Forging South Through Ice, Byrd’s Ship Carries Happy Body Of Busy Men.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18645, 26 December 1928, Page 4

Forging South Through Ice, Byrd’s Ship Carries Happy Body Of Busy Men.

LIFE GOES GAILY ABOARD CITY OF NEW YORK; THERE IS MUCH HUMOUR AMONG THE CREW

(United Press Assn. —By Electric Telegraph.—Copyright.) NEW YORK, December 23. A radio from Commander Byrd’s ship, the City of New York, says: “Our days go on bumpingly. ramming the pack and pushing huge ice cakes aside, now backing, now struggling ahead. The sturdy little ship makes her way slowly south. Always there is the grumbling, crunching and hissing of ice alongside, the shouts of orders from those conning us through, together with the barking and whining of the impatient dogs. Outside is a white field of snow-covered ice, smooth or rolling or broken, and twisted into a thousand fragments that have been welded together under the tough winter cold. Heterogeneous Crew. “ Life goes gaily, nevertheless. Busy with their many tasks, or resting in their bunks between watches, the men joke and laugh at each other, hurl good-natured jibes over mistakes, or break into song from sheer lightheartedness. There is much humour in this heterogeneous crew. Thus, scientists and stokers eating side by side tend to cement that goodfellowship which finds refuge in banter about each other’s foibles. We would be very uncomfortable if we could not laugh. As it is, no more loyal or unselfish crew ever sailed the sea. This is evident in that queer way in which a man will show consideration for another’s feelings or do something to help him. In the Forecastle.

homeland, and his face slowly relaxes in a half-smile. There is something very fine about this man, whose life has been spent wresting a living from the eternal ice of the north. His gentleness and courtesy are more marked because of his rugged strength. He plays a gay song, his grey eyes smiling at us as he moves his head in time to the music, and our bodies unconsciously sway and our feet tap the floor. “ The whole forecastle sways sideways as the ship runs up on a floe and slides off again, and a rumbling, tearing sound comes through the planks. No one pays any attention—we are used to it now. The Dining Place. “ Through the open door to the larger forecastle, w'hich runs almost to amidships, can be seen the companionway steps coming down from the hatch. Smoke blows through and flows upwards, to be torn apart in eddies by the cold air rushing down. The long mess table is in this large room. Everyone, including Commander Byrd, eats here, and around the sides are bunks for fifty men. The light from the hatch and a few bulbs illuminate the forward end, but the room fades away into dense shadow, from which comes the sound of men arguing or laughing as they await their turn at the table. Dishes clatter, and there are cries of ‘ more soup,’ and demands to know what in blazes has become of the butter. Even during meals some men are sleeping, behind curtains of nondescript material, which cut off some of the light. Stewards and Cooks. “ We eat in three messes, and the long table is filled each time. Charles, the major domo, brought order out of the chaos which existed at first, when everyone tried to eat at once. He is resplendent in Dundreary whiskers, and carries a towel of indeterminate grey around his neck. His hands are the cleanest aboard, for which all are thankful, as it is Charley who dips out the soup and passes the cake. Syd Greason and Dick Conter, the assistant stewards, help him, Syd rushing food from the galley and Dick washing the dishes. The ship lurches against the ice cake, and Lofgren spills soup on someone’s hair and down his neck, and, while the sprinkled one roars picturesque objections, Lofgren calmly mops up his victim with a dish towel. “ Stumble up the steep steps, and you find the decks littered with boxes and dog crates. Cases of stores are opened there, because there is no other place to open them. This accumulated confusion is cleared away on one side, so that the galley may be reached. A breath of warm air, laden with the smell of roasting meat and the appetising odour of new bread, floats out of the open - door. It is warm in there, and good shelter from the chill wind that blows off the ice. Someone is generally hugging the stove, chatting with George Tennant, the cook, round and benign, with a calm which nothing can disturb. George smiles upon all who come, and discusses, in a low monotone which never varies, the incomprehensible things which men do outside the galle}-, his ordained world. No matter how we roll, with water sloshing about his ankies, imperturbably he turns out good things to eat.”—Australian Press Association.

“ Down in the tiny forecastle, forward of the larger forecastle and messroom, in the midst of a severe storm, the first mate is playing his big accordeon to delight those around him. It is a small room, with four large bunks along each side in two tiers. An electric bulb -overhead shines yellow through the smoke of many pipes. The blue haze against the ceiling, curling round the ponderous beams and elbows, is thick like snow, and the fog outside makes dim the corners of the room. There is a litter of packing cases, bags and suit cases on the floor, which is paved with bits of paper and string, matches, and the other things which tired men drop and forget to pick up. Hanging from the partitions, the ceiling, and hooks and strings are skis, boots, lanterns, bags, and bits of clothing, heavy coats and oilskins. There is a smell of dampness and tobacco and a musty odour of boots. Some pictures of those left behind are tacked on the inner walls of the bunks, the smiling faces of women looking down on one of the most masculine places on earth, a ship's forecastle. Some of the People.

“ Old Martin Ronne, the sailmaker, across the way leans on his sewing machine, a smile creasing his leather cheeks on each side of his beaked nose, his eyes blinking continuously as if he were about to fall asleep. ‘ The Walrus.' we call him.

“ Bernt Balchen, the aviator, sprawls on a pile of bags, contentedly listening to a tune, and Babe Smith, another pilot, stretches his long legs half-way across the room, caressing the bowl of his pipe with grimy hands. ‘ Tliat is good,’ says Balchen, with a characteristic nod of his head, as someone finishes playing something reminiscent of his