The Hilton's Strange Embed Fellows

In World War II, Ernie Pyle embedded himself among the troops, taking terrific risks to report on "the boys" on the front lines. In 1945 he was shot in the head by a Japanese sniper and died instantly.

If a PAO had steered him away from all danger -- the gunners' foxholes, the mined beachheads -- he may never have written this right after D-Day:

I took a walk along the historic coast of Normandy in the country of France.

It was a lovely day for strolling along the seashore. Men were sleeping on the sand, some of them sleeping forever. Men were floating in the water, but they didn't know they were in the water, for they were dead.

The water was full of squishy little jellyfish about the size of your hand. Millions of them. In the center each of them had a green design exactly like a four-leaf clover. The good-luck emblem. Sure. Hell yes.

Recalcitrant, reckless, hard-drinking bang-bang junkies once dominated the war-reporting trade but not here in Kuwait. The group that has settled into Camp Hilton, which boasts airy villas with views of the Arabian Gulf, includes many amateurs from a wide array of outlets. Even MTV has dispatched a correspondent.

It's hard for uniforms and hacks to bond over the peach smoothies and other nonalcoholic umbrella drinks served here, but it gives them all something to complain about. Booze is banned in this Muslim emirate.

A smuggled bottle of whiskey costs $120. Some imbibers are making do with home-brewed beer and bathtub wine (concocted with grape juice, sugar and yeast). One Kuwait-based news agency staffer fondly recalls his last taste of tequila -- in 1994.

But many of the war reporters are grateful for one thing. The Marines have taken the tactical lead in Operation Embed. They're widely known as the most media-friendly of the U.S. services.

"You're about to be a Marine," PAO-in-Chief Long tells a reporter wondering how authentic the experience will be. "We're going to tattoo you!"

Projected behind him are some recent "Doonesbury" strips lampooning the whole thing. One panel has an excited soldier begging B.D.: "Permission to embed Ashleigh Banfield, sir." Later, he savors a cigar sent by his wife to Camp Commando, a post in the northern desert where tobacco is in short supply. He mentions to a journalist that he really loves authentic Havanas.

Turns out they sell them here. And you start to think that maybe it'd be a good idea to bring the lieutenant colonel one, when you make it out of Camp Hilton. He thinks that's a good idea, too.