When he determined the likely spot of the South Pole, Byrd dropped an American flag weighted with stones taken from Floyd Bennett’s grave at Arlington National Cemetery. McKinley filmed as it fluttered toward the ice.
Byrd’s name was added at long last to the list of Antarctica firsts, there alongside sealer Captain John Davis, the first to tread on Terra Australis Incognita (a term that dates back to the ancient Egyptian geographer Ptolemy, meaning Unknown Southern Land) in 1821, and Roald Amundsen, first to the pole in 1911. Unlike his flight over the North Pole, the commander had this on film. There would be no naysayers this time.
Then it was back in triumph to Little America, that “clump of huts buried in snow, the only speck of civilization on the Antarctic continent,” as Russell Owen put it so beautifully. When word reached America, it was that rare bright news that aroused pride and wonder—a respite from the gloomy economy. Billy’s parents listened on the radio. Everywhere, newspapers sold out.
Imagine the laughter in the New York Times editorial room the very next day when they decided to publish an angry letter from multimillionaire Wilbur Glenn Voliva, an evangelist priest and radio broadcaster, and a forceful proponent of the flat-earth theory. Voliva—based in Zion, Illinois—proclaimed astronomy, evolution, and high criticism a “trinity of evils.” Over at the tony Explorers Club on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, the librarian assigned to clipping mentions of recent exploits was amused, too, underlining the last line so not one reader could miss it: “Commander Byrd must know that the sea is a vast outstretched plane ill-fitted to become any part of a globular surface. The truth is, the Earth is a circular plane.”
Those on Capitol Hill better appreciated Byrd’s feat. A most uncontroversial bill was voted on in Congress on December 21 and signed immediately by President Hoover. Commander Byrd was now Rear Admiral Byrd, a two-star rank just below vice admiral. Americans soon would have it in their heads that Admiral Byrd had been the one to fly the plane over the South Pole. Whatever bitterness Bernt Balchen had over this he kept to himself, for a time.
EIGHT
FINE ENOUGH
The first day of 1930 brought good news for Admiral Byrd. He had feared that the nation’s economic woes would wipe out interest in his achievements, despite press guru Hilton Railey’s assurances that his triumphant return would have the splashy coverage they all craved. Now Byrd had word that New York’s mayor, his old friend Jimmy Walker, had been sworn in for a second term after a landslide November win. At least Walker’s reelection ensured a grand reception when the expedition team returned to New York in the spring; Byrd would never be a footnote in history. Billy’s parents, struggling to gain new clients and losing most of the ones they had, were relieved, too. They would have something to celebrate, even in these daunting times.
The City of New York, like the Bolling, had been docked in Dunedin for the year, receiving paint jobs and repairs but mostly just waiting—not unlike many of her men. On January 6 Billy joined a skeleton crew, including his pal Kess, on the New York; they were to pick up those who had nobly wintered on ice. She met a squall right off the bat and soon sent word to Byrd that conditions ahead were dreadful again, the pack ice too severe to break through.
A month later and still not arrived, the New York was gifted fifty tons of coal from a whaler fortuitously in the vicinity and began to ram her way through the ice. Hapless crew members chopped a heavy coating of hoarfrost off the rusty ship. Then more bad luck: she was “officially” driven three hundred miles off course by the wind, although there were rumors that Captain Melville had disobeyed Byrd’s orders to go straight to Little America and had sailed to within sight of Mount Erebus for a quick look. In any event, the New York reached the Bay of Whales on February 18 after forty-four days in combat with pack ice.
As the ship picked its way through what Byrd had renamed Floyd Bennett Bay, Billy’s emotions were mixed. Would he be jealous of the epic stories he was sure to hear? Did his secret rival Siple know how popular Billy had become with the press? And yet how could he complain? What others would do to be where he was now!
The overwinterers, with flowing beards (soon to be shaved), had been forewarned that the ice was closing in; they were already at the edge of the barrier, waiting. Weather reports were worrisome; there was one shot to get out. Much was left behind in the rush to sledge to the ship scientific specimens such as soil samples, animal skins, and live Adélie and emperor penguins (kept happy in an iced container). Fortunately, it was plenty light out to load well into the night, and they cast off the next morning at nine thirty, heading the 2,300 rocky nautical miles back to Dunedin.
The men departing had so many tales, and the men picking them up tried to listen without envy. Laurence Gould and his team had scaled a mountain and solved a geological conundrum, Byrd had returned in triumph from the pole. There were inside jokes galore, but Billy was careful not to appear bitter. He had been invited back, after all.
The New York had better luck breaking through the galling Ross Sea pack ice on the return trip. Before long, she met up with the Kosmos, an immense Norwegian whaler with an impressive hospital on board, whose doctors gladly took on twenty-seven-year-old junior radio operator Howard Mason, stricken with appendicitis for almost a week. The cooped-up dogs and penguins were also transferred to the faster ship, a crate of puppies falling between the two. The crate was fished out, and the miserable puppies dried out over the engine room hatch.
The New York arrived in Dunedin two weeks later to an ego-gratifying reception. A band played George Frederic Handel’s “Hail, the Conquering Hero” for the “lucky” wintering-over party, which had been away for one year and fourteen weeks. Mostly the Dunediners were being polite—they had seen dozens of expeditions leave and arrive—but the locals had become quite fond of the Americans. Mayor Robert Sheriff Black escorted Byrd, the man of the hour, to his complimentary stay in the city’s finest hotel. Despite a wool-gathering convention that booked up almost every room, beds were found for the remaining expedition members in private homes. The lesser-known seamen scrambled to make themselves presentable for the pretty ladies of the house; girls, not glory, dominated their minds.
Howard Mason, his appendix removed, joined the revelries. Byrd had not lost a single man in the Antarctic, an incredible feat.
Many of the men had trouble adjusting to life in the big (or little) city after a solitary year on ice. Noises overwhelmed, and some were enticed by now readily available alcohol and women. Yet all the Down Under ballyhoo was still (hopefully) only a taste of what was to come back in the States. Although there were dozens of letters from families detailing the bleak economic plight back home, America’s troubles were easily forgotten. Every member of the crew knew that Mayor Jimmy Walker’s reelection pretty much ensured a big to-do. How bad could things be if Walker planned to shell out for a parade?
Filmmakers Joseph T. Rucker and Willard Van der Veer (now nicknamed “the Paramount twins”) set off posthaste for the Americas. There was a movie to be made. They arrived in Cristóbal on the steamer Tamaroa at eight in the morning on the last day of March after a monthlong voyage. There the film reels were transferred to a Lockheed Vega Wasp-engine-powered plane helmed by a twenty-nine-year-old named Leland “Lee” Shoenhair, chief pilot for the Goodrich Rubber Company. Shoenhair had set several aviation records already, and now he flew Miss Silvertown at record speed over jungles and a volcanic mountain range—making minimum refueling stops and flying at night. The priceless film arrived in New Jersey a mere three days later, a feat newsworthy in itself. Then the celluloid strips received a motorcycle escort to the Times Wide World Studios in Midtown Manhattan, resting in the backseat of a limousine as the car made its way through the Hudson River vehicular tunnel (the official name for the Holland Tunnel). The film could now be out in theaters in time for the expedition’s June arrival, maximizing the financial return.
• • •
Qu’elle surprise! Captain Brown found another
stowaway just as the Bolling left Dunedin, a young man named Colin Gillespie, who was later put off in Tahiti. The expedition members barely looked up now when a stowaway was found. It was funny, though: Billy and the other stowaways had been desperately trying to leave New York, whereas this one was presumably desperately trying to make it there. Wherever you’re from, there’s always somewhere more exciting.
New York had not forgotten Billy. Now that the men were coming back heroes, there was renewed interest in the city’s finest. The Brooklyn Daily Eagle checked in with Mr. Rudolf Gawronski to see how his son was faring and found that the proud father was certainly enjoying himself. “I got a thrill last Saturday,” Rudy told the press, “by going to Schenectady” in upstate New York “and speaking in Polish over the shortwave of WGY directly to my boy.”
Back on the Bolling, Billy received a telegram from his mother reminding him, “Don’t forget to acknowledge Roosevelt’s courtesy!” Harry Adams telegrammed back, “He will do so.” Franklin D. Roosevelt was a great admirer of Byrd, as well as an intimate friend, and had championed adventurous youth throughout his career. Whatever Governor Roosevelt wrote or did for the spunkiest young man in New York remains unknown; most likely he sent his best wishes to the brave boy from his state.
Word trickled back to the men on the ships that New York had some extravagant plans to celebrate their return—not just the traditional parade. Coney Island’s amusement park was building a 350- by 50-foot-high cyclorama of Little America, a circular 360-degree painted canvas scene, viewed from inside, complete with astounding animated effects including moving icebergs, penguins, whales, dog teams—even miniature versions of the men working the ice. (The price tag? A staggering $25,000 Depression-era dollars.) Not a small number of the explorers, Billy included, had seen Luna Park’s previous cyclorama—depicting the brutal Battle of Château-Thierry, France, which turned the tide of World War I against Germany—a small wonder of New York City with all sorts of electrical wizardry and jets of steam. That spectacle was getting the boot for the likes of them?
As the ships retraced their steps near the equator, the crew—and the dogs—felt the heat. Moose-Moss-Mouse—named by bored expeditioners back in Little America who thought the one-eyed, eighty-five-pound husky looked a bit like a moose, a bit like a mouse, and oddly mossy—tried to break into the icebox with the animal specimens headed to the American Museum of Natural History. There were no live penguins on board; they had been transferred to the whalers long ago. Alas, none of the penguins slated for American zoos would make it to New York alive; they reportedly died from drinking cleaning fluid while being transported back. There’s no record if the City of New York’s unskinned dead birds were taxidermied on ship, but Siple certainly had time to kill.
Meanwhile in Washington, the US House of Representatives—following a vote to suspend rail mergers until the following March, and another abolishing dial telephones in the Senate wing of the Capitol—passed a resolution awarding medals to all members of the expedition. The wintering-over party received gold, although Byrd alone earned a genuine gold medal; the other “gold” recipients were given medals made of ten-karat gold plated over copper alloy. William Gavronksi, his name misspelled as always, received silver, due in part to his bravery in saving the plane parts and Bennie Roth. Billy was pleased to hear the official breakdown; at least he wasn’t getting lowly bronze, as several seamen did. Not bad for a stowaway.
The search was on for the perfect designer to cast the Byrd Antarctic Expedition Medal, although reporters noted it was unusual in a time of crisis for public funds to be spent commemorating an expedition that had received no government money. Not everybody approved, with one cheeky columnist even wagging, “Members of the Antarctic expedition will get congressional medals for proving that a penguin is a bird.” Few dared mock Byrd’s noble return.
Even inopportune use of federal funds could not dampen the public’s enthusiasm for the heroes’ return. On May 31 more than five thousand Polish schoolchildren marched from Billy’s childhood church of St. Stanislaus on East Seventh Street to city hall to celebrate the sensational stowaway. Their spirited march made national news.
• • •
As the Bolling and the New York approached New York City, the ships slowed to travel together and weigh anchor side by side. It would make for better photos.
The flagship pushed through the mist just after two in the morning on Thursday, June 19, with Admiral Byrd above deck in his signature khaki, holding the instantly recognizable terrier Igloo, who was now one of the most traveled dogs in history. Waters were so choppy that although Byrd’s wife, Marie, had specially chartered a tug to greet her husband, Byrd could only wave to her instead of joining her for a true reunion.
Passports were checked and both ships cleared by the Scotland Lightship Quarantine Station out in Ambrose Channel off Sandy Hook, a formality rather than the rigmarole that immigrants entering the United States through Ellis Island were put through; bona fide seamen could be inspected quickly on deck per the Immigration Act of 1924. Black-and-white cat Eleanor was likewise waved through. “Fit to lick any dog on ice,” as the New York Herald Tribune put it, she had made a remarkable two-year journey on the Eleanor Bolling.
Six marines from the Brooklyn Navy Yard arrived with valises full of fresh uniforms, so that the men of the hour could come to shore spic-and-span. Rear Admiral Byrd changed into his white duck uniform, the black shoulder straps and gold epaulets reflecting his newly improved status.
Long before dawn, crowds massed at Battery Park’s Pier A at the southern tip of Manhattan, with more than five thousand people (Billy’s parents among them) there by ten o’clock. The roofs of buildings near the pier were filled, and the Battery Park elevated rail was so chock-full with onlookers that it risked collapsing; police made the crowds descend. A detachment of 400 sailors and marines was sent from the Brooklyn Navy Yard to help preserve calm, joining 2,400 policemen on foot and horseback. Officers locked arms in a human chain to control pushing crowds.
What had these thousands of people come out to celebrate? To a certain extent, public excitement about the returning heroes stemmed less from their achievements, which were too scientific and technical for many to understand, than from the spectacle of it all. But perhaps those wags in the media who scoffed at the expedition’s smallish contributions to science missed the point. The expedition may not have found lost dinosaurs or calculated just how many frozen miles the southernmost continent spanned, but wasn’t making Americans aware of Antarctica not enough of a legacy? Now so proud of their Antarctic adventurers, like the Brits, the Norwegians, and the Belgians, the American people truly considered exploration of the icy continent part of their own heritage and would for years to come. The United States would now dominate scientific research on Antarctica as well, much to the chagrin of the Europeans.
The first three boatloads of official welcomers—including New York’s well-paid chairman of the Mayor’s Committee on Receptions to Distinguished Guests, Grover Whalen—set off to greet the admiral midmorning. Marie Byrd, fed up with the chaos already, stayed onshore, but Eleanor Bolling Byrd made sure that she was on board the official cutter picking up her son. (“Greeted by Mother: Wife Not on Tug” was one of several wire service subheadlines that could not have gone down well.) Mrs. Bolling Byrd gave the day’s first recorded greeting, asking loudly, “Where’s my child?” and adding, “The next time you start on an expedition someone ought to chloroform you!” The mighty Byrd tribe (minus the good wife) had ten minutes of private reunion, with Dickie’s brother Harry, the now-former governor of Virginia, also present for welcoming duty.
In the gentle haze of what would become a hot, muggy summer day, the official tug of the city, the Macom, set off with the navy’s newest rear admiral on board, while the men who served him followed on the steamers the Manhattan and the Riverside—even those who had taken part only in earlier stages of the expedition. The New York City Police Department Ba
nd blared on the Macom, and the Fire Department Band held sway on the Riverside, with pushy reporters divided throughout. A flotilla of both official and citizen boats—seventy-seven of them—lined up behind. A dozen fireboats sent thin white sprays of streaming water into the air, and boats docked in Manhattan sold $1 tickets for a ride out to join the maritime parade.
Even the armed forces paid homage to Byrd’s gallant civilians: as the fantastic flotilla made its way to New York Harbor, a thirteen-gun salute sounded from Governors Island, home to the Coast Guard. Ships on the Hudson echoed in whistle salute. The enormous navy dirigible Los Angeles and two smaller British airships—there for a showing of international respect—passed overhead. One correspondent likened them to “a great whale and her two babies.” Other airplanes swooped through the skies.
Meanwhile, without fanfare, the City of New York and the Bolling headed upriver to dock. In a few days, they would become tourist attractions on the Hudson, with money earned from admission earmarked to pay off the expedition’s many bills.
Onshore, the crowd—squished ten deep from the Battery to city hall—was estimated at a half million people, with proud Virginians having traveled up by train or boat to join New Yorkers in greeting their native son. There had been slight changes in fashion since Byrd left two years before. Less expensive fabrics such as cotton jerseys were coming into vogue, and there were notably fewer hats on ladies’ heads. Byrd was grateful to hear that the crowd was estimated to be much larger than that for his 1927 parade as runner-up to Charles Lindbergh for the Orteig Prize—though a half million people was still half the number that came out to cheer Lindbergh.
The Stowaway Page 15
