To Hell and Back
Copyright© 2025 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3: Mechanic
Naval Air Station Pensacola was a different world from Parris Island. Gone were the screaming Drill Instructors and the constant state of controlled chaos. In their place was structure, learning, and the intoxicating smell of jet fuel and hydraulic fluid.
Private First Class Kirstie Roberts reported to the Aviation Maintenance School with Martinez and twelve other Marines from their boot camp platoon who’d also chosen the aviation field. They were joined by sailors, other Marines, and even a few Coast Guard personnel—all there to learn the complex art of keeping military aircraft in the sky.
The first day, they stood in a massive hangar bay, staring up at the machines that would define their careers. Kirstie’s eyes locked onto the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter sitting in the center bay like a predator at rest. It was bigger than she’d imagined—sixty-four feet long, rotor diameter of fifty-three feet, empty weight of nearly twelve thousand pounds. Beautiful and lethal.
“That,” said Gunnery Sergeant Chen, their chief instructor, “is the workhorse of military aviation. The Black Hawk can carry eleven combat-loaded troops or four litter patients plus medical personnel. It can fly at 183 miles per hour, has a range of 360 miles, and can operate in conditions that would ground lesser aircraft. It will save lives. It will complete missions. But only if you—” he pointed at them, “—keep it flying. Your job is to make sure that bird launches every time it’s called. Lives depend on it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant!”
“Outstanding. Let’s get to work.”
Month One: Learning the Beast
Aviation mechanic school was six months of intensive training, and Kirstie threw herself into it with the same determination she’d brought to boot camp. But this was different—this required her brain as much as her body.
They started with the basics: aircraft nomenclature, tool identification, technical manuals. Everything in aviation had a specific name, a specific procedure, a specific torque specification. There was no room for “close enough” or “good enough.” Close enough in aviation got people killed.
Kirstie discovered she loved it.
Growing up on the farm, she’d helped her father maintain tractors, combines, and other machinery. She understood the logic of mechanical systems, the way parts worked together to create function. But helicopters were on another level entirely—a symphony of thousands of components all working in precise harmony.
“The Black Hawk has four main systems you need to master,” Gunnery Sergeant Chen explained during their first week. “Airframe, powerplant, hydraulics, and avionics. You will learn every system. You will be able to diagnose problems, perform maintenance, and conduct repairs. You will read technical manuals until your eyes bleed. And you will do it all to perfection, because there are no second chances at ten thousand feet.”
They studied turboshaft engines—the two General Electric T700s that powered the Black Hawk, each producing 1,900 shaft horsepower. They learned about transmission systems that turned engine power into rotor rotation, about hydraulic systems that moved flight controls, about electrical systems that powered everything from radios to weapons.
Kirstie spent her nights in the barracks studying technical diagrams, memorizing part numbers, drilling herself on procedures. Martinez, her bunk mate, was doing the same.
“I swear this hydraulic system diagram is going to haunt my dreams,” Martinez groaned one night, rubbing her eyes.
“Better than dreaming about Staff Sergeant Reyes,” Kirstie said, and they both laughed.
They were Marines now, not recruits, and life was different. They had more freedom, more responsibility, more autonomy. But the standards remained impossibly high. Drop below 80% on any exam and you were out—sent to a different MOS, your aviation career over before it started.
Kirstie maintained a 94% average. Martinez was at 91%. They pushed each other, studied together, refused to let each other fail.
“Why do you care so much?” Martinez asked one night after a particularly brutal exam. “You’re already doing great.”
Kirstie thought about it. “Because I’m going to be a door gunner. And if I don’t know this aircraft inside and out, I can’t protect it. I can’t do my job.”
“You’re really going for that?”
“Absolutely.”
Martinez shook her head. “You’re crazy. You know that, right?”
“So I’ve been told.”
Month Three: Hands-On
The classroom instruction was critical, but the real learning happened in the hangar bays, hands-on with actual aircraft.
Kirstie stood on a work stand, arms deep in the engine compartment of a Black Hawk, removing and installing an oil filter under Gunnery Sergeant Chen’s watchful eye. Hydraulic fluid stained her uniform, and her hands were black with grease despite her gloves. She’d never been happier.
“Torque specification?” Chen asked.
“Twenty-five to thirty foot-pounds, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“And you check it how?”
“Visual inspection for leaks, then operational check during engine run-up.”
“Outstanding. Roberts, you’ve got good hands. Smooth, methodical. I’ve seen mechanics with ten years who aren’t as careful.”
The praise was unexpected and welcome. Kirstie finished the installation, torqued it to spec, and climbed down from the work stand.
“Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank the crew that’s going to fly this bird and trust that you did your job right.” He paused. “I heard you’re interested in aircrew.”
Word traveled fast in the aviation community. Kirstie stood at attention.
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant. Door gunner, specifically.”
“Why?”
It was the same question Staff Sergeant Reyes had asked on the Crucible. Kirstie gave the same honest answer.
“To serve at the highest level I’m capable of, Gunnery Sergeant. To be where the action is. To protect the aircraft and the Marines who depend on it.”
Chen studied her for a long moment. “Door gunner is a combat position. You understand what that means?”
“Yes, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“You’ll be the most exposed person on the aircraft. Open doors, no armor, just you and a machine gun between the bird and whatever’s trying to kill it. You take fire first. You’re the primary target.”
“I understand, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“Do you?” Chen’s voice was sharp. “Because I’ve seen aircrew come back in body bags. I’ve seen birds shot to pieces. I’ve seen what happens when things go wrong at altitude. This isn’t a video game, Roberts. This is real.”
“I know it’s real, Gunnery Sergeant. That’s why I want to do it.” Kirstie met his eyes. “Someone has to. Might as well be someone who’s trained, dedicated, and won’t quit when it gets hard.”
Chen was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Finish top of your class here. Get to your duty station. Excel at your mechanic job. Build a reputation. Then put in for aircrew school. It won’t be easy—there’s a lot of competition for those slots. But if you’re serious, that’s your path.”
“I’m serious, Gunnery Sergeant.”
“We’ll see.”
Month Four: First Flight
The first time Kirstie flew in a Black Hawk, she fell in love.
It was part of their training—familiarization flights so they understood how the aircraft they maintained actually operated. They filed into the bird wearing flight helmets with boom mics, strapped into web seats along the cabin walls.
The pilots completed their pre-flight checks, the engines whined to life, and the rotors began to turn. The sound was deafening even through the helmet—a rhythmic WHOP WHOP WHOP that Kirstie felt in her chest. The aircraft shuddered, lifted slightly on its wheels, then smoothly transitioned to flight.
Kirstie pressed her face against the small window as Pensacola fell away beneath them. They climbed to three thousand feet, and suddenly the world was laid out like a map—the base, the city, the emerald waters of the Gulf of Mexico stretching to the horizon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Martinez’s voice came through the internal comms system.
“Yeah,” Kirstie breathed. “It really is.”
But what really caught her attention were the two crew chiefs—one on each side of the aircraft, sitting in the door gunner positions. They weren’t carrying weapons on this training flight, but they sat alert and ready, scanning the terrain below, communicating with the pilots, completely at ease hanging out the open doors with nothing but a gunner’s belt keeping them connected to the aircraft.
One of them—a sergeant with fifteen years in—noticed Kirstie watching. He grinned and gave her a thumbs up, then leaned out even further, his body angled into the slipstream.
That’s what I want, Kirstie thought. That’s exactly what I want.
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