Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Twelve

Attu Island, AK. June 2nd, 1943.

Isamu watched the morning sun glaze the water in a golden-orange glow, the vastness of the ocean still hidden by a thin veil of shimmering mist. The new day was already warmer, and the sun was burning some of the wispier fog away, although it still lingered heavily over the slate-grey shoreline with taunting indecisiveness.

     Civilization was so far away—had been for months now—but the barrenness of Attu never failed to disturb him. Mountains and oceans and skies of grey. The isolation of it all would get to a person quicker than the Americans did. He'd seen what happened to men who sunk too deep, who embraced the ice in their chests. He would never blame them, not when the same numbness threatened his own heart, but he wished he could unsee what those men had chosen.

     He wished that about a lot of things.

A bowl of hot rice and seabream would be nice, he thought, emptying the last paper packet of misoshiru into his and Maurice's steaming canteens. He'd nearly forgotten what a piping-hot bowl of taimeshi tasted like; he supposed the island would never know, either.

Isamu set the canteens down and scraped the last of the fish off the bone into the soup, before setting them away from the fire. He watched the grass shrivel beneath the flames for a moment, already dreading having to get up and find more. He'd found the best remedy for the pain in his calf was to simply imagine it never existed in the first place, a sentiment that quickly fell apart whenever he had to get up.

Maybe Maurice could make himself useful, he thought, turning to check on the American.

Maurice was curled up in the universal position people assumed when trying to sleep cold, Isamu's hinomaru yosegaki tucked around his shoulders. It had felt wrong to give it to Maurice, like aggressively stomping on a hallowed ground, but his hesitation had faltered when he'd realized how shaken he was. Who knew what Maurice had experienced on the other side of things?

     "Good morning," he called out to Maurice, taking a hesitant sip from his canteen. Maurice blinked his eyes open and slowly sat up. His eyes were crusted with salt, and he bore a strangely strained expression, although the worst of his chills seemed to have passed. "Sleep well?"

      "Besides almost getting blown to kingdom come, terrific," Maurice muttered, taking a moment to wipe his eyes and stretch. "You?"

Isamu shrugged, then shot Maurice a miffed glare. "You snore very loudly. I did not know if I was hearing planes or you sometimes."

"That's a load of cow shit. I have never in my life snored," Maurice huffed.

      Iamu held Maurice's canteen out to him, and Maurice reached for it, although ended up grasping to the right of the canteen with an open hand. Isamu furrowed his eyebrows and found himself having to practically push it into his palm. Maurice gave him a grateful, half-asleep nod and retreated back to his rock with the canteen balanced in his hands.

     "Are you alright?" Isamu decided to ask, despite his better judgement. Maurice had all but brushed the question off last night, so he doubted he would get any more of a solid answer now, but he still felt the need to ask anyway.

     Maurice, to his credit, was at least predictable in his answer. "I'm fine."

     "Kuse, kuse." Isamu shook his head. "I think you're lying again."

    Maurice gave him a dubious glare. He propped his elbows on his knees and opened his mouth to rebut, but faltered when the flag slid off his shoulders and crumpled into a puddle. He quickly plucked it out of the muck and muttered a succession of English words followed by a "Sorry," as he unfurled the flag. It had a satiny sheen, its pure white background struck by a bright red circle in the center. Lines of various painted encouragements—most from his family, a few from classmates—radiated from the middle of the flag outward.