THE ARRIVAL
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.