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.