Early the next day, though, they did climb Langdon’s frame. They climbed him twice. Once on account of the complaint that Field No. 8 sent through from Issoudun; again because of a wail that came up from Châteauroux. “I don’t blame the French kid in the hayrack Farman,” Langdon told the officer in charge of flying, upon whose carpet he was arraigned. “But those dudes from No. 8 should hang their heads in shame. The idea of refusing combat with a DH! Those five birds should be forced to stand a court-martial, sir. Why not make this an issue, sir?” “By hell, Lieutenant, there’s food for thought there! But look here, Langdon--be careful not to climb any of these two-place Sopwiths that you see fluttering around here; any Sops, Avros or Caudrons. They’re always full of fat majors and lean colonels, to say nothing of a few supernumerary generals of sundry ranks. And if you ride any of them, the war ends for you. We have one cadet in the guard house now. He dared to come in with a dead stick when a major was trying to take off.” “Well, what the hell should he have done?” Langdon asked. “Stay up there with a dead motor till the major decided to take off?” “That was the cadet’s problem,” the officer in charge of flying stated. “And he didn’t get the right answer. The major gave his own ship the gun and crashed into the cadet’s plane. Don’t you work up any problems here, Langdon, unless you can see the solution beforehand. A pilot in the guardhouse is no flyer at all.” “I’m immune, sir. You know how blacksmiths and guardhouse keepers laugh at love, or something like that? Well, I’ve fallen in love with DH’s. That’s strange, I know; but it’s a fact. Me and the DH’s are getting together, and we’re going some place.” “I’ll give you a push toward the Front, Langdon, as soon as I see a chance. Now get into the air and pile up as many hours as you can. That’s what counts. These forty and fifty hour pilots are not lasting long on the Front.” “I’ve had two hundred hours, sir, and I’m ripe for the bow. All my old bunch are fighting the Battle of Paris right now, and here am I poling DH’s for the everlasting glory of the S.O.S. The thing ain’t right, sir, no matter how you figure.” * * * * * During the day he flew different missions with two of the instructor’s worst goldbricking observers. Each time Langdon arrived over the practice objective--Neung, Orleans, Chinon, Blois--he would yell back-- “Do you get it?” “Too high,” the student observer would invariably sing out. And, as a rule, the approach altitude would be above fifteen thousand feet. “Too high, Lieutenant.”