Alcock flew straight for the specks of land, which revealed themselves as two tiny islands—Ecshal and Turbot, as we afterwards discovered. In his log of the return flight, from New York to Norfolk, of the British airship R-34, Brigadier-General Maitland, C. M. G., D. S. O., notes the curious coincidence that his first sight of land was when these same two islands appeared on the starboard bow of the dirigible.

From above the islands the mainland was visible, and we steered for the nearest point on it. The machine was still just underneath the clouds, and flying at two hundred and fifty feet; from which low height I saw plainly the white breakers foaming on to the shore. We crossed the coast of Ireland at 8:25 A. M.

I was then uncertain of our exact location, and suggested to Alcock that the best plan would be to find a railway line and follow it south. A few minutes later, however, the wireless masts at Clifden gave the key to our position. To attract attention, I fired two red flares from the Very pistol; but as they seemed to be unnoticed from the ground, we circled over the village of Clifden, about two miles from the wireless station.

Although slightly off our course when we reached the coast, we were in the direct line of flight for Galway, at which place I had calculated to hit Ireland. Not far ahead we could see a cluster of hills, with their tops lost in low-lying clouds.

Here and elsewhere the danger of running into high ground hidden from sight by the mist would have been great, had we continued to fly across Ireland. Alcock, therefore, decided to land.

If the atmosphere had been clearer, we could easily have reached London before touching earth, for the tanks of the Vickers-Vimy still contained enough gasoline to keep the machine in the air for ten hours longer. Thus, had we lost our way over the ocean, there would have been a useful margin of time for cruising about in search of ships.

Having made up our minds to land at once, we searched below for a smooth stretch of ground. The most likely looking place in the neighborhood of Clifden was a field near the wireless station. With engines shut off, we glided towards it, heading into the wind.

Alcock flattened out at exactly the right moment. The machine sank gently, the wheels touched earth and began to run smoothly over the surface. Already I was indulging in the comforting reflection that the anxious flight had ended with a perfect landing. Then, so softly as not to be noticed at first, the front of the Vickers-Vimy tilted inexplicably, while the tail rose. Suddenly the craft stopped with an unpleasant squelch, tipped forward, shook itself, and remained poised on a slant, with its fore-end buried in the ground, as if trying to stand on its head.

I reached out a hand and arm just in time to save a nasty bump when the shock threw me forward. As it was, I only stopped a jarring collision with the help of my nose. Alcock had braced himself against the rudder control bar. The pressure he exerted against it to save himself from falling actually bent the straight bar, which was of hollow steel, almost into the shape of a horse-shoe.

Deceived by its smooth appearance, we had landed on top of a bog; which misfortune made the first non-stop transatlantic flight finish in a crash. It was pitiful to see the distorted shape of the aËroplane that had brought us from America, as it sprawled in ungainly manner over the sucking surface. The machine's nose and its lower wings were deep in the bog. The empty cockpit in front, used in a Vickers-Vimy bomber by the observer, was badly bent; but, being of steel, it did not collapse. Quite possibly we owe our lives to this fact. In passing, and while gripping firmly my wooden penholder (for the year is not yet over), I consider it extraordinary that no lives have been lost in the transatlantic flights of 1919.

The leading edge of the lower plane was bent in some places and smashed in others, the gasoline connections had snapped, and four of the propeller blades were buried in the ground, although none were broken. That about completed the record of preliminary damage.

We had landed at 8:40 A. M., after being in the air for sixteen hours and twenty-eight minutes. The flight from coast to coast, on a straight course of one thousand six hundred and eighty nautical miles, lasted only fifteen hours and fifty-seven minutes, our average speed being one hundred and five to one hundred and six knots. For this relatively rapid performance, a strong following wind was largely responsible.

As a result of the burst connections from tank to carburetor, gasoline began to swill into the rear cockpit while we were still inside it. Very fortunately the liquid did not ignite. Alcock had taken care to switch off the current on the magnetos, as soon as he realized that a crash was imminent, so that the sparks should have no chance of starting a fire.

We scrambled out as best we could, and lost no time in salving the mailbag and our instruments. The gasoline rose rapidly, and it was impossible to withdraw my chart and the Baker navigating machine before they had been damaged.

I then fired two white Very flares, as a signal for help. Almost immediately a small party, composed of officers and men belonging to the military detachment at Clifden, approached from the wireless station.

"Anybody hurt?"—the usual inquiry when an aËroplane is crashed—was the first remark when they arrived within shouting distance.

"No."

"Where you from?"—this when they had helped us to clear the cockpit.

"America."

Somebody laughed politely, as if in answer to an attempt at facetiousness that did not amount to much, but that ought to be taken notice of, anyhow, for the sake of courtesy. Quite evidently nobody received the statement seriously at first. Even a mention of our names meant nothing to them, and they remained unconvinced until Alcock showed them the mail-bag from St. John's. Then they relieved their surprised feelings by spontaneous cheers and painful hand-shakes, and led us to the officers' mess for congratulations and hospitality.

Burdened as we were with flying kit and heavy boots, the walk over the bog was a dragging discomfort. In addition, I suddenly discovered an intense sleepiness, and could easily have let myself lose consciousness while standing upright.

Arrived at the station, our first act was to send telegrams to the firm of Messrs. Vickers, Ltd., which built the Vickers-Vimy, to the London Daily Mail, which promoted the transatlantic competition, and to the Royal AËro Club, which controlled it.

My memories of that day are dim and incomplete. I felt a keen sense of relief at being on land again; but this was coupled with a certain amount of dragging reaction from the tense mental concentration during the flight, so that my mind sagged. I was very sleepy, but not physically tired.

We lurched as we walked, owing to the stiffness that resulted from our having sat in the tiny cockpit for seventeen hours. Alcock, who during the whole period had kept his feet on the rudder bar and one hand on the control lever, would not confess to anything worse than a desire to stand up for the rest of his life—or at least until he could sit down painlessly. My hands were very unsteady. My mind was quite clear on matters pertaining to the flight, but hazy on extraneous subjects. After having listened so long to the loud-voiced hum of the Rolls-Royce motors, made louder than ever by the broken exhaust pipe on the starboard side, we were both very deaf, and our ears would not stop ringing.

Later in the day we motored to Galway with a representative of the London Daily Mail. It was a strange but very welcome change to see solid objects flashing past us, instead of miles upon monotonous miles of drifting, cloudy vapor.

Several times during that drive I lost the thread of connection with tangible surroundings, and lived again in near retrospect the fantastic happenings of the day, night and morning that had just passed. Subconsciously I still missed the rhythmic, relentless drone of the Rolls-Royce aËro-engines. My eyes had not yet become accustomed to the absence of clouds around and below, and my mind felt somehow lost, now that it was no longer preoccupied with heavenly bodies, horizon, time, direction, charts, drift, tables of calculations, sextant, spirit level, compass, aneroid, altimeter, wireless receiver and the unexpected.

For a while, in fact, the immediate past seemed more prominent than the immediate present. Lassitude of mind, coupled with reaction from the long strain of tense and unbroken concentration on one supreme objective, made me lose my grip of normal continuity, so that I answered questions mechanically and wanted to avoid the effort of talk. The outstanding events and impressions of the flight—for example the long spin from four thousand to fifty feet, and the sudden sight of the white-capped ocean at the end of it—passed and repassed across my consciousness. I do not know whether Alcock underwent the same mental processes, but he remained very silent. Above all I felt the need of reËstablishing normal balance by means of sleep.

The wayside gatherings seemed especially unreal—almost as if they had been scenes on the film. By some extraordinary method of news transmission the report of our arrival had spread all over the district, and in many districts between Clifden and Galway curious crowds had gathered. Near Galway we were stopped by another automobile, in which was Major Mays of the Royal AËro Club, whose duty it was to examine the seals on the Vickers-Vimy, thus making sure that we had not landed in Ireland in a machine other than that in which we left Newfoundland. A reception had been prepared at Galway; but our hosts, realizing how tired we must be, considerately made it a short and informal affair. Afterwards we slept—for the first time in over forty hours.