For anybody looking for work, the place could supply the limit. Having heard that the air branch was the eyes of the Army, the Artillery, Infantry--and even the Medical Corps, through force of bad habit--were incessantly asking for observations. They did not care much what was observed, but they liked to keep the Air Service in hot water. These old line branches know how easy it is to loaf when it rains, or the fog gets too heavy; so they figure that, being the highest branch of the Service, aviation should do its stuff while others sleep. And the young branch, extending itself to the limit, made those observations; flew when flying was out of the question, and sacrificed men when men were scarce. * * * * * That evening, by low candles in the Trente-Neuf’s mess, Langdon and his two mates met the outfit. Except for one, it was easy to know. That one, Lieutenant Charles Mudd, F.F.V., A.S., U.S.R., was hard for Langdon to meet because he had met him before. F.F.V. Mudd and Langdon had both been assigned to the 10th Aero Squadron for shipment overseas. Together, at Mitchel Field, they had reported in to the 10th’s old topkick, Sergeant Benton; and upon reporting, when the 10th’s C.O. was absent, the Old Man had had them sign the register. Langdon had signed first, and in a self-conscious way. “Put down your rank, Lieutenant,” Sergeant Dad Benton had said. “There’s no misters in this man’s Army. Put down your ‘Lieutenant, First’, and your ‘A.S., U.S.R’.” Next, Lieutenant Mudd signed. But first he found a resting place for his swagger stick, and deposited his gold tipped cigaret on the edge of Dad’s blotter. And when that baby signed, he signed--and how! “First Lieutenant Charles Surry Mudd, F.F.V., A.S., U.S.R.” “What the hell’s all this ‘F.F.V.’ stuff?” the old sergeant quizzed. “That, suh, is, First Families of Virginia,” Lieutenant Charles Surry Mudd answered. Of course, his tone of voice was the tone that should be used when a lieutenant speaks to an enlisted man. And it went just about as far as the talk of a lieutenant usually goes with an enlisted man. The old sergeant, with a stroke of the broad pen, struck out the F.F.V. “There are no F.F.V’s in this man’s Army, Lieutenant Mudd.” Lieutenant Charles Surry Mudd stepped back. His pale face grew even paler. The sensitive lips and chin quivered, and the flesh above his knees prickled within their well tailored confines. His breath came hard, his eyes flooded, then the proud youth fell to chewing his lower lip. The Army, uncouth thing that it is, had taken him for another ride. Finally, deciding against mixing with a lowly sergeant, Lieutenant Mudd retrieved his swagger stick and cigaret, and strode to the door. He hesitated upon the threshold long enough to say-- “I’ll report this, Sawgent.” “Report and be damned,” the old topkick mused, and closed the register.