ANTARCTIC GOOD CHEER

Evening Star, Issue 20057, 24 December 1928, Page 15

ANTARCTIC GOOD CHEER

CHRISTMAS WITH BYRD EXPEDITION EXPLORER SETS THE SCENE (By Commander Richard E. Byrd.— Copyright.) [Special to Press Associatjon.] Dearest Jim, — You don’t know how hard it is to work up a Christmas spirit on this scorching August day just before you sail for the South Pole. It is 98 degrees in the shade. You will read this in December; 40 degrees below zero you told me it might be. Quite a difference. But don’t forget I’ll be thinking of you on Christmas Day; and that I love you. . . . An so on for half a dozen pages. Jim is any one of the members of my South Polar expedition. He sits this Christmas morning by a small window in our hut in the Antarctic Ice Barrier, thousands of miles from home. His letter, marked, “ Open Christmas Morning,” was handed to him when he left. • He can receive no regular mail until our ship conies back a year hence. The writer of the letter—his sweetheart, wife, or mother —ho kissed good-bye months ago. He knows she is thinking of him to-day ;■ that > she meant this letter to be a touching reminder of the tenderness she feels toward him. And yet the whole pro-ceeding-letter, day, spirit, memory—is unmistakably Hat. Goodness knows there are reasons enough for Jim’s homesickness. He is about 12,000 miles from home, and just half-way around the world from the traditional haunts of Santa Claus. In tho more than 5,000,000 square miles of continent that surround him, not. a Christmas tree grows, not any kind of tree, nor. arc there any Eskimos, reindeer, turkeys, holly, or cranberries to be found in this frozen land. Human hearts and an immeasurable quantity of glistening snow are the only Yuletide realities at our ice-bound Antarctic base.

All else that has to do with making our Christmas a success wo have brought along in envelopes, boxes, bottles, phonograph records, and reliable tin cans,

But this is not a new experience for many of us. The seafaring man' and explorer must always use their ingenuity to make their festal days savour of the real thing. The explorer is put to it more than the sailor to moke the best out of that day of days, which comes on December 25. Ho is farther away: Lc is away for a longer time; his comforts are more limited: Ids existence is more gruelling—and more often than nut a savage blizzard chooses, that day to perform.

On'.' thing about our Christmas in Antarctica that differs from the populn? idea of a polar Christinas is that it comes in midsummer at the South Pole. In the north polar regions the sun is farthest away on December 21. In the south polar regions the sun is at its. highest point on the same day; December 21 at our base will see more sunshine than any other day in the year. Peary, Nansen, Kane, Greeley, and all the other famous Arctic travellers found Christmas useful in raising the spirits of their men. who had been for many weeks living in the awful gloom of sunless days. It was a dreaded season when all hands were at headquarters; when work was curtailed by sv.irling blizzards, hitter cold, and darkness. ft was a time when fresh meat was at a. premium, because hunting was well-nigh impossible; when scurvy crept in and laid its clammy lingers on its victim; when hope for success was at its lowest ebb. In contrast, Christmas in the Antarctic will find us at the height of our activity. Although the days will ho much colder—all Antarctica is colder—than corresponding days in the Par North, the sun will roll around unsetting, throughout the twenty-four hours. Seasons, you know, are reversed south of the Equator. THE PARADE. Jim will no doubt be awakened at dawn Christmas Day—such as it is during the period of the midnight sun —by a great uproar. Perhaps lie is an integral part of the uproar. This is the Christinas morning “ parade.” I don’t know what the psychological significance of a parade is; but 1 do know that at Annapolis, aboard a man-of-war, and in other corners of the world, where only men jpßher together, a parade is a characteristic way to start Christmas Day. Costume for the parade may he anything from pink silk pyjamas—worn over woollens —to the skin of a fake gorilla. Music is provided by a cornet, a trombone, a snare drum, and two or throe ukeleles. If some good old ditty, such as ‘ Blow the Man Down,’ lias caught the party’s current fancy the roars of it may drown out the instruments.

If the weather outside is not too awful the parade may wind around the several huts that make up our liltle “village.” If a hurricane is in progress and a smother of snow enwraps our huts, the walking part of the parade is replaced by a noisy jubilation in the main quarters. No doubt the effect of the v. hole performance is much more profound than its outward semblance would indicate. Sudden absurdity jolts men out of the dull formality of routine. It n leases the strain of'over-great intimacy. Perhaps it helps cover the heartaches that are bound to be there. In a sudden lull the same idea strikes everyone at once. For each of us has some sort of Christmas box, a package of letters and small _ gifts packed especially for the occasion by loving hands before wo left. Jim drags his out of his bunk. It is a large pasteboard box such as glassware is often packed in. Nearly three weeks ago he took the precaution to get it out of the storehouse to make sure he would have it on hand-when the great day came. “ Oh, hoy!” he exclaims, more like a ten-year-old than a weather-beaten _ -man with a three-day growth of whiskers on his face.’ He loosens the last cord and dips out

a heavy oblong package. His comrades gather about. There is an unmistakable odour to the package. Jim lifts the lid “ Ah-h-h!” Yes, they were right; five pounds of rich chocolates. And ask anyone who has been in polar regions which he’d rather have, gold or candy—or liquor or candy; for that matter. There is a fine fuel value in sweets that makes them prodigiously satisfying in cold climates. PRESENTS. I always remember how Captain Bob Bartlett’s father worked his men night and day down the Labrador, building a fishing schooner. Neither threats nor rum drove his men, but a twentypound cask of brown sugar, to which the gang was given free access during the rush. Now another member bursts in upon the knot of men, munching chocolates, “ Hey, look what I got! ” with.a wild gesture he waves a photograph. Such gyrations the picture describes in his hands that someone begs him to let the crowd have a look. It .is the photograph of a chunky morsel of humanity perhaps six months old; an infant that looks almost exactly like every other infant of its age, expressionless and contented, mostly hairless and fatter than it will ever be again. ' Silence falls upon the group. A few older ones smile knowingly: Two or three bachelors wear faint expressions of: “Well, what of it?” Only the proud father goes on with his gurglings until suddenly in embarrassment ho realises that his act is a monologue and a flop, and that it’s time for the next cue.

Still another man intrudes, -unwrapping the top package out of his box. “ Say, what do you suppose this is? ” “ Another photo,” mutters someone. “ No, there aren’s any kids in mine! ” snaps the unwrapper in an undertone so as not to hurt the feelings of the young father. Yet the package certainly looks as if it held a picture of some sort. It is flat and about eight inches by twelve. . A card drops out. ‘ Merry Christmas from Eddie,” it reads. “ Just what you’ll need when you reach the Pole."' This message adds to the suspense. It is clear that the whole roomful of men are for the moment eager to learn what it is a small brother would send aling with our expedition, something that will be needed “when ;on reach the Pole.” A black object falls out of the package.- An incredulous gasp rises from tiio audience, followed by a burst of raucous laughter. Little Eddie s Christinas gift to his brother, to be used at the historic moment when flying across the South Pole, is nothing less than a folding_ opera hat! _ And at this moment the jubilation is interrupted by a shout of'iwotest from the cook! “ Say, if you fellows are going to hang around that table all day, how do you expect to get any breakfast? ” At which some callous soul commits a blasphemy by retorting; “ We aren’t interested in breakfast, Cookie; what wo want to know is the menu for dinner.” About this time there will bo a call for a brief Divine service. We shall have no chaplain along, but as practically all of the party are good churchmen this will not ho difficult to arrange. The day would not bo com■pleto without a Christmas carol. SNOW SPORTS. It is not unlikely that athletic events will have been organised for the morning. Some of those will be common to temperate climes, such as hockey, foot races, “ Soccer ” football, and others. With an experienced man in .charge these contests will,go off with, a very real interest. We shall not have much time to devote to athletics during-our stay south, despite the long periods of bad weather and darkness which may assail ns There is too much work to be done by too few men. But our crowd will bo in such splendid physical trim at all times that holiday" game* will surely not be cheap imitations. There will be sports peculiar to the strange environment of snow and ice in which wo live Of these, skiing will, for many reasons, be most important. Surface of the icecap is such that ,skis are very important for our field parties. Anything that - encourages their use benefits the whole expedition. The'biilowy surface of the Barrier just outside our front door lends itself readily both to ski sprints and to slides. The latter are likely to be the most spectacular events of the day. Americans take the .skis in boldness if in nothing else. Hence I anticipate some grand moving pictures of human ■meteors sweeping down the nearest snow.slide, and ending in an equally grand crash in a cloud of powdery snow at the bottom. Of course, the winner can only bo be who keeps bis feet—unless all topple. Then there are snow block contests to see who can cut the _ best and fastest cubes of snow, the kind we use for wind-breaks on the trail. And obstacle races over the too hummock' near the tide crack. Possibly there will be toboggan races if conditions are right. AND SO TO DINNER. By the time the sun has passed the meridian our Chief Cook—spelled with a capital C—is ready with Ins banquet. We gather in the piess hut, those of us who are not laying down depots or on a flight. _ As this is a gala occasion a toast is drunk—the President’s toast. Then the feast. Probably the table would surprise you more than anything else of our topsy-turvy, Christmas celebration. Candles, of course, aren’t needed, for the good and simple reason that the sun won’t set for another month cr so! By the side of each plate are three small packages, each trio like the other. These are special gifts that have been made for the expedition by three kindly folk who wtnild not rest until they had taken care of everyone of us for Christmas Day. Then comes the food—and what a feast it is! Course after with such civilised dainties as roast goose, turkey, and chicken, with all the fixings,” beauso nowadays a roast bird can be put up in fat and tinned for an indefinite time. _ , As our cook is one of the best allround culinarv mechanics in the business, I should be very much surprised if we do not have a plum pudding and cake that ho will put 'together himself. I know that adieu we left New York he took along some packages which contained mysterious ifigredients with Christmas dinner in mind. While not all members of_ the expedition are smokers, there will- bo pipes and cigars aplenty when tlie feast comes "to an end. Tobacco is discouraged on the trail; but it is a great solace at headquarters, particularly on such 'days as Christmas. THOUGHTS OF HOME. The next few hours are the most personal part of the day. For it is at this time, when the jollity of the morning has worn off and the repletion oi sharp appetites is complete, that thoughts of family and home.are most likely to come with poignant sharpness.

.Christmas, letters—all, like Jim’s, given before the ship sailed months ago—are read again. Photographs are taken out and scrutinised as if the well-known features might be forgotten in the dreary months of separation. Small gifts and surprises from friends and other members of the family are opened. ' ■. The personal, diary is opened. The usual brief notations of weather, temperature, • and work are for once changed. The Christmas entry is more personal—possibly even sentimental; it deals with abstractions that have more to do with the disaut homeland than with this desert of ice and snow. As the sun swings into the east and dips lower near the blue-white barrier surface, the men drift off by twos and threes for a walk to settle their overloaded interiors. Like the diaries, the talk is different from that,of ordinary days. It deals with speculations about the latest news from home. “ They’re having dinner just about this time—l can see the big turkey.: “Do you still have stockings? “Sure—even the old man! ” All about is the utter stillness of the frozen world in which we live. Southward stretches the slow rise of the largest glacier in the" world a vast area of solid ice running over 400 miles to the mountains far inland. On either hand are the arms of this glacier, which form the Bay of Whales, the small “bite” hit he barrier front that forms our refuge. Northward spieads the ice-filled sea clear to the hoiizon, over which our ship has long since disappeared. THE CHRISTMAS TREE. A long silence falls upon the walkers. Then “ Let’s go back. It must be time for the tree.” • Yes, even in this land of hlelessness the carpenter has rigged up what he terms a “ Christmas tree.” It is a makeshift affair, with a skeleton •or wooden ;hs. But is “ branches are so buried in ornamental trimmings that one does not notice the mockery of its body. On the trees are presents given front one member of the expedition to another; mostly foolish trinkets—anything from a cigar done up in many wrappings to a cast-off mouth organ. But it is part of the game of niakig the day as near to the real thing as a canned Christmas can be. With those in the field the celebration is pretty thin. They are pushing out our clann of depots which contain food for our flyers to use in case they are forced to return afoot, or in case landing on the slow is feasible. On the dog sledge are the iron rations of the polar journey afoot—pemniican tea and biscuit, with little milk and chocolate as extras. Every ounce counts., The mileage of the struggling dogs is measured almost to the last inch. Hence it would be impossible to have included in the original equipment anything that resembled a Christmas dinner. Yet, such is the persistence of man’s desire to celebrate the birth of Christ that the day is made different even on the longest‘and toughest journey. The party dare not “ lie up ” just because it is Christmas; rations would only be wasted. So the daily inarch is made —thirty long miles over sharp sastrngi and deadly crevasses. The one thin tent is pitched in 35deg while _ a hissing wind blinds the parly with stinging snow crystals. The stove and bags and small food box arc passed in. Stiffly the men follow, and sit cramped withi.i while tea is brewed. But is is Christmas Day. Surreptitiously each man draws a small gift from his dunnage bag—none weighing over a few ounces—and opens it or hands it over, to one of the others. There is an extra ration of sweet chocolate— say, about a 3d cake’s worth. The smoker of the party has a, Christmas . cigni-,, which.. .he.-, has brought hundreds of miles. Another .ins'a letter. “ I guess wo won’t forgot this Christmas,” says one, meaningly. ‘ ‘Hardly,” from another, who gives a grunt of pain as lie plunges his frostbitten fingers under his shirt to thaw them on his bare skin. , 1 think we shall need no pity for our Christinas in the Antarctic. We shall bo thinking of homo.and friends! But wo shall be busy, happy, well-fed, and very likely healthier than-we have ever been in our lives before. By radio wo shall send our “ Merry Christmas ” to the outside world. It is in the dark and sunless months of next summer that we shall feel most isolated.