Snugged deep in the psyche of many reporters is the desire to be, or at least to have been, a war correspondent. Journalists who turn a skeptical or even cynical eye on every other aspect of society fall victim to the romantic allure of filing dispatches from Bosnia, Cambodia, or some other Third World free-fire zone. I've never been to war, but I've dodged rocks and bottles and been tear-gassed in riots, and I know this about myself: Were a riot to start outside my office window, I'd be in the middle of it in a New York minute, taking notes and feeding on the rush.

You can't read many stories about Nate Thayer without picking up on how much reporters love to talk to a guy like him. All the while they're asking their sober questions, they're barely keeping a grip on the little boys within (and the little girls within-I've found that female journalists are not immune) who can't wait for the next Gunga Din-with-a-notebook tale. So I was at pains not to romanticize Nate or his work, and at the same time recognize how that romanticism feeds our public fascination with him.

On a recent drive into the office, I caught the first bit of a radio news report on a journalist gunned down in Cambodia. I thought I'd heard the announcer say "Cambodian journalist," but I wasn't sure, and had a few tense moments until I understood that it wasn't Nate who'd been killed. The dead reporter, who was every bit as deserving of my concern, was, in fact, a Cambodian. I'm sure Nate knew him. I'm equally sure there was nothing romantic about the dangerous work he had undertaken, and which had resulted in his violent death. -DK

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