Chapter One: The Rock and the Birds
The wideawake tern's shriek pierced the air, jolting me from my fitful slumber. I bolted upright, heart racing, before remembering where I was: Ascension Island, a volcanic speck in the Atlantic. As far from the war as one could get, yet somehow at its very heart.
I'd volunteered for this posting, driven by notions of heroism and adventure. The reality was far different: endless nights of watch duty, the maddening cacophony of birds, and an isolation so profound it seeped into your bones. We were about 4,000 miles from anywhere that felt real, stationed on this island to refuel Allied aircraft bound for North Africa. But most days, it felt like we'd been forgotten by everyone but the terns.
As I stumbled out of my bunk, fumbling for my uniform, I caught sight of my reflection in the grimy mirror. Private James Collins, 22 years old, looked more like a war-weary veteran than the eager recruit who'd left Iowa just months ago. Dark circles ringed my eyes, a testament to nights spent scanning the horizon for phantom U-boats and long shifts on the tarmac, waiting for something – anything – to break the monotony.
"Reveille," Martinez grunted, appearing out of the shadows as if summoned by my misery. His face was as expressionless as the rocks under our feet. He lit a cigarette, the glow briefly illuminating his weathered features. "Night watch, Collins. And don't go losing your wits. Word's out we've got German scouts skirting our waters, and I'd hate for you to flinch at the wrong time."
I peered out over the inky expanse, scanning for any hint of a ship or a shadow. Somewhere out there, Europe was ablaze, and here we were – just a dot on the map, a link in the chain holding the Atlantic together. I'd joined up to be part of something grand, yet here I was, scanning empty seas and keeping birds company, wondering if this was what "grand" really meant.
Roberts, our self-declared morale officer, ambled over with a cup of coffee, steam rising lazily from the chipped mug. He had an uncanny knack for finding silver linings in places where only grit existed.
"Nothing like a night under the stars, eh, gents?" He grinned, scanning the sky as if it were dotted with diamonds instead of indifferent stars. "Back home, people are fretting over what's on the radio while we're here, doing the real work."
Martinez rolled his eyes. "Speak for yourself. I'm doing the work. Collins is here to brood, and you're just here for the coffee."
I chuckled, despite myself. Out here, laughter was hard to come by, so we learned to savor every joke, every bit of banter. The remote, salty wind carried the smell of the ocean, mixed with the faint scent of Martinez's smoldering cigarette. Around us, the wideawakes screamed in
protest at the smallest movement, their endless complaints becoming part of the island's soundtrack.
The radio crackled to life. "Wideawake Field, this is Cargo 421 requesting emergency landing. Over."
Martinez raised an eyebrow, muttering, "Someone's been hitting the wrong coordinates." He took the radio. "Cargo 421, you are cleared for landing. Watch the approach. These birds don't play nice."
Moments later, a C-47 lumbered down, settling on the strip with a groan and a shudder. The pilot, a flustered young man with a uniform that looked like it had been through a lawnmower, scrambled out of the cockpit.
"Thought we'd have to jump," he said, a nervous laugh escaping him. "Got a little too close to a German sub out there. Came for a look-see and left us rattled."
Martinez gave him a slow nod. "Well, welcome to our fortress," he said, voice dry as dust. "As far as the Germans know, it's the middle of nowhere. But for us, it's everything."
Roberts chimed in, "Don't listen to him. We're practically in Xanadu here – white beaches, romantic vistas, all the birds you could ever want."
The pilot looked skeptical, glancing at the craggy rocks and squawking birds. I just gave him a nod of sympathy. He'd learn soon enough: this place was both a refuge and a punishment.
As the wind picked up, bringing with it the salty tang of the ocean, I watched the night stretch out. The gale grew stronger, lifting sand and volcanic grit across the tarmac. The ocean roared against the cliffs, sounding less like waves and more like some zaftig beast rumbling up from the deep.
"By the powers that be," Roberts said, taking a long sip of his coffee, unfazed, "another cozy evening at the edge of the world. Where else would you want to be?"
Martinez gave him a sidelong glance. "I can think of a few places," he replied dryly. "And none of 'em involve listening to you romanticize the screeching birds."
Roberts grinned. "You know, someday you'll look back on this and wish you'd appreciated it more. A little drama, a little danger...what's not to love?"
Our watch continued in silence as we scanned the sea, the air heavy with the scent of rain. Every so often, the clouds shifted, revealing a sliver of stars, only for them to vanish again. It was moments like this – standing guard in the eerie quiet, with only the distant call of the wideawakes to keep us company – that reminded us how isolated we truly were.
The silence was shattered by another crackle over the radio. "Wideawake, this is Central Command. Be advised, we've had reports of increased German U-boat activity. Eyes open."
Martinez muttered something under his breath. "Great. Just what we need – more guests. Collins, take the binoculars and start at three o'clock."
As I scanned the horizon, Roberts hummed some tune, cheerful as ever. "Germans, U-boats, birds – and yet somehow, the real enemy's boredom," he said, shaking his head. "The brass should've warned us."
The sky began to lighten, a hint of dawn creeping over the horizon. The screaming wideawakes, perhaps sensing the new day, grew even louder, filling the air with their grating calls. It was enough to set anyone on edge.
Just then, a light caught my eye – a flash on the water, barely visible. I squinted, feeling a flicker of tension as I tried to make it out.
"Martinez, two o'clock," I said, handing him the binoculars.
He looked, his face grim. "Could be anything...or nothing. But we don't take chances here."
He took the radio. "Wideawake, possible contact. Two o'clock, moving southwest. Stand by for further instructions."
We held our breath as the minutes passed, each of us feeling the weight of it. Here we were, miles from anywhere, a tiny island in a vast ocean. But in moments like this, that isolation didn't feel like a buffer – it felt like a trap.
As dawn broke fully, revealing a sky washed in soft colors, we watched the waters until the flash faded into nothingness. It could have been a trick of the light or an actual threat – out here, you could never be sure.
The radio was silent, and the world around us settled into the tense quiet that was our normal. The wideawakes continued their relentless racket, oblivious to the worries of war. They wheeled and dived in the pinkening light, their cries echoing against the rock.
"Well," Roberts said, stretching, "chalk up another night of almost-drama. Good thing we've got the birds to keep us entertained."
Martinez snorted. "If I ever see another wideawake in my life, it'll be too soon."
And as we stood there, the sky brightening above and the endless ocean stretching out before us, I couldn't help but feel both part of something grand and incredibly small. We were here on
this strange, windswept island, guarding a vital link in the Allied chain. And somehow, in the midst of it all – the vast ocean, the screaming birds, the distant threat of war – that felt like enough.