We landed on Greenly Island in a snowstorm and in this manner set foot on the American continent. We were frozen, exhausted and hun­gry, and had almost lost all hope of ever again speaking with human beings, of sitting in com­fortable houses, or of being able to warm our­selves in front of crackling fires.

Our arrival in this little island was not en­tirely devoid of involuntary humor. First of all the plane tipped forward and made, as it were, a deep bow. This courtesy cost us our propeller; it was bent hopelessly. The ice crust on the water reservoir, on which we had hoped to land safely, was already weak. It gave way beneath the weight of the plane. Koehl banged his head with such force on the steering wheel that his face was covered with blood. Fitzmaurice escaped with a violent shock; and Huenefeld stood on his head. But the landing was accomplished: the East to West flight had succeeded.

We began to clamber out of the machine. None of us had ever experienced such a violent gale as the one which met us. It almost knocked each one of us down. Huenefeld took his first bath on American soil within a few seconds of landing, by falling with his entire length into the icy water of the landing field. Koehl burst into roaring laughter at the spectacle, but was knocked down by the wind the next second, and also fell into the icy water. It was only by a great effort that Fitzmaurice held on to the machine. The reception the elements had given us was not at all amiable. How much more friendly was the reception extended us by the few inhabitants of this forlorn place. The lighthouse keeper of Greenly Island, Mr. LeTamplier, who with his large family carries out hard and, in the winter especially arduous duties there, showed us from the very first minute of our landing such hospitality and kindness that even to-day we can think of it only with a feeling of the deepest emotion.

In the beginning the inhabitants of the Island thought we had come from Quebec. They were very much astonished to learn that we had come straight from Europe, and Tamplier remarked "The good Lord led and saved you."

A good hour after our landing a curiously dressed crowd sat in the small living room of the lighthouse. First of all, Koehl and Fitzmaurice tried with the help of some of the inhabitants of the island to pull the plane out of the basin in which she had stuck. The gale, the severe coldness and the strain the fliers had experienced prevented any systematic procedure, and so the undercarriage collapsed during the attempted salvage. Then Koehl and Fitzmaurice also came to the house, to which Huenefeld had already gone, to prevent the freezing of his garments onto his body after his refreshing bath. Moreover, in order to lighten the machine, Huenefeld had spent the last seven hours of the flight lying between the two tanks, a tight place which did not leave any room for a coat. His fur boots and gloves he had forgotten in Baldonnel. Thus his hands and feet were so stiff that he could not assist in the first salvage.

There we sat all three of us around the burning iron stove, clad in all kinds of garments of the Tamplier family, and glad to be still alive. The quickly prepared hot meal, which consisted of potatoes mixed with corned beef was most thoroughly enjoyed. Afterwards, however, we were quickly overtaken by extreme fatigue. We wrote out our first telegrams to our waiting families. By a coincidence, a messenger of the small village of Long Point, two miles away, had witnessed our landing and was just about to start back over the Straits of Belle Isle with his dog team. Long Point had a telegraph station, a fact which became of decisive importance during our stay on Greenly Island. Without that telegraph station we would have been, and would have remained, entirely cut off from civilization.

Innumerable telegrams, some mutilated, others intact, passed through Long Point during our ten days' stay on Greenly Island. Mr. Cornier, the kind postmaster of that small village, whose family later on vied with him in trying to make our last days before the continuation of our flight as pleasant as possible, told us later that he almost collapsed under the attack. We could well believe that, because the telegraph station was equipped for a capacity of eight to ten telegrams per month and not for 100 to 200 per day. Nevertheless, he coped with the situation. The efforts of Mr. Cornier, only made possible by his extreme good will, must not be underestimated.

Mrs. Tamplier, whose six children looked us with astonishment but not obtrusively, quickly prepared beds for us. Koehl and Huenefeld were put up in one wide bed, while Fitzmaurice received a resting place for himself alone. We had already almost fallen asleep at our meal, and at 4 P.M. we retired for good. That was a sleep whose beauty and depth could only have been surpassed on the battlefield. Koehl was the first to awake at 3 A.M. The coal oil lamp in our little room had been left burning, as it also served the purpose of a stove. Koehl reached for his maps, which he had taken with him to bed, as he wanted to locate on them the exact spot of our landing. The sound awak­ened the other two. The first thing that Fitz­maurice and Huenefeld did was to light the last two cigarettes they possessed. The non-smoker could not understand the feeling that overcame Fitzmaurice and Huenefeld at this almost holy act. An Ocean flight of 36 1/2 hours may be strenuous, but 36 1/2 hours without smoking is not merely more strenuous, but is a torture! How­ever, only true and passionate smokers can un­derstand this. Fitzmaurice, who had been the first to notice the lighthouse kept on repeating "It's a good boat we're on, and it's my nice boat." Although we understood the name of this "boat" to be Greenly Island, we had not been in a position be­ fore going to sleep to establish where this Greenly Island was situated. So we started to search for it on the map. We found that there was a "Green Island" marked in the St. Law­rence river, in the gulf of which we undoubtedly found ourselves. This "Green Island" was situ­ated about 300 miles from Quebec. A railroad line passed close to it. So we thought that within two or three days we would find ourselves in New York. Koehl began to make notations of the experiences of the flight upon the map ; the others went to sleep again. And so the morning came.

It brought us a surprise which bordered on disappointment. While Fitzmaurice and Huene­feld still sat talking over their breakfast, Koehl rushed to the machine in order to see in daylight how extensive was the damage caused by the landing. After a short while he returned and made the following sensational statement: "Do you boys really know where we are? We are not on Green Island but on Greenly Is­land!" He spread the map on the table and pointed with his finger to the spot where we were. This, of course, was very different from what we had dreamed of during the night. A railroad line? Only a visionary could believe that rail­road lines could be close to Greenly Island. We saw we should have to use dog teams as our next means of transportation. Good generals IIP must plan for action. We decided that Koehl, whose heart always called him back to the damaged plane, should take care of our "bird" during the next few hours and attempt with the aid of the natives—who stood around watching us with great interest—to prop up the machine.

Fitzmaurice and Huenefeld were to drive over to Long Point by dog team, reconnoiter the territory there, bring further help, and above all send telegrams requesting immediate assistance. The Junkers Corporation of America had to know what spare parts we required in order to repair our plane as soon as possible. This was the most important thing of all. So a telegram was drafted to Miss Hertha Junkers in New York, requesting her to procure a new propeller and a new undercarriage as complete as possible. Koehl still had a few Irish pounds in his pocket. Fitzmaurice and Huenefeld had not brought a penny with them, because they felt it would be a pity to lose their money in the waves of the Atlantic if the flight were to end unsuccessfully. So another telegram had to be sent to the Norddeutscher Lloyd in New York, in addition to that reporting the arrival, asking for money. Although Greenly Island is outside civilization money is necessary everywhere; cables and telex grams had to be paid for.

The trip across the ice afforded a new sensation for Fitzmaurice and Huenefeld. Neither of them had ever before travelled on a dog team, and the quick glide in this narrow and not too comfortable means of conveyance, with the loud barking dogs ahead, offered new charms. Once we came into harsh contact with the earth, owing to the unevenness of the snow and ice; but what did it matter, it was an experience hitherto unknown. Both Fitzmaurice and Huenefeld were welcomed with great kindness in Long Point, especially by the Cornier family. The necessary telegrams were dispatched, reports of the plane's safe arrival to the Irish and German governments, several communications to the "Senat der Patenstadt" (senate of the sponsorial city), etc. But especially had a telegram to be dispatched to the Canadian Government, notifying them of the plane's arrival.

Our appreciation of the assistance that Government extended to us in an incredibly short time can hardly be expressed in words. Meanwhile, the first replies had arrived in answer to the report of our happy landing, which by then had become generally known. One of the most charming telegrams was the one we received from the President of the United States, written in the warmest words of welcome.

But let us go back to our first excursion to Long Point. Fitzmaurice and Huenefeld there learned that levers and two cranes were available, which might help to free the machine from her uncomfortable position. These tools were obtained. Then the two travellers, under the guidance of young Cornier, who crowned his kindness by offering, out of his own scanty supply, tobacco and cigarettes to the Bremen crew, in spite of the fact that such articles are difficult to obtain in the wintertime, went to the small village church, which stands empty during the winter months. They had intended to go sightseeing only, but unconsciously the two men knelt down. Although they spoke in different languages and belonged to different creeds, they were one in their belief in God, and, filled with thanks for the help that He had afforded the Bremen and her crew, they spoke a short but fervid prayer.

In the meantime Koehl had collected a number of assistants who were ready to help in the repair of the Bremen. So this important task could soon be started. The day ended in making the necessary preparations and in reading and writing telegrams. April 15th was a Sunday. It was also the 40th anniversary of Koehl's birthday. A strange scene of congratulations took place in the morning in the small bedroom. We spent a little longer time than usual over our chatting and dressing, and quite unconsciously we began to talk about the war, in which we had all participated on different sides. Koehl, later on during our tour of the American cities, often mentioned in his speeches, how on that strange Sunday morning we showed each other the scars of the wounds we had obtained in the war.

Good enemies may become good friends and comrades after the battle is over. The Bremen crew has the full right to say that they have proven the correctness of this statement in practice, and have shown how after the conclusion of hostilities old soldiers can fight side by side in close alliance for a common end.

A particularly pleasant birthday surprise awaited us at breakfast. The Canadian Transcontinental Airways in Quebec informed us that a plane with skis was under way to Greenly Island, and would arrive there in the afternoon. And while we were sitting at our lunch, the noise of a propeller was heard. The inhabitants of the lighthouse and their guests rushed out upon the ice. A plane circled around the tiny island and then landed safely on the frozen surface of the stream.

A flash of regret went through our brains. Had we only trusted that sheet of ice instead of the ice on the water reservoir, which from the air we had thought looked the safer! The door of the cockpit opened, the first person to appear was Dr. Cuisinier, to whom later on, at Koehl's suggestion, we gave the nick name of "The Good God of Canada." A good deal will be written about him in this chapter, because everything that a man could do for other men, in practical, moral and medical directions, this man of quite exceptional character did for the Bremen crew. He was followed by Mechanic Thibaut, and the pilot of the plane, a man of great originality known as Duke Schiller.

The kind doctor reached back into the cockpit. A basket with beer bottles appeared. Shouts of joy went up from the Bremen crew, which culminated in the words: "The nicest possible birthday present for the Bavarian Koehl." The new guests were taken with triumph into the lighthouse, and while Madame Tamplier served hot tea, a long series of questions and answers ensued. How long would we have to remain there? What did people think of us ? And what did the world look like in general? Only a few days had elapsed since our take-off, but already we had become quite accustomed to the isolation which surrounded us. And the thought that soon we would have to go back into the stream of life at times affected us almost painfully. There we had been happy in our knowledge of the successful flight; there we had had time to think; and thoughts had come to us which in the hurry and scurry of the world would never have occurred to us.

But the human heart is strange. At the same time we longed to get back into the pulsing life, and one question burned in our hearts and brains. What would be the quickest possible way to resume our communication with the outer world? Smilingly, mixing English with his French, Dr. Cuisinier, who used to be Doctor of Medicine at Sorbonne in Paris, but who for some years has been a Director of the Canadian Airways, told us everything we wished to know, and even more. He made the suggestion that one of us should take his seat in the plane on her return trip, in order to co-operate personally in the relief expedition for our machine. It was natural that Fitzmaurice should be chosen. He was the only one of us who could really talk English. The other two had only begun their studies in Baldonnel, and could only make themselves understood with difficulty. Besides, Fitzmaurice had excellent connections, dating back from the war, with Canadian aviation circles. By the time these arrangements were made, it was found to be too late in the evening for the take-off. So the newly arrived guests were also put up in the lighthouse.

Even to-day we do not know where Dr. Cuisinier slept that night, and where Thibaut spent it.

Duke Schiller shared Fitzmaurice's bed. The kind doctor, for kind he always remained to us, at once took the arrangements into his own hands. He assured us, always with the same pleasant smile, which lent a particular charm to this gigantic man, that he would take care of everything, and that we were not to bother about anything. We did not even get a chance to look after the comfort of the men who were the first to come to our aid, who should really have been our guests.

That Sunday evening will always remain in the memory of every one of us. After Dr. Cuisinier had settled the most important questions of the day, he told us about the days when he flew with Bleriot in Paris, about the immensity and loneliness of the forests of Labrador which he himself had crossed during the summer. Without his noticing it, or intending it, his figure stood out in front of us like the picture of a Viking from old bygone days. And during the course of his stories we saw more and more clearly that it was by almost a miracle we had escaped the terrors of Labrador. No human assistance could ever have reached us in that wilderness of ice and snow. With our last drop of fuel our last hope of rescue would have vanished. The three of us looked silently at the pink twilight across the ice floes of the Straits of Belle.

We looked silently at the slumbering forests Isle of Labrador: they had not become our graveyard. In silence our eyes turned to the cross which hung over the door of the little living room of the Tamplier family, the nicest decoration in the room.

The next morning the Oxilla took off with Fitzmaurice for Murray Bay, the headquarters of the Canadian Airways, where Miss Hertha Junkers was feverishly busy obtaining assistance for our machine. The flight was a hard tiresome one, because the machine on her return trip got into a snowstorm and took three days to reach her objective instead of eight hours. Huenefeld and Koehl in the meantime remained on Greenly Island. With them Dr. Cuisinier also remained, a truly guardian spirit. Never was such a spirit of sportsmanship displayed as during those days on Greenly Island. The "fair play" of sportsmanship brings the members of each nation who love and honor their own country, on to a common meeting ground of sports comradeship, and unites them more closely than a thousand conferences round a green table could ever achieve.

The derrick and pulley blocks which had in the meantime been brought along, were set up, but they never were made use of. Dr. Cuisinier helped us to form from the natives who gathered round us a willing group of workers, and introduced some system into the work which hitherto had been carried on in a rather haphazard manner. We had been greatly handicapped in not knowing the language. Here we had a man who knew both the language and the customs of the country. It was an easier job for him. Moreover, he gave the necessary instructions with both friendliness and quiet firmness and was able to get them carried out. Thus the day arrived when the Bremen was propped up, and only awaited the hour of the arrival of a new propeller and new undercarriage to put new life into her. Koehl had worked with indefatigable energy, assisted by the native population and the faithful and valiant chief mechanic Thibaut.

In the meantime Huenefeld had met with another mishap. He poisoned himself and as a result was confined to his bed with a high fever. Dr. Cuisinier came to his rescue and helped him both with kind smiles and medicine from his Medicine chest. Huenefeld felt that he was probably about to die, and requested Koehl in the event of his death, to cut a hole in the ice, stick his body in a sack, weigh it down with stones and sink it in the Strait of Belle Isle. His request was waved aside with a smile, but later on Koehl confessed that both he and Dr. Cuisinier considered such an issue quite possible.

Gradually more and more visitors came to the island, which in the meantime had acquired a certain amount of fame. Apart from the fact that one fine day a second airplane of the Canadian Transcontinental Airways, piloted by Mr. Vachon, landed on the ice, bringing two representatives of moving picture firms and illustration centers, the Paramount Film Co. had appeared even earlier on the scene with their own machine. Then the cranking of cameras began most industriously. Pictures of the plane were taken from every direction, and naturally the two Germans had to be photographed, in the circle of the Tamplier family, in front of the Bremen, on the dog team, in short, in every possible position. Another visitor appeared, quite an interesting one in the shape of a German called "Freitag," who with his family lives in South Labrador. He could not resist calling on his countrymen and bringing them tobacco, cigarettes and all sorts of nice things.

During the afternoons and evenings which Friedrich spent on Greenly Island we had many cosy chats, in which we learned a great deal about the lives and doings of the inhabitants of Labrador, who have to fight so hard for their life and existence. He told us about the magnetic fields which slumber deep in the mountains, which cause deviation of compass needles, resulting in errors which might become dangerous and even fatal to all airplanes.

The days went by, and still telegrams arrived speaking about preparations for the rescue. These, however, did not make it clear when the expected machine would arrive. The snowstorms gave way to warmer weather. From day to day the sun gained in strength, slowly but surely. The effect of the sun worried us somewhat. The ice cover which had spread itself across the Strait of Belle Isle during the winter, began to show cracks, and we felt that much more delay would mean that the wheels we were waiting for would be useless. On April 22 we received word by wire that a tri-motored Ford plane which Commander Byrd had placed at our disposal was under her way. Twenty-four hours later, on a beautiful noonday, this machine landed on skis. The city of New York together with the New York World had equipped an expedition, and out of the big plane emerged first a mechanic of the Junkers Works, Ernst Koeppe, Mr. Murphy, the representative of the New York World, and finally the two men at the controls, Major Fitzmaurice and Bernt Balchen, the young ex-Norwegian Naval Officer, who flew with Byrd upon his great Ocean flight in the summer of 1927.

The reunion of the three comrades was an extremely happy one, and it was a special joy to become acquainted with Balchen. Anyone who has once looked into the shining blue eyes of this man, eyes which resemble the fjords of his Northern fatherland, must feel a liking for him which will forever remain. Those eyes in the typical Northern face do not deceive. Balchen became and has remained one of our best and truest friends. From him we learned the sad news of the sudden illness which had overtaken Floyd Bennett, who in Quebec had had to leave the plane which he intended to pilot, owing to a serious attack of pneumonia which necessitated his removal to a hospital. He had left the hospital in Detroit, where he was lying with a serious attack of grippe, when the cry for help reached him. This faithful comrade and greatest of all sportsmen disregarded his own sufferings, and did not hesitate for one moment, in spite of his waning strength, to come to the assistance of others.

Two days after Balchen's landing on Greenly Island, Floyd Bennett closed his eyes for ever. His memory, buried deep in our hearts, will live always. We shall never forget the hour when Murphy came in with the telegraphic news

"Floyd Bennett had died." We were sitting in the small sunny room of the Cornier family. A shadow fell over our circle, and through this shadow invisible hands seemed to reach forward to grasp each other. The spirit of sportsmanship exists regardless of the machinations of diplomacy. The free man extends his hand to the free man. Floyd Bennett's death opened a new chapter in the history of mankind. His grave signifies his adherence to one idea, that man shall love man and all men be as brothers. Out of one's love and honor of one's own country grows one's respect for all other countries. Floyd Bennett's death added in inextinguishable glowing letters one word to the history of the nations once so distracted by hatred and wars, the word "GOOD-WILL."        

Case after case, in unexpected quantity, emerged from the giant bird. First of all the glistening steel propeller, which the Junkers Corporation of America had sacrificed from their own F13; boxes containing wine and beer, food and cigars, etc.; in short, everything which could be desired on that little far away island. Amidst all these good things, however, we did not forget our work. It began at once with very great zeal. Within a short time the Bremen had received a new axle and new wheels with broad rims, which we thought might

still enable her to take off on the ice. Then began the trip with her down the hilly Greenly Island to the ice on the Strait of Belle Isle. In the meantime attempts were made to straighten the propeller of the Bremen. Forge fires and soldering lamps glowed. The evening saw a hopeful crowd gathered together in the dining room of the lighthouse. Dr. Cuisinier prepared a very dainty salad. Everybody retired early, as the take-off was planned for early the next morning.

Case after case, in unexpected quantity, emerged from the giant bird. First of all the glistening steel propeller, which the Junkers Corporation of America had sacrificed from their own F13; boxes containing wine and beer, food and cigars, etc.; in short, everything which could be desired on that little far away island. Amidst all these good things, however, we did not forget our work. It began at once with very great zeal. Within a short time the Bremen had received a new axle and new wheels with broad rims, which we thought might. The morning dawned. It brought new disappointments. We spent the whole day in trying to start the engine on the ice. We had the plane tanked up with gasoline brought by the Ford plane. The engine refused to start! Hours elapsed and night began to approach. We could no longer think of taking off that day. Then the effect of the sun which had been shining rather strongly, became noticeable. That evening we realized that we could no longer think of taking off without skis. And so the Bremen was placed on sleds again, and pulled     by dogs and men, was slowly and sadly moved towards Long Point. We knew that it would not be possible to take off within a reasonable time, and so with heavy hearts we decided to leave the Bremen behind under the care of the self-sacrificing Dr. Cuisinier and his faithful Thibaut, and to fly with Balchen in his Ford plane to Murray Bay where we were eagerly expected.

But still another day elapsed; snowstorms followed the sunshine, and the weather reports on the intermediate route were so bad that we felt it was our duty to wait. Under the direction of Dr. Cuisinier we examined a spot up which we thought the Bremen would have to be pulled in order to enable her to take off from the land. The first attempt to take off was made later from that spot, after Fred Melchior, the courageous pilot of the Junkers Works, had reached the spot in a parachute. That take-off led to the total collapse of the machine.                   6

There are things about which it is difficult to write. The feelings that overcame us at the news of the final collapse of our machine cannot be expressed in words. Each one of us felt as if he had lost his own child. This mishap put an end to the plans of the Bremen crew to fly back to Europe with the plane. Only the sportsman will understand what this fact meant to us.         In the morning of April 26 we took off with the Ford plane from the bay near Long Point. We felt quite sorry to leave that spot with which we had become so familiar, and which we had begun to love during our stay of ten days. In front of us lay the uncertainty of the future. 

Behind us was an exceptional experience which had reached a crisis in the death of Floyd Bennett. Our thoughts flew back to our machine which had been our stay and shelter during the most difficult hours of our life, which we had had to leave behind. We had certainly entrusted our faithful bird to one of the noblest men we had ever met, but what would the next days and weeks bring? Our leave taking from the Doctor was short but hearty, as indeed was our leave taking from all the people of that region who had shown us such whole-hearted hospitality and help in our first hard days there. The three propellers sang their song: "Forward, forward into the future." We thought again of the very great kindness of Dr. Cuisinier which had touched us to the core: "Hommage à Cuisinier!"