Bombs Away: Militarization, Conservation, and Ecological Restoration

David G. Havlick. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2018. 204 pp., maps, illustrations, notes, index. $35.00 cloth (ISBN 978-0-226-54754-1).

Not long after graduating from college I landed a job working for an environmental consulting firm in suburban Washington, DC. One of my first assignments was to assist with an environmental assessment of a military facility targeted for closure by the Defense Base Realignment and Closure (BRAC) Commission. For years, researchers at Harry Diamond Laboratories in Woodbridge, Virginia, had been studying the effects of electromagnetic pulse radiation on sensitive electronic equipment. If a nuclear device were detonated above the earth's surface what would be the impact on military preparedness—from tanks on the ground to ships at sea? Now, under pressure to cut costs, consolidate operations, and improve efficiency, the Department of Defense (DOD) was closing the Woodbridge Research Facility's doors for good. At the time I recall being impressed by the ecological conditions of the site. The diverse flora and fauna of the property stood in sharp contrast to the asphalt and concrete of nearby highways, shopping malls, and housing subdivisions. If it had not been for the environmental stewardship of the U.S. Army, I thought, surely this parcel of land would have been developed for commercial or residential use. In 1997, I was both pleased and relieved to learn that the former military site had been transferred to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service (FWS) and renamed the Occoquan Bay National Wildlife Refuge (NWR) under a new program called Military-to-Wildlife (M2W). I was convinced that an M2W conversion was a win–win solution for all parties involved: The Army unloaded a surplus property, the FWS added a new refuge to its system, the public gained access to a valuable piece of green space, and critical habitat was saved. After reading David G. Havlick's probing and insightful new book, however, I view such transfers with a more critical—and wary—eye.

Beginning with the creation of BRAC in 1988 and ending with a final round of closures in 2005, the DOD closed or reclassified more than 400 military bases across the United States and its outlying territories, streamlining operations and saving money. Although most of these installations were converted to civilian use, others—approximately 15 percent of the total—proved more challenging to repurpose. Despite a remarkably high degree of biological diversity (DOD lands harbor approximately three times the density of endangered and imperiled species as lands administered by other federal agencies), many contained hazards that posed a threat to human health and safety. It was clear the agency needed to pursue a different strategy if it wanted to transfer ownership of these lands. This is where M2W conversions came into play. In these instances possession simply passed from the DOD to the FWS. On the one hand the arrangement made perfect sense. The DOD rid itself of unwanted lands and burnished its reputation as a good environmental steward. Meanwhile, the FWS added biologically rich sites to its inventory. Moreover, the FWS offered the best administrative “fit” of any of the U.S. land management agencies, thanks to its clear mandate “to maintain a set of lands dedicated to the conservation and (where appropriate) restoration of fish, wildlife, and plants” (p. 21). Unlike the National Park Service, for instance, it did not have to balance resource protection with public access. On the other hand, the acquisition of M2W properties placed a severe strain on an agency already struggling to manage what it had. Under different circumstances the addition of new refuges might have been a windfall for the FWS, especially if it came with increased funding. Additional funds were not on the table, though. More troubling, the new refuges presented FWS personnel with some very unique and intractable problems. At the same time that the DOD rid itself of surplus properties, it ceded management of its most contaminated sites to an underfunded resource agency ill equipped to take on such a burden.

Whereas pollution at some M2W refuges was relatively light, such as at Occoquan Bay, where day-to-day operations generated relatively small quantities of chemical and industrial wastes, others turned out to be highly contaminated. Consider the Jefferson Proving Ground—now Big Oaks NWR—in Indiana, “which remains cluttered by millions of rounds of unexploded ordnance and projectiles, and … tens of thousands of pounds of depleted uranium” (p. 22), or Rocky Mountain Arsenal NWR, north of Denver, Colorado, which is “reputed to hold the most toxic square mile of land on the planet” (p. 24). At Vieques NWR, just eight miles east of the main island of Puerto Rico, unexploded ordnance serves as a reminder to tourists that this island was used for more than sixty years by the U.S. Navy for artillery testing and munitions storage. Warning signs remind vacationers and locals alike that it is unsafe to wander too far from the beach. Arguably the most appalling example can be found in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. According to a 2014 White House press release, Johnston Atoll is “one of the most pristine tropical marine environments in the world” (p. 115). It also suffers from severe plutonium contamination—a product of nuclear weapons testing in the 1960s. Although FWS personnel are dedicated to carrying out the agency's mission, they generally do not possess the training and skills necessary to deal with such hazards. Even if they did, and even if funding for cleanup were not an issue, experts caution that at some sites aggressive restoration efforts might further damage ecological integrity.

If Bombs Away offered a detailed account of the challenges faced by resource personnel at M2W refuges and nothing more, it would make a valuable contribution to the growing body of literature on federal land management. Fortunately for us, Havlick strives to do so much more with this volume. Rather than accept the M2W program as evidence of a more environmentally friendly and responsible military—an image the DOD and armed services are eager to promote—or dwell on the power of nature to recover from even the most egregious assault (think The World Without Us by Weisman [2007]), he asks readers to consider M2W refuges in all their complexity. Inspired by sociologist Ulrich Beck's risk society thesis, he questions the naive optimism of ecological modernization and ecological militarization, arguing that although M2W conversions “may foster a blithe public acceptance of these places as havens for wildlife” (p. 64) they are, in fact, demilitarized hybrid spaces that have been shaped in both positive and negative ways by military occupation and activities. As such we need to ask ourselves several questions: What motivated the DOD to transfer management of these seemingly natural places to the FWS? How were these lands damaged in the first place and for what purpose? What is our connection to militarized landscapes and the processes that produced them? How do we remember a sometimes-violent past without compromising a more hopeful future?

One of Havlick's chief concerns is that we conflate the DOD's priority to streamline operations with its desire to conserve and protect natural resources. Although the DOD has invested significantly in its environmental programs, its commitment to conservation—although commendable—is limited at best. For example, although the DOD pollutes more than any other institution in the United States, it conducts only superficial cleanup at M2W sites. This is because unlike other federal land management agencies, the FWS is not obliged to grant the public access to its facilities. Technically, the DOD is responsible for cleanup of military residue at M2W refuges, but there is little incentive for them to do so if the lands are to be used only for conservation purposes. From a DOD perspective this makes the FWS an especially convenient custodian of contaminated lands. Yet the DOD touts the M2W program as proof that its activities are compatible with environmental conservation. Are military activities really compatible with environmental goals or is the DOD engaging in a not-so-subtle form of green washing?

Havlick also worries that when we ignore the role the military played in shaping M2W landscapes we oversimplify—and risk losing—the history that took place there. Indeed, public information about military activities at M2W sites is often lacking. Whether it's Fisherman Island on Chesapeake Bay, Shawangunk Grasslands in New York, or Rocky Mountain Arsenal in Colorado, even the most casual observer cannot help but notice that these sites have not always been refuges. Concrete bunkers, abandoned structures, and warning signs provide us with the most obvious clues that these are former military properties in the process of “naturalizing.” Who lived and worked here? What remains of these past lives and activities? What economic, political, and social forces converged to create military landscapes where we find them today? For Havlick these questions are not academic; they are personal. As an exchange student in Germany he was aware that the plutonium triggers in the nuclear warheads of Pershing missiles deployed nearby were manufactured at the Rocky Flats plant just ten miles from where he grew up in Colorado. By deftly connecting militarized landscapes across space and time, Havlick effectively places U.S. workers—seemingly isolated on a distant continent—at the very center of Cold War geopolitics. Ironically, when the warheads were dismantled, the motors were sent to the Longhorn Army Ammunition Plant (now Caddo Lake NWR) and the plutonium “came home” to Colorado. Of course, Havlick's experience is not unique. Many of us are exposed to militarized landscapes, sometimes on a daily basis. We just don't realize it.

Instead of focusing on ecological restoration—a quixotic quest that risks overwriting prior histories—Havlick believes that resource managers should concentrate their efforts on site remediation and historic preservation so that visitors truly understand the processes that produced the militarized landscapes we find at M2W refuges today. He writes, “Working to identify and curate these places in their greater complexity—as historical, social, and political landscapes that are also, in a sense, natural (or naturalizing)—can help prevent the loss of meaning” (p. 148). With this goal in mind, Havlick spends the last chapter of Bombs Away leading readers on a tour of militarized sites around the world where nature and memory coincide successfully, albeit at times, uneasily: places like Orford Ness in England, the Iron Curtain Trail in Europe, and Korea's demilitarized zone.

Perhaps the most important lesson we should draw from David G. Havlick's illuminating new book has relatively little to do with national wildlife refuges per se. If J. B. Jackson (1997, x) is right, that “landscape is history made visible,” then it follows that erasing evidence of that history—even if carried out with great care and with the best of intentions—diminishes our ability to remember and learn from our experiences. Although the naturalization of militarized landscapes can and should be celebrated, we should not lose sight of the fact that our capacity—and willingness—to inflict pain on each other and to wreak havoc with the natural world is also deeply inscribed at these sites. Rather than revel in nature's ability to heal itself or wager that new technologies will emerge to solve our problems, Havlick suggests we would well to safeguard our memories (even the painful ones), mend our broken relationships, and chart a more promising course for the future. These are the larger “takeaway” points that make Bombs Away such a timely and relevant book.