Little America Read online

  During the lull between loadings I found that the dogs, which had been quartered at Quarantine Island, about six miles from Dunedin, were in shocking condition, many of them suffering from diarrhea and distemper. The cause of it, apparently, was a new diet with which we had experimented, and the long journey had aggravated their illness. My pity for the beasts was exceeded only by my concern for the future of the expedition. Without dogs we were hopelessly handicapped. We could not transport our supplies from the ships to our base on the Barrier, much less undertake the extensive program of surface geological and glacialogical exploration. Dogs provide the one means of transportation effective under nearly all conditions of polar travel; and as we proposed to pioneer with aircraft, we looked to them especially for assistance in the event of emergencies. To discover them so depleted by sickness, at this late hour, was a dreadful blow. It was too late to have new dogs shipped from Labrador. Unless these could be restored to health, the expedition could go no farther, at least in 1928.

  In this serious situation we took our troubles to Dr. John Malcolm, professor of dietetics at Otago University. He worked out a new formula, the ingredients of which were beef tallow, meat meal, wheat germ, molasses, and cod liver oil. To every one thousand pounds of pemmican were added two pints of mixed lemon, which are rich in antiscorbutic vitamins. The problem of making a new food was solved when the Hudson Brothers, of Dunedin, loaned us the use of their chocolate factory at night. A dozen workmen volunteered their services after regular hours, and with their help Dr. Malcolm, Mr. Hudson, and Norman Vaughan started in the production of twenty-five tons of pemmican biscuits. They worked steadily for nearly two weeks, from sunset until nearly dawn, and, for all their lack of practice at the art, they produced a tremendous pile of pemmican. Enough at least, I judged, to see the dogs through to the Barrier, and on the trail. Thereafter fresh meat, both seal and whale, could be had in plenty to feed them at the base. The next day we tried out the formula on the dogs, within a few days they began to pick up and by the time we started south most of them were beginning to get in good condition. We lost only four of our dogs, and it has always seemed a miracle there were not more.

  November 24, the Boiling returned from her Wellington errand, loaded down with supplies she had taken on there. Probably the neatest trick of that week was Captain Brown’s, when he finally managed to squeeze the fuselage of the Ford airplane into the pitifully limited hold of his ship; had the crate been half a foot longer, the trick would have been impossible. When it did fall into place, with a sound that might have been interpreted as an imprecation, all hands cheered. Two days later the City came up the narrow passage to Dunedin, and the fo’c’s’le was black with men anxious to have foot on earth and asphalt pavement after three months at sea. If they had hopes of a long holiday, they must have been disillusioned when they sighted the docks. At one end was the Boiling, from whose open hatches poured an unslackening stream of crates and boxes. Supplies were piled up on the docks higher than a man’s head, and this mass was fed constantly by other streams pouring from warehouses. Over this scene presided the indefatigable Brophy directing the flow of each tributary and the activities of half a hundred men with astonishing energy and memory of detail. But I could see that his nerves were not bearing up under the strain and it worried me.

  The City first stopped at Port Chalmers, twenty miles up the harbor from Dunedin. We came down from Christ-church the next morning and the men from the City met us at the train. They were a fine looking group of men. Three months ago most of them were the rankest greenhorns, but now they not only looked like but were real sailormen. Their experience had been far from an easy one. They had had a four-hour watch on duty and four hours off, with work to do while off watch. It was good to see them in their rough clothes and to observe their good humor. They were ready for the contest, I could see.

  Precious little sentiment was given the arrival of the City, although the incident brought all units of the expedition together for the first time in three months. The conferences with Captain Melville with respect to the taking on of cargo were prefaced by an exchange of derisive remarks from the Boiling’s crew ashore and even rougher remarks from the men at the taffrail of the City. Each implied the other had enjoyed a gentlemanly cruise, which was over, and dirty work was at hand. It was indeed. The City went into dry dock immediately, to have her hull scraped clean of the fronds of sea life that such a slow ship picks up on a long journey. The crew was given liberty for the night, with the strict order every man was to report for duty early next morning. Thereupon our labors began in earnest, and the adjoining neighborhood echoed to the sounds of unparalleled activity. It was ever so encouraging to see how every one pitched in; no one was exempt and no one shirked; every one, scientist and seaman alike, worked with his hands, trundling boxes and crates until the back ached and muscles protested. Were it not for the vagueness of the Larsen’s movements, this splendid spirit must have removed my last doubts as to the ultimate success of our plans.

  The Larsen had meanwhile sailed south, and was fishing north of the pack, which she reported was unusually heavy this year. The radiomen maintained a daily schedule with her, and the last message from Captain Nilsen reported the pack was still too dangerous for passage. There was good whaling north of the pack and we prayed it would continue so. There was no telling, however, how long the pack would hold: from hour to hour my mind played with the thought: perhaps she had already started through. Here was a race of success against failure. The stakes were large—very large indeed. I believe that one really lives more at a time like this.

  If any particular memory survives these hurried days, it is the memory of the appalling number of things that had to be put into the City. How all the things that eventually got aboard her were squeezed in is worth a chapter in itself; for with an unsuspected necromancy Brophy managed to find a place for everything, although the pile of supplies still awaiting a place seemed always to grow larger and the space of the City, pitifully small to begin with, appeared to shrink before our eyes. The loading schedule had become complicated owing to the necessity of separating the two ships. Prudence suggested that the City be so thoroughly equipped that, if the Boiling proved unable to get through the pack, the ice party could not only hold out until relief arrived twelve months later, but also carry out a substantial amount of the scientific program. The outfitting of the City, consequently, took on the aspect of setting up a distinct and self-sufficing expedition within an expedition. As a result the cargoes first assigned to the vessels had to be redistributed in large part, a necessity that taxed the patience and nearly broke the backs of all of us before it was done.

  The scene that took place on the docks is not likely to be forgotten by most of us. The long arms of cranes rose and fell monotonously, winches squealed, chains rattled, and the wheels of hand trucks slammed and bumped on deck night and day. Sleep was a luxury few gained. In a corner of my memory, whence I can draw it forth when I need to smile, is a picture of two of the outstanding members of the expedition, Professor Gould and Captain McKinley, at grips with a kind of work they never did before and are unlikely to do again—stevedoring. Sweat staining faces and clothes, they struggled with the rest over sacks of coal and boxes of food. With them were Haines, the genial meteorologist, in ill-fitting dungarees, wobbling in the dust under tiring loads.

  At last the hold was full: there was room for not another box below, so we began to load the decks. The crated fuselage of the Fairchild airplane was swung aboard and lashed in place amidships, between the main and foremasts. Food boxes and gasoline drums were ranged about it until the waist of the ship became so deep with things that before the mainsail could be set it must first be reefed. Seventy-five tons of coal were stowed away forward; these were for use at the base. Then the dogs, in their clumsy boxed kennels, were hoisted to the poop deck, and their crates ranged in rows; when that space was filled, the remaining dogs found haven on the top of my deck cabin and on the roof of
the airplane crate. Here it was believed they would be out of reach of water, which they cannot abide; and the yelps, the growls and squalling with which they announced this change of residence were wonderful to hear. It was a sound we were to know well, for it did not leave our ears for nearly a year and a half.

  As the weights of supplies in her mounted, the City settled gradually, and before the loading was finished water showed above the Plimsol line. This, with the fact that an immoderately large part of her load was above decks, gave rise to some uneasiness. In fact, the day before we put to sea, an old sailing man, who had been watching operations with a disapproving eye, came up and said: “You’re taking an awful chance with that ship. She’ll ship green water every roll. You don’t know what storms are until you get into the ‘Sixties.’ I’ve been there and I know.” I assured him we knew what we were doing, but confess that the incident suggested in an unpleasant manner the unhappy wedding guest impaled on the glance of the Ancient Mariner.

  During this period the Otago Harbour Board of Dunedin was extremely helpful and generous. It docked our vessels, gave us port facilities and the use of warehouses, and performed innumberable courtesies, for which I was more than grateful.

  The late afternoon of December I saw the City loaded and ready to put to sea. But rather than start out half-cocked, we decided to postpone departure until the following morning. The delay gave Brophy a much-needed opportunity to check and cross-check the cargo. The night was spent in stocktaking. December 2nd at six o’clock in the morning, the order was given to start. The tug that was to tow us to sea threw us a line, and the City followed, with the Boiling astern. Even at this early hour many of the new friends we had made in New Zealand were on hand; it was no longer possible to believe we were strangers departing from a foreign land. We slipped down the narrow channel that leads from Dunedin to the sea; and off Tairoa Head the tug cast us loose. Captain Brown threw us a quarter-inch steel hawser, which we took on our anchor winch with a number of turns and then anchored to the foremast. The line ran out about a quarter of a mile and then, as the slack disappeared, a slight shock ran over the massive frame of the City, and she slowly gathered headway. So, in this lame, but necessary manner, we began our race to the Larsen.

  My diary that night carried the following entry:

  En route to Bay of Whales

  December 2, 1928

  I think we may breathe more easily now. The last piece of loose cargo has been securely lashed, and it will take a pretty strong sea to do us much damage. We were lucky to have such a perfect day. Had we run into bad weather earlier we might have lost half the dogs and supplies on deck. There is the barest hint of a swell running, otherwise sea and sky are all we could ask for. With all sails set and under steam, we are making about eight knots under the Boiling’s tow. If we can keep this up, we ought to reach the northern edge of the pack within seven or eight days.

  I am thankful the Larsen is still outside. We may still reach her. I have vainly tried to induce Captain Nilsen to set an approximate date for his dash through the pack, even though I knew well he could not do this. Though this uncertainty is trying, the contest is more interesting.

  I have just made a trip of survey about the ship. There are fifty-four men aboard, making eighty-three men on the expedition all told. From the amount of congestion, one might imagine there were ten times that number. Below decks, everything is in great confusion. Every bunk is piled high with equipment, which has overflowed to the floor. There is scarcely a place where one can set foot on deck. Supplies of all descriptions so fill the deck that to get from fore to aft it is either necessary to do a perilous balancing act on the rail or else risk one’s neck in an alpine assault over peaks and precipices of dog crates and food boxes. How any of us will find room to sleep tonight is beyond me. Dean Smith, who is six feet, four inches tall, and carries a frame to match, looked in at the five foot ten bunk in which he is expected to find haven, and was moved to comment in an emphatic way on the spirit that moves men to explore. I dare say most of the others feel the same way at this moment. It will be days before we get our things stowed away. Van der Veer1 and Rucker2 are buried under a mass of photographic gear, and a hasty glance at Hanson’s quarters suggests he has taken all the radio equipment in the world to the Antarctic. My own quarters, astern, aft of the smokestack, do not bear comparison: trunks, crated clothing and instruments are strewn about as if discarded by a hurricane. And if this were not enough, the chaos is exaggerated by the mixed harmony of the dogs overhead and the high pitched overtones from the radio machinery next door. The dogs have howled all day long, with an unearthly disharmony all their own, and the radio will probably keep at it all night. What few wits as are left to us are rapidly disappearing.

  Still, things are not at all bad. Good old George Tennant1 gave us an excellent dinner, everyone is in fine spirits, and there is a great deal of amusing joking about our lot. We all eat together in the fo’c’s’le, officers and men alike. I have decided to permit no social or official distinctions to be drawn during the life of the expedition. The naming of officers will be governed more according to the placing of responsibility and authority than the following of formal service customs with the “aye, aye, Sir” and the complete social segregation of the officers and men. In a sense there are no officers and men. Some merely hold responsibility—that is the only difference. It will be an interesting experiment, whatever comes of it.

  We have been under sail for nearly twelve hours. At six o’clock this evening, Mulroy started his engines. It was a wonderful sight, earlier in the day, to see the greenhorns in the rigging setting sail. Most of them stepped about rather timidly, but did what they were told, making up in willingness what they lacked in skill. First mate Strom will have them tough as shellbacks in another week. The men who have made the voyage from the States do their job like old sailormen.

  I was rather surprised when Captain Melville got the men together this morning and nominated the starboard and port watches. This means that all hands, with the exception of the cook, radiomen and several other specialists, will have four hours on duty and four hours off. There being much work to be done, besides deck duty, this arrangement must work real hardship; it will be difficult for them to get enough sleep. However, we shall see how it works out. It is my personal opinion that a watch in three would be better. We have enough extra hands to do it. I shall suggest it to the Captain tomorrow, anyway.

  The next two days found us pushing southward with refreshing speed. Monday, the wind hauled around to the north and gave us such a boost that we were soon treading on the Boiling’s stern, with the tow line curved and slack. We were sufficiently emboldened to cast off the tow and make our way alone, under sail and steam. We averaged nine knots—luck was with us. Tuesday, the wind veered to the south, and the cold breath of the ice fields was on it. The wolf dogs seemed to sense the ice for their weird howling became almost continuous. We crawled back to the Boiling’s tow, reefed sail and made ready for a storm that the lowering barometer prophesied. It was a trying day for the amateur sailors. The sea was quite rough, the ship rolled heavily and yardarms were precarious places when hands were freezing and sails were icy and cranky. Bubier, the aviation mechanic, who had never seen a ratline before, much less handled one, came down from a lofty perch with hands blue and teeth chattering from cold. “Give me flying every time,” he said. Later in the day, the wind changed again to southwest, and we hoisted the spanker and jib sail.

  Slowly we accustomed ourselves to the routine, and as the congestion below was gradually relieved by the sorting out of gear the ship became more habitable. There was still a chill in the air, but Wednesday, the 5th, brought continuing gentle winds and a smoking blue sky. With a few exceptions, all hands were in fine spirits. Among these exceptions were seasick seamen of whom we had an abnormal casualty list. Another was Igloo, who, to my astonishment, developed a real inferiority complex. Igloo is the companion of my ventures, a fox terrier of doubtful
pedigree but unquestioned integrity. Neither modesty nor humility, I regret to say, is in his attitude, and until this trip I fancied neither man nor beast could discompose him. He met his superiors, however, in the Eskimo dogs, and in admitting to himself their superiority, his spirit underwent an extraordinary change. He hardly dared venture out on deck alone. His mere appearance brought from the beasts a fearful medley of challenges and imprecations; they hurled themselves at the doors of their crates, and those chained on the deck dashed out at him with fangs bared and a tremendous rattling of chains as he streaked past. Nights, when they began their melancholy singing, which can unseat the composure of an imaginative man, he shivered behind a box in my cabin. Not until the last sound had faded away, as mysteriously as it began, dared he come forth again, and then only in the lee of a friendly human figure. Poor Igloo, I did not blame him. Those primitive dogs, who kill for the sheer lust of killing, would assassinate him on the spot, as he was shrewd enough to realize. It was he, indeed, who found adventure on the way south.

  Thursday, the 6th, the weather was still favorable, although the sea was rougher and rising steadily. There was the hint of a storm in the air. The sky was a deep gray, and the sun shone through it with paling strength. The wind was abaft the beam all day, so that we made at times as much as ten knots, a speed I never dared hope for. But this, in turn, proved a mixed blessing. Even under favorable conditions, keeping a taut line on a ship in sail and in tow is one of the most trying tasks ever wished on a green crew; in the face of the seas we encountered that day and the next the task approached physical punishment. As the City rose and fell under the action of the waves, the line would tighten and then pay off; our progress became a succession of arching rises and jabbing thrusts, not at all pleasant. The line hummed as it stiffened suddenly, and I began to wonder when another shock would break it. We had one nasty moment when the wheel turned balky, and spun around, with a swiftness and power that knocked Demas and Bursey from their feet. Before she could be checked, the City swung off to port, and as the strain increased the Boiling was slowed up and the City came alongside at a high rate of speed. Under the lash of Strom’s orders, men scuttled up the rigging, sails were hastily taken in and what might have been a serious crash was avoided at the last moment. It was a very anxious time.