The Morning Star was a fine ship, built in 1910 and designed for the Arctic. When the Great War began, The Morning Star had no purpose other than to supply spare parts for the war effort—specifically, the vacuum tubes used in the ship’s high-power radios. Among those tubes was an unremarkable 2A3 triode. Thirty-five men died because of a burned-out five-dollar tube. This is their story.

Outside, the ice pressed in—a silent, implacable force. Inside, The Morning Star held its breath, a ghost ship adrift in a frozen sea. There was no radio, no engine, and no crew… only me.

It had been nearly four years since we’d sailed from a port in Norway—November 1918. The Great War was a raw wound still healing on the world's skin. We were meant to chart magnetic anomalies and study permafrost samples as part of a scientific expedition funded by the Royal Geographical Society. A noble pursuit, now reduced to this: solitary confinement in a wood-and-steel tomb.

It began subtly—a cough here, a fever there. Initially dismissed as a common cold picked up during our last port call, it spread with alarming speed, a creeping shadow across the ship. Dr. Albright, bless his meticulous soul, documented every symptom and failed remedy. He called it “a particularly virulent strain of influenza,” unaware that we were among the first casualties of the Spanish Flu, carried north on the winds of peace.

The initial weeks were chaos. Quarantines proved useless in the cramped quarters, and men succumbed quickly—their lungs filling with fluid, their faces flushed with fever. The ship became a floating infirmary filled with moans and desperate prayers. We lost Hemlock first, our seasoned navigator, then young Finnegan, barely out of his teens. Each death chipped away at our morale, leaving behind a hollow ache that echoed through the steel corridors.

By the time the ice closed in—faster and more aggressively than any charts predicted—we were already weakened and depleted. The Morning Star was caught in a vise grip, the pressure mounting with each passing day. Captain Davies ordered full power to attempt a break, but the engines strained against the frozen wall, groaning under the immense force. It was futile; we were trapped.

The dwindling crew worked tirelessly—chipping at the ice, reinforcing the hull, rationing supplies. But the influenza had taken its toll; men moved with sluggishness, their strength sapped by fever and grief. Then came the mechanical failure: a fractured fuel line in the main generator room shorted out the electrical system. The ship shuddered, lights flickered… then darkness.

The auxiliary heaters sputtered and died. Temperatures plummeted within hours, and frost bloomed on the walls, transforming the ship into a glittering—but deadly—ice palace. We huddled together for warmth, sharing what little remained of our dwindling supplies.

There were three of us left: myself, George Petersen, a gruff but capable engineer; and young Davies, the Captain’s son, eager to prove himself. Petersen worked relentlessly, battling the cold and failing machinery, convinced he could fix it and restore heat to the ship.

But the cold was relentless—seeping into our bones, numbing our minds, stealing our strength. First Petersen succumbed, his hands too frozen to work, his lungs filled with ice. Davies followed soon after, collapsing in exhaustion while trying to assist. I found them both huddled together, their faces pale and still.

I should have joined them. The cold was overwhelming, but something—stubbornness, perhaps, or a desperate clinging to life—drove me on. I remembered Petersen’s instructions and his diagrams scribbled on scraps of paper. Days blurred into nights as I worked, fueled by weak tea and sheer determination. My fingers were numb, my vision clouded with fatigue, yet I pressed on, driven by the memory of their faces and the need to do something.

And then, finally—a spark. A cough, a sputter… then the roar of an auxiliary generator coming back to life. Warmth flooded a small section of the ship, chasing away the icy grip of death.

I collapsed onto the cold metal floor, shivering with exhaustion and relief. I had done it—saved myself. But at what cost?

Now, in November 1922, I sit here in the Captain's cabin, surrounded by the ghosts of my companions. The Morning Star is a prison—but a warm one, at least in one small section. I have enough provisions to last decades: two years' worth of now frozen food, meant for thirty-five men and thousands of gallons of fuel oil to heat only three rooms of the ship.

To occupy my time and sanity, I filled pages in the logbooks with observations of the ice—its shifting patterns, the eerie beauty of the aurora borealis dancing across the sky like spectral flames. I described my routines: rationing food, maintaining the ship's systems, and endlessly patrolling the decks, a ghost in a frozen kingdom.

But the logbooks couldn’t contain it all—the grief, the loneliness, the gnawing fear that I would simply forget them. So, I turned to the charts, using unused sections of nautical maps as canvases for desperate pleas.

“To whomever finds this vessel,” one message read, scrawled across a map of Baffin Bay: “The Morning Star, Arctic Research Expedition, lost in the ice. All hands perished save myself, John Roberts—the ship’s botanist. We were seeking evidence of ancient flora preserved within the permafrost, a noble pursuit reduced to this… a tomb.”

I detailed the provisions, and the irony wasn't lost on me: we had come seeking life in the frozen wastes, yet I was left with an abundance of it—utterly devoid of purpose.

The messages grew less formal, more fragmented. I wrote about my dreams—vivid recollections of green fields, warm sunlight, and laughter. Dreams that felt increasingly distant, like memories from another lifetime.

“Do you remember what a bird sounds like?” I wrote on a chart depicting the Greenland Sea. “It’s been so long… I can barely recall it—just a faint echo in my mind.”

I tried to maintain some semblance of scientific rigor, continuing to collect ice samples, analyze them for microscopic life, and document the changes in the surrounding environment. It was a futile exercise, yet it gave me something to do—something to anchor me to reality.

But even science couldn’t fill the void. The silence became my constant companion, broken only by the creaking of the ship's timbers and the mournful howl of the wind. I began talking to them—to Thomas, Hemlock, Finnegan, Albright… I would sit in the mess hall, setting a place for each of them, recounting stories from our voyage, pretending they were listening.

“Remember that time you almost lost your beard in the galley fire, Hemlock?” I’d say, my voice cracking with disuse. “Good times… simple times.”

The absurdity wasn’t lost on me—it was a necessary madness, keeping their memories alive, at least within the confines of my fractured mind.

One day, while rummaging through the Captain’s cabin, I found a collection of his personal letters—correspondence with his wife and daughter back in England. I read them all, each one a poignant reminder of the lives lost and the families left behind. A wave of guilt washed over me: why me? Why was I spared when so many others were taken?

I began writing letters myself, addressed to Captain Davies’s daughter, Emily—letters I knew would never be delivered.

“Dear Emily,” one letter began, written on the back of a supply manifest. “Your father was a good man—a brave captain who believed in this expedition and the pursuit of knowledge. He spoke often of you and your mother, and of his hopes for your future. I wish… I could tell you he died peacefully, but it wasn’t so. It was quick, brutal; the fever took him within days.”

I wrote about the ship, the beauty of the Arctic landscape, and the camaraderie of the crew—trying to paint a picture of their lives, to keep their spirits alive through my words.

“He would have wanted you to know,” I wrote in another letter, “that even in this frozen wilderness, we found wonder—we saw things no one had ever seen before. And he would have wanted you to remember him with pride.”

Writing these letters was cathartic—a way to channel my grief and guilt into something meaningful. It wasn't about reaching Emily; it was about honoring the memory of her father and his crew.

Years blurred and the ship groaned under the relentless pressure of the ice. My beard grew long and white, mirroring the landscape outside. I became a creature of habit—my days dictated by routine: tending to the ship, rationing supplies, writing messages, and talking to ghosts.

One day, I found myself staring at a blank chart, unable to write. The words had dried up, replaced by an overwhelming sense of futility: what was the point? Would anyone ever find this ship? Would anyone ever read my desperate pleas?

Then a thought occurred to me: it wasn't about being found—it was about leaving something behind—a testament to their lives, a record of our journey, a warning to those who might follow.

I picked up the pen and began to write—not on the chart, but directly onto the hull of the ship itself. Using charcoal salvaged from the galley, I covered the walls of the mess hall with names: Thomas, Hemlock, Finnegan, Albright… thirty-four names etched into the wood, a permanent memorial to those lost.

Then, beneath their names, I wrote one final message—not for rescuers, but for anyone who might stumble upon this frozen tomb in the distant future.

“We came seeking knowledge,” it read. “But we found something more important—connection. Remember us. Remember our sacrifice. And remember that even in the face of unimaginable adversity, the human spirit endures.”

I finished writing and stepped back, gazing at my work. The ship was silent, still locked in its icy embrace. But within those walls—within those names etched into the wood—their memory lived on. And as long as their memory lived on, a part of them—and a part of me—would endure, suspended between worlds in the stillness of the Arctic ice.