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"After me cometh a builder. Tell him I, too, have known."

Kipling.

It is an awful thing to be told that one has made history, or done something historic. Such an accusation implies the duty of living up to other people's expectations; and merely an ordinary person who has been lucky, like myself, cannot fulfil such expectations.

Sir John Alcock and I have been informed so often, by the printed and spoken word, that our achievement in making the first non-stop transatlantic flight is an important event in the history of aviation that almost—but not quite—I have come to believe it. And this half-belief makes me very humble, when I consider the splendid company of pioneers who, without due recognition, gave life, money or precious years, often all three, to further the future of aëronautics—Lilienthal, Pilcher, Langley, Eiffel, Lanchester, Maxim, the Wrights, Bleriot, Cody, Roe, Rolls and the many daring men who piloted the weird, experimental craft which were among the first to fly.

I believe that ever since Man, but recently conscious of his own existence, saw the birds, he has desired to emulate them. Among the myths and fables of every race are tales of human flight. The paradise of most religions is reached through the air, and through the air gods and prophets have passed from earth to their respective heavens. And all authentic angels are endowed with wings.

The present generation is lucky in that, despite this instinctive longing since the beginning of human history for the means of flight, it is the first to see dreams and theories translated into fact by the startling development of practical aviation, within the past fifteen years. The aëronautical wonders of the next fifteen years are likely to be yet more startling.

Five years ago, before the offensive and defensive needs of war provided a supreme raison d'être, flying was but a costly and dangerous pastime. As such it attracted the first-class adventurers of every race, many of whom lost their lives on weird, Jabberwock-like aircraft, built and tested before experimental data and more accurate methods of calculation became available.

But even these men could not realize the wonderful possibilities of the coming air age, of which they were the pioneers. Nearly all the early aëroplanes were born of private enterprise, for capitalists had no faith in the commercial future of flight. Very few firms applied themselves solely to the manufacture of aircraft or aëro engines, and only two or three of the great engineering companies had the vision to maintain aëronautical departments.

Among the few important companies that, in those days, regarded aëronautics seriously was Messrs. Vickers, Ltd. They established an experimental department, and as a result of its work began to produce military types of aircraft which were in advance of their period. Later, when the whirlwind of war provided the impetus which swept pioneer aviation into headlong progress, the Vickers productions moved with the times, and helped largely to make the British aircraft industry the greatest in the world. Now that aviation has entered into the third phase of its advance—that of a peace-time commercial proposition—they are again in the forefront of production. Incidentally they provided me with the greatest chance of my life—that of taking part in the first non-stop flight across the Atlantic. Since then a Vickers aëroplane has won yet another great distinction—the prize for the first flight from England to Australia.

At this point I desire to pay a very well-deserved tribute to the man who from the beginning has backed with money his faith in the future of aviation. The development of aëronautics has been helped enormously by the generous prizes of Lord Northcliffe and the Daily Mail for the first flights across the English Channel, from London to Manchester, around the circuit of Britain, and finally across the Atlantic.

In each case the competitions seemed impossible of fulfilment at the time when they were inaugurated; and in each case the unimaginative began with scoffing doubts and ended with wondering praise. Naturally, the prizes were offered before they could be won, for they were intended to stimulate effort and development. This object was achieved.

But for the stimulus of these competitions, Great Britain, at the beginning of the war, might well have been in an even worse position as regards aviation than she was. And all who flew on active service during the first three years of the war realize what they owe to Lord Northcliffe's crusades for more and better machines, and for a more extensive use of aircraft.

Having helped to win one of the Daily Mail prizes, I am not going to quarrel with the principle of flying competitions. Certainly, the promise of reward brings to the surface ideas and potential powers which might otherwise lie fallow; but I do not believe the system of money prizes for spectacular flights to be altogether an economically sound proposition. It is not generally realized that as a rule the amount spent by each of the firms that enter a machine for such a contest as the transatlantic flight vastly exceeds the amount of the prize, although the money reward more than covers the expenses of the aviators who gain it.

Would it not be more practical to pay directly for research work? Anybody with vision can see some of the infinite possibilities which the future of aviation may hold, and which can only be found by painstaking and properly applied research. There are plenty of men able and anxious to devote themselves competently to seeking for yet-hidden solutions whereby flying will be made cheaper, safer and more reliable. What is especially wanted for the moment is the financial endowment of research into the several problems that must be solved before the air age makes the world a better place to live in, and, by eliminating long and uncomfortable journeys, brings the nations into closer bonds of friendship, understanding and commerce.

Apart from the honor of taking part in the first non-stop flight between America and Great Britain, I am especially pleased to have helped in a small way in the construction of a new link between the two continents to which I belong. My family is deeply rooted in the United States; but generations ago my ancestors were English, and I myself happened to be born in Glasgow.

This was in 1886, when my parents were visiting that city. I was an only child, and I was so well looked after that I caught neither a Scotch nor an American nor even a Lancashire accent; for later, between visits to the United States, we lived in Manchester. There, after leaving school, I served an apprenticeship in the works of the Westinghouse Electric and Manufacturing Company. I inherited in some degree a love of and an instinct for engineering from my father, one of the best mechanical engineers I have ever met. He helped to develop this instinct by encouraging me in everything I undertook, and by making me profit by the results of his experience.

In the works I was for a time a workman among workmen—a condition of life which is the best possible beginning for an embryo engineer. I found my associates of the workshop good companions, useful instructors and incorrigible jokers. My father's warnings, however, saved me from hours of waiting in the forge, at their direction, while a "straight hook" or a "putting-on tool" was made, and from hunting the shops for the "spare short-circuit."

I was congratulating myself on making good headway and, in articles accepted by various technical journals, was even telling my elders all about engineering, when the outbreak of war changed all my plans and hopes, and interfered with the career I had mapped out for myself. In fact, I was in exactly the same position as many thousands of other young men at the beginning of their careers.

Although, of American parentage and possessing American citizenship, I had not the patience to wait for the entry into the war of the United States. With an English friend I enlisted in the British University and Public Schools battalion, when it was formed in September, 1914. And, although at the time I had no more notion of it than of becoming President of the League of Nations, that was my first step towards the transatlantic flight.

Those were wonderful days for all concerned in the early training of our battalion at Epsom. In knowledge of drill our officers started level with us. Several times I saw a private step from the ranks, produce from his pocket the Infantry Training Manual, and show a lieutenant where he had gone wrong. Doubtful discipline, perhaps—but excellent practice, for most of the original privates of the U.P.S. soon became officers of the New Army.

I was gazetted a second lieutenant of the Manchester Regiment in January, 1915, and with it saw service in the trenches before Ypres and on the Somme. Then came the second step towards the transatlantic flight. I had always longed to be in the air, and I obtained a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps as an observer.

I had the good fortune to be posted to No. 2 Squadron, under Major (now General) Becke. While in this unit I first experienced the mixed sensations of being shot down. One day my pilot and I were carrying out artillery observation over Vendin la Vielle when, at a height of 8,000 feet, two anti-aircraft shells set our machine on fire. Somehow, the pilot managed to bring down his craft in the British lines; but in landing it tripped over some telephone wires and turned a somersault, still blazing at various points. We were thrown out, but escaped with a few burns and bruises.

After a short rest in England I returned to the squadron. I soon left it for good, however. One dull, snowy day a bullet perforated the petrol tank of the machine in which, with Lieut. Medlicott, I was reconnoitering behind the enemy lines. As a result we were unable to reach the British zone. We landed in occupied territory; and I knew the deadly heart-sickness which comes to all prisoners of war during the first few days of their captivity.

I was repatriated after being a prisoner of war in Germany for fourteen months, followed by nine months in Switzerland. Medlicott, meanwhile, made thirteen determined but unsuccessful bids for escape before being murdered by the Germans in 1918, while indulging in a fourteenth attempt.

My two years of captivity constituted, strange to say, the third step towards the transatlantic flight; for it was as a prisoner of war that I first found time to begin a careful study of the possibilities of aërial navigation. This I continued after returning to London, where, at the Ministry of Munitions, I was employed in the production of the larger aëro-engines.

When, soon after the armistice, the ban on attempts to fly the Atlantic was lifted, I hoped that my studies of aërial navigation might be useful to one of the firms who were preparing for such a flight. Each one I approached, however, refused my proposals, and for the moment I gave up the idea.

It was entirely by chance that I became involved in the transatlantic competition. One day I visited the works at Weybridge of Messrs. Vickers. While I was talking with the superintendent, Captain Alcock walked into the office. We were introduced, and in the course of conversation the competition was mentioned. I then learned, for the first time, that Messrs. Vickers were considering an entry, although not courting publicity until they should have attempted it.

I sat up and began to take notice, and ventured to put forward my views on the navigation of aircraft for long flights over the sea. These were received favorably, and the outcome of the fortunate meeting was that Messrs. Vickers retained me to act as aërial navigator.

I soon learned to have every confidence in the man who was to be my pilot. He flew for years before the war, and he had a magnificent record for long-distance flying when engaged in bombing Constantinople and other parts of Turkey, with the detachments of the Royal Naval Air Service in the Eastern Mediterranean. His recent death in a flying accident took from aviation one of its most able, experienced and courageous pilots, and robbed his many friends of a splendid man.

We set to work, and, with every assistance from the Air Ministry, and the Admiralty, we soon had our apparatus and instruments ready for shipment to Newfoundland. Besides our two selves the Vickers transatlantic party consisted of ten other men from the works, and a specialist on Rolls-Royce aëro-engines.

Alcock and I sailed from Southampton on the Mauretania, on board of which its commander—Captain Rostron—made me free of his bridge, and, as a widely experienced navigator, gave me much good advice. The Vickers-Vimy machine, with all stores, left later by a freight boat.

From Halifax, Nova Scotia, we proceeded to Port aux Basques, and thence by way of the Reid Newfoundland Railway to St. John's. There, we joined the merry and hopeful company of British aviators who, long before we arrived, had been preparing for an attempt to win Lord Northcliffe's prize.

That four of them did not forestall us was due in part to very bad luck, and in part to their whole-hearted patriotism. They wanted for their country the honor of the first transatlantic flight, whether non-stop or otherwise; and, being unable to continue the wearisome wait for good weather in face of the news that the American flying boat N. C. 4 had reached the Azores, they made their attempt under conditions that were definitely unfavorable. Fate tripped up Raynham and Morgan at the start, when they tried to take their heavily-laden machine into the air while running over a too short space of uneven ground, with the wind crossways to it. Fate allowed Hawker and Grieve a rather longer run, but brought about their fall when they were half-way to success, owing to a mishap which, though trifling, had the same effect as a vital breakage.

It is superfluous, at this time of day, to offer public sympathy to such gallant competitors; but I seize the opportunity of expressing admiration for their splendid effort, and for the spirit that prompted it. To Hawker and Grieve we owed particular thanks in that we profited to a certain extent by what we learned from the cabled reports of their experiences. For Grieve, as an expert on aërial navigation, I have the deepest respect, and I am in full accord with his views and theories on this, my own subject.

The same sort of odds against accident that sent them into the sea might well have befallen Alcock and me. But it did not; and our freedom from it was an important factor in our good fortune. Others were the excellence of the Vickers-Vimy machine and the Rolls-Royce engine. Whatever credit is ours should be shared with them, and with Mr. R. E. Pierson, E.Sc., M.I.C.E., the designer of the Vickers-Vimy.

We have realized that our flight was but a solitary fingerpost to the air-traffic—safe, comfortable and voluminous—that in a few years will pass above the Atlantic Ocean; and even had the winning of the competition brought us no other benefits, each of us would have remained well content to be pioneers of this aërial entente which is destined to play such an important part in the political and commercial friendship between Great Britain and America.

THE LATE CAPT. SIR JOHN ALCOCK, K.B.E., D.S.C.