An Officer and a Family Man

It was morning, a few days after the detachment had arrived back at North Island with a bit of free time on their hands. Initial celebrations having taken place on the carrier, they scattered on arrival for some solitude and to make plans for their bit of unexpected leave. Maverick and Rooster, who were spending it catching up on years missed, had gone out to Maverick's hanger. But now they returned to base so Rooster could catch up on some of the administrative work of a Naval officer.

"I should probably get some stuff done, too," Maverick said, ruefully. "But I'm not sure I can face paperwork right now, whatever Cyclone will say about it."

"What are you gonna do instead?"

Maverick shrugged. "Not sure. Ride the bike around town a bit, probably. I just need some time, you know?"

Rooster's brow creased with worry. He stepped closer, laying a hand on Maverick's arm. "You okay, Mav? I can come with, if you want—this stuff doesn't need to be done right now."

But Maverick smiled and patted Rooster's hand reassuringly. "I'm good, kid. Don't worry about me. I just don't feel quite ready to sit at a desk for a few hours. I'll see you later?"

Rooster nodded. "Call if you need—seriously. I'll be right there."

"I know, Bradley. Thanks."

So Maverick was riding around town, somewhat slower than usual, eyes behind his aviators squinting against the glare of the sun as he studied store signs with a curious intensity. At one point in particular he slowed almost to a stop, but after a moment he snorted at himself, shook his head, and drove on. He began to speed toward the beach—but suddenly pulled to a stop with a grin. He parked the bike, laughed a bit, and walked in through the open door of the Rock and a Hard Place.

The bar was bright and airy, filled this morning with the smell of coffee. Several old military men read or slept or ate toast in corner armchairs. One of them, in a snowy-white wig, nodded at Maverick as he came in. Blinking through his surprise at seeing the first president of the United States, Maverick nodded back. Approaching the bar, he smiled at the bartender.

"Welcome back," she said in a low voice, standing tall and stately. "I am Clio, keeper of history. Wait here—the colonel will be in soon." She slid him a cup of coffee.

Maverick sat down and sipped the coffee, relaxing into the environment, enjoying the quiet. Within a few minutes, another officer, in Union blue and an infantry cap, stepped in. As soon as he cleared the door jam he leaned back against it for a moment, sighing. He blinked his eyes open again, however, and approached the bar when Clio addressed him.

"Colonel Chamberlain, welcome." She handed him a mug as well, which he took courteously and drank greedily. "Colonel, this is Captain Pete Mitchell. Captain, Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain."

"Captain." Chamberlain held out his hand.

"Colonel, good to meet you. Please, call me Maverick."

Chamberlain gave him a curious look but nodded. "Lawrence, then, please. Shall we?" He gestured off toward the back room. Maverick collected his coffee and headed that way. They both settled into armchairs to the side of a billiards table and were silent for a moment.

"Gettysburg?" Maverick asked, gently.

Chamberlain started a bit, then relaxed again. "Ah—so I am your history. You—they—know my name?"

"Not as they know General Washington's out there," Maverick chuckled. "Anyone with mid-level interest, maybe, in the—well, the War Between the States. I thought I remembered you were a colonel at Gettysburg, that's all."

"Your memory is not wrong—if they ended up calling that battle 'Gettysburg.' Descriptive enough, I suppose, though it hardly seems…sufficient…for what happened there."

Maverick nodded in agreement.

"And what of you, Maverick? Why that name?"

"I'm a Naval aviator—but that doesn't help you, does it? It's, well—since your time we've invented flying machines, airplanes, and for us pilots who fly them it's become a tradition, to acquire a nickname, a callsign to go by in the air. Mine's Maverick. We get a bit attached to them." He grinned.

Chamberlain was leaning forward in his chair, eyes wide with delight. "That's marvelous, sir!"

Maverick raised his mug in a toast. "It really is."

They both drank.

"Unfortunately," said Chamberlain, "I doubt we were brought here merely to discuss the marvels of the future."

"No, probably not. I don't suppose it's…clashes of personal and professional duty? Letting go?"

Chamberlain nodded along soberly. "I should not…be as good of an army officer as I am, Maverick. I was a professor before, rhetoric and languages. Every decision I make, I always think: why? and how? Reasonings and implications, moral philosophy. That should make me indecisive, unsure on the battlefield. But from my first days as an officer it never has. And I wonder, sometimes."

Maverick was shaking his head ruefully. "I almost envy you. When my backseater, Goose—he was like my brother—he died in my plane, and I almost couldn't take the risks anymore. I almost gave it up. And I've lost other wingmen since then—Viper was right about that. You do have to learn to let them go. But it was…not an easy lesson, for me. And harder, the more important the person is to you."

Chamberlain stared into the distance, stroking his moustache contemplatively. "When I put my brother in the front line—yes, I know what you mean. I thought of our mother, what I would tell her if Tom died, how I would even live with it myself—but I didn't hesitate. In the moment, Maverick—" he focused on his companion again— "I didn't hesitate."

"Letting go of Goose's son has been—well. his mother asked me to protect him, keep him out of the air—and suddenly I could see every flaw in his flying, everything that would get him killed up there. And I grounded him. But it hurt him, and it didn't work anyway. A lifetime, Lawrence—that's how long it's taken for me to learn to let him go. I wish I'd never made the mistakes I did with him. The ones you avoided."

"But if Tom had died? As your brother did? Who can say what I would have done. I was spared that—you learned from it."

Maverick shook his head. "Even after bringing Rooster on the mission I got shot down, protecting him. But then he got shot down protecting me, and then I had to get us home. I wouldn't—couldn't—have done it without him. You can't think about those what-ifs. In the air, I tell my students, you can't think at all. It has to be instinctive, or it can't be done."

"And it must be done. Our job—we can't protect everyone. But we're officers. We can only do our duty, hard as it is."

"We do our best to bring them home…but sometimes, we have to let them go."

Their eyes met in mutual understanding, and for a while they sat in silence.

At last, though, Chamberlain stood. "I should get back."

Maverick rose too, clapping the colonel on the shoulder bracingly. "Good luck to you, Lawrence. I'm headed back to a bit of leave, and then—well, I'm not sure. But you're in the middle of a war, and I'm sorry for that. Wish I could come back and help."

Chamberlain suddenly grinned, his first true smile of the morning. "I think that's neither possible nor conscionable, Maverick, unfortunately—it would be an honor to have you here. And I won't ask what happens next, that I might need luck for—but thank you all the same."

The two men shook hands.

"God be with you, Maverick," Chamberlain said, and strode out the door.

Maverick sighed and walked to the bar.

"So history is made—his, and yours," intoned Clio, "by the deeds of brave men."

"And am I at the end of my deeds, Clio?"

She studied him for several long moments. "Why don't you go find out?"

At that, Maverick grinned and walked out the door, back into the sunshine.