“And he’s got me with my suspenders cut,” Langdon found time to reflect. “Hell, who ever heard of such a dumb thing as an intentional collision on the wing! Collisions are strictly for high rankers and to be made only upon takeoff and landing. “They’ll ground me for this sure. I might even draw a bobtail. And old kid Charlie Mudd....” As suddenly as he had arrived, Mudd left. A rifle shot from the east bank of the Meuse had found him. His plane, with dead hands and feet on the controls, spun into the river. * * * * * From the dressing station where Langdon sat, richly swathed in iodine soaked wrappings, he could watch the engineers fishing for a pilot and observer where the rudder of a plane waved above the surface of the Meuse. On a cot, where a few medical men had been busy for an hour, Samter was showing the first signs of returning consciousness. Now and then the observer had said, in delirium: “F.F.V. Old F.F.V., himself.” “We used to have one of them in this corps,” a medical private said. “He was from Norfolk, I think. That F.F.V. stuff stands for First Families of Virginia.” “Right you are,” Langdon mused, from where he sat. “Wrong as hell,” Samter mused. “It stands for Fell Flying Valiantly.” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the April 15, 1929 issue of _Adventure_ magazine.]