Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter One

A/N:
    
     This story is based during the Aleutian Islands Campaign during World War II, where American and Japanese forces fought for control of Attu, a secluded, scarcely populated island off the West coast of Alaska. It is the Westernmost island of the United States and is the site of the only land battle on its soil during WWII. All the characters I write about are fictional, but I try to keep with the historical backdrop and events. Hope you enjoy! :)

Content warnings:

— War
— Violence 
— Occasional swears
— Neglect 
— Death
— Prejudice 
— Themes of self harm

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"If you look into someone's face long enough, eventually you're going to feel that you're looking at yourself." — Paul Auster

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Fort Campbell, KY. November 17th, 1942.

"How many was that, Private Burdett?"

Maurice's arms were shaking, each push-up sending a searing, white-hot jolt of pain up his arms. The grass of the training field prickled his palms, holding a late-November crunch that Maurice was just beginning to hate. Where were the soft grasses and gently rolling hills of the South he was promised? A little further down in Tennessee, apparently.

It's all a game, this whole boot camp ordeal, he reminded himself. I just have to play the game the way they want me to.

"Thirty-two... Drill Sergeant," he panted. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he shakily lowered himself back down. His drill sergeant was kneeling next to him, a ball-point pen poised over his worn clipboard, and his deep-set grey eyes practically boring straight through Maurice's back. Sergeant Hill's face had that quality of always falling into a somber expression, as if his forehead was weighed down by the very presence of his eyebrows.

"My grandma could do thirty-two pushups," Sergeant Hill drawled, his voice lilting with feigned contempt. His bald head gleamed like a bowling ball, and whenever he tilted it Maurice was temporarily blinded.

     "Is that a fact?" Maurice huffed before he was able to think twice.
    
     "Don't get smart with me now if you can't do so anywhere else," Sergeant Hill hollered. "PUSH!"

     Maurice pushed back up to the plank position. He focused on a ladybug crawling along a dry grass blade, keeping his shoulders squared as his arms threatened to give out from under him.

     "I said push, damnit!"

     He strained to lower back down. He was starting to feel like he was in a maternity ward.

     "Arms straight!"

     Back up.

     "Come on, Burdett! Do I need to dangle a croissant in front of your face?"

     "No, Drill Sergeant!" Back down. His chin brushed against the grass beneath him, and it took everything in his power not to reach up to scratch the itch.

     "PUSH!"

     Maurice's arms were trembling like leaves in a hail storm. He chanced a look up to his left, spotting the other recruits sitting a few feet away on the grass, sipping languidly from their canteens. See now, I'm holding the whole procession up. Two weeks in, and yet I still can't push more than thirty-four. It's better than ten, no doubt, but I'll be eating dirt before Sargent Hill is satisfied.