As my father, a Navy pilot, neared the end of his life, we watched “Top Gun: Maverick” together. “It was good,” he commented. “I’m better.”

That was my father, Richard Chester Macke, a Naval Academy graduate whose career progressed from test pilot to being nominated by President George H.W. Bush to serve on the Joint Staff alongside Gen. Colin Powell, who later chose him to be Joint Staff director. In 1994, he became commander of U.S. Pacific Command, until he was relieved after what—in his own words—were “insensitive and offensive” remarks. He then served briefly as commander of the U.S. Pacific Fleet and retired in April 1996.

He was a military man straight out of central casting: 6 foot 5, stoic, and certain. His call sign, bestowed on him during the Vietnam War, was “Warrior.” My nickname for him was “Dadmiral,” and for my sons, the moniker “Grandpa” would give way to “Admiral.”

Then-Vice Adm. Richard Macke served as director of the Joint Staff under Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Gen. Colin Powell from 1992-94. (Photo courtesy of Susan Macke Miller)

He was an imposing figure. After finishing his assignment as commander of Carrier Strike Group Two, his staff noted, “You’re an SOB to work for, but if we go to combat, we want to go with you!” In his autobiography, he remembered it as “the greatest compliment I ever received.”

I’d always admired my father, but mostly from a distance. His career and my parents’ divorce meant I only saw him during childhood summers and milestone events in our lives.

But when I was 61, I received an unexpected gift while caring for him as he melted away with cancer. During those final weeks, the warrior retired his armor and revealed his humanity.

Deep wishes and regrets were voiced, along with untold stories about his military career. His vulnerability floored me.

Susan Macke Miller cared for her father in Hawaii as he battled cancer in 2022. The two would eat dinner, watch television, and share stories. (Photo courtesy of the author)

My father wasn’t long-winded in conversations, and every word spoken had purpose. No fluff. I emailed once to check on him after a tsunami warning. His reply: “We slept through it. No significant damage and it was smaller than expected. Take care, Dick.”

If you rambled, he’d call out your falderal, or as he pronounced it, “fal-de-rah.” I am a free-spirited person, so whether I was 6 or 60, I usually rehearsed before engaging him. Was it a good time? Was I babbling?

He knew what he liked, which included coffee, Sprite, Manhattans, and American-made cars. He drove a red Corvette; it had been a point of contention that I drove a Toyota. His theme song was “I Did It My Way,” and he usually had a lit cigarette. If I questioned him about the constant smoking, he’d announce that he’d been to the doctor and, “My lungs are just fine.” OK, Mr. Sinatra.

Caring for him wasn’t exactly a Hallmark movie. I’d swap out his oxygen tanks, make his meals, help him from the bed to the living room, change his clothes, and track his medicine.

It was a difficult time, and he would snap, especially when he wasn’t feeling well. One evening, when I was delivering his dinner a few minutes behind schedule, he barked at me. I walked back to the kitchen with his food, returned, and told him, “I’ll bring your food back when you can be kind, Dad. I’m here to help you.”

He apologized. A first.

As peppery as he could be, he was also honorable and generous. For my 50th birthday, three gal pals and I flew to Oahu. Dad showed up at the airport, welcomed us with leis, and cooked his famous alfredo pasta for dinner. And over the years, his colleagues often told me how he’d assisted and mentored them.

The author with her father and sons at the Pearl Harbor Aviation Museum in Oahu in 2015. From left to right: Levi, Susan, Richard Macke, Ryan, and Aaron. (Photo courtesy of Susan Macke Miller)

Several years ago, I asked Dad if he’d write about his experiences—my sons wanted to know his stories but were too intimidated to ask the “Admiral.”

He sent me two stories shortly afterward. During my last visit, I asked again about the writings. And indeed, he had typed 35 pages, highlighting his adventures, which I read to him every afternoon.

I learned he’d flown 43 different aircraft in his lifetime, one of them under a bridge in the San Francisco Bay, while running simulated strikes during a training exercise.

One of his favorite stories unfolded in the 1980s because of my husband, Gene, a guitar player and singer who had toured with country singer Barbara Mandrell. Mandrell is married to a former Navy pilot, and on her bucket list was being flown from an aircraft carrier.

Richard Macke, left, with President Bill Clinton in Oahu. (Photo courtesy of the author)

Dad was the commander of Carrier Strike Group Two at that time. In exchange for a welcome-home concert, Mandrell found herself in an F/A-18 Hornet piloted by my dad flying off the USS Coral Sea aircraft carrier. He later noted he was thankful that she was screaming during every catapult launch and unable to hear his mantra, “Fly, you motherfucker, fly!”

He was a fighter and a character. Shortly before he passed, he lifted his legs up and down as I read to him. When I asked what he was doing, he flashed, “My PT exercises, so I can walk again!”

Some evenings, after the news and “Wheel of Fortune,” I sat at his bedside and he would express gratitude for the “spectacular” attention I was giving him.

Sometimes, he would pause, look out the window, and tell me that the plane in the sky just took off from runway six. Or runway eight. Sometimes, there were no words, just looks, both of us knowing his time was ticking.

I willed myself to keep it together and not cry because I never saw this coming. Those unexpected bedside moments ruined me in the best way.

As my father’s days were dimming, one of my sisters suggested Dad was getting ready for a new kind of flight. My father took leave several days later, with his wife—Susie—my sisters, and me in the room, escorting him home.

Three days later, I noticed an enormous, striking—and a bit terrifying—moth on the wall in the living room. It reminded me of a stealth bomber. Later, it was upstairs, on the window in my room. I popped the screen open to set it free, but it wouldn’t budge. Then, it was on the other side of the room, on the screen door. And when I came upstairs to sleep, the moth was by my pillow.

Whoa.

An erebid moth visited the author shortly after her father’s death. In Hawaiian lore, the moth, also known as the “black witch,” embodies a soul saying goodbye. (Photo courtesy of Susan Macke Miller)

I researched and found that the erebid moth, commonly known as the black witch moth, is a large bat-shaped moth ranging from the United States to Brazil. In folklore, this moth is considered a harbinger of death or misfortune. But in Hawaii, where Dad lived, the mythology was more hopeful: “If a loved one has just died, the moth is believed to be an embodiment of the person’s soul returning to say goodbye.”

I was stunned. I climbed into the opposite side of the bed and fell asleep with this winged messenger beside me. It was still there in the middle of the night. But by morning, it was nowhere to be found.

It didn’t escape me that wings were involved, as they’d been a through line for my father’s life. I understood it to be a salute from my father: a final flyby. Warrior departing.

This Reflection from The War Horse was edited by Kim Vo, fact-checked by Trey Strange, and copy-edited by Mitchell Hansen-Dewar.

Susan Macke Miller was born at the Navy hospital near Beeville, Texas. She is married to her favorite person, Gene, and lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where they raised three extraordinary sons. Susan is a storyteller, actress, singer, and writer. Her experiences remind her that we’re all connected and that beauty can be found even in the shadows.