform, milky gray color, utterly lacking in shadows. The horizon slowly disappeared, and the ridges and depressions in the Barrier, never too distinct from the air, were blotted from view. Again, we had the sensation of flying in a bowl of milk. Nevertheless, we pressed on, hoping that conditions would improve.

  Just before we sighted Hal Flood Bay (we had then been flying about an hour), the sky ahead was swallowed by a mass of heavy, low hung clouds, which stretched directly across our path. These were definitely snow clouds, and probably meant a storm was raging over the very areas we hoped to reach.

  We rose steadily and surmounted the first layer of cloud, but above these there was no improvement. A still higher mass lay ahead.

  I conferred hastily with Balchen, and we were agreed that to continue to the east would be not only very hazardous but unprofitable. We could see nothing. We therefore changed course to the southeast.

  This change of direction soon brought us past the Rockefellers, and we swung by them ten or fifteen miles to the westward, at a height of about feet. I saw now, as we traversed them, that the mountains were more extensive than they had at first appeared, and began to count them until the profusion of peaks rendered the task confusing. I judged, however, there must be at least twenty-five mountain peaks in the group, most of which showed patches of bare rock.

  The highest eminence did not appear greatly to exceed 2,000 feet above sea level, and the lowest perhaps not more than 500 feet. The great ice sheet had folded over them, burying all but the highest peaks and filling the valleys to overflowing. Deep depressions had been smoothed out until they seemed tobe no more than shallow basins. It was a scene of extraordinary beauty and simplicity. One could not resist the impression that the peaks were struggling to lift their heads above the eternal snows. And over a span of centuries, the same struggle had been going on: the warfare between the earth’s crust fighting to keep itself clear and the forces of the ice age which would engulf it.

  Wherever we glanced, the peaks and ridges were deeply cover
ed with snow, except for the patches of nearly vertical rock on which the snow, owing to the vigorous eddies and currents of wind which played about the mountains, could not gain foothold. And always at the base of each mountain, to the leeward of the prevailing wind, the currents had built up a long mound of snow, perhaps 100 feet wide, which gave it a wonderful stream-line effect. The valleys appeared to be a mixture of ice and snow, which so softened and masked their outlines as to rob them of striking character. Blue glints in the ice near the lower mountain slopes caught the eye, which led me to believe that the foothills approaching the mountain masses were largely encased in ice, no doubt the result of summer melting. These frozen pools, of striking blue, stood out quite distinctly from the white that surrounded them.

  Such melting, even on a continent where the temperature only rarely rises above freezing, is not uncommon in the vicinity of mountains. All explorers in the Antarctic have reported similar phenomena. It is due, of course, to the fact that the dark faces of the rocks catch and hold the sun’s heat, and, radiating it, melt the adjoining snow which, on passing out of its influence as water, cools rapidly and forms ice.

  We searched in vain for evidences of wide movement in the snow and ice about these mountains. Save for a small area to the eastward, where we passed over a minor plateau which was crevassed and irregular in spots, the Barrier rolled about their feet unbrokenly. This, then, is an area of slight change.

  With the Rockefellers thus spread out before us, I suddenly remembered my debt to Captain Nilsen. I picked out a prominent peak, marked its position on my chart, and scribbled a message for June: “Have just passed Mt. Nilsen.” By radio he sent it to the Larsen, which was still fishing in the Ross Sea.