Little America

by Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.

  Even if I was capable of doing it adequately, which I am not, I would hesitate to describe my emotions at finding them safe and sound. However, the reunion appeared to bring joy to every one.

  I asked Smith to keep the engine idling. With less than an hour and one-half before darkness, we could not afford to waste much time in conversation on the ice. Balchen and June were ordered to take Hanson’s place and mine in the Fairchild, and return with Smith to the base. There was the inevitable dispute over who would stay behind, a gratifying demonstration of generosity on the part of every man, but I was fortunately able to enforce my decision.

  We removed from the plane some food and a small sledge. Then Smith gave the Fairchild the gun, and it whirled off. Soon we lost sight of it in the gathering twilight.

  March 19

  Tuesday

  Rockefeller Mountains

  We have just finished an excellent supper which Larry cooked, and in a very few minutes I shall make use of June’s sleeping bag. It is snug here in the tent, and I am peaceful in mind for the first time in many days. A few minutes ago we received word by radio of the safe arrival of the Fairchild at Little America. If weather permits, they will come out for us tomorrow.

  We’re none too optimistic about that. Tomorrow I shall discuss with Larry the idea of walking home. It will be a long and wretched walk, and I cannot say that I look forward to it.

  The first thing I did after the plane took off was to find the reason for the rough appearance of the landing place. The spots turned out to be patches of solid green ice showing through the snow. The basin in which we lie is, in fact, a frozen lake—very different from anything we have seen around Little America.

  I now have the story of this episode—part of it from Larry, part of it from June and Balchen, in the hurried talk before they left.

  They reached here after two hours and ten minutes of flying. Like us, they were confused on landing by poor visibility. In their case, they tried to land downward on a steep slope, and when Balchen levelled off the plane was still in the air. Actually, he had to land at a gliding angle, and it was not a gentle one. I realize now what a perfectly fine job Dean Smith did.

  They taxied up the slope, which leads up to a kind of terrace at the foot of the mountain, secured the plane with ice anchors, and made their camp. Gould dug a ski into the snow, and June used it as a radio pole.

  March 8th, the next day, a stiff wind blew, and that, combined with the cold, prevented much work out of doors. On the following day, they laid a base line about a mile from the tent, and by triangulation Gould fixed the positions of the various peaks in the neighborhood. That done, they made a reconnaissance part way up the face of the nearest mountain, and gathered several fragments of rock for geological examination.

  This, I judge, was about the end of good weather during their stay.

  The wind thereafter blew constantly.

  In a severe wind, the propeller revolved steadily, despite natural compression and the stiffness of frozen oil in the parts. As the wind strengthened, the wing lifted with it, and the lift was sufficient to raise the skis four or five inches from the snow.

  Saturday, the 10th, brought snow and a stiff wind. Too bad to do any work, so they stayed in their sleeping bags until 11 o’clock. The wind rose steadily, and the breaking of the tent guys that had been secured to the airplane skis brought them tumbling out of the tent.

  They found the ship banging up and down on the ski pedestals. Frantically, they began to pile snow blocks, which they cut out with knives from a nearby drift, on the skis, to keep them down.

  The wind died down, and they were able to finish the anchorage with some comfort. Then, without warning, the wind rose again, more fiercely than ever. The plane began to move once more, and they were hard put to it to keep it from carrying them away. The difficulty lay in the fact that the plane rested on firm ice, and it was hard to get a firm hold on it.

  When they tried to anchor the left wing, the force of the wind fairly battered down their combined efforts. Several times, according to Gould, strong gusts lifted all three of them clear of the ground, while they held on to the wing, and swept their bodies almost parallel to the ground. It was numbing cold, and Gould said the driving snow hit the face with the bite of red-hot needles. Snow caught on their eyelids and froze.

  “We could lean on the wind when we shovelled,” June told me, “and if we didn’t hurry, it whipped the blocks of snow from the shovel. We were constantly bombarded with lumps of snow carried down from the mountains, and believe me, they hurt.”

  How long did this keep up? “Hours and hours,” Larry says, “we lost track of time.”

  The wind brought a rising temperature, the snow softened and to add to their misery, their clothing, their tent and their sleeping bags became soaking wet.

  The barometer, Larry said, dropped more than an inch within four or five hours—incredible!

  Toward midnight there was a lull, and they crept into their sleeping bags, to gain what little comfort and warmth there was in them. The wind rose again, and they returned to the battle, painfully cutting out lumps of snow and dumping them on the skis. They would creep out on their bellies, cut out a block, and then, when they stood up, the wind would hurl them back to the plane. Balchen worked like a madman, and his strength helped to stave off the final blow for hours.

  Although the plane banged about, the guy wires held. Toward morning, Gould, Balchen and June crept back to the tent. They could do no more. The issue was in the laps of the gods. When they turned in, the wind was still on the make, and the din, Larry said, was awful.

  Sunday morning the wind slackened, then freshened in the afternoon, only to subside in the evening. They decided to return to Little America as soon as the weather improved.

  Monday, the 12 th, more wind, and the situation was so ominous Gould ordered them to remove the foodstuffs from the plane. It snowed a bit, and the barometer registered 28.6. Tuesday was calm, but with an overcast sky. They climbed the mountain, located all the peaks in the range by triangulation, and from the summit glimpsed the new mountains we had discovered in the distance.

  Wednesday, the 14th, wind averaged 35 miles per hour, with gusts up to 6o. Incidentally, these blows came mostly from the north, and slightly west of north.

  The next day was the worst of all. “Never saw anything like it,” June said. “When I got in the plane to keep the radio schedule, the needle on the air speed indicator touched 88 m.p.h., and though she only banged up and down on the snow, the ship was certainly going through all the motions of flying. I looked out and saw Larry hanging on to a rope attached to one of the wing tips. He was blown straight out, like a flag. The prop was turning over very fast, and the lines on the ‘dead men’ were so taut you could play a tune on them. Mind you, the wind then was only working up to bigger and better things. It blew so hard afterwards that Larry refused to let me enter the plane, to keep the regular 10:30 o’clock schedule. We could hardly breathe.”

  The end came suddenly, while they were in the tent. A gust, in contrast with which the others were breezes, carried away all the lines. The plane burst clear, rose into flight and flew backwards for half a mile, then crashed upon the ice, a complete wreck Balchen, a man who never gives up, battled against the wind to reach it, and came back with the news they had verified with their own eyes—the Fokker would never fly again.

  Gould believes the wind reached a velocity of 150 m.p.h. (in gusts) and June said; “when it stopped it was so quiet that it hurt.”

  The wind dropped off the following day, and they went out to the Fokker. June reassembled the emergency radio set, which was rather badly battered, and tried to raise the base. He could hear the base operators sending, but apparently could not reach them.

  The worst blow of all fell when the crankshaft on the generator broke. They could still hear with the set, but all hope of getting word of their predicament to the base was ended. It was the most depressing thing in the world, ac
cording to Larry, to sit in the shattered fuselage, and hear Little America discussing our absence with operators in New York, and not be able to send the explanation a mere 125 miles.

  They were considering trying to walk back when June received the message saying that the Fairchild would be flown out with the first good weather. So they waited out the lonely days in their tent, never too confident that the weather could allow us to come.

  Well, for all but Gould, the vigil is over. We shall now take up our own.

  The next day, Wednesday, March 20th, I walked out to the plane, and saw how badly smashed it was. I was surprised to see that, save for the tips, the wing was undamaged. The plane had apparently landed on the skis. The ski pedestals, however, were split open, one ski lay clear of the plane, and the struts were bent and torn. The tail section was broken, the fuselage was ripped open and the cabin exposed. It seemed as if a great bird had come to grief, and this was its pathetic and broken carcass.

  What interested me most was the propeller. All three blades were curled—unfailing evidence of a power crash. Beyond a doubt, the propeller was whirling when the Fokker made her uncanny flight. What a weird sight that must have been!

  Little America reported bad weather, and when it showed no signs of improving I instructed McKinley, who was then in charge of operations there, to send out the dog teams. Gould and I decided to start walking until we met the dog teams. We piled a month’s supply of food on the hand sledge, made a sledge sail out of canvas, which would help us along when the wind was right, and prepared to start within two days, if the plane was not already on its way.

  Thursday

  March 21

  Weather continues bad at Little America, but it is fine here. The dog teams started yesterday, and are making excellent time. If the Fairchild is not able to start, they ought to reach here within ten days or so.

  The teams are divided into two groups—a supporting party consisting of teams driven by Walden, Braathen and Siple, which is carrying supplies to 40-Mile Depot, and the regular relief group, consisting of four teams driven by Vaughan, Bursey, Goodale and Thorne, with Petersen as radioman and de Ganahl as navigator.

  At 40-Mile Depot the supporting party will drop their loads and return to the base, but the relief group will strike due east for the mountains.

  There is a great deal of melting in the immediate vicinity of these mountains during the summer months, and the basin in which we are camped consists of several hundred feet of solid ice. The terrific winds have blown some of the surface clear, and these patches are as smooth as glass. When the sun strikes this at a certain angle, the ice assumes a pale green color.

  Larry is an excellent cook. His “hoosh” is fit for the gods. It is a mixture of pemmican, bacon and pea soup. As a steady diet, though, I imagine it would soon begin to pall.

  This is a cold place. The temperature gets down to nearly 30° below at night, and about three o’clock in the morning the sleeping bags become chilly.

  Later

  Weather continues bad at the base.

  We seem to be camped in an area of solid ice. Last night, when the temperature dropped, the air resounded with the sound of sharp reports, caused by the abrupt cracking of ice. Two bursts sounded loudly under the tent—under our sleeping bags, it seemed—and we all awakened with a start, wondering what new misfortune was in store for us. We shivered awhile in the cold, but the disturbances, which sounded like a sustained burst of rifle fire, moved farther away. We fell into fitful sleep.

  Larry has done a very fine job here, and his report ought to bring out some important findings. He is convinced that Amundsen’s “Carmen Land” does not extend this far north. If the snow were to disappear, he believes a shallow sea or basin would enfold the southern bases of the Rockefellers,1 perhaps isolating several of the peaks.

  I was astonished to learn he had been able to sight from the range the mountain peak we sighted to the eastward on our last flight. According to his rough measurements, the nearest peaks are over 50 miles away. The taller peaks, he believes, are about 5,000 feet high. He could make out the peak very distinctly. It was his first thought that these peaks are landmarks of a far more extensive glaciation than now prevails, which would forge another link in the chain of evidence proving the waning character of the ice age. If Carmen Land does exist, and if it does have a counterpart, then it is very possible that these mountains to the East are its limits.

  However, we shall be able to determine these things with some preciseness next summer.

  Today we went out to the small crevasses which surround this basin to the west and marked a trail through them with flags for the dog teams if they ever arrive. We also found a much better flying field to the west, and marked it with a landing “T.”

  I find myself in a most extraordinary position. Although beyond the reach of immediate assistance, I am able to direct my affairs with some flexibility, thanks to the radio. Since stuck on this lake, I have been in touch with the ships in Dunedin, my office in New York, the base and the dog teams on the trail. Matters are progressing smoothly.

  Haines reported tonight the weather is clearing, and the plane may be able to start tomorrow. It cannot come too quickly to please us. I have asked Smith to bring June with him. It would be murderous to ask a pilot to fly a single-engined plane alone over this wilderness. A speck of dirt in the carburetor would mean his death. He could not possibly make his way home alone after a forced landing. Now the question arises: Can the Fairchild hold five men? Even with three it is crowded. This problem we can meet when it arises.

  About 5 o’clock in the morning of the 22nd, Hanson was informed by Little America that the Fairchild was on its way and an hour and a half later we sighted it. Smith landed it neatly. But joy over its arrival was soon forgotten in the larger question: How many could return? Who would remain behind until yet another flight could be made?

  “Hop in,” Smith shouted, “Room for every one. Next train leaves in six months.”

  The door slammed open, but neither Hanson or Gould moved. The same doubt was in the mind of both of them, and each was unwilling that he should not be the last to enter.

  But as we had to learn, first of all, whether it would be necessary for any one to be left behind, I prevailed upon them to enter. The cabin, already crowded with equipment, appeared to be jammed. But at last I squeezed in, burrowing over furs and food, June slammed tight the door, Smith taxied into the wind, and lifted the ship in a climbing turn.

  It was truly good to see the Barrier moving under us.

  We sighted the dog teams 55 miles east of Little America, travelling fast. About 5 miles astern we could see the depot, marked by flags, which they had laid in accordance with instructions. Smith brought the plane down over the drivers, porpoised to show that he had the mountain party in the plane and that the teams were to return, a signal previously agreed upon, and then we raced for home.

  Even from an altitude of 2,000 feet, the trail stood out clear and distinct on the Barrier, and we could follow it with ease.

  We reached Little America at about an hour and 15 minutes later, and so far as we were concerned, the incident of the Rockefeller Mountains was over. Sunday morning, the dog teams came in, having marched all night and made a record march in the Antarctic of 63 miles1 in temperature which dropped as low as 40° below zero. Balchen made a flight to the Ross Sea and reported it frozen over as far as the eye could see. The aviation season was over.

  We were truly fortunate to escape the Ides of March as easily as we did. March was the worst month on Haines’ calendar. Eight severe blizzards1 marked it, more than occurred in any other month during our stay, and the snowfall was almost twice as heavy as in the nearest period, June, which was the middle of the Antarctic winter. Nor is that all. March was the cloudiest of all months. Haines’ charts show that during its 31 days, there was only one clear day. Eight were partly cloudy and twenty-two very cloudy, which, in view of the awful conditions of visibility the sli
ghtest cloudiness brings, may indicate how very closely we pressed our good luck in bringing the incident to its end.

  Footnotes

  1 This sledge meter, which Amundsen carried on the polar journey, was a personal gift to Admiral Byrd.

  1 This set is known as a portable transmitter, using two radio tubes of a type used almost universally in storage battery receivers. Power, 7.5 watts. Antennre, a single wire held aloft on two bamboo poles sunk in the snow.

  1 Amundsen, “The South Pole,” i, p. 232, 246.

  2 Ibid., i. 246.

  1 ’McKinley’s photographs using Gould’s fixes of position definitely located the Rockefeller Mts. as a group of more or less isolated peaks and ridges beginning roughly in Lat. 78° 14’ S., Long. 155° 15’ W. and extending in crescentic shape to Lat. 77° 35’ S., and Long. 153° 5’ W., with the crescent opening to the west. There are at least 40 peaks in the group.

  1 The longest previous march in the Antarctic was made by Amundsen when they covered 62 miles. “The South Pole,” i, 222.

  1 The meteorological staff identified a storm as a blizzard only when severe enough to reduce visibility to a few yards.

  CHAPTER IX

  WINTER BIRTH OF A CITY

  WITH the units of the expedition together once more, we were willing to relinquish the entire Antarctic Continent to winter, save for the few yards that we had laboriously converted to our devices. Even the surface above these we were willing to give up, in favor of the more protected, warmer catacombs we had hewn underneath. We burrowed deeper. Everything that was movable was sunk into deep holes, and blizzards swiftly covered these. A hangar made of snow blocks was built about the Fairchild, and it disappeared with its wings folded back as if in resignation and its engine shrouded in a bulky canvas jacket. It would lie there, with a tarpaulin for its roof, until spring.