WE warmed up the engines gradually and took our places in the plane. Lieut. George O. Noville sat with his hand on the dump valve to release the gasoline in case we could not get off the ground or should a crash threaten at the end of the runway. Bernt Balchen, our young Norwegian relief pilot and mechanic, was working aft among the spare fuel. We were taking off from the same spot and in the same direction used by Fonck a year ago with his three-engined plane. They had crashed. Ours was the first three-engined plane to make the attempt since then.
We put the engines on full; the plane strained at its leash like a live thing. Tom Mulroy, our chief engineer on the North Pole voyage, knife in hand, stood ready to cut the rope that held the plane. The tug of the great engines suddenly broke the line, as I learned later, and we started a little sooner than we had expected. That was very bad. The engines were not warmed up as much as we had intended and it looked for some moments as if we might not get into the air before reaching the end of the runway. Once Bert Acosta at the wheel raised his hand to Noville to dump. It was a tense moment—everything hung in the balance. But just then the wheels left the ground and we set forth on the toughest air battle, I believe, that has ever taken place. I remember Balchen shouted with joy.
Slowly the great ship gained altitude with its tremendous load. This was a critical time because, should any one of the three engines stop or even falter until we could get an altitude of 400 or 500 feet, the dump valve would be of no value, and the plane would crash.
I made notes in my log and remarks in my diary, the same diary carried over the North Pole with me. I find this entry made a few minutes after leaving Roosevelt Field: “Altitude 300 feet, turning, after turn completed, altitude 400 feet.” The America had climbed on a turn and was proving herself a very great plane.
With the engines roaring at maximum revolutions we went through the air at 100 miles an hour. Naturally, for the same wing surface, it was necessary to fly faster with a heavy load than it is with a lighter one in order to keep in the air.
Slowly we climbed. Shortly afterward I find the following note in my log:
“Raining, fog, clouds low, standard compass 83½°, wind southwest on surface, drift 5° right, air speed 100 miles an hour, altitude 3,000 feet.”
We had to change the course of the plane five degrees to the left to allow for this drift. I had been taking our speed from the ground and found that at our altitude of 3,000 feet we were getting probably the maximum assistance from the winds.
The air navigator of the future, I believe, will select the shortest route through the air by flying at that altitude which yields the maximum assistance from the wind. We wanted to prove the truth of this theory. The wind changes, both in speed and direction, at various altitudes. Greater speed and quicker time can be obtained by taking advantage of this fact, as we proved on our way to Newfoundland.
The rain continued for several hours and the weather was slightly foggy; but these factors did not bother us to any extent.
When we reached Nova Scotia the weather became clear. The air was very bumpy and rough. But we expected that. I had had the same experience over Nova Scotia on the first trans-Atlantic flight. We kept a sharp lookout for the plane of Nungesser and Coli, thinking it might have crashed on the rough land below. These two Frenchmen had heroically tried to fly from Paris to New York shortly before, and had never been heard from again. There were practically no landing places that I could see. At one time I thought I saw their big white plane beneath, but it was a curiously shaped, whitish rock.
The ground was covered with trees and rocks and we passed over many small lakes. When we passed near Halifax, we were flying over beautiful white clouds, but the sun was bright above us. The shadow of the plane was etched on the clouds, and around it was a rainbow. Here was an omen of good luck, following us on the white clouds beneath, at the rate of 100 miles an hour.
The plane was still cluttered with five-gallon cans of gasoline. Every now and then as I sighted the ground with our wind-drift indicator, through the trapdoor in the bottom of the plane, I could see a white object shoot down, glistening in the sun. Theo objects were gasoline cans that Noville was throwing overboard after he emptied them into our huge tank.
We were now near the air station I built at Halifax and there I was flying over territory that I had flown many times before. When we reached the beautiful Bras d’Or Lake, I looked down on the rough shore where Walter Hinton and I had once been washed ashore after a forced landing in 1918.
When we reached Newfoundland we found everything covered with fog. We had not expected such a tough break. Then for 2,000 miles we saw nothing beneath us and it looked as if we would reach Europe without seeing the ocean and we almost did it. I hope no other pilots have that experience. It is not a very pleasant one.
There would be no chance to take a departure from St. John’s and thus be entirely certain of our position before striking out over the ocean. We would have to fly “blind” for many miles over the land before hitting the water.
At 2 P.M. all the gasoline cans had been emptied and I asked Noville for a check on the gasoline consumption. This check showed that it had been greater than we had anticipated and I gave instructions to “lean” the mixture and to cut down the revolutions as much as possible. We had been going with almost a full throttle on account of the heavy load.
When we met fog, it was, we thought, advisable to fight our way above it, and so in climbing with our heavy load, we again had to run the engines at full speed. Slowly we got altitude and at 5.50 P.M. we found ourselves about a mile high, but in fog most of the time, and the plane was drenched. It would grow colder as night drew on and we would have to watch the temperature carefully, because, within 15 minutes, a plane so drenched could be precipitated into the ocean should the water freeze on the propeller and wings.
Finally we came to a point where we calculated that St. John’s was beneath us, but we could barely see the tips of the wings, so dense was the fog.
I recalled the non-stop flight of Alcock and Brown from St. John’s to Ireland. They accomplished that in 1919, when engines were not so safe as they are to-day. We must give England the palm for this great accomplishment, the first non-stop flight across the Atlantic.
I found myself thinking of Lieutenants Maitland and Hegenberger who were winging their way over the Pacific to Honolulu. I wrote out a radio message for Noville to send them, wishing them good luck.
Little did we think, as we went into the fog, how many hours would pass before we could see the land or the sea. After we had left the land some hours behind, I again asked Noville for his gasoline consumption. I told him to be conservative. His figures indicated that it was much greater than we had expected. One reason for this, I thought, was our struggle in attempting to get above the clouds and fog. This had caused us to run the motors much faster than we had intended.
I made some careful calculations and showed Noville (in writing, of course, because the roar of the three engines prevented conversation) that, at that rate, with the slightest winds against us, we would drop into the sea from lack of fuel before reaching Europe.
I told him that I was responsible for the lives of all on board and that, regardless of my feelings, I wanted to know how they felt about turning back. He promptly answered that he knew of no landing place between Newfoundland and the States, except St. John’s, that was now covered with fog, so that it was just as safe to go ahead as to go back. I was glad he felt that way, because I did not wish to retreat. We didn’t mention our predicament to Acosta and Balchen—they had enough troubles of their own.
Here it was that we staked our lives on our theory that if we flew at the proper altitude we should have favoring winds. If I were wrong then we should fall into the sea and be lost before making a landfall on the other side.
I had studied thoroughly the velocity and directions of winds over the Atlantic. So far as I could learn, no reliable data had been procured upon the winds’ strength at high altitudes, but several meteorologists of the Weather Bureau as well as I believed that a plane could fly high enough to get strong winds from the west, even though there might at the same time be easterly winds on the surface.
So that whenever any of us took the wheel we flew as high as possible. If we could have the winds with us, we should easily make Europe; if not, we should fall far short of it, if Noville’s estimate of the gasoline on hand was correct. I also knew, from Dr. Kimball’s weather map, which I had spread before me on the chart board, that I now was flying at first on the southern side of the storm area and later would be flying on the northern side of a high-pressure area.
We were now flying nearly two miles high. Above the ocean at night, bitterly cold, lost in storm clouds, so dark that we couldn’t see our hands before our faces. It was not the pleasantest situation in the world.
I find notations made hour after hour in my log, as follows: “It is impossible to navigate.”
Our safety depended upon winds behind us. It was a strain I must admit. Only an aviator knows what it means to fly 2,000 miles without seeing the ground or water beneath. I doubt whether any other plane had ever flown blindly for half that time.
One notation in the log stated: “ Ice is forming on the plane.” We were at a dangerous temperature. That was to be expected, flying two miles high in fog, because the temperature decreases considerably with altitude. I passed a note to Acosta warning him to make every effort to get out of the clouds, which he very soon did.
Acosta and Balchen deserve great credit for their fine work during this critical period.
During the night, between turns at the wheel, Bernt Balchen had some sleep. As he moved restlessly in the restricted space from time to time, his foot nearly touched the handle of the gasoline dump valve. I watched him closely without awakening him, because if his foot should kick that, we should lose all our precious fuel.
Several times I took my turn at the wheel and realized what a strain Acosta and Balchen must have been under, steering for hours entirely by instrument.
Our night lights worked well. We also had powerful flash lights. We did not use the latter very much, because every time we flashed them we were blinded. The luminous dials and figures on our instruments showed up well in the pitch dark. I had a special portable light for my chart board.
I had left behind my rather heavy thermos bottle of tea, but during the night Noville gave me some of his coffee. It was only lukewarm, but it tasted good. We had plenty of drinking water. I ate a little roast chicken, but did not want to eat too much, because I knew it would be necessary to keep awake.
From time to time during the night we fought our way above the clouds. It was a weird sight to look down from the pinnacle of black masses we were skimming. Around us were ominous, towering peaks, some of which reached far above us. As we could not afford to go around those that lay in our path, we would dash through them in a darkness so intense that we could not see the wing tips. The fire from the exhaust pipes of our faithful engines, invisible in the daytime, shone vividly in the dark night. The 30,000 flashes of fire per minute through the exhaust pipes made a cheering sight against the black.
On one occasion in a thick cloud the plane got temporarily out of control. We must have been going downward at a terrific rate, judging from the roaring of the engines. Balchen, with great skill, finally steadied the ship again on her course.
Throughout the long night each man went about his duty efficiently and calmly, taking it as if it were all in a day’s work.
I note in our record that I sent the following radio at 6.50 A.M. on June 30: “We have seen neither land or sea since 3 o’clock yesterday. Everything completely covered with fog. Whatever happens I take my hat off to these great fellows.”
In those minutes between twilight and dusk we reached sufficient altitude to skim the tops of the clouds, and the spectacle was extraordinary. On the side of the sun, which, of course, was far below the cloud horizon, the clouds took on weird shapes and colors, but on the other side they were ominous and gloomy. During the day we had some terrifying views; there were fog valleys, dark and sinister, hundreds of feet beneath us. At times distant cloud peaks took on shapes and colors of rugged Arctic land and mountains.
I found myself again thinking of Maitland and Hegenberger. So confident was I that they would arrive safely I sent them a radio of congratulations. They got both messages we sent them!
I had another bad time when I discovered a leak near the bottom of one of the main gasoline tanks. We had provided against such an emergency by bringing along some of a patent putty-like substance. This nearly stopped the leak but a little of the precious fuel kept dribbling out. Along toward morning the leak stopped of its own accord. This I told myself could mean but one thing: that the fuel had got down to the leak. This meant further that we had only fuel in the four wing tanks. It checked up with what Noville had told me about over-consumption of gas, and confirmed the disagreeable fact that we should never reach the other side.
I was living over again now the same sort of time we had over the Polar ocean, from the bad oil leak, only this time I had the responsibility of three men’s lives instead of one. That sort of thing makes a big difference.
I could have been saved much anxiety had I only known that the leak was somehow stopped from inside the tank after all, and that the tank was far from empty at the time.
I find this note in my diary: “Went forward at 3.15 A.M. to pilot and got stuck in the passageway.” I had to tear off a sweater to get forward.
For hour after hour we had seen no land or water. “I sit here wondering if the winds have been with us,” I wrote. “If they have not been, we do not reach land. I take my hat off to the boys with me. Their courage is splendid.”
From a study of the weather maps I concluded we were being drifted to the south.
From time to time we sent and received radio messages and it seemed miraculous that, flying two miles above the ocean, hidden in dense clouds, we could get messages from safe, comfortable places.
At one time Noville reported he had a message from a steamer somewhere beneath us and our signals were so clear that we must have been very near it. We were in dense fog at the time. He asked for conditions of weather at the surface and the ship reported fog. We got its position and a radio bearing. This showed we were on a certain line and indicated we had been right in judging that the wind had drifted us to the south.
A little later we had the position of another ship, the S. S. Paris, and this information put us somewhere on another line. Where the two lines intersected was our exact position. We were certain then that we had been drifted to the south, so instead of bucking winds to go to Ireland, we set our course directly for Finisterre, France. Indeed, by allowing ourselves to go with the wind we had made better speed toward our objective. I could now, however, allow for the wind to a nicety and knew exactly where we would hit land, although we were still several hundred miles away.
We must give Noville credit for this radio information. It was a remarkable feat and another triumph of science at which to marvel. Surely our whole flight was worth while, to demonstrate this one thing alone which we had been so anxious to prove. Our position indicated that we had been assisted by the wind about 30 miles an hour all the way from Newfoundland. We had made splendid speed.
I wanted to find out the worst about the gasoline, so asked Noville for an exact estimate. He came to me in a few minutes and wrote: “I made a mistake in the first estimate. We have enough gasoline left to fly to Rome.”
“Wish I had known that 18 hours ago,” I wrote back.
The error was caused I think by the fact that the tail of the plane was somewhat down on account of the weight and the gasoline gauge did not register accurately.
Not long after that in the afternoon of the second day, we came out of the thick, solid cloud layers into broken cloud fields and we could see the water beneath us. Though it was fairly rough it was a most welcome sight. We could see it only every now and then, but that was enough to allow me to get my drift and to verify the fact that the wind was blowing from the northwest.
What a great contrast was our situation now compared to what it appeared to be a few hours earlier! We could get glimpses of the sun and water; by our navigation we now knew exactly where we were; there was enough gasoline to get to Rome, and all engines were hitting perfectly. When I squeezed up into the pilot’s compartment to take a turn at the wheel, I could tell from the faces of my shipmates that they were much relieved.
Soon we were getting many radio signals. They began to increase rapidly in number and Noville reported to me that he thought the whole of Europe was calling us.
We hit land about the time and at the place we calculated and I am sure France never looked so beautiful to any one of us before. We passed over Brest and set our course for Paris.
We had flown nearly a whole day without seeing land. Since one’s processes seem to quicken when flying, the period seemed more like two days.
We had fairly good weather, now, but it looked thick ahead. I asked Noville to radio to Paris to find out the condition of the weather there. It was reported thick fog and squally. Another battle was before us.
The worst that we had anticipated—fog at our destination—had happened.
In a way we welcomed the fight ahead. Here would be another test of aviation, and I felt we could conquer the elements with the gasoline we had left.
We probably could have flown on to Rome on the edge of the storm area and set the world on fire with this long distance record, but that would not have been “carrying the message to Garcia.”
We were able to locate accurately our position by the cities beneath us and the coast line to the left. But before long darkness began to descend, and with it came thick rainy and ominous weather. Soon we got only occasional glimpses of the lights of the towns, and the thick, low lying fogs or clouds drenched the plane and again we were tossed about in the blackness without being able to see our hands before our faces.
It was so inky dark that every time we put on the flash light to give an order it blinded us temporarily, so that we could only dimly see the luminous instrument board. However, the personnel and the many mechanisms of the plane continued to function efficiently, and I had every confidence of hitting Paris.
If we hit Finisterre after almost 2,000 miles of blind flying, I thought we certainly ought to be able to reach Paris, a few hundred miles off.
We were using the earth-induction compass and it had been excellent to steer by, better than the ordinary magnetic compass. The pilot had before him the pointer of the earth-induction compass, which was supposed to synchronize with a pointer in the navigator’s compartment. A number of times I found my pointer considerably off and at first I blamed it on the pilot, but found that one of the pointers apparently was sticky. We would tap the dial and by checking with the standard compass we always managed to get on the course again.
I always take two or three compasses on an important trip to check for accuracy. In spite of a few minor mechanical difficulties, the earth-induction compass undoubtedly is the aviation compass of the future.
About the time we expected to hit Paris we got temporarily out of the thick weather. I saw bright lights ahead and a revolving light which I took to be Le Bourget. Our dead reckoning showed us to be just about at Paris.
Our troubles seemed at an end. It was a relief. I wrote out the following radio for Mr. Wanamaker: “Paris is in sight. It has been a great trip. I wish to tell you with enthusiasm that Noville, Acosta and Balchen have faced grave dangers with the greatest possible courage and calmness. They have been wonderful and we all send our best wishes to you.”
That radio was never to be sent. I looked down and saw the revolving light flash for an instant on water. It was a lighthouse. I knew there was no ocean lighthouse near Paris. We were somewhere on the coast of France! I was astonished very greatly indeed.
The compass had gone wrong—had taken us in a great circle. By the flares of our flash lights, I conferred on paper with the pilots and concluded that we had made a circle to the left. There had either been some local affection of the compass in the plane, or the pilot’s dial had stuck badly. The only way to get on again would be to lay some course and check up the compasses.
We tapped the dials, checked them with the extra standard compass we carried, and got them 0. K. Again we set out for Paris and again were tossed about in the storm and darkness. It was raining very hard on the coast and visibility was bad. It was much stormier inland. We afterwards found that the centre of the storm was over Paris. I watched the course carefully after that and checked compasses every few minutes. I knew we were heading towards Paris. The inky darkness was broken occasionally by the flashes of our lights as we needed them temporarily, and the fire from the engine exhaust pipes. The rough air made it a little difficult to steer, especially in the darkness, but we kept a pretty good general course.
Then arose the necessity of watching the gasoline very carefully, for a forced landing in the darkness would not only have meant certain disaster for us, but also for some of those perchance beneath us.
Finally, our dead reckoning showed us to be at Paris but we could see nothing—nothing beneath us—nothing but the luminous lights of our steering instruments. We had got to the point beyond which, if we had continued, we could not have returned to the coastal waters, on account of the diminished gasoline. We knew that we would need a few gallons of reserve in order to cruise around for a landing place that we might not even then find. I believe at the moment we turned we were near Paris; our motors were heard by many people at Le Bourget through a sound intensifier, but I could not flirt any more with the lives of my shipmates.
The French trans-Atlantic flyer Lebrix twice said during speeches at his reception in New York, on February 15 and 16, 1928, that he and all the French aviators waiting for us at Le Bourget agreed that not only should we not have been able to land on account of the very thick weather but that we should have surely killed people had we attempted it.
In a flash it came to me that the compass needle taking us in a great circle right up to that lighthouse was an act of Providence.
A decision had to be made. My big job now was to try not to kill anyone beneath us and to save my shipmates. The only thing to do was to turn back to water.
It would probably be difficult for the layman to visualize our predicament, tossed around in the inky darkness of the storm, drenched by rain.
I doubt if any one could realize the strain of this part of the flight. We had no assurance that the plane could be landed safely on the water, but there was no chance of a safe landing on the land where we could see nothing.
Thus the decision to turn back did not carry safety with it. It meant that even should we find water we could not be certain of landing without disaster, because I never heard of anyone landing in the water when it was pitch dark and when the water could not be seen. We could not even be certain of landing a great plane like ours safely in the water in the daytime.
So, when we turned, we faced uncertainty ahead, but there was nothing else we could do under the circumstances that would give us any chance whatever to save the lives of the crew and to avoid endangering the people beneath us.
We set a course for the lighthouse we had seen. The wind might blow us off a bit in the darkness, but if the fog were not too thick there, we were confident of hitting it provided we were where we thought we were while over Paris. Much of the way we could see nothing beneath us, and we were flying so low that Noville had to pull in the antenna of his wireless to prevent it from hitting objects on the ground. Finally, when I thought we were near the lighthouse, I asked Balchen to get down lower. He was afraid of running into something but we had to take the risk. We emerged from the mists and there was the lighthouse ahead of us. That shows, again, I think, that we had not been lost—that we had been at Paris.
We cruised over it slowly, but in spite of the light the area around it was black, and we could only guess its topography. We could find no landing place. We had hoped there would be a beach and had written out a message on a weighted streamer asking the people to clear the beach and make some kind of light for our landing.
We then flew over the lighthouse and, by the quick flash of the revolving beacon, we could tell that we were over water and dimly distinguish the shoreline. We could not discern the character of the beach. It was still raining and dismally thick.
I wrote a note to my shipmates which I passed around with the flashlight which read: “Stand by to land.” I knew there would be a hard bump.
We decided to land near enough to the beach line to swim ashore, if necessary, and to salvage the plane, if it were not too badly wrecked. At the same time we had to be far enough away to miss any rocks, should the beach be rocky. That, of course, we could not tell.
We had some navigation flares with us which ignite upon striking the water and give a light for a few minutes. We carried these to sight on at night, when over the ocean, to get the drift caused by the wind and to use in case of a forced landing. I had thrown half of them overboard to rid us of the weight, but had saved enough for such an emergency as this.
We now dropped a number of flares as nearly in a line as we could, about 100 yards from the beach line. They all ignited, and although they made a light in a pool of blackness, we hoped we would be able to judge the distance of the plane above the water as we descended. Of course, if we could not judge it, we should go into the water at flying speed, which would smash everything badly, since water does not give much when hit hard.
Those hours in the black storm had not been pleasant. I felt myself entirely responsible for the lives of my shipmates. I don’t believe they thought there was much chance of getting down safely, but still they faced gallantly, with steady courage, whatever fate lay ahead. In a few moments the story would be ended, but to the last they calmly obeyed orders.
The gasoline was running low, we must not wait for it to give out and be forced to land.
Balchen happened to be at the wheel. I gave the orders to land.
We were landing with the plane in control and the engines functioning perfectly. At that moment, in spite of our danger, I marveled at the three engines that for 42 hours had made some I ,500 revolutions a minute without missing a beat. I thought of the Wright Aeronautical Corporation, that made the engines, and of my friend, Charles Lawrance, who had designed them.
Bennett and I had often wondered what would happen to a great three-engine plane landing in the water. Everyone thought the plane would turn over. Some thought the flyers would get hurt. Others thought not. Anyhow we were about to find out. Only we had the added difficulty of landing at night.
As we neared the water we could not see it; only the flares ahead of us and beneath us.
The wheels touched, and though the landing gear is secured to the plane with a tremendous factor of safety, it was sheared off, along with the wheels, with hardly a jar of the plane, as though a great knife had cut it, thus demonstrating the tremendous resistance of water when hit by a rapidly moving object. No one had predicted that.
It seemed just a second after that the crash came. I suppose I was dazed a little. I know I got a stiff blow over the heart that made it beat irregularly for many months afterward. I found myself in the water outside swimming around in pitchy dark and rain. I could hear Noville calling for me, but not another sound in the extraordinary stillness which contrasted so vividly with the roar of the great motors which had been pounding on our eardrums for 42 hours like tom-toms of Hades.
The plane instantly filled with water. Noville was getting out of the window. I yelled at him that I was unharmed and asked him how he was but he did not answer—just kept on yelling for me. I was a little worried about him, but I knew that he could not have been badly hurt. Hearing nothing from Balchen and Acosta and worried beyond measure about them, I swam to where they had been; the cockpit, of course, was under water. I yelled as loud as I could but got no answer.
I found Balchen slightly caught under water and trying to extricate himself. When he got clear I asked him how he felt. He didn’t answer but asked me how I felt. He talked a blue streak but didn’t talk to me. I couldn’t make it out exactly but concluded that he, too, was somewhat dazed.
Thinking that Acosta must have been caught under the water in the cockpit, we dived down, but he was not there. I yelled for him, but there was no answer. A moment later he appeared, apparently from nowhere, swimming toward the wing, the leading edge of which was now down to the water. He must have been swimming around out there somewhere in the darkness all the time.
I asked Acosta the same question I had asked the others, but he too didn’t answer—asked me how I felt. Bert also talked a blue streak but not to either one of us. In the course of his talking I found he had broken his collar-bone.
It was a weird sensation to have three shipmates there in the dark who would not talk to me or each other, but it was the most thankful moment of my life to find them still “kicking.” The very worst thing we had anticipated had happened, and we had come through.
With grunts and groans we dragged ourselves upon the wing. The wing was down in the water by that time.
So it must have happened with all the land planes that landed in the ocean that summer.
Noville, still functioning perfectly, was carrying out his orders given before leaving the States, which were to rip open the emergency cabin in case of landing in the water and pump up the rubber boat. He was at his job, although he could hardly stand up and was falling every minute or two.
It had been with considerable difficulty that all hands got on top of the wing. I then found that the reason I could not get any answer from them was that the three engines roaring for 42 hours over their heads had temporarily deafened them. As I had used ear protectors my hearing was normal. No plane had ever flown that long for a distant objective though endurance tests where the engine would not have to be run so fast of course had been longer.
The great question was solved at last. We could land without seriously injuring the personnel. The plane did not turn over, as many thought it would, and we had placed the emergency compartment in about the only situation in the ship where we could get our rubber boat and other emergency supplies when landing in the water.
My next thought was one of great admiration for Balchen’s landing. My mind turned to Norway, which had produced this kind of a soul, cool and courageous in emergency.
We were stiff and bruised, tired and watersoaked, and it was with some difficulty that we pumped up the rubber boat. As the wing was almost flush with the water there was no difficulty in launching it.
We placed our most precious cargo, which included a piece of the original American Flag, in a compartment we had made in the great wing; this we thought was the safest place. After finding the things in there were only slightly wet, we shipped the oars in the rubber boat, and wearily made for the shore in the dark.
We were a mile from the village. Even after we reached it we spent much time going from house to house trying to arouse someone. But there were fences with locked gates around these houses and we were unsuccessful. Suddenly, a boy on a bicycle passed us. We tried to stop him but he took one look at us and kept on going. Wet and bedraggled, we certainly were not prepossessing.
Finally, we found the lighthouse keeper and his wife up in the lighthouse tower but they wouldn’t come down. Noville could talk French but was deaf. My French wasn’t much and seemed to add to their idea that we were a gang of roughnecks under the weather. But when at last they realized that we had landed at Ver-sur-Mer, having come all the way from America, their astonishment and excitement were intense.
Here began an experience with the people of France which was so remarkable that words fail me in describing it.
Balchen and I left Acosta and Noville there while we went back to the America to get the United States mail and to salvage what we could of our precious records. In the meantime the tide had been going out rapidly, and when we reached the plane it was nearly high and dry. Some of the villagers appeared and helped us carry our records and a few other belongings up to the village. So long as we live we can never forget the kindness of the people of Ver-sur-Mer, and before leaving France we motored back there to tell them “good-bye.”
The wild scenes of joy and welcome which we received wherever we went in France are far beyond my power to describe. When we arrived at Paris, it was a long time before we could get away from the station. The entire city seemed to have turned out to welcome us. The people were mad with joy at our escape, though yet mourning the loss of their own beloved airmen.
The glass in one of our automobiles was broken, and the machine in which I was riding was almost upset several times by the crowds that surged against it. Some of the people must have been crushed and injured, but they did not seem to mind. We could not start the automobile engines, but were simply shoved along by the crowd.
My good friend, Herbert Adams Gibbons, finally rescued us and helped us through the balance of our exciting stay in France.
It seemed to us that if everyone in France had been our blood relatives we could not have received a more joyous welcome. If the reader thinks I exaggerate he has only to make a non-stop flight to France to find out the truth.
From the greatest statesmen down to their humblest citizens, we received warm expressions of admiration and friendship, but their words were not necessary to show us how they felt. The expressions on their faces were more eloquent than any words could have been. France gave us her very best. We were made citizens of three French cities. It would take a book to tell all they did for us.
There can be no doubt about the deep friendship of France for the people of this country. I vowed at the time to bring this lact back home. Since my return I have spoken of it publicly in more than half a hundred leading cities in the United States. The response my word has received has convinced me that France’s friendship is fully reciprocated.
France saw in us, from the moment of our great welcome, the embodiment and the spirit of America, and it was that for which they poured out their friendship and affection. They were saluting the Stars and Stripes which we for the moment carried.