Tomorrow We'll See Morning

Chapter Fifteen

      Attu Island, AK. June 2nd, 1943.

       Maurice carefully dragged himself to the far corner of the cave, half-hidden by a rock formation that formed a small alcove, and lay with his back facing the fire flickering near the mouth of the cave. Ryuichi—for that was what Isamu called him—had fallen asleep on the other side, his face splotched with bruises and the feeble light of the flame, while Isamu carefully put the remaining sweet potato crisps away. Rain poured down from the black sky outside, splattering against the dirt and spraying the inside of the cave with cold water.

      Maurice shivered as a ribbon of cool wind wafted through the cave, goosebumps prickling along his spine. He closed his eyes in anticipation of sleep but had barely steadied his lungs enough to drift into shallow unconsciousness before he felt a tap on his shoulder. He jolted and sat up, twisting around.

     "It's me," Isamu muttered, his silhouette shifting against the intense light of the fire. Maurice could hear him kneeling beside him. "Did the bleeding stop?"

     "I don't know."

"I'll get the lighter."

      After a full minute of blindly sorting through his bag, Isamu clicked the lighter on and Maurice bunched his shirt up to remove the gauze. He pulled the bloodied strips away and stared dully down at his stomach. It was more sunken in than he could ever remember seeing it before. Blood dribbled steadily down his skin in small, glossy rivers from the shallow cut.

     Isamu frowned. "Ah... put the bandage back, put it back."

     Maurice pressed the gauze shakily back to the wound, not bothering to hold in his hiss of pain. He carefully leaned so that his back was pressed to the damp rock again. "Thanks," he said dully. "You've saved the Burdett bloodline."

Isamu, who had been hunching over the medical tin as he pulled out their last roll of gauze, glanced up and gave a brief smile. "Oh. I didn't mean to."

Maurice smiled wearily back and shook his head. "Yeah, alright. I hope you never have kids either, pal."

     The temporary mirth fled Isamu's eyes, replaced by an exhausted resignation. "There is a little sake left in some of the bottles you threw out. We could use it to sterilize. Did you find anything else?"

"Morphine," Maurice said, remembering the ampoule still sitting in his pocket. "But the cut doesn't hurt nearly that bad."

Isamu raised the lighter and his eyebrow simultaneously. "Morphine? How much?"

Maurice showed Isamu the morphine ampoule and found the syringe where he'd dropped when Ryuichi had stabbed him. Isamu took both of them and nodded appreciatively.

"Thank you."

      Maurice watched Isamu's face. Something was wrong—something always was in this hell, but in a different way now. He had drawn himself up into a tight posture, hands clenched into fists on his lap, his eyes focused on the shadow of a gnarled stalactite overhead.

      A drop of condensation fell to the dirt and Isamu flinched, breaking his focus.

Yes, Maurice thought, sitting up in concern, something is most definitely wrong.

There were so many things he was sure he would never know about Isamu—he knew Isamu hadn't been on a single-man patrol when Maurice had come across him—but he couldn't just say nothing. If Isamu's affinity with French poetry was any indication, then Maurice supposed he was a common resident of his head. It would not do to leave him stewing in his own thoughts after what had just happened.