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September 4, 2003 My name is Steve, and I’m waiting to go to Afghanistan. No, I’m not a soldier or a reporter. I’m a comedian, part of the “Comics On Duty World Tour” that leaves today for a three-week tour of war torn areas in Afghanistan and the Middle East. Comedy in the Middle East? You bet; where else in the world is drinking beer considered a one-way ticket to hell, but strapping a bomb to your chest and walking into a supermarket is admirable? Funny folks over there, for sure. I’m known as “The Star Spangled Comic,” and along with 4 other funnymen – Don Barnhart, Mike Burton, Kevin Jordan, and Steve Mazan – I will be entertaining military personnel in countries such as Afghanistan, Pakistan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Bahrain, and many other places too poor to afford vowels. For three weeks we’ll tour the large bases and the mobile units, the port cities and the desert outposts, letting the brave men and women in uniform know that the vast majority of us back in The United States support them 100%. In our own way, through our God-given skills as comics, we’ll be letting them know that there is no “divide” in America, and that the morons who carried around signs at the protests reading “We support our troops…when they shoot their officers” are a small, idiotic micro-minority of degenerates who don’t shower nearly enough. At this moment I’m waiting at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, gate 18A. Gate 18A is filled with an interesting cross section of humanity waiting to board United flight 940 to Frankfurt, Germany; families with strollers, soldiers in fatigues, German citizens returning home. I sit among these folks, watching and listening to their anticipation, wondering what’s waiting for all of them at the end of flight 940. A family reunion? An overseas military assignment, meaning 18 months away from family? Long, lonely nights in a variety of German bars, wondering how far the drive is to Amsterdam? I don’t know. I only know that waiting for me are at the end of flight 940 (and my subsequent connecting flights) is a group of dedicated Americans in uniform who are tired and in need of entertainment in the form of poop jokes. At least that’s what I hope they want, because that’s what they’re going to get. As I sit here I’m filled with excitement and anxiety. Not the normal airport anxiety, wondering how that $9 hot dog and $6 Coke will affect my trip budget. No, this is the anxiety of heading into the unknown; I’ve done thousand of comedy shows in my career, and I routinely put 50,000 miles per year on my car, but this trip will be different. The shows themselves I’m not worried about, because a show is a show is a show; it’s the realization that I’m not going to Missouri for this series of performances that’s having an effect. Holy granola, I’m going to Afghanistan; it’s that place on TV. You know the one, where the bad things happen? Not that I’m concerned about my safety – because I’m not – but the reality of it is setting in. One wrong turn in Sioux City means a few minutes out of your life; one wrong turn in Uzbekistan and…..I try not to think about it. The excitement is what I concentrate on, because it truly is the opportunity of a lifetime. It’s a chance to follow in the footsteps of the legendary Bob Hope, as well as the thousands of other entertainers who have given their time over the years; the chance to deliver a personal thank you the men and women whose very lives make up the blanket of my freedom. It’s an opportunity to see parts of the planet that all of those academic types prattle on and on about - in haughty and arrogant terms - without ever having set foot there. It’s the chance to see firsthand just how much truth and/or garbage the media is sending back. It’s the chance to see it for myself, and make an opinion more informed that most other people. Plus, it’s the chance to tell “Anna Nicole Smith is fat” jokes on an entirely different continent. As a comic, there’s no way I could pass that up. September 5/6, 2003 Day one has been an adventure so far. We were an hour late leaving Chicago, and consequently missed our connecting flight out of Frankfurt to Moscow. Also, Mike Burton did not receive his luggage. He’s convinced it’s because we’re in Germany and he’s Jewish, but I think United just lost it somewhere. The language barrier is making the search difficult, plus getting help from a European baggage agent is like getting marital advice from Ike Turner or having Scott Peterson as a fishing buddy. After three hours roaming the seemingly endless Frankfurt airport it was decided that we would leave for Moscow tomorrow; tonight we’re at a hotel just off the airport. After much cajoling, the airline is graciously paying for our accommodations. They say they don’t have to, but they will anyway; after all, all they did was make us late and lose our luggage, why should they feel responsible? For starters, I was stuck in the middle of a 5-seat arrangement on a 777; and no one else in my row spoke English. For all I know they spent the entire flight calling me unusual names in German, or loudly commenting on how since I couldn’t understand them they would wait until I went to sleep and stick things up my nose. They were planning something for sure, because they sure weren’t doing any sleeping. I thought the point of an overnight flight was to go night-night and travel through dreamland on your way to Germany, but apparently that’s not the case. Randomly shouting at non-consecutive intervals – much like the barking of a late night neighborhood dog, the kind that waits just long enough between barks so you juuuust start to nod off before yelping again at the sight of imaginary burglars – is now the chic mode of behavior on trans-continental flights. As my now-bleary eyes will attest, United flight 940 from Chicago to Frankfurt was chock full-o-imaginary burglars, and their natural enemy is apparently loud German expletives. Add to this the stress of knowing we were running an hour late and thereby had no chance of making our connecting flight, and it was a gas gas gas. Arriving in Frankfurt and losing a bag added an extra layer of nonfat fun to the experience. All those who say Americans are rude and crude, and that we’re not half as sophisticated as the suave Europeans, have obviously never been here. They CERTAINLY have never been to the Lufthansa baggage and information desk, which is the partner airline to United here and is apparently the customer service partner to the US Postal Service or the 4th street Crips. Judging from the “assistance” we received, there is a bonus pay system at Lufthansa structured around using the phrase “There’s nothing I can do,” and then muttering derogatory remarks in under your breath. (By the way, if you’re a member of Kira’s family – Kira who works at desk 4 at Lufthansa – you’re going to get some great presents at Christmas this year, because she’s getting a HUGE bonus.) Everyone we talked to said “There’s nothing I can do” at least 50 times (that’s 46.8 times American); I guess Europeans hope that if they’re rude to you long enough you’ll simply go away, leaving them to paw through your underwear and Barry Manilow CD’s at will. (There’s probably some kind of yearly office contest at Lufthansa for that kind of stuff too, and the final challenge is at the year-end party: “I got 13 Sinatra CD’s and a Star Wars t-shirt!” “I got the third season of Friends on DVD and some Tweety-Bird jammies!’ “I got a rock!” The winner gets a bar of soap. For the mantle.) The Steigenberger Hotel is decent enough, so if you’re ever in Frankfurt, tell them you know us and they’ll give you the same four-star treatment. (Unfortunately the four stars they treated us like were Pauly Shore, Ginger Lynn, Glenn Campbell and Dana Plato.) September 7, 2003 We get up at 5 AM to make our 7:15 flight to Moscow, get all checked in and are in line to get on the plane when we find out we can’t go because we don’t have exit Visa’s for Russia. Had we made our original flight we wouldn’t have needed Visa's, because we wouldn’t have had to change terminals in Russia. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it is that stupid. Mike Burton's bag showed up just in time to be put on this flight with the rest of our luggage….and then they lost all of them trying to get them off the plane. So now we’re in the same position as the day before, except now with no underwear. After 75 more “There’s nothing I can do” exchanges (Deiter and his family will apparently be spending his bonus money to travel in the Caribbean this year) the luggage is found and we’re put on Aeroflot to Moscow. Aeroflot is the Russian airline, and the word Aeroflot is loosely translated to “I’ll never complain about Southwest Airlines again.” Again in the middle seat, I’m two rows up from the guy on the gurney with the I.V. and the constant cough….that no one seems to notice. I swear I thought we had accidentally stumbled onto the set of "Outbreak 2; The Virus Takes Moscow." We make it to Moscow alive despite the meal (“Fish or Beef?” “Neither, thank you.” “THAT IS NOT AN OPTION! FISH OR BEEF!”) and are escorted around by a hairy Russian guy who could have come out of Central Casting. Beady eyes, square features…apparently when The Party closed down all of the bagmen and enforcers were sent to work at Aeroflot. 3 Bus rides and a half-mile walk later, we were at the terminal we couldn’t get to had we flown Lufthansa (Yes, it’s that stupid) We arrive at 8:15 PM, and are told the flight to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan will leave in about 20 minutes. Right on time we leave at 11:45. Our contact was waiting for us in Kyrgyzstan. Our bags showed up. It was a miracle. Then we almost didn’t get to leave the airport. Our interpreter Alexi informed us that the burly looking passport agent was concerned by our lack of Visa’s, even though we had official US military orders. After a short, friendly exchange between Alexi and burly-man (“They can’t come in!” “I’ll give you Vodka!” “OK!”) We were allowed to pass, and after a mere 60 hours of travel time we arrived at our destination at 7AM local time. Just enough time to eat breakfast and hit the rack in our tent. Finally, we’re here. Before I left for this trip I was expecting certain things from the accommodations, food, showers, etc. I was expecting….well, I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but most of what I envisioned would have me longing for the crappy hotels at one nighters across the US. I guess I was thinking it would be sort of like M*A*S*H*, except hotter. I was surprised in a pleasant manner. September 8, 2003 We wake up around noon in Manas, Kyrgyzstan, at Ganci Air base. Kyrgyzstan is a Russian word that means “Buy a stinkin’ vowel, why don’t ya?” Our contact, Major Todd Vician of the 376th Air Expeditionary Wing, could not have been more gracious. Our first stop was lunch, then over to the rec center where the shows will be held later that evening. Although dusty and made of tents, the base is quite comfortable. All tents have AC, there are plenty of DVD’s to check out of Shooters (the base center of activity), and a short area with the BX and a few other stores known as “The Boardwalk.” (This is where the shows will be) After spending 15 minutes trying to figure out how to flush the toilet and another 30 on how to brush your teeth without putting the water in your mouth, we went to the BX, which is like a mini Wal-Mart, and the neighboring stores on the Boardwalk. After perusing authentic Russian made robes and exquisite hand-made silk scarves, I settled on some new sunglasses and a long sleeved shirt, because I am a thrifty and image-conscious shopper. We spent the rest of the afternoon getting acclimated and talking to the base personnel. Everyone is excited about our show, and everyone we talk to says they’ll be there. Everyone also offers to buy us a beer after the show. I knew I was far from home, but it really sunk in when the guys riding around in the Hummers talked to us. They’re sticking out of the turret, mounted machinegun in hand, and I realize this is REAL. This is not some Hollywood backlot, I’m really here with the folks who lay their lives on the line. I take every show I ever do seriously – this is my job, after all – but I decide right then and there to lay it all out there every night on this tour. It’s just too important to have an off night. These men and women who I don’t know are risking their lives to protect me and my wife and child, so the least I can do is make sure to deliver the booger jokes just right. After dinner – which, by the way, was not bad at all – it’s showtime. We’re all duded up and we head over to the rec center, and the place is packed. I mean, packed to the rafters. They said the maximum occupancy was around 95, and there were at least 150 people in attendance. I’m looking around and a thought occurred to me: How would I handle a heckler? I mean, it’s not like I can ask a Marine if he has or wants naked pictures of his wife…the guy knows 18 ways to kill me with his thumb, for crying out loud. As I find out though, that’s not a problem; this crowd loves us just for being here. Attentive and eager, they’re the best crowds I’ve had in a long time (No blended drink machine going off during a punchline, no music thumping through the floor from the dance club downstairs, and no one has to work through the check drop.) Both shows go off without a hitch, some of the biggest laughs coming when Kevin Jordan pokes fun at the base commander, and when I take a shot the Navy (who are not in attendance in this land-locked country). Everyone has a great set, but the military stuff obviously hits home with these folks. Steve Mazan hits a home run with a joke about the base bathrooms, Don Barnhart closes with a killer set. At the end of the second show, we call the base commander up for a presentation, and then it gets interesting. Colonel Steve Kelley is the leader of this installation, and obviously knows how a leader is supposed to act. We have brought with us Comics On Duty hats to present to Colonel Kelley and Major Vician, as well as a C.O.D. coin. The unit coin is a military tradition, some say it dates back to World War I, more on that coming up. After our presentation, Colonel Kelley takes the microphone and says they have things for us as well. He presents us with Operation Enduring Freedom shirts, which would have been more than enough, but then he breaks out the coins. As I understand it, each base, each unit, each group in the military has their own coin. It has their emblem, their colors, their slogan, or whatever they decide to include. It’s a very personal thing to the military, and it’s not taken at all lightly. Colonel Kelley presents each of us with a coin from Ganci Air Base, and then makes a stirring speech. With September 11 approaching, he reminds everyone why they’re there. He talks of the treachery of September 11, of the 3,000 Americans who died that day at the hands of cowards. He says in no uncertain terms that we’re winning this war, and although it takes time to get these gutless terrorists flushed out, we’re getting them all, one by one. The Colonel says that we are taking the fight to them, for the sole purpose of never again letting them bring it to us. Then he takes a turn, and speaks directly to the 5 of us. He tells us that we are more important to this war than we realize, that we are all part of the same team, and that we’ve touched the lives of people we don’t know. He then thanks us for making the trip, and everyone in attendance rose in unison. I can’t speak for the other comics, but it was everything I could muster to fight back the tears. All of us have received standing O’s at one time or another, but getting a standing ovation from 150 service men and women in a war zone was the greatest honor I’ve had as an American, and outside of the day I got married the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. I mean, we came here to thank THEM; they’re the ones doing the hard part of the equation, it’s my honor to perform for them, and they feel the need to thank us? Their response was overwhelming, and what made it almost indescribable was that it was genuine. They meant it. The Colonel meant it. I’ve always been a patriotic person – to the point that another comedian nicknamed me “The Star Spangled Comic” – but I’ve never been prouder to be an American than tonight. After the second show we’re invited by everyone there to the base bar, called Valhalla. We head over and it’s something out of a movie; there are Kyrgyzstani’s singing Russian songs in unison, while the American personnel party exactly like people do at bars and taverns back home. The only difference here is that there’s supposed to be no fraternizing between the male and female soldiers, and every few minutes a Hummer goes by with a machine gun mounted on top.... which can have a dampening effect on potential "fraternizing." I mean, what if the lady you've set your sights on has a brother here, and he just happens to be the guy sticking out of the Hummer turret with his hands on a 50 cal machine gun? yeah...even the smoothest operator would have another think or two. The Russian beer we drank I won’t even try to spell; I couldn’t anyway, because their alphabet is different. (One of the letters in the Russian alphabet is a 3, and there are several others that look like either a picture of a Chinese house, a stick sketch of a go-cart, or the Bowling Green Falcon. I think the sound for those is “grrkjskktt.” I’m not sure.) It was pretty good beer, and since I rarely drink to begin with one giant, 64 ounce bottle was enough. Everyone wanted to talk to us, and everyone was great. I met two folks from my hometown of Chicago who were heading home the next day, and who swear they’ll come see me at a Chicago club sometime. (They also gave me the coin for their unit.) We talked to a group of Dutch servicemen who had far too much blood in their alcohol stream, and who gave out hugs more often than Tracy Lords. Everyone wanted a picture with us, and we wanted pictures with them; it was like media day of Super Bowl week with all the flash bulbs going off. Don Barnhart interviewed several on his video camera, and I wished I hadn’t left mine in the tent. I can’t speak for the others, but I made a point to ask everyone I talked to about morale. That’s been such a big thing in the media the past month or so. They tell us that morale is at an all-time low, that all of the troops hate the President and Don Rumsfeld, that the locals hate the troops. I’ve yet to find anyone who agrees with that at all. On and off camera, everyone - not almost everyone, every single person – knows why they’re here and wants to do their part. Would they rather be at home? Obviously; given the choice between someone shooting at you or barbecuing with the Finklesons on your back porch, it’s a no-brainer of a choice. That doesn’t dampen their morale, however. Neither do the locals, 99% of whom love the troops and love America, from what I’m told. (Unfortunately the 1% who don’t like us have bombs strapped to their chest) Kyrgyzstan is a former Soviet Union province, and since they gained their freedom they love Western influence. So there’s a long way to go on this trip, but day one says the media is full of crap. One of the people I talked to said that some of the rocket attacks of recent weeks that have been reported as happening in Iraq actually happened in Afghanistan. I was told of one soldier who was reported as dead on CNN, killed in an Iraqi mortar attack. The soldier in question had actually been injured in Afghanistan, come through the hospital in Kyrgyzstan the day before the report and been shipped home, injured but alive and well. I’m not sure what to make of all of this yet; it’s only day one. I’m just reporting it to you as I hear it. You make the call. September 9, 2003 The first night of shows is under our belt; finally we had the chance to do what we came here to do. 60 hours of travel to get here, a million snafus, but it was all worth it to perform for and meet these great people, who serve their country literally with their blood. We left Valhalla (the base bar at Ganci Air Base) after the last of the stragglers took pictures with us, and headed back to our tent around midnight local time. Having recently learned that we would need to mobilize at 3 AM for our flight to Uzbekistan, we decide to just stay up all night. I haven’t used that “I might as well just stay up all night’ logic since college, and apparently I’m not as equipped at 33 to pull it off as I was at 21. After putting in a load of laundry, I find it difficult to keep my eyes open; I can’t believe I used to do this while drinking and then go to class, although my GPA definitely reflects it. I’m searching for ways to stay awake, and luckily NFL football is on at Shooters, the base activity center. Watching NFL football at 1 AM is an interesting twist on an old habit; I feel like I’m one of the kids in “Dead Poets Society,” standing on the desk to get a different look at the classroom. (My favorite team, the Cleveland Browns, of course blow their game on the final seconds, but that happens no matter where I am.) Finally 3 AM rolls around, and Major Vician shows up to take us to the airport. Major Vician never looks rumpled or tired, despite seemingly being awake 24 hours a day. After our 3-hour wait in the airport we board our plane. Now, Aeroflot presented me with some new experiences (“FISH OR BEEF!?!”) but now we’re on military transport. We’re hitching a ride to Uzbekistan on a C-130 cargo plane. It’s the 5 of us, 2 other passengers, and a giant pallet of supplies that looks as if it’s going to break loose and crush us all like ants at any moment. I keep an eye on it and plan what I’m going to do if it does snap loose. Granted, this plan mostly involves wetting myself and screaming, but it’s still nice to have a plan. Making sure we all were wearing long pants and long sleeve shirts (“It gets a little chilly at 30,000 feet! Ha Ha!”) we’re handed earplugs and given instructions on how to exit the pane after an emergency landing. We’re the only ones not armed and/or wearing Kevlar at this point. During takeoff we see one of the crew in a perch at the rear of the plane, looking out a side window. We later learn that his job is to watch for anything coming at the plane, like rockets or missiles, and fire off “heat decoys,” which obviously take the incoming hit instead of the plane. I’m glad they didn’t tell us this until later, because the takeoff itself was enough to make me poop my pants. The winds were shifting us all around and bouncing us like a roller coaster, and the engine was louder than the middle act and the waitress in the next room of the condo. Imagine someone jumping up and down on the back of your chair and yelling “aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” in your ear at 30 decibels, and that’s a decent idea of what it’s like. Once we’re airborne it smoothes out, the guy with the heat decoys comes down from his post, I change to a fresh pair of underpants, and we settle in. 15 minutes in I see two crew members loading up a large American flag at the back of the plane, hanging it from the top so it spreads out over the width of the aircraft. I find out that they take these flags and hang them in the plane, fly them over Afghanistan with the back flap open, then pack them back up and give them to people back home; these people now have a version of the Stars and Stripes that was in a combat zone, which gives them a feeling of being part of the team. It’s a nice gesture, and though I tell them so, they shrug it off; it’s just part of the job to them, another part of laying it on the line. About halfway through the flight, the navigator comes down and invites us up to the cockpit, one by one. My turn comes as the flight nears the end, so I get to be up there with Steve Mazan for the approach and landing. This is possibly the coolest thing I’ve ever done, which admittedly is not a fierce competition. Wearing a headset to listen in on the cockpit chatter, and getting to look out the windows is amazing, then the navigator points me to the “bubble” in the top of the cockpit. It’s what it sounds like, a simple glass bubble that protrudes from the top of the plane for viewing; I stick my head up and it’s so cool I can hardly stand it; I’m at 30,000 feet over Uzbekistan, with a view that maybe a couple hundred people on earth ever see; the mountain ranges butting right up against the desert, the small towns and villages going by, tucked into the valleys and on the hillsides…it’s kind of like South Dakota, except the roads look like they’re in better shape. They also probably have better gigs here. (For the record, the Bishkek gig is on the front end of Rapid City; $200, no room, 25% off dinner. Be there by 3 for radio or you’ll be skinned!) During the approach for landing I hear the following exchange between the pilot and the female co-pilot, which I swear I am not embellishing at all: Pilot: Altitude now 14,800, let’s switch to our tower. Co-Pilot: Roger. Pilot: (Pause) Did you see what I wrote on the wall of the latrine? Co-Pilot: Which one? Pilot: Back at 3. **(I don’t know what “3” is, but that’s what he said.)** Co-Pilot: Oh yeah! About peeing on the goat, that was hilarious! Pilot: Yeah. (Pause) OK, let’s bank left and take it down to 8,000. After giggling myself silly, I asked if this was some kind of ultra-secret pilot code, if they were discussing important security matters in front of me in a clandestine manner, but they said no. They were apparently just talking about some goat-peeing joke written on the wall of a latrine in Kyrgyzstan. Priceless. They wouldn’t tell me what the joke was, but for the millionth time I learned that no matter where you go, most folks are just folks. So once again we arrive at our destination at 7 AM. We’re met by Captain Frank Montgomery at K2 Air Base in Uzbekistan. He takes us to our quarters, which again are far nicer than expected, and then over to the mess hall. He informs us on the way that this is the best chow in the theater, and we nod politely. After eating the chili macaroni, the baked turkey breast, the fresh salad, and the Klondike Bars, we believe him. This is way better than the brown stuff they used to eat out of their helmets on “Tour of Duty.” K2 is an interesting place. Uzbekistan is celebrating 12 years of independence from the repression of the Soviet Union, but there are still remnants of the old days around. K2 Air Base is actually an old Soviet air base, and there are old Soviet MIG’s sitting on the runway, still flown by the Uzbek’s. We were forbidden from photographing or videotaping the MIG’s, so you’ll just have to trust me. Captain Montgomery takes us over to where the show will be, and it’s in front of what looks to be a big hangar. The hangar is built into the side of a small hill, and the Captain informs us that this (and the other hills on the base just like it) is where the Soviets used to hide the MIG’s from our satellites. As I stand on stage that night performing in our outdoor show for an overflow crowd of at least a couple hundred folks, it dawns on me that 15 years ago this was unthinkable. The Soviets used to hide MIG’s from American satellites right here. Right here, where I just delivered 2 booger jokes and a “Ted Kennedy is a drunk” reference. There’s an old Chinese proverb that says, “May you live in interesting times.” Some say it’s a Chinese blessing, some say a curse; either way you look at it, we’re living it now. Amazing. The show itself is once again a smash. Outdoor comedy usually spells disaster, but once again they loved us just for being here. Kevin Jordan once again blasts us out of the gate, and even manages to get the 10 Marines in attendance to laugh at themselves. Burton kicks butt for 20 minutes, and Barnhart again closes with a flourish. After the show we set up our table for autographs, and the line is astounding, stretching back at least 200 feet. Again everyone wants to talk to us and take pictures, and again it’s an incredible feeling. They tell us that they’ve had several shows scheduled in the past with other comedians and bands, but none of them have showed up. They’re so grateful for us being there and giving them a taste of home you can’t help but bond with them. We ask each of them where they’re from as they go by, and since we’re all comics the chances are we’ve performed in their hometown or somewhere close by. It’s neat to see the beaming pride and happiness on their faces when you tell them you’ve been to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania or Eureka Springs, Arkansas. It’s as if it takes them home for a minute, getting to talk about a place in their hometown they went to growing up, and it’s a special moment each time it happens. Some of you probably think it sounds a little sappy; I hope you someday get the chance to experience it for yourself, because there’s no way to describe it to you. I talk to as many people as I can again about morale and the locals, and I receive the same answers as I did in Kyrgyzstan; morale is fine, and the vast majority of the locals love that we’re here. I know Don is interviewing people on the same types of topics, and perhaps he’s getting different results; I don’t know, we haven’t talked about it. As far as my own personal research, however, it’s now Truth 2, Media 0. September 10, 2003 We leave Uzbekistan, again at 3 AM, and head for Afghanistan. For several weeks before this trip began, people were asking constantly if I was afraid to travel to the center of terrorville, and I always said no. I’m heading to be with the military, and as far as I can see there’s no safer place than directly behind 6,000 dudes with guns. Plus, terrorists are cowards; they’d never attack a base directly. However, in a C-130 filled with armed escorts actually flying into Kandahar, it does weigh on your mind a little. I can see it on the faces of my fellow comics as well, somewhere in each of our minds the question “Was this the best idea I’ve ever had?” is racing around. We corkscrew into the airfield, making so many hard, banking turns that we almost get to see our dinner from yesterday again and reminisce in person with the turkey surprise. We later find out that this is called a “combat landing,” and the corkscrewing is an attempt to throw off anyone who may be trying to shoot us down. Arriving at Kandahar airport in the middle of the night is surreal. Not only are we in Afghanistan, but it’s utterly pitch black. I can’t see my hand in front of my face, which is good because if I had my hand in front of my face I’d have no chance of seeing anything else. (Rim shot) Our escort, Bill O’Brien from the Department of Defense, informs us that they go on near-blackout conditions every night for security purposes. We arrive at our accommodations, and for the first time the image of “how soldiers live in a war zone” is fulfilled; we’re actually staying in an old bombed out room of Kandahar airport. The military has made the airport their headquarters and is in the process of rebuilding, but apparently they haven’t reached our section just yet. Imagine a college dorm with 5 guys living in it. Now imagine it the Monday after Super Bowl weekend. Now imagine it the Monday after Super Bowl weekend, being attacked by a pack of rabid gophers. You now have some idea of what this room looked like, but not all. O’Brien and our military contact – whose name I can’t give because we are in an actual combat zone – then take 10 minutes and explain what to do in case of a rocket attack. We’re lucky, so they say, because we’re staying only about a hundred yards from the nearest shelters. Yes, lucky is definitely the word I would use, as in “You’re lucky, I’ll only kick you in the jimmies once.” Happy happy joy joy! The shelters are sandbagged and protected by Hesco containers (Hesco containers are filled with cement, and are supposedly stronger than sandbags. Sounds good to me.). We’re told the shelters will absorb a direct hit from a rocket, but not to worry because it’s been about 5 weeks since the last attack. (The question “Since we’re approaching September 11, doesn’t that mean we’re due for another attack?” comes to mind, but I don’t ask it; mostly for fear of hearing the answer.) After we return to our room, we’re told to stick our shoes on the rungs of our bunks, so none of the local wildlife makes a home in them during the night. This is good advice, I decide; nothing will ruin a pair of Nike’s quicker than a Camel Spider or Viper’s nest in the toes. (“My shoes are tight…and they’re biting me!”) We talk amongst ourselves for awhile, and we decide that if the soldiers here can put up with this for 6-9 months at a time while dodging bullets, we can suck it up and do it for one or two nights while telling knock-knock jokes. We’re brave, we’re here, let’s just be 5 men and go with it. We sleep with the lights on. I said previously that I finally had an understanding of what it’s like to be in a hot zone, but now it’s been ratcheted up 3 or 4 more notches. We’ve been in the “theater of war" for several days, but Kandahar is actually in a combat zone. Personnel here are not permitted to go anywhere without their weapon. Not the mess hall, not the latrine, nowhere. Watching soldiers going for a jog with an M-16 strapped to their back gives an entirely new appreciation for exactly where we are. We are in a part of the world where men and women need to be ready to fight for their lives on literally a moment’s notice. I’ll have a good laugh the next time I hear some athlete give a post-game interview and say “It was like a war zone out there.” After breakfast we’re taken on a tour of the base. This is where the Taliban had their stronghold, so there are bullet holes and mortar craters everywhere. It’s eye opening, and then we reach a building called “The Taliban’s Last Stand.” This is the place we heard about on the news, the fiercest resistance they put up; several hundred Taliban…well, former Taliban, if you get my drift… were found inside once it was taken. Walking around inside this structure, seeing the gaping holes in the roof where bombs and rockets came through, you wonder what they were thinking. Did they really believe that brick and mortar would withstand the might of the American military? If they did, how brainwashed are they? I’d sooner believe the Bengals will win the Super Bowl, but apparently their heads are so filled with anti-American propaganda they don’t know any better. I wonder if they had a revelation at the last minute, as the walls crumbled around them; “Hey, wait a minute! These Americans are fighting awfully hard and awfully strong for the ‘weak, paper tigers’ we were told they are. I should have listened to my mother and been an accountant.” It’s an incredible feeling to be there, thinking about the history of the building, and walking in the footsteps of so much hatred; I mean, we’re walking down the halls with our video camera rolling, cracking jokes and meeting people, while just two years ago the people in these hallways would have killed us on sight simply because we’re Americans. People can say all they want about “war is not the answer,” but when it replaces dogmatic brainwashing like what existed in these very rooms it’s a damn good answer in my book. Outside the Last Stand (That’s what they call it around here, I think that makes it sounds like some kind of night club; “Last Stand, are you ready for Rick Springfield!?!!”) we meet some Special Forces guys on their Hummer. We ask if we can get a picture with them, and they say sure. We’re lining up in front of the vehicle and they say “Hey, jump up on the hood here!” I don’t know if they’re supposed to let us do that, but we jump up. “Then they say “Hey, one of you get up here in the turret by the 50!’ (50-caliber machine gun) I’m pretty sure they’re not supposed to do that, but we clamber up and around. Then they say, “Hey, you want to hold our weapons?” Now, I KNOW they’re not supposed to do that, but there we were; 5 comedians on a Hummer in Afghanistan, one wearing a Kevlar helmet, two with loaded M-16’s, and one holding the mounted 50 caliber machine gun. I’ve never felt safer in my life. O’Brien looks as if he’s not sure this is OK, but he also seems to know not to question Special Forces guys. One thing about Kandahar I must discuss is the dust. I’ve seen pictures of the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma, and now I know how those folks must have felt. There are piles of dirt everywhere, in every corner of every room. Not almost everywhere, EVERYWHERE. Being civilians we’re issued surgical masks to wear around camp; at first I don’t think I’ll wear mine, but after while…at least a good 5 minutes…I strap that baby on. Even at that it’s difficult to breathe. Our bags are closed, but there’s still dirt covering every piece of clothing we have. Our room was not exactly the Ritz in the dark, but in the daylight with the inch of brown covering the entire room and all of its contents, it’s even worse. I haven’t felt this dirty since I shook Carrot Top’s hand and told him I was a big fan. They tell us you get used to it after a few weeks, but I can’t imagine how; watching these folks jog around the base and work out is difficult; staying in shape is hard enough, but how do you do it when you’re breathing air with worse quality than LA? Every day I see these folks, and every day my respect for them grows more and more. The show is again a huge hit. This is as close as we can get to the actual front as civilians - any closer and we’d be taking fire every day – so any break they can get is golden to them. Another outdoor show, another overflow crowd. There are people on top of Hummers in the back, up in trees across the road, and on the roof of the Chapel across the way. Yes, we were across from the Chapel, and the Chaplain was at the show. At some point in the night he walked, we’re pretty sure it was during Burton’s set. Nothing like telling dirty jokes in a combat zone while staring at the silhouette of a Chapel to make you feel like a heathen, let me tell you. (I think I need to say about a thousand rosaries when I get home. Either that or just look for some good oceanfront property in purgatory.) There is one small difference between this show and all of the previous shows; as I told you the soldiers must carry their weapons at all times, so we’re performing for a fully armed and loaded crowd. Nothing will make you re-think a joke that a critic with a gun. (You didn’t like me making fun of Michael Jackson? OkeyDokey! I’ll make it up to you! Here’s the entire dance scene from the Thriller video! And a one, and a two…”) At the autograph session afterwards, each one of them tells much the same story we’ve heard at the other places; thanks for coming out, you guys were great, I can’t tell you how much this means to us. I don’t know about the others, but I did notice even more of a sense of gratitude from this group; it makes sense that the closer we get to the action, the more appreciative they’ll be. As they disappear after the show and night falls again on Kandahar, I finally hit the full realization of what I’m doing here. All along I knew I was going to help the troops, to say thank you to them in my own way, and to give them a taste of home from halfway around the globe. Now it dawns on me that there’s a distinct chance the 5 of us will be the last show some of them ever see. They could very well walk away from the stage with our autographs, get called by their unit 10 minutes later, head out into the bush, and never come back. The full magnitude of it is an odd feeling, a mixture of pride and sadness I’ve never experienced before. Comedy has taught me many things, but this is not a lesson I was expecting. I ask everyone again about morale and the locals, and the answers are similar, but this is a different place. Morale is high, and while each of them tells us that while they’re rather be at home, they realize the fastest way to make that happen is to get rid of the Taliban. It’s common sense; the best way to get out of a war zone is to eradicate the people who started the war. Since it’s an actual combat zone no one is permitted to leave the base; consequently they’re knowledge of the locals is limited. However, this is one of the places where locals are permitted to work on the base, so we get to talk to some of them directly. They’re thrilled that the Taliban is gone, and that the Americans are here. Working on the base is an opportunity for them to improve their lives, a chance to earn a living not possible before. The oppression that existed over here was complete; no one was allowed to get an education or earn money; total and complete dependence on the Warlords and Taliban was the way of life, and they’re so happy to have Western opportunity. Even in the most oppressive of regimes, such as the Taliban or the former Soviet Union, word of freedom still leaks in; once people hear a rumor of freedom, they begin to wonder about freedom, and once they being to wonder about freedom, it’s only a matter of time until the oppression is ended. For the Afghanis who existed under the Taliban for so long, that time is now. The fact that I am actually here to see it in person is an experience I’ll cherish, and is exactly what I came here for: to see it for myself and form a more informed opinion. September 11, 2003 We
return from our show in Kandahar and get to our fabulous accommodations at the
airport Hilton (bombed out division). After
beating the Cobras out of our shoes and wiping the top 3 layers of dust from our
food, we settle in for a long winter’s nap.
Why we were foolish enough to think we’d be able to sleep through the night, I have no idea.
About an hour later (Just when the dream cheerleaders are starting to
lock and load) our escort Bill O’Brien comes in and informs us that there’s
good news and bad news: the good news is we have a flight to Bagram; the bad
news is that it leaves in an hour, and due to an odd quirk we have to check our
luggage with Lufthansa. So once again we pack up our bags and head to the airfield
for an overnight flight. Crammed
onto a C-130 along with several scary looking Romanian troops and a monster
vehicle carrying at least 8 rockets (“No, bouncing them around like this
won’t set them off! Just try to
relax! Ha Ha!”), we swerve our way around the mountains and onto Bagram Air Field,
which is the center of operations for the entire Afghani theater.
The light is coming up as we land. Today
is September 11, and I can tell I’m not the only one – civilian or military
– that’s not on a higher alert. A hop, skip, and a combat landing/lost lunch later we’re on the ground. Our contact is another civilian from the Department of Defense, John Senatore, and he meets us as we wander around near the airstrip, delirious from lack of sleep and longing for the Steigenberger hotel in Frankfurt…or even the C’Mon Inn in Tunica, Mississippi. John informs us that we’re just in time for breakfast, and that they have a full day of activities planned for us. We’re operating on no sleep for several days, but we’re in Afghanistan so how can we pass up the chance to see….whatever it is they’re going to show us? Bagram
is an air field with a strong Air Force presence, but it also has a ton of Army
personnel as well. Once we’re done signing
the bomb (Being Jewish, Burton writes some remark about the bomb being Kosher)
we’re taken on a tour of the Army side of the base, which includes a stop at
the Operations Center. Inside a
maze of pictures and screens we learned how the commanders here at Bagram
communicate with the soldiers at the firebases and out in the field. Of course we didn’t learn any specifics, but even in
general terms it was interesting; seeing how intel travels back in from the
field via satellite or voice and then is transferred to the proper person in the
command center, where it is analyzed and used to form official orders to send
back to the men and women facing down the enemy is incredible, and it happens
faster than you can microwave popcorn. Far
more communication than I imagined was done using laptop computers, which struck
me as odd. I’m not sure what I
was expecting, but as someone with only marginal computer skills I’d always
imagined the military to be far ahead of wherever I am in technology.
Somehow, seeing the war being programmed on the same type of machine I
use to write jokes involving the word “doodie” just seemed a little off.
After the Operations Center we were supposed to see the inside of a
helicopter, but the Chinooks we were going to see were called out on assignment.
As politely as possible, we asked if we could fire rockets from the
Apache choppers, but for some reason we were told no. Instead we got to attend a
real live Army base barbecue, just like you see in the movies.
Nothing fancy mind you, but eating hot dogs and hamburgers with the “Muldoons,”
as their Major called them, was neat. It
was almost like being at home for awhile, and having a barbecue with the
Andersons next door…except the Andersons have a fully armed Blackhawk
helicopter in their yard, and all of their kids wear Army fatigues and carry
weapons. (By the way, it is called
a “weapon,” not a gun. I was
told, “Guns are on Navy ships.”) (I was also told that the “This is my
rifle, this is my gun” scene from Full Metal Jacket, while not completely
accurate, is not Hollywood Magic either, if you get my drift.)
Talking with these soldiers, we see once again that we are a taste of the
U.S. for these folks, and a reminder of why they’re here risking their lives.
As much as seeing them makes us want to do our job better, it seems that
seeing us makes them focus a little more as well.
I take the opportunity to ask all of them about morale, and the same
answer comes back from each and every one: morale is fine, they want to get the
job done so they can come home. It
seems the more people I ask this question, the less chance there is of hearing a
different answer. If you’re
counting, that’s Truth 4, Media 0. Later in the afternoon we’re informed of a great honor. There is to be a ceremony in the main compound, a Retreat in remembrance of September 11, and we’re invited to attend. There are ceremonies all over the world marking the two year anniversary of the acts of cowardice, but apparently the one here at Bagram will be broadcast on Good Morning America. Though it only lasts roughly 15 minutes, the seriousness and sadness of the ceremony cannot be overstated. The international press corps, several hundred soldiers, and ourselves were in the courtyard, and once the ceremony began it was complete silence. You could look at the faces of each of the soldiers in attendance and see they were not just here because it was their shift; they fought for the honor of being in that courtyard; the emotions on their faces were real. The base Chaplain gave a reading and the base commander gave a stirring speech. The American flag was raised, then lowered to half-mast while a bugler played Taps, and there were few dry eyes in the house. Every soldier stood rigidly at attention, and when a bagpiper played Amazing Grace, the few dry eyes left were gone. Standing among those men and women, in the very place where the evil and terror of September 11 was born, was an emotionally earth-shattering event. It was a once in a lifetime experience, and something I’ll never forget. As an American I will always remember the looks on the faces of these soldiers as they stood in formation today. They are etched in my mind as vividly as the images of the World Trade Center collapsing. Today is September 11, 2003. That day was September 11, 2001. The two are now forever connected in my memory bank. Guy In Crowd: Why are you talking about bread? What are you, French? Kevin: French?!? Do I look like I’m running away? September 12, 2003 It’s September 12 and we’re
supposed to have a day off before heading to Pakistan.
I know you’re jealous, and who wouldn’t be? (No Way! A day of R&R
in Bagram, Afghanistan? It’s better than Dollywood!
I want to ride the Camel!) However,
after our short time “in country” we’ve learned that these men and women
need entertainment; the 5 of us are a brief interruption of the daily grind in
which they live. Carrying an M-16
to dinner every night and dodging bullets can wear you out, and our little dog
and pony show provides a battery re-charge for them in its own small way.
Knowing this, we’re not surprised when John Senatore informs us another
show has been added. What is a bit
of a surprise is that the show is not at Bagram, it’s up the road in Kabul,
and that we have to drive to get there. Immediately events from the news
pop into my head, as New Kabul Road seems familiar in an ominous way.
I ask about the safety of the drive, and I’m told it’s fine; it’s
Old Kabul Road where all the bad stuff happens.
(Yeah, Old Kabul Road…that neighborhood has really gone downhill, what
with the potholes, land mines and all.) We’ll
have an armed military escort on the way up there, and each of the vehicles
we’ll be riding in will have an extra soldier in it, armed to the teeth, just
in case. This is where it gets interesting, as John lays some heavy
stuff on us. Me: In case what? John: Well, you never know in a combat zone. (Closes the door to our room) Don: What’s up? John: There’s been some intel that you guys need to know about. Local sources have told us that there are 9 vehicles parked along the road with explosives in them. We arrive in Kabul safe and sound; despite being several pounds of sweat lighter that when we left Bagram. Camp Phoenix is the most heavily guarded installment we’ve visited, and once again I must re-state that THIS is as close to the fighting as a civilian can get. This is a place that takes fire on an almost daily basis; it’s in the middle of downtown Kabul (Just steps from fabulous shopping and fine restaurants, according to the travel brochure) and on our tour of the guard towers we see the locals passing within 25 feet of the perimeter. Camp Phoenix is mostly used as a training ground for the Afghan national Army – which is the group we are grooming to take the place of US forces once we leave Afghanistan – but there are still plenty of missions staged from inside these walls, and enough enemy fire to make you sleep uneasily. Standing in the guard towers in full Kevlar, watching people approach the perimeter and stare at us, I can’t help but be reminded of the stories of terrorists strapping bombs to their children and sending them to their doom. As a parent I’ve never understood how anyone could do that to their own child – how brainwashed can a person be? – and looking down at these Afghani kids it makes no more sense than before. We’re told, however, that most of the people who approach the base simply want us to throw down some water bottles; but not for the water, they take it and dump it out and use the empty bottle for…..something, no one seems to know what. It’s an eerie feeling, standing atop these towers and knowing that somewhere in the surrounding hillsides there very well could be someone watching us with binoculars, plotting the unthinkable. In case they are watching, I make some random finger gestures so they get our message. Mazan says that’s childish, then he does it too. Though I don’t have my camera available because the battery died, I still ask everyone we meet about morale and the locals, and the same answer comes back once again. 99% of the locals are so grateful for the Americans toppling the tyranny of the Taliban. Morale is fine. Everyone wants to go home, but they want to finish the job first. “I wish they’d take the gloves off and let us finish the damn job so we can get out of here,” is a common refrain. In other words, all of the folks back home quibbling about how much money should go where, and how much time should be spent on what, and “Let’s have a task force research it first,” are making this engagement LONGER, not shorter. The feeling seems to be “Hey, we’re the strongest military fighting force in the history of the world, and there’s no one who can stand up to us. If you jokers would just back off and let us eliminate the bad guys, we’d be home by Christmas.” Truth 28, Media 0. I’m starting to get a bad taste in my mouth towards the news media, and I’m wondering what agenda they’re serving, because it’s sure not the agenda of freedom. September 13-14 The morning after our show in Kabul we’re on the road early, before dawn. I thought the point of us staying in Kabul overnight was to not travel during darkness, but apparently the terrorists have a 4 AM curfew or something. Racing through the mountains in the white vans, this time with Hummer’s armed to the teeth at the front and back of our convoy, I get a different feeling than I did driving up yesterday. Yesterday was terrified excitement, this morning I’m simply tired. When we first arrived “in country” the soldiers told us that eventually we’d get used to the idea of being in a war zone, and I thought it would never happen in a million years. How could I ever get used to the feeling of possibly being under attack every second of every day? I’m a comedian, the worst thing that can usually happen to me is someone heckling or my car breaking down; now you’re telling me I’ll get used to thinking someone has me in the crosshairs of a Kalishnikov rifle? No way, I thought. Once again I was wrong. We’re speeding through the mountains on our way back to Bagram, and all I can think is “If they’re going to get us, at least wait until I’m rested.” The scenery looks different at night; for some reason it seems far less dangerous in the dark. Common sense dictates it would be the opposite, but this is Afghanistan, and common sense seems to have little place here. Lit only by moonlight, the mountains seem incapable of treachery. They could be any mountain range in the world. They're actually quite peaceful. It’s an odd feeling. We make it back to Bagram without a problem, and return to our tent. We were supposed to go to Pakistan several days ago, and it now seems more and more likely that we won’t make that trip. We’re repeatedly told that there are problems locating a flight for us, but secretly I believe it’s the activity and “chatter” along the Pakistani border that’s keeping us out of that country. I’d love to go and entertain the troops in Pakistan; they need a show as much as everyone else over here. However, if the military doesn’t think it’s safe for us to travel there, they have my full support. (The guy with the gun is always right, I say.) I keep asking the people at Bagram why wars always happen in desolate corners of the globe, and they don’t know. I suggest to them that if they want to get entertainers like us to come more often, next time they should have a war in a better location, like the Bahamas. “Hey, the Cayman Islands have been mouthing off lately, why don’t you guys go fight there?” “I think we should have a war in Aruba!” We swear a solemn oath that we’ll stay and do as many shows as are needed for our military in Acapulco, because we’re that dedicated. Later that afternoon we ask to do more shows. We’re here, we might as well entertain someone. We end up doing two shows for special groups. The first is for a group called the “QRF,” or Quick Reactionary Force. There are three units who alternate in the QRF, for a week at a time. The QRF is a unit who stays in one bunkhouse right off the airstrip, at the ready, 24 hours a day for a week at a time. They literally are the first ones into the bush if something comes up, and must be ready to go in less than 5 minutes. This being the case, they obviously could not attend our show in Bagram two days earlier, so we decide to go to them and do a show. Standing in a hangar right next to the airstrip, we tell our knock-knock jokes as they ring us in a semi-circle on the ground. It’s interesting doing a show with a fully armed Apache helicopter 20 feet behind us, and aircraft are constantly landing and taking off from less than 100 yards away. For my fellow comedians out there reading this, being heckled by a C-130 cargo plane is impossible to come back from; there’s no witty retort to 380 decibels of “WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” Well, at least WE didn’t find one. Veins in my neck bulging, I scream out a good set, and the QRF guys really seem to enjoy themselves. We receive a tour of their building and have time for shaking their hands, and then it’s back to the regular base area, and dinner. We’ve been in Bagram for so long now people know us by sight. When we walk into the dining facility (or DFAC, as it’s called), I keep waiting for one of the guys working the serving line to yell “Norm!” (That one is for all of my fellow "Cheers" fans out there.) On our way to dinner we receive exceptional news. We’re walking down the road towards the DFAC and the captain who gave us the tour of the A-10 Fighter Jet several days ago stops us. Here’s the conversation exactly: Captain: Hey guys, you’re still here! Us: Yep, we’ve been held over by popular demand. Captain: I’m glad I ran into you. I wanted to tell you we dropped your bomb this morning. Us: The one we wrote on? Captain: Yeah, that jet went out on a mission this morning and dropped it in the mountains near the Pakistani border. Us: No way! Did it hit anything? Captain: I’ll put it this way, we did well. After the rest of the chit-chat the Captain walks away, and we can’t stop high-fiving each other. We’re so thrilled that “our” bomb was used and did some good by taking out Taliban we can barely walk straight. It’s not as if we had anything directly to do with it, but when you write on a bomb you develop an attachment to it, I’ve learned. As I’ve said, I’m not a violent person, but the thought of a Taliban or an Al Qaeda getting creamed by our bomb makes me giddy. These are the people who planned September 11, 2001, the attack on the U.S.S. Kohl, the Khobar Towers attack, the African Embassy bombings, the first World Trade Center attack, and on and on and on. They’re the ones responsible for over 3,000 innocent civilian deaths in New York and Washington two years ago. These are the people trying to undo centuries of amazing advancements in freedom and technology by the West, and the thought that I played even a small part in eradicating them is incredible. The last thing some Al Qaeda saw before he departed this earth was “Go Browns” coming at him at 6,000 MPH. Beautiful. After dinner we’re told we’ll be doing a show for the Special Forces, in their camp. Special Forces are a separate group from the rest of the soldiers here in many ways. They have their own secure camp inside the Bagram camp, they can wear civilian clothes, and the can have facial hair for men and long hair for women. The show is kind of weird, as our sounds system consists of a headset microphone attached to a Humm-Vee parked right behind us. It’s the system they use for psychological warfare; they drive through the towns and say things over the speakers to try and demoralize the enemy and/or draw out some informants. The sound cuts out continually, and although it seems like the crowd is having a good time, the show has an odd feeling to it. We’re standing on a downslope of gravel, and the only lighting is two track lights that have been strung from inside one of the buildings and laid at our feet. We look like some sort of half-crazed motivational speakers at a Ramada banquet hall, or like we’re about to ask for donations to the church of the hoony-goonies or something. Night falls about halfway through the show, and since the entire crowd is made up of Special Forces, we’re not sure when they left. They could have all been disguised as trees for all we know. After the show we hang out with a few of the troops, then head off to our tent for sleep. A few hours later, nature called me…if you get my drift. After using the facilities I was walking the roughly 100 yards or so back to our tent when an explosion occurred. As I said, at this point we had been kind of desensitized to them, so I thought little of it until I noticed two soldiers heading for and entering the bomb shelter in the middle of the compound. I consider myself an intelligent person, but I will always defer to specialists in certain situations, and this was one of them. Figuring that trained military personnel knew more than I did about bombs and how to avoid them, I ducked into the shelter as well. They were busy discussing the possibilities of what may be happening, so I didn’t interrupt. (I was waiting for them to get to the part about how we would be just fine, but it never happened.) We never spoke, and they never acknowledged my presence; I don’t know if they even knew I was there. After about two minutes they decided that it was nothing, and left the shelter. I gave it another minute or so (Just to be safe) and then finished the walk to the tent, where none of the other comics had even awakened. (I told you, you get deadened to it after awhile.) I said not a word to any of them the next day about what happened; it didn’t seem appropriate. Later I found out that the explosion in question had been a rocket that landed in the British compound. I don’t know if there were any casualties. What I do know is it was about the most heart-pounding two minutes of my life, and I’ll never forget it. September 15 The next day we learn that our trip to Pakistan has been completely cancelled. We’ll be leaving Bagram and heading out of the combat zone, arriving in Qatar sometime in the next day. We’ve done shows for everyone on the base, so we basically have a free day. A few hours later we’re told that a group of Canadian soldiers are going to the rage for target practice, and that we can go with them. Again, this reaches 4,000 on the cool-o-meter scale of 1 to 100. What we didn’t know until we left is that the target range is outside the walls of the camp, on the ground in actual Afghanistan. It’s the same drive as when we went to Kabul, except after 5 miles or so we turn off the main road and head out into the bush on a dirt track, heading directly towards (no kidding) a Bedouin tent-village and a herd of camels. We take pictures and video of the camels, which look pretty much like the ones in the zoos back home. As the soldiers set up the targets the Colonel of the group says that the locals from the tent-village will wander over eventually out of curiosity, more on that later. We receive some basic safety instructions and are then each assigned to one of the soldiers for further training. It’s sort of a tutor-student relationship, except that the tutor has the ability to kill you at any moment. My tutor is actually one of the German troops that are in Bagram, and he's a really cool cat. I therefore am not firing the M-16 like the other comics, but the German equivalent; I can’t recall the name of the weapon exactly, so let’s just call it “Ed.” Ed and I develop a special relationship, which basically consist of me pulling Ed’s trigger and Ed poking me in the shoulder. I’ve never fired a gun before in my life, so it’s all new to me. I learn how to insert the magazine and pop it into place, to work the first round into the chamber, turn off the safety, and make the other comics scream because I forgot to point the rifle downrange BEFORE I turned off the safety. (I told you it was the first time I’ve ever done this, what do you want from me?) Lining up the laser sight is fairly simple, and we get to take our first shots at the targets. After ten rounds everyone hands off their weapon and we look at the targets to see how we did. I hit the target 10 times out of 10, so I’m pretty proud of myself. (OK, so 8 of them were well below the “ring” targets in the center of the target and more down around the groin area….but I think if I hit someone in that region 8 times my job has been done. Yes? Thought so.) After a couple of more practice rounds we have a shooting contest among the comics. Basically it consists of each comic and their trainer running across the road, setting up at a designated spot, firing 2 rounds at each target, releasing the magazine and inserting a new one, firing two more rounds at each target, and then lowering the weapon. The combination of the best time and the best target score is the winner. When it comes my turn I’m fired up. At the word go, I tear across the road with Ed and my German tutor, screaming like a banshee. (I don’t know if the screaming helped at all, but I always see them do that during training in the Army movies so I do it anyway. In all likelihood the soldiers were shaking their heads and thinking “What a dweeb.”) I do well in the time aspect, but again most of my shots went lower than the rings. For some reason I have a tendency to shoot the targets in their…..well, “South of the border,” if you get my drift. Maybe my eyesight needs to be checked. Maybe it’s subconscious because I’m a guy and that’s always been a “kill zone” in my mind. I don’t know. In any case, the crown in our challenge goes to Steve Mazan. We tell him that if during this trip we ever get in any trouble, he’s the one that’s going to get the weapon. Then we all silently pray we never get into any trouble. As the contest was going on, two things were happening. The first is that the Bedouins did indeed wander over. Two Afghani men are hanging around the fringe of the contest, watching. One of the soldiers tells us that they’ll try to pick up the spent shells after we’re done, to either use the metal to build something in their home or to sell/trade it in the village. This is indeed the case as the two men try to scrape up as many as they can. Watching them gives me a strange feeling that is twofold; first it makes me sad that there are people who need to resort to such measures to try and feed their families. Second, I see once again that parents are parents no matter where in the world you are; a parent will do anything – ANYTHING – to try and provide for their children. Many people die here while trying to disassemble a land mine and take the excess metal to trade for things in the village. It once again reinforces that there is no doubt America is doing there right thing by being here; until we came these people had no hope of ever getting out of these conditions. Now you can see the hope in their faces that this will all soon end, and freedom will lift them and their children to a new level of reality. America is an empirical monster? This is a political war? I don’t think so, jack. Sell that load of crap someplace else, because I’ve been to the mountaintop, and I’m not buying it. The second thing going on during the contest was that a dust storm was beginning. No, I mean a DUST STORM. After our contest the soldiers take their target practice, and they are much better than we are at hitting the target. (In all fairness, I think we probably tell better knock-knock jokes than they do, but it seems a tacky time to bring it up.) By the end of their session, we can’t even see the targets, the dust is so thick. I’ve never seen anything like it. The Bedouin village was less than 100 yards away and it’s gone from sight. The huge mountains were about a mile away, and they are completely obscured. I have to go to the night-vision shot on my video camera to even see the other comics less than 10 feet away. It’s an incredible experience, once again seeing how helpless we really are in the face of the power of Mother Nature. Humans are going to destroy the planet? Not a chance. It seems more than a little egotistical to think we have more power than God in that area. We roll back to Bagram at blinding speeds of up to 4 MPH, and learn we have just enough time for a shower before we need to head to the airstrip and fly out. Saying goodbye to Bagram was a mixed bag of emotions. We know we’re leaving the war zone for safer places, but we’ve been here so long it almost seems like we’re leaving behind a family member. As we wait for our plane many of the other soldiers also waiting for travel talk to us and tell us what a great show we did the other night. The appreciation in their voices is just as strong as it was after the actual show, and it once again makes me feel good about what I’m doing here. I’m tired, I’m dusty, but I’m a proud American. September 16-23 The remainder of our trip is spent outside the war zone, in the countries of Qatar, Bahrain, and United Arab Emirates. They are fascinating places, but after the intensity of Afghanistan they seem…..well, less intense. (I use words for a living.) Since we’re not in a war zone we’re allowed outside the bases, and we soak up the local cultures, by which I mean we eat out a lot and buy souvenirs from street vendors. The Westernization of these countries is well underway, and everyone we talk to loves it. It’s happening in a way so as not to infringe upon centuries of Arab culture and history, but to co-exist with it in an enhancing manner. The food is spectacular; the scenery amazing, and the historical significance of the region is impressive. After the stories I’ve told from the war zones I won’t go into many of the individual things we encountered in these beautiful countries. After all, how interesting is “Mike saw a snake on the golf course in Bahrain,” or “We took a picture by a McDonalds sign in Qatar advertising a sandwich called the ‘McArabia?’” (Seriously. No, really. It’s on my picture page. I swear.) So I won’t go into details of that. I will, however, tell you something I learned from the entire time I spent in these places. When people ask me “Why does the rest of the world hate The United States?” I’ll have a simple answer: They don’t. Everywhere we went, the vast majority of people love America, and love the advances that American technology and businesses have made in their lives. It’s not PEOPLE who hate The United States, it’s GOVERNMENTS. Why? Simple: American influence is no more than freedom and free markets. The introduction of freedom is a direct threat to the personal power and wealth of those Governmental officials. Anything that threatens their personal power they hate. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. Don’t preach to me from academia about the complexities of why this hated exists, because it really is that simple. Period. (Now before some of you hit me with “Then why are there all of these demonstrations around the globe? Huh!?!” Of course there are some people who hate The United States. You can find SOME people who will believe anything. After all, there are people out there who believe “Jake And The Fatman” was a great television show. There’s no accounting for stupidity, I guess. As incredible as the entire experience was, I’ve never felt better than when my flight hit the ground in Chicago. Seeing my wife and my little girl was joy beyond words. As I finish typing this in the office of my house, it’s difficult to believe where I was just a few days ago. In the past three weeks I’ve been to Germany, Russia, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Qatar, Bahrain, and United Arab Emirates. Now I’m back in the greatest country in the history of the world, and in three days I’m off to Sioux City, Iowa to tell booger jokes. God Bless America. |