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RUSSELL W. MERCER

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.

 
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