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RUSSELL W. MERCER |
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Arctic Explorer and Young Sergeant
(EDITOR'S NOTE: The following is a recollection of a World
War II experience as written by the late Russell W. Mercer of Bismarck who died in August
of 1994. Mercer enlisted in what was then the
Army Air Corps on June 13, 1940 and retired from the Air Force as an SM Sgt. The other man referred to in the story, Bernt
Balchan, died in 1973.)
Bernt Balchan was an arctic explorer, pioneer of modern
aviation, and father of the Air Rescue Services. He
joined the Army Air Corps in 1941 after serving with the Royal Air Force. In 1941 Bernt established the first American military base in Greenland, Bluie West 8. In later years I often wondered if he remembered
the young sergeant who, as a radio operator and dog team driver, accompanied him on a
number of routine but hazardous missions on the Greenland icecap. I will always remember him. He taught the secret of survival.
We trudged along the bleak rugged coast of Greenland, two
weary, bedraggled, human derelicts. Behind us
our dogs and sled lay in a deep crevasse somewhere on the broad white expanse of the
icecap. Ahead of us, I didn't know, and I was
beginning to wonder if Bernt did. Our hunger
grew as we trudged through the bone chilling cold of the endless arctic night. Our fatigue was so great that the act of putting
one foot in front of the other required our complete attention.
After endless hours we noticed an almost undetectable change,
a subtle difference intruded on our stupor. We
stopped, looked, listened, and sniffed the arctic air.
The change was a barely perceptible odor.
We trudged a few steps farther; the odor strengthened. What could it be?
It smelled bad in the clean cold air. The
smell of a man in this empty, frozen place. It
could be an Eskimo village - our steps quickened.
We entered a tiny village, a small cluster of skin-covered
igloos, and we were immediately surrounded by an odoriferous, grunting, gesticulating
group of Eskimos. Bernt grunted rapidly; the Eskimos grunted a reply and pointed to the
rusted half of a small oil drum in which simmered large pieces of meat. "What's that?" I asked. "Seal meat," Bernt replied. Without any further ceremoney we began to gorge
ourselves. I had thought seal would be fatty,
like blubber, but this meat was red, lean, and delicious.
We ate our fill, borrowed sleeping skins, and immediately fell into a deep
dreamless sleep.
Later, well fed and rested, we thanked our hosts and
departed. As we neared the edge of the
village, Bernt stopped and pointed. "Look
there," he said. "Where?" I
asked. All I saw was a weather-beaten igloo
with a fresh dog skin stretched over part of it for curing.
"Sealskin," he said, and walked on smiling. First nausea, then anger, and finally hearty
laughter shook me.
To Bernt, the "sealskin" had been a joke; to me it
was a lesson. It was a hard, rough lesson
taught by a hard, rough man who was completely adapted to and master of an unforgiving
environment. Following in the footsteps of
Bernt Balchan, I stepped forward - a well-fed, stronger, and wiser young man.
The DAILY JOURNAL, St. Francois County., Wednesday, April 26, 1995.