Work was resumed about 1 o’clock and continued until 4:30 o’clock.
Supper was the major event of the day. On that occasion the table was decorated with a table cloth—an oilcloth, to be correct—and simply by that distinction we are entitled to be classed among the more luxuriously appointed Antarctic expeditions. Supper was served promptly at 5 o’clock, but long before that time a group of men would be found gathered in the mess hall, waiting to pounce on a chair as soon as Tennant struck the bell which signalled the serving of the feast. The limited space on the plain pine benches made it necessary to serve nearly four sittings, and one’s hunger was so ravenous, by 5 o’clock, that to sit by and wait was to suffer, especially when such eminent trenchermen as Strom and Crockett, who nearly always were first on hand, threatened to put away the entire meal.
Supper, like the other meals, was wholesome; but it could scarcely be called epicurean, even if we did confer fancy designations to our humble viands. There was always meat, dark mutton or roast beef, penguin, whale or seal meat. Meat is a preventative of scurvy, and for this reason it was emphasized in our bill of fare. There were several men who could not stomach these more pungent, gamier meats, and they went without meat most of the time. Soup was served first: it might be orthodox canned soup, but the time came, towards the end of winter, when we were beginning to economize, when no one dared to have it identified: better to eat and be ignorant than find out what the artful Tennant had used as condiments. I will say this, though; while some of my colleagues were of the opinion that either an old sail or sleeping bag had been used as a base for the brew, it always tasted good to me.
After the soup, we helped ourselves from large bowls, which were passed around. We had a large quantity of dehydrated and canned vegetables, such as potatoes, onions, spinach, beans, carrots and such, which Dr. Coman, with his eye on vitamins, selected in New York. There was always a dessert, perhaps custard, or pies, perhaps mince, apple or pumpkin. Then coffee.
Supper was an affair that never lagged. Breakfast was hurried, luncheon was a rest period, but supper was a social affair. Here the affairs of the clay and the morrow were vivaciously discussed: here some special accomplishment of brilliance or dumbness always came in for approving or sarcastic review; and here the affairs of a remote and almost forgotten world were settled to a man’s satisfaction.
Footnote
1 Those two hangars were named the Guggenheim Hangars, after my friend, Mr. Harry Guggenheim.
CHAPTER X
CIVILIZATION DOES NOT MATTER
“WHATEVER merit there may be in going to the Antarctic,” that excellent writer, Mr. Cherry-Garrard, has said, “once there you must not credit yourself for being there.” To spend the winter at Cape Evans, Scott’s old headquarters, or at little America “because you explore is no more laudable than to spend a month at Davos because you have consumption, or to spend an English winter at the Berkeley hotel. It is just the most comfortable and the easiest thing to do under the circumstances.”1
I will go farther and say: once your ships have started north and the pack has closed behind them, there is nothing else you can do. You are there to stay, whether you like it or not, for eight months at least, and all the resources of the world, were they brought to play, could not liberate you sooner. If the climate is too cold and snowy; if you have a horror of bathing in public; if your stomach turns at the mention of fried penguin; if you detest sleeping in a reindeer bag which sheds hair in your eyes and nose—if these things bother you, there is precious little you can do about it. Having made your bed, you must lie in it and take what crumbs of comfort there are.
It is not a bed of roses, to be true. Neither is it the worst bed in the world. There were times when Little America seemed about one of the happiest and gayest spots some of us had ever known.
The period that followed supper was always—or nearly always—a delightful time. The dishes were pushed aside, pipes came forth, cigarettes were lighted, and men remained to chat or drifted off to join the groups in other buildings. There were some men who never seemed to rest. Ronne was one of these. His sewing machine in the corner of the administration building whirred during the day, and stopped only to allow his nimble fingers to fly, with a skill and sureness a woman might have envied, guiding a thread over his endless creations. Braathen, too, worked steadily on the model of the City of New York, which he started to build during the winter night, and on which he lavished the utmost care and attention. But for the rest of us this period was a time of relaxation, and we made most of the few hours according to our particular notions of what constituted leisure.
It was wonderful to observe how the characters of men and situations evolved. If one drew apart occasionally contrasts that would have passed unnoticed stood out sharply, and it was surprising to observe how certain men, normally ignored, had come into their own. There was a subtle reorganization of values. And yet, when one was immersed in it, there seemed to be little change, after all. What one saw depended on where one stood. For in a very short time the fact of living in crowded quarters, under the pall of the winter night, became the normal existence, and what had gone before a rather confused and unusual memory.
Here, as everywhere, men were clannish. Without conscious stimulation or organization, a number of groups, possessing a certain inherent solidarity, were slowly evolved. They created their own diversions, settled all things more or less to their own satisfaction, had their particular shining lights; and while all the men were, at one day or another, in each of these groups, there was nevertheless a definable kernel of organization that remained fairly constant. Still, there was less clannishness than one might have expected, for cliques were discouraged. And of course there was no actual separation. How could there be? We had the privacy of gold fish and elbow room of sardines. Nor was this the intention. It was more like groups of men in a club, separating and drawing together by the action of common interests, likes and dislikes. There was always a large group for, and often a small minority against, the policies of the camp. There was always a suggestion of internal politics in this minority never too concealed,—just enough to make it interesting. And thus, in a rudimentary form, and without definite intention, we democratized the government of Little America, which was often satisfactory to all, and sometimes not, which is the unhappy destiny of all governments.
The outstanding institution was the gathering about Benny Roth’s bunk which adjoined the radio shack in the Mess Hall. Here, every night, there was certain to be a crowd, and the congestion became so great, in fact, that it was called “Benny’s Huddle.” The “Huddle” was the hub of Little America, and if one stayed there long enough he was certain-to know a little bit about everything that ever happened.
One might hear Chips Gould, perhaps, discoursing on maritime law and the merchant marine, facts pertaining to which flowed from him like a stream; or Balchen talking about prize fights and prize fighters; or Dean Smith, drawing on a mind that preserves detail as if etched in steel, discussing snakes, which seemed to exercise a powerful fascination on him, or telling stories about flying which were more vivid than fiction. Our reserved and almost reticent assistant meteorologist, Harrison, was often to be found there, willing to explain the caprices of the weather, but eager most of all to discuss baseball and baseball players, in which he had an absorbing interest. Dr. Coman, a man of many moods, brilliant, an academician, yet an adventurer at heart, was sometimes there, and when the talk veered around to travel, would occasionally tell, in hard, glittering anecdote an experience he had had during the four years he had fought in the French Army, although he seldom mentioned the war itself. The “Doc” knew many things thoroughly, his thoughts were often on a loftier plane, and he and Russell Owen became known as the “high-brows,” the authorities on literature, world affairs, celebrities and the like. Prof. Gould stood apart in the nature of an institution by himself. If any man was liked by all, it was he. Larry was a blend of coolness and warmth. His friendly
ways and his fairness endeared him to the Winter Party at Little America. Larry mingled, and yet was always respected. He was not above the telling of an occasional anecdote, distinguished for its dry and incisive wit. But most of all he was the oracle. When arguments waxed and flamed and drew to no conclusion, Larry was resorted to as the seat of judgment. His mind seemed to have held every fact that came into it. With him stood McKinley, third in command, the soul of tact and kindliness, with that peculiar, alert deference which slightly deaf persons often have, adding a mark of sympathetic attention to his bearing. We were fortunate to have such men as these two.
Arguments are at once the joy and affliction of the winter night. How many roared through Little America, like fire sweeping dry timber, I should hesitate to say. But offhand, well, one or two too many. Let the temperature drop to 70° below zero outside, we never lacked for burning issues inside. Was Bryan a fraud or a great and intellectually honest man? Is Babe Ruth a greater player than Ty Cobb ever was in his prime? Is the Bay of Whales really permanent, or might it not disintegrate some fine day and launch us all out to sea? Was Wilson garroted at Paris, or did he curl the rest of the Big Four around his little finger? Is the English Channel easier to swim than the Hellespont? Where can you buy the best steak in New York? Is the Thibetan plateau higher than the Polar plateau? What will you do first when (a) you reach New Zealand, (b) Broadway and (c) home?
Like country cousins, argument clung to us always. They started innocently, gathered increasing strength and became so fraught with passion as to threaten to bring down the roof. They seemed to have no end. Pertinacious minds, reluctant to concede defeat, would trot them forth, like horses under raps, and start them off again. Then the air would clear, the issue be decently interred; but before its bones had ceased to rattle, a new one was in the travail of birth. Probably the wisest thing we did, when we went South, was to bring a set of the Encyclopedia Britannica, the World’s Almanac and Who’s Who. These repositories of essential information were a godsend. That these estimable works happen to have lacked some of the facts that were, for a time, like life and death in Little America is due less to neglect on the part of the editors, I imagine, than to discrimination and perhaps a sense of propriety.
To get the scene one should have the background. The mess hall was a rectangular affair, longer than it was wide. On one side was Tennant’s range and sink. Two tables ran the length of the room, and about the center one, the mess table, ran an unbacked bench. Set in the corner opposite Tennant’s range was the radio room, separated by a partition. There was no door, and the operators, Mason and Petersen, could be seen at work inside. The two bunks of Roth and Arnold were built in alongside.
On the side opposite Tennant’s galley were arranged two tiers of bunks, six up and six down, like Pullman berths, which, instead of running lengthwise with the car, stuck out into the aisle. Here the comparison ceases. For these bunks were the plainest kind of things, simply slatted structures nailed to the wall and supported by beams. A man’s worldly possessions hung up beside him on nails, a mass of clothing, wrinkled and damp, a picture or two, oddly enough, a calendar here and there. There was barely room enough between the bunks for two men to pass abreast, and with clothing and gear choking up the corridor, the scene, to a fastidious eye, was one of unhealthy congestion and intimacy.
But not at all.
These bunks were occupied by the following men: Mason and Petersen, Bubier and June, de Ganahl and Smith, Czegka and Bursey, Chips Gould and Tennant, Strom and Black. During the discussions about Roth’s bunk, one would find perhaps half a dozen of them lolling in their own cubicles, those in the upper tier gazing down from an Olympian eminence and casting a phrase or two into the debate. Arnold Clark’s bunk was really his castle and he had taken great pains to make it comfortable. He had made a very fine lamp from a glass jar and a chimney he had found somewhere. His bunk was over Roth’s, and when the arguments were at their peak Clark might be seen curled in his sleeping bag, reading a book. He was a very quiet person—one of the quietest in the camp—but I am sure he took secret joy in listening to the mad discussions which raged beneath him. He was the soul of hospitality, and to visit his altitudinous retreat was like visiting the estate of a country gentleman; for Clark would welcome you with real old-fashioned hospitality and insist upon your having the most comfortable place in the bunk. Even when cigarettes were worth their weight in gold, Clark would always have one to offer. Bubier’s bunk had something of the same mark of popularity. Bubier was the diplomat in the camp. It was his ambition to make things run smoothly at all times. He smoothed out the rough spots, and backed up the camp’s orders with an aggressiveness which, nevertheless, was so slickly applied that it almost seemed gentle. De Ganahl might be at work in his bunk, tapping on a typewriter which he had swung on a most ingenious contraption, or Dean Smith writing in his diary, which is, beyond all doubt, the most voluminous and intimate record since Peppys’.
In the Administration Building we had a group known as the “Rat’s Nest,” a most unflattering title, but one that stuck. This was made up of Bill Haines, Charlie Lofgren, Henry Harrison and our witty Welshman, Taffy Davies. They shared the four bunks at one end of the building. Here, with Taffy and Bill as ring leaders, was concocted much of the deviltry that delighted and enraged the camp, and the subdued chuckling that was frequently overheard from that corner soon came to mean that some new outrage was afoot. As our cameramen, Rucker and Van der Veer, both genial souls, occupied adjoining bunks, the plotting often took queer and devious turns.
Save for the arrangement of things, the appearance of the administration building did not differ greatly from that of the mess hall. My quarters, the library and the room turned over to the scientific staff, took up one whole end of the building. Bunks ran along both sides, six sets of two bunks on the left, and two sets of two on the right. Those on the left were occupied by Ronne and Dr. Coman, O’Brien and Balchen, McKinley and Gould, Van der Veer and Rucker, and the others by the aforesaid conspirators. On the opposite side, Parker and Owen, Hanson and Mulroy. Beyond Hanson’s and Mulroy’s bunks were Dr. Coman’s dispensary, a boarded partition, and the radio laboratory.
There was the same confusion of clothes and gear, the same congestion. Only the spoken words were different. The wind howled and sobbed eerily in the ventilators, and the cold draught from which one could never escape was on the nape of the neck and the feet.
But let us retrace our steps and seek out the third group in this colony. We step past the scientific room, cluttered with intricate gear, push open a door and enter a boarded vestibule. On the right is the Balloon Station, whence Haines and Harrison send up their inflated globes to test upper air circulation. There is a panel in the roof which can be moved back when the balloons are released and their progress through night air followed by a theodolite. Next to the Balloon Station is a door which opens on a tunnel leading to the Barrier surface; but we shall go instead through the tunnel to the mess hall.
A second door opens on the main tunnel, and as our flashlight bores a hole through the frosty darkness, its gleams bring to life the most wonderful colors. Pendant ice crystals on the ceiling and the walls glow in and refract the light with the brilliance of gems. It is a crystal palace hung with jewels. The feet crunch noisily upon the snow, and one’s breath discharges in great clouds. This night it is chilly, 38° below zero in the tunnels, and on the surface it is much colder. We pass a series of side tunnels cut into the main tunnel. On the right are the tunnels leading to the medical storeroom and the main storeroom over which Supply Officer Black presides. On the left are tunnels opening separately on the Gymnasium and to Davies’ Non-Magnetic House. Beyond these, is still another tunnel leading to the pit where Mulroy has stored the gasoline and the kerosene. As we round the bend in the tunnel, a beam of light creeps down our way—it is George Black, the supply officer, out to do some marketing. The light lifts suddenly, searching out a place in the wall. One sees Black’s fac
e suddenly illuminated as he stares, brushes the rime from the wall and extracts the contents of a box. So we shall have beans tomorrow!
We slide past him, with a quick word of greeting, for it is too chilly to linger. The tunnel opens abruptly on a vaulted chamber, roofed with canvas and full of boxes. It is still another storeroom. On the left is the coal pile, and to the right, under the overhang of the roof, is Tennant’s meat supply storeroom. We traverse the space with a few steps, push open a door and are in the Norwegian House. Truth to tell, I had faithfully named it The Biltmore, as a tribute to the hostelry which had so generously housed the expedition at
New York; but Norwegian House it remained, not because any Norwegians lived there—none did—but because we had purchased it in Norway.
It is a cramped place about 12 feet by 16 feet. There is a kerosene stove under the only window, which faces south, and bunks take up nearly all the room that is left. There is a sledge on the floor, and the “Three Musketeers”, Vaughan, Goodale and Crockett, are working over it, experimenting with a new kind of lashing. Siple is curled up in his bunk, reading, and Thorne is studying charts. Jim Feury is in a characteristic Antarctic attitude—prone, dreaming no doubt of the snowmobile with which he got such good results. The other occupants, Alexander and Demas, are not about. Probably they are in Benny’s huddle.
Returning, we regain the corridor and at the end open a door into Czegka’s machine shop, with its mass of tools and equipment, the Kohler humming with the peculiar rhythm of a well-kept engine. We push open another door into the mess hall. At the other end, another door, and the light searches out a path up a rudely cut staircase in the snow. Instantly the air strikes the face with the cut of a knife; it may not seem likely, but the difference between 30° and 50° below zero is real and biting. Groping up the stairs is undignified and acrobatic, for the risers have been worn down by constant use, and the passage, which is solidly filled after every blizzard, seems to grow narrower and more tortuous after every digging. We crawl and walk half-erect, and finally gain the entrance.
Little America Page 24