Endurance Page 6

  I became determined to somehow capture the blizzard on film. I devised all manner of shields to protect the cameras from the drift of snow and ice which penetrated everything and froze the mechanism and my fingers. I modified and enlarged the camera switches so they could be shifted and adjusted while wearing gloves.

  Filming by myself with a tripod in the blizzard proved impossible. I enlisted Azzi’s help to carry the cinematograph, heavy at the best of times, into the shelter of a small overhang. As we trudged over an icy hillock we were struck by a powerful gust and both of us lifted off the ground. I sought to wrap myself around the cinematograph as we were dropped to the ground several yards away and were then rolled backwards across the ice. Azzi and I scrambled back to the hut, having suffered only minor injuries. The camera, though, was out of action for a week.

  A few days stuck inside the hut gave me cabin fever. I was champing at the bit to explore over the ridge line to the south and so was disappointed at the end of February when Mawson picked Madigan and Bage, two of the scientists, to accompany him on a sledging trip. Mawson did, however, agree that Mertz, Bickerton and I could assist in the start of the journey, which was all uphill into the wind.

  We set out late afternoon when the wind dropped slightly. We wore harnesses from which we ran leads to the sledge. The snowdrift blew hard and cold and low to the ground so that we could not see our own feet.

  Dragging a sledge on ice was a new experience for all except Mawson and our technique varied considerably. I learned to stamp my feet until my crampons gripped the ice then lean forwards using my weight to gain ground. This in turn depended on the hardness of the surface. The ice was interspersed with fissures and ridges. The fissures or crevasses were filled with soft snow and difficult to see. The ridges were like rock walls to the sledge runners. Being our first attempt there was a lot of waiting around to get started and pausing for fiddly adjustments. However, after only several minutes of sledging I was sweating profusely inside my Burberry. Before we could reach the top and look across the plateau, Mawson sent our support party back to the hut, then he, Bage and Madigan continued over the top of the ridge. It was a taste of what was to come and enough to realise that sledging was going to be perilous.

  The following day Mawson’s party was literally blown down the hill in close to white-out conditions. They had endured a cold night, their gear was torn and they returned without the sledge. Madigan’s hood was almost completely full of snowdrift, which the warmth of his face and breathing had melted into an ice visor through which he could barely see. His face was badly frostbitten and he had to be restrained from pulling off a hard white section of his cheek which he assumed was a piece of ice.

  Several days later, at the end of the evening meal, Mawson called everyone back to the table. We squeezed together all anxious to hear what the Doctor had to say.

  ‘As it is almost March, there will be no more attempts to sledge up onto the plateau until after winter. I have heard talk that our program of sledging trips can’t be achieved. But it is far from certain the wind strengths on the plateau will be as severe as we have experienced. These winds are katabatic. They are cold air currents dropping several thousand feet from the centre of the Antarctic continent, increasing in velocity as they hit the coast. In any case, we will use the winter to strengthen our tents and equipment.’

  From March onwards the weather worsened; the strength and duration of the blizzards increased. The wind was regularly over eighty miles an hour. The snow blew down from the plateau and encased our winter quarters. We felt safe in the hut, but a number of men questioned how we could possibly travel any distance or expect a tent to stay intact in the blizzard.

  One March morning, after a fierce storm, Mertz came running into the hut and without removing his Burberry jacket announced to all at the breakfast table, ‘Der bot iss gone! Der bot iss gone!’

  ‘The whaleboat?’ said Mawson, standing up from the table.

  ‘Ja, der valebot.’

  I grabbed my outdoor clothing and with Mawson and others followed Mertz down to the edge of the bay—but there was nothing to see. There was not even a trace of the whaleboat, which had been securely tied up in the lee of a small ice cliff, where it should have been sheltered from the clutches of the blizzard. Even the mooring lines, which were of enormous breaking strain, had gone. It was some time before we worked out that the boat and its moorings and a large section of the ice cliff to which it had been anchored had all been dislodged by the wind. The whaleboat, attached to its own iceberg, was now well on its way to Tasmania. Unspoken, though loud and clear in my mind, was the thought that if Davis did not return, the whaleboat had represented our only means of escape—and none of us knew whether Davis had made it back to advise others of our whereabouts.

  The wind played games with us. There were times when it mysteriously called a truce in its barrage on our settlement. And yet looking up to the polar plateau we could still observe its force blasting off the ridge in a continuous stream of drift ice. If the wind stopped in the middle of the night, we were wakened by the eerie silence. If it was daytime, we would rush outside to attend to the numerous jobs that required doing. Often enough, as soon as we ventured out to take advantage of the calm, with a mighty whoosh the wind would sweep down the icy slope. At other times it would eddy outside the hut and form whirlwinds or willy-willies which would pick up everything in their path and disappear out to sea.

  There was one battle with the blizzard Dr Mawson was anxious to win. Having gone to great lengths to set up a wireless station on Macquarie Island, he was intent on erecting a mast to send and receive signals from Commonwealth Bay. No one had ever used wireless on the Antarctic continent. The mast was strong Oregon timber and needed to be erected in stages and braced with cables at each stage. It was eventually raised to ninety feet. But it incurred the wrath of the blizzard, which destroyed the structure before any transmission was received. It was not until early 1913 a mast was again erected. In the meantime, and throughout the darkness of winter, we remained cut off from the outside world.

  If we had one of those scarce autumn days when I could venture outside with a camera, then that evening I would be up late in my darkroom checking results. It was a constant battle to achieve a standard that satisfied me. The ever-present drift of snow permeated all my attempts at camera shields and lens covers, and consequently moisture and ice on the lens spoiled many shots. Frequently there was not enough light and the subject matter would be a moving blur or, worse, a dark smudge. Then all too suddenly the clouds would break and the sun, always low to the horizon, would flood the camera lens with reflected light.

  The blizzard remained determined to end our existence. It was unrelenting in its malevolence. I was constantly retreating before its might to the shelter of the hut to clean and repair cameras and lenses made useless by the snowdrift and the freezing-cold temperatures. But I never gave up trying to capture its ferocity. With Azzi’s help I made a shelter beneath a small rock overhang and a fixed anchor point to steady the camera. I took multiple exposures and in the evening examined the results. I had captured grainy spotted spectres of Azzi leaning forwards unnaturally and in the background the dark outline of the hut. But it said nothing of the chilling howl or unseen force that suspended gravity, or the thousands of ice crystals that brought frostbite and blindness. I did have one promising image of getting ice for the hut’s drinking water with silhouetted figures nicely in focus on their hands and knees, and another of Azzi leaning forwards into the gale with a large pick. In the darkroom I brushed up the swirling drift on the photographs to convey the force of the blizzard and the hellish desolation of the place. Soon the picture told a vivid story of man against nature. I knew it was a picture newspapers would buy. I put it aside to show Mawson in the morning.

  By April the blizzard gave up its attempts to blow our hut off the continent and instead sought to smother our encampment with snow. Before long the hut was completely buried to the lev
el of the chimney. Curiously, it was easier to maintain the warmth of the hut in winter, but shovelling to maintain ventilation became an everyday chore.

  Mawson devised a roster of duties to manage the domestic life of the hut. I was relieved to see this included all the scientists, as I felt sure some had thought they would be excluded from mundane jobs. We each took turns for one week as cook, one week as mess man, and one week as nightwatchman. I enjoyed each of these positions, but especially my times as cook. I soon realised I had considerably more experience at cooking than most of the scientists. Cooking for eighteen colleagues involved substantial anxiety for the likes of Azzi, Ninnis and Percy Correll, a mechanic who at just nineteen was the youngest among us. They were easily intimidated by the usual criticism, no matter how good-humoured. It was the job of mess man, or cook’s assistant, that was the least popular, as the mess man was the slave of the cook and responsible for all cleaning and dirty work. It was a great leveller for anyone getting a little uppity and there were a few of these emerging in our small, remote colony.

  Hannam, Hunter, Laseron and I were the most confident and flamboyant in our cooking. We founded the Society of Unconventional Cooks, distinguishing ourselves from those slavish disciples of Mrs Beeton. There were others who became known as Crook Cooks. The stove was, of course, the focal point in our winter quarters around which all else revolved. It was the source of heat and life through the long dark winter that followed. The stove kept the hut at a temperature just above freezing point, which Mawson directed as ideal for maintaining an active work environment. And of course with eighteen men in a small space and washing at best a weekly and more commonly a monthly activity, the hut had the pungency of stale wet socks. This was best dealt with by keeping things frozen.

  I enjoyed my stints as nightwatchman. The night watch was really the only time I had the hut to myself. It was ideal for writing up my diary, cleaning and maintaining cameras and lenses, or working in the darkroom. I did my best work in the quiet of the evening. Mawson ran a strict regime of lights-out for all. The night watch called ‘Rise and shine’ at eight o’clock in the morning. Sleep patterns, said Mawson, were an important tool in fighting melancholy. ‘Hurley to bed, Hurley to rise . . .’ was a rare glimpse of his sense of humour.

  Hut life offered little or no privacy other than by the curtain of garments strung on lines to dry above the stove. With little natural light, vigilance was required, and on more than one occasion, without a word to anyone, I fished a sock or glove out of the evening meal. The hut was of course crowded with equipment and specimens in various stages of drying. In between meals the trestle table was everyone’s work desk. The bunks in the daytime were for resting and letter writing, though, of course, there was no postman.

  The bunks and sleeping arrangements were cramped and the men were not quiet sleepers. They slept fitfully, tossing and turning, appearing to wake and and even calling out. Some fellows were not at all discreet in pleasuring themselves under their blankets. Were it not for the blizzard outside the cacophony would have been intolerable, and only when the wind stopped and the snoring orchestra swelled to crescendo did they wake, protest at their neighbour and then roll over and fall asleep again.

  I was relieved at how most of the men accepted me, even though I was not a ‘varsity chum’. I befriended Azzi Webb, whom others complained was young and cocky. I heard the same said about me, and maybe that’s why we got on. Ninnis, despite his very proper upbringing and posh accent, was always eager to join in, as was Mertz. Young Percy Correll was a jack of all trades, a bit like me. Bickerton was the handsome dashing adventurer type. Bage, Laseron, McLean, Close, Hunter, Hodgeman, Stillwell and Murphy were always cheerful and laughed at my jokes, or at least laughed at me. Hannam was curt, perhaps because of the failure of his wireless, and only Madigan and Whetter ignored me altogether.

  At times it was hard to keep up with all the banter around the table which had become the centre for all activities. I imagined this banter was part of university life. Controversial topics could be fiercely debated over several days. I quickly learned not to pipe up with any idle opinion. The simplest remarks were liable to be ruthlessly attacked and debunked. ‘Should women smoke?’ had the hut split for days into rival camps. ‘Do women prefer university men?’ I thought was one-sided balderdash, especially in the absence of women. I stayed out of the debate ‘Can a gentleman vote Labor?’ lest someone ask my father’s occupation.

  Women were a frequent subject of interest. The hut contained experts on most subjects, but we had no expert on the opposite sex. None of us had, as Bage joked, a ‘trouble and strife’. Those whose bunks featured a portrait of a young woman were closely questioned for all details of interest until tempers started to fray. Madigan’s girl, Wynne, was very fine looking and the pick of the crop. Hunter’s portrait of his girl only emerged on special occasions.

  ‘She gave me her picture to bring away but I don’t expect she thinks about me,’ he said. ‘I hope Aurora brings a letter from her.’

  ‘That’s tricky, old chap,’ offered Azzi. ‘My girl’s keen as mustard, writes a good letter too.’

  ‘What about you, Hoyle?’ asked Bob Bage. ‘Who’s waiting for you?’

  As my romantic prospects were non-existent, I opted for humour. ‘Didn’t you see them all at the dock?’

  ‘Come on, confide in us, your secrets won’t leave this room,’ urged Bage. ‘Tell us about those girls in Hobart.’

  ‘Oh, those girls. Well they ate my strawberries and cream and still wouldn’t give their address.’

  ‘More information, Hoyle.’ The others were now banging on the table. There was no escape.

  ‘Alright then. Well, if you must know, I’ve had many affairs of the heart. But the trouble with all my love affairs is that the objects of my affection know nothing about it. My love is of the unrequited kind.’

  ‘Tell us who!’

  ‘The first girl I was keen on I met at school. I didn’t know any better and told her straight out I liked her. She just shrieked, “Oh no, not you. You’ve got gollywog hair!”’

  This caused much laughter. ‘Since then, well, I’ve had more rejections than hot dinners. Before I left Sydney I spoke to a girl who didn’t mind my barbed-wire hair, but as soon as she found out I was going with Mawson that was an end to it. “What, that madman?” she said “He’s off his rocker!”’

  When we first arrived at Commonwealth Bay, the nights were dark only for an hour or so when the sun dropped briefly below the horizon. But by April it was dark even at breakfast time. One morning I woke early to find the hut unusually cold. The fire had gone out and there was no sign of Percy Correll, the night watch. I checked the logbook and saw his last entry had been made not long after midnight. I threw coals and some fuel on to start the fire, quickly dressed in outdoor gear and crampons, and alerted Mawson as I left.

  Outside the hut it was forty degrees below freezing. The air was solid snowdrift and the wind was gale-strength. In these conditions we usually followed rope and wire leads to find our way. It was only the gale that conveyed any sense of direction. Calling out was of little use and I decided to return and get help. Then, only a few yards in front of me, I saw what looked like a boulder in a small hollow. I slid alongside and found it was Correll, facedown in the snow on his knees as if praying. He let out a cry as I bumped into him.

  ‘Percy!’ I yelled, but he could not speak. Nor could he stand up. I lifted him over my shoulder and stumbled back what was no more than twenty yards to the drop down to the hut entrance.

  Once inside we put him in a sleeping bag in front of the stove. That evening he explained, ‘I had gone out to the coal stack and was coming back with a full armload when a gust knocked me down. I rolled several times before I finally anchored myself. I was fine, but after walking back into the wind the hut was not where I expected. I backtracked and tried again but found nothing I recognised. I tried twice more. I couldn’t find anything to get a bearing on. I tho
ught I’d wait till the visibility improved.’

  We all knew it had been a close shave.

  Winter dragged on. We yearned for sunlight but we knew also we would then have to leave the relative safety of the hut. I worked my way along the bookshelves. I was determined to participate in the evening pastime of reading aloud favourite pieces. Each of the men could recite a favourite poem. I became a specialist in performing Coleridge’s ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ with dramatic gesticulations.

  The ice was here, the ice was there,

  The ice was all around . . .

  Mawson frequently read in a schoolmasterly tone from his well-thumbed copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations.

  Frank Bickerton could do a fine version of Henley’s ‘Captain of my Soul’:

  Out of the night that covers me,

  Black as the pit from pole to pole,

  I thank whatever gods may be

  For my unconquerable soul.

  Kipling was popular with everyone, and Bob Bage was regularly called upon to give his version of ‘Gunga Din’, which never ceased to impress me:

  ’E carried me away

  To where a dooli lay,

  An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

  ’E put me safe inside,

  An’ just before he died:

  ‘I ’ope you liked your drink’ sez Gunga Din.

  And with a strong emotional finish:

  Tho I’ve belted you and flayed you

  By the living Gawd that made you,

  You’re a better man than I am Gunga Din!

  But the all up favourite was the young adventurer poet Robert Service, who had left Scotland to travel to the Yukon and the Arctic.

  From the Pole unto the Tropics is there trail ye have not dared

  And because you hold death lightly so by death shall you be spared.

  Mawson and Bage, though, preferred Browning and said Service was a mere rhymer.