Cold Comfort A shrieking wind ripped at the tent as if a giant hand was trying to tear it off the ice and hurl it into the air. Major Wilson lay curled up in a ball shuddering with cold. It was the height of summer, but that was no reassurance in Antarctica of it being fine weather. The expedition had met with one turn of bad luck after the other. They had started as a party of six hauling three sleds on foot. A crevasse had opened up and swallowed one sled and the two men tethered to it, after only three days into the trek. Half of their tinned supplies had proven to be rancid. Most of their portable stove fuel had been tainted and would not maintain a steady flame. More often than not it would constantly sputter out. They had been reduced to cold half-rations and no heating in the tents. The two remaining sleds had been separated in a sudden blizzard and had not managed to reconnect after it had passed. It was at this point that the major had decided to give up on the pole and go back to the ship. On the arduous return journey he had lost his last companion to frostbite and exposure. It became necessary for him to abandon the sled and make the last leg of the journey with a pack and limited rations. He draped the two man tent over his shoulders and it had proven very heavy going. For days he had trudged along alone in the inhospitable landscape. The fact that he had been able to keep his bearings and knew that he was on track for the coast, had kept his spirits up. Now just moments away from topping the ridge and looking down on the bay, was making him positively buoyant. A few more steps and he would be only minutes away from the warmth and safety of his cabin on board the ‘Whistler’. As he crested the ridge the seen below stopped him in his tracks. The ship was there, crushed by pack ice. Broken into pieces and strewn around in chaotic disorder. Not a single human being could be seen in any direction.
Posted on: Tue, 16 Jul 2013 09:38:49 +0000
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