In one way, however, I think the story of my own "big adventure" and my miraculous escape may, perhaps, serve a purpose as useful as that of the heroic fate of my less fortunate comrades. Their story, it is true, might inspire others to deeds of heroism, but mine, I hope, will convey the equally valuable lesson of the folly of despair. Many were the times in the course of my struggles when it seemed absolutely useless to continue. In a hostile country, where discovery meant death, wounded, sick, famished, friendless, hundreds of miles from the nearest neutral territory the frontier of which was so closely guarded that even if I got there it seemed too much to hope that I could ever get through, what was the use of enduring further agony? And yet here I am, in the Land of Liberty--although in a somewhat obscure corner, the little town of Momence, Illinois, where I was born--not very much the worse for wear after all I've been through, and, as I write these words, not eight months have passed since my seventeen comrades and I sailed from Canada on the _Megantic_! Can it be possible that I was spared to convey a message of hope to others who are destined for similar trials? I am afraid there will be many of them. Years ago I heard of the epitaph which is said to have been found on a child's grave: If I was so soon to be done for, O Lord, what was I ever begun for? The way it has come to me since I returned from Europe is: If, O Lord, I was _not_ to be done for, What were my sufferings e'er begun for? Perhaps the answer lies in the suggestion I have made. At any rate, if this record of my adventures should prove instrumental in sustaining others who need encouragement, I shall not feel that my sufferings were in vain. It is hardly likely that any one will quite duplicate my experiences, but I haven't the slightest doubt that many will have to go through trials equally nerve-racking and suffer disappointments just as disheartening. It would be very far from the mark to imagine that the optimism which I am preaching now so glibly sustained me through all my troubles. On the contrary, I am free to confess that I frequently gave way to despair and often, for hours at a time, felt so dejected and discouraged that I really didn't care what happened to me. Indeed, I rather hoped that something _would_ happen to put an end to my misery. But, despite all my despondency and hopelessness, the worst never happened, and I can't help thinking that my salvation must have been designed to show the way to others. II I BECOME A FIGHTING-SCOUT I started flying, in Chicago, in 1912. I was then eighteen years old, but I had had a hankering for the air ever since I can remember. As a youngster I followed the exploits of the Wrights with the greatest interest, although I must confess I sometimes hoped that they wouldn't really conquer the air until I had had a whack at it myself. I got more whacks than I was looking for later on.