“But we don’t have any bags!” he screamed.
“Call Central Supply!” she screamed back.
After everyone had simmered down, Jane realized with horror that our new welding console that had arrived on Vessel, been lost in the melee of Offload, recently been found, and been delivered to the Heavy Shop instead of to the Waste Barn, was in the hands of these goons. She asked them about the welder.
At the lunch table we stopped eating and leaned closer to hear.
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly on our priority list,” said the troll. “You think maybe you could just pick that dumpster up and—”
“Whuh-ohhh!” from the lunch table.
“I’m not picking the dumpster up,” she retorted.
“Ha!” from the lunch table.
As we ate breaded prawns and Jane finished her story, we caught the last part of a conversation at the next table, where Thom was talking about some asshole at the bar who was telling him never to get married. “All you get is screaming kids and a used-up pussy,” the guy had told him. We batted around the filthiness of the phrase “used-up pussy” for a while; then Jeannie began exploring the implications of the phrases “Fuck your brains out” and “Fuck the shit out of you.”
The soft-spoken and polite Heavy Shop supervisor had come to the back room to sit by himself a few tables away. He was shaking salt onto his food.
Jeannie was chanting now, “Fuck your brains out, fuck your brains out, fuck the shit out of you, fuck the shit out of you…” The Heavy Shop supervisor stood up, took his tray, and returned to the other section of the Galley.
A few days after we finished grinding, I was running Terminator around town collecting trash. There were two Construction Debris dumpsters by the JSOC construction project. I’d already dumped one, but when I went to get the other I noticed a lot of wood in it, so I climbed from my loader to examine it. The project foreman saw me rooting through the dumpster and came over.
“This dumpster was over there and before I knew it they put all this wood in there,” he said, implying that I should take the dumpster as it is.
“I can bring you another wood dumpster for over there,” I said.
“It’s just bags at the bottom under the wood,” he said.
“This wood needs to go in a wood dumpster,” I said, before we went too far. “Wood gets dumped in the Woodpile. We grind it up. We can’t grind up whatever’s in these other bags, and I can’t dump that much wood into Construction Debris.”
He nodded with his lips pursed. “But what about all this stuff?” he said. “It’s 40 feet long and won’t go in a dumpster.”
I followed him across the road to see the broken sides of long crates that this winter’s construction materials had been packed in. On the way I introduced myself. We all wore the same socks. And, disconcertingly, in a few months our farts would smell exactly the same. I looked at the pile. These enormous crates had been ordered at the last minute, so The Program had to pay top dollar. Now, because the crates had cost so much, there was some elaborate scheme brewing to save them, while up the hill we were grinding half-sheets of ply for hog chow.
“That’s good it’s stacked,” I said.
“It was a pain in the ass to stack.”
“Do you have any cargo straps?”
“No.”
“I’ll bring you some cargo straps. Just cargo strap these up and they’ll be good to go. Do you have any pallets?” I asked him.
“No.”
“I’ll bring you some pallets.”
“But look at this shitty wood,” he said, snapping off a piece of wood with his foot. “This stuff is going to fall all over the place.”
“What do you suggest?” I asked him. I noticed suddenly that his fingers were as thick as oak saplings, his thumbs even thicker.
“Bring us a big container we can throw it in, and then you guys can sort it out from there.”
Bighand was brand new from stateside, where construction projects had easy access to landfills. But we were on a remote island where the burnpiles and landfills had been discontinued, and waste is ugly cargo that must be processed and packaged just as precious cargo must, to leave by boat. Waste is Antarctica’s main export.
“We have to grind all this wood; we don’t send it out as-is,” I explained. “And if it spills, it spills. But it’s less likely to spill if it’s strapped than if it’s not strapped.”
I didn’t want to come across as a mere bureaucrat, so I lightened the subject and told him the cost of these crates that he was destroying and that we would eventually grind into chips that The Program would pay a hog feed factory to use as fuel for its furnaces.
“Are you shittin’ me?” he said.
Rumors had been heating up all month about a medevac flight in April. Finally it was officially announced, and our Operations Manager gave us some details at a morning meeting in the Heavy Shop. He didn’t know anything about the person or people being medevac’d. He said that no one knew when the plane would come in or which planes would come in; it would either be Air National Guard or Kiwis. If the ANG flew down, they would bring a complete extra crew, extra rotors, and extra parts, leaving little room for freshies or mail, he said. If a Kiwi plane flew down, he said, there would be plenty of room for freshies and mail, because the only things the Kiwis would need for themselves are the Sports section and a pint of milk.
Like other McMurdoites, he had a low opinion of the Air National Guard, whom people describe as “prima donnas” or “whining clowns.” Most ANG come down for only three weeks at a time; they’re issued free humidifiers for their rooms, won’t eat Grasshopper Pie unless it’s labeled “Mint-Chocolate Pie,” and erase videos to record football games. They are short-timers who complain that McMurdo is miserable because there is no good TV and there are weird couscous salads and other tragic products of civilian culture. Though individual courtesies are exaggerated between members of the two groups, and outright hostility is rare, there is little recreational mingling between civilians and the military. Whether by choice or because of rudeness from the redcoats, the green jumpsuits gather at their own tables. Whereas almost every facility in town remains unlocked and open for use by all, a sign on the door of a lounge once read that it was off-limits to anyone but ANG “and their guests.” Their dorm buildings prohibit entry to anyone but ANG “and their guests.”
The Air National Guard replaced the Navy as air logistics provider to The Program. The Navy had founded McMurdo in 1955 and, even with the increasing role of NSF administration and defense contractors since the 1960s, continued to play a big part in running the show. Navy culture still permeates the base with terms such as “Galley,” “Ship’s Store,” “Fleet-Ops,” and “Midrats.” In 1998, the Navy was phased out of The Program, and the ANG was brought in as a hired gun rather than as a powerful partner. Unlike Navy workers, ANG never stay for the winter. The terrible relationship between the civilians and the ANG has been exacerbated by a few incidents in which winter-overs have stolen things from ANG storage. The predation by winter-overs was summarized by an ANG guy: “As soon as the last aircraft leaves, everything on Ross Island belongs to whomever is left and can get to it first.”
With the previously military foundation removed, the ex-military oldboys network is slowly disbanded, and a more corporate order emerges yearly. Official memos now refer to the “Dining Facility,” when no one calls it anything but “the Galley.” In 1958 the McMurdo beer selection was Budweiser, Pabst, and Schlitz. In 2001 the alcohol selection included Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and more than one Pinot Noir. In 1958, “dirty jokes or smutty sayings” were not allowed. In 2001, “inappropriate behavior” was not tolerated. The extensive collection of military history books in the library has been discarded to make room for self-help and pop-psychology books.
After a long, relaxing weekend in the U.S., NSF suddenly croaked out a date for the medevac flight. Since Monday in Washington D.C. and Denver is Sunday in McMurdo, the Fle
et-Ops operators were hustled in on Sunday to groom Pegasus Runway. Time is of the essence! The mission is critical! After a few days, Fleet-Ops had the runway ready, just in time for the flight to be delayed for obscure reasons.
As soon as the plane was official, people started ordering New Zealand groceries over the Internet. Laz ordered 20 pounds of chicken-flavored potato chips and some cigars. We heard that ANG was coming down with over 30 crew members for a “rescue mission.” There was still sunlight, and the weather had been good. An ex-military friend told me they had so large a crew because if one goes on a “rescue mission,” one receives a medal, which is useful for promotions.
We started a pool betting on how many people would go out. Some said two, some said ten. The high numbers were wiser. Even if the plane was officially coming to get only one person for medical reasons, a plane is a plane. That meant that people who didn’t like their winter so far could quit, and managers who didn’t like their employees could fire them. Also, anyone who went into Medical for a minor injury would be taking a risk. Despite the emails from the Safety Guy in Denver ordering us to report our injuries, with a plane coming, we knew that a minor injury was as good as schizophrenia on the paperwork, and anyone reporting one risked being sent home. Wherever management saw a problem, the plane could solve it.
Nero, Ivan, and I sat in Gallagher’s one night, drawn to Sunday Burger Bar, where volunteers serve greasy planks of meat between stale, frostbitten buns. It wasn’t even dark yet, and we all agreed the vibe was strong. Nero had been in McMurdo the winter of the hammer attack. He had wintered a few times and said it felt different this year, that something big was going to go down.
I cleared the napkins and other burger paraphernalia from the center of the table and got out a piece of paper and we came up with a chart we titled the “Projected Mayhem Index.”7 On the bottom of the graph I listed the months from March to October. On the side, numbers ran from one to ten. We agreed that Level One constituted a normal state of affairs, with backbiting and minor one- or two-week scandals and such. Level Three involved minor skirmishes, perhaps pushing and shoving. Level Five required violent interaction with injury, as well as the presence of extreme paranoia in a party to the interaction, as with the woman who one winter thought her ex-boyfriend was rappelling into her third-story dorm window and doing such things as moving her hairbrush, all of which she explained to HR, who brought the accused in for questioning. Level Seven would be the equivalent of the Hammer Incident or other violence with hints of psychosis. And Level Ten would be anything as bad as the full-fledged Soviet chess game axe murder, which, because it displayed remarkable brutality while hinting at the pettiest of motives, was the worst we wanted to reach with our chart, shying from the realm of cannibalism or occult matters.
One year a winter-over had revealed that he was the reincarnation of Galileo. (This would not appear on the Projected Mayhem Index, as it fell short of mayhem, because Galileo might be fun to have around.) When Siple Dome was a year-round base, some of the crew had splashed chicken blood in the snow, scattered torn clothing around, and reported someone missing. The prank so frightened one of the winter-overs that he thereafter slept alone in an abandoned shack.
And just last night there had been some trouble in Southern.
Injun Joe, an ironworker, was kicked out for hooting at the top of his lungs every few moments. As someone escorted him out the door, I hooted to him. His lively yelping was the only sound audible over Bad Company and Lynyrd Skynyrd, to which Tracker at the bar was pounding shots and playing a sizzling air guitar. Joe broke from his escort and stumbled over to shake my hand and put his arm around my shoulder.
“That muth-fuckuh is a fuckin’ racist!” he said. I caught a shower of spit. “I’m an ironworker!” I thought both he and Tracker were ironworkers. I pointed at Tracker, “What’s he then?”
“What’s he? He’s a fuckin’ monkey!”
He flipped Tracker off and grabbed himself by the crotch before he walked out the door and went to the other bar. Injun Joe was still drunk at breakfast, hollering in the Galley.
Munching our burgers in Gallagher’s, we each drew lines on our chart showing our predictions for the tumult of the winter to come. We noticed patterns of agreement. We all agreed, for example, that the Winfly flight in August would bring a sharp decrease in Projected Mayhem, as there would be new people around and the end of the winter would be near. We also agreed that something like a fight in April would be compensated for by a calm May. We also agreed that June and July would be banner months for deranged mayhem. While Ivan and I both forecast a Projected Mayhem of Level Seven for July, Nero’s indicator shot all the way up to Ten that month.
“C’mon dude,” I prodded. “You really think something like an axe murder is going to happen this winter?”
“Man,” he said, “Something real weird is going to go down this winter. I can feel it.”
CHAPTER 6 NOTES
1 “‘Do you see that black thing over there?’ Hassel called out urgently as they were making camp on the 13th. Everybody saw it. ‘Can it be Scott?’ someone called. Bjaaland ran forward to investigate. He did not have to run far. ‘Mirage,’ he reported laconically, ‘dog turds.’”—Roland Huntford, Scott and Amundsen
2 Poopypants would later find herself hitchhiking on a desolate road in New Zealand with little hope of catching a ride, when an eight-seat van carrying three people approached. She recognized the passengers as people who’d shared her special time on the world’s seventh continent, where people in a hostile place come together in order to survive. The van sped by her while a woman hung out the window and yelled, “Good luck getting a ride, Poopypants!”
3 Paul Siple reported that during the first year at Pole they received a phone patch from Art Linkletter, a TV emcee: “The men learned from him which movie actors and actresses were still married and which had divorced… There was also a contact with a somewhat gay Dean Martin, the singer who was in Las Vegas. The men related that he sang a line from a song, then said he wished he could talk longer but ‘I have to go back to the bar.’”
4 Some scientists at Ellsworth Station in 1957 drew a chart called the “Ronne Rating” to index the relative degrees of contempt they received from the Commanding Officer and base manager Finn Ronne. 1 represented the most hated, where Ronne “completely lost control,” and 8 began to taper off as “nonentity.” 9 meant “nice fellow.”
1 South Pole Station. (Photo: NSF)
2 Robert Scott’s hut at Cape Evans.
3 McMurdo Station.
4 McMurdo’s Uppercase dorms overlook Discovery Hut.
5 When a storm ripped the ship Aurora from its anchor, ten men were marooned in Antarctica for two years. The anchor remains at Cape Evans.
6 The Ironless Hut on the sea ice.
7, 8, 9 The strange world of South Pole
10 Penguins encounter a McMurdo kitchen crew.
11 Unwanted treasures collect in the “skua piles” in the dorm entryways.
12 Cupcake on a string found in one of the tunnels.
13 A fraction of the dozens of pallets of McMurdo’s historic hot dog stockpile.
14, 15 South Pole’s puzzles and board games.
16 The Playhouse about to collapse in the wind.
17 Inside the Dome at Pole. (Photo: Melanie Conner, NSF)
18 Fuel tanker offload at McMurdo.
19 A pickle roams one of McMurdo’s many cargo yards.
20, 21 Deltas on the sea ice.
22 The Terra Bus.
23 McMurdo’s fleet of orange trucks waits to be retro’d back to CONUS.
24 A portion of McMurdo’s fleet of heavy equipment.
25 A Case M4K, better known as a “pickle.”
26 USAP parkas at the Clothing Distribution Center in Christchurch, New Zealand.
27 Standard issue “bunny boots,” with air-valve.
28 Training for Antarctic Hazmat Decon in Texas.
29 Admiral Richa
rd Byrd.
30 A Soviet winter-over removing his own appendix.
31 Historic explorer Sir Robert Scott.
32, 33 Recovery team inspects and bags the remains of one of the passengers after the crash of Flight 901. (Photos: John Stanton)
34 A tourist enjoying Flight 901 before it crashed against Mount Erebus. (Photo: Unknown passenger)
35 McMurdo Mass Casualty Drill.
36 One of the tunnels leading out of the Dome.
37 Drifts block the Waste Barn door after a winter storm.
38 The Wood Pile.
39 Some still claim to hear the footsteps of restless ghosts in this freezer building.
40 The Chalet: NSF’s McMurdo headquarters.
41 McMurdo’s faithful worship the Holy Ghost in the Chapel of the Snows.
42 Orthodox priest ponders polar pagan prank.
43 The Cosmonaut and Polees being run over by a Snowbug. (Photo: Rick Monce)
44 “IMAX” crevasse.
45 Better safe than sorry.
Big Dead Place Page 18