Little America

by Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.

  That night the zenith was aflame with the aurora australis, the temperature dropped to 40° below, and from the bay came muffled explosions as from pistol shots, the sound of ice contracting in the intense cold. We began a new and mysterious life. Until August 22nd, a pale moon would be our intermittent companion.

  We fell into our new existence with little change and with little sense of change. We attained it imperceptibly. For many the gradually deepening cold and twilight slowly cut off all outside venture. Lights burned all day. The windows, indeed the roofs, were covered with snow and the twilight that persisted for some days after the disappearance of the sun gave little light. Now that work had slackened, we slipped into old habits and imposed them on the others. We evolved a routine.

  For months and months we had planned how we should be prepared to endure the winter. It can be a dangerous thing to throw a number of men into an Antarctic winter, and let them work out their own salvation. They may work together with perfect equanimity in the bright sun, when labor absorbs their energies and conditions allow them to withdraw to one side if some momentary incident happens to irritate or discompose them. A wise man and a shrewd man can mask his real feelings, even his character, under such conditions. And he is assisted in the deception by the fact that his fellows have neither the time nor the desire to penetrate the superficial. But the winter night will quickly expose all of us.

  Escape, in the wider meaning of the word, is impossible. Except for a quick, freezing walk the four walls limit one’s world; and everything that one does, or says, or even thinks, is of importance to one’s fellows. They are measuring you constantly, some openly, other::; secretly—there is so little else to do!—and with, ten, twenty, thirty and, in our case, forty-two personalities of varying force in a state of flux, there must necessarily be impacts of a kind, not necessarily physical, but rather psychological. Deception, under these conditions, becomes impossible. Sooner or later the inner man comes into the open. He is the man that is important. It is he who is judged. It is this inescapable process that makes the winter night terrible for some men. For them it can be purgatory.

  Still another insidious quality lurks in the winter night. The Antarctic is the last stronghold of inertness. And it is the almost irresistible tendency of inertness to draw all inorganic matter to itself. It is a phase of the whole cosmical process—the struggle between what is alive and what is dead, with life striving to extend itself into immortality, and inertness tending to pull all things unto itself. On this continent, whence all life has been driven, save for a few very primitive or microscopic forms, inertia governs a vast empire. It has the power to subjugate those who do not arise to resist it; and men who are limited and lazy, when denied free scope for the play of mind and body, find themselves slipping, as if drawn by centripetal action, into a dull, stupid, dispirited monotony.

  Of course it is not a clear-cut thing. It is largely a condition of the mind. Certain men of a phlegmatic disposition can pass through such an experience with the facility of a duck shedding water: it leaves no mark. But other men find it real and powerful. Each day becomes a struggle for control. And finally each hour.

  There are no doubt many ways in which the winter night may be opposed, but we seized upon the most obvious and practical one. Of course it was our inevitable associate—work. We gave him an ally, routine. These were our weapons, and I dare say we made effective use of them.

  After all, it is not the Antarctic that is dangerous. It is the man, as nearly always, who makes it dangerous, through the natural expression of his vitality and his proneness to err. Impatience increases the destructive power of the Antarctic; patience draws its claws. The uncertainty here, as elsewhere, only here to a greater degree, comes largely from man himself. Because he is impatient and self-assured, he often steps beyond the limits suggested by prudence, and the blow falls.

  At times it would seem that there is a malignant consciousness operating in that void, seeking man’s undoing. But it is only that men have over-estimated their capacity.

  On the temple of Apollo at Delphi there is written: “Avoid excess in all things.” This we tried to impose as the guiding rule in everything. With that in mind, a definite routine was established, and it became impossible for a man to eat, sleep, dawdle or work too much.

  Failure to observe a routine is, I think, the cause of much of the unhappiness that overtakes a wintering expedition. Without it the days and nights lose their lines of divisions, and the months prolong themselves into a monotonous, unending period.

  Our days began promptly at 8 o’clock, once winter set in. At that hour Dr. Gould, with an unswerving fidelity to his office that was the despair of all, would lift a tousled head from his bunk, and boom in a voice that must have awakened the sleeping walls: “All hands out for breakfast.” It was not compulsory that every one arise at that moment. The bitter cold that seized the first bit of exposed flesh (the doors had not been long shut by the night watchman) was enough to cause the hardiest man to withdraw hastily into the warmth of the sleeping bag again, to screw up courage for the final upheaval. But it behooved one to get up in a very few minutes, lest he give some malicious tormentor the opportunity of dumping him bodily from the sleeping bag. Except with the hardier spirits, the morning wash was a very casual affair.

  Breakfast was served on the dot of 8:30 o’clock, and here there was no compromise. The long table in the Mess Hall accommodated only 21 men at a time. Late arrivals, after the second mess, in addition to being subjected to scalding “razzing,” had to take their place at the end, and instead of being served, had to serve themselves. If they dared to ask for a glass of water, they were growled into subjection; and as the winter wore on, Cook Tennant and his aides developed the manner of a tyrant about to order the chopping off of a dozen heads when men made a habit of arriving late.

  Breakfast consisted as a rule of canned fruit, prunes, mush or oatmeal cakes, molasses, syrup, and as a great treat we had ham and eggs. The eggs were unlike any eggs that I have ever seen. The yolks froze solid and no amount of frying could reduce them. Like baleful yellow eyes they reared above the white and stared you in the face. “Flat eggs” became a synonym of civilization.

  When breakfast was finished, assigned duties were the order for the day. The specialists, such as the weather men, Haines and Harrison; the radio men, Hanson, Mason and Petersen; the physicist, Davies, had regular duties to perform. Czegka, the machinist, and Rucker and June, who had shown a remarkable aptitude for all kinds of mechanical jobs, generally went into the machine shop, to work on equipment. Tom Mulroy, the fuel engineer, distributed gasoline for the day’s activity. It was his job to see that the expenditure was kept to a minimum, and he performed the job faithfully. But every one had something to do.

  Scarcely before the last dish had been removed the mess table, which was the most ample one in the camp, was converted into a work bench. A stranger, coming upon us suddenly from the trackless void outside and stepping down the tunnel and peering inside, would have paused in astonishment at the sight of all this activity under the snow. He would have seen perhaps a dozen men clustered about the table, and the air would be reverberating with the clash of hammer on steel, and the screech of saws on spruce. The table would have been strewn with tools, parts of sledges under construction, radio gear, navigation instruments, dog harness, trail cookers, and heaven only remembers what else.

  We were getting ready for the spring journeys and flights of exploration, and the manifold details involved in preparing for them gave all hands enough work to carry them steadily through each day. For while the experiences of the men who had preceded us in the Antarctic would largely govern procedure, nevertheless we hoped to be able to improve on them. Dr. Coman, for example, in addition to his work with specimens, was working out a daily ration for the sledge parties; June and Czegka had taken the celebrated Nansen Cooker apart and were trying to make it more efficient, for all the fact that it is one of the most efficient trail
stoves in the world; the radio men were building a number of small sets so that every sledging group might be provided with one; Strom and Balchen, with an artistry and craftsmanship I had not suspected in them, began to build several sledges; and Rucker, Parker and George Black assisted Captain McKinley in developing the thousands of feet of film taken during the aerial surveys.

  The photo lab, as Captain McKinley’s shack was called, was truly a most wonderful creation, and there was scarcely a man in camp who was not called, at one time or another, to assist our aerial surveyor at his cabalistic rites. It was at all times an important center of industry, and it was much of the time a storm center of controversy, the issue being whether or not it should be condemned as a public nuisance. Poor Mac, he got it from every side. Developing aerial film is difficult enough even in a modern laboratory; but in the Antarctic it borders on necromancy. The film is hyper-sensitized and comes in rolls 75 feet long and 9 inches wide. It must be handled in absolute darkness. And to develop a single reel 200 gallons of water are required.

  Now water, oddly enough, is a precious commodity in the Antarctic for the reason that it is produced by melting snow, and coal is the black diamond of the Antarctic. To bring Mac as near the water supply as possible, we jammed the shack next door to the kitchen stove in the mess hall. Chips Gould waved his wand and produced it out of scrap lumber. It was 15 feet by 15 feet, and built so low in the snow that the first blizzard covered it entirely.

  There were actually two rooms—the dark room, which was shrewdly cut off from all light, and a space which served as office, drying and chemical room.

  It took McKinley and his aides about two months to get everything in order; for everything that he does is distinguished by meticulous care and precision; but at last he pronounced things ready, and plunged into the film “shot” over the Rockefellers, the coastline and the Bay of Whales—8 rolls in all.

  The 200-gallon tank was ready to receive the water, Tennant unhappily surrendered his stove for the morning, and McKinley hopefully lifted a bucket of snow on the red-hot lid. Half an hour’s boiling produced but one-third of a bucket of water—a very sad result. Another bucket was hoisted on the stove, and the first carefully placed on the floor. Before the second mass of snow was reduced to water, the first bucket promptly froze. There was, as we found, a difference of 50° in temperature between the air at one’s shoulders and the air at one’s feet, owing to the loss of heat in the natural circulation of the air.

  We were in a stew then. For several days every available man in the camp was busy making water for McKinley, and every source that could produce enough heat units to reduce snow was pressed into service. The entire camp was turned topsy-turvy and Tennant roared vain protests over the desecration of his stove with unsightly pots and buckets. I dare say there would have been revolution had not our mechanical genius, Czegka, come forward with a most ingenious device. His apparatus consisted of two 50-gallon gasoline drums connected together, with an opening in the top for snow. Under each tank he rigged a large gasoline blow torch. The tanks were set up on pedestals so that the water could be drained off with ease. Thus, the water problem was “licked,” and McKinley returned into the good graces of the cook.

  But fate was quietly doubling her fist for still other blows. Getting rid of the water was an equally difficult job. We could not merely let it drain off outside, as we fondly hoped. The water froze as it fell, and within a few hours a magnificent icicle had completely closed the outlet. So a group of valiant men, who still had the courage to face a snow shovel again, went out in the cold and dug a hole in the Barrier, 25 feet deep and about 4 feet square. The first rush of water hit the bottom with a crash and bore right down through the snow. How far it fell, where it went, no one could tell. We were never able to touch bottom there. But that problem was ended.

  There were others. Cold beset them at every turn. Each morning all pipes and drains had to be thawed out before work could be commenced. The developing film was kept warm with heating pads, which were specially made to fit the developing tanks. It was necessary to keep these tanks at a temperature of 70° at all times. Freezing of the solutions at night was prevented by draining them off in a thermos jug. Then there was the matter of drying the developed rolls of film, which must be kept intact. To this end Czegka, who was never at a loss for mechanical answer, contrived an 8-foot roll, the ends of which were buggy wheels—the first, and no doubt the last, parts of that honorable vehicle to find service in the Antarctic. The great difference in temperature that existed over a few feet of height was a problem here. After the reel was finished, McKinley discovered that it must be turned continually, else the film would dry on the top while it froze on the bottom. “I have it,” said Czegka. “Just the thing—a small motor.” It turned the trick for McKinley, but it played fast and loose with communication, and the radio men were on the verge of nervous prostration while it operated.

  But the joyous part came when they started developing, and McKinley and his colleagues plunged into the stygian gloom of the dark room. For a time all would be quiet and serene, evidence that all was going well. It would end on a cry of pain—a collision in the darkness. Then muffled imprecations, rising steadily in grandeur and significance—McKinley had dropped something. Then a stamping of feet—their toes were getting chilly. For the difference in temperature was hard on the feet: it was not uncommon to see them working stripped to the waist, with a shoulder-high thermometer recording 70°, with fur pants and mukluks protecting the nether regions, and a layer of ice on the floor.

  No, we never lacked for excitement when the photographic section was in operation.

  Perhaps the most dramatic incident of the winter took place in the photographic laboratory. Davies was in there, one night, working. The small gasoline stove was burning. He began to feel strangely drowsy, but ascribed it more to weariness than to anything else. He noticed, suddenly, that one of the pups, which McKinley was accustomed to keep in the laboratory, was out, and was lying unconscious on the floor. Davies, who was mystified, picked up the pup and brought him into the mess room. Just as he crossed the threshold, he fainted. He had been poisoned, of course, by the fumes.

  There was a cry for Dr. Coman, who came and in his calm way took command of the situation. Davies was as limp as a rag, completely out; and while Dr. Coman worked over him on the mess table, I never saw the men so grave—for everyone in Little America loved Taffy. Presently, however, Davies responded to Dr. Coman’s ministrations, opened his eyes weakly and asked, “What happened?” We hustled him out into the open and walked him up and down. The cold air brought him to, all right, but in our anxiety to get him out we overlooked the fact that we had stripped off most of his clothes, and he very nearly froze to death before we got him back. He was soon none the worse for the experience, though.

  From McKinley’s laboratory came, perhaps, the most important geographical information of the expedition. When his photographs were finally developed, I saw how faultlessly the aerial camera had recorded all details within its range of vision. During the flights in the fall, McKinley photographed about 80 miles of the coastline east of the Bay, the Rockefeller Mountains and the vicinity of the Bay of Whales. The overlapping series of photographs not only provided a continuous record of these areas, but also recorded all geographical details in their intricate relationship. With these photographs and the hasty notes taken on the flights before US, we saw how more superior and less fallible was the camera than the eye. On a pioneering flight, the eye is so burdened with details to watch and study that it is, of necessity, attracted toward those things which are most prominent; consequently, even with the most studied attention, many things of importance are ignored. But not so with the camera. For example, when the photographs of the coastline were developed, a number of interesting pressure ridges, which perhaps indicated land, were discovered some distance northeast of the Bay of Whales. These ran inland for several miles, with a central line of cleavage clearly shown. Best of
all, Gould’s observations at the Rockefeller Mountains had resulted in the establishment of a number of control points from which, by a process of mathematics, it was possible to determine the relative heights and distances of the topographical features shown in the photographs.

  Two types of aerial surveying were done. The first of these is the vertical, which is taken with the lens of the camera pointed down through the floor of the airplane. The oblique is obtained by pointing the camera at a known angle through an aperture in the side of the plane. Each has its distinguishing characteristic. While the vertical gives greater accuracy, the oblique covers a larger area and includes the horizon in the picture. We decided to use the oblique in the Antarctic for two reasons: First, all area seen on a flight must be recorded. Secondly, accuracy in feet is not absolutely necessary in polar exploration. Although most of the photographs were oblique, about 60 square miles of the Bay of Whales were mapped by the vertical at an altitude of 7,800 feet. The beauty of McKinley’s work lay in the fact that it was exact and faithful: whatever we saw, wherever we went was in black and white.

  Luncheon could scarcely be called a formal affair—merely a break in the day’s routine. About noon Tennant and his assistant, Arnold Clark, spread a buffet lunch on a small table near his stove. It was a case of helping yourself. A characteristic meal consisted of canned sardine and salmon sandwiches, and sometimes cheese. There was also tea and coffee and cocoa. This was the hour for general discussion, and it was a welcome break in work. It acquired the extraordinary name of “the ob”. Its derivation is curious, and yet quite characteristic of such designations. On the trip down on the City, Bill Haines used to disappear occasionally with the casual, but perfectly credible, explanation that he was going out to “take an ob.” We thought he meant an observation. But it was soon discovered that instead of devoting himself to meteorology, he steered straight for the galley, where he invariably wheedled a cup of coffee and an enormous sandwich from Tennant. So the phrase “to take an ob” was at first used derisively, in connection with any minor sophistry, and then was attached to this noonday meal.