Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [120]
Once back at the checkpoint, the barking cop let us pass. Our joy at this coup soon subsided as we were told this was only the first of seven checkpoints we would have to get through.
The next two police checkpoints were fairly easy with lots of Guten Morgens and Howdy-doodies. The fourth stop required a search, but not of our bodies, so Gary’s banner went unnoticed.
The fifth group of police—now looking less like police and more like a well-muscled group of blond army rangers with a strange homoerotic vibe—were a bit more testy because our credentials were not the official White House ones which were for the select group of thirty news people in the preapproved pool who were allowed to be in the actual cemetery just feet from the president. But because Gary spoke perfect German—and I spoke perfect bullshit—we somehow were able to talk our way through this, the penultimate checkpoint.
The cemetery was now in sight. We were amazed we had made it this far and decided that a bold move would now be required to make it past the final gate that would bring us into the Promised Land. Out of nowhere a truck carrying the TV equipment for CBS News pulled up. The guys driving it started to unload their metal boxes and crates. I sauntered up to them and asked them if they needed any help.
“Sure,” said one of the crew gruffly. “Grab a couple of those.”
And this, dear readers, became one of the few times in my life that looking like a roadie was turned into a plus. I picked up the box, Gary walked in tight behind me, and before you could say “Deutschland über alles,” we were inside the Bitburg cemetery, free to roam around as we pleased!
The Bonn bureau chiefs for Newsweek and the Associated Press, both of whom we had met in Bonn (where we confided in them what our real plans were) spotted us and ran over to greet us.
“How the hell did you guys do this?” asked Ken Jones of AP, a big grin on his face.
“I mean, all they’ve (the Germans) talked about for two months,” added Andrew Nagorski of Newsweek, “is how they’ve worked out the most sophisticated security arrangements for this trip—and then you come into town, crack it, and just walk right in.” We smiled the smile of those who have swallowed the canary. They promised not to blow our cover.
About an hour before Reagan was to arrive, the Secret Service appeared in two black vans to “mag the cemetery,” meaning they were going to do one final sweep of the place for bombs—and re-check everyone’s credentials.
We were all herded back to the outside of the cemetery so the police could “sweep it.” All that work—and now we were no longer in the cemetery! They put us in a field beside the cemetery and promised we’d all be let back in once the sweep was completed. When the cemetery was deemed secure, they set up an airport-style metal detector and lined us all up to go through it. Ten, fifteen minutes passed and the Secret Service couldn’t get the metal detector machine to work. (This led one of the German police to remark, in English, “Stupid Americans—they can put a man on the moon, but they can’t get a simple thing like this to work!”)
The Feds finally gave up on the contraption and got out their handheld metal detectors and began wanding everyone in line, one by one. They were also doing full-body hand searches—the kind that would discover a humongous banner tucked inside Gary. It looked like the adventure was over.
We were about twentieth in line and things were moving pretty slowly. Then, as the person in front of Gary stepped up to be searched, the Secret Service chief came over and said, “We’re running out of time. Skip the body searches and just use the detectors.” Whew. Gary and I walked through without a hitch.
But now we had to get back into the cemetery, and to get back in we would have to prove we were part of the press pool again. Damn. We didn’t have those blue White House press cards, and we noticed them hauling a few people away who didn’t have them, either. They were being sent