ABSTRACT
By England’s standards, this place is about as remote as it gets, with salt marshes, creeks and tributaries stretching out before me toward the horizon and eventually, the sea. I am here to take photographs and sound recordings of something that doesn’t exist: the restricted block of sky known as EGD207, a giant radial wedge of airspace that stretches up to 23,000 feet and spans most of the square-jawed bay above East Anglia called The Wash. Alternatively known by the British military as RAF Holbeach, the area is one of a number of aerial bombing ranges in the UK used for target practice by the Royal Air Force and fast jets from other NATO alliance countries. Except today, standing on the raised sea wall bank, there is no obvious evidence of military activity, only the cries of waders and seabirds and a churning weather system that plays havoc with camera exposure levels. Roving arcs of light pierce the cloud layers and interrogate the young crops below, giving the landscape a theatricality that would not be out of place on the midwestern plains of Kansas. I pass a solitary walker who warns me that there are men with guns on the sea wall about a half a mile or so in the distance. All I can see is two trucks parked askew on the high banks near a range observation tower, so I shoulder my tripod (which I darkly speculate could be read by a distant observer as a shoulder-mounted weapon) and head over there to take a look. Two giant Ford Super Duty trucks are being unloading by a group of furtive men in nondenominational camouflage and wrap-around shades. I see no weapons or badges but plenty of military kit including radios, flares, utility vests and maps in ziplock bags. I say ‘Hi.’ They say ‘Hi.’ Clearly, they are US soldiers tooling up for something, and I ask them if they are on exercise, which they seem to think is the funniest thing they’ve heard all day. ‘Yeah, sorta, …,’ they laugh. Weirdly, they are happy to pose for a couple of photographs while packing their utility vests and backpacks. ‘What’s going on?’ I ask. ‘Plane’s comin’…’ – and sure enough it does.
