Little America

by Richard Evelyn Byrd Jr.

  Just at the moment when those inside were preparing to abandon the house, until the smoke cleared, a spark found its way through the bag, set it afire and created a draft. The incident closed on the note of threatened reprisals.

  If any particular quality of the conversation stands out in memory, it is the power of ridicule. Ridicule is a crushing force anywhere; in a crowded existence, such as a polar shack, it carries a sting that penetrates and destroys. There were several tongues that turned most neatly the sarcastic phrase called “the wise-crack,” and innocent phrases were twisted and distorted out of original meaning. It was de Ganahl’s unfortunate habit, when he crawled down from his bunk, to bring his big boots down on Dean Smith’s head. Joe, who is the soul of politeness, always said: “I’m sorry.” In a short time, it was a courageous soul who dared to say, “I’m sorry.” The phrase “shipmates” was tortured out of existence. Compliments were almost never spoken. Hanson, a very considerate man, used to speak enthusiastically of the work of his aides until a nihilist labelled it “apple-rubbing” and “flag-flying.” After that, few dared to risk exposure to the phrase.

  Perhaps I have dwelt overlong on this side of the picture, in an attempt to show what men do and think in the winter night. Really, this is but a small fragment of the whole—

  “ … full of sound and fury,

  And signifying nothing.”

  The day ended promptly at 10 o’clock, and here strictest routine prevailed. On the dot, the main lights in the house were extinguished, the fires were allowed to die out and the door was opened. The poor physical conditions that lowered the vitality of several wintering parties in the Antarctic was partly due to the fact, we believed, that the majority of the men remained cooped up in their shacks, breathing stale and unrenewed air, while the fires roared all winter long, day and night. The men who wished to do so, could read in their bunks. There was a regular semi-monthly allotment of candles, and the more thrifty men saved the tallow as it dripped and put it into glass jars which they converted into lamps by inserting wicks; others made kerosene lamps from pickle jars, food tins and similar containers. But after the door was opened, and as the heat from the fire diminished, these flickering lights went out, one by one, first in the lower bunks, where the cold draught quickly settled, then in the upper bunks, as it mounted. In a very short time, the temperature fell to 35° below zero, during the more bitter spells, and the snug warmth of the sleeping bag was not resisted for long.

  Soon only the night watchman remained awake.

  Being night watchman was one of the routine jobs of the camp. It was a lonely and sometimes a cold job. At first, Dr. Gould assigned the job to any man who happened not to have a day duty, but later the assignment was made alphabetically, and every one, with the exception of the cook and his assistant, stood the watch.

  The watchman had certain privileges, however. His post was in the library. He was allowed a candle and a kerosene lantern. More often than not, he induced the cook to provide him with hot coffee in a thermos jug, and sandwiches, to fortify himself against the rigor of the vigil. The duties were varied and interesting. Every half hour he was required to step outside and observe the auroral display1 and record his report in a book that Davies had provided for that purpose. This watch, however, was later taken over by Demas, who stood it most of the winter, because he believed he could make use of the quiet to pursue his studies. Demas is one of the most studious young men I have ever known. The watchman also had to check up, at frequent intervals, the direction and velocity of the wind, which was accomplished by means of an ingenious, electrical recording device that Haines had rigged in the scientific room. At least once before 2 o’clock A.M. and once afterwards, he was obliged to make the rounds between the main houses, both via the tunnels and overland, if storm did not preclude the latter trip. This was a precaution against fire. At 6:30 o’clock in the morning, he kindled the fires in the galley and the stove in the administration building, called the cook, filled the bucket on the library stove with snow, so that the others might have warm water with which to wash, and so to bed.

  The duty was not especially complicated, and the watch was popular with some men for the reason that it allowed them the solitude for reading and study. The walk overland between the houses was, for those who had the desire to find it so, a rich and stirring experience. On clear, calm nights, a silver moon was often visible, stars glittered with abnormal brilliance, and the trackless expanse of the Barrier was dominated by a silence so deep and profound that it seemed to be physical. At such a moment no place on earth could be more quiet. Then, from afar off, would come perhaps the distant rumble of the Barrier breaking, or from nearby the terrifying reports of contracting ice, like a burst of rifle fire. Once or twice I heard a snow quake—an extensive rumbling and shaking under foot as the crust of vast snow fields to the south settled to a more solid level. Then the silence would restore the equipoise.

  Inside the huts, a silence of a different nature: the lulling whirr of the revolving cups of the anemometer overhead, not unlike the sound of an idling propeller slightly off center, and, when it was very cold, the thrumming of the taut wires supporting the anemometer pole, the fainter sound of men breathing, and sometimes an indiscreet phrase mumbled by a sleeper.

  Despite the cold, there were some men who went out of doors every day, for exercise and fresh air. Save during the worst kind of weather, I made this my practice, and there were many others who did the same. Sometimes we walked in groups, but more often went alone, not because we did not want company, but because we wanted privacy more. A few minutes of reflective contemplation under the broad arch of sky were always good. We followed, as a rule, the trail to the westward, down Ver-sur-Mer Inlet to the Bay.

  There was always something new to be found there. Pressure ridges changed their shape constantly. New ones appeared, rising, in some cases, to heights of 30 and 40 feet, taking on eerie forms in the half-light. Far off when the moon was out, the cliffs of the western Barrier were visible, their white walls merging dimly into the gray overtones of the night. In certain places voices carried marvellously. One could hear men talking as if they were nearby, although one or two miles away. The swish of skis on the snow carried on the crisp air very clearly.

  Dr. Gould and Davies made studies of ice formations, particularly of the crevasses in the neighborhood. The ice pits to the north of the camp were fascinating, although they scarcely approached in magnitude the chaotic disturbances to the southwest, where the Barrier met the bay ice. I was determined to investigate these, and during the winter descended one of them. It was done on a very cold day. The temperature registered 50° below, and on the way to the crevasses Strom froze his toe so severely he had to run back to the camp, to thaw it. However, he returned quickly. Because the cold stopped the chemical action of dry batteries, we could not use flashlights. Hanson had rigged up a searchlight to a portable gasoline generator, which we trundled to the scene of operations. In the party were Strom, Siple, Vaughan, Feury, Dr. Coman and Thorne.

  We came to a halt at the brink of one of the largest chasms. It was perhaps three feet across. The searchlight was pointed down, but it failed to show the bottom as the crevasse did not fall straight, but bent in at a sharp angle. Strom made a series of lines fast about my chest and, with the others holding, started to descend. Just as I reached the first curve in the wall, the line across my chest began to choke me. I yelled at the top of my lungs, but the sound from the gasoline engine was so loud that they did not hear me. With my legs spinning wildly over space and unable to gain a foothold on the smooth walls, I thought, for a moment, I might choke to death. But a few vigorous tugs on the line brought quick response from above. I was hauled out, and on the surface rearranged the lines, then went down again.

  The beauty of that descent I could not hope to describe. The beam from the searchlight fell on immense ice crystals, some of which were from 5 to 8 inches long, which festooned the walls, and burned like myriads of gem
s. The walls themselves, when I glanced back, had in the light of the searchlight turned into emerald green and blue and purple and seemed transparent.

  Preceded by a shower of crystals, I descended slowly. About 15 feet down, the crevasse turned sharply, and I carefully picked my way from projection to projection. About 40 feet down, I touched bottom, and found myself standing in a grotto, with the domed walls curving in above me, and the refracted illumination from the searchlight falling through the slit rose in a glorious rainbow. Here and there a few thin columns of vapor rose trembling from the floor. To the right and left the walls closed in narrowly, so that I was unable to go more than a few feet in either direction. The thermometer which I carried registered only 15° below zero.

  In response to my signal, Strom lowered a crowbar, and I attacked the ice underfoot, to determine whether the ice on which I stood was solid or merely a bridge. In spite of diligent prodding, I penetrated no more than a foot, where I came to solid ice. I tasted a bit of the slush, and it was unmistakably salty. The sea water, then, filled the crevasses in the vicinity of Little America from sea level down. Of course, it is probably frozen all year round. What fascinated me most were the ice crystals, which littered the floor of the crevasse. They were extraordinarily large and perfect in structure. These Antarctic flowers are formed by the vapor from the warmer sea water rising, condensing and freezing, the successive droplets forming long, pendant crystals.

  There is one point I should like to make clear. The notion that the winter night is pitch dark is an exaggeration. A completely dark night is the exception rather than the rule. On what was presumably the darkest night of all, June 21st, when the sun is at its greatest distance below the horizon, a narrow ribbon of pale red illuminated the northern horizon at noon. Often, after a stiff blow from the south, the darkness of a water sky, which indicated the Ross Sea was open, stood out sharply against the lighter hues of the night. Throughout July, save when the sky was overcast, a widening arch of light in the northern sky heralded the slow-returning day. The winter night is, as a rule, a dark somber gray rather than total darkness. And, besides, one does become accustomed to partial darkness.

  The Aurora Australis, the Antarctic equivalent of the Aurora Borealis, which rarely failed to appear,1 imparted a lovely illumination to the night. Most of these displays were seen shortly after midnight, although there was generally a second period of subsidiary maximum between 6 and 7 o’clock at night. They were but rarely seen at noon. By far the greatest number appeared in the east, and the fewest in the direction of the south magnetic Pole. The appearance of the aurora in the west came generally in the nature of an advance guard to the more brilliant display in the east.

  The aurora is perhaps the most beautiful gift of the heavens. Its form changes constantly, and its coloring and intensity vary with a rapidity that baffles the eye. The fainter displays were usually white, with a greenish or yellow-white overtone, but with increasing intensity other colors—pink, red, violet, green and yellow—made their appearance. On May 4th, we saw a gorgeous display, in which every form of the aurora made its appearance—glows, curtains, arches, coronas, streamers. Shortly after 7 o’clock, a series of undulating curtains stretched across the sky, almost overhead, from east to west, with a band of pink and purple running along the edges, and rose and straw-yellow softly suffusing the interior. For a few moments these curtains rippled and shimmered, as if shaken by some Olympian hand. Then they parted, and a mass of colors, deep and intense, whirling and turbulent, came in, like actors taking the stage, and filled the Heavens with color. Once I had the unusual experience of seeing an aurora, a sunset glow and the moon at the same time. It occurred on May 19th. I had stepped out for a breath of fresh air. Far to the north the distant sun, shining on distant parts of the world, painted a thin line of yellow on the horizon. Due east, the moon, red and glowing, strove to push clear of fragments of cloud wrack that obscured its face; and from the north to the south the aurora weaved in pale and lovely curtains.

  But the Antarctic night can be as black as the darkest pit, when the sky is overcast or stormy. On such occasions the daily walk had a spice of adventure. The beacon on the northeastern radio tower was always turned on when conditions were bad, but even its friendly and reassuring wink was obscured by light falling snow. On June 25th, during the severest blizzard we had theretofore experienced, Harrison insisted upon taking the overland trail between the houses. In the dense drift he lost his way, and if the wind had not shifted slightly, so that he caught sight of the beacon, in the brief time it was exposed, it might well have been the end of him. Our cook was nearly lost in the same way. Toward the end of the winter, we honored Tennant with a holiday, to give him an opportunity to study the Antarctic from a different position than the galley. He celebrated it promptly by getting lost between the main houses; and after vain feints through the murk stumbled at last upon the mess house. He was so chagrined that he would not venture out thereafter except when the sky was clear, for which we were properly grateful.

  It was easy to become lost, even within a radius of fifty feet of the camp. After a blizzard, everything about Little America, save the radio towers, was buried in snow. The houses and the airplane hangars were obliterated, and it took a practiced eye to distinguish the identities of the shapeless mounds that showed above the surface. In a storm, even these few landmarks disappeared; and the walker thus overtaken had to rely upon a sense of direction and a glimpse of the beacon to guide him home.

  However boring may be the subject of weather in civilization, it is ever a lively topic in the Antarctic. It is a vital subject to the scientists, in the first place. And its vagaries and excesses were interesting to all.

  May began with a warm spell. On the 2nd the thermometer registered as high as 13 degrees above zero. But on the 4th it plunged to 42° below. On the 26th, a wind from the south-southeast drove it up to 5° above after an uninterrupted spell of sub-zero weather, but the wind shifted again to the east and before the day ended, the thermometer read 38° below zero. The monthly average was 22.6° below.

  June was rather a temperate month, with a mean temperature of 10.7° below. On one day, the 9th, it was actually warm, the thermometer registering as high as 1 5° above zero. This month was marked by two extraordinary phenomena. On the 11th and on the 19th what was undeniably a misty rain fell, which, as it clung to windward side of the radio towers and other exposed surfaces, formed a rime which built up into a beautiful fringe of ice crystals. From one end to the other the camp was festooned with these ice flowers, some of which were three to four inches in length, and the scene was indescribably beautiful. There were a number of occasions on which fog formed at temperatures as low as 40° below zero, in quantities thick enough to obscure objects less than 1,000 feet away. That water vapor can exist in a sub-cooled state in nature at such low temperatures was a great surprise to many of us, and science has not yet evolved a satisfactory theory for its presence.

  Next to March, June was the snowiest month of our stay. The snowfall for the month was 16.2 inches.

  July came in frostily, with a temperature of below the first day. It went out with a roar. The wind reached a velocity of 75 miles per hour for one minute on the 30th1, and on the 31st was still blowing hard. For 27 days the temperature fluctuated between 2° above and 69° below. On the 28th, it plunged to72° below zero.1 On the 31st, it recorded 11° above. The monthly average was 44.7° below. Five blizzards, three of great severity, distinguished July. Yet, from the point of view of clearness, it was the best month of all. There were 17 clear days.

  August came in warm, with a temperature of 15° above, but it went out in a chill, the temperature for the 31st being 66° below. During a severe storm on the 16th, the barometer dropped to the lowest point ever recorded in the Antarctic, 27.82 inches.2 Yet much worse storms were heralded with a less drastic fall. Over and over again, it was shown that the barometer was wholly unreliable in foreshadowing weather conditions in the Antarctic.
On the 22nd, the winter was officially closed when the sun returned.

  How cold was it, really, at Little America?

  Well, let us look at Haines’ charts. During 114 days the temperature reached 40° below zero; on 62 days, 50° below; on 33 days, 6o° below, and on three days, 70° below. Yet it was subject to violent changes. During a blizzard on the 5th and 6th of June, the temperature rose from 49° below to 16° above in the space of 20 hours—a change of 65 degrees. A rise in temperature of from 30° to 40° within a few hours was not uncommon during a blizzard; in fact, was a characteristic resultant. So we came to welcome a blizzard as a mixed blessing: it was a nuisance by itself, but it generally lifted the siege of a protracted cold spell. However, when the wind shifted to the south, as it often did after a blizzard, the temperature retaliated by falling quite as rapidly as it rose. So we never had reason to complain of the heat.

  These excessive temperatures had singular effects. One of the most fascinating manifestations to men who had never heard of the phenomenon was the freezing of the breath. When the temperature went under below one’s breath froze as it exhaled, with a sound like a wind rustling over snow. It is an uncanny thing, and the day when it first was observed, the incredulous members of the expedition insisted on going outside to test their own breaths, before they would accept the fact.

  When the temperature fell below 55°, kerosene lanterns used in the tunnel would go out, though not a breath of air was stirring. The fuel, of course, had frozen. The rubber insulation on the telephone wires became brittle and broke when handled. Rucker and Van der Veer had a horrible time with their motion picture cameras. In severe cold, the moving parts would bind, owing to unequal contraction. Under 25° below, the film began to break, and the men had to rethread them with bare hands, while their frozen fingers stuck painfully to metal parts. After such an operation, I have seen them dancing about in the snow, hugging their hands under their armpits, like men possessed. The slightest bit of moisture in the cameras froze the moment it was exposed. The instruments were usually left outside, for on coming in contact with the warm air of the houses they immediately were covered with frost. In cases where cameras were brought in, before they could be used again, it was necessary to take them apart, wipe them thoroughly and bake them for several hours near the stove. If Rucker or Van der Veer breathed on the lenses, however slightly, the vapor froze in irremovable frost and went out of action. Yet these two men accepted this inconvenience as part of the job: I have seen few men so absorbed in their work as Van der Veer was absorbed in his photography.