Survivor: The Autobiography (4 page)

The wind was blowing hard then. The Barrier shook from the concussions overhead; and the noise was as if the entire physical world were tearing itself to pieces. I could scarcely heave the trapdoor open. The instant it came clear I was plunged into a blinding smother. I came out crawling, clinging to the handle of the door until I made sure of my bearings. Then I let the door fall shut, not wanting the tunnel filled with drift. To see was impossible. Millions of tiny pellets exploded in my eyes, stinging like BB shot. It was even hard to breathe, because snow instantly clogged the mouth and nostrils. I made my way towards the anemometer pole on hands and knees, scared that I might be bowled off my feet if I stood erect; one false step and I should be lost for ever.

I found the pole all right; but not until my head collided with a cleat. I managed to climb it, too, though ten million ghosts were tearing at me, ramming their thumbs into my eyes. But the errand was useless. Drift as thick as this would mess up the contact points as quickly as they were cleared; besides, the wind cups were spinning so fast that I stood a good chance of losing a couple of fingers in the process. Coming down the pole, I had a sense of being whirled violently through the air, with no control over my movements. The trapdoor was completely buried when I found it again, after scraping around for some time with my mittens. I pulled at the handle, first with one hand, then with both. It did not give. It’s a tight fit, anyway, I mumbled to myself. The drift has probably wedged the corners. Standing astride the hatch, I braced myself and heaved with all my strength. I might just as well have tried hoisting the Barrier.

Panic took me then, I must confess. Reason fled. I clawed at the three-foot square of timber like a madman. I beat on it with my fists, trying to shake the snow loose; and, when that did no good, I lay flat on my belly and pulled until my hands went weak from cold and weariness. Then I crooked my elbow, put my face down, and said over and over again, You damn fool, you damn fool. Here for weeks I had been defending myself against the danger of being penned inside the shack; instead, I was now locked out; and nothing could be worse, especially since I had only a wool parka and pants under my wind-proofs. Just two feet below was sanctuary – warmth, food, tools, all the means of survival. All these things were an arm’s length away, but I was powerless to reach them.

There is something extravagantly insensate about an Antarctic blizzard at night. Its vindictiveness cannot be measured on an anemometer sheet. It is more than just wind; it is a solid wall of snow moving at gale force, pounding like surf.
¹
The whole malevolent rush is concentrated upon you as upon a personal enemy. In the senseless explosion of sound you are reduced to a crawling thing on the margin of a disintegrating world; you can’t see, you can’t hear, you can hardly move. The lungs gasp after the air sucked out of them, and the brain is shaken. Nothing in the world will so quickly isolate a man.

Half-frozen, I stabbed toward one of the ventilators, a few feet away. My mittens touched something round and cold. Cupping it in my hands, I pulled myself up. This was the outlet ventilator. Just why, I don’t know – but instinct made me kneel and press my face against the opening. Nothing in the room was visible, but a dim patch of light illuminated the floor, and warmth rose up to my face. That steadied me.

Still kneeling, I turned my back to the blizzard and considered what might be done. I thought of breaking in the windows in the roof, but they lay two feet down in hard crust, and were reinforced with wire besides. If I only had something to dig with, I could break the crust and stamp the windows in with my feet. The pipe cupped between my hands supplied the first inspiration; maybe I could use that to dig with. It, too, was wedged tight; I pulled until my arms ached, without budging it; I had lost all track of time, and the despairing thought came to me that I was lost in a task without an end. Then I remembered the shovel. A week before, after levelling drift from the last light blow, I had stabbed a shovel handle up in the crust somewhere to leeward. That shovel would save me. But how to find it in the avalanche of the blizzard?

I lay down and stretched out full length. Still holding the pipe, I thrashed around with my feet, but pummelled only empty air. Then I worked back to the hatch. The hard edges at the opening provided another grip, and again I stretched out and kicked. Again no luck. I dared not let go until I had something else familiar to cling to. My foot came up against the other ventilator pipe. I edged back to that, and from the new anchorage repeated the manoeuvre. This time my ankle struck something hard. When I felt it and recognized the handle, I wanted to caress it.

Embracing this thrice-blessed tool, I inched back to the trapdoor. The handle of the shovel was just small enough to pass under the little wooden bridge which served as a grip. I got both hands on the shovel and tried to wrench the door up; my strength was not enough, however. So I lay down flat on my belly and worked my shoulders under the shovel. Then I heaved, the door sprang open, and I rolled down the shaft. When I tumbled into the light and warmth of the room, I kept thinking, How wonderful, how perfectly wonderful.

My wrist watch had stopped; the chronometers showed that I had been gone just under an hour. The stove had blown out again, but I did not bother to light it. Enough warmth remained for me to undress. I was exhausted; it was all I could do to hoist myself into the bunk. But I did not sleep at first. The blizzard scuffled and pounded gigantically overhead; and my mind refused to drop the thought of what I might still be doing if the shovel hadn’t been there. Still struggling, probably. Or maybe not. There are harder ways to die than freezing to death. The lush numbness and the peace that lulls the mind when the ears cease listening to the blizzard’s ridiculous noise, could make death seem easy.

12 July 1897
Although we could have thrown out ballast, and although the wind might, perhaps, carry us to Greenland, we determined to be content with standing still. We have been obliged to throw out very much ballast today and have not had any sleep nor been allowed any rest from the repeated bumpings, and we probably could not have stood it much longer. All three of us must have a rest, and I sent Strindb. and Fr. to bed at 11.20 o’cl. (5567), and I mean to let them sleep until 6 or 7 o’cl. if I can manage to keep watch until then. Then I shall try to get some rest myself. If either of them should succumb it might be because I had tired them out.

It is not a little strange to be floating here above the Polar Sea. To be the first that have floated here in a balloon. How soon, I wonder, shall we have successors? Shall we be thought mad or will our example be followed? I cannot deny but that all three of us are dominated by a feeling of pride. We think we can well face death, having done what we have done. Is not the whole, perhaps, the expression of an extremely strong sense of individuality which cannot bear the thought of living and dying like a man in the ranks, forgotten by coming generations? Is this ambition?

The rattling of the guidelines in the snow and the flapping of the sails are the only sounds heard, except the whining in the basket.

14 July
11 o’cl. p.m. we jumped out of the balloon. The landing Worn out and famished but 7 hours’ hard work had to be done before we could recreate ourselves.

22 July
6.45 p.m. break camp. Nisse’s sledge turned over and lay there in the water. 4hr. march. Night-camp. Sunshine beautiful ice . . .

23 July
Break camp 2 p.m. Difficulties at once. Astr. obs. meteorol. Follow bear-tracks. Ferrying across with the sledges extremely risky. 4 little auks 2 ivory gulls 1 fulmar. Weather misty and windy. Snow moister. The leads more difficult. The hummocks inconsiderable. Ice on the pools. Tenting at 11 p.m. in lee of a big hummock. Nisse’s cooking exp. bread, rousseau, butter, pease, soup-tablets. Hammarspik’s poems. 24/7 broke camp 2.10 o’cl. several bad leads and ice-humps. The travelling bad and we were extremely fatigued. Dangerous ferryings and violent twistings, etc., of the sledges among the hummocks, etc. Followed the edge of a large lead almost the whole time.

25 July
Breaking camp delayed by rain. New method of travelling: along leads and on smoother ice, wet snow and bad going. Gull with red belly. Wings blue underneath and above. Dark ring around neck. Seals often in openings, never in herds. Talked rot about seals. Nisse fell in and was in imminent danger of drowning. He was dried and wrung out and dressed in knickerbockers. Stopped short at a lead.

Load on my sledge the 26th on altering load:

26 July
at o’cl. p.m. we began with the rafting. 1 big & 1 little bear visit during night around the tent. Northerly wind, hurra. Place-determination Long. 30° 15’–30° 47’ and Lat. 82° 36’. Strindberg’s bear. Bear-beef immensely good. Meat 1 hour in sea water then all well. Sledges broken. Iron-sheathing as experiment. Mending and examination of weight and considerable reduction. Revision of plan of journey. No time for sledge-pulling. Equipment for 45 days. Strange feelings and great indulgence in food on making reduction. To sleep at last about 7 a.m. on the 27 July.

28 July
8 p.m. turned out. Sheathing sledges. Begin with snowshoes. Repair of Fraenkel’s gear. Paradise; large smooth ice-floes without hummocks or leads or more melted snow-water than was needed for drinking. ‘
Parade-ice
’ Fr. ‘what old mammy sends us is always confoundedly good, anyway.’ Terrible underfoot to begin with but in the evening magnificent ice and magnificent weather. The wind is felt much but is always welcome when it drives towards SE. Today we have crossed a number of bear-tracks but not a single lead. Now however we have come to a broad beast which we must get [. . .] tomorrow. Now we have turned in 12 o’cl. noon the 29th after having thus been at work 16 hours. We learn the poor man’s way: to make use of
everything
. We also learn the art of living from one day to the other.

Describe in detail. Difficulties with the ice, the hummocks, melted snow-water, the (melted snow) pools and the leads and the floes of broken ice.

31 July
5 o’cl. a.m. start. ‘Tramp’ on our knees in deep snow. ‘Tramp – tramp’ on our knees. Discoverer of attractions of flopping = Nisse. Cut our way. The constant fog prevents us from choosing good road. Ever since the start we have been in very difficult country. The Polar dist. is certainly the birthplace of the principle of the greatest stumbling-blocks. 10 leads during the first 6 hours.

2 August
12 o’cl. midd. We broke camp. The last bear-meat was cut into small pieces so that it might at least
look like
being a lot. Thickness of ice 1.2 m (3.96 ft). Scarcely an hour after breaking camp we got a new bear. It was an old worn-out male animal with rotten teeth. I brought it down by a shot in the chest at a distance of 38 m (125 ft) S-g and Fr-l both fired outers. Clear calm and hot the whole day but the country extraordinarily difficult. I do not think we made 2 km (2,200 yds) in 10 hours. Axe destroyed. 1 skua visible and 2 gulls circling around the body of the bear. We did not get into our berths before 2 a.m. the 3 Aug. I washed my face for the first time since the 11 July and in the evening I mended a stocking. We hope that one bear will be enticed to follow us by the remains of the one shot, and so on so that we shall always have fresh meat at our heels. This time we took from the one we shot the fillet too (close in to the back) and the kidneys (1½ kilo – 3¼ lbs) and the tongue and ribs. The 3 Aug. at 12 o’cl. we rose after being much plagued by the heat in the tent. We have determined to ‘lie outdoors’ today . . . It is so warm that we do the pulling without any coats on. The ice horrible. Clothes-drying on a large scale. I made a fork for Fraenkel.