When headquarters separated Jack Langdon from his pursuit group and sent him to fly two-seaters, headquarters came very close to breaking a stout flying heart. For Langdon, there was nothing to do but pack and go; anything in the way of protest would have netted him nothing, besides being very bad taste. Nevertheless, between high dudgeon and low spirits, the boy hovered and suffered for days. Flying _chasse_--pursuit--was the holding of all that war could give. But piloting a two-seater--any two-seater was just plain hell. You would not ask an Oldfield or a De Palma to drive a ten ton truck, and expect him to like it, would you? Nor would you detail Sande to ride a mechanical nag. Well, La…
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