Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Eleven

Attu Island, AK. May 22nd, 1943.

"Stupid damn officers, givin' us stupid damn clothes, and no stupid damn news!"

Maurice lifted his helmet from his face and slapped Kevin in the arm, unable to bear his griping anymore. Snow fell thickly around them from the washed-out sky, piling up on the already shed layer that coated the hill they were on.

"Would you just shut up, Kev? You complain more than a Frenchman. That's bad, you know, real bad."

      "Boy, I don't think I will shut up," Kevin grunted, pacing back and forth beside Maurice like a cow at the slaughter. Maurice had been attempting to get some shut-eye while they awaited their officer's imminent arrival for routine training, but it was quickly proving to be an impossible task with Kevin's frustration and Leland's goading. The rest of their crew, including their squad leader, had wandered off to the side to talk with other soldiers. Wisely so, Maurice couldn't help but think.

     "Well, can't you complain in your thoughts? And why're you targeting the officers? They didn't give us these uniforms, someone higher up in command did," Maurice tried to reason, sitting up and leaning against the anti-aircraft gun behind him. It was a cold hunk of metal, all screws and steel, abandoned in the Japaneses' steady retreat to farther corners of the island. Most importantly, he'd come to learn that it made for a good backrest.

"I'm sick and tired of those bastards ordering us around in winter coats while we're about to lose fingers, Snail," Kevin kicked at the snow and patted his empty breast pocket out of absent habit. "They're eatin' real meals while we scrounge around for fish and whatever our friendly neighbors give us when they drop. Ooh, I'm fixin' to go speak my mind on it, just you wait and see."

Maurice raised an eyebrow and tucked his hands under his armpits in a bid to warm them back up. He knew the feeling Kevin was talking about—how incompetent could you be to send your men to an Alaskan island with gear hardly suited for it?—but was too tired to have any want of discussing such things. "Good luck," he said. "And while you're at it, ask for a steak dinner—just for me."

     Kevin shook his head and laughed. "Sure thing, Snail. Just for you."

————————————————————
Attu Island, AK. June 1st, 1943.

Fog poured from the ocean in thick plumes that obscured everything but two meters out from Maurice's line of sight. His boots splashed in the dark surf as he walked, fruitlessly trying to orient himself in the darkness. The ocean just barely gleamed through the fog, the foamy line that met the shore advancing and retreating with a resoluteness he envied.

I was just saying the truth, wasn't I? Maurice kicked absently at some loose gravel as he walked, irritated beyond what words could describe. He was glad to have left when he did, or he might've lost it.

"He's manic," Maurice muttered out loud, deciding to stop so he could toss a hefty rock into the sea with a deep plunk. He could hear the ensuing waves lapping against the stone, and he crouched down to heave an even larger rock up in his arms. Knowing he looked stupid, but not caring, he forcibly hurled it into the waves and staggered back, panting deeply as he watched it sink into the black waters.

Why do I even bother trying to help this guy if he's just one wrong comment away from snapping? he wondered icily. He can't still be drunk.

Maurice stopped and crossed his arms, taking a moment to glance around. The fog enveloped everything around him in a strange silence, obscuring a horizon he wasn't even sure was still there anymore. He couldn't tell where the ocean ended or where the gravel began. It was a claustrophobic, blurry feeling that he'd never gotten past; quite the opposite, it only wore his nerves down more.