Johansen’s fingers burn. He rubs his hands vigorously and blows warmth between his palms. The action doesn’t relieve the pain. Reluctantly he slips his hands into the pockets of his reindeer-skin trousers and wonders what task he can attend to while he waits for feeling to return to his icy digits. The little lamp on the table throws his shadow against the sparkling white walls of the cave. It lends far more light than its feeble flame would suggest, thanks to the wonderful reflective qualities of ice. If only it would lend a little warmth. It’s got to be minus 20 at least, thinks Johansen, stamping his feet.
The 1321 cans of pemmican are round. Packing the pemmican into Stubberud’s newly engineered crates creates a lot of empty space. He’s pleased with his idea of packing little bags of milk powder 300 grams apiece between the rounds of pemmican, long white sausages tied with string to fill the voids. Fantastic idea, Amundsen conceded. It’s just a pity Johansen’s fantastic idea requires so much bare-fingered handling in the sharp cold of his ‘Crystal Palace’.
His work space is stacked to the ceiling with sledging provisions to pack. Now he just needs to find space for 100 kilos of chocolate. Everything must be entered into the provision booklets that each man will carry on the polar journey. A main book will be looked after by the two tent leaders, marking off everything that is consumed to ensure an accurate assessment of all remaining supplies.
It’s taken them a month, but their enthusiastic tunnelling efforts have resulted in an ingenious underground complex of interconnected workspaces. Even a sauna and toilet have been carved into the winter-hardened snow. Every morning the men get up, go outside for a minute or two to assess the temperature, eat breakfast and then head off to work, each occupied by a range of activities that will ultimately contribute to the success of their springtime push south. There’s still so much to do before the official departure date – 1 November – and everybody enjoys reuniting at mealtimes and recounting their day’s achievements under a cloud of tobacco smoke. They are working as one, united in a single purpose.
Hunched over and with his hands enjoying the warmth of the furry pockets, Johansen goes over again and again the amount of food he needs to pack. Making modifications wherever he can, Johansen knows the provisions must fit in twenty-eight crates, four per sledge. Not a millimetre of space can be wasted. Amundsen’s calculations are precise – he’s spent months working out how many calories each man will consume and what combination of foods will serve them best, right down to the 25 kilos of fresh meat that each dog carries under its shaggy winter coat. Pemmican packs a punch in terms of the energy it provides but it also weighs a tonne. Biscuits are lightweight but also light on nutritional value. They certainly don’t offer the same warming effect as a pemmican stew. As always, it’s a trade-off.
Johansen whistles as he slips down the narrow tunnel and into Bjaaland’s woodworking realm. It’s not a good idea to surprise a man at work with sharp tools. ‘Permission to enter, champ,’ he says by way of greeting.
Bjaaland looks up from the sledge runner he’s planing down to a smooth surface. He smiles.
Johansen nods at the piles of wood shavings on the floor. ‘We’re all fixated on the same thing, I see. Weight.’
Bjaaland gives a knowing grunt. ‘It’s taken us this long to finish one sledge. We took it apart, shaved every single piece of it back to the minimum and lashed it together again. Our 74-kilo monster now weighs only 21 kilos. Not bad, eh?’
‘And it’s strong enough? My provisions are pretty heavy.’ Johansen narrows his eyes. ‘I’ve got 300 kilos on every sledge. Then there’s 75 kilos of equipment on top of that.’
‘Should be okay.’ Bjaaland steps back and admires his handiwork. ‘Wish I could say as much for my hand plane. The way I’m sharpening the blade every few hours, I’m afraid it’s not going to survive this little holiday in Antarctica.’
‘I’m freezing,’ says Johansen suddenly. ‘All the standing in one place. At least your work’s more physical – keeps your blood pumping.’
‘Oscar’s set up a Primus in his sewing nook.’
‘Not a bad idea, I might do the same.’
‘Good luck squeezing the paraffin out of Sverre. He sits on his fuel supplies like a goose guarding its eggs.’
They laugh about that. If only Sverre knew how profligate Lindstrøm had become with his use of paraffin in the kitchen, spraying it around to get the morning fires roaring. He already calls the cook ‘the woodswallower’, such is his insatiable appetite for firewood.
‘Seen the chief?’ asks Johansen.
‘Working on the new whips with Sverre.’
The whips. They need strengthening, that’s for sure – the depot-laying journeys were proof of that. It’s the handles that snap in situations of overuse. Generally speaking, the crack of the whip combined with the mild sting of the popper nipping at the dogs is enough to keep them motivated. But every so often a troublemaker is intent on spoiling the show. Picking fights on the go is the usual offence. For obvious reasons these individuals must be dealt with swiftly. The team is called to a halt and the rebel is brought to heel with a few blows of the whip handle. If the agitator has inspired an all-out revolt then the blows rain down with vigour on them all. The dogs get the message and the handles pay the price.
Poor devils. The dogs have a grim existence over winter, though they are seemingly content to wander in the cold and dark during the day. A few have discovered that they can steal into the new underground toilet and feast on whatever’s left by the men. It’s a disgusting habit that nonetheless keeps the area clean and free of smells. A few have gone further afield in search of delights. With no wildlife to harass at this time of year, a few of the more intrepid dogs head inland to investigate the unfulfilling emptiness of the barrier. Most return after a day or two. Thankfully Madeiro finally has. Some do not.
Most absences are picked up at feeding time. Nobody gets fed until all the dogs are safely tied up for the night in their allotted tent. There’s howling and fighting aplenty, but finally each man has his fifteen or so dogs under control and dishes out the chunks of meat and blubber or dried fish, depending on the day. Few of them like the fish and they are harder to wrangle into line on alternate nights. The more intelligent among them have worked out the drill and have come to recognise what’s being served by its means of delivery.
Forever the prankster, Helmer has turned the tables on his team, and taken to serving fish from the meat box. The double-crossed dogs take their frustration out on the meat tent the next day. Surrounded by a six-foot-high snow wall and encircled by buried lengths of barbed wire, it’s quite safe. There’s little a dog can do other than lift its leg in protest.