The night is young, and in the barracks men
prepare for sleep, their well-deservéd rest.
For me this is the time to leave our den
and go forth, with my morale at its best.

I walk alone across the snowy isle
to where atop a cliff, not tall but steep,
stands familiar unassuming pile
of boulders and of concrete, modern keep.

On top floor, even this dark winter night,
young men stand with binoculars and watch
the sea, all ready with their sharpest sight
to any unexpected event catch.

At bottom I step in and spare a glance
to where some other men with headphones green
listen to fish make love and hope, perchance,
to hear a Soviet sub pass by unseen.

I go a little further in, to where
a console stands with seats for double use:
the radar screen at which I am to stare,
the other one for if all hell breaks loose.

Two chairs still means that there is room for two –
and I'm not yet the officer I'll be –
so there beside me, watching how I do,
my minder sits, almost as young as me.

The military only takes men still,
but there already are some in-between
positions, where because of special skill
enlisted women can be rarely seen.

Years later I will visit for a tour,
and by this pile of stones have photo op
on decommissioned cannon number four
in camo skirt and bright bikini top.

This night, however, all that's still to come:
my transition, careers of diff'rent sorts,
the end of cold war causing changes, some
of which make obsolete these coastal forts.

The nights like this are dear to me, but not
because of trawlers going back and forth
outside our waters, with antennas hot,
their radios and radars looking north.

This is my slumber party where we stay
awake, two girls who chat, drink coffee, and
just watch the tube, although the programme may
be unconventional and rather bland.