The puppies were in a bad way. This morning, we dug a hole in one side of the tunnel, and moved the crate there. It is much warmer in the tunnel, and perhaps we shall be able to save them.
Poor Josephine II was not as fortunate. Her six pups froze to death. She made a pathetic effort to carry them into the lee of the airplane machine shop, but they perished before she could move them. We found her this morning trying to make the poor dead things suckle. She was quite distraught.
We then moved her into the big box that Josephine I had occupied, and gave her two of the latter’s puppies. Josephine II growled horridly at them at first, but finally allowed them to suckle. However, when we moved her and the puppies back to her own box, her attitude changed swiftly, and when our backs were turned she bit them, not severely, but just enough to show she was not taken in by this deception.
But after we had cleaned out her crate, freshened it and moved it to a new place, she appeared to be reconciled to the loss of her own puppies, and pleased with the new ones.
Owen finished the library this morning, and it is fine.
Monday
March 11th
Little America
The Trail Party has weathered the storm and cold, though with considerable discomfort. Vaughan reports that he has run out of flags, and asks that the Fairchild be sent out to drop more, as well as candles and alpine rope. If weather permits, we shall do it. Haines, however, thinks it will be impossible. The barometer is falling rapidly.
Vaughan asked for instructions. I suggested that he use his own judgment. I have great faith in the good sense and discretion of these fellows, and believe that if allowed to work out their own solutions to their particular problems, they will be much better off.
Gould radioed that he wanted to return today. Conditions here were favorable, but changed suddenly in the mountains. Before they could start, a snow storm came up and they were forced to postpone the start.
The weather is up to all kinds of peculiar tricks. Haines told me that he had never seen such rapid changes in the wind’s direction as preceded the last storm. The barometer during the storm had the worst drop I have ever seen; Haines, himself, confessed he had never seen it so low. The graph of it looks like several steep hills.
I have had a conference with Rucker and Van der Veer relative to the taking of motion pictures. They have again requested more freedom in the taking of pictures. They claimed that I kept them so busy with work about the camp that they have had little or no time for their photographic duties. God knows, we can ill spare extra hands now, but I assured them I would try to give them more freedom.
There is an old proverb to the effect that one picture is worth 10,000 words; I suppose that one good picture of the Antarctic is worth at least a dozen snow houses. Van der Veer and Rucker are craftsmen in their line, but unfortunately we have a greater need of snow houses than of pictures at this time.
We are having an interesting time with the two Josephines. Josephine I missed her two puppies today, and sallied forth to claim them. She retreated, however, when Josephine II showed fight, and fell back on strategy. She waited until her rival left the crate to get meat, then cautiously entered the box and tried to coax her puppies back. Josephine II happened to return in the midst of the affair, and at once drove off the distracted mother. I think we shall have peace now.
The recent storm created sastrugi all over the nearby Barrier, depriving us of every safe landing place within miles. At first we were greatly exercised by this, fearing that conditions would not improve and that the landing of the Fokker would therefore be attended by considerable risk. However, heavy snow fell last night and smoothed out the disturbances. Our landing fields are not at all permanent; they are good one day and bad the next. I have asked Gould not to attempt to return, however, until we notify him a safe landing area has been marked by flags.
Tuesday
March 12th
Little America
Another blizzard is on. I cannot understand why we should be having such a spell of bad weather. We have already had as many blizzards as Amundsen had during the whole year he was here.
All well with the field parties, but the good old City is apparently taking punishment again. The following radio was received today from Captain Melville:
COMDR. BYRD:
Our dead reckoning Noon position was Lat. 49° 49’ S., Long. 168° 12’ E. Weather overcast, northwesterly gales, rough confused sea. Ship rolling and laboring under sail and steam. Bar. 30. Temperature of air, 47, water, 54. Distance from Tairoa Head, 263 miles. All well. Regards. 4 P.M.
Later:
Hove to in the throes of the heaviest gale of the passage. Wind 70 to Bo miles per hour with a terrific sea.
MELVILLE.
Vaughan reports that the Barrier continues smooth, and that a depot was laid 20 miles out. He believes he and the men can easily make miles on this journey, but I told him that a depot at 40 miles would be quite enough. They are handicapped by a shortage of flags. I suggested that they build snow beacons, made of blocks of snow. It will be a bother cutting out the blocks, and setting them up every two or three miles, but the added safety makes the extra effort very worth while.
The storm that lashed the City very nearly ended her gallant career. From Berkner, on the 14th, there came the following message:
COMDR. BYRD:
We nearly didn’t have any City of New York after yesterday. Wind blew continuously at 70 and Bo miles per hour for the 24 hours, and toward evening waves were running as high as the lower topsail. None of the men had ever seen anything like it. Ship rolled terribly and did two rolls of degrees or more. As a result, all batteries were dumped bottom side up in battery room, and broke all big tubes but three. All floor plates in engine room shifted. One wave broke over boat and caused some damage. The starboard life boat tried to come through my port hole and smashed. Both rails were under water at the same time, and the wind was so strong you couldn’t stand on deck. Wheelsman was lashed to the wheel after Percy Wallis was thrown clear over the spanker boom. He was slightly injured. The boiler was shifted a bit. Had bad time with salt water and battery acid in the battery room, but Shropshire and I went down promptly, rescued the batteries and lashed them to the floor. My lungs still sore. We had bad time and a lot of damage was caused to deck works. My shack shifted so had to take a quarter of an inch from door to get it cleared.
The City rode it out, however, in her indomitable and stubborn way, and reached port several days later.
Our concern now shifted to the Rockefellers, where Gould and his companions awaited favorable weather. As the days slipped by, without favoring them, our apprehensions mounted. When we had good weather at Little America, they had storm. And on the few occasions when it was clear at the mountains, we had blizzards. It began to appear that good conditions would never be had at both places at the same time; and with winter steadily approaching, this probability verged on being a certainty. The circumstances seemed to suggest a desperate action—a flight in the face of unfavorable conditions. We were not yet ready to attempt that. It would be a last resort.
The dog teams came in during the night of March 13. The men were tired and hungry, having made a day’s run of 50 miles, but otherwise were in splendid condition. They had endured a week of constant storm and cold without a single case of frost bite. This augured well for the more prolonged journeys during the following spring.
Vaughan reported that the teams made their way across the crevasses south of the Bay of Whales with the men roped together. The first night they made camp a few miles to the south. The next day a 60-mile blizzard struck at them out of a dead calm, forcing them to remain in their tents all day. They waited a day and a half in the hope the plane would be able to bring them needed supplies, then pressed on, most of the time in blinding drift.
“It was very confusing,” Vaughan said. “At times we could not gee more than 20 yards in any direction. We had several days of low temperatures, 20° bel
ow in fact, but by moving fast we managed to keep quite warm. The dogs stood up very well, and gave no trouble. They were in such fine condition that, after laying the last base, we decided to make a go of the whole return journey, with only quick stops for meals.”
The following depots were made and the following supplies cached:
20 mile depot, 180 pounds dog food, 50 pounds man food, 8 pounds clothing, and one lobster pot tent.
40 mile depot, 300 pounds dog food, 100 pounds man food, 8 pounds clothing, one lobster pot tent, and one primus stove.
44 mile depot, 300 pounds dog food, 371 pounds man food, 8 pounds clothing, two lobster pot tents, one primus stove, two pairs snowshoes, two ice hatchets, one hatchet and one sledge runner.
The greater part of these supplies were to be picked up and carried forward during the prolonged journeys planned for the following spring.
There was no word from Gould on the 15th. Nor the 16th. Nor the 17th. And on the 17th, which was a Saturday, I became genuinely alarmed. The absence of radio communication was peculiarly confusing. June had two complete radio sets—the standard set on the plane, and an emergency set. How both of them could be out of commission, unless the plane had crashed, was difficult to understand. But how they could have crashed was no less perplexing. It had been definitely agreed that the Fokker would not start until we radioed a favorable weather report, which we had not been able to do. It was impossible to believe, then, that a start had been made. But there, on the other hand, was the silence. How could it be explained?
We cudgeled heads over it night and day, and though our reasoning pointed directly to the cause of the silence, we never once suspected it. Only a crash could have disabled both sets beyond repair. We could safely suppose Gould had not started. We could assume he and his party were in distress. But not once did we have the wits to see what lay crystal clear in the logic. We beat around the Antarctic bush and stirred up nothing but reckless theories.
Thursday, I began to prepare for a flight of investigation. The Fairchild was made ready for flight. The sun shone sullenly through thickish clouds, and there was a chance the weather would improve. But it became worse instead. Friday and Saturday were unfit for flying. There was still no word from Gould. Sunday I came to the conclusion every resource must be brought into action. The winter night was dangerously near. Every day was growing shorter and colder. I called the dog drivers into conference, and ordered them to make ready at once for a trip to the mountains. Thus, if conditions failed to improve for flying (and there was every reason to believe they would grow steadily worse) the responsibility of finding the Mountain Party must rest with the dog teams. Rather than defer their start in the hope of getting better weather, I decided to send them off as soon as the teams could be made ready. It would be well, too, I thought, to have them in the field in case anything happened to the relief plane.
Walden was put in charge of this party. De Ganahl, navigator, Vaughan, Crockett, Bursey and Siple volunteered to go with him. They were to carry enough rations for three months.
The mystery that held Gould’s party was further confused by lack of information bearing upon its position. In his first message, Gould said they had landed at the base of Chips Gould Mountain, which would place them at the northernmost peak. But a subsequent position indicated very definitely that they were at the foot of one of the southernmost peaks. As the latter position was most likely the true one, I decided to set our course for it, when and if we started.
Meanwhile, the radio men continued to keep an emergency schedule with the party, sending frequent weather reports. Every hour we repeated a message that the Fairchild would fly at the first break in the weather, on the theory that June’s equipment might be able to pick up messages even if it could not send. This vigil in the radio shack was unbroken. But the ether yielded not a trace of the beleaguered party.
Late Monday the weather appeared to grow better, and I gave orders to have the engine started. For the first time, it failed to turn over. The fault lay, we learned, in the primer. We hastened to remedy it. Just as the mechanics finished, the sky clouded over, the wind rose and the horizon filled with dense clouds. This was a bitter disappointment. One was helpless in the face of such misfortune.
The long-awaited “break” came in the afternoon of Monday, March 19. A small hole opened up in the cloud banks to the east, and widened gradually. A patch of blue sky showed through. A 22 mile wind stirred up some drift, but we could not expect everything. I conferred with Haines in the library. He was not very encouraging. He said: “Frankly, I consider a take-off dangerous. But it may be the best chance you will have this season. About one chance in three, I should say, that you will find good weather all the way. Damn it, you can’t tell what this weather will do, anyway.”
As long as the chance was there, we took it.
The Fairchild was on the line, and the mechanics were heating the engine with a torch when I came out to the field. Flame hissed and roared up the throat of the canvas funnel, which carried the blast of hot air into the hood which covered the entire block. Then hot oil was poured into the engine, the mechanics stepped outside, the inertia starter began its mounting, high-pitched whine, and in a moment the engine turned over musically.
The plane was moved into position with some difficulty, having become frozen to the snow in which it laid so long. The Barrier was far from smooth when we faced the plane’s nose into the wind. Smith studied it with a practiced eye. “We ought to be able to get off,” he said. “It all depends upon the strength of the skis.” He smiled slowly. “Let’s try it, anyway.”
We took Hanson along as radio engineer.
Just about five o’clock, we started down the snow runway. The bumping was wicked, and the shock of the skis striking the sastrugi caused the whole plane to shiver. But we rose finally in a flurry of snow and headed straight for the mountains.
The hour was later than I had wanted: It was quite dark at night from 10 o’clock on. But beggars can’t be choosers: we took what Providence offered, and were thankful.
It was a bit chilly in the plane, 10° below zero, and we were bundled up in heavy clothing.
The sun was behind us, and I could see it occasionally, a dull red disc surrounded by orange streaks. I laid a straight compass course for the southern end of the Rockefellers, to the position which Gould had radioed. The horizon was a blurred grayness, which presently gave way to masses of low clouds. It was one of the worst “flying” skies I had ever seen. The clouds were miles away, but seemed very near, and merged without a shadow to show where the horizon met the snow. The instinctive response of a pilot would be to fly lower and lower, trying to get underneath these clouds. Smith, however, kept his head and flew a straight, steady compass course. There was not enough sun to use the more dependable sun compass, and we had to place our reliance on the magnetic compass which was not particularly reliable.
The clouds soon closed in behind us, and we lost sight of the sun. Things became quite dim, a confused, dirty gray nothingness, through which we raced at a speed of 100 miles per hour.
We studied the surface constantly searching for the plane, in the belief that it might have actually started from the Rockefellers and been forced down. Once Smith pointed out a dark spot on the snow which, at a distance, bore some resemblance to a plane, but we saw presently that it was a yawning crevasse.
Shortly after 6 o’clock, we sighted, dead ahead, a mountain. Was it the one near which Gould was camped? The other peaks slowly lifted their heads, and in the murk they were no more than vague, pale gray mounds. We approached the first peak at an altitude of 2,000 feet.
It was now dim, but we could see sheets of drift weaving across the snow, which indicated a stiff wind. Smith stared down, and moved his hand around, to show the whirling character of the drift. “Pretty tough to land in that,” he shouted. I thought so, too, but said nothing.
There was the more dreadful possibility we should not be able to see anything. A shat
tered plane and three men would not offer a very conspicuous landmark in a mass of dark ridges.
We flew over the mountain, circled it and then approached it again. We searched out the slopes, the valleys and the peak, but saw nothing. Could it be that Gould’s position was inaccurate? If we failed to find them here, then we faced the heart-breaking task of combing 70 miles of mountain peaks. A more hopeless task I could not imagine.
A second survey gave up no traces of the party. I was about to order Smith to turn north to search the other peaks when suddenly he touched my arm, and pointed to the south. I saw a column of smoke bending indistinctly on the wind, then the flashing of a light. The first thought that came into my head was: Thank God, at least one of them is alive.
We swung over the light, and started to spiral down. Soon we could make out a landing “T” marked out with flags. We were apparently descending into a large basin at the foot of the mountain. In the dimness one had the sensation of dropping powerlessly into a porcelain bowl. The field, even from our altitude, appeared to be excessively rough. What seemed to be large lumps, two to four feet in diameter, spotted it. The pedestal of the landing “T” ran straight through them. But it looked bad, very bad.
“Shall I land?” asked Smith. One thing was certain, we could not fly another minute around that bowl. Visibility was much too bad. Another thing: Balchen and June would not have placed that landing “T” on dangerous ice.
I nodded my head.
He glanced again at the ugly surface, made a wry face and then throttled down cautiously for a landing.
I now caught sight of a small tent, and about three quarters of a mile away the outline of the plane. Its grotesque attitude showed quite plainly that it had crashed.
We came in with a thud, bouncing on a wretched surface, with Smith nursing his engine and solicitous for the limitations of his skis—an excellent and daring landing.
As the plane came to a halt in a smother of snow, I jumped out, with Hanson just behind. At first I saw no one, and my heart sank. Then a figure came racing toward the plane—that gait could belong only to a Navy man, June: then I saw a man of bristling red whiskers advancing in our direction. No other face on the planet supported such a growth. Balchen’s, of course. But where was Larry? In a moment I saw him as well. He, too, was on his way to the place, but his progress was casual, and he was the academician to the very end—making the dignified entrance of a professor who happened, let us say, to breakfast late and found his class already in noisy session. It was so very much in character that I had to smile.
Little America Page 20