by Chely Wright
I walked to the other side of the hotel, the side that faced the beach. The night before, when we had arrived, I hadn’t actually seen the beach, but since I could hear it and smell it, I knew it was there. It was already about 95 degrees outside, and since I was in shorts I decided to get in the water. I kicked off my shoes and walked in up to my waist. I’ve always fancied it idyllic to immerse myself in bodies of water all over the world. It makes me feel connected and whole. Perhaps it prompts an old memory I have of being baptized so many years ago.
All of the artists, the journalists, and the tour coordinators were in high spirits as we boarded our buses. There was an instant camaraderie within the group, and for the most part no one expected to be treated any differently than anyone else. We were divided into about five different groups of three celebrities each. My group for the day was Alyssa Milano, Brittany Murphy, and myself. We signed autographs, shook hands, and got our pictures taken with hundreds of troops and many of the top brass too. An army captain was assigned to our group with the single task of reminding us to drink water. It was 120 degrees outside, with zero humidity, and it is common to suffer dehydration in those conditions. Our captain told us early in the day that if you start to feel thirsty it’s too late. You’ve got to hydrate whether you think you need it or not.
The next day, before we boarded our C-130 at Camp Arifjan in Kuwait, we were each given a Kevlar helmet and a flak vest and were informed that these items would be ours for the remainder of the trip. Donning body armor to enter a war zone has a way of yanking a person into reality. It was explained to us exactly what we should do in the case of an emergency aboard our aircraft. Traveling in a military C-130 airplane is nothing like flying in a commercial aircraft—there isn’t a lot of small talk because it’s loud and everything seems to rattle. I positioned myself near one of the few windows in the cargo area so I could see what was below. As we approached for landing, I could see a primitive base and I noticed a large crowd of people gathered in a central location. I wondered what they were doing out there in the scorching early-afternoon sun—maybe it was some kind of training exercise. I was hopeful that some of them might be able to break away from their exercise and come say hello during our autograph session.
When we got off the plane in Tallil, Iraq, we were welcomed by the officers on the ground. In a matter of minutes, we were escorted off to wherever it was we were supposed to be. I started to hear the murmur of a crowd, and just as our group turned a corner around the tall concrete barricades, I realized that we were headed straight for the crowd I’d spotted from the air. There were hundreds of troops, standing with no tent above their heads, giving their full attention to a big stage in front of them. There was no equipment on the stage except for a sound system, and I wondered what event had just occurred.
Wayne Newton, the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, and I were led into a small room behind the stage and the artists’ “people” were being informed of the situation. These troops had been standing in the sun for several hours because they were told that we were coming to Tallil to put on a concert for them. The gentleman who was supposed to have done the coordination of the visits from base to base asked Wayne Newton and me what we thought we might be able to do as far as putting on a show.
Wayne and I looked at each other, amused, and responded with a laugh. We explained to him that we had no instruments, no musicians, no audio monitor engineers, and that without those things, we couldn’t possibly do a show. We were concerned that the troops had been misinformed and that they’d cooked in the heat during the most dangerous part of the afternoon. The head of the USO, Ned Powell and his wife, Diane, were part of our entourage that day, and I’m sure that our tour coordinator was upset that his boss was seeing this huge mistake.
Someone went onstage and admitted the blunder to the crowd. The troops weren’t angry, just disappointed. The bearer of the bad news gave them a little hope, though, by telling them that we didn’t know exactly what was going to happen onstage but the performers were bound and determined to do something to entertain them.
We collectively felt that we should lead with a performance that had the best chance of winning our audience back—the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. The soundman put on a CD of one of the songs that they routinely used in their shows, a high-energy dance number. The troops went crazy.
Wayne Newton happened to have a track on disc with him that was the background music for a recitation that he is known to do during his show. The soundman put on the CD over the loudspeaker and Wayne spoke his poem aloud as the track played behind him.
I, on the other hand, didn’t have backing tracks. For the most part, professional country singers don’t sing to tracks. I always had at least a guitar player with me, but there wasn’t even a guitar onstage. Had they had a piano out there, I could have performed most any song they wanted to hear.
So, during Wayne’s performance, I grabbed a couple of the low-ranking guys in uniform and asked if either of them owned a guitar. “No, ma’am,” they responded in unison. I asked them if anyone on that base had a guitar. “I believe so, ma’am.” I told them the situation I was in and how much it would help me out if they could locate an acoustic guitar for me. They replied, again in unison, “We’re on it, ma’am.”
Wayne was still onstage, and even after he’d performed his recitation, he talked to the crowd. I was hoping that there would be a guitar out there and that it would be brought to me before Wayne stepped offstage. Not that I was really that comfortable playing a guitar, I knew only a few chords, but I knew I could get by. Without a minute to spare, my guitar hunters returned with their bounty of two acoustic guitars. I pulled the first one out of its flimsy cardboard case and found it in pretty bad shape, having only four out of the usual six strings, plus it seemed the heat had left it badly warped. The second guitar had all six strings and looked as if it had one or two more songs left in it.
While Wayne wrapped up his time with the crowd, I scrounged up a pencil and a rubber band. I broke the pencil in half and used the rubber band to affix it to the neck of the guitar to function as a capo so I could play my songs in the correct keys for me to sing.
I stepped onstage just as Wayne was walking off. I imagine that from the audience it looked smooth and seamless, though it was anything but. Since I had no guitar strap and I’d have to play sitting down, I asked a soldier to walk onstage with me and bring a folding chair. Then I invited one of the men from the crowd to come up and hold the microphone for me to sing into.
I gave my disclaimer to the sand-covered crowd that I wasn’t really a guitar player, but that I’d do my best. Then I sang “Shut Up and Drive,” my first hit record in country music. Much to my pleasure, a fair number of people sang along. I was the first entertainer to play and sing live for the troops in Iraq after the fall of Saddam Hussein, and I am proud of that. It wasn’t a particularly good performance, but they knew that it came from my heart. After I sang, I mentioned that my brother had been right there, in Tallil, months before with his detachment of HMH-464. When I said those letters and numbers, there was a huge roar from a portion of the crowd. I don’t know if they were guys assigned to HMH-464 or if they had a similar military occupational specialty, also known as their MOS. Whatever it was, their response made me feel even more connected and fortunate to be the one onstage at that moment.
The next day we did a show in Kuwait. The music artists did their thing, but the actors, comedians, models, and athletes participated onstage too.
The night before we were scheduled to fly into Baghdad, I couldn’t fall asleep. I just kept imagining what it would be like. Would we really be safe? Would it look like Tallil? I did end up getting a couple hours of sleep, but was awakened again by the sunrise chanting.
Not everyone was scheduled to go into Baghdad on that day. About half of the group was to be choppered out to a U.S. aircraft carrier somewhere in the Persian Gulf. The rest of us were headed north, to Baghdad International Airport, a.
k.a. BIAP. BIAP had been the Iraqis’ civilian airport before the occupation, but it was now the hub of activity for the Coalition forces in the region.
I was beginning to connect with a few people on the tour and was excited that most of my new pals were the ones with whom I’d be traveling to BIAP.
I loved Jesse James, the guy who has a television show called Monster Garage. He was 1aid-back and a gentleman. Kid Rock was so easy to like too. Yes, he’s a bit of a bad-boy renegade, but there is a paradox to his persona. He is a sweetheart, in tune with his fans and disciplined in many ways. I have tremendous respect for him. John Stamos and his then wife, Rebecca Romijn, were part of the tour too. They showed a great concern for the troops and gave them their undivided attention. Gary Sinise, whom I also came to know on that trip, is a patriot in every sense of the word and has become a very good friend of mine. So some of my favorite people on the tour and I put on our gear and boarded another C-130 plane.
Our pilots performed a combat landing into Baghdad due to the potential threat of insurgent fire from the ground. A combat landing is when the pilots maneuver the aircraft in random ways—up and down, side to side—to make it more difficult to shoot out of the air. This type of landing can cause a bit of a sick stomach, and since I was already nervous it really did a number on me. We were greeted on the flight line by the highest-ranking officials on the base. They quickly put us into a little bus and started driving toward a large aircraft hangar. As we stepped off the bus, the first order of business was to find the Port-A-Potties, and we scurried through a maze of concrete barriers and sandbag walls like little laboratory mice.
Iraq, June 2003. The quilt we are holding was made as a tribute to some of those who died in the September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks. Gary Sinise is to my right, and John Stamos is on the other side of the quilt.
As soon as we gathered outside the latrine, we were informed that there was a problem. The man in charge of the tour turned to me and said, “Chely, we’ve got the same problem we had in Tallil. You gotta put something together quick. There are instruments onstage this time—you guys can do a show, right?” None of us had our entire bands with us. We were a bare-bones group of people who had come equipped with our black Sharpies and the intention of signing hundreds of autographs.
As we were led back through the labyrinth of concrete and sand, we concocted a plan. I said to John Stamos, “Hey, you were Uncle Jesse on that sitcom and you played guitar on the show, so you can do that, right?” He said, “No, I really don’t play guitar that well.” Rebecca, his wife, said, “Well he does play drums—he plays on tour with the Beach Boys.” So John was our drummer. When we turned the corner to walk into the aircraft hangar, we were met with a wall of heat and sound. It was about 125 degrees outside, and we were told later that day that it had been more than 140 degrees inside that hangar.
There were thousands of excited, sweat-soaked men and a few women packed in the big metal building, and there wasn’t an autograph table or a poster in sight. Instead, a big stage stood at the far end of the building, and we were shoved through the crowd for at least two minutes before we reached it. We didn’t even have time to discuss what we were going to do up there—Kid Rock just yelled out to us, “We’re gonna wing it. Let’s kick some ass!”
With Kid Rock in Qatar. 2003.
John sat down behind the drum kit, called out a count, and started playing. I don’t think he had a particular song in mind, he just seemed to know that we needed to make some noise. Gary Sinise grabbed the bass guitar, my guitar player and Kid Rock’s guitar player each found a suitable instrument, and Kid Rock and I were the singers. We were all completely drenched with sweat before the end of the first song. If Kid Rock was singing lead, I was singing his background vocals. When I sang lead, he jumped in with a background vocal.
A couple of times during the show, someone in uniform grabbed the mic and yelled out that a certain group of guys needed to leave the audience in a hurry and go do something war-related. There were actual emergency situations that had happened while we were playing—a first for those of us onstage.
At one point, while the band was playing an instrumental break in a song, Kid Rock shouted in my ear, “Do you know the song that I did with Sheryl Crow called ‘Picture’?” I told him that I’d heard it, that I knew the melody but was uncertain of the words. He said, “That’s cool. We’re gonna do it and I’m going to tell you your lines as they come.”
The crowd’s intensity never let up for the entire ninety minutes. In fact, the volume level grew. Models and professional athletes were singing background vocals, having the time of their lives. We eventually wrapped up the performance, and we all laughed when Kid Rock said, “Hey, now that was rock and roll!”
Back to the Desert
I returned to the Middle East a year later, this time with my entire band and crew. We didn’t fly in and out of Iraq every day to the safety and comfort of a posh hotel. Once we arrived in Iraq, we stayed in Iraq. I experienced more than I ever imagined I would, and it changed my life. We had days filled with excitement and fun, but when things got heavy, the experience changed dramatically.
On September 19, 2004, one of the last few days of an eight-day tour, we choppered into a remote camp in Iraq called FOB Summerall. At the time, the troops on the ground were a part of the Big Red One. During World War II, my grandfather, Sgt. Harold Henry, had served as part of the Big Red One, and in some way I felt I was honoring him by being there.
I’m not sure what kind of aircraft I’m flying in, but I’m sure it was exhilarating! Afghanistan, 2005.
After the show, a young man from Apollo, Pennsylvania, introduced himself to me as Josh Henry. I got chills and informed him that my grandfather had been a member of the Big Red One and that his last name was Henry too. Two different wars, two soldiers named Henry.
The band and I stayed and visited with the soldiers at FOB Summerall until about three o’clock in the morning.
After only a few hours’ sleep, we flew to Camp Taji to do the last show of the tour. When we landed, we were informed that Josh Henry had just been killed in action.
After the show, even though I was exhausted, I didn’t really want to go to bed. It seemed that I wasn’t alone—the band and crew weren’t headed for their bunks either. Usually, when we’re staying on a base, I sleep at a different location than the band and crew, because military bases determine sleeping quarters according to gender. Our sleeping arrangements that night at Taji were unusual; we were all assigned to stay in the same little building. It was the building of the chaplain’s office, which felt comforting on that particular night. Before we arrived, bunks were put in a couple of the small rooms in the building. There was a short hallway that connected the bunkrooms, the bathroom, and the chaplain’s office.
Once all of our equipment had been packed up after the show, the guys headed off to midnight chow, as it’s called in the military. After I signed autographs, I was taken back to the bunkhouse. One by one, the rest of our group gathered there. Within a few minutes, we all ended up sitting on the concrete floor with our backs against the plywood walls, talking about how we were feeling.
The shared emotion was one of shock. We’d all been around the world together many times, and we’d experienced a lot of situations, but this was different—this was a war, a real war. It wasn’t something on CNN being reported to us—we had stepped into the story itself.
As the men in my group talked openly, I heard something unfold in their discussion and it shrouded my emotions for a few minutes. I sat quietly as they talked about an element of this experience that had never occurred to me. A few admitted that they had often felt guilty for not serving their country in the military as their fathers, uncles, and grandfathers had done. My respect and understanding of how Josh’s death affected them, as men, grew in great measure. We’d had so much fun and excitement on the tour, but now we had been given a much different glimpse into the lives of those who serve.
We didn’t do a lot of talking as we waited for our flight, but we did stick together in a pack. Many of us had been keeping journals during the trip, so a few of us were writing and others were taking pictures. The officer in charge of us that day was a woman. I noticed that she approached our tour manager, they had a brief conversation in the corner, and then they both walked over to our group and asked us to gather around.
The twenty-something-year-old officer told us that we were about to have the sad but honorable responsibility of being aboard an H.R. flight. She had to explain to us that “H.R.” stands for “human remains.” We were given precise instructions on how to board the plane and what to do and not do during the entire flight. You could hear the collective breath knocked out of us as we listened to the officer. Her youth was juxtaposed with her solemn duty, and I could tell that not only was she emotional that a life had been lost, but she felt sorry for us that we were having this experience. After she said the words of an officer, she paused and said the words of just another person in the room. “You guys okay? I know, this sucks so bad. I’m sorry. Hang in there, you’re almost out of here.”