A few hours later, I needed a break from all the revelry. I walked out to my balcony, which was on the third floor, enjoying the glow of the Christmas lights strung out along the roof. I stood there in the chill, gazing out at the stars. January was a little too cold for a sleeveless shirt, even in Alabama. I wasn’t out there long before the door opened and Zerk ambled outside, the music trailing behind him. Closing the door after him, he joined me at the railing. He didn’t have to ask me why I was out there. Zerk knew me well enough to know that I loved a good party, but I was still a complete introvert. I always needed to find a quiet place to recharge my battery.
He and I chatted for a while about how excited I was to be going to SERE training and then on to Albuquerque for the last few months of HH-60G Pave Hawk training, the third and final phase of pilot training. Having finished the Rucker phase, I had already received my wings, but I wouldn’t be qualified as a rescue pilot until I got through Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Zerk had a few months left, but he’d be in Albuquerque soon enough.
I’m sure it was equal parts alcohol, the relief at finally having received my wings, and my loneliness after having married the wrong man, but when Zerk put his arm around my shoulders to try to warm me up in the chill night, it felt very different from the dozens of times we had hugged before. I sensed his breathing change as well, and we turned toward each other at the same time. Looking at him, his big, strong arms holding me tight, I felt safe. That’s the last thing I should have felt, as I knew Zerk was like the Big Bad Wolf, but I couldn’t help it. I liked being in his arms.
He looked down at me. I looked up into his dark eyes.
“Proud of you, kid,” he said quietly.
He knew better than anyone the things I’d had to overcome to get here. I tilted my chin up as he leaned down to kiss me, and the sparks flew. I’d figured he would be a great kisser, and I was right. The kiss quickly turned more passionate, and he scooped me up and sat me on the railing. He knew full well I was an adrenaline junkie who loved heights, so this move just about sent me over the edge, literally and figuratively. I wrapped my legs around him and made sure there was no space between us.
But right about then, we both seemed to have the same thought. We were way too close to have something meaningless, but not nearly close enough for something serious. There was clearly an undeniable attraction, but that was all it could ever be. We were married to our pilot wings, and neither of us would ever sacrifice our careers for the other. We chuckled as we untangled ourselves, and I hopped down to the porch.
“Wow,” he said.
“Yeah, wow,” I agreed. “So, um, can I get you a drink?”
“Definitely,” he said, glad that I had said something first, I think. We rejoined the party, trading smiling glances for the rest of the night, and never spoke of that kiss again.
FOUR
In January of 2006, I packed my bags for Survival Evasion Resistance Escape training. SERE evoked in me an odd combination of fear and eagerness, as it is one of the most thorough, useful, and sought-after schools in the Department of Defense. We often have people from other branches fighting for SERE slots, and every Air Force pilot has to finish it in order to be operational and have any hope of ever deploying to a combat zone. It’s easily one of the most difficult and daunting courses offered by the military, albeit not as long as the more well-known, grueling schools like the Army Rangers and Navy SEAL training.
I knew SERE training would be an important step in my effort to mold myself into the combat warrior I hoped I could be. It would be an amazing opportunity, but it would also be the most difficult thing I had ever experienced. I was anxious and exhilarated and excited and terrified, all at once.
One of the things that scared me was the fear of the unknown. Most people are very closemouthed about what happens at SERE, and this is for good reason. To prepare our combat warriors for the possibility of becoming isolated behind enemy lines, it’s essential that those heading to SERE have no idea what they’re getting themselves into. If and when you become a prisoner of war, one of the most terrifying aspects is not knowing what will happen to you. The curriculum at SERE is intended to mimic this experience as closely as possible, so this sense of disorientation is important.*
When I arrived at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane, Washington, it was with a fair amount of trepidation. As the second-highest-ranking person in my class of about seventy, I already knew I would be put in an unenviable position later in training. When the group was divided in half, I’d be in charge of one of the two flights.
We began, as usual, with academics, where I soaked up as much knowledge as I could. This phase wasn’t about competition or “passing,” and it was difficult to be kicked out of this portion of the pilot pipeline. That’s not to say there was no attrition. A lot of people can’t take this type of challenging environment, living off of the land and being chased by bad guys, and they would self-select out. They can’t see the value of this rare chance to hone and develop your skills as a war fighter; nor can they see the light at the end of the tunnel. This is fine, though; none of us wants someone on our wing who can’t handle this type of stress.
After the classroom portion of the training was behind us, it was time to head out into the Pacific Northwest woods. For the first couple of days, it would still be somewhat of an academic environment, only now we’d be freezing our butts off outside instead of being stuck in a classroom.
It was a frigid February morning when we headed into the woods, armed with only what we could carry on our backs. There was a foot of snow on the ground, but you could still smell the earthy scent of the forest. I watched as my breath turned to mist in front of me. Once we arrived at the foot of the first mountain, we were broken up into elements of seven or eight people. My group had a broad range of ages, genders, and skill sets, so I knew we’d be a strong team. One of my crew was a technical sergeant (TSgt) who was a thirty-eight-year-old chain-smoker. I earmarked him as someone I’d need to keep an eye on, but secretly, I was glad that I wouldn’t be the one holding us up on the difficult treks ahead.
As we unloaded from the vehicles, the instructors handed out the items we would be using our first day. My classmates and I formed a line from the bus and handed equipment down the row. Whatever you ended up with, you carried to the first camp. I thought I had lucked out when someone handed me a warm, snuggly little bunny rabbit. He must be our mascot! My instructor warned me not to name him, but of course as soon as he said that, I immediately picked a name for him. I couldn’t help it; it just popped in there. It was like Dan Aykroyd and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. Our mascot’s name would be Bugs.
Bugs nuzzled into my shoulder as we trekked up the hill to our first camp. When we arrived, I was loath to put him down, but when the instructor put a second bunny down as well, I followed suit. When he began describing how we would need to kill and dress the animals we would catch, I locked eyes with Bugs. Oh my God. This was freaking SERE. What had I been thinking? Of course he wasn’t our mascot. We were going to eat him.
After a long description of the most humane way to kill an animal (which I barely heard, I was so busy having a silent panic attack), the instructor lifted the second bunny by his back feet and hit him in the back of his neck hard with a big stick. It sure didn’t seem like the most humane way, though. The bunny didn’t die, but instead let out a scream I will never forget. It was the most devastating noise I had ever heard. The instructor managed to kill him with his second hit, but we were all rattled.
Bugs, who was visibly shaking, hopped over to me and nuzzled his face into my ankle. I looked up at the instructor, my eyes welling up with tears I couldn’t hide.
“That’s why we don’t name them,” he said with a chuckle. “Don’t pick him up.”
Now and then, throughout the rest of training, I thought about Bugs and how sweet he was. And I hate to admit it�
�after a few days of not eating, that rabbit tasted delicious. But the episode gave me a real appreciation for the hard decisions I’d have to make as a leader to ensure the survival of my crew.
—
During the first few days of SERE, our instructors showed us how to assemble a shelter, build a fire, and catch and dress food, among other lifesaving skills. They certainly didn’t give us much time to practice, though. Within a few of days of arriving, each team was handed a map and a compass and told that we had just crashed in enemy territory. We would have to navigate our way to a mock pickup point where we could expect rescue. For our first time out, they were nice enough not to surround us with instructors pretending to be enemy forces, not just yet anyway. First we would have a little time to get the hang of land navigation and survival. But we all knew that the evasion phase, where our instructors would essentially be stalking us, trying to “kill” us, was right around the corner.
We took turns being in charge of navigation. In those first few days in the woods, I learned one of the most vital leadership lessons of my career—namely, that being “in charge” in this type of scenario didn’t mean you made all of the decisions. It means you select the right person to make certain decisions. The best hunter in the group, for example, should be the one to set the traps.
Some of the troops in my element were terrible at navigation, but they were here for training just like the rest of us. The upside was that while they tried their hand at navigation, we all learned from their mistakes. On one leg in particular, a young lieutenant among us decided it would be faster to go over one of the giant hills in our way rather than around. I mentioned to him that the lines denoting elevation on the map were awfully close together, but he felt like we could handle it. I glanced at the chain-smoking technical sergeant and saw that the despair on his face mirrored mine. I shared his doubt, but it was the lieutenant’s turn to be in charge, not ours.
We angled toward the hill as our instructor shook his head in disapproval. The young officer would need to learn this one the hard way, by driving his element into a very difficult position. The special operations guy in our group was clearly equipped to tackle the hill in front of us, but he seemed well aware that the rest of us would likely need help.
As we started up the hill, my pack seemed to become heavier with every step. Although it had seemed manageable thus far, it weighed in at fifty pounds, and I was starting to realize that I could probably do without half of the equipment it contained. The terrain began to steepen, and it wasn’t long before we found ourselves using our hands to get up the hill on all fours. By the time we were about two-thirds of the way up, the incline was already at about seventy degrees, and my fingers ached as they dug into the frozen terrain. I could hear the spec ops guy helping the technical sergeant carry his pack, but I was determined to do this on my own. My thighs burned, and I could feel my left knee weakening. With each step, the pain in my post-op knee became more and more unbearable. The hill had gotten so steep, we were no longer hiking; we were rock climbing. I rested my forehead in the dirt inches from my face, sweat coating my forehead despite the frigid temperature, and took a deep breath. Then I kept moving. I refused to stop. Just take one more step. Everyone has one more step in them. Okay, now just take one more . . .
“Hey . . . Are you okay? Give me your pack!” I heard ahead of me. It was one of my teammates, but I waved him off and took another step. He grew more insistent as I got closer to the top, as the rest of my element was already up there. I was not going to give in. As it became apparent that I was determined to do this alone, they began cheering me on. My body felt like it was going to fail me at any moment, but sheer will finally pushed me to the top. I rolled over onto my back, propped up by the pack that I now despised. I couldn’t feel my left knee, but that was a blessing. The spec ops guy crouched down next to me.
“Well done. That was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen,” he said, nodding his head in appreciation. “You really looked beat about thirty minutes ago. It’s like you got up that hill on sheer determination. I don’t know how you did it. Kick ass, Captain. That was great.”
I smiled but stayed silent, glancing around at the view, my chest pounding with pride and exhaustion. It was beautiful up here, though the sparkly stars that looked like fireworks across the picturesque landscape might also have been a sign that I was about to pass out. My team started to gather their gear together now that we were all up the hill. I needed about a day to recover, but there was no time. We had a rendezvous to make.
As I gathered my things together, my pride quickly started to wane, however, when I realized what I had done.
My stubbornness and determination to prove I could do everything without a hand up had cost us precious time. This would be by far the most valuable lesson I would learn at SERE. Sometimes you have to set your ego aside and do what’s best for the group. The guys had no problem helping one another out, and it was ridiculous that I acted as if I had something to prove. I would spend the rest of my career trying not to make that mistake again.
As my group finally neared the rendezvous, we broke up into teams of two. The “evasion” phase had begun. Instructors dressed in black were creeping throughout the woods ready to pounce on us if we made a single mistake and showed our position. My partner and I moved silently through the woods, stopping to listen every now and then, crossing roads tactically and covering our tracks. We looked at our map and spoke only in whispers, deciding on the best route to take around an open field. When we heard voices approaching us from the right, we immediately hit the deck. That was when I felt my knee blow out. Something had clearly destabilized, and I found myself lying there on the ground in excruciating pain. I moved my foot back and forth to test the knee. Sure enough, something was really wrong.
If I had mentally been in training mode, I probably would have raised the time-out signal and sought medical attention. But I was so engrossed in the scenario that I felt as though I had to stay silent. After about fifteen minutes, I heard a scratching by my feet, then felt a nudge at my boot. I thought we’d been captured, but instead of an enemy soldier, some sort of rodent scurried up my leg, over my pack, over my head, and into the field. I let out a little surprised yip.
The rodent was followed shortly thereafter by the instructor who had snuck up on us. “Nicely done, Jennings,” he said with a laugh. “When I saw that squirrel run up your leg, I thought for sure you’d scream. Now, GET ON YOUR KNEES, AMERICAN SCUM!” I struggled to kneel with my hands on my head, but the pain was too extreme.
The instructor quickly broke character and began to assess my injury. In the cold weather, I was wearing several layers, including bike shorts, so I lowered my pants to get a good look at my knee. The kneecap had moved about two inches over to the outside of my knee. You didn’t have to be a doctor to see that it was in completely the wrong place.
“Ooooh, that doesn’t look right,” the instructor said, grimacing. He called for a medic on his radio, and I was carried to the road we had just crossed and loaded into an ambulance.
The medic’s assessment was that the surgery I’d had, the one that was meant to loosen the tendons that held my kneecap so tightly, had caused instability in my kneecap. The combination of the surgeon cutting too much and my lack of real physical therapy meant that my knee just wasn’t strong enough to handle the stress I was putting on it out here in the field. I would essentially be kicked out of SERE (despite having already finished the majority of my training) and allowed to come back only after some intense rehab. I was headed home. Again.
The instructors who rode with me in the ambulance explained the process to me and looked at me with sympathetic eyes. They warned me that most people in my situation never complete SERE. I would have to start all over, and apparently it was far more difficult to return when you knew what you’d be in for.
I looked at them defiantly. It didn’t matter to me wh
at “most” people did. I wasn’t most people. I assured them I’d be back, and they shared a glance. They clearly didn’t believe me. I didn’t mind; they obviously had no idea who they were dealing with.
—
Luckily for my career, since I already officially had my wings, I had some leverage. Instead of disqualifying me immediately, the Air Force just focused on getting me better. I was sent back to Mother Rucker in Alabama for four months of intense physical therapy. I’d serve the training squadron in an administrative capacity and fly whenever I could to stay current, but my job was to get better. I received another slot for SERE in June, four months from now. That would be my last chance.
Luckily, I hadn’t moved out of my apartment yet. I kept it for another four months while I did my rehab, and I attacked physical therapy with an intensity that bordered on obsession. If the therapist asked for ten reps, he got fifteen. If he asked me to do a wall squat (where you sit like you’re in a chair with your back to the wall) for a minute, I’d push myself to ninety seconds. Then, after my time in the physical therapy clinic, I would keep exercising at home, averaging at least four hours of rehab a day. I was in full-on Rocky IV movie montage mode, and SERE training was my enormous Russian.
In June I headed back to SERE, more excited than fearful. I knew I would pass this time—my body was finally feeling as tough and as well prepared as my mind. Sure enough, my second go-round at SERE was successful, and I completed my training uneventfully. Well, if you call getting starved, chased, and tortured “uneventful.”
Shoot Like a Girl Page 10