New Hampshire, and further, the base, was beautiful in April. The grass was getting greener every day, new flowers growing between concrete slabs, fawns darting through the empty hills beyond the hangars. John enjoyed that sort of thing (despite Buck making fun of him for it).

At the moment, though? It was hard to focus on the native bird population whilst Johnson was inserting himself and the American Forces into Vietnam. John knew this was coming— but he almost… didn’t want to face it. Despite being a career airman, something about him toiled over the conflict he was now indirectly and unwilling thrown into (or, probably soon would be).

Trying to get the dissonance over his job/alleged calling and his sudden moral compass’ appearance out of his head, John laid on his back and stared at the big, blue sky. Empty. Peaceful. His problems only existed earth-side. He could be in the air, brushing the heavens.