Word: tente
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Conditions practically guarantee more deaths. "There are sometimes up to 40 people living under the same tent," reports Dr. Gerard Salerio of the voluntary organization Medecins du Monde (Doctors of the World), who returned to Paris from Uludere late last week. "These are not even tents; they are stretched blankets. People are too ashamed to relieve themselves during the day, so they do it at nighttime, between the tents. There is no hygiene anywhere." One doctor serves 100,000 people. As a result, says Salerio, "every day, 20 children are buried between the tents. Older people are dying...
Thompson, who in peacetime covers the science and technology beat in Washington, found his first night with the Army trying. "We were assigned an unheated tent that sleeps about 20," he wrote. "I found a cot, unrolled my sleeping bag, took off my shoes and shivered for about five hours. You can't believe how cold it gets here." But the desert nights also bring unexpected pleasures. "The stars here are amazing," he wrote. "They seem close enough to touch, and there are zillions of them...
Enlisted women have their own tent and their own latrine. That rare concession to gender does not guarantee much privacy, since most latrines are plywood outhouses with wire screens from the waist...
Last Christmas his parents sent Thom a 35-mm camera, and the photos from the roll he mailed home in January are among his family's greatest treasures. One shows Thom clowning around in a red-checked kaffiyeh under a camouflage net. Another portrays him standing in his tent, an M-16 on his arm and a cigarette hanging jauntily from his mouth. Several others show his light armored vehicle, hauntingly dubbed "Blaze of Glory." Painted on one side is a cartoon of an armed Saddam Hussein atop a camel, his body framed within the cross hairs. Says Dan Bartok...
Outside, the rain is beating a relentless riff that is familiar to anyone who has lived through a monsoon in Southeast Asia. Inside the Army-issue tent in a clearing at the jungle's edge, Nash A. Miller, a onetime helicopter door gunner and crew chief, is changing into a dry pair of camouflage fatigues. As his two watchdogs prowl silently, Miller, nicknamed "Nam" (his initials), recounts his tale with a small, innocent smile. It begins at a firebase in the badlands west of Kontum, near the Vietnam-Cambodia border, in the summer...