Shoot Like a Girl

by Mary Jennings Hegar

  “Okay, put your feet in the stirrups,” he commanded.

  “What? No, you don’t understand,” I protested. “I just had an exam. I gave the paperwork to the nurse at the front for your review.”

  “No, YOU don’t understand,” he said angrily. “You’re not in charge here. You don’t get to decide how this goes. I won’t sign off on a physical that I don’t conduct myself, and if you want to be a pilot, you’ll PUT your FEET in those STIRRUPS. NOW.”

  I could feel the color drain out of my cheeks, and I felt like I was about to throw up. He was a general flight doc, not a gynecologist. I tried to explain to him that my husband was the only man who had ever seen me naked, that I had only ever had female gynecologists, and that I didn’t think this was necessary.

  “Please, sir . . . Can’t you just use the exam I had last week?”

  He looked at me like I had just slapped him. Then his God complex kicked in.

  “No, but what I can do is fail you for psychological reasons,” he barked. “You don’t have the mental toughness you need to be a pilot if you can’t submit to a simple exam. If you don’t get your feet in those stirrups in five seconds, you can kiss being a pilot good-bye.”

  I lay back and put my feet in the stirrups and began to cry, involuntarily squeezing my knees together, dreading the exam. It was bad enough having a female doctor examine me, but a male? No man other than my husband had ever touched me there. I bit my lip and tried to tough it out. He’s a doctor. He knows what he’s doing. He does this sort of thing all the time. It’ll be over soon.

  Dr. Adams snapped his glove on.

  “I guess you’re not going to like this,” he said, chuckling.

  What followed was in no way a gynecological exam. I lay there crying so hard I couldn’t even breathe as he aggressively and painfully conducted his “exam,” as if he was trying to embarrass me, to hurt me, to put me in my place, to assert his control.

  To this day I can’t explain the emotions of that horrible moment, as many times as I’ve gone over it in my head. He was a doctor and a superior and he had complete control over my future. That was the day I learned that mental restraints can be as tight as physical ones.

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me, but I didn’t feel like I could stop him. I was in shock. I just stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down my face, praying the torture would be over soon. Obviously if I had known he would do this, I never would have allowed it, but now I felt powerless to stop it. It was without a doubt the worst few minutes of my life. When he was done, he pulled off his glove and walked out of the examination room with barely a backward glance.

  “Get dressed. We’re done here,” he snapped over his shoulder.

  I pulled on my clothes, still choking back sobs, petrified I had failed some sort of psychological test. I couldn’t hide my tears as I walked out of the medical facility. While I was worried that I might have failed my flight physical, I was also fully aware that someone had just used his position of authority to sexually assault me.

  Would he still fail me? Had I cried too much? Was there anything I could do? Should I tell someone? I was in shock. Just then an airman ran up behind me calling my name. I was in such a terror-stricken state that I flinched and put my arm up protectively. She froze and took a step back, her eyes wide.

  “Captain Jennings, the Med Group Commander wants to see you in his office,” she said quietly. “Can you follow me?”

  In a daze, I followed her to the full-bird colonel’s office, not really caring about what he could possibly have to say to me, terrified I would bump into Dr. Adams again. Was the Med Group Commander going to tell me I had failed my physical? That I had to submit to a psych eval? I was shaking and still crying as I tried to salute him. He stood and walked over to me, returning my salute.

  “Are you okay?” he asked kindly, his brow furrowed, concern written all over his face. “Here, have a seat.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, wondering why he was concerned, how I came to be sitting here when this terrible thing had just happened to me. I was nowhere near ready to talk about it, certainly not to him.

  “Well, you don’t seem fine.” He shook his head. “I just talked to Dr. Adams. He came straight from his appointment with you to tell me what he’d done. Do you want to press charges?”

  My head started spinning. The doctor had already admitted what he did? I had just left the examination room five minutes earlier, and things were happening so quickly. Before I even had a chance to answer him, my own Group Commander walked through the door.

  My commander sat down with us, and the three of us discussed my options. I was so embarrassed to be discussing this with two old men I barely knew. I could press charges if I wanted to, but if I didn’t, they’d be sure to “handle it.” I began crying harder. Then I listened in disgust as I uttered lines that seemed to come straight out of a made-for-TV movie.

  “If I pressed charges, would I have to see him?” I sobbed. “Would I have to tell a roomful of people what happened?” I was shaking, horrified with myself for being so weak and not standing up for myself more, but still I said no, that I didn’t want to press charges. If they promised not to let him ever do it again and that they would punish him “their way,” I’d leave it in their hands. I trusted them.

  “I think that would be best. And don’t worry . . . He’s not failing your physical,” my Group Commander reassured me.

  I admit, I was relieved to hear this. Instead of being utterly furious and ready to fight this monster, to end his career, part of me was just relieved that I’d passed my physical and I could still move forward with my dream to become a pilot. I simply wanted to forget absolutely everything that had just happened.

  I asked if I could go and walked out without further discussion. Over the next few days, I called in sick to work and spent the time alone in my house, crying nonstop, unable to sleep or eat, replaying the horror over and over in my mind. I knew I needed to talk to someone about it, but I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing I had let this terrible thing happen to me. I couldn’t stand to see the look of pity on their face. So I turned to my best friend in the world.

  I spent a lot of time curled up with Jäger those awful few days, his long white fur soft under my fingers. He nuzzled me with his sweet piggy snout while my tears drenched his coat and I told him all of the things I was scared to admit to anyone else. He listened quietly, and his soft eyes seemed to say, I don’t know what you’re saying, but I promise everything’s going to be alright . . . And if I ever see that guy, I’m going to bite his balls off. There was a reason he was the only guy I trusted.

  After a few more days of this self-imposed isolation, I knew I needed to leave my room, to get back out in the world, but I could just barely summon the strength.

  When I did finally return to work, my Squadron Commander, Major Busch, looked at me with knowing eyes. Clearly he had been briefed. He asked if I was okay, and I responded simply with an apology for missing work.

  “Don’t worry about it. You can take some more time off if you need to.” The last thing I wanted was to keep crying at home. I needed to start moving past it, and the best thing I could do was to get back to being the best maintenance officer I could be, knowing I’d need to fight even harder for the number one slot this time around, but also secretly wondering if I even wanted to be a pilot anymore.

  A few months later I was selected as the Operations Group Company Grade Officer of the Year. It was decision time. This honor would definitely help my chances at getting the number one slot off of the base, but my commitment to the Air Force was up in a few weeks. I could either apply again for pilot training, or I could get out of the Air Force entirely.

  I really struggled with the decision. After my assault, my trust in the Air Force had taken a nosedive, but I knew I had a chance at the number one slot and that I could be back
on track for my goals in no time. I also knew that if I left the Air Force, it wouldn’t mean giving up my dream, as I could always apply with the Air National Guard. I really didn’t know what to do. My Squadron Commander, Major Busch, tried hard to talk me into staying, and it felt good to be so valued by someone I respected, someone who knew me.

  At the awards banquet where I was set to receive my honor, all of the group-level awardees were dressed in formal wear, gathered with our respective commanders. I sat at the banquet table chatting with Major Busch when something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Dr. Adams was there, dressed to the nines, with his boss.

  “Holy shit,” Major Busch sputtered. I had thought it, but Major Busch had said it. Dr. Adams had been selected as the Medical Group’s Company Grade Officer of the Year. I would be competing with him for the wing-level award.

  My jaw dropped, and I looked over at Major Busch, who was wearing the same expression on his face. He could see in that instant that I had made my decision.

  I didn’t even say anything.

  “I know,” Major Busch said. “I’ll help you with the paperwork.”

  I don’t know who won the award that night, but it wasn’t either of us. Disgusted with the way the whole thing had been handled, with Dr. Adams’s chain of command protecting him this way and even rewarding him, no doubt for his so-called honesty, I tried not to blame the entire Air Force.

  It was hard not to. It was the general culture of the Air Force that had given Dr. Adams the idea that he could treat me like that. Clearly he was right. He could and he did and he was never punished for it.

  I left the Air Force a few weeks later. Dr. Adams, as far as I know, stayed on.

  THREE

  The last few weeks of my Air Force career were spent sending in my applications for pilot training with various Air National Guard units around the country. My soon-to-be ex-husband, Jack, had graduated from pilot training, so I also began the process of filing for divorce. When he received the paperwork in the mail, he called me from his base in Little Rock, Arkansas, and actually had the gall to sound surprised.

  “But I haven’t hit you in over a year!” he said to me. Unbelievable. I mean, was he serious? We hadn’t lived together for a year and a half. I had seen him now and then for things like the ceremony where he got his wings, but we hadn’t spent any actual time together. I guess he had managed to convince himself that I wouldn’t go through with it. But I knew staying in that marriage would have been a slap in the face to my mother and all the sacrifices she had made to get me away from my biological father. She had found happiness after her first marriage. Maybe I could someday, too. Despite his incredulity, I assured him that I definitely still wanted a divorce.

  In March 2004, I was ecstatic to get a call from the New York Air National Guard offering me a pilot slot to fly Combat Search and Rescue, or CSAR (pronounced “see sar”), HH-60G Pave Hawk helicopters. Simultaneously, I was also offered a spot to fly A-10s by another guard unit. I couldn’t believe it. I had always wanted to fly the A-10. An agile, low-altitude attack aircraft, the A-10 represented my personality better than any other airframe. The aircraft itself was designed and built around its enormous 30mm cannon, offset from the center of the nose due to the propensity for the weapon to actually turn the aircraft when fired. Finally. After all of the obstacles and roadblocks, it was happening. I was going to be a pilot.

  It was an easy choice. I called Lieutenant Colonel Mike Noyes in New York—he had become somewhat of a mentor to me through the application process—and let him know that, while I was grateful for the opportunity, I was going to take the A-10 slot.

  “Why?” Lieutenant Colonel Noyes asked me. I was a little taken aback with the question. I figured anyone would take an A-10 over a helicopter.

  “Well,” I answered, “I’ve always wanted to fly the A-10.”

  “Yeah, but why? What about the A-10 do you like?”

  What was there not to like about the A-10? There was no way he was going to convince me that the A-10 wasn’t the best airframe in the inventory.

  “I love the flying profile. They’re just off the deck, directly supporting ground troops, incredibly maneuverable, and the sound of the gun just gives me chills. It’s as close to being ‘in the shit’ as you can get as a pilot.”

  “True,” he said, “but you can get all of the same stuff you’re talking about with us. And here’s the real bottom line. We’re a search-and-rescue platform. As an A-10 driver, you’ll be spending all of your time training and maybe someday deploying to use your skills real world. With us, you’ll be doing real-world missions all the time. You could be doing a local flight and get called out for a rescue any day of the week. We do water rescues . . . We put out wildfires . . . We support local law enforcement. Oh, and we also go to war and get in the shit with the ground troops. You’ll be saving lives. Can you do that in an A-10?”

  I got chills. It was like he had flipped on a light switch in my soul. He was absolutely right. All of the excitement and impact I was looking for was right here in front of me. I couldn’t believe it, but I was going to turn down the A-10 slot and sign up with New York.

  My life was starting to look up. I was newly single, driving a new motorcycle (a Yamaha R6 with, of course, a Yoshimura pipe), getting off of active duty, and about to live my dream. I was so happy about embarking on my new career.

  Barely able to contain my excitement, I placed a phone call to Keenan Zerkel, my old frenemy from maintenance training, to tell him about my pilot slot. On the second ring, he picked up, sounding just as excited as I was.

  “MJ! I’m so glad you called! I have news!” he said.

  “Me first!” He was going to flip!

  “Okay, go.”

  “I GOT A PILOT SLOT!” I yelled as I bounced up and down.

  “ME, TOO!” he replied.

  “No shit? Really? That’s amazing! I’m joining the Guard, though.”

  “Cool. Me too!” Zerk replied.

  “Wow, that’s weird. I’m gonna be flying rescue helicopters . . .” I began, wondering what the odds were that we’d both get this once-in-a-lifetime chance at the same time.

  “Oh crap. Me too!” he said. Okay, now he’s just messing with me, right?

  “Who with?” he asked.

  “New York. You?”

  “Aww, that sucks. I was about to get excited. I’m gonna be flying for Alaska.”

  There were three Air National Guard units who flew the HH-60G Pave Hawk, which was the only airframe being used for Combat Search and Rescue by the Air Force: New York, Alaska, and California. In hindsight, of course, it all sort of made sense. We were both hard-chargers who knew we’d eventually get to pilot training. Both of us had applied every year while we were on active duty. It made sense that we’d both get off active duty at the end of our commitment and start looking at the Guard. What was amazing was that we had both picked the same airframe. It was a natural choice for him since he was from Alaska, but for me it was just a happy coincidence that I was going to be flying in the same rescue community as Zerk. We finished catching up, promised to try to see each other soon, and signed off. The next part of my life was about to begin.

  —

  I moved back home in March 2004, while I was waiting to begin pilot training in October, and spent a few months in Austin. I swam in Barton Springs by day, then rode my sport bike to my bartending gig on Sixth Street by night, generally just having an absolute blast. But as happy as I was, the time quickly came for me to pay my dues in New York.

  In May of that year I got a call that the New York unit was able to find me a job up there so I could get settled while I waited for pilot training to start. I was perfectly happy waiting in Austin, but I was afraid that if I told them that, they would never send me to training. While I had officially been offered and accepted a slot, they still had a lot of d
iscretion when it came to which candidates they sent to one of the various pilot training bases and when. Technically, they could change their mind at any time. I knew they planned to send me to Columbus Air Force Base, Mississippi, soon to begin my eighteen-month training, but I felt like first I had to show them that New York was my new home and that I’d do anything to be a part of their family.

  So I quit my job, packed up my car, hooked up my motorcycle trailer, and got on the road. The worst part was that I had to leave my sweet puppy, Jäger, with my mom. If all went well, I would be in New York for a couple of months before pilot training started. During pilot training, I’d be staying in a dorm and moving every six months or so to a different location. I knew that wasn’t an ideal situation for a dog, so my mom was going to dog-sit until I was finished with training. I’d come visit him as much as I could throughout training, but I knew I would miss him terribly.

  The drive from Austin to New York City takes about three days. There was a moment a few hours into the trip when I came upon an on-ramp to Highway I-40. The sign said turn right for New York or turn left for Los Angeles. New York or Los Angeles.

  I had everything I owned in my car, and it felt like the first time in my life that I had no commitments whatsoever. I could literally just turn left and have a completely different life. Of course, my dreams lay ahead of me in New York, but it was really liberating to finally feel like I had a choice. After more than four years of being told what to do in the Air Force and four equally draining years in an oppressive marriage, I finally felt like my life was my own.

  I couldn’t stop smiling as I gripped the wheel and turned right. I would be in control of my life from here on out. I’d had enough of doing things just because I was expected to. I would never again let someone treat me like dirt. I would never again let someone convince me he could do whatever he wanted to my body against my will. I was truly free.