Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Seven

     Attu Island, AK. May 31st, 1943.

      "Not thunder! It's not thunder!"

      Maurice jolted awake, raising his head to see Isamu frantically dumping his supplies in his bag, scooping up cans from the floor, and cramming them into his backpack with little to no pause. A deafening roar shook the walls of the bunker, followed by the sharp whine of a plane descending overhead. It was still dark, save for the thin swathe of pinkish-orange clouds hovering just over the horizon outside.

     Maurice sat up in a flash, his nerves buzzing with adrenaline. His eyes flooded with dizzying, dancing colors, and he pressed a hand to his forehead in an effort to regain his vision. "What?"

     "I said, it's not thunder," Isamu whirled around and tossed something in his lap. "It's sentōki! Get up!"

      Maurice nearly leapt out of his skin, before realizing it was just his bag. He pulled it up and flipped open the front flap, seeing that his rations had been packed neatly inside, his darning egg even carefully sandwiched between the first aid kit and the remaining half of his emergency ration bar. His eyes caught on his Maman's letter sitting atop it all, the ink blooming in the humidity.

Maurice glanced up at Isamu, eyebrows raised. The other soldier was staring back at him, tapping his foot anxiously. The air was damp and cool, and his rapid breaths twisted as tangible mist in the dim light.

    "Sentōki?" Maurice echoed.

      "A flyer, a fighter." Isamu waved a hand in explanation. "Sentōki. Pew pew? You know what I'm saying, right?"

     "A... plane?"

      "Yes! A plane." Isamu knelt down to tighten the laces on his boots. "We have to move now," he said, standing up and leaning against his rifle to eye the world outside. "We are closer to the airstrip than I thought."

     Maurice squinted at him. "Now? But—"

     "Do you want to risk your friends' aim again?" Isamu suddenly interrupted, whipping around with a startling ferocity. He marched over to Maurice and jabbed a finger to his chest, hissing out. "Do you? 'Kevin' might have fixed his sights this time, and do you think he cares if one soldier in the fog starts speaking English?" Maurice stepped away until his back hit the wall. "You are all the same, just shooting anything that moves!"

Isamu stared at him for a second more, glare unwavering, before he turned around and kicked at the portable stove, shaking his head feverishly. Maurice pressed a hand against his forehead and leaned against the concrete. "Kevin didn't know," he said softly. "He only shot at us because he thought we were both Japanese."

     "He had a fifty-percent chance of being right," Isamu pointed out listlessly. "Now let's go."

Isamu walked over to the doorway, his gait slightly stilted, and peered up at the sky. His face was distant, and the skin under his eyes was dark and sunken. He adjusted his fur hat, pulling it down over his head as a bit of the drizzle was blown inside. Mist swirled over the grassy hills outside the door, while waves crashed against the shore somewhere nearby.

      There was a tangible shift in the air, a heavy silence that had settled over them like the eerie calm before a violent storm.

       He's getting ready to drop the other shoe, Maurice thought, heart thudding. He knows how useless I am.

Maurice pushed himself to his feet and paused to cast the portable stove one last glance before he shouldered his pack and clapped his helmet on. He walked to the entrance and stood to the side to watch the sky lighten. The rifle was so close he could nearly smell the varnish, but Isamu was holding it with a deathly tight grip.