----- Original Message -----
Sent: Thursday, September 12, 2002 7:45
Subject: Re: View from the foxhole.
A familiar view from my foxhole was a dusty road, far below. Strung out
along this road was a long line of refugees, trudging south. Old men and
women, babies, and all ages in between. Most of them carried what they could
on their backs, but a few of them were fortunate enough to have
two-wheeled carts pulled by oxen. These carts were piled high with
As I looked over the lip of that foxhole I was a nineteen- year-old boy.
All I owned was the pack on my back. My home was the hole I was lying in. Now
that I have acquired some possessions, I realize that those people valued the
things they carried. And only terrible fear could have driven them away from
homes where they probably lived for most of their lives.