he small remainder of the world that follows the news applauded the escape of more than 200 Iraqi hostages Thursday, who freed themselves from an unidentified terrorist group in the heart of the war-torn country. Just outside of Fallujah, U.S. military discovered a traveling band of 40 or so escaped hostages, and within hours began to receive word of other hostages who had also escaped the same small terrorist encampment, numbers totaling 213 freed hostages, who credited their successful escape to U.S. Army Captain S. Hilts.

Hilts, who was debriefed by U.S. military officials but did not speak directly to the ravenous western press, said the escape was the result of weeks of planning, tactical distraction, digging, and the production of some high-quality potato moonshine. Instead of taking credit for the escape himself, Hilts remarked on the bravery and ingenuity of his fellow hostages.

Added Hilts: "It's the duty of every freedom-loving military man to work day and night to escape." The statement marks a drastic turnaround from hostage philosophies of the past, including 1980 Iranian hostages Commander Shears, who was intent to ride out the situation without drawing attention to himself, or British Colonel Alec Nicholson, who actually aided the Iranians by building a bridge over a local river to aid terrorist movement.

Who exactly is Capt. S. Hilts? A son of an Indiana mechanic, Hilts served in the Army in both the original Gulf War and its poorly received sequel. Hilts was among the 213 hostages, both military and civilian, who had been abducted in recent weeks by terrorists believed to be allied with either Al-Qaeda, the Saddam Hussein loyalists, or one of the other 300 groups who simply like to kidnap and kill westerners. Hilts had been used as leverage in video taped messages urging the freeing of all Iraqi prisoners. While this strategy has traditionally worked remarkably well against all sorts of enemies, this time there was little to no response from U.S. or coalition governments. The lack of reply might have something to do with Hilts' outburst in the final frames of the video tape:

"Listen to me!" shouted Hilts, tossing aside the written statement he had started to read, standing up and resisting efforts of jackbooted Iraqis to hold him down. "We're Americans! We don't roll over and do something when we're at the end of a gun! Don't worry about us! We'll be alright—we're gonna walk out of here one day, into a free land and back home to our wives and families. You hear that, Susie? I'm comin' home to you before you know it!"

Though the tape abruptly ended, the message was clear: America didn't plan on being pushed around by the huge terrorist machine.

And sure as his word, Hilts was found wandering the desert, looking to reconnect with his unit as soon as possible. But not walking as he had promised, but riding a state-of-the-art Iraqi military motorcycle, with which he jumped the walls of the compound. According to the U.S. soldiers who recovered the escaped hostage, Hilts' first job was to eat a hearty plate of pork chops and apple sauce while giving military intelligence all the information he could about his captors, a group of 15 or so terrorist insurgents who actually did a keen job of keeping 200+ Americans hidden in a detained area of an occupied country.

What's next for Hilts and his fellow escapees? "I guess we'll be going back into service, those of us that can. We've got us an occupation to win!"

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"I have long been, and may always be, a confirmed bachelor. But like other people who say that, I am not gay.

I did meet one gay fellow quite a while back. It was 1954 when I met him, an affable fellow named Pitt. He wore bright clothes but that didn't send me any signal that he was gay. To my ears he had no special way of speaking and there was nothing immediately gay about him. I would venture to say if I hadn't accidentally found out through a misunderstanding one day, while we were standing next to each other at the men's room urinals, I would never have found out.

'I can't believe it,' I told him quite frankly. 'Why don't you like girls at all?'

'I like girls, Sampson,' the gay said simply, no less visibly masculine than myself. 'It's not a matter of liking or not liking someone, and it's not a matter of picking who you're going to sleep with. People are just born the way they are, and it doesn't make them all the same if they share one common thing between them.'

He went on to say, as I tapped the water out, 'You and me may be more alike than me and any gay man. We both have sisters named Stephanie, we both have brothers that we're competitive with in our lives, and we both love to just sit and talk about the good ol' days, the 1920s. Why should the one thing that's different about us keep us from being good friends?'

It really made me think, and it hurt—the idea that I, like everyone else in the world, picked one different thing like religion, skin color, or sexual orientation to get all worked up about when in a lot of ways all of us are like one another. From that day on whenever I meet someone new, even if they don't look like me or might seem a little strange at first glance, I put on a big smile and say, 'Hi, there, neighbor! I'm Sampson L. Hartwig. Maybe we're a little different, but maybe we'll find out we're a lot a like, too!'

I might as well mention that me and the gay fellow Pitt didn't see each other after another week or so, when I found out the biker gang I had joined with him was all gay. Only when one of them named Peter couldn't keep the secret any more did Pitt tell me the truth, that they were all hoping I would 'come around' once I got used to wearing the leather. It's just another thing that's different, yeah, but it looked awful painful in all those videos we watched, so I found another crew to ride with."

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Good people, do you know there's a war going on? I trifle not. I just found out about it, much to my astonishment. It's apparently in Albania or Argentina, somewhere in that region, and yes, we are heavily involved. Our fighting boys and their dads and butch sisters are over there as we speak. If only there were some way the public could be informed on the political actions of our leaders.

Needless to say, as a patriotic American second in fervor only to the late Roy Cohn, I went down to offer my skills to the military recruiters. Unfortunately, my skills as an ace columnist and professional dreamcatcher weaver didn't exactly suit the needs of the military at this time. I am unfortunately unfit for active service, due to my height, my age, and a phony backbrace I wore to the recruiter's office, which I assure was part of an unrelated matter I'd rather not go into.

It's sad to know you're not class A cannon fodder material, but I'll learn to deal with it. There are other ways to serve my country, I know, and I was determined to find it as long as my country was under fire and my interest was minorly raised.

I'm proud to say, loyal readers, Rok Finger was the first on his block to organize a rubber drive. I went door to door collecting, but faired poorly; it's a shame how many used prophylactics are just thrown out these days. The few I did collect, well, let's just sum up by saying the federal officials I talked to weren't anxious to take them off my hands. I could barely take them off my own hands, it wasn't a pleasant experience. Until a more concentrated need for recycling pops up, though, I won't be collecting any more materials for the government.

My next thought was to buy and sell war bonds. But I wasn't even sure where to start the purchase of war bonds. I remember the old slogan, "Buy bonds where you work or bank," so I began there. Fellow columnist Omar Bricks was only too happy to sell me the war bonds he happened to have. War bonds are easy to tell from fake bonds, he assured me, by the various colors they are written in. Each one is hand-stenciled in crayon. As the guarantee on the front ensures, they are good "till the shit comes tumblin' down."

Would you believe I could not re-sell any of these? Some even told me they were fake. I know that is not the case, but perhaps being from the foreign province of New Jersey Mr. Bricks' war bonds are not good here. So I simply took orders for them from various friends, neighborhood associates, and vaguely Mafioso types. Well, without getting into the fine details, what I was doing was not quite "bonding" and was actually referred to as "illegal betting" by the federal agents. They would not cover my bonds, even though I made it clear I expected America to win the war by April or I would not collect on my bond. The charges are still pending, I'm sure we can once again sort everything out without any jail time, my attorney Morrie is quite the mouthpiece.

With all else failing, I tried to assemble a Rok Finger calendar to sell to my fans, with all proceeds going to the war effort. I was thwarted, however, despite all my guarantees to the photographer they would only be semi-nude photos. Damn spineless photographers and their weak stomachs.

In the end, I decided my only real outlet was to go about my daily life. My regular business. Go to work, come home, use the bathroom as needed, spend time with my friends and family, neighborhood associates and vaguely Mafioso types. And spend like a monkey with winning lottery tickets. So I have. New S.U.V., board games by the dozens, a widescreen HDTV, and a new George Foreman grill. The soldiers in Aufvedersehn are doing their part the only way they know how; and here at home, we're doing ours.

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