by Gary Sinise
In black marker, the girl had written simply, “My Daddy.”
CHAPTER 15
Flurry of Action
The first time I met Moira’s father, things didn’t go so well. Steppenwolf had just gotten under way, and we were working out of the rented church basement. I sported a mass of scruffy hair and typically wore torn blue jeans and a raggedy T-shirt. Staying true to the 1970s struggling-artist motif, I looked pretty wild. And yes, I’ll confess, my internal self mostly focused on me, my dreams, and my big ideas.
Moira’s family lived in Pontiac, Illinois, about one hundred miles south of Chicago. At one time, her dad had worked in book publishing in New York, but they’d moved to this smaller town in the Midwest where he’d entered the real estate business. He golfed at the country club, wore suits to work, and belonged to the Union League Club, a respectable men’s organization with branches in cities around the country.
They heard we were dating, so Moira’s folks drove from Pontiac to Chicago to have dinner with us. Although we’d met before, this was the first big meet-the-parents event. They wanted to see if this kid was worthy enough to be dating their daughter.
I am sure they had their doubts.
Moira’s dad made dinner plans for us at the Chicago branch of the Union League Club. Moira and I were at different places that day, so she told me when and where to meet. After working at the theater all day, I was running late. So I jumped into the car and raced downtown, still sporting my raggedy jeans and T-shirt. I had no idea what the Union League Club was. When I showed up, the maître d’ stopped me at the front door and sniffed, “Young man. You cannot enter this establishment looking like that.”
“I . . . I came all the way from the suburbs.” My voice climbed to a plea. “I have to meet my girlfriend’s parents. I’m late!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. You need a suit jacket. You can’t come in here.”
“I don’t have one. Please. They’re Mr. and Mrs. Harris. Ask them. They’ll tell you.”
The maître d’ sighed heavily. “Wait here.” He disappeared and apparently rummaged through the coatroom, because he came back with a suitcoat and ordered me to put it on. It fit tight through my shoulders and was short on my arms, but I wasn’t complaining, even when he crossed his arms and added, “You still can’t go in the front way. We’ll take you around the back.”
We walked around the building into the alley, past garbage cans and cardboard boxes. He escorted me onto the freight elevator. When the door opened at the assigned floor, he made sure the coast was clear and ushered me to the correct dinner table.
Moira breathed a sigh of relief that I’d finally made it. Her dad took one look, a bit dismayed and bewildered. Her mom bit her lip in concern. I apologized for being late and fumbled my way through the next two hours of dinner. The tone didn’t change much. When it came to my dating their daughter, let’s just say they weren’t overjoyed.
But there’s more to that story. Hang on. We’ll get to it soon.
In my office today, in our Center for Education and Outreach, we keep something we call the “Call to Action” list, which has the various organizations and causes I’ve supported since 9/11. What cheers me most is that it reflects the number of strong organizations that have come together to stand behind our nation’s defenders and first responders. We truly are a country that gives back. And I never want America to lose this drive.
The groups on that Call to Action list focus on issues as varied as the personalities of the people we help. Some initiatives directly help active-duty service members. Others support the wounded. Some shine a light on veterans’ families. Others entertain the troops and boost their morale. Still others honor veterans from wars past. Beginning in 2003, my aim became to do as much as I could, as fast as I could, with as many organizations as possible, to benefit as many people as possible. I want our nation’s defenders and first responders never to be forgotten. What follows are just a few stories from those years.
In 2005, I got a call from my buddy, actor, producer, and director Joe Mantegna. He’s appeared in everything from Three Amigos to The Godfather Part III, and we have a lot of mutual friends. And both of us grew up in Chicago. Each year since 2002, Joe has been a part of the National Memorial Day Concert in Washington, DC. He knew I was working with the USO, so in 2005 he asked me to be a part of the concert too. They were doing a segment on the history of the USO and wanted me to bring my band to be part of the segment. I said yes immediately.
If you’ve never seen it before, the ninety-minute concert is all about honoring our nation’s defenders, their families at home, and those who have made the ultimate sacrifice. The concert is free and held annually on the West Lawn of the United States Capitol Building the night before Memorial Day. Music is performed, documentary footage is shown, and dramatic readings are presented. It’s all broadcast live on PBS, and it’s one of the network’s highest-rated programs. The idea is to unite the country in remembrance and gratitude for all who have served and who have sacrificed their lives. Whether by participating or watching, we as a country can say thanks—and that we do not forget.
The logistics for the Lt. Dan Band’s participation proved tricky. We were just finishing an overseas USO tour, so we flew straight from London to Washington, DC, and promptly prepared to play at the National Memorial Day Concert. We’d only been together as a band for about a year and a half, and now we were rehearsing onstage backed up by the National Symphony Orchestra. When it came our turn to perform, we played “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “God Bless the USA” along with the symphony—and the force of music in tribute to the troops pulsing from the stage felt incredible. An audience of between two and three hundred thousand people sat on the lawn, and another ten million watched on TV. As the size and purpose of the crowd washed over me, the reason for the event became unmistakable. We were here to say thank you. Period. When we finished our songs, I set down my bass, went to the microphone, and said a few words of thanks and encouragement for our nation’s defenders. And for the next ninety minutes I narrated different segments of the show.
The following year Joe asked me to cohost the show with him. I’ve been doing it every year since, plus joining in the parade held the day after. (I missed one year only, 2017, when my granddaughter was born.) Cohosting this show with my dear buddy Joe, while acknowledging the sacrifices of our military families, is one of the highlights of my year.
In 2007, I was introduced to the Congressional Medal of Honor Society, a prestigious and uniquely exclusive group of American heroes. The Medal of Honor is the highest award given to any individual serving in the Armed Services of the United States—and you receive it only for valor in action against an enemy force. Over the years, I’ve become close friends with a number of recipients. The stories of these recipients are amazing, and we need to write dozens more books to tell them all. But something happened that absolutely humbled me. Medal recipients knew about the initiatives I backed to support our troops, so they decided to give me an award. That sure turned the tables, and for a while I wondered if I could even accept such a thing. I concluded that any award for me would only help shine a brighter light on the many causes I was involved in to help our veterans. I accepted and came to a special Medal of Honor Society event in Seattle to receive their Bob Hope Award for Excellence in Entertainment. It’s given to performers who positively portray military personnel in film or theater. In my case, I received it for two reasons: my performance as Lieutenant Dan and my support of our nation’s defenders.
A year earlier, at a concert the band played called Rockin’ for the Troops put on by Operation Support Our Troops America, I’d met a Medal of Honor recipient, Vietnam veteran Sammy L. Davis. In his battle days, with a broken back and not knowing how to swim, Sammy had used an air mattress to traverse a river while under enemy attack. His actions helped rescue three wounded American soldiers. A scene in Forrest Gump shows President Lyndon Johnson placing a Medal
of Honor around Forrest’s neck. Filmmakers used original footage of Sammy and spliced Tom Hanks’s head onto Sammy’s body. We shared a chuckle about that, and over the years Sammy became a wonderful friend and today is an ambassador for my foundation.
One open door led to another. Backstage at a USO concert at Luke Air Force Base in Arizona, I met Dave McIntyre, a USO board member and the CEO of TriWest Healthcare Alliance, which provides healthcare for our nation’s military. He offered to help my mission however possible, and eventually helped pay for my band to play at various USO shows around the world. The USO only offers a small per diem for performers on tours. While I work for free, my band members all make their living by performing, and the USO per diem isn’t enough to pay their fee. So prior to Dave’s offer, I funded my band out of my own pocket or by raising funds here and there from various pals of mine. To keep my band engaged, I wanted to find as many opportunities to play as possible. Sometimes if I had a show at a military base on a Friday, I would look for a local venue to play at on a Saturday and offer to bring my band there. But the clubs do not pay enough, and I found myself having to supplement the expenses of the band, simply to give the band members an additional gig that weekend. I was feeling the strain. Dave’s generous support allowed us to play at even more USO shows.
Dave also sat on the board of the Medal of Honor Foundation and was one of their main sponsors. After the event in Seattle in 2007, Dave told me that the society was considering doing an event the following year in Los Angeles. Would I be interested in supporting it? I was immediately on board and took Dave to see the Reagan Library in Simi Valley, a fantastic, high-roofed, multiwindowed venue that allows people to sit indoors underneath the Air Force One airplane that served seven US presidents from 1973 to 2001. Dave had never been to the library before, and as it’s one of my favorite spots in the area, I knew it would be the perfect venue for the Medal of Honor event. Dave agreed, and thanks to his encouragement, I was one of three cohosts of the Congressional Medal of Honor Celebration of Freedom from 2008 to 2012. The event was a magnificent black-tie affair, and each year I was able to recommend performers from my industry to receive the Bob Hope Award for Excellence in Entertainment. I’ve made many great friends within the society over the years. I serve on advisory groups for the Medal of Honor Society and the Medal of Honor Museum Foundation and continue to do events with them each year. I feel so privileged to be part of the work of these incredible heroes.
Beginning in 2003 with trips to Landstuhl, Walter Reed, and Bethesda, visiting our wounded in military hospitals around the country became more and more frequent for me. In subsequent years, in a stream of hospital visits, I met many incredible people. Elaine Rogers, president and CEO of USO of Metropolitan Washington–Baltimore, the USO responsible for multiple USO facilities in the DC area, is a dear friend and dedicated troop supporter who has served the USO for more than forty years. Elaine and her team have accompanied me on several of my hospital visits over the years, and we have done many great events together, including our annual Salute to the Troops event where we bring dozens of our wounded from the hospitals to Las Vegas for a big morale boost.
I’ll never forget my first trip to the DC hospitals. After a bomb exploded in Iraq in July 2003, Marine Staff Sergeant Mark Graunke Jr. lost an eye, hand, fingers, thumb, and right leg. I met Mark on my first visit to the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland, on September 11, 2003, where he was recovering. He was the first wounded service member I visited on the first of many trips over the years to the DC military hospitals. He wanted to talk about Lieutenant Dan, and we shared a few stories and I sat with him for quite a while before I went on to the next room. I saw many soldiers and marines who’d been wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan—as well as in places we don’t normally associate with today’s wars. Two marines I saw were being treated on ventilation machines for malaria after serving in Africa. They were both very sick, unconscious, with tubes down their throats. Their families stayed with them in the hospital, and I sat with the families for some time. It is sobering to realize our service members can become wounded, ill, or injured in so many ways and places.
That afternoon I was at Walter Reed for the first time. I visited with so many wounded heroes that day, including the first of many triple amputees I would meet in the coming years. Just twenty-one years old, US Army Specialist Hilario Bermanis was serving with the 82nd Airborne Division in Baghdad. On June 10, just ten days before I would be in Baghdad myself, Specialist Bermanis and a fellow soldier came under attack while guarding a weapons turn-in point. A rocket-propelled grenade killed his friend and took both Bermanis’s legs and his left hand. As Bermanis lay in his bed, his father stood by his side and told me what had happened and how Hilario was from one of the tiny islands in the Federated States of Micronesia. Three years earlier, wanting to be an American soldier, he had gone to Guam to sign up for the US Army. The week after my visit, in a ceremony at Walter Reed on September 17, 2003, Bermanis was awarded US citizenship. I will always remember that first visit, meeting Specialist Bermanis and so many others, seeing this young man in a hospital bed missing three out of four limbs. It made a lasting impression on me.
In the spring of 2004, I was back at Walter Reed on a Thursday evening and learned that every Friday a local Vietnam veteran named Hal Koster hosted free dinners for wounded veterans at a nearby steakhouse. Hal sponsored those dinners himself—the bills ran into the thousands of dollars—and his motivation was simply to get our wounded vets out of the hospital for an evening to relax and enjoy a good dinner. The vets I met that Thursday invited me to attend the next day along with them in the big private room Hal provided. Not every wounded vet was able to leave the hospital, but those who could really looked forward to the evening out. I stayed an extra day. I tried to pay for my own dinner, but Hal refused. After I got home, I sent some money to Hal to help pay for one of the Friday-night dinners. From then on, whenever I visited Bethesda, I’d try to attend a dinner if I could. Hal’s actions are another wonderful example of gratitude from one of our citizens. Hal eventually named his program the Aleethia Foundation, and it’s still running to this day.
For several years, my schedule prevented me from visiting the Brooke Army Medical Center in San Antonio, our nation’s primary burn center for wounded troops. But in 2009 I made a commitment to get there and flew myself from California without the aid or invitation of any supporting agencies.
The hospital’s chaplain agreed to escort me around to the various rooms. Burn injuries are very tough. I introduced myself to each service member I met and tried to spread a bit of cheer. Troops were burned on their faces, hands, arms, legs, and torsos. Some were missing an arm or leg, or pieces of their scalp. I ordered myself not to show any reaction other than support and gratitude. One young soldier looked badly burned on her face and arm, and I met her as she walked down the hallway, tugging her IV behind her. We talked for some time, and I tried to offer a bit of encouragement. Today’s wounded troops are not only our nation’s sons, but our nation’s daughters too.
The chaplain wanted me to visit one family in particular. They were caring for their severely wounded service member, a marine master sergeant named Eden Pearl, who’d been part of the Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC). I’d met a lot of severely wounded vets by then, but the severity and extent of Eden’s wounds set him in a category by himself. His family, especially his wife, Alicia, remain some of the strongest, most courageous people I’ve ever met.
Eden was muscular, tattooed, and once sported a bushy red beard. They called him “The Viking.” Other marines knew him as an exemplary combat leader. He’d served in Kosovo from 1999 to 2001, helping to prevent ethnic cleansing. In 2003, he was one of the first marines on the ground in Iraq. He redeployed to Iraq in 2004 and 2005, then deployed to Afghanistan in 2009.
In August 2009, Eden and his unit were involved in a massive gun battle against terrorists in the area surrounding a smal
l Afghan village. The battle raged so intensely that the marines made the difficult decision to leave the village so they could return at a more strategic time. As they left, the Humvee that Eden rode in struck a hidden roadside IED, exploded, and burst into flames. An interpreter and the driver, Army Corporal Nick Roush, were killed immediately. The remaining four troops inside the vehicle received severe burns, but none as terrible as Eden. Here’s the remarkable thing. Eden was finally pulled from the vehicle and placed under a burn blanket. Still coherent, the first thing he did was ask if his troops were okay.
The family asked me if I’d go into the intensive care unit for a while to sit with Eden. I nodded, and a nurse fitted me with a gown, gloves, and booties, and placed a nylon hat over my hair. The family stayed outside while the nurse led me in. All was quiet in the ICU. My footsteps made no sound as I approached the marine in the bed.
I stood for a moment, taking in what I saw. Eden was burned on more than 90 percent of his body and was covered by bandages. Burn gel covered any exposed areas of skin. His eyes were slightly open, with burn gel covering his face. He’d suffered a traumatic brain injury and was missing both legs and one arm. I’d seen many, many badly wounded service members by then, but Eden was the most severely wounded I’d ever met. He did not move.
The nurse whispered to me that they weren’t exactly sure what Eden could hear or comprehend, but they were fairly sure some messages were getting through. I drew closer to Eden and told him he wasn’t alone, that his family was there with him, that they loved and cared for him deeply, and that as a country we were immensely grateful to him for his service.
After I finished speaking, Eden’s eyelids flickered. Once. Twice. The only movement he’d made since I walked into the room.