chapter 5

They were not resigned, though—not by any means. Perhaps logically there was so little chance for a
ship to get through that it would be best to adopt an attitude of stoic resignation. But there was simply
too much at stake.
“Every morning,” Macklin wrote on June 6, “I go to the top of the hill, and in spite of everything I
cannot help hoping to see a ship coming along to our relief.” Even Hurley, who had been so positive,
recorded that “all [hands] scour the skyline daily in the expectancy of a mast or plume of smoke.”
And though day after day no ship appeared, they attributed it to a dozen different reasons—the ice,
the gales, the fog, arrangements for getting a proper ship, official delays—and all or any of these factors
combined. There was almost never any mention of the most probable reason of all . . . the Caird had
been lost.
In an entry notable for its candor, Orde-Lees wrote: “One cannot help but be a bit anxious about Sir
Ernest. One wonders how he fared, where he is now and how it is that he has not yet been able to
relieve us. [But] the subject is practically taboo; everyone keeps their own counsel and thinks different,
and no one knows just what anyone else thinks about it, and it is quite obvious that no one really dare
say what they really do think.”
But whatever each of them might think, there was nothing to do but to wait and hope. Each day one
man took his turn as “stoker,” and it was his duty to tend the fire all day, keeping it going with penguin
skins—and a minimum of smoke. There was also the job of “outside Peggy,” which entailed bringing in
ice for water and gathering the necessary supplies of frozen meat to be cooked. Both tasks were
tedious, and there was a fair amount of trading in order to escape them. Half a penguin steak would
usually buy the services of a substitute stoker for one day.
There was also a good deal of bartering in the matter of rations, and several food pools were formed.
Typical of these was the “sugar pool” in which each man who belonged passed up one of his three lumps
of sugar each day in order to partake of a feast when his turn came around every sixth or seventh day.
Wild made no objection to this sort of thing. In fact he permitted a wide range of flexibility in most
matters. It served to avoid friction and it gave the men something to occupy their minds.
There was, on the whole, an astounding absence of serious antagonisms, considering the conditions
under which they were attempting to exist. Possibly it was because they were in a state of almost
perpetual minor friction. Arguments rambled on the whole day through, and they served to let off a
great deal of steam which might otherwise have built up. In addition, the party had been reduced to an
almost classless society in which most of them felt free to speak their minds, and did. A man who
stepped on another man’s head trying to find his way out at night was treated to the same abuse as
any other, regardless of what his station might once have been.
This matter of going outside at night to relieve themselves was possibly the most disagreeable aspect
of their existence. A man had to pick his way amongst the sleepers by the light of only a single blubber
lamp, kept burning specifically for this purpose. It was almost physically impossible to avoid stepping
on somebody somewhere. Then came the crawl through die hut entrance and out into weather which
often approached blizzard conditions. Frequently a man could scarcely keep his feet outside. Pieces of
rock and bits of ice flew unseen through the blackness. Rather than face such a prospect, the men came
to practice bladder control to the limits of bodily endurance.
After a time, however, Wild succumbed to mounting pressure and a 2-gallon gasoline can was made
into a urinal for use at night. The rule was that the man who raised its level to within 2 inches of the top
had to carry the can outside and empty it. If a man felt the need and the weather outside was bad, he
would lie awake waiting for somebody else to go so that he might judge from the sound the level of the
can’s contents.
If it sounded ominously close to the top he would try to hold out until morning. But it was not always
possible to do so, and he might be forced to get up. More than once, a man would fill the can as
silently as possible, then steal back into his sleeping bag. The next man to get up would find to his fury
that the can was full—and had to be emptied before it could be used.
The unfortunate victim, however, could expect very little sympathy. Most of the men looked on this
as a kind of practical joke, and anyone who really lost his temper about it was so roundly ridiculed by
the others that he soon gave it up.
But there were definite fluctuations in morale, in accordance with the weather and whether the pack
was in or out. When the sun did shine, the island became a place of rugged beauty, with the sunlight
shimmering off the glaciers, producing indescribably vivid colors that were constantly changing. For all
the party, it was difficult to be unhappy on days like this. But most of the time the island was far from
beautiful. Though the gales were fewer, there were long stretches of wet, gloomy weather, resulting in
the kind of outlook Greenstreet recorded one evening: “Everyone spent the day rotting in their bags
with blubber and tobacco smoke—so passes another goddam rotten day.”
Throughout May, the more pessimistic members of the party—championed by Orde-Lees—had
predicted that one day the penguins would migrate and never be seen again until the end of the winter.
Orde-Lees felt so strongly, in fact, that he made a number of bets on the matter. Then one day early in
June he lost three, all at the same time.
He had wagered (1) that there would not be a single penguin on that day; (2) that no more than ten
would appear on any one day after June 1, and (3) that no more than thirty would be secured during
the entire month. On that particular day they killed 115.
Food was thus not a cause for immediate concern. But there were other matters that needed
attention— notably Blackboro’s foot. Early in June McIlroy was satisfied that the separation between
the dead and the living tissue was complete, and it would be dangerous to postpone the operation any
longer. A rescue in time to get Blackboro to a hospital where the amputation might be done properly
was now obviously out of the question. The operation would have to take place on the next warm day.
June 15 dawned mild and misty. McIlroy, after consulting with Wild and Macklin, decided to proceed.
Blackboro had long before resigned himself to the operation. What few surgical supplies they had were
made ready, and as soon as breakfast was over, the hoosh pot was filled with ice which was melted into
water and brought to a boil to sterilize the instruments. A number of packing cases were placed side by
side close to the stove and covered with blankets to serve as an operating table.
When everything was ready, the men were herded outside to wait until the operation was over. The
two other invalids, Hudson and Greenstreet, remained in the hut. Hudson lay at the far end, but
Greenstreet’s berth across the seats of the Docker was directly over the operating scene. Wild and How
both stayed inside to assist, and Hurley remained to stoke the fire. As soon as the men had left, he
began to pile penguin skins onto the blaze.
As the temperature started to rise, Blackboro was lifted onto the operating table. Every available
blubber lamp was lighted, and the dingy interior of the hut grew fairly light in the little circle around the
stove. When it was warm enough, McIlroy and Macklin stripped to their undershirts, the cleanest
garments they had.
The anesthetic was to be chloroform—not a very good anesthetic, especially close to an open fire.
But it was all they had, and there were only 6 ounces of that. Macklin, who was to administer it, waited
for the hut to get warm enough so that the chloroform would vaporize. As Hurley fed skins into the
stove, the temperature crept upward. Within twenty minutes it had reached a sweltering 80 degrees,
and Macklin uncorked the bottle of chloroform and poured a small amount onto a piece of surgical
gauze. Then he patted Blackboro’s shoulder reassuringly and held the gauze across his face. He
instructed Blackboro to close his eyes and breathe deeply, and Blackboro obediently did as he was told.
Within five minutes he was unconscious, and Macklin nodded to McIlroy that he could begin.
Blackboro’s foot was propped up and extended over the edge of the packing cases. A large empty tin
can was placed underneath. When the bandage was removed, the flesh of Blackboro’s toes looked
almost mummified, black and brittle. Wild removed a scalpel from the hoosh pot sterilizer and
handed it to McIlroy.
At the far end of the hut, Hudson turned his face away so that he wouldn’t have to watch.
Greenstreet, however, peered down from his perch, thoroughly absorbed in what was going on beneath
him.
McIlroy cut across the end of Blackboro’s foot, then peeled the skin back. Macklin glanced at Wild
and saw that he never flinched. “A hard case,” Macklin thought to himself.
McIlroy then asked for a pair of forceps, and Wild removed them from the boiling water. To
Greenstreet they looked like a pair of tin snips. Carefully, McIlroy reached well up under the flap of skin
to where the toes joined the foot. Then one at a time he cut them off. Each dropped with a metallic
clatter into the empty tin can below.
Next McIlroy meticulously scraped away the dead, blackened flesh, and when the wound was clean,
be carefully stitched it up. Finally it was done; Blackboro’s foot had been neatly trimmed off just at the
ball joint. Altogether it had taken fifty-five minutes.
Before long Blackboro began to moan, and in a little while he opened his eyes. He was groggy for a
time, but then he smiled up at the two doctors. “I’d like a cigarette,” he said.
So McIlroy tore a page out of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, rubbed up some plug tobacco and rolled
a cigarette for his patient. The tension in the hut eased, and Wild, seeing the hoosh pot full of water,
suggested that they use it to wash. McIlroy and Macklin were delighted with the idea. A tiny scrap of
soap was found, and they removed their undershirts and washed themselves as best they could down
to their waists. Still a small amount of hot water remained, so they borrowed three lumps of sugar from
the next day’s ration and brewed themselves some hot sugar water.
The rest of the men, meanwhile, had sought shelter in the cave which had been dug in the face of
the glacier. They had spent the time cutting one another’s hair.