Chapter Two: Night Watch
My first night shift on Ascension came after just three days on the island, and I quickly learned that here, "night watch" wasn't for the faint-hearted. With the sun down, the Atlantic transformed, stretching endlessly under a sky so packed with stars it looked like some celestial spill. Out here, without the haze of city lights, the night seemed boundless.
"You'll want these," Martinez grumbled, handing me a pair of thick ear protectors. He'd been on the Rock for six months, which was practically veteran status around here. He'd seen more fresh faces rotate through than he cared to count, and he already had that thousand-yard stare. "The birds get worse at night. God knows why. It's like they're on a mission to keep us all from sleep."
I slipped on the earmuffs and followed him to our post at the far end of the runway, where we'd spend the night watching the horizon for any sign of inbound aircraft or unusual movement. In the darkness, Wideawake Field was almost spectral, just a jagged runway carved from volcanic rock, surrounded by empty silence, except for the birds.
The terns' screaming was relentless, a cacophony rising and falling with an eerie sort of rhythm. Even through the thick padding of the ear protectors, I could hear them. They'd become a part of this place as much as the ocean itself, blending into every memory of Ascension I was beginning to form.
Martinez lit a cigarette, the brief flare illuminating his gruff face. "Sometimes they say the Germans send recon planes out here," he said, his voice barely louder than the waves crashing in the distance. "Crafty bastards know we're keeping this place stocked for North Africa."
He passed me his binoculars, nodding toward the horizon. "Check the two o'clock. Make sure it's clear. You get a feel for it after a while."
I raised the binoculars, adjusting to the green tint of the night-vision lenses. At first, there was nothing but ocean and sky, each as dark and endless as the other. Then, I caught a faint glint – a point of light bobbing far out on the waves.
"Running dark," Martinez said, watching over my shoulder. "Could be ours, could be something else. Note it in the log."
I scribbled the details into our logbook, feeling the weight of the task settle in. It wasn't exactly the war I'd envisioned back in Iowa, but out here, every dot on the horizon felt charged with possibility. Friend or foe, every light could mean life, death, or another long, silent night.
The radio crackled. "Wideawake Field, this is Cargo 371 requesting emergency landing. Port engine failing." The voice was American, but protocol required verification.
Martinez grabbed the handset while I flipped through our list of authentication codes. I found the right sequence just as he replied, "Roger Cargo 371. Authenticate Sierra Charlie."
A moment of silence, then the response came back correct. And suddenly, the night sprang into action. Runway lights blazed to life, emergency crews mobilized, and the massive floodlights – which we called "artificial moonlight" – illuminated the strip.
As the damaged C-47 approached, fighting a crosswind that wanted to push it into the volcanic cliffs, I remembered my father's words before I shipped out: "Son, in war, there are no small jobs."
The plane touched down hard but safe, its remaining engine whining in protest. As ground crews swarmed the aircraft, I glimpsed its cargo – crates of medical supplies destined for field hospitals in North Africa. I found myself wondering how many lives hung in the balance of our lonely night watch.
Martinez clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome to the real war, Collins. Not a bullet fired, but we just helped save a plane, her crew, and whoever's waiting for those supplies."
The wideawakes kept screaming overhead, but somehow their noise felt more bearable now. Like the endless waves and infinite stars, they were part of my war – a battle fought with runway lights and radio calls on a forsaken island in the middle of nowhere.
The next morning, as dawn broke over Ascension, I stumbled back to the barracks, exhausted but exhilarated. Just as I reached the bunk, Roberts, my irrepressibly cheerful bunkmate, greeted me with a blinding grin.
"Rise and shine, Kansas!" he bellowed, already fully dressed and somehow looking as fresh as ever. "We're going up the mountain."
I groaned. The last thing I wanted after a night shift was a hike. "Can't this wait?" I grumbled.
"Nope, Captain's orders," he replied, slinging my canteen at me. "All new personnel have to learn the evacuation routes. Besides, you haven't lived until you've seen the commandos' farm."
That got my attention. "The what?"
Roberts just smirked. "Oh, you'll see. Ascension's got its secrets, believe it or not."
An hour later, I found myself trudging up Green Mountain with Roberts and a few other new recruits. The gravel crunched under our boots as we followed a narrow, switchback path up the slope. Sweat poured down my face despite the early hour.
"Mind the sheep shit," Roberts called back cheerfully. "Royal Marines brought 'em over. Said if they were going to be stuck here guarding the mountain, they might as well have proper meat."
As we climbed higher, the barren volcanic rock slowly gave way to patches of grass and, eventually, actual greenery. Clouds drifted low over the peak, wrapping around us like wet wool.
Finally, we crested a ridge, and I saw it: a terraced garden carved into the mountainside, lush and green, tended by a handful of Marines in rolled-up sleeves. Sheep grazed on the slopes above, their wool a strange sight against the black volcanic backdrop.
"Impressive, isn't it?" A British voice behind us made me jump. I turned to see a lean, weathered man in Royal Marine gear. "Major Harrison, Mountain Detachment," he introduced himself, looking us over with a practiced eye. "You're the new lot, I assume?"
He nodded toward the terraces below. "I suppose you're wondering why we bother with all this up here. Anyone care to hazard a guess?"
Nobody spoke. The Major smiled faintly. "Self-sufficiency, gentlemen. If the U-boats ever cut us off, we need to be able to survive. This mountain isn't just a landmark – it's insurance."
I followed his gaze toward the coast, visible through breaks in the mist. From up here, the airfield looked tiny, the planes like toys on the strip. But there was a certain power in this view – the sense that we were holding something vital.
A rumble drew our attention seaward. Through a gap in the clouds, I saw a convoy on the horizon, tiny as bath toys from our elevation.
"Supply ships," the Major murmured. "Escorted, naturally. They'll be past us by nightfall, trying to slip through the U-boat net."
As he spoke, he checked his watch and gestured to Roberts. "Show them the rest of the routes, then get them back to base. Weather's turning."
Sure enough, a fine drizzle started to fall as we made our way down the mountain. By the time we reached base, I was soaked through, volcanic grit in my boots. But I understood something that no briefing could have taught me: Ascension wasn't just an island – it was a link, a lifeline. Everything here had a purpose, every person played a role, even the sheep on the mountain.
That night, as I finally collapsed onto my bunk, Roberts greeted me with his usual grin.
"Heard you met the Green Mountain Boys today," he said, pushing a plate with a questionable slab of corned beef toward me. "Did the Major give you his 'insurance policy' speech?"
I nodded, still trying to shake off the fatigue. "The whole spiel, yeah. Guess it makes sense, in a doomsday kind of way."
Roberts snickered. "Well, don't get too comfortable. Tomorrow's your turn to help with the harvest. Major Harrison takes his self-sufficiency pretty seriously. We've got to pull weeds, plant seeds, tend the sheep... and dodge the irksome sheep shit while we're at it."
"Fantastic," I muttered, picturing myself on a volcanic slope, bent over in some corybantic effort to keep carrots and cabbages alive. It seemed a long way from the war stories I'd imagined when I enlisted. "Can't wait to add 'farmhand' to my list of combat skills."
"Hey," Roberts said, shrugging. "It's better than staring at the ocean every night, waiting for some German dotard to send a U-boat after us." He leaned in conspiratorially. "You know, sometimes I wonder if this whole setup isn't some kind of grand quackery – a bunch of us sitting out here on this rock, 'defending the Atlantic.'" He chuckled. "Feels more like they stuck us in a madhouse and lost the key."
I laughed, shaking my head. "So what you're saying is, we're the Allied leftovers. A few yeggs stationed here, while everyone else is doing the real work?"
Roberts shrugged. "Hey, if they need leftover airmen to keep the wideawakes company, might as well be us." He paused, the humor fading from his face. "But...you gotta admit, Collins. You ever think about how vital this place is? I mean, without it, they'd lose half the fuel and supplies going to Africa."
I thought about that for a moment, letting the weight of it sink in. For all the nonplussing boredom, for all the sheep droppings and volcanic grit, we were, in our own way, keeping the war effort alive. "Guess it's not such a madhouse after all," I admitted, looking out the window as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting its final light over the endless Atlantic.
Roberts gave a half-smile. "Not so bad, is it? Even if we're all a little mad out here." He stood, stretching his arms with a yawn. "Well, sleep while you can. Tomorrow, it's you, me, and a plot of potatoes waiting to be weeded."
I rolled my eyes, already feeling the fatigue settle deeper into my bones. But as I lay back on my bunk, the wideawake terns still screaming outside and the ocean a soft roar in the distance, I found myself thinking about the odd kinship of it all. Here we were, just a bunch of airmen, Marines, and sheep, perched on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic, somehow holding together a fragile thread of the Allied supply line. The thought was oddly comforting, even if our role felt
ridiculous most days. And as I lay there, eyes heavy, I realized that I was beginning to feel a strange sense of pride about it.
The next morning, true to Roberts' word, we were up before dawn, armed with nothing but trowels, buckets, and a grim sense of purpose. The Marines running the gardens looked just as worn as we did, though they seemed to get some perverse satisfaction out of watching us struggle with weeds and rocks.
"Oi, careful with the spuds, Collins!" one of them shouted, watching me with a critical eye. "Last thing we need is some yegg from Iowa uprooting our entire damn potato crop!"
I muttered a colorful response under my breath, careful to keep my movements slow as I dug up weeds without disturbing the delicate potatoes.
Roberts, stationed beside me, was on hands and knees wrestling with a tangle of vines. "Corybantic work, this," he panted, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Who knew the real enemy here was Mother Nature?"
I snorted, glancing up to see one of the Marines grinning. "Look at you two," he drawled, arms folded across his chest. "Not quite the glorious battlefields you had in mind, eh?"
"Hell no," I replied, tossing a handful of weeds into my bucket. "But I guess if this helps keep things running, then I'll play gardener."
We spent hours working on that mountain garden, the sun rising high and hot as it cleared away the morning mist. By noon, the rocky slope was almost shimmering with heat, and I could feel the sunburn setting in. But strangely, the work had a rhythm to it, and the Marines' ribbing helped pass the time. It was as if we were bound by some odd, shared mission – not just to guard Ascension Island, but to make it livable, to carve out some semblance of normalcy in the midst of chaos.
As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the island, we finally made our way back to base. I was covered in volcanic dust, sunburned, and bone-tired. My legs felt like lead as we trudged back down the mountain trail, but the sight of Wideawake Field coming into view gave me a surprising sense of relief. Somehow, despite all its quirks and discomforts, this strange outpost was beginning to feel a little like home.
As we neared the barracks, Roberts let out a contented sigh. "Nothing like a hard day's work to make you appreciate a simple bunk, huh?"
Martinez, who'd joined us for the last stretch of the hike, looked over and smirked. "Simple bunk? You'll be lucky if that rickety mattress doesn't collapse under you tonight. And good luck sleeping with the wideawakes gearing up for another all-night concert."
Roberts just laughed, unbothered. "Ah, let 'em sing. After today, I'd sleep through a full artillery barrage."
Back at the barracks, I tossed my gear onto my bunk and collapsed beside it, too tired to care about the dust or the smell of salt lingering on my skin. The wideawakes were already starting up, their corybantic screeches rising and falling like waves against the island's rugged cliffs. In a way, their noise had become almost soothing—a strange lullaby that reminded us we were still here, still keeping watch over this dot in the ocean.
Before I drifted off, Martinez walked past my bunk, pausing just long enough to mutter, "Rest up, Collins. The war'll still be waiting tomorrow."
And as I lay there, heavy-lidded and aching from head to toe, I couldn't help but smirk at the truth of Martinez's words. Out here, the war was waiting in every shadow on the horizon, every flicker of light on the waves. We might have been miles from the front lines, but our duty was no less real. Whether we were fighting boredom, tending gardens, or keeping a lookout for lurking U-boats, we were all part of something much bigger than ourselves.
The wideawake terns' cries swelled again outside, filling the air with their relentless energy. Roberts, across the room, was already snoring—unfazed, as usual. For a moment, I simply lay there, letting the sounds of Ascension wash over me: the endless crash of the Atlantic, the wind rustling through the barracks, the shrieking of the birds, and the quiet, steady breaths of the men who shared this isolated outpost.
And in that strange, sleepy haze, I found myself at peace with it all—the island, the men, the quirks and hardships, and the small but vital purpose we each served. Here, in the middle of nowhere, we had carved out a rough sort of home. And as sleep finally pulled me under, I realized that, for now, that was enough.