Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Six

     Attu Island, AK. May 30th, 1943.

Heavy droves of rain pummeled down on the roof with relentless abandon, drowning out the ever-persistent crash of waves. The snow outside was melting into an icy slush, but the air was still just as cold, just as damp and unfeeling. Wind pushed past the bunker door, sweeping through the room and bringing the thick stench of oil along with it.

     Isamu had finally finished molding one last rice ball out of his supplies. It was a soggy onigiri, just as sad as the watered-down miso soup he'd made earlier. Each rice ball was an increasingly more pitiful abomination than the last, dotted with raisins and held together by sheer force of will. Isamu leaned back and examined his work with a grimace. Mother would kill me if she saw this, he thought. If this old rice doesn't first.

     With a frustrated sigh, he scanned over their dwindling rations laid out on the floor.

     Ten days worth, if I stretch it. But with him here...

He looked over to where Maurice was lying with his back facing him. It was rather confounding, how he managed to fall asleep in such a situation. Isamu himself felt the heavy pull of unconsciousness, but he would be hard-pressed to so much as close his eyes.

I could fix this problem, he thought. But then I wouldn't have a prisoner. And a prisoner is what I need to prove that I didn't desert, right?

That, or his head.

A chill crawled steadily up Isamu's spine. He traced a finger through the dust on the cement floor, feeling the coldness seep through his hand. I have to keep sight of my goal, he reminded himself. To mar that gleam of determination with any doubts or hesitation would not do.

       Maurice was snoring quietly away in the shadows, his occasional snorts reminiscent of a pig. Isamu looked up, his forehead scrunching. How long has he been asleep now? Three hours?

Tentatively scooting over to the other side of the bunker, Isamu paused for a beat, before he slid Maurice's rations across the floor towards him.

     "Hey! Burdett, wake up!" Isamu waved his hand in Maurice's face. Maurice startled awake and shot up to a sitting position. "I have your rations here," Isamu continued more calmly, "two for each day. You'll carry them yourself if you want to eat."

Maurice didn't respond. He was frozen there, back against the wall, his hand automatically gravitating towards the empty knife holster at his hip. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his pupils were dilated past normalcy.

"Burdett?" Isamu asked hesitantly, leaning back from the soldier.

Maurice stared at him for a moment longer, his eyes darting between his face and the rifle held tightly in his hands. Isamu reluctantly lowered the gun; he did not want a sleep-induced fight if he couldn't help it.

     "Burdett," he tried again. "Hey! I said, I have your rations here."

     Maurice's eyes trailed down to the food in front of him, locking on a packet of miso soup. He shakily lowered his shoulders and breathed in deeply, his entire person seeming to melt slightly.