FOR LOVE AND GLORY

Five minutes after the train got underway, a woman fell onto Lange’s lap. She was attempting to stash her belongings into the baggage rack above him when the train jarred over a rough patch on the tracks. He had been staring out the window, thinking that it looked a little like Texas out there except for the rain and the sheep, and he didn’t notice the woman until she landed on him, face to face. He got an elbow in the collar bone, but he caught her instinctively, otherwise she might have gone sprawling into the aisle.

            She clutched at her cap, regained her balance. “Sorry,” she said, as the train jarred again. He caught her a second time. “Oh, sorry. Sorry,” she said. “Blast this damned train!”

            By then he was laughing. “You’d better just sit down.” He slid over on the seat next to the window, giving her the one where he had been.

            The train lurched yet again, and again she grabbed her cap. She was wearing some kind of uniform, a shade darker blue than his. Everybody in this country was in uniform but he recognized the gold wings on her tunic. They were identical to the wings on his except where his said RAF hers read ATA.

            “You’re a ferry pilot?” he said, automatically. He recognized the insignia. There had been a ferry pool at Hawarden, where his Operational Training Unit was located.

            “Yes,” she answered. “And you’re a Yank.”

            “I can guarantee you there’s no damn-yankees in my family.”

            She was blond, a little older, or maybe the uniform made her look older. Straight teeth, downturned nose. She wore a little makeup, pink on the apples of her cheeks, but he could see pale freckles underneath. Startling blue eyes. Good-looking, if you liked the type. Personally, he had never gone for vanilla ice cream blondes.

            She stuck out her hand. “Mackie MacLeod,” she said. “From Canada.”

            He shook hands. “I didn’t think you sounded British.”

            “And I didn’t think you sounded real. My family spent winters in Florida every year, but I never heard syrup like you’ve got. Where did you get that drawl?”
            He wondered if he should feel insulted. Only a couple of days before, the bartender at the Blossom Hotel in Chester had told Lange his accent was impossible to understand. “Texas,” he answered.

            “Well, I declare.” Clearly, she was mocking him. “Another proud member of the Royal Texas Air Force. Now, ain’t we lucky.”

           He bristled, thinking he could’ve just let her fall on her ass in the aisle. “I did my primary training in your country.”

            “Do tell?” She was still at it, and she thought she was clever, too.

            “Yeah and turns out I had to come all the way to England to meet my first smart-ass Canadian.”

            A single laugh erupted from her, loud enough to draw the attention of the other passengers. She covered her mouth and raised her eyebrows at him. Her fingernails were clean but not polished. A gold ring with a single ruby-colored stone was around her third finger, right hand.

            “Apologies. Really bad day. Can we start over?” She stuck out her hand. “Mackie MacLeod. Third Officer, Air Transport Auxiliary.” He shook her hand. “And your name, Texas? Are you going to tell me your name?”

            “Oh...it’s Lange. Lange DeLony.” He gave her a smile.      

            “God, not dimples, too,” she said, also smiling. She had on pale pink lipstick. “I feel better about the war already.”