Shoot Like a Girl

One Woman's Dramatic Fight in Afghanistan and on the Home Front

Mary Jennings Hegar

• Editorial: HarperCollins
• Año: 2020
• ISBN:
  9780008348311
• Categoría: Scienze sociali
• Categoría: Biografie nell'ambito delle scienze sociali

On July 29, 2009, Air National Guard major Mary Jennings ‘MJ’ Hegar was shot down while on a Medevac mission on her third tour in Afghanistan. Despite being wounded, she continued to fight and saved the lives of her crew and their patients. But soon she would face a new battle: to give women who serve on the front lines the credit they deserve.

TWO

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The following semester I was ready to go back to school, but I’d decided to commute from my mom’s home rather than moving back to campus. Jäger had restored me emotionally enough to face the outside world, but I was a different person when I rejoined my fellow ROTC cadets. That next year, my junior year, was filled with mistakes. I took crazy risks, either out of a determination to kill myself or a sense that nothing I did mattered.

At a convention in New Orleans, I was goofing around with some fellow cadets and jumped from one balcony to another on the thirtieth floor of a hotel. I nearly fell and carried a softball-sized bruise on my left biceps from where my arm caught the railing. I bought a sport bike and drove it like it was stolen all over Austin. Some nights I would take part in illegal racing at a closed-down airport. A few months into my return to school, I even threw out my plan to wait to have sex until I was married. I fell in love with a cadet named Jack, although in hindsight it wasn’t really love. It was more like I was trying desperately to run from myself, to stanch my emotional bleeding, to numb the pain of losing my dad.

I was still with Jack during my senior year, and as school started winding to a close, the pressure on the ROTC candidates only increased. The way the selection for pilot training works is as follows: Each cadet is scored on various aspects (class ranking, GPA, physical fitness, etc.) throughout their time in the Corps (the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps, or the Corps of Cadets). The seniors’ scores are stacked against other ROTC senior cadets throughout the country in different universities, all of whom are “categorizing” in their second-to-last semester. The Air Force takes however many people they need for pilot training, and the rest of the cadets have to pick a different field, such as Intelligence, Security Forces, Aircraft Maintenance, and so on. Contrary to popular belief, only about 20 percent of the officers in the Air Force get to be pilots.

Throughout ROTC, I had consistently been getting around 425 or so out of 500 on the physical fitness test. I could max the upper-body-strength stuff like push-ups, but I could never max out the points for the sprint. When the day finally came for us to do our categorization physical fitness test, or PFT—in other words, the only PFT that counted toward getting accepted into pilot training—I injured my knee on the sprint and logged the worst PFT score of my career: somewhere around 280. I was incredibly disappointed, but given the fact that I was in the top of my class (I was serving as the second-in-command at the time, the Vice Wing Commander, as chosen by our cadet Wing Commander), I thought I still had a chance.

I was wrong.

When the results came out, I found myself standing on the sidelines as the names of those selected for pilot training were called out. They would come forward to receive giant silver-painted cardboard wings around their necks. I found myself trying to smile, taking pictures of my friends and acting as if my world hadn’t just come to an end—again. I was excited for them, so I had to paint a smile on my face for the day. Behind the smiles, I was devastated, of course, but I was already hatching a plan for my next step.

Some people who were disappointed that day resigned from ROTC to pursue their plan B, but I wasn’t going to let this knock me off my chosen path.

Though I had failed to get a pilot slot out of ROTC, I knew there were other roads that would lead me to pilot training. However, I also knew that it was incredibly difficult to travel those roads, as the majority of pilot slots go to the ROTC and Air Force Academy graduates who “win” a spot during categorization. For the rest of us, the fifty-thousand-plus people who composed the rest of the Air Force officers, there were a couple of pilot slots a year offered as a carrot, but only the absolute best of the best would ever grab that extremely rare golden ring.

I was faced with the decision of whether to find another dream or to join the military in a different career field and hope I could rise to the top. I decided to roll the dice and risk it. I looked at the list of career fields before me. Which one would make me a better pilot someday? I chose Aircraft Maintenance, as it would afford me the opportunity to learn about aircraft systems. I figured when I finally got to pilot training (not if, but when), I’d be ahead of my peers because of my experience working with different airframes.

I was ecstatic when I was selected. After I completed my training, my first assignment would be heading off to Japan to work on F-16s. I couldn’t imagine a better assignment. The only problem was that I was planning to marry Jack, and he still had a year left at UT.

This assignment to Japan seemed perfect to me in every way, except for the fact that it meant my soon-to-be husband and I would be spending the first year of our marriage on separate continents. But, I thought, we were in love. Love can overcome anything, right? So we got married as soon as I graduated, and I accepted my commission into the US Air Force. We had a midsize ceremony, and I wore the big white ball gown and everything. That should have been my first red flag that I was doing something completely contrary to who I really was. Jack and I took a honeymoon cruise in the Caribbean, and then off I went alone into the wild blue yonder at the age of twenty-three, starting my dream career. Not flying planes—not just yet—but in my head I was practically already in the pilot seat.

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In January of 2000, I reported to Aircraft Maintenance Officers’ training at Sheppard Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas. I was a newlywed and a green, eager young second lieutenant in the Air Force. My plan was simple—I would learn all I could and rise so far above my peers that the Air Force would have no choice but to send me to pilot training.

My class was made up of a dozen or so officers just like me. We were all fresh from our commissioning sources, which varied from ROTC to the Air Force Academy. None of us was quite sure what to make of the new “butter bars” on our shoulders, so named for the golden bar that looks like a slice of butter that identified us as second lieutenants. We were all hoping we had made the right decision as we embarked on the beginning of our adult lives.

On the first day of class I walked into the building nervous but excited. Strolling down the hallway looking for the classroom, I felt like it was my first day of high school all over again. I knew I was in for a long three months of learning the basics of aircraft maintenance management alongside people I’d never met. I’m an introvert, always have been, and I’m never very comfortable in a room full of loud strangers. I took a seat as close to the back corner as I could and sat quietly, absorbing all the noise around me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I’d only have a couple more months in a classroom, and by April I’d be actually doing my job stationed at my first base in northern Japan.

As I sat there listening to the other officers chatter around me, I noticed that there was one voice that was consistently rising above the rest. I quickly pegged the loudmouth jerk in the front row as someone I planned to stay well clear of. He was a rough-and-tumble kind of guy, with a shaved head that showed off the many big scars he appeared to be proud of. I’d learn later that they were from a mix of bar fights and hockey games. Raised with mostly brothers in the wild Alaskan tundra, Keenan Zerkel was a tall, dark, muscular, handsome pain in my ass. His crystal-blue eyes were never without some sort of mischief, and if he was talking, you can bet he was offending someone. We had a connection from our very first meeting—we hated each other. It seemed like I couldn’t even raise my hand before he was retorting with some sort of smart-ass comment. And I couldn’t seem to help myself either—I returned the favor as often as I could.

Our class instructor seemed to share my opinion of our class troublemaker from the very first day. Over the next few weeks Captain Randall was constantly sparring with Keenan, trying to assert his authority. But Keenan apparently had it coded into his DNA to fight all forms of authority, so Randall’s attempts to control him seemed to only make it worse. I found out later that Keenan had almost been kicked out of the Air Force Academy right before graduation for breaking curfew and raising hell. Looking back on what I know of him now, I have no doubt he would have ended up killed in a brawl or thrown in jail if not for the Air Force. Getting into and graduating from the Academy likely saved Keenan’s life.

Keenan’s hopes of becoming an Air Force pilot were born from his time flying Cessnas and seaplanes in the wide, blue skies of Alaska. Despite our instant mutual dislike, we recognized the same stalled dream in each other. So despite my greatest efforts to avoid him, I couldn’t help but relate to him. Near the end of our three months of training, Captain Randall walked into the classroom in the middle of one of our famous arguments.

“Whatever you say, babe,” Keenan goaded. He never missed a chance to call me “babe” or “honey” in a dismissive way. By that time I guess Captain Randall had had enough, because he pounced.

“Lieutenant Zerkel!”

“I told you … Call me Zerk,” Keenan drawled lazily, drawing chuckles from our classmates.

Captain Randall was not amused.

“Lieutenant, that’s sexual harassment, and I’m not warning you again. Meet me in my office after class.”

When Keenan arrived in his office that afternoon, the captain handed him a Letter of Reprimand. The LOR was a serious thing, and it meant that Keenan’s entire career would be kicked off with something negative being added to his file. When he told the class what happened, we all sort of laughed.

“That’ll teach you to disrespect me,” I said with a wink.

“Oh, so you need him to fight your battles?” Keenan joked.

I punched him in the arm.

“Ouch! That’s assault! You should get an LOR,” he retorted sarcastically.

When the three months of training ended, we all went our separate ways. The Air Force’s newest Aircraft Maintenance officers scattered to the four corners of the world. Some of the officers were sent back to the United States, some were sent to Europe, and Keenan had, coincidentally, been assigned to the Pacific Air Forces (PACAF) just like me for our first assignment.

The course had prepared us with knowledge of logistics, supply chain issues, tool and equipment control, aircraft forms, systems, and any other information we could learn from a book. Now, 99 percent of our learning would happen on the job, in the hands of the experienced senior noncommissioned officers assigned to our flights.

None of us had any true intentions to stay in touch, but I think we all hoped we’d bump into one another out in the “real” Air Force in the coming months and years. Sure enough, not long after training ended, I was surprised to receive a phone call from Keenan, whom I hadn’t spoken to since we’d left Texas. I was immediately suspicious, wondering what he wanted from me. Apparently, Captain Randall had put what he saw as sexual harassment into Keenan’s permanent record. And while I was amused, I knew he didn’t deserve to have it impact his career.

Keenan might have been a loudmouth, but my classmates and I all knew he would make a very good pilot. Under the asshole facade, there was a solid, loyal, brave man with unwavering integrity and a passion for flying as strong as my own. I would have trusted him to watch my back over any other person I knew in the Air Force, and that’s saying something. If I ever found myself in a bar fight, I’d hope to see Keenan Zerkel’s face. Then again, if Keenan were there during a bar fight, it probably would be him who started it in the first place.

I asked Keenan what I could do to help, and he asked if I would write him a supportive letter. Of course I would, I told him, and I’d also help him track down the rest of our classmates. We rallied behind him and told Captain Randall’s boss how we felt. It was practically unheard of, but we successfully got the report pulled from Keenan’s record.

Strangely, this mini battle we fought against the bureaucracy brought us closer as friends. We got the derogatory report rescinded, and a mutual respect formed between us. Since he had been assigned to a position in Korea, while I would be in Japan, we kept in touch pretty easily. Our training together was over, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last I’d see of Keenan Zerkel.

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In early April I boarded the long flight to Japan, excited to get started with my life as an adult, though I was a little apprehensive as to what this new chapter would have in store for me. I was married, but I was separated from my husband by oceans and continents. I was working toward my dream, but I was also working in a career field that was highly male-dominated and filled with people who treated me as if I didn’t belong. Most of them seemed to assume I’d be bad at my job until I proved them wrong, so I found myself starting over and establishing credibility every time I joined a new team, which at this stage in my career was about every six months.

At least I had my best friend, Jäger, with me in a kennel in the cargo hold of the plane. The vet had given me a mild sedative that would make him sleep for most of the trip, and he eagerly ate up the “magic hot dog” I spiked for him before takeoff. We had to spend the night in the Tokyo airport, and I hated having to keep him in the kennel. I slept with my fingers through the grate, gently caressing his fur. He had an all-pink nose—which is rare for a Shepherd, as they’re usually black—that I affectionately called his little piggy snout. It was so adorable to see him sleep cozily in his crate with his head resting on his little stuffed piggy dog toy. I woke up to the sounds of Japanese people oohing and aahing about him, asking if they could take a picture with the gentle giant I had in a cage. Apparently, dogs his size were quite rare in Japan.

My husband, who was still a cadet finishing up his last year at UT, had a nonexistent paycheck, so I would be paying both my bills in Japan and my husband’s bills in Austin with my tiny paycheck. That winter was tough—there were times when I couldn’t even afford to turn on my heater, so I spent many nights that year sitting up in bed, reading aircraft systems manuals, wearing two pairs of sweats and socks. At least I wasn’t too lonely—I could always snuggle up to a big, fluffy Jäger to stay warm.

My first assignment at the base in Japan was to lead a flight of back-shop maintainers. The Air Force groups its personnel into various levels of organization, and the smallest group is called a flight. Usually the biggest group on a base is the wing. Each wing is divided into groups, groups into squadrons, and finally squadrons are split into flights. Depending on the amount of work a flight must accomplish, it can range in size from a dozen or so to a couple hundred people.

The backshop is where the behind-the-scenes maintenance is done when aircraft and/or equipment is taken off of the flightline. The majority of aircraft maintenance happens in the back-shop flights (like Fuels, Engines, Avionics, etc.), but the fast-paced action happens on the flightline. The “flightline” refers to the taxiway, aircraft hangars and parking, and the buildings housing the flightline maintainers and pilots. Most, if not all, new officers are broken in running a back-shop flight before they are sent out to the flightline.

Those who work on the flightline live and die by the flying schedule. Working the flightline meant turning aircraft quickly, getting them rea...

Índice

• Title Page
• Copyright
• Note to Readers
• Praise
• Dedication
• Author’s Note
• Epigraph
• Contents
• Prologue
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• About the Publisher