Shoot Like a Girl

by Mary Jennings Hegar

  At a designated area “across the fence,” the backenders would test-fire our guns with a short spurt to make sure we’re good to go. You don’t want to find out that your guns are “bent,” that is, not working, when you’re trying to engage a real-world threat. Then the Co-Pilot navigates the Aircraft Commander around any known or perceived threats, avoiding paralleling roads and other such tactical no-nos. We avoid the “lines of communication,” like roads, rivers, and such, to the greatest extent possible, because it minimizes our exposure to enemy forces who would shoot at us or report our position to someone.

  Most medevac missions tend to be between thirty and sixty minutes, whereas CSAR or even civilian search-and-rescue operations can last several hours. In combat, though, our flights were short, and with good reason. If it took us too long to get to someone, their chances of survival were slim.

  Usually our flights were to the “point of injury” or the actual location where the patient was injured. These are our most dangerous missions, because the area is less secure. However, sometimes we fly missions to forward operating bases (FOBs, pronounced like Bob) to do a patient transfer or pick up someone who was injured on base.

  Once we arrived at the location of our patient, we assess the landing situation. Then we’d have the ground team “pop smoke,” or ignite a smoke grenade. This authenticates that the people below us are the group we’re speaking to on the radio, so we don’t get duped into landing to an ambush or enemy position. This also enables them to tell us where they want us to land. The drifting smoke gives us a wind indication, which helps us align our approach in the most energy-efficient way, that is, into the wind.

  One aircraft then lands while the other provides cover from the air. The PJs jump out and go get the patient while the aircraft takes off again to allow the people on the ground to hear one another talk. When the PJs call “ready” on the radio, we go back in to pick them and the patient up. At that point, it’s time to boogie out of Dodge and head to the hospital, which was called the “Roll Three” at Kandahar. When we arrive at the Roll Three, an ambulance is usually waiting on the landing pad to take the patient to the hospital.

  If we don’t get called right back out, we hit the gas station before taxiing back to the ramp. Then we head into the TOC to debrief the mission with intel to discuss what went right or where we can improve. The event then concludes with the unpausing of the interrupted Xbox game.

  After arriving in Kandahar, we had a few relatively straightforward missions that let us get our feet wet. Then, a few weeks into the deployment in May 2007, my crew and I were tasked with forward deploying to a little Dutch base connected to the town of Tarin Kowt. Forward deploying is when we spend a few weeks supporting a specific team. This was a rotation that every crew would find themselves on at some point, but not everyone looked forward to it as much as I did. I wanted to get into the action, and Tarin Kowt was definitely in the middle of the hot zone. Special Forces ODA guys were working out of “TK,” as we called it, and the dangerous nature of the area and their mission necessitated having a dedicated medevac team on alert.

  The rub was that we could only afford to send one crew, so you were on alert for twenty-four hours instead of the standard twelve-hour shifts in Kandahar and most other places. We did, technically, get our required crew rest, but this meant that the second we got called on a mission, our clock would start. We could fly as much as needed for the next twelve hours, but then we’d go into crew rest and they would have to task an asset from another base if needed. However, if you fly only one mission, your crew rest starts as soon as you land from the original mission. So, when you got a mission at, say, noon, you never knew if you’d be flying until midnight or flying again starting at midnight. Basically we were always on alert. It was exhausting, but this kind of work was the exact reason I had gotten into this business in the first place.

  The upside of being at TK was that you flew fewer times a day and the environment was extremely casual. Almost everyone on the tiny “base” was an operator as opposed to the area being riddled with nonoperators or “non-ers” (pronounced like “Connors”), like in Kandahar. Non-ers is a derogatory term for people whose jobs don’t directly impact the mission and who seem to care only about things like whether or not you were wearing your reflective belt, a safety measure often ridiculed by operators due to the fact that it makes you a target for the enemy. This is not to say that operators don’t respect the people who support them. We consider most of them valued members of our team. But we’ll call someone a non-er if they demonstrate a clear lack of understanding for the impact their actions have on those of us on the front lines. I suppose for some people, even in Kandahar, the greatest danger you face is getting hit by a supply truck.

  TK contained a hospital and had a small US courtyard attached to it. A six-week rotation at TK had plenty of negatives, but there were some positives, too: namely the food, the sand volleyball court, and the feeling that you were truly on the front lines. The flight there was pretty amazing, too—the terrain between Kandahar and TK included a plateau with a deep, twisting ravine running through it. During this flight, we would dive toward the mouth of the creek that ran through the high ground and sort of ski our way through. We pretended that we were trying to maintain a low profile, but really, it was just a flat-out thrill to carve through the terrain this way. The flight consisted of banking left and right, bouncing the downward rotor wash off the walls like a snowboarder on a half-pipe.

  The base at TK was surrounded by high walls topped with razor wire. Throughout the night, you’d wake to the sound of the HIMARS (High Mobility Artillery Rocket Systems) firing at militants who were positioned to attack the FOB. In addition to the hospital at the base, we had a US forward surgical team (FST). I ended up spending quite a bit of my downtime hanging out in their hospital. If I was wide-awake with nothing to do (like after landing from a mission), I’d go to the FST to see if they needed any help.

  We worked hard and played hard at TK. Between the volleyball tournaments and barbecues, the grills powered by diesel fuel, we would catch some rays, play cards, and work out. When I wasn’t helping out in the hospital, I spent most of my time in the gym, thoroughly enjoying the view as the ODA guys lifted weights all around me, trying my hardest not to trip on the treadmill when one of them took off his shirt.

  My first combat crew was a dream team. Curt Green, who was a New York City firefighter with a great reputation and steely nerves, served as our Aircraft Commander. Curt made a perfect mentor for me on my first combat missions. Our Flight Engineer, Matt Infante, was a relatively young but somewhat seasoned guy with a great head on his shoulders. I trusted them both instantly. Thor Rasmussen, a young kid who had come from the fixed-wing world, was a great medic, and he adjusted to the fast pace and danger of the helo world quickly. The four of us hit it off immediately.

  Not so much for the last member of my crew, Richard. Richard looked the part of the elderly New York Irish cop he was—pale white skin and a paintbrush mustache, a bright red nose and a spare tire around the middle. The first week in Kandahar, he told me straight to my face that he didn’t want me on the crew.

  “Nothing personal. It’s just that women can’t hold their own in an evasion scenario.” I wondered how he’d do, lugging all that extra weight around his belly if we needed to evade capture.

  “Okay,” I retorted. “Let’s find out. Come on.” I put down my gear and dropped into “front-leaning rest,” which is the smart-ass military expression for the push-up position. “Right now . . . push-up contest,” I continued from the ground. “Let’s see who wins.”

  Throughout my career, this was my go-to rebuttal for blatant jabs at my physical ability. I had done it dozens of times, and I won every single contest I challenged someone to. That’s not to say that I could out-push every guy I flew with. Hardly. But for some reason, it was never the strong, fit guys who were threatened enough by me
to infer I was physically inferior. It was always the guys who were at the bottom rung of the physical fitness ladder. It was as if, like any bully, they were so insecure that they had to seek out someone they thought was weaker than they were and kick them around. I had never lost a push-up challenge like this, and I was not about to start now. I would push the ground until my arms fell off if I had to.

  “Whatever,” Richard harrumphed, walking away. He acted as if I was not worth the effort, but everyone knew that he was afraid he would lose. It wouldn’t be the last time we would come head-to-head, but one day soon he would try to make me pay for humiliating him.

  His instant dismissal of me did remind me of an important lesson, though. I thought back to the worm I’d eaten in pilot training and the instructor’s advice to never write off a member of the team because of their appearance. That’s just Leadership 101. I was an expert marksman who had studied the local area with the tenacity of a medical student studying anatomy. I knew some of the language and how to find water. I was certain I’d be an asset if we found ourselves in a ground fight, but there would be no convincing Richard of that fact. Another thing I’d learned over my years of training—demanding respect did nothing. I would have to earn it.

  I did notice that no one came to my defense during our argument, including the Aircraft Commander I had grown to admire. I guessed I really was on my own. Curt was new to the squadron as well, having just transferred in from the unit in California. I assume it wasn’t worth it to Curt to make an enemy of Richard so early on. I wasn’t sure what pissed me off more—Richard’s outward sexism or everyone’s tacit acceptance of it.

  My third day at Tarin Kowt, at around ten in the morning, I was stepping out of the shower hut after my workout. Suddenly my radio crackled: “REDCON ONE!” My walk turned to a jog across the gravel in flip-flops.

  We’d had plenty of false starts, rushing to sit in the bird, the rotors turning and ready to go, only to stand down. But not this time—an American ***** ****** soldier had caught a bullet in the arm, and it was wheels up. I was thrilled to finally be getting my first real “rescue” of my career, even if it was only an arm injury. I gave a “Woo-hoo!” as I rounded the nose of the aircraft and jumped into my seat. I punched coordinates into the GPS, my hair still wet and dripping down under my helmet onto my heavy body armor, everything already caked with dust. Curt picked up the helo, and we stormed across the fence into enemy territory.

  We’d already been airborne for half an hour when the request for blood came in over the radio. We had been slightly zigzagging our path to the landing zone so as to remain unpredictable and keep the enemy from knowing exactly where we were heading. It was the tactical way to fly, but upon hearing the request for blood, we instantly wished we had thrown the rule book out the window and beelined right to the patient. If they needed blood, the patient was in worse shape than we thought. Five more minutes and we’d already be wheels down at the pickup point. To return now for blood would take too long.

  The other pilot shot me a grim look as I replied to the call.

  “Just pop smoke—we’re five mikes out.” A bright green plume shot up marking the landing zone, and we landed just upwind from it.

  Hardly waiting for the rotor’s dust storm to clear, a ***** ***** soldier rushed on board with the patient in a litter. My medic told me later that he saw a look in the escort’s eyes that told him he would be facing a physical confrontation if he tried to tell the patient’s comrade that he couldn’t come along. We weren’t supposed to take anyone but the patient, but no one argued. On the stretcher, a heavily bearded sergeant breathed shallowly, his camouflage uniform half cut away. This was no arm injury.

  Yes, technically the bullet had entered near the tan line of his upper arm, but it had tumbled from there and torn through his chest. These guys were the mission, the reason I came to this godforsaken country—they bravely fought the enemy, always with the knowledge that medevac birds like ours were ready to scramble and get them lifesaving care in an instant.

  We picked up within minutes, going airborne with bullets popping on the rocks around the landing zone below us. Thor, our medic, immediately got to work, while the other ***** ***** soldier watched, stone-faced.

  “This guy’s Code Blue,” I heard on the intercom. Thor was telling our crew that he had lost a pulse and the patient wasn’t going to make it. I punched in the coordinates for TK, and we flew a dead-straight path, pulling every ounce of power we could out of the engines. Against regulations, we told our sister ship that we were going to have to leave them. Each aircraft is a little different. Some have stronger engines, and some are lighter. On this day, our aircraft was more powerful, and they wouldn’t be able to keep up. Despite the fact that we would likely lose this patient and splitting up put both aircraft in a lot of danger, none of us would be able to live with ourselves if we hadn’t done everything possible to try to save his life.

  Between checking the route, the instruments, and the systems, I stole another glance back into the cargo area behind me. Thor had straddled the patient to start CPR. The injured soldier was young and couldn’t have even been thirty. There wasn’t a touch of gray in the thick beard that special-ops forces grow to blend in better with the Afghan fighters. The deep tan of his face looked pale.

  “We’ve got a pulse back!” I heard over the intercom, but we were still about fifteen minutes from the nearest medical facility, even though we were maxing out the helo’s speed.

  Ten minutes out, Thor started CPR again and kept it going until we landed. An ambulance on base rushed the sergeant off to surgery. We found out later that he’d lost so much blood, when they cracked his chest open to start the surgery, he didn’t even bleed.

  I desperately wanted this guy to live, and I knew the rest of my crew was having the exact same thought. This guy deserved to return home to the family I was certain was waiting for him.

  My first patient was my first casualty. He left a tar of blood and dust an inch deep on the Pave Hawk floor. After shutting down the aircraft and getting it ready for our next mission, I walked the hundred yards across the courtyard, past the barracks, the chow hall, the gym, and the TOC to the hospital to confirm what I already knew in my heart—we had lost him. I would have known it even if I hadn’t seen him lose so much blood. A palpable sense of loss hung heavy in the dust and heat all around me.

  The plywood door into the FST had a painted unit badge on the outside. I yanked it open, feeling the counterweight rise on the inside, which enabled the door to swing shut on its own to keep out the flies. Inside, it was clear the staff had done all they could with the resources at their disposal, but let’s just say I was highly motivated to avoid the need for surgery while at TK.

  When I swung the door open, the first nurse who saw me immediately looked down at the floor. She knew why I was there, and she didn’t want to have to be the one to tell me.

  “How’d the surgery go?” I asked her with a waver in my voice.

  “There’s nothing you guys could have done,” she told me with sympathy in her eyes. “He nicked the aorta. He could have been shot on the steps of the FST and we wouldn’t have been able to save him.”

  To this day I don’t know if she was just trying to make me feel better or if it was true. Either way, I couldn’t stop going over the situation again and again in my head, agonizing over where I could’ve shaved a few seconds off our rescue attempt, wondering if an extra precious minute or two might have saved his life.

  As I walked back to the barracks, I saw one of the ODA guys kneeling in front of their memorial wall where they meticulously painted the names of those they lost. He was dry-eyed but stone-faced, quietly painting the name of my patient onto the wall while another was lowering the flag to half-mast.

  Later that night, as I headed back to my room after spending twenty minutes pushing food around on my plate at dinner, I stopped and saluted in front of
the memorial wall as an ODA soldier played Taps on his bagpipes. The lyrics, which always brought back a welling of tears at the thought of my dad, now held an even deeper meaning for me. Day is done, gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest. God is nigh. I was living these lyrics.

  The sun was setting, and for the first time, I questioned whether or not I could really do this job. Somewhere in the US, an eight-year-old little girl had just lost her twenty-eight-year-old hero of a father. Her life would never be the same, and she didn’t even know it yet.

  I grew up as a pilot that day. I would never wish for a mission again.

  —

  The rotation at TK was rough. Even when we thought we had done some good, things could go bad very quickly. One night we were called out on a mission and assigned a two-Apache escort. That was never a good sign—it meant that we were going into a particularly dangerous area. On that night, we were headed into the heart of bad-guy territory to pick up a wounded three-year-old out of an unfriendly village. Intel reported that the three-year-old was in need of medevac due to chemical burns he had sustained inhaling fumes from his father’s homemade fertilizer bomb.

  As we landed, I surveyed the town in my night-vision goggles. About fifty yards away from us, people began to emerge and cluster together, pointing and gesturing at us. The small crowd began walking our way and suddenly grew to a group of about thirty people jogging toward us. This didn’t look good. I called it in to the Apaches overhead and started checking to see if anyone in the group was armed. How close could we let them get before we would have to take off?

  When they were about twenty-five yards away, Curt slightly lifted the collective, ready to pull pitch and get us out of there. Just then the beautiful attack helicopters that were with us flew a low pass about fifteen feet off of the ground right off our nose. The message to the growing crowd was clear . . . That’s close enough. The townspeople screeched to a halt, continuing to stand there and wave a fist now and then, but we were able to load our patient and get out safely. Didn’t they know we were trying to save one of their kids?