How Do We Blackout
An Enemy Among Us?
My granddad's old air-raid warden helmet. A heavy, steel, wide-brimmed, "doughboy" pot, painted white.
Way too big for me. Daddy Ross had a broad, high-domed head, stout, strong neck and wide shoulders, and I can see him in my mind's eye, the very poster picture of Civil Defense back in The Big One, Dubbaya-Dubbaya-Two, patrolling his sector of suburban Washington, D.C., making sure the blackout shades were all drawn tight, portable air-raid siren slung from his shoulder -- just in case.
He did a good job. Not once did the Stukas ever come screaming down out of the night sky over Rock Creek Park.
Daddy Ross was in Congress at the time. You can pick him out if you know exactly where to look in the newsreels of FDR delivering his Dec. 8, 1941 "date which will live in infamy" speech to the joint session.
He was a part of history that day: My grandfather -- acting in his official capacity as U.S. Rep. Ross Rizley, R-Oklahoma -- got to declare war on the Axis.
And having formally declared war on Hitler, Tojo and all the evil they represented, he went home, had dinner, put on his white helmet, and set out to keep the world west of Connecticut Avenue safe for Democracy.
From sea to shining sea, ordinary citizens girded themselves for battle and walked the blacked-out streets of Fortress America, ears cocked for the engines of hostile aircraft that would never come, ready to sound the alarm the instant the mighty Luftwaffe ever threatened Washington -- or Des Moines -- or Oklahoma City.
Imagine, Junkers over Joplin. How quaint.
But Daddy Ross and his fellow white-helmeted guardians were just 60 years early, that's all. And they were looking for the wrong planes, because the ones that finally got through didn't bear swastikas; they had Old Glory itself painted on their tails, above the familiar logos of hometown America's own airlines.
Back then, the rules of engagement were simple -- shoot the swastika. Torpedo the rising sun. The good guys were in Mustangs and Avengers, the bad guys in Messerschmitts and Zeroes, and you didn't have to study your airplane silhouette book very long to know the difference.
Now? Well, the enemy in the Afghan caves wears long robes, turbans, keffiyahs -- but, then, so does your next-door neighbor -- your best friend, with whom you shared tears as you both watched the Sept. 11 obscenities unfolding.
Then, again, maybe the enemy buys his clothes at Old Navy, lives across the street, and sometimes borrows your lawn mower.
Who do you shoot? Who do you target? What uniform is the enemy wearing? The head shawl or the Aggie sweatshirt?
What is terror's silhouette in this war? Which air-mail envelope carries a birthday wish from Grandma, and which bears a death wish from al-Qaeda?
Oddly-wrapped, you say? Fine, you've just described my every attempt at wrapping a birthday present.
Too much postage? Me again, just too lazy to take a fat manuscript to the post office and have it weighed for exact postage.
Strange postmark? Guess what: Mail going between Houston and Galveston, or even Galveston to Galveston, gets postmarked in Baytown.
Unfamiliar sender? Well, geez, how many of you out there actually get more mail from friends and family than you do from anonymous mass-mailers? Hands? I thought so.
Sixty years ago, we had to build a war machine from scratch after Pearl Harbor caught our soldiers drilling with broomsticks because there weren't enough rifles to go around. But by God, we were ready for 'em on Main Street.
Today, the war has come to Main Street. Only this time around, our front-line military have never been readier to deal with their front-line military -- and it is we on the home front who must learn on the fly how to deal with an enemy among us who flies no flag, wears no uniform, and who could be as close as our own mailbox.
How ironic.
How frustrating.
Oh, look -- there's the mail now. Guess I'll put on Daddy Ross' white helmet and engage the foe.
