Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Nine

     Attu Island, AK. May 23rd, 1943.

      Maurice watched as a mashed-up sludge of contents was ladled into his tin pan, his stomach hollowed out by hunger. The line of soldiers had been agonizingly long, and by the time he'd reached the food, there was only the cold, unidentifiable dregs of half-cooked beans and something resembling corned beef left clinging to the bottom.

      "Looks wonderful," Maurice commented dryly, peering into his tin.

      "Hey, at least you got a chunk of carrot," the cook said, scratching his neck and looking for all the world like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Who didn't? "Bottom of the barrel's where the good stuff is at, aye?"

      "Not when it's frozen solid by the time I get to it," Maurice smiled wearily. "But thanks."

       He walked out of the packed mess tent and spotted Kevin and the rest of his mortar crew sitting at the base of a grassy hill, eating their chow on a few stray rocks. He came over and sat down next to Kevin, who was in the process of animatedly describing something regarding his Dodge truck waiting at home.

      "And—" Kevin took his cigar out to take a bite out of a slice of bread, and then began puffing away again, "—it works better in the snow than anything I've ever owned before. Seventy horsepower, and it has a mighty fine paint job to boot."

       "Hey guys," Maurice sat down next to Kevin, who scooted to make room for him. "Kevin, I think I could name the exact number of screws your Dodge has at this point."

       A few of the other guys chuckled, and Kevin took his cigar out to laugh. "Boy, you better shut up. You've never owned a real truck before."

      "I've never owned any vehicle before!"

       "Well, see?" Kevin smiled and glanced around at the others, throwing his hands up in the air. "He's proven my point!"

      Maurice shook his head, a small smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I don't think your truck would last long here, anyway," he said, jabbing his spoon into the cold mass on his tin pan. He took a bite and held his breath, having to force it down. "What we need is a plane. Maybe then we could fly back to the States. Leland could drive—he'd probably crash us into a mountain."

Kevin snorted, then began coughing, pounding on his chest. "Yeah, he'd kill us alright, psycho he is," he wheezed, waving his hand in the air to clear away the smoke. "I'm sure the brass would love that. But hey, we might get desperate. The way things are going, we're gonna be here 'till next spring. You much of an airman, Leland?"

Leland just smirked and took a sip from his cup, shrugging facetiously.

They delved into a comfortable silence, eating their cold lunches as a harsh wind swept over the surrounding tents, whipping the flaps around. A lone fly landed on a clump of grass not too far away, rubbing its legs together and eyeing Maurice's meal with unblinking kaleidoscope eyes. He furrowed his brow and swatted it away; he had grown to despise flies, how they feasted on anything they could land on, alive or not. He supposed it wasn't their fault—they were just surviving, after all—but ignorance was not innocence.

        Kevin's been acting strange, he thought, warily watching the fly as it flew off. He tentatively scooped the lone carrot chunk onto his spoon and took a bite, Something must be up, he never talks about his Dodge unless he's on edge.