Amundsen is wary of winter. Not the snow and ice, the all-pervading cold and hurtling winds – he can plan for those. It’s the darkness he’s afraid of. Unremitting, oppressive, the Antarctic winter saps mental strength. Steady, regular work, that’s what each man needs – a purpose. Not useless work that will bore a man to tears or create feelings of resentment.
Bjaaland has been set the task of reworking the sledges. They need to be light, to be flexible, to be fast. He’s already worked them over once but greater improvements are possible. Stubberud seems convinced he can reduce the weight of the sledging cases too, the boxes that carry their supplies. It should be possible to lose 3 kilos at least. Laborious as it is to shave off layer after layer of wood with a handheld planer, Stubberud knows it’s all for a worthwhile cause. In the end he opts to use an axe to slice into the sides.
Once the boxes have been pared back sufficiently, Johansen will pack them even tighter with sledging provisions ready for their spring departure to the pole. His job’s going to be even more tedious. Pemmican, milk powder, biscuits, chocolate – everything must be weighed, measured, counted. Twice or even three times. Patience and accuracy is needed when counting out thousands of biscuits. There will be no room for mistakes when the chief cracks open the biscuit tin out on the Great Ice Barrier.
Oscar will spend the best part of winter in front of his sewing machine, making repairs and adjustments to clothing, equipment and footwear, and enlarging the remaining tents. They all agree that the white tent fabric can be improved upon by using the only dye they have to hand – India ink. The darker shade of blue will be more restful to the eyes, easier to spot against their white surroundings and should absorb the feeble warmth of the sun more readily. Another issue they’re keen to rectify is the incessant build-up of ice on the outside of the tents, which adds significant weight to the sledges. A fly sheet’s the answer. Oscar is set to make a couple from the red curtains he’s snaffled from each man’s bunk.
‘Less privacy, perhaps,’ says Oscar resignedly. It scarcely matters. Whatever inhibitions they once harboured have been well and truly lost in such close quarters.
Prestrud has more than enough astronomical calculations to keep him busy all winter. Nobody would want his job, poor blighter. In time he’ll teach them all the fundamentals of navigation, if only for safety’s sake, but for now the men are happy to leave the lieutenant to pore over those deadly columns of figures in the lamplight day after day.
And where does shovelling snow fit into Amundsen’s new order, in which every man needs a worthwhile occupation? Shovelling snow in this place is a bit like sweeping back the tide – pointless. Left to accumulate around the hut, the snow is like a slowly rising dough covering first the windows, then the walls and finally the roof. The front door is well below the new ground level. In fact their new entrance is a trapdoor in the snow opening to some rough-hewn stairs that descend to the front porch. The chimney cap with its drifting smoke is the only outward sign of human habitation. And that is how it should be – the hut is as snug as a burrow, protected from extreme weather and insulated from the deep freeze of Antarctica’s coldest, darkest months.
The only issue remains the fuel. Ready access to fuel is vital for survival. Cooking, melting snow for water and heating the hut all require coal, wood or oil, which for safety’s sake have been stored in a fuel cache a short distance from the hut. The oil drums now lie under a metre or more of snow, which hardens by the day as the rolling procession of storms dump yet more snow on top. Clearing this snow is indeed useful work. To neglect this shovelling would mean giving in to dehydration, hypothermia and starvation. Just because it’s life-saving doesn’t mean it’s any less energy-sapping, and unfortunately Sverre must shoulder his responsibility as fuel master. He stands in the half-light with his shovel, contemplating the enormity of his task.
‘Where’s Sverre?’ asks Oscar as the men sit down at lunchtime.
‘Didn’t you go out to fetch him?’ Amundsen asks Stubberud.
The carpenter blinks. ‘He wasn’t out there. I thought he might have gone to relieve himself. And I’m not one for harassing a man with pressing business.’
The others laugh at the mere thought of privacy.
‘It’s snowing hard. Better nip out and check,’ Amundsen nods at Stubberud, who eases himself up from the table with exaggerated reluctance. Fur clothing, balaclava, reindeer mitts, socks and fur kamiks – a right fuss – as if there was any such thing as ‘nipping out’ to check.
He’s gone ten minutes or more. The others are eating, chatting, half-expecting two white figures to reappear at the door. ‘Two of them missing now,’ says Lindstrøm between bites.
Pushing his plate away, Bjaaland stands. ‘I’ll go.’ The others shift their seats closer to the table, allowing him to squeeze past and grab his hat and outdoor clothes from his allotted pegs at the end of the bunks. A wall of cold air enters the hut as he bustles outside to investigate. Unsurprisingly, he too fails to return.
Helmer doesn’t wait for his coffee. He’s away out the door as soon as lunch is over, trading the peaceful digestion of his midday meal for the intensifying mystery of what is now three missing men. It doesn’t take long for the others to take the bait. Amundsen and Prestrud kit up and head out, as do Oscar and Johansen. Lindstrøm is the last to emerge, reluctant to leave the warmth of the hut but not wanting to be the only man missing out on any unfolding drama.
Bracing themselves against the wind, the group gathers in the dizzying whirl of snow; some crouch, some bend double. Stubberud is moving about on his hands and knees. Sverre’s there too, but only his head is visible. He’s been far too busy to stop for lunch. The grotto he’s carved out for himself allows easy access to the barrels of petroleum with the benefit of being out of the howling wind.
‘We better arch the entrance. You don’t want a cave-in,’ says Stubberud.
They’ve all got suggestions. ‘Extend a tunnel this way and you’ll be linked to the house.’
‘A bit further and the wood and coal tent will be accessible. You could tunnel up from below.’
‘Imagine if we could dig a tunnel from the house to the toilet. Handy when you’re in a hurry.’
‘Indoor plumbing!’
‘Well, almost.’
They all laugh at the novelty of it. Amundsen’s thinking of all the other possibilities presented by this new approach to working with nature rather than against her. An underground carpenter’s workshop. A sewing room for Oscar where he can spread out his tents. Helmer will need somewhere to load the sledges under cover so the hide lashings don’t freeze.
‘I could pack the provisions properly without snow blowing through everything,’ says Johansen.
It appears they’ve inadvertently created another wintertime pursuit to keep themselves busy for a month or more.
Lindstrøm harrumphs. He’ll leave them to their alfresco brainstorming session. Just got home and they’ll be leaving again now, he thinks miserably. He can see tunnelling fever has taken hold.