Spitzbergen. Tim let out a shout of relief and Ralph gave the motor the gun in an attempt to find a suitable landing place before the storm closed down again. They shot low over the coast line, but the clouds cut down their visibility and it was impossible to see more than a mile in any direction. Ahead of them the mountains disappeared in the clouds.
Ralph circled desperately, motor thrumming wildly. Finally he found a small, level snow field, well down in an ice valley. It was risky but with the storm and the gas supply nearly exhausted, a landing was the only thing. The pilot banked swiftly, cut his motor, straightened out and then drifted down on the narrow field. The skis touched the frozen snow, bounced once, twice, and then carried them smoothly forward. The plane stopped under one wing of the little valley, well protected from the storm, which was closing down again.
Half paralyzed with cold and fatigue, Tim and Ralph forced themselves out of the plane. Hastily, they examined the ship, then dove into the cabin for an axe, light steel stakes and ropes. In a short time they had the plane staked down securely and had slipped the heavy canvas cover of the heater over the motor. A portion of their precious fuel went to fill the tank of the heater for if the oil in the motor froze their chances of getting into the air again would vanish.
Back in the cabin of the plane they warmed themselves over their alcohol stoves while outside the wind and snow raged at the man-made craft which had slipped through their fingers. Tim opened their supply kit and they munched chocolate and biscuits and topped it off with malted milks made from melted ice. There had been little conversation, but now that the strain of the long flight was over and they were on land again, their lips were unsealed and they discussed the trips and their prospects at some length.
“Storm sounds like a regular old norther and that may mean a week,” was one of Ralph’s laconic contributions.
“I’m not worrying as much about the storm as I am about our gas supply,” said Tim. “We’ve got enough concentrated food for a couple of weeks but we may not have enough gas to get us any place when it does let up.”
“I’m too tired to worry about where we are, gas, food or anything else,” and with that Ralph snuggled down in his flying clothes and was soon asleep. Tim adjusted the little stoves, made sure that there was proper ventilation in the cabin, and was in a sleep of exhaustion in a few minutes.
How long they slept neither one knew for when they awoke the clock on the instrument board had stopped, but the storm continued in full strength. The temperature was flirting with the 30 degree below zero mark but in the enclosed cabin they were comfortable. Despite the intense cold and the angry shrieks of the gale, Ralph insisted on dodging out to give the plane a “once over.” With an inward feeling of unrest, Tim watched his companion disappear in the storm.
Seconds were minutes and minutes were hours while Tim waited for Ralph to return. He was on the verge of despair when his chum stumbled through the swirling snow and pitched headlong onto the floor of the plane. Ralph was shouting and laughing idiotically. Something in his mind had snapped under the terrific strain of the flight and the pounding of the storm.
Although Ralph continued to shout and once in a while screamed in terror, Tim realized that he was not dangerous and that the trouble was probably a nervous one. He fixed a cup of hot chocolate and the steaming liquid calmed Ralph. Words and phrases became coherent and Tim was astounded by the story he pieced together from his friend’s rambling account.