Little America Read online

  We on the City took advantage of the lull to turn in for much needed sleep; during the last three days few of us had had adequate rest, and the continued solidarity of the pack forced the Larsen to delay departure for another twenty-four hours at least.

  As a matter of fact, we remained in the bay until the midnight watch, December 15. The delay gave us all a chance to recuperate, and there was enough excitement to keep us on our toes. On the morning of Wednesday, the 12th, we were rather surprised to note that Hanson had been unable to “raise” the Boiling on the regular radio schedule, and as minutes went by without word from her we became alarmed. Two possibilities suggested themselves—that the Boiling, running fast in thick weather, had struck an ice berg, or the operator was asleep, a thing Hanson held to be unlikely. Ten o’clock came, still no word: most of us by then were gathered in the radio room, our eyes fixed on the glowing tubes and restless pointers. What puzzled us beyond measure was our failure to hear the emergency set: it had been agreed that in case of inability to keep the regular schedule, the emergency signal was to be sent every fifteen minutes. I hesitate even now to describe my feelings during the next hour: I can only say that when Hanson burst into my cabin at noon, with the news he had just heard the Boiling and knew it was she because he recognized Grenlie’s peculiar way of sending, I was probably the happiest man in the world. The operator, we learned, was so fatigued as a result of helping with the unloading that he had slept through his watch.

  While waiting we saw one of the chasers attached to the Larsen chase a whale nearby. The gunner dispatched it with two very neat shots from the harpoon gun. When the first shot went home, the crew of the tiny gunboat made the line fast to a bow winch, then the gunner closed in for the death blow. A puff of smoke—a black line snaking out—and another hit was scored. On this the huge blue whale, which seemed at least eighty feet long, hurled its bulk out of water with a resounding splash and expired. Later on, about twenty of us went over to the Larsen in a small boat, to pay a social call on Captain Nilsen and his crew. We saw them take a ninety-ton whale aboard, drawing it up through the heart-shaped funnel in the nose and laying it, like a mountainous mass of blubbery jelly, on the forward deck. Ninety tons—180,000 lbs. Think of it! This mighty mammal would dwarf the mightiest pre-historic monsters. Expert cutters went at it, and within an hour the whale was becoming crude oil. It was not a pleasant sight. I had the feeling these splendid creatures deserved a better fate. Nor was it a thing sensitive nostrils would willingly endure. A whaling ship, even when scoured clean, is not suggestive of attar of roses; but in the midst of whaling operations it leaves, as far as smells go, very, very much to be desired.

  Weather meanwhile continued calm, but the failure of the pack to break was discouraging. Thursday, the 13th, we had word that the Ross, for all her powerful engines, was stuck fast in the pack to the south of us, and as long as she was imprisoned, the Larsen was reluctant to entrust herself to the mercy of the pack. It was apparent then that the pack was abnormally heavy for this time of the year, a belief supported by a confidential message I received from the master of the whaler Nilsen-Alonzo, Captain H. Andresen, on Friday. He reported a fairly difficult passage through the pack, finding “very hard ice” in many places. “If you can keep to open tracks,” he said, “you should have no difficulty in getting through, otherwise I would advise a week’s delay, as the ice is slackening day by day.”

  During these three days we had drifted northeast with the pack to Lat. 67° 48’ S. Long. 177° 59’ W., crossing the meridian 180° and so getting into West Longitude. It was calm, with a smooth sea and sunny, and we made the most of it in checking the compasses. In swinging ship, we found the standard compass virtually useless, but, oddly enough the steering compass moved around fairly well, although with considerable deviation, no doubt from the influence of the local magnetism of the metal aboard ship. We used the sun compass, besides taking azimuths in the regular way, to get the error. They checked fairly well, but not quite as accurately as I had wished.

  Noon, Saturday

  December 15, 1928

  En route to Bay of Whales

  We have been in the pack since the first of the midnight watch—starting, significantly, on the date of Amundsen’s arrival at the Pole, sixteen years ago. It is a relief to be moving, but the situation is not without peril. The Larsen has us in tow on a 3½ inch single wire cable, and we slide along behind like a cockleshell in a narrow lane of shattered ice. It is tricky work keeping in line. A slight deviation to right or left might bring us up hard against a heavy floe, in which case something would have to give. The City, with her modest displacement of 500 tons, is just a chip in contrast with the Larsen, with her 8,000 horsepower and 17,000 tons, and as we follow behind her we have the impression of being drawn by an irresistible force. When a collision occurs with a thick solid ice floe, one of three things must give: the ice; the bow of our ship; or her sides. Thus far the City has smashed the ice with incredible strength. Were the Larsen to hit an ice mass, at the same speed, she must soon tear a hole in her bow. The Larsen goes at it more shrewdly. She eases up to a floe, pressing her bow gently against the ice and then surges forward at full speed. She thus avoids a direct smash, and, instead of penetrating at a blow she forces her way persuasively through. The pack has a tendency to surge back after the passage of the cleaving hull of the Larsen, and we have the constant feeling that it may come between us altogether. Behind us, the passage has closed down into a slim ribbon of black water, the edges of which now lip so closely together it is difficult to believe we got through it. Through this passage, the tough little chasers are strung out a half mile behind gingerly picking their way under their own power.

  Responsibility for keeping us out of trouble rests with the mate of the watch, who must be on the job every minute. We have a watch on the fo’c’s’le head, with telephonic communication to the after deck, and a man standing by the engine room telegraph. Owing to the fact the deckhouse blocks his vision, the helmsman cannot see ahead. But with two pairs of eyes serving him (we have a second man in the rigging) he manages to get along. It is all very trying, however. For when the Larsen stubs her nose suddenly on a big floe, it is hard to keep the City from plowing into her stern. This old ship has an inertia all her own.

  I cannot begin to express my debt to Captain Nilsen. He trusts us not to ram the Larsen and we will not fail him. With all the alertness of which we are capable we will be on the job.

  The situation is encouraging. Here we are at the end of the Larsen’s line, making excellent time, expending little coal and drawing near our base. The presence of our escort is secret. Owen, at Captain Nilsen’s request, has not mentioned the fact in his dispatches.

  Night,

  Same Day.

  The pack is still heavy to the south, but our progress has been such as to encourage the prediction we shall reach the Bay of Whales perhaps as early as the 26th, and probably not later than the end of the month. This ought to give sufficient time before winter sets in, in which to accomplish the unloading.

  The weather continues clear, calm and warm, and the sky is a light blue which fades out into gray toward the horizon. It is so warm many of the men are stripped down to their undershirts. Actually, the temperature is nearly freezing. The noon sun, however, made heavy clothes seem very uncomfortable.

  We sighted a number of seals today, big, bloated looking, lazy fellows, who waked at the noise of our passage, rolled a sleepy eye at us and then, as if dismissing the incident as unimportant, fell into slumber again. From time to time snowy petrels wheeled overhead, hoping to pick up scraps of food, and once I saw an albatross in soaring flight.

  The pack is a fascinating place. Those who imagine it to be a bleak waste of ice have no conception of the beauty to be found in polar regions. Midnight is a time of splendor, for then the glory in the heavens descends upon the fields of ice and sky and circumambient air, and they seem to burn and glow with colors in which green, rose, gold,
red and blue commingle in delicate tones. Past the upended, pressure-ridden masses of ice the low hung sun, wheeling about the horizon, casts long lilac shadows; and the more massive, towering ice forms take on the aspect of architectural magnificence, whose portals, turrets, rounded domes and cornices (of a cosmic disorder no hand could hope to imitate) diffuse a pale coloration.

  There is serenity here, disturbed only by the sound of the ice hissing alongside the ship, and the faint grating as the shattered fragments of the pack, lifted by swell and our movement, press their faces together. The sound is not unlike that which one hears in a forest when a slight wind stirs.

  Ahead, past the Larsen, it is possible to see a streak of dark water reaching south. The southern horizon is mottled, suggestive of an ice-filled but passable sea.

  We shall get through. We are truly fortunate.

  Monday

  December 17, 1928

  In looking over yesterday’s entry, I discovered that I neglected to say we entered the pack at Long. 178° E. It appears this meridian offers the best passage through the pack. Our noon position was Long. 179° 55’ E., Lat. 69° 7’ S.

  Our present position, however, is not very promising. We have encountered a great deal of very thick, old ice, some of it at least seven feet thick; even the Larsen is having difficulty forcing her way through it, so we have spent a good part of the day ramming, then backing and filling. It has been very hard on the helmsman. I wish the City had more power. On several occasions we came very near plowing into the Larsen before we could get her started astern. Still, I cannot criticize the old ship too much. She impresses one with her great strength. All day long, the sharp jagged edges of ice have been stabbing her greenheart flanks below the water line, but to no avail. One can well believe her claim to being one of the strongest ships in the world.

  I have been delighted by the way in which the aviators function at the watch. June, Smith, Balchen and Parker have been exceptionally good at this. It seems strange they should be better than sailors at this job. Probably flying sharpens the sense of depth perception and speed. Davies and Adams1 have also been very good.

  We sighted our first penguins today. First, a lone Emperor Penguin, which was nearly four feet tall. In attitude and action, he more than lived up to his reputation as the aristocrat among his kind. This most primitive of birds, which alone of all animals survived the glaciation of the once tropical or semi-tropical Antarctic, was standing erect, when we caught sight of him, and his attitude plainly implied a lordly proprietorship over the wastes he surveyed. His resemblance to man in formal dress was so close as to be positively embarrassing. To see him standing so, dignified, unafraid—did I not also detect scorn?—gave one the feeling that one should address him in carefully chosen speech. Alas, he paid scant attention to us. A scant bow, beak touching the breast, not at all the ceremonial bow for which he is distinguished, then off he went.

  Presently we came across a batch of the more gregarious Adelies, and there was great hilarity aboard for a while. These comical creatures came to us unafraid, with friendly waves of the flippers, tobogganing with great speed on their bellies across the ice floes. During pauses, several of the men jumped on the ice and played with them.

  Apparently the Adelies took it in fun, for, as I write, three or four of them are following along behind me, swimming like fish through the water, diving under loose floes, and coming up with uncanny accuracy on the other side. Now and then they scramble on a floe and by prodigious use of their flippers race across it as fast as a man can walk briskly.

  Tuesday

  December 18, 1928

  A terrific tussle in the ice today. Captain Nilsen is apparently disturbed. He radioed us this morning that unless we do better work—that is, unless we keep the line taut—he would have to cast us loose. Apparently he fears we shall either collide with him or else the line will foul his propeller. I can scarcely blame him, but I assured him, as forcefully as I could, that we shall continue to do our best. To lose the tow at this stage of the journey would be a real setback. Save for the lane behind us, we are shut in by a solid wall of ice. It would take us weeks to get out under our own power. The ice is very hummocky, and is very much eroded—from the rigging it appears like the surface of the moon when viewed through a telescope.

  We have been pounding all day. Down below, in the fo’c’s’le, it is like standing in a chamber the walls of which are being pounded with giant hammers. One could not help growing alarmed over the shocks. Can the ship continue to stand them? There would come an impact, the floor would tilt alarmingly, then the ship would sag with groaning timbers and the shriek of cracking ice sounded outside. A good thing for us thirty-four inches of tough planking stand between.

  Try as we may, we cannot avoid the thick ice cakes which close in behind the Larsen. When she makes a turn the tow line drags us into sharp ice corners. We go by fits and starts. It is a wonderful thing to see the Larsen in action, but even she has had to draw upon her immense reserve of power to keep underway. Sometimes it is a matter of forcing a few floes apart. She knifes them at a thrust.

  Sometimes she thus gains, at a single stroke, a mile or two of clear water. More often it is a matter of a few yards, when a stubborn floe threatens to resist every charge.

  What a fighter this man Nilsen is!

  To add to our troubles it has been snowing hard.

  Night,

  Same day.

  We are still in tow, although just a few minutes ago we came very near hitting the Larsen again. The only casualty however, was aboard the City. In trying to avoid the Larsen, which stopped suddenly, we had backed up on a floe, which struck the rudder a terrific blow and spun the wheel so hard it caught Captain Melville, who was standing alongside, and threw him to the deck, knocking him out for a moment. I found him struggling to a sitting position, still quite dazed, with a nasty cut over the eye. In spite of it, he insisted on remaining on deck.

  Ice conditions continue bad. How many times we have climbed the rigging to study the situation I would hesitate to say. There was no sign of the dark streaks in the sky telling of open water ahead. Icebergs crept all around us. Some of them were plowing through the pack under considerable momentum supplied by the wind and deep current working together. It would not do to get beset and have one of these monsters bear down on us. It was exciting to stand in the rigging and feel the give and take of the ship; and hear the rumbling of ice under her bow and the hiss of it pressing along the side. Though the delay involved in this struggle is irksome, there is in it a savagery and doggedness that is exhilarating.

  For most of the men the situation has lost its seriousness—familiarity does breed contempt. From the fo’c’s’le comes the lilting tune of a Norwegian folk song—Strom is entertaining them with his accordion. It is a very comfortable scene there, with a few lanterns throwing a pale yellow light into the darker shadows; and the faces of the men lolling in the bunks, or crowded about the mess table, stand out sharply in the glow. Ronne is bent over his sewing machine in the forecastle, his nimble fingers flying faster than the tune. I have never seen such a man. Let the world about him turn gay or melancholy, Ronne is unaffected; he works all day without a pause except to eat, and seems to find great content in it.

  The snow storm has passed, and out of a gray indefinite haze the sun stole back, to give us an enchanting midnight display.

  Thursday, Friday and Saturday were much the same. No relief from the interminable pounding, the slowest kind of progress and a baffling mixture of sunny and stormy weather. We had hoped to get through the pack in two or three days, and were in it more than eight. We fought our way through the areas of very hard ice, once coming across vast trackless fields full of volcano-shaped structures, the cones of which sometimes attained a height of ten feet. Other fields were jumbled masses of caked ice that gave every appearance of having been subjected to terrific pressure. The one solace our position offered was comparative immunity to storm: the pack effectively dam
pened the sea, despite the snow squalls that beset us, and the swell was the longest I ever witnessed. We ceaselessly scanned the southern sky, looking for open water: but only the eternal high-blink of ice, ice everywhere. But at last a change came. On the morning of Sunday, the 23rd, there was the merest suggestion of increased movement in the ice, and from a distance came the muted sounds of some disturbance. A black line, that grew larger as we watched, spread across the southern sky. Open water!

  The last fifty miles were the hardest, probably because the proximity of escape made us impatient. Still, I think we took our most violent pounding then, for we struggled through a rampart of floes that repeatedly snuffed out our motion and ground us to a halt. We stubbornly made our way past ice which was as high as the poop deck, and the walls were so clean and smooth as to suggest they might have been cut out by machine. Then, to the south, we described a vast battlement of flat-topped bergs, stretching from east to west, with thin streaks of open water showing in between. It was the southern edge of the pack, and the gateway to the Ross Sea. We hurried on, making better time, as the floes became more scattered and the ice a mushy, coagulated mass hardly more resistant than soup. At eleven o’clock we had the swell of the Ross Sea under foot, a fact that speedily undermined the false sense of security several of the men had built up in quieted seas of the pack, and with a blue sky overhead and the tow line taut as a bow string, we continued due south.

  The Larsen towed us until two o’clock, when the appearance of whales compelled Captain Nilsen to turn to a more lucrative occupation than acting as escort. His final gift to us was a pile of whale meat, young whale for the men and older whale for the dogs, which we hung in the rigging to dry. There was little time for amenities. Time was as precious to us as it was to him. We bade goodbye till another fourteen months to this excellent friend, then with all sails set and under steam we drove south, for whatever fate held in store for us. A last glance backward showed the Larsen in the shadow of the ice, and a chaser spurting madly, with white showing under her bow, after a plunging whale.