“Bill, Bill, the tent has gone,” was the next I remember—­from Bowers shouting at us again and again through the door.  It is always these early morning shocks which hit one hardest:  our slow minds suggested that this might mean a peculiarly lingering form of death.  Journey after journey Birdie and I fought our way across the few yards which had separated the tent from the igloo door.  I have never understood why so much of our gear which was in the tent remained, even in the lee of the igloo.  The place where the tent had been was littered with gear, and when we came to reckon up afterwards we had everything except the bottom piece of the cooker, and the top of the outer cooker.  We never saw these again.  The most wonderful thing of all was that our finnesko were lying where they were left, which happened to be on the ground in the part of the tent which was under the lee of the igloo.  Also Birdie’s bag of personal gear was there, and a tin of sweets.

Birdie brought two tins of sweets away with him.  One we had to celebrate our arrival at the Knoll:  this was the second, of which we knew nothing, and which was for Bill’s birthday, the next day.  We started eating them on Saturday, however, and the tin came in useful to Bill afterwards.

To get that gear in we fought against solid walls of black snow which flowed past us and tried to hurl us down the slope.  Once started nothing could have stopped us.  I saw Birdie knocked over once, but he clawed his way back just in time.  Having passed everything we could find in to Bill, we got back into the igloo, and started to collect things together, including our very dishevelled minds.

There was no doubt that we were in the devil of a mess, and it was not altogether our fault.  We had had to put our igloo more or less where we could get rocks with which to build it.  Very naturally we had given both our tent and igloo all the shelter we could from the full force of the wind, and now it seemed we were in danger not because they were in the wind, but because they were not sufficiently in it.  The main force of the hurricane, deflected by the ridge behind, fled over our heads and appeared to form by suction a vacuum below.  Our tent had either been sucked upwards into this, or had been blown away because some of it was in the wind while some of it was not.  The roof of our igloo was being wrenched upwards and then dropped back with great crashes:  the drift was spouting in, not it seemed because it was blown in from outside, but because it was sucked in from within:  the lee, not the weather, wall was the worst.  Already everything was six or eight inches under snow.

Very soon we began to be alarmed about the igloo.  For some time the heavy snow blocks we had heaved up on to the canvas roof kept it weighted down.  But it seemed that they were being gradually moved off by the hurricane.  The tension became well-nigh unendurable:  the waiting in all that welter of noise was maddening.  Minute after minute, hour after hour—­those snow blocks were off now anyway, and the roof was smashed up and down—­no canvas ever made could stand it indefinitely.