The White South [antikvár]

1 I did not join the Southern Cross until three weeks before the disaster. Indeed, a month before that date I had never heard of the ship. On the first of January 1948 I was leaving England, to look for a job in South Africa. That night I was waiting in a private office in London Airport. A private plane had been booked by the South Antarctic Whaling Company for a Colonel Bland. A flight was supposed to leave at 01:00 hours. There were five seats, but Colonel Bland's party numbered only three. The night before, Tim Bartlett the pilot had told me about the two spare seats, and I was hoping for a free trip to Capetown. But it depended on Bland. He Lirrived at 12:30, bringing a rush of cold air through the open door. He banged his feet down hard and blew out his cheeks. "Is the plane ready?" he asked the clerk. His manner was sharp, and he seemed to be a man always in a hurry. There were two other people with him — a man and a girl. "The pilot's waiting," the clerk said. "And here's a telegram. Colonel Bland — it arrived half an hour ago." I watched his thick fingers tear at the enve-