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.