My cache of musty old books (which happens to be growing at an alarming rate) includes first editions of every book written by Richard Evelyn Byrd.
Commander Byrd was a 20th century explorer, adventurer, gentleman, and American hero. In addition, he was a tremendous writer.
When you put all that together, it makes for some amazing reading.
On his second expedition to Antarctica in 1934, Byrd set up a lonely outpost far from the Little America station he had earlier established. He made the decision to spend the harsh winter in this tiny outpost — alone.
His stated goal was to collect scientific data from the most remote region on the planet. But reading between the lines, it’s difficult not to conclude that Byrd was using this self-imposed exile as a means of testing his own mettle.
‘Alone‘ was published in 1938 and it chronicles this unique adventure of human endurance. I read it cover to cover one weekend last year, and couldn’t catch my breath for a week.
The shack that Byrd called “home” for that long winter included a small CW transmitter and a receiver with which he received voice replies when conditions permitted him to make contact with Little America. Using Morse to send was a particular challenge since he didn’t know the code.
I imagine a similarly amusing scenario has been played out by neophyte radio operators the world over…
excerpted from the 1938 book ‘Alone’ written by Richard E. Byrd
This morning I had another radio contact with Little America. As were the two preceding affairs, it was a major operation; therefore, as with everything else important, I am trying to systematize the operation as best I can . . . The fact that I haven’t mastered the Morse code complicates the business
infernally. Even though I have a conversion alphabet tacked to the table next to the key, I find it terribly difficult to think in terms of dots and dashes; and my thumb and forefinger are clumsy executing them with the key.
So this is what I’m doing: While the engine is heating on the stove, I sit down at the desk and write out on a sheet of paper whatever messages I have in mind. I spell them out vertically down the page — that is, Chinese fashion, with the letters one under each other; then, opposite each letter, I write the equivalent dots and dashes. This is fine, as far as it goes. The trouble comes afterwards, when Charlie Murphy takes up some expedition matter or else is in a mood just to make conversation. Then I become as frantic as a tongue-tied Latin being interrogated in a strait jacket, who can’t form the words in his mouth or use his hands to gesticulate. Yet, somehow, Dyer manages to follow me — he must have learned mind-reading along with his engineering . . .
My first question today was, “How is Ken Rawson?” Charlie Murphy came on and said that Rawson’s neck was still giving trouble. Aside from that, all’s well at Little America.
Charles gave me a digest of Little America weather; and, as we anticipated, it averages 15 degrees to 20 degrees warmer than here.
It’s really comforting to talk this way with Little America, and yet in my heart I wish very much that I didn’t have to have the radio. It connects me with places where speeches are made and with the importunities of the outer world. But at least I myself can’t broadcast over this set, thank heaven. It won’t carry voice; and, moreover, I haven’t enough generator fuel to be sending long messages in code. Charlie Murphy will see to it that my friends understand the situation. But I know that some day, out of pure curiosity, I shall be tempted to ask how the stock market is going or what’s happening in Washington. And, in view of my precarious finances, any news will probably bring restlessness and discontent.
After the schedule I found that the ventilator pipe in the generator alcove was half filled with ice from the condensation of the hot gases, and sickening fumes filled the tunnel. Although I don’t like this at all, I can’t seem to find a remedy. The temperature today held between 50 degrees and 60 degrees below.