Day of Infamous Sorrow

Chapter 1 - Saturday March 1, 1941

March 1, 1941

Two hundred and eighty-two days before the attack.

First Impressions

Colin Stratford POV

I had sat down at the local bar in downtown Honolulu with my grandfather's old suitcase next to the barstool, when I noticed the clock. Thirty-two minutes past four. Not bad, I thought. I have a lot of time till I have to head to the base. This wasn't my first rodeo with first jobs, in fact moving and changing location was something I had gotten used to. The only thing that remained a constant was my girlfriend, my love of liquor, and this old suitcase that followed me throughout constant moving. I had worked at multiple military bases before Pearl Harbor, but every new job came with new people, new coworkers, and of course, a new roommate. I wasn't the best at first impressions, nor was I someone to look up to if my new roommate was a first-time stationed sailor looking for advice from an experienced sailor.

I looked around me at the people at the bar. It wasn't too surprising to see only a handful of people here; not many people went out drinking at this time of day. To my left, sat a young man and his girlfriend, and on my right sat a few old geezers chatting about the old days with raspy voices. The bartender, who looked in his fifties, was cleaning some dishes with a dishcloth in one hand when he slowly walked towards me.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked politely, setting the glass down next to the sink.

I shook my head and replied, "I'm not ready yet".

He nodded in reply and went back to drying the dishes. Of course I could order the usual, but I didn't want to rush into drinking. Couldn't afford to be drunk on the first day at the new shipyard. As I debated on whether or not to have a drink, a young man walked in hastily with his suitcase, looking frantic; not something you'd see everyday in a bar. He immediately struck me as bad business. He sat a chair away from me, which seemed strange considering the entire open row of seats at the counter. He looked no older than twenty, but he looked as out of breath as the old geezers across the room hacking through the smoke of their cancer sticks.

He glanced at the clock hanging from the wall next to the cabinets and then pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. I pretended not to stare as he glanced back and forth between the clock and the paper. He narrowed his eyes like he couldn't read it correctly. He crammed the paper back in his coat pocket and turned towards me.

"Um...excuse me, do you know what time it is?"

I stared at him with an incredulous stare, and he continued.

"I don't really know how to read that kind-of clock," he said nervously.

I had a hard time believing that, considering that they should have taught them that at school, but seeing as he played with his hands nervously, I complied.

"Four thirty-seven."

"Thanks," he sighed in relief. "Sorry about that."

"Yeah," I shrugged it off and motioned to the bartender. He walked over, and I placed my order. In a flash he whipped out the bottle of rum and citrus juice from behind the counter. I noticed that the man eyed the bartender making the drink but looked away when the bartender gave him a stern glare.

I felt a tug at my sleeve. "Um, sorry to bother you again. What kind of drink do you recommend?"

I looked at him skeptically again. Is this his first time at a bar? Has he never drunk before? He did look quite young. Underage, maybe? "Um, it depends," I replied truthfully. I didn't want to start chatting with the youngster, but he seemed really keen on an answer. "There are cocktails, and then there is the real stuff. Like rum and vodka."