Never Look at the Empty Seats

by Charlie Daniels

  The houses up and down that particular street were humongous, as big as small hotels. I found out the reason why.

  A Kuwaiti can have as many wives as he wants to marry but has to treat them all the same. If he buys one a diamond necklace, he has to buy them all one. That also applies to living space, which explains the size of their houses. The more wives, the bigger the residence.

  It was said that the emir has sixty-four wives. I would think his real-estate bill was atmospheric.

  One of the things you notice is that there are big, ugly water tanks on top of these multimillion-dollar houses. The Kuwaitis, at least at that time, didn’t have their own adequate water sources and had to have it trucked in from Saudi Arabia.

  Most Kuwaitis don’t work. It’s a small country. There is enough oil money to go around, which allows them to live a life of leisure, like flipping their automobiles and leaving them beside the road.

  I don’t know where they are going, but they’re always going somewhere, zipping up and down the road, flying low, and they are by no means the best drivers on the planet.

  There is a big population of expatriates in Kuwait. The laborers work in the oil fields. Domestics do the housework. Even the clerks in the hotels are apt to be from the Philippines and keep things going, while the Kuwaitis are busy doing nothing.

  Arifjan Air Base is huge; it’s the transportation hub for most of the goods and personnel going into Iraq. We did a show for the troops stationed there one night, and the next morning we boarded another C-130 for the trip to Baghdad International.

  I’ve landed in cow-pasture-type airfields in small planes. I’ve been tail hooked and catapulted on the deck of an aircraft carrier. But I have never experienced anything like a combat landing and takeoff.

  The plane comes in high and begins a downward corkscrew approach, keeping it tight, avoiding the traditional vectors and approaches in an attempt to spend as little time as possible over enemy territory.

  We had a female pilot who flew with the Michigan National Guard, and it was apparent that this was not her first rodeo. She was a real professional and performed the sensitive landing perfectly.

  When you hit the ground in Baghdad, you don’t hang around the airport. I was whisked away in what they called an ice cream truck, and that’s what it resembled because of the big armored box on the back.

  I was quartered in one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces, a huge ornate marble barn of a building with a chandelier that probably cost half the national budget of a small country and tasteless appointments. He may have had money, but he sure could have used another interior designer.

  We never went outside the wire and off the base on the ground because of the IEDs planted in the roads. Anytime we left the base, it was always by helicopter or fixed-wing aircraft.

  The military complex in Baghdad is huge. Camp Victory, Camp Liberty, and all the smaller support facilities make up a lot of square miles, and there’s a lot of fascinating things to see.

  We would base in Baghdad and fly to the outlying bases and FOBs (forward operating bases). Our first show in country was at Camp Liberty, and something happened that night that truly touched my heart.

  I was backstage before the show in the tent we were using as a dressing room, and a soldier walked in. This guy looked like the epitome of a Rambo-type fighting man—muscles, rugged face, short cropped hair, camos, and long handlebar mustache. He carried himself with the confidence and assurance of a true warrior who could bite a railroad spike in two.

  I don’t know his purpose for coming into the dressing room, and I’ll never know why he did what he did next. But as I walked over to talk to him, he started crying. I can’t even remember if we talked. But here was one of the toughest-looking humans I had ever laid eyes on, weeping without any explanation whatsoever.

  I don’t know if seeing me brought back memories of home or elicited some nostalgic thoughts that were just too much to think about in the middle of this hellhole of a country he was risking his life in. I just don’t know, but it touched my heart and reminded me that the strongest men I’ve ever known have the capacity to shed tears. It’s a treasured memory.

  One morning we boarded a Blackhawk helicopter and headed out on an all-day trip. We would fly out and do shows at two FOBs (forward operating bases) and end up with a night show at a soccer stadium in Balad.

  Flying across the Iraqi countryside in a Blackhawk with a fifty-caliber machine gun mounted in both side doors was quite an experience.

  We flew over the city of Baghdad, a crowded beehive of a place that appeared extremely trashy and unkempt from the air. We went out into the countryside, where it was apparent how very poor the people were. They were living in primitive hovels with no infrastructure to speak of and dirt roads and mud fences.

  We flew across shepherds tending flocks out in the middle of nowhere, and it was just as if we had gone back to biblical times. It dawns on you just how backward and out of touch these people were. How they were deprived while living in an oil-rich nation ruled by an inhuman dictator who built scores of extravagant, opulent mansions around the country and created game preserves with exotic animals for his private hunts.

  Saddam’s cruelty knew no bounds. He ruled by fear and intimidation. He took the wealth of Iraq and spent it on military might and an opulent lifestyle for his family and friends while the ordinary people lived in abject poverty and terror. His two sons, Uday and Qusay, were, if possible, crueler than their demented father.

  They executed soccer players for not winning. They would send goons to the university in Baghdad to kidnap young girls, virgins, who they would spend the night raping. The next morning they would tease them because they had been defiled, which in the Islamic religion means lifelong disgrace.

  There were one-way-in, one-way-out rooms, called rape rooms, where young boys would be taken and left for Saddam’s depraved friends to have their way with. It’s always stressed that homosexuality is a sin in the Muslim religion. But every week at the military prisons where Iranian prisoners of war were being held, anal repair was one of the regular medical procedures.

  While the big bases are isolated enough, the FOBs, small facilities located in strategic areas with a small contingent of troops who carry on reconnaissance missions and work with the locals, are even more isolated.

  A lot of the shows that came into the country only hit the high spots at the major bases and never made it out to the FOBs. They were the most appreciative audiences. They were just happy that somebody took the time to come and see them, play a few tunes, sign a few autographs, and let them know how very much they were appreciated and respected by the folks back home.

  These guys lived hard. One FOB we played had just recently gotten a mess hall. They had been eating MREs (meals ready to eat) for months.

  The temperatures can rise to 128 degrees. When a soldier dons his full battle rattle, a slang name for helmet and Kevlar vest, you can imagine just how miserable it can be.

  Many of them carry pictures of their families, and I’ve seen them reduced to tears when showing a picture of one of their children.

  For some odd reason, so many people seem to think that our men and women in the military have an extra gene or emotional governor that shields them from missing their loved ones when they are away for such long periods of time. Nothing could be further from the truth. Men and women in the military love and miss their families just as much and just as desperately as any of us do.

  If there’s an extra gene involved, it’s a patriotic one. It takes a special type of human to give up the prime years of their young lives and volunteer to serve their country in hellholes like Iraq and Afghanistan, facing death and injury every day.

  That’s why when I hear some self-important, pompous politician blasting our military, my hat starts getting a couple of sizes too small and I want to put my boot to his posterior.

  One of the most sickening statements I’ve ever heard a politician make was when Harry Re
id said, “The surge isn’t working. The war is lost.”

  In the first place it was a lie, a blatant, politically motivated lie. I can’t imagine what soldiers serving in Iraq must have felt when they heard it. It’s hard to imagine how a human could sink so low just to try to accomplish some political goal.

  To get back to my story, we played a couple of stripped-down shows at FOBs. Then we headed for the soccer stadium in Balad, where our full complement of gear and sound and light systems were waiting.

  When we would finish a show on any military base, we would set up tables in front of the stage and sign autographs, take pictures, and spend a few seconds with everybody who wanted to stand in line.

  Sometimes there would be several hundred, but it made no difference. We took care of everybody before we left.

  I remember that particular night in Balad. We had a long line, and we signed, hugged, posed, and socialized for quite awhile. It’s a satisfying experience to be up close and personal with the boys and girls who sacrifice so much for us, and we relished every minute of it.

  We finished up and headed to the airfield for the trip back to Baghdad. Our transportation that night was a Chinook, one of the big double-rotor helicopters. I remember as we got on board, General Hargett commented on the newly installed armor plating on the deck.

  The flight to Baghdad was about twenty-five minutes. As we passed over Sadr City, I noticed three lights close together and shining straight up into the air. A few minutes later, I heard a ping under my foot, which I thought was just some piece of equipment on the Chinook. I later realized it was probably a bullet that pierced the skin of the helicopter and was stopped by the armor plating underneath my feet.

  Things happened so fast.

  On a Chinook there are three gunners, one on each side door and one on the rear door. All of a sudden the pilots jinked the chopper to the left and started firing flares.

  It was over in a few seconds. The crew had told us before we left Balad that they would be doing some maneuvers on the way back, and I thought that was what was going on.

  I soon found out it was much more than that. We had been attacked by small-arms fire, and at least one RPG (rifle propelled grenade) had come up almost between the rear gunner’s legs.

  The whole time I thought we were doing maneuvers; we were being attacked, and it didn’t bother me at all. Well, you know what they say. Ignorance is bliss.

  But I never actually felt in danger in Iraq. I knew it was out there, and there were people who would like nothing better than to kill an American band. But I had so many people praying for me back in Tennessee. Although I suffered some apprehension about it before I got there, it never really bothered me while I was there.

  Long ago, I memorized Psalm 91. In times of stress it is a comforting scripture. It starts out, “Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” And it goes on about how we are in God’s constant care no matter what dangers we face.

  We went to Iraq in 2004, 2006, and 2008. All three trips were unique and gratifying, with so many memories.

  I could tell you about the night in Al Asad when a sand storm came across the stage like a curtain as we played the first notes of the concert. We had sand in everything.

  I could tell you about visiting a small military hospital and seeing an Iraqi family with a young daughter being treated by an army medic. I wondered why none of the media was around to document some real diplomacy.

  I see the news reports about ISIS moving into areas I visited where there has been so much American blood spilled, where such hard-fought gains were made. Now it is all under the authority of the most bloodthirsty religious fanatics on the planet. Religious fanatics who we will one day have to destroy, or they will destroy us.

  And whether you believe the war in Iraq was justified or not, to see territory that was under US control being turned into part of the caliphate, all because one president refused to leave a small occupying force behind long enough for the Iraqi people to become strong enough to protect their country, is maddening.

  I will always treasure the time I’ve spent entertaining our troops and will always honor the service of the men and women who protect our freedom in the far-flung, desolate spots of the world.

  While I was in Iraq, I noticed that although quite a few of the troops played guitar and other instruments, in many cases they had no instruments to play and no way to replace broken or worn-out strings.

  So when we got home, I started something called Operation Heart Strings to supply musical instruments, strings, CDs, computers, and other items that would help the guys and girls pass the lonely hours while they were deployed.

  The Tennessee National Guard told us that if we could get them together, they would fly them over to Iraq and see that they got into the hands of the troops.

  My first call was to Henry Juszkiewicz at Gibson Guitar, who went above and beyond by donating one hundred guitars and grosses of strings. With Gibson’s generous donation, we were set and went on to Bridgestone, who gave us computers. Record companies donated CDs; other companies gave us keyboards and bass guitars.

  All in all, there were three cargo pallets of equipment. The national guard was as good as their word and flew the load to Iraq to provide some much-needed distractions for the men and women serving their country so far away from home.

  Almost everybody has a heart for the troops.

  CHAPTER 55

  A HEART’S DESIRE ANSWERED ON THE STAGE OF THE RYMAN AUDITORIUM

  In November 2007, we were doing a show called Christmas for Kids at the Ryman Auditorium. It’s a show to benefit underprivileged children at Christmastime, started by the drivers who drive the touring buses used by the Nashville artists.

  On a designated day and place, the tour buses meet and pick up groups of kids. They take them to a big retail outlet, where they are all given a certain amount of money and told they can buy whatever they want.

  I’m told that many of them, instead of buying presents for themselves, spend the money on their siblings at home. It’s a most worthy event and another example of the big-hearted music community in Nashville. It was for several years promoted by our friend Jimmy Jay and featured several acts and was able to raise quite a bit of money for the cause.

  On this particular night we had just finished our first two songs of the set and were about to launch into our third when a commotion started stage left and a lady came walking out onstage.

  Well, nobody interrupts our show after it’s started. I couldn’t figure out what was happening, and then I noticed that the lady making all the noise was Martina McBride. She was walking out onstage with an envelope in her hand.

  I’ll interrupt a show for Martina McBride any time. Thinking she was bringing some kind of citation or letter of thanks for us hosting the Christmas for Kids show, I turned the center stage microphone over to her.

  It was to be another one of those moments when just a few words will change your whole life.

  She said, “You have been invited to join the Grand Ole Opry!”

  Did I hear her right? Did she really say what I thought she said? At the age of seventy-one, was I really going to realize one of my longest-held and fondest dreams?

  Well, Martina was holding an envelope with the official invitation in it. So it had to be so.

  I was speechless. I’ve seen the tape that was shot that evening. I stood there shell-shocked, and it was to be several minutes before we would resume and finish our set.

  And it all happened on the stage of the Ryman Auditorium, the mother church of country music. This stage had felt the footsteps of Hank Williams, Roy Acuff, Ernest Tubb, Minnie Pearl, Bill Monroe, Eddie Arnold, and almost every country music star who had ever lived.

  The show my whole family and I listened to as long ago as I could remember—I was really being invited to be a member of that very same show, and I would be broadcast over those very same airwaves. Maybe I would be an inspirat
ion to some kid listening in some small town with the same dreams, hopes, and ambitions I had.

  We had played the Opry almost at will for the last several years, and they called on us to do it regularly. But I was not an official member, which meant that no matter how many times we played it, my name would never be enshrined along with so many of my heroes whenever the history of the Opry was written. To me, that meant a lot.

  I went home a very happy cowboy that night, knowing that one of the biggest dreams I ever dreamed was coming true.

  On January 21, 2008, we went back to the Ryman Auditorium, where Marty Stuart, Connie Smith, and Pete Fisher, the Opry general manager, inducted me into the brotherhood known as the Grand Ole Opry.

  Marty presented me with a statuette that symbolizes Opry membership and told me that the Grand Ole Opry was a family that I had just become a member of.

  The first thing I told the crowd was, “My Bible says that God will give you the desires of your heart, and you’ve seen that come true on this stage tonight.”

  Trace Adkins joined Marty, Connie, and the CDB onstage for a rousing version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken.” And then it was official. Charlie Daniels was the newest member of the longest, continuously running show on radio, the Grand Ole Opry.

  The Opry hosted a party in a big room across the street, where friends and family came by to share in the celebration. It was the last time I saw my cousin Walton alive. He had come all the way from North Carolina to be a part of the evening and passed away not long after. I’m so thankful to God that he got to come and see his cousin’s fondest dream come true.

  In the spring of that same year, I had the honor of doing the same thing to some friends of mine that Martina McBride did to me. I interrupted Montgomery Gentry’s performance to inform them that they had been invited to become members of the Grand Ole Opry.

  No matter how much success you’ve had, no matter how many records and concert tickets you’ve sold or how many guest appearances you’ve made, nothing can compare with the fact that you’ve been asked to breathe the rarified air of being a member of the Grand Ole Opry.