Byrd To Celebrate Christmas With Temperature At 40 Degrees Below.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18644, 22 December 1928, Page 2

Byrd To Celebrate Christmas With Temperature At 40 Degrees Below.

BUT THEY WILL HAVE GOOSE AND TURKEY, AND EVEN A CHRISTMAS TREE OF SORTS. (By Commander R. E. Byrd.), (Copyright.) JIM,— Yon 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. .. .

And 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 on 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 comes back a y'ear hence. The writer of the letter—his sweetheart, wife, or mother—he kissed goodbye 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 towards him. And yet the whole proceeding—letter, day, spirit, memory—is unmistakably flat. Goodness knows there are reasons enough for Jim’s homesickness. He is about twelve thousand miles from home, and just halfway around the world from the traditional haunts of Santa Claus. In the more than five million square miles of continent that surround him, not a Christmas grows, not any kind of tree, nor are there any Eskimos, reindeer, turkeys, holly or cranberries to be found in this frozen land. Human hearts and an quantity ofj 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 we 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 make the best out of that day of days, which comes on December 25. He is farther away; he is away for a longer time; his comforts are more limited, his existence is more gruelling-—and more often than not a savage blizzard chooses just that day to perform. One thing about our Christmas in Antarctica that differs from the popular idea of a polar Christmas 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 tor many weeks living in the awful gloom of sunless days. It was a dreaded l season when all hands were at headquarters; when work was curtailed by swirling blizzards, bitter cold, and darkness. It was a time when fresh meat was at a premium, because hunting was well-nigh impossible; when scurvy crept in and laid its clammy fingers on its victim; when hope for success was at its lowest ebb. In contrast, Christmas in the Ant-

arctic will find us at the height -of our activity. Although the days will be much colder—all Antarctica is colder—than corresponding days in the Far North, the sun will roll around unsetting, throughout the twenty-four hours. Seasons, you know, are reversed south of the equator.

Pink Silk Pyjamas in Frozen Wastes. Jim will no doubt be awakened at dawn on Christmas Day—such as it is during the period of midnight sun—by a great uproar. Perhaps he is an integral part of the uproar. This is the Christmas morning ‘‘parade”. I don’t know what the psychological significance of a parade is; but I do know that at Annapolis, aboard a man-of-war, and in other corners of the world, where only men gather together, a parade is a characteristic way to start Christmas Day. Costume for the parade may be 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 three ukuleles. If some good old dittv, such as’ ‘‘Blow the Man Down,” has 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 little ‘‘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 whole performance is much more profound than its outward semblance would indicate. Sudden absurdity jolts men out of the dull formality of routine. It releases 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 < 'hristmas box, a package of letters and small gifts packed especially for the occasion by loving hands before we lelt. “Jim” drags his out of his bpnlc. 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, boy! ” he exclaims, more like a ten-year-old than a weather-beaten man with a threeday growth of whiskers on his face. 1 lie 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. Chocolates Provide Warmth. 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, he 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’t any kids in mine!” snaps the unwrapper in an undertone so as not to hurt the feelings of the young father. et 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 w’hole roomful of meji are for the moment eager to learn what it is a small brother would send along with our expedition, something that will be needed “when you reach the pole.” A bjack object falls out of the package. An incredulous gasp rises from the audience, followed by a burst of raucous laughter. Little Eddie’s Christmas 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 protest 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 we want to know is the menu for dinAbout this time there will be 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 be difficult to arrange. The day would not be complete without a Christmas carol. Athletics and Football Possible. It is not unlikely that athletic events will have been organised for the morning. Some of these 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 us. There is too much work to be done by too few men. But our crowd will be in such splendid physical trim at all times that holiday games will surely not be cheap imitations. There will be sports peculiar to the strange environment of snow and ice in which we 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 billowy 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 equallv grand crash in a cloud of powderv snow at the bottom. Of course the winner can only be he who keeps his 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 ice-hummocks near the tide crack. Possibly there will be toboggan races if conditions are right. Goose, Turkey And Plum Pudding. By the time the sun has passed the meridian our Chief Cook—spelled with a capital C—is ready with the banquet. We gather in the mess 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 or so! By the side of each plate are three small packages, each trio like the other. There are special gifts that have been made for the expedition by three kindly folk who would 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 course, with such civilised dainties as roast goose, turkey, and chicken, with all the “fixings,” because 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 culinary mechanics in the busi-

ness, I should be very much surprised if we do not. have a plum pudding and cake that, he will put together himself. I know that when we left New York he took along some packages which contained mysterious ingredients with Christmas dinner in mind. While not all members of the expedition are smokers, there will be pipes and cigars aplenty when the 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. 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 of 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 distant 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 j'ou 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 ” in the Barrier front that forms our refuge. Northward spreads the ice-filled sea clear to the horizon, over which our ship has long since disappeared. —And a 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 lifelessness the carpenter has rigged up what he terms a “Christmas tree.” It is a makeshift affair with a skeleton of wooden laths. But its “ branches ” are so buried in ornamental trimmings that one does not notice the mockery of its body. On the tree are presetns given from 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 making 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 chain of depots which contain food for our flyers to use in case forced to return afoot, or in case of landing on the snow is feasible. On the dog-sledge are the iron rations of the Polar journey afoot-—-pemmican tea and biscuit, with a 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 part3' dare not “ He up ” just because it is Christinas; rations would only be wasted. So the daily march is made—thirtv long miles over sharp sastrugi and deadly crevasses. The one thin tent is pitched in 35 degrees, while a hissing wind blinds the party with stinging snow crystals. The stove and bags and small food-box are passed in. Stiffly the men follow, and sit cramped within while tea is brewed. But it 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 cigar which he has brought hundreds of miles. Another has a letter. “ I guess we won’t forget this Christmas,” says one, meaningly. “ Hardly.” from another, who gives a grunt of pain as he plunges his frostnipped fingers under his shirt to thaw them on his bare skin. I think we shall need no pity' for our Christmas in the Antarctic. ’ We shall be thinking of home and friends. But we shall be busv, happy, well-fed, and very likely healthier than we have ever been in our lives before. By radio we 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.— United Press Association.