Mudd, with four following ships, and covered from above by twelve pursuit planes, went out to do the job. They were nearly above Grand Pre before hell broke loose; and they were past St. Juvin and making a turnabout before the first Hun ship broke the high defense and took a DH off the Trente-Neuf’s rear. With his remaining three, stiff lipped and obstinate, Mudd flew his turn and went down the St. Juvin-Grand Pre line for a return whirl. Then a second DH fell, and Langdon broke out with combat, quit formation, and won another Boche ship from the milling group. Lieutenant Charles Surry Mudd worked long and late upon another report. Then Major Mack paced late and long into the night and tried hard to be a good fellow and, at the same time, a good soldier. Which is a thing well nigh impossible. In the end, he called all six who had returned. All of Mudd’s five companions, including Mudd’s own observer, swore by all that might have been holy that Langdon, in quitting formation and taking on combat, had only done so to cover the successful retreat of the camera planes. And Charles Surry, F.F.V., went into the night talking to himself and kicking stones. That war was a war for him. Langdon and Samter, listening to the guns that were pouring it into Grand Pre and the road to the east, waited impatiently for the morrow. “This damn’ swagger stick dude of a muddy Mudd!” Samter said from his shakedown. “If the simple minded, simpering juvenile does anything more to tear down our meat house, Jack, I’ll work him over with a prop wrench on my own time. Reports for the major! He’ll make one more report to the Old Man and I’ll land on him so hard that his brains, if any, will detonate and blow some he-man color into his insipid map. “F.F.V.--Far From Vodka, Finest Fish Vender, Faint Falsetto Voice--I’ll F.F.V. the white haired, white livered rat!” “Check--a madman,” Langdon laughed. “Roll over, Samter, and tear off some sleep. Charles F.F.V. is the least of our many worries. And he’s a good enough gun. One Wing. The only thing is, you and I are fighting a different war. On the level, Mudd’s scrap is gamer than ours. His is an impersonal _guerre;_ and he doesn’t even keep a diary.” “A good drunk is what Mudd needs,” Samter decided. “A trip to town, a big town, a good drunk and--” “That’s a two or three motored ship, and she’s mighty close,” Langdon said, as they caught the throb and pump of a night flyer. “Wish we were doing night missions, too.” “Ambitious guy,” Samter said to his inflated pillow. “When would Mudd find time to write lengthy reports?” “It really doesn’t make much difference,” Langdon said to his blanket, “because nobody ever reads them anyway.”