By late October, the vast field of hard brown grass which sat sandwiched between US50 and several squat brick habitations was clogged with row after row of tents and bon fires; over some sat big black witch cauldrons. Dirty, unwashed refugees sat huddled around the fires, warming themselves against the biting late October cold. The sky was the bleak hue of cigarette ash and it had been drizzling freezing droplets of rain off and on for days; while the chilly air was filled with the repulsive mixture of smoky fires (a pleasant smell in itself) dirty bodies, and raw sewage from the latrines that sat dug in a long, deep slash close to the desolate highway. Most of the five or six brick structures on the sprawling campus of the Burlington United Methodist juvenile group facility had been loote