“They turned around, after adjusting their compasses, and made once more for Paris by dead reckoning. They were above Le Bourget. But what could they do? They could see nothing below them, only an inky blackness that nothing could penetrate. Landing would have meant not only death to themselves, but perhaps to many people who had gathered to watch their triumphal landing. Their gas was getting low. Byrd saw only one solution. They turned and flew once more back to the coast. They were heading for the lighthouse that they had come upon accidentally before. They flew very low, over the sleeping towns and villages that they knew were below them, but which were shrouded in pitch blackness. A revolving light pierced the blackness, and they were at the seacoast. But over the water it was just as inky black as over the land. “Balchen was at the wheel. Byrd gave the signal to land. They threw over a line of flares that gave them some idea as to where to land, then descended. The force of their impact with the water sheared off the landing gear. The plane sank to the wings in the water, and the fuselage filled rapidly. “Byrd was thrown into the water. He swam to the plane. Noville was climbing out. The other two were nowhere to be seen. Byrd called to them. He swam over to the plane, which was almost submerged. Balchen was caught in the wreckage, but managed to extricate himself. Then Acosta swam up from nowhere. His collar bone was broken. But a hasty survey assured Byrd that the others were all right. Almost exhausted, they got out the collapsible boat, blew it up, and paddled to shore. It was a mile to the village, and they trudged wearily on. “They certainly did not look like a triumphal parade when they got to the village, four tired, wet, dirty men, who looked more like tramps than aviators. They tried to arouse the villagers, but they could not. A small boy riding by became frightened when they spoke to him, and scooted away. Finally they approached the lighthouse, aroused the lighthouse keeper and his wife, and made them understand what had happened. “From then on, all was beer and skittles. There wasn’t enough that the villagers could do for the Americans who had landed so unceremoniously in their midst—or practically in their midst. They rescued the plane, and the mail that was in it. “Paris was next, and the real triumphal parade started then. The flyers were almost overwhelmed with the wonderful greeting that the Parisians gave them. It was worth all of the hours of agony that they had gone through. They had accomplished what they had set out to accomplish, after all.