Into White Silence

by Anthony Eaton

  Naturally, Captain McLaren protested this most vehemently and another argument would have broken out, had not George intervened and spoken in favour of the Captain’s proposal.

  ‘I agree, Edward, that it’s not something we want to face, but the Captain is right to point out that it might happen, in which case we’ll be much better off if we at least have a plan in place from the outset.’

  Mr Rourke asked the rest of us for our thoughts and I too voiced my approval of the notion, while Mr Ryan said that it didn’t matter to him or the men what we decided, as long as we did our level best to get the ship moving again and extricate us ‘… from this god-forsaken lump of ice …’

  As a result, I have been detailed to start planning immediately, in the event that – God forbid – we remain beset for winter. This will be quite a challenge, but one which I believe I am up to, and in all honesty, I will be thankful for something to occupy my mind these next few days.

  After the meeting was concluded all hands were mustered in the wardroom, which was a squeeze, as you can imagine, but with the snow still falling heavily, it seemed the most comfortable and practical place to gather. By this point, much of the exhaustion and numbness that I referred to earlier had passed and several of the men were actually in very high spirits, regarding this whole thing as a bit of a lark. We did nothing to discourage this as, however events of the next few days unfold, we will need all hands pulling together.

  Once everyone was gathered, Mr Rourke stood and made quite a good speech, beginning with the observation that, ‘You might not have noticed, but our progress has slowed considerably in the last twenty-four hours …’

  This comment was taken in general good humour and even raised laughter from a couple of men. The Leader then continued, though now in a more serious manner.

  ‘I won’t lie to you and pretend that this isn’t a damned inconvenience, or that it doesn’t make our plans just a little more difficult, however I want to make it abundantly clear at this point that, as things stand, we’re not in a bad way. There is still plenty of warm weather ahead, and chances are that the ice will blow itself back out to sea well before winter sets in, in which case we shall make haste for the nearest possible landfall and there build our winter quarters. This, naturally, will mean some re-assessment of our overall objectives, however I would still hope to make the push for the pole next summer as scheduled.

  ‘In the event that we remain stuck here for the winter, I have detailed Mr Downes to formulate a plan of action and we shall convert the Raven to winter quarters, and ride out the worst of it.’

  At this point, one of the men interjected and asked what would happen if our ship went the way of Shackleton’s Endurance, to which Mr Rourke replied that he didn’t imagine it would come to that, but if it looked likely, we’d make our plans accordingly.

  There were several other queries, mostly about mundane matters of watch rotation and such like and these were, for the most part, dealt with by Captain McLaren, who informed the company that we’d be going onto anchor watches for as long as the ship was beset and that those on watch would be permitted to shelter in the chartroom, as long as they made hourly rounds.

  Food was the next matter under discussion, and George Smythe-Davis told us that at this point our supplies were adequate to maintain our normal rations for the time being.

  With all the major questions dealt with, Mr Rourke took the floor once more.

  ‘There is no reason at all for us to think we’re not going to make it out of the ice. The measures we’ve discussed tonight are precautionary, nothing more, and I don’t want to hear of anybody voicing opinions to the contrary. I hope I’ve made myself clear on that point.’

  Thus dismissed, the meeting broke up and most of the crew returned to their duties, while the rest of us sat around in the wardroom, chatting.

  The snow continued throughout the afternoon and, at around 1420, we lowered the gangplank and Mr Ryan used a long probe to test the depth of the snow and ice around us, and attempt to locate the edges of the ice floe in which we are trapped. Everything appeared solid, right out to the limits of our visibility, and so the ship’s company were permitted off board and a snowball fight quickly ensued, followed by a rather spirited game of football between the crew and a team of the expedition staff.

  The skylarking caught the attention of the dogs and they were soon yipping and barking fit to wake the dead, so at around 1600 we began bringing them down from their kennels for a run around. Mr Rourke would not allow Piotre to be brought up from below to assist with this process, so we were forced to make do from memory, and on the whole this worked out adequately, though most of the men could only manage one, or at the outside two dogs at a time, so the process took quite a while.

  Dinner was also a merry affair, with a surprising amount of ribald humour. Michael Burke did a number of impressions of well known figures back home, which had the wardroom in fits of laughter. Alex even cheered up enough to recite a poem, The Queen of Sheba, which was also well received, and resulted in him looking gratifyingly happy for the first time in ages.

  Notably absent from all this merrymaking, however, was Randolph Lawson, who is usually in full cry at moments like this. When I realised he wasn’t among the party in the wardroom, I suspected that he was probably in the hold keeping Piotre company. In this I was proved correct, finding the two of them down there, conversing in much the same manner as I discovered them a week ago.

  The change in our situation has not had a good impact upon the poor boy, understandably so. Despite the generally positive feeling upstairs, the atmosphere in the hold is quite different. With the ship completely still for the first time in months, it is now very quiet down there – the occasional creak of ice vibrates through from outside, but for the most part, the hold has fallen silent. The usual gurgle of water past the hull, the rumble of the engine, the shifting of coal in the bunker, even the creak of rope cargo lashings working against the motion of the ship, have all vanished completely and the resulting silence, which is quite profound, has not been good for Piotre’s already fragile state of mind. When I found them, Lawson was holding one arm around the boy’s shoulders and the lad’s face was streaked with tears. Lawson informed me that, in the silence, Piotre thought he could hear his father’s voice speaking to him from the ocean outside and he was terrified to be left alone.

  Immediately, I went in search of Mr Rourke to plead once more for some degree of clemency on the boy’s behalf, but the Leader was nowhere to be found – quite a feat aboard a ship this size. In the end, I returned to the brig with Doctor Dalby; he, Lawson and I have decided to split the evening between us so that at least the boy will constantly have company. While I know I cannot communicate with him to any degree, I am hoping that my presence will provide him with some small measure of comfort.

  Lawson and Dalby are taking the first two shifts. I am due up for anchor watch at midnight and will relieve Dalby immediately afterwards and so, for the moment, I am going to put my head down and catch what sleep I can.

  * * *

  EIGHTEEN

  A VISIT TO WILKES. THE COLD (COLD) WAR. ABANDONMENT, ISOLATION, AND THE INEXORABLE CREEP OF ICE. FEBRUARY. DYNAMITE. HUNTING. SUNSET. A CRUCIAL DECISION.

  Across the bay from Casey crouch the abandoned remains of the old Wilkes Station, buried among the snowdrifts on the Clark Peninsula. From the luxurious environs of Casey little can be seen of the old station. The decrepit Wilkes raydome, now just an empty shell of fibreglass and rotting plywood, is the only visible structure remaining – a white sentinel perched in frozen vigil atop one of the few rocky outcrops on the peninsula that remains ice-free. Around it, the remains of Wilkes lie buried, frozen into the snow drifts that constantly build up on that exposed finger of coastline.

  The morning after I’d discovered Downes’ journal, while my mind was still reeling with the terrible, beautiful implications of his story, I was given the opportunity to visit Wilkes. Our expedition�
��s two ornithologists were to be dropped there to complete some field work in a nearby penguin rookery and I jumped at the opportunity to tag along. After carefully placing the journal in the bottom of my daypack, I headed off.

  Unlike its modern neighbour, Wilkes Station was the child of a different world; where Casey, with its laboratories, magnetic and atmospheric monitoring stations, human impact divers, biologists, zoologists and physicists, is a product of the thirst for scientific knowledge, Wilkes was born into a world of paranoia and secrecy.

  In February 1956, the Soviet Union established a base on the Eastern Coast of Antarctica, on the shores of the Davis Sea, which they named Mirny. The word itself means ‘peace’, but the introduction of a Soviet toehold on the Antarctic mainland during the height of the cold war was not looked upon favourably by the United States and Australian governments. In response, on 29th January 1957, a crew of one-hundred United States Navy personnel began construction of a base on the Clark Peninsula, completing the entire task in only sixteen days.

  They named it for the American explorer Charles Wilkes and settled in amidst the howling gales and driving snow so endemic to that particular part of the world.

  Almost immediately, it became clear that Wilkes Station had not been well sited; the winds drive metres of snow across the Clark Peninsula every year and the chill that they bring with them forms ice on every surface: rock, metal, wood and canvas. For the men who lived at Wilkes, life was a constant battle just to stay above the surface of the surrounding, encroaching, ever-changing landscape.

  But the Soviets had, in the meantime, constructed another station, this time inland, almost fifteen-hundred kilometres due south of Wilkes, high up on the polar ice sheet. Vostok, as it was named, remains to this day the most isolated of all the Antarctic Scientific stations. It is a harsh and unforgiving place; the lowest temperature ever reliably measured in the history of human endeavour, minus 89.2 degrees centigrade, was recorded at Vostok during the winter of 1983. The station sits upon a crust of ice 3700 metres deep, into which is frozen, if you like, the geophysical history of the planet. It is a lonely, isolated, and altogether private place and was regarded by the US and Australia alike with deep suspicion.

  And so, despite the driving snows and constant threat of burial, Wilkes was kept active, being the closest station at that time to both Mirny and Vostok. Wilkes became the eyes and ears of the democratic world.

  In 1959 administrative control of Wilkes was handed over to the Australian government and, in 1961, Australia assumed full control of its first permanent Antarctic station.

  Though perhaps the word ‘permanent’ shouldn’t be used here. Certainly Australia has had a constant presence in and around the area of Newcombe Bay ever since, but nothing in this world is ever permanent and, in Antarctic conditions, even less so. Wilkes had been built to last for two years – a hurried, stop-gap solution to a Soviet problem – and by the time the decision was finally taken to abandon the station in 1969, Wilkes had suffered a litany of fuel spills, the perpetual threat of fire, and of course the ever present, inexorable creep of the ice.

  To visit Wilkes today is to understand futility. As the crow flies, it is only a couple of kilometres across the bay from Casey to Wilkes, however to get there by land requires a slow, jolting ride in a tracked, diesel-powered, oversnow vehicle. The Hagglund, as it’s known, is the workhorse of the modern Antarctic station. Tough, reliable, amphibious, with the suspension of a tractor and as noisy as hell.

  When I stepped from the chaotic, jolting passenger cabin of a Hagglund out onto the ice at Wilkes on a calm summer day, the silence was deafening. Somewhere in the distance a couple of seabirds cried into the iridescent sky and, invisible beyond the ice-dunes, the sigh of calm, open water in Newcombe Bay were the only aural counterpoints to an otherwise still morning.

  The last remaining habitable building at Wilkes, the former radio-shack, still stands a couple of hundred metres uphill from the station proper. Used nowadays as a field refuge, and an occasional weekend getaway for those living at Casey, the ‘Wilkes Hilton’ – to use its contemporary title – is, perhaps, as close as it is possible to get in this modern age to the stereotypical Antarctic hut as it might have been experienced by the early explorers. Inside it is cosy and warm, the interior crowded with food and supplies, bunks and equipment, and the walls festooned with various items of Antarctic paraphernalia. Old-fashioned skis and snowshoes, probably used by the original inhabitants, hang from the walls. Reading material left by various visitors during the fifty-odd years of the building’s history is gathered on rough shelves. An old wood stove – long cold now – once kept warm both the men and the equipment whose task it was to monitor and listen for any hint of Soviet activity from far off Vostok.

  But such times are long in the past and today the atmosphere inside the ‘Wilkes Hilton’ is one of welcome. Here is where Casey stationers spend long, warm nights in good company, while the gales and blizzards are held at bay by the hut’s stout, wooden walls.

  Outside, though, walking alone through the buried streets of Wilkes, there is nothing of this sort of warm cheerfulness. Here and there a roof pokes up through the ice; barrels and crates litter the landscape, many still containing steel cans of food or fuel or other such provisions. Corrugated iron sheets are pitted and ravaged by winds but unrusted. During the summer enormous skuas – fearsome predators of penguin chicks – nest among the ruins, greeting visitors who inadvertently venture too close with raucous screeching.

  On my way down towards the bay I stopped beside the roof of one of the old huts. Once the building had stood five or six metres high but now it was buried such that the eaves were level with my feet. Stopping and dropping to the ground, I peered through a narrow gap into the dim-lit interior, finding the room inside full almost to roof level with hard blue ice. In the little light that was able to penetrate, shadows of the past lurked, frozen deep within the ice, just like everything else.

  Down by the water, standing alone on the ice-crusted shoreline, I stared for some time across the bay, back past the reassuringly orange bulk of the Aurora to where Casey perched, high on the hills opposite. Even from a distance, the brightly painted sheds and the hi-tech Anaresat dome were clearly visible, a stark contrast to the decrepit, frozen Janesway huts buried behind me.

  Through the indigo water, several small Adelie penguins porpoised past, flipping towards a floating chunk of brash ice several hundred metres out in the bay. Behind me, up the hill, I could hear my fellow expeditioners laughing, enjoying their morning in the sun, and for some time I stood there, wondering at the serenity and trying to imagine what it would have felt like to be the first person to set foot down here, upon this alien coast. Thinking about the ghosts of Wilkes – the Americans and Australians, scientists and servicemen alike – who’d endured the long dark months of the polar night, listening for a Russian voice from the blizzards.

  Naturally enough, my thoughts quickly turned to the extraordinary, frightening tale I’d read just the night before and which now rested in my bag beside me. Of course, Downes himself had never visited Wilkes, though it is certain that, at some point in the months following the Raven’s entrapment, he and his shipmates had passed by this particular piece of coastline. Trapped in his steel-clad shell and creeping inexorably, inevitably west, covering a degree of longitude about every four days, who’s to say that he didn’t stare south across the sea ice towards the point where I now stood? Perhaps, catching a glimpse of land sky in the distance, he wondered at the possible wisdom of striking out for that frozen horizon, hitting out alone across the sea ice and hoping that, if he could just make landfall, he’d find the resources and wherewithal to survive.

  He didn’t, of course, and even if he had, the shattered, buried remains of Wilkes Station, thrown up so hastily some thirty-five years later, suggest that it would have been a futile exercise, anyway.

  * * *

  From the Journal of Lieutenant William Downesr />
  29th January, 1922

  Polar Exploration Vessel Raven

  Approx. 66°43’S, 127°26’E

  Finally, enough clear weather to take a quick shot of the sun and pin down our location, though in many ways there doesn’t seem a great deal of point in doing so. The ship remains firmly beset, with no sign of open water anywhere in sight.

  Most of today was spent clearing the decks of snow and ice build up, and exercising the dogs. Mr Ryan took a small hunting party out late this afternoon, but came back empty-handed, so it’s another meal of dry kibble for the hounds, I’m afraid.

  Piotre continues as before. Several of the men have offered to join in the rotation of those keeping him company, but Mr Rourke has effectively prevented them from doing so by declaring the lower hold off-limits to all but myself, Lawson and the Doctor. He claims this is a measure to protect the men from the possibility of temptation, with so many of our supplies and so much of our equipment kept below, and in that regard I can see the wisdom of his decision. It makes the task of caring for Piotre much more difficult, however, and I suspect that Rourke is not unaware of this fact.

  2nd Febuary, 1922

  Another blizzard has us all below decks again. Late yesterday evening the wind swung abruptly and picked up in strength until, within fifteen minutes of the first gust, it was howling from the south at something in the order of a hundred knots. We barely had time to batten down the ship before it was upon us, driving sheets of ice before it and sending the temperature plunging well below zero.