Private Mark Wabash leaned forward
along the sun-baked crumbling ruins of a wall that used to be the side of an
upper-middle class townhouse. It seemed
odd to him to see the remains of people’s lives scattered about the
streets. It must have been a rather nice
little town, just a few short minutes outside a major commercial hub, central Europe’s
answer to the suburbs. He found it hard
to not imagine his own hometown torn into large swaths of pre-defined battle
zones, the broken backs of buildings roasting, collapsed in heaps, in the summer
sun, carefully calculated to block the greatest numbers of unauthorized routes.
It wasn’t like what he had seen in
his school’s historical databases of the mass destruction from the Second World War, the first pinpoint strikes in the Greater Middle Eastern conflicts or even
the tactical policing actions in major US cities during the Occupy War. The damage to those structures was clearly
collateral, unplanned, and maybe even accidental. The scene around him was a nearly perfect
execution of battle-space sculpting; each desiccated wall served a purpose.