Hustled from the
bus dragging duffle bags, broken names stenciled on khaki bloated
with newly-issued gear, we stood at attention, facing a depressing
landscape of wooden buildings peeling light-green paint. Most of
us were reservists with civilian careers: a stock broker, several
lawyers, and an advertising executive who had just learned to walk without
shoes.
After basic training,
I was ordered further north. It was winter when I arrived. My spit-shined
boots dove into puddles of mud and soot-stained snow, as I breathed
in deeply molecules of coal-oil coated with sea salt—
But
here they were, strung across/the featureless terrain,
surveying/nothing.
Mapping the arctic circle, reservists/in olive green fatigues; a sergeant/
in winter warfare uniform, jagged zebra-patterns/of taiga in snow.
While
inside my
pale dome, I scanned a dove-gray sky for a
new genre of man-made landmark, born of the establishment
of government-sponsored settlements and defense radar stations,
invading the North American Arctic. Illuminated radio masts,
community lights, radar towers, and large oil
storage tanks are now incorporated into the network of landmarks that
define an answer
to this leaden question: Who is the
enemy at Ground Zero?