Alcock and I awoke to find ourselves in a wonderland of seeming unreality—the product of violent change from utter isolation during the long flight to unexpected contact with crowds of people interested in us.

To begin with, getting up in the morning, after a satisfactory sleep of nine hours, was strange. In our eastward flight of two thousand miles we had overtaken time, in less than the period between one sunset and another, to the extent of three and a half hours. Our physical systems having accustomed themselves to habits regulated by the clocks of Newfoundland, we were reluctant to rise at 7 A. M.; for subconsciousness suggested that it was but 3:30 A. M.

This difficulty of adjustment to the sudden change in time lasted for several days. Probably it will be experienced by all passengers traveling on the rapid trans-ocean air services of the future—those who complete a westward journey becoming early risers without effort, those who land after an eastward flight becoming unconsciously lazy in the mornings, until the jolting effect of the dislocation wears off, and habit has accustomed itself to the new conditions.

Then, after breakfast—eaten in an atmosphere of the deepest content—there began a succession of congratulatory ovations. For these we were totally unprepared; and with our relaxed minds, we could not easily adapt ourselves to the conditions attendant upon being magnets of the world's attentive curiosity.

First came a reception from the town of Galway, involving many addresses and the presentation of a memento in the form of a Claddagh ring, which had historical connections with a landing on the coast of Ireland thereabouts by vessels of the Spanish Armada.

The warm-hearted crowd that we found waiting at Galway Station both amazed and daunted us. We were grateful for their loud appreciation, but scarcely able to respond to it adequately. Flowers were offered, and we met the vanguard of the autograph hunters. We must have signed our names hundreds of times during the journey to Dublin—on books, cards, old envelopes and scraps of paper of every shape and every state of cleanliness. This we did wonderingly, not yet understanding why so many people should ask for our signatures, when three days earlier few people had heard of our names.

The men, women and children that thronged every station on the way to Dublin seemed to place a far higher value on our success than we did ourselves. Until now, perhaps, we had been too self-centered to realize that other people might be particularly interested in a flight from America to England. We had finished the job we wanted to do, and could not comprehend why it should lead to fuss.

Now, however, I know that the crowds saw more clearly than I did, and that their cheers were not for us personally, but for what they regarded as a manifestation of the spirit of adventure, the True Romance—call it what you will. For the moment this elusive ideal was suggested to them by the first non-stop journey by air across the Atlantic, which we had been fortunate enough to make.

At one station, where a military band played our train in and out again, a wooden model of an aËroplane was presented to Alcock by a schoolboy. At Dublin, reached on the morning of Trinity Sunday, Alcock and I passed with difficulty through the welcoming crowds, and drove towards the Automobile Club in separate cars. In due course, I reached sanctuary; but where was Alcock? We waited and waited, and finally sent out scouts to search for him. They came back with the news that he had been kidnapped, and taken to Commons in Trinity College.

Landing at Holyhead next morning, we were welcomed back to the shores of England by Mr. R. K. Pierson, designer of our Vickers-Vimy machine, by Captain Vickers, of the famous firm that built it, and by Mr. C. Johnson, of the Rolls-Royce Company that supplied our motors. Scenes all along the line to London were a magnified repetition of those from Galway to Dublin. Chester, Crewe, Rugby and other towns each sent its Mayor or another representative to the station. AËroplanes escorted the train all the way to London. Again we could only play our part in a more or less dazed state of grateful wonder.

Of the warm-hearted welcome of the people of London, I have confused recollections that include more receptions, more and larger crowds, more stormy greetings, and an exciting, pleasant drive to the Royal AËro Club. Alcock delivered to the postal authorities the mail-bag from St. John's, with regrets that it had not been possible to fly direct to London with the letters. In the evening we separated, Alcock to see a big prize fight, I to visit my fiancÉe.

Perhaps the welcome that we appreciated most was that given us next day when, at the Weybridge works of the Vickers Company, we were cheered and cheered by the men and girls who had built our transatlantic craft. We were glad indeed to be able to tell them and the designer of the machine that their handiwork had stood a difficult test magnificently, as had the Rolls-Royce engines. One of my most sincere reasons for satisfaction was that the late Mr. Albert Vickers, one of the founders of the great firm, regarded the flights as having maintained the Vickers tradition of efficiency, originality and good workmanship.

That Lieutenant-Commander Read, U.S.N., who commanded the American flying boat N. C. 4 in its flight from America to England, had left London before our arrival was a cause of real regret. Both Alcock and I were anxious to meet him and his crew, so that we might compare our respective experiences of aËrial navigation and of weather conditions over the Atlantic. The United States aviators who flew to Europe, and those that were so unlucky in coming to grief at the Azores, showed themselves to be real sportsmen; and without any exception, there was the best possible feeling between them and all the British aviators who made, or attempted to make, a non-stop journey from Newfoundland to Ireland.

Although I am supremely glad to have had the opportunity of flying the Atlantic by aËroplane, afterthoughts on the risks and chances taken have convinced me that, while our own effort may have been useful as a pioneer demonstration, single or twin engine aircraft are altogether unsuitable for trans-ocean voyages. We were successful—yes. But a temporary failure of either of our motors (although this is unlikely when dealing with Rolls-Royce or other first-class aËro motors) would have meant certain disaster and likely death.

Another vital drawback of the smaller machines is that so much space, and so much disposable lift, is needed for fuel that the number of persons on board must be limited to two, or in some cases three, and no freight can be taken. Yet another is that should the navigator of an aËroplane make an important error in calculation while flying over the ocean in fog or mist, an enforced descent into the water, after the limited quantity of fuel has been expended over a wrong course, is more than possible.

In the present condition of practical aËronautics, the only heavier-than-air craft likely to be suitable for flying the Atlantic are the large flying boats now being built by various aircraft companies; and even they are limited as to size by certain definite formulÆ. The development in the near future of long flights over the ocean would seem, therefore, to be confined to lighter-than-air craft.

In this connection the two voyages across the Atlantic of the British government airship R-34, not long after Alcock and I had returned to London, was a big step towards the age of regular air service between Britain and America. With five motors the R-34 could carry on if one, or even two of them were out of action. In fact, on its return flight, one motor broke down beyond the possibility of immediate repair; although there were ample facilities and an ample crew for effecting immediate repairs in the air. Yet she completed her journey without difficulty. With a disposable lift of twenty-nine tons, the airship carried plenty of fuel for all contingencies, an adequate crew, and heavy wireless apparatus that could not have been fitted on the larger aËroplanes.

Despite all this preliminary weight, a large collection of parcels, letters and newspapers were taken from America to England in record time. Had the weather conditions been at all suitable she could easily have brought the mail direct from New York to London by air. All honor to General Maitland, Major Scott and the other men who carried out this astonishing demonstration so early as July, 1919.

Even vessels of the R-34 type, however, are quite unsuitable for regular traffic across the Atlantic. Much bigger craft will be needed if the available space and the disposable lift are to be sufficient for the carrying of freight or passengers on a commercial basis. Already the construction of airships two and a half and five times the size of the R-34, with approximate disposable lifts of one hundred and two hundred tons respectively, is projected. When such craft are accomplished facts, and when further progress has been made in solving weather and navigation problems, we may look for transatlantic flights on a commercial basis.