Barack Obama is the first Latino president. Aside from the fact he could easily pass for Puerto Rican or Dominican because of everything from his complexion to his easy nature and physical grace, he was largely elected by the Latino community. Two out of three Hispanics voted for him, providing the margin of victory in key states Nevada, New Mexico, Virginia, Florida, Colorado and elsewhere.

This is a story of two gut-wrenching escapes that crippled our grueling war against terror, perhaps irrevocably. I want to return soon to Latino-themed topics, but the significance of these critical events for our nation can not go unnoted.

Perfectly executed and separated by almost ten years, history will view the two escapes as bookends of our futile effort in Afghanistan. I’ll remind you about the first event in a minute, the second happened Monday near Kandahar when almost 500 captive Taliban fighters, including some hardened leaders tunneled out of a maximum security facility right under the noses of their probably complicit Afghan guards.

In war coverage, the difference between anecdote and tragedy is razor thin. Viewed from home, it all looks like a Bruce Willis film; the bullets and missiles cutting through the air near a reporter's head in battle are enormously entertaining as long as they don't hit. Even on the killing ground, there is an almost festive aspect to a near miss. "That was close," is often uttered with a nervous smile; grim humor substituting for crippling fear. Especially back away from the front, a kind of denial prevails; a jocular back slapping that is often slap happy, hail fellows well met, so near yet so far, fortune favors the brave, no guts no glory.

Erica laughed when she told me about the Jon Stewart "Geraldo of Arabia" parody that he aired last week following my coverage of the fighting in Libya. "He doesn't know how much you'd love that!" She was right. I had just landed at JFK from Cairo and was soon pleasantly surprised that the normally snarky Stewart was respectful in his jokes. But I'm no Lawrence. Having read Michael Korda's current biography of legendary T.E. Lawrence, hero god of the Arab revolt, architect of modern Arab political geography, masochist and raconteur, and having this morning re-watched David Lean's spectacular movie for the 80th time, Lawrence was far more ambitious.

Loathing their master, I admit to feeling sorry for the Gaddafi force attacking east from Brega toward Ashdabiya in the Libyan civil war. This is no longer the overwhelming armored column seeking to suppress the eastern rebellion. This is the desperate remnant of a battered army.

Far from their western base, their supply line stretches along a single coastal road for 300 miles. Pushed from behind by the hysterical urgings of their mad maximum leader, they face death from the giant Allied air hammer above.

Still they attack.