Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Five

     Attu Island, AK. May 30th, 1943.

Maurice gingerly pressed his hand to the bandage on his forehead, keeping his eyes closed. His temples still throbbed with steady jolts of pain, but the stitching was tidy and Isamu had made quick work with the needle. It wasn't the cut so much as the pressure in his head that was so stifling; he almost wished that Isamu had been kind enough to give him a little bit of that whisky for the pain.

Useful as a prisoner—what a joke. The only things I'm good for are firing mortars and cleaning the privies. How long will it take him to realize that?

     Maurice slumped forward and ran a hand through his tangled curls. It was only a matter of time until he was reported missing. Only a matter of time until they sent that dreaded MIA letter to his Maman.

     She won't even understand it, he thought. Maybe it's for the better that she doesn't. He pulled the fur hood of his coat over his head and tucked his chin under his collar. Pa might leave her, might just take the money and run. All he needs the money for is to smoke and drink and gamble it all away—he certainly won't care that I'm dead.

He looked up, squinting to make out Isamu's form through the dark. The soldier was holding his lighter up to a book titled Les Fleurs du mal, the flame's light flickering over his concentrated expression.

     Charles Baudelaire? He recognized that author from torturous English lessons at secondary school, having only remembered the man because Maurice had been the de facto translator of his poems in class.

     Maurice went back to staring down at the dusty floor. His mind wandered back to that terrifying long hour beneath the ridge, the solid crack of bullets still echoing in his ears. It was the familiar shouts of his friends through the mist that stung the most. A chill crawled up his spine, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

If I make it back, Kevin is gonna get it, he thought. Does nobody check who they're shooting at anymore? The persistent mist of the island sure did a swell job of obscuring friend and foe; it was terrifying that only a thin curtain of fog had turned him into Isamu's comrade.

Maurice's shoulders slumped lower, his heart pumping a weak beat in his chest. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I hate this stupid war.

Maurice saw just how far the Japanese would go to remain in the fight, of how difficult it was to make them surrender. He didn't understand it—what could their generals possibly be telling them?—but knew that Isamu also ran along that track of thought. And if the ignorance of Isamu's hope was what kept Maurice alive... then who was he to break the illusion? If Isamu hadn't figured out that his comrades were gone by now, it wasn't his place to say anything.

I just have to wait for my moment. Maurice rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

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     Oak Grove, KY. December 24th, 1942.

     Maurice sank back into a velvety couch, nursing a mug of hot eggnog while he watched the snow fall thickly just outside the window beside the Gibsons' Christmas tree. Warm, colorful bulbs glowed gently against the glittering tinsel and blown-glass ornaments, while an angel sat atop the tree with what Maurice thought was a rather sour expression on its painted face. The radio was on in the kitchen, playing cheery Christmas tunes as Mrs. Gibson indignantly beat a clump of dough with a rolling pin.