The critically acclaimed journalist and author of FEARLESS, A TIGHT LIE, WATER HAZARD, and DO A LITTLE WRONG authored the book that had to be written. Souvenirs is a fascinating look at one former network correspondent’s adventures. Don Dahler has a knack for making us feel like we’re alongside for a ride throughout his career, across the globe. He effortlessly weaves a word picture in such an entertaining way. There are many surprises, some laughs, and probably a few tears.
Book Reviews.
“Souvenirs from an Absurd Life” had to be written. It is an immersive quest of a journalist to tell stories from around the world through the people impacted. No one gets to do what Dahler has done. You understand Dahler’s drive to never accept what is after he breaks the nose of a bully as a child. From Iraq, Afghanistan, West Africa, Kazakhstan, Nairobi, Malawi, Uganda, just to name a few. From wars to nature to the human spirit. Dahler’s writing about the famous, the infamous and real people leave you in awe in what he has experienced. Holding the shriveled little hand of Mother Theresa, hearing a 10-year-old Serbian boy describe his mother being shot before his eyes – Dahler crying as he listened. “Oh my god,” while on live as he saw the 2nd plane hit the World Trade Center. Dahler writes, “history is rarely predictable.” His memoir is a must read. An experiential journey you will envy and understand people and the world with a little more clarity.”
Susan Zirinsky, President CBS’ SEE IT NOW STUDIOS, Former President CBS NEWS
“Souvenirs is a fascinating look at one former network correspondent’s adventures. Don Dahler has a knack for making us feel like we’re alongside for a ride throughout his career, across the globe. He effortlessly weaves a word picture in such an entertaining way. There are many surprises, some laughs, and probably a few tears. Don’s anecdotes will grab you from page 1. All I can say is, Don, thanks for sharing your “souvenirs” with the world.”
Jerry Barmash, NY Journalist and author, Here Now the News
“Like his hero, the great CBS News correspondent Charles Kuralt, Don Dahler has been everywhere, seen everything, and brought it home to viewers, and now readers, in vivid, memorable stories. Reading his terrific memoir Souvenirs from an Absurd Life is like pulling up a barstool next to a charming raconteur and staying way past closing time.”
Chris Whipple, New York Times bestselling author of The Gatekeepers: How the White House Chiefs of Staff Define Every Presidency.
“You think you know someone. And then you read their book. I’ve known Don Dahler for 25 years, and always liked the way he told stories, and connected with TV viewers. But the stories he tells in this book aren’t just about news. They’re about life. His life. From his less-than-simple childhood, to his successful career. And it turns out, Don had a powerful goal from the beginning. A goal that I think most of us wish we had staked our claim to: Doing things that are at all times interesting, and made a difference. Which is what this book does.”
Bill Ritter, WABC-TV News Anchor
“In both harrowing and hilarious detail, my old CBS News Colleague details his life inside and out of Journalism; stories too good (& bad) to be true, Forrest Gumpian moments that link him to some of the most riveting people and events of the last 40 years. Always a sage advice giver, I thought I knew Don Dahler from our years on Correspondent Row, but clearly, he saved a lot for “Souvenirs.” Come on… Donnie D… Mickey Mantle, George Clooney, Leo DiCaprio, Mother Teresa? Not to mention shark bites, a friendly Octopus, aliens & Al Qaeda? From the trenches, both war zones red carpet, and I still longed for more. Having shared a few secrets of my own, Souvenirs is an incredible romp showcasing the heart and soul of a true global journeyman! A man who knows how to “move well!” And the mystery we all hold in ourselves! You won’t be able to put it down!”
Michelle Miller, CBS Saturday Morning Anchor and bestselling author of Belonging: A Daughter’s Search for Identity
“It was an honor to have Don embedded with our battalion as we conducted operations in Iraq. He was just like another member of the team!!! I always felt comfortable with Don around when we were conducting operational planning or giving operations briefs to the commanders. I never worried about sensitive information being “leaked out”…Don was a trusted agent and always followed the guidelines. He did an exceptional job of covering our unit and telling our story to the public. We have been life-long friends for the past 21 years and I count it a true blessing to have had the good fortunes of being teamed up with Don during Operation Iraqi Freedom.”
Jim Shaver, Lt. Colonel (Ret.), U.S. Army, 101st Airborne.
“The author has done a lot in his 30-year career as an author, journalist, and network TV news correspondent for ABC, CBS, CNBC, and Fox News, including chasing a porcupine through the Namibian desert while working on a nature film and driving through Iraq with Kurdish guerrilla fighters. In his personal life, he almost sold an apartment to Leonardo DiCaprio. This memoir takes readers from his difficult childhood as a “military brat,” punctuated by confrontations with schoolyard bullies and an abusive father, through his development as a reporter. It culminates with a didactic list of takeaways from his life and career. The book’s snappy, short vignettes have eyebrow-raising titles such as “Shaq and the Black Mamba” (about an interview with basketball star Kobe Bryant) and “That Time I Almost Had To Kill A Guy,” about an episode in wartime Iraq. Dahler’s disbelief at his success, his luck, and the wild situations in which he found himself runs through many of these episodes; he introduces himself by explaining, “The fact that I was among those very few elevated to those [network correspondent] positions, for as long as I was able to hang on, is absolutely ridiculous.” Later stories, though, sometimes indulge in name-dropping, as in an account of when Ellen DeGeneres “asked if I’d be willing to donate my sperm so that she and Anne [Heche] could have a baby.” Still, his skill at injecting humor into grave situations makes his memoir worthwhile. The author’s work is at its most graceful when recalling his times in Afghanistan and Iraq with their accurate explanations of historical context, detailed recollections of high-stakes conversations with U.S. military officials, and sympathetic accounts of civilians. Bits of useful advice for aspiring correspondents also bookend his stories. A fast-paced, lighthearted reflection on an unpredictable life. “
Kirkus Reviews
“They are the souvenirs you won’t find in anyone else’s scrapbook… the child soldiers in northern Afghanistan fighting the Taliban, the soup ladies of Kazakstan who walked along side the train next to the elderly women wheel beaters who checked the banged on the train to check its stability. You can smell the soup, hear the pinging and get chills imagining the shadows of Taliban moving cave to cave in the night. I always knew Don Dahler was a great writer — he worked for me for a few years as a national correspondent for ABC News Good Morning America. His main problem at the network: he was distractingly good looking, the “elders” had trouble taking him seriously and, in fact, one day they told him they were not renewing his contract. Then fate intervened. the very next day was 9/11 and Dahler called in the studio moments after the first plane hit the World Trade Center. He was on his apartment rooftop just four blocks away. “Put me on the air.” We did, and with a phone, no camera, he began a most calm, coherent, vividly detailed, eye witness report delivered in a tone made you understand history was being made. His judgment was remarkable amidst the chaos; he didn’t report the most awful things he was seeing, neither did ABC News. Suddenly, his live extemporanious audio reporting was compared to Edward R. Murrow’s radio reports from the rooftops of London during the Battle of Britain in World War II. He garnered the respect of the hardest to please at ABC News: legendary anchors Peter Jennings and Ted Koppel. Which brings readers to the rest of his souvenirs. No assignment was too challenging, full of small details that bring the story home. Like the interview in Uzbekistan with the fifteen year-old commander, Humayun Kadim, whose father died in a Taliban rocket attack while father and son talked over a two-way radio. The Uzbek chief’s followers voted unanimously to have Humayun take his father’s place, giving him 300 soldiers, six tanks, and a BM-21 Soviet rocket launcher under his command. He told Dahler he was studying military strategy. Every experience, every “souvenir” has made Dahler a deeper, more important writer and reporter than before. “Souvenirs” not a heavy, analytical treatise on 9/11 and its aftermath. It’s fascinating, almost entertaining snapshots from far corners of the world we’ll never see, but should now understand how the sheer randomness of where we’re born matters more today than ever. “
From Shelley Ross, former Executive Producer of ABC News Good Morning America
Excerpt.
Chapter 44 – The Time I almost Had To Kill A Guy
Two hours into the drive the bearded man sitting next to me casually mentioned in halting English that President Saddam Hussein was offering $50,000 for any captured American soldier, dead or alive. He was cradling an ancient AK-47 in his lap as he said it. I couldn’t read his smile. Malevolent or kidding? Regardless, I didn’t want my next television appearance to be on Iraqi TV as the latest high- profile hostage. I slipped my six-inch knife out of my pocket and held it out of sight.
I couldn’t actually blame him for mistaking me for a soldier. I was clothed head-to-foot in U.S. Army-issued desert camouflage, complete with Kevlar ballistic vest and my dusty K-pot helmet bearing my name and blood type. As a journalist embedded with the 101st Airborne, the theory went it was actually safer to not wear civilian clothing in the combat zone, as Iraqi snipers would assume anyone doing so was CIA and thus a much more appealing target. It also made my fashion decisions much easier during the three months I spent with the Screaming Eagles as they methodically made their way from Kuwait towards Baghdad. The whole question of Louboutin pumps or Jimmy Choo flats was moot at that point. Beige heavy-soled army boots was the only footwear option available.
When we first met on a bomb-cratered street in a small town just north of the larger city of Samawah he told me his name was Jasim Madlool, a veteran of Iraq’s disastrous war with Iran that ended over a decade ago. He showed me a few puckered scars on his stomach from those good times in Saddam’s army. “Bang bang,” he chuckled, making the universal sign of pulling a trigger with his finger. It was then I noticed a fresher injury on his side, with a large grimy bandage and orange-brown stains from an apparently still-suppurating wound. I motioned to it. He responded vaguely in a mix-mash of Arabic and English. I never quite got the context. But I was hoping it was the result of an unfortunate nail clipper accident, as opposed to a confrontation with the American military.
Jasim was among a crowd of other equally hirsute observers standing around me and my little Nissan pickup truck next to a fountain in the middle of what military intelligence called “Shialand.” Micro history lesson: Saddam was a Sunni. He and most of Sunni Moslems hate Shias. The feeling is mutual. Sunnis are by far the largest Islamic sect in the world; the Shia are the majority in but a few nations, including Iran and, ironically, Iraq. The Islamic schism, as historians call it, dates back to an internecine fight between the Prophet Mohammed’s relatives about who would succeed the Prophet; his father-in-law or his son-in-law. Saddam, as President of Iraq, had considerable influence over the country’s Shia population. And by influence I mean, he could still kill them all.
By the way, the fountain wasn’t working. Neither was the truck.
It was a gift from Lt. Col. Stephen Bruch, commanding officer of the 2/502 out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky, the unit I’d been attached to since early March. The red Nissan had been confiscated from an Iraqi officer, who’d wisely surrendered rather than take on the 101st, which hadn’t ended so well for a large number of his contemporaries. Bruch’s soldiers had been slogging through Iraq on a cleanup mission, following on the heels of the 3rd Infantry Division that was sweeping north at breakneck speed. The larger armored units moved so fast that pockets of Iraqi military were passed by as they huddled in schools and basements and desert wadis waiting for the initial assault to die down. Those were the people the Strike Force brigade was after. It was hard, dirty, dangerous business – kicking in doors, street- to-street running gun battles, scanning windows for snipers, sweeping roads for mines, dodging IEDs.
I’d barely arrived in Kuwait when my wife, Katie, joyously informed me in a satellite phone call she was pregnant with our first child. Great timing on my part, right? So now, after over four weeks covering the buildup of American forces in Kuwait and the ultimate invasion of Iraq for ABC-News, and with the 2/502 staying put in the Najaf area for at least a short period, I decided it was a good time to get my tail home. Some priorities are crystal clear. Husband gone during entire crucial first trimester of pregnancy – bad. Husband stays alive in war and comes home to rub achy back and feet of pregnant wife – good. My plan was to spend a few weeks with her before rejoining the unit at a later date.
When I first broached the subject of leaving with Lt. Col. Bruch a few days earlier he suggested Doc Cranston ride along with me so he could load up with medicine and supplies in Kuwait City. William “Wild Bill” Cranston was former Special Forces who’d gone to Army Physician’s Assistant school, achieved the rank of Warrant Officer, and was reassigned to the 2/502. At least, that was the official story. In my experience those SF guys are as mysterious as they come, trained to play four-dimensional chess in the midst of a three-dimensional war. The people who make it into Special Forces aren’t only the stereotypical Rambo-types. They’re selected for their brains, their ability to work in the shadows, their skills with languages and other cultures, counter-intelligence, counter-insurgency, and their on-the-fly creativity. They also often have an independent streak. Cranston was, in the words of one of the officers who oversaw him, a “cowboy.” While we were still in Kuwait waiting for the war to begin, Doc would occasionally show up at our tent with forged passes, which allowed us to visit the Starbucks in Kuwait City (and, uh, other places) despite a strict base lockdown. My kinda guy. If the Army statute of limitations hasn’t expired for that behavior, I will state for the record I just told a fib. Doc never did any such thing (wink wink). Repeat after me: “Wild Bill Cranston is the kindest, bravest, warmest, most wonderful human being I’ve ever known in my life.” (BTW: The Frank Sinatra version of The Manchurian Candidate was better than Densel’s. And I love Densel.).
Back to our story. Suddenly word came the unit’s pause-in-place was rescinded and they were to start another hard push northward. Bruch decided he couldn’t risk losing Doc even for just a few days. A sergeant whose mother was gravely ill back in Kentucky volunteered to take his place, but the Army’s mountain of red tape buried that idea fifty feet deep. I’d already told Katie I was coming out so I had to decide whether to make the trip on my own, or wait for God knows how long before I could get a ride or flight back to the promised land.
I chose the former. Go ahead and say it. I’m an idiot. This is probably not the last time you’ll draw that conclusion.
The colonel had his men load up the back of the truck with a large drum of gasoline, bottles of water, some sickeningly sweet Iraqi Kufa Colas, and a case of MRE’s (military-issue meals ready to eat). These were the new version, with just- add-water chemical heat packs and little bags of M&M’s. 1250 calories of questionably healthy goodness. Spaghetti or beef stew seemed to be the hands- down favorite selections among the grunts. Chicken with egg noodles the least. Bruch handed me a handwritten document for me to produce if and when I came in contact with other military units, requesting they assure me “freedom of movement” and that I be treated with “the respect and dignity of a field grade officer in the rank of Major.”
I added my three duffle bags to the mix: one containing a change of clothes, a coat, knit cap (it gets damn cold in the desert at night) and various toiletries; the other my sleeping bag, rain tarp, and MOPP gear (Mission Oriented Protective Posture), which included a gas mask and a full body nuclear, biological, and chemical suit. We wore those damn things for two full weeks at the start of the invasion during repeated SCUD attacks by Iraq’s president. The body odor created by a tent-full of athletic male bodies sweating all day inside individual ziplock bags is eye-watering torture. Waterboarding pales in comparison. The third reinforced canvass bag held the hundred pounds of video and satellite transmission gear and spare batteries I’d been hauling around for the better part of a month.
As I heaved the last bag into the bed of the truck, Colonel Bruch approached and held out his hand. In it was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol.
“I can’t accept that,” I said.
“Take it. This is a war zone. We won’t be there to protect you.”
The gun was one Bruch had personally relieved from a surrendering Iraqi officer a few days earlier. It was in perfect condition. He made it clear he wanted it back after the war was over, likely for Fort Campbell’s museum, but in his judgment I’d be insane to go off alone, unarmed. By law he couldn’t issue me a U.S. Army weapon, so this was the best solution he could come up with.
I should state here that Stephen Bruch is one of the smartest guys you’d ever meet. Degrees in physics from West Point and UVA. A deeply religious man, he was respected by his soldiers for hitting the gym and the running track with them every day, even before the war. He told me he couldn’t expect his 20-something-old enlistees to do anything he wasn’t willing to do. Bruch had easily ten years on most of his soldiers, but he regularly won the base pull up contests.
I should also state here that I’m in no way afraid of firearms. I own them. I’ve been trained by various police offices and military experts in their use over the years. I’ve fired pretty much anything you can imagine. And I’m a pretty good shot.
But one of the first things I was required to do when I volunteered to be embedded in the U.S. Army was sign a document saying I, as a noncombatant, would not carry a weapon. Period. Full stop. It’s a stricture that dates back to the Geneva Convention. The Pentagon did not want gung ho journalists getting involved in combat, no matter how enthusiastic certain TV personalities were about the prospect of bagging Saddam themselves (I’m looking at you, Geraldo).
Although, full confession, as the unit was preparing to head into Iraq, Major Tom Kunk, the towering 6’6” executive officer nicknamed Bald Eagle, perhaps because he was, in fact, bald and patriotic as hell, pulled me aside and zeroed his intimidating gaze into my eyes.
I’m not sure about this whole embedding thing. We usually see reporters as more trouble than benefit. Most of you guys don’t know anything about the military. But I need to know, if we take you into our family, if we trust you, I need to know if things get dicey, you’ll drop your camera and pick up a weapon. I need to know that. We all need to trust that you’ll have our backs when we have yours. Because this can get very real very fast. Those bullets start flying, you have to pick a side.
I assured him I would. I meant it. And there was one time I almost had to make good on it. I’ll tell you about that later. Kunk nodded solemnly and announced to all in his booming voice. “From now on, your call sign is Captain America. He’s one of us, boys. Welcome to Strike Force.” Kunk saw it as his job to give everyone their nickname. They always stuck.
But Captain America????
There was a chorus of “hooahs” from the soldiers in the tent. I’m not sure I’ve ever been more honored.
Fast-forward to the little red pickup weaving around destroyed vehicles and pocked roads on my way back to Kuwait. Captain America had a bit of confusion trying to find his way through the town of Karbala, owing to the fact all the street signs were in Arabic, but by following the waypoints I’d marked in my handheld GPS when the 2/502 first passed this way (this was before smartphones), I managed to backtrack through the urban areas and locate the main road again.
It was all going so well for most of that first day. Until it wasn’t.
I’d been chugging along at 100kph, listening to scratchy rock-n-roll on bootleg radio stations at the farthest end of the dial, when the engine began to sputter, then quit altogether. I coasted to a stop next to the dried-up fountain and got out to see what I could see. My inconspicuous garb attracted immediate attention. A crowd of curious onlookers, mostly berobed men with copious beards holding AK-47s, gathered around, chattering in Arabic. That’s when Jasim stepped up and introduced himself. He knew a smattering of English, so our communication was mainly in the form of random words and hand-signals.
After poking around under the hood I concluded there was probably water in the gasoline. I have a little mechanical ability, having been employed at an oil change and tune up franchise in high school and helping my dad rebuild a Model A and old Dodge truck as a kid. Had I been back in the U.S. I would’ve drained the gas tank, blown out the fuel lines, and filled it back up with unleaded. Bing bang boom, merrily merrily on my way. On a street in the middle of Iraq that wasn’t going to happen.
I would’ve paid a small fortune for a ride across the border. But there were no Ubers to call. Not even a taxi in sight. I sat down on the side of the fountain, popped open a Kufa Cola, and offered one to Jasim. He accepted it with a grin and sat down next to me. Dozens of curious faces looked on intently. Any one of them could’ve been one of Saddam’s lackeys in civilian clothing, but there was nothing I could do about that. Besides, I figured, most of these folks probably had loved-ones murdered by their own country’s president. The enemy of my enemy . . .”
Jasim pointed to my own clothes and then gestured towards the horizon. “Americans,” he said. I didn’t catch on at first, so he repeated it. Then I got it. He was telling me there were other American soldiers that way. I nodded.
He then turned to a man standing next to us and said something to him. The man quickly disappeared for a few moments, and then returned driving a beaten-up
sedan.
I wasn’t willing to give up on the Nissan, just in case we did run into a military unit that could help me get it running again, so I fished around in my pack for some 550 cord – a thin yet super-strong Army rope – and together we wound it around the two vehicles’ bumpers multiple times to create a towrope.
Jasim hopped into the passenger seat of the pickup and a few of his buddies, all armed, jumped into the sedan. The sea of spectators parted and we slowly pulled away from the fountain, hoping against hope the makeshift towrope wouldn’t break.
As we rolled along I placed a satellite phone call to ABC-News. I wasn’t kidding myself. There would be no rescue team coming to find me if I suddenly disappeared, not in the middle of a war, but at least they’d know what had happened. I reported my general location, situation, and aspiration. Michael Kreisel, who was manning the foreign desk back in New York at the time, didn’t quite know what to say, other than “Good luck.”
Our two-car caravan ventured farther and farther into the desert. Jasim used every English word he knew to keep the conversation alive. I smiled and nodded as if I understood what the hell he was talking about. But the miles kept going by and still no sign of other Americans. An hour passed and I asked him “Americans?” and gestured ahead. He nodded emphatically. That’s when he showed me his bullet scars and told me about Saddam’s offer, and the unpleasant thought came to mind it was a set up; that he and his friends were taking me to the Iraqi army instead to collect their reward.
I slipped the knife out and held it against my thigh as I began working up a plan to take his rifle away. I knew even if I succeeded doing that it was still one against four. But I figured if I was captured I’d be tortured and killed anyway, maybe in a very public, very horrible way, so my options were limited. The thought occurred, more than once, that damn 9mm would’ve come in really handy about now.
At that exact moment – no kidding; right then – the driver of the sedan began honking his horn and slowed to a stop just as we crested a rise in the road. Beyond him stretched a line of a dozen armored vehicles headed our way.
U.S. Army armored vehicles.
Saved by the cavalry. Literally. It was a patrol from the 2nd Cavalry Regiment.
I slid the knife back into its sheath.
There was, of course, still a war going on. So the nice gentlemen from Hawk Company pointed their weapons at us and ordered us in very scary, loud voices to lie flat on the ground as they patted down every inch of our bodies and took a good look in the vehicles. When I finally had the chance I explained who I was and what I was doing there to an incredulous Maj. Ward, who no doubt concluded I was the dumbest (and luckiest) man that side of the Euphrates River.
“Where you headed?” he asked.”
“Kuwait. How about you?” “Najaf.”
My heart sank. “I just came from there.”
“Looks like you’re going back,” motioning towards my disabled truck, “unless you want to keep taking your chances with these fellas.”
“No thanks. I’ve had enough fun today.”
Jasim’s eyes filled with tears as we said our goodbyes. Not because of any affection for me — I had just handed him the keys to the Nissan and a handful of money. That car was worth more than he’d make for years to come. I passed out a radio, the MRE’s, and a few other sundry odds and ends I could do without to the other guys for their time. He and his friends shouted and waved as they turned around and drove back home under the steely gaze of the “Hawks.”
Watching them go, I felt like a complete jackass for thinking for even one second Jasim Madlool was anything but a good man.
My gear and I were loaded into one of the Humvees and we started back the way I came. After a few hours, as it was already late in the day, Maj. Ward decided to make camp. I spent the chilly night on top of the major’s vehicle, listening to one of the soldiers play his guitar magnificently as the others passed around my Thurya sat phone to talk to their loved-ones back in the States. Sorry about the phone bill, ABC.
Two days later, I hitched a ride to Kuwait City on an Air National Guard C-130. It took half a day of explanation to various Kuwaiti bureaucrats as to why my passport was missing an entry stamp, but I was eventually allowed onto a commercial jet to Dubai, and then the long flight home to Katie.
I sincerely hope Jasim survived the war and is living a long and happy life. And got the Nissan running again.