Unexploded

“You’re Mr. B, and I’m a dragon slayer!” seven year old Masaki yells as he chases me across the school playground.

These kids and their imaginations, pretending they are fighter pilots taking down American bombers while in reality running mad across a dusty field of drying brown grass.

“I’m 20 seconds from Osaka, locking on target.” I call out so all the little dragon killers can hone in on me.

“Bamm, Bamm, Bamm, Bamm, Bamm” Kosaku bursts in syncopated rhythms to match those of a 20 millimeter cannon attempting to rip through the silver skin of an American B-29.

Flapping my arm to portray a damaged wing, I belt out, “You got me, You got me, my wing is on fire.”

The kids run at me, tackling me to the ground with squeals, giggles, and a few mouthed machine gun bursts for good measure.

They are in good spirits, even though we are far from home.

We roll a bit, giggling as we head toward the edge of the field. Masaki rises first, running parallel with the field’s edge, brushing his arms against the wild weeds growing just beyond.

I miss my family. They must all miss theirs so much. To be so far from their mothers. Their fathers either old or away at war. At least they are usually safer here in the countryside. The bombers only come out here by accident.

The other children chase Masaki, arms stretched out to rub along the summer flush weeds.

“A Bomb, A Bomb, Teacher, A bomb!” Kosaku yells out, frozen in place directly before a tangled mass of weeds.

The other children gather around Kosaku, staring into the growth, hoping to catch a glimpse of a bomb.

“Stand back children.” I say gently so as not to scare them as I approach Kosaku to see what he’s talking about.

The children step back.

I step into Kosaku’s place as he points inside the tangled weeds.  “Look, right there Teacher!”

We’ve been warned about what we’re supposed to do when we find an unexploded bomb. Don’t play with it. Don’t pick it up. Call the Air Raid Warden. They will dispose of it.

“Children, what do we do when we find a bomb?” I ask of the group as I strain to see the hexagonal metallic object in the weeds. It is about half a meter long with two tones of metallic hue. One shiny, the other darker. A bit of rust seems to be forming on the end most exposed to the air.

This must have been here for some time. We should leave here if it is a bomb, marking the spot with a stick or something so we can show the Air Raid Warden.

“Kosaku, since you found the bomb, you find a stick to mark the spot. We’ll then go get the Air Raid Warden.”

The children cheer and start running back toward the village, yelling at the top of their lungs “A Bomb, A Bomb, Air Raid Warden, We Found A Bomb!”

This is the most excitement they’ve had since we were evacuated from Osaka.

As we approach the edge of the village an old man steps out of one of the small houses. He is wearing a vest with characters signifying he is the Air Raid Warden for the area.

“What is this racket?” he demands from me, completely ignoring the children.

“Air Raid Warden, we found a bomb at the edge of the field where we were practicing air raid drills.” I offer, hoping to pay due respect.

We were practicing air raid drills in a way, as I was teaching the children how to be fighter pilots.

With a huff, the Air Raid Warden stumps forward while releasing a few words “Show me what you think is a bomb.”

“Yes Air Raid Warden, this way.” I suggest, offering him my arm as a guide.

The children respectfully lead the way back toward the field.

As we approach the edge of the field in silence, I look toward Kosaku.

Perhaps he would like to show where the bomb is, since he found it.

Kosaku looks back at me, bowing a bit while lowering his eyes to show respect.

I guess not.

The Air Raid Warden sees the stick in the ground, turns to me with a look of disgust before saying “This is it?”

“Air Raid Warden, it is in the weeds behind the stick. We placed the stick to remind us where it is.”

“Of course you did.” He replies.

“Go in and get it.” He orders.

I look at him, confused.

Does he want me to go into the weeds to fetch out the bomb?

He looks back at me, shoving his shoulders and arms forward to signify forward movement.

Yes, he wants me to go in to get it.

“Air Raid Warden, how should I handle it?” I ask, hoping to not have to admit that I don’t know what I’m doing.

“You are a teacher?” He says in a most disrespectful way before diving into the bush himself.

Yes, I am a teacher and I want to make sure these kids are safe.

“Children, let’s step back to give the Air Raid Warden some space to work” I suggest to the very quite and eager children formed up in a neat half circle two paces off.

Out of the corner of my eye I see the metallic object flying through the air toward the children.

Why is it in the air? Did the Air Raid Warden throw it?

As it sails through the air I hear the words “It’s a dud, see!” coming from within the weeds.

The incendiary bomb lands right in front of the children before exploding into a fiery ball of flame.

My whole world is engulfed in red, orange, than black hues before I lose sight completely. Screams from young voices envelop all other sounds.

The children, how hurt are they?

I hear nothing more as I fade into emptiness.

B-29’s were called B-San (Mr. B) by the Japanese out of grudging respect for the American bombers.

 In July 1945 a group of children and their teacher who had been evacuated out of Osaka for their safety were playing on the playground of their new school located in a small village over 40 miles from their home and families. When the group found an unexploded incendiary cluster from an American bomb they notified the local Air-Raid Warden. The warden, who did not believe the device to be live, threw it to show the kids. Unfortunately, he was wrong. The bomb went off, killing eight of the children outright and fatally wounding the teacher and another child. Often those trying to escape war have it come back to find them. This is true even long after the guns fall silent. To this day unexploded bombs and other munitions litter the battlefields, and civilian countryside, across vast swaths of the world. Old bombs kill hundreds of people every year. War never stops finding ways to kill.

Tease

Perky dirty blond, even in a dirty shirt and torn pants, you can tell a looker when you see one.

She strolls into the large room, confident and carefree.

Wow, what a soft face. Hazel eyes. She’s gorgeous.

She sees me looking.

She looks back.

Contact! 

Game On.

I look away, not wanting to seem too interested.

She looks away as well, as she brings her right hand slowly up her thigh, as she turns to reveal a nicely shaped silhouette.

Oh, you’re friendly.

Her eyes locked on me now as she lifts her back leg a bit while bending slightly at the hips to push out her chest.

I’m going to enjoy this!

Adjusting my stance to accommodate some personal changes, I cut the fine figure in my Hugo Boss and leather boots.

Throwing her head back, she begins swinging her hips as she pulls the hem of her shirt out from her pants.

She looks as soft as the little one I had last week, but far more playful!

Slowly, and with intent, her hands rub the shirt fabric up, against her skin, revealing a pale, but tight stomach.

Show me what you got honey!

Pushing it ever higher, her shirt barely reveals the strap of a red bra, before falling loosely about her torso.

She let go. Ugh.

Her eyes lock with mine again, this time just as she places her left index finger in her mouth, licks it with a gentle touch of her tongue before letting it slide down her chin, under her neck, to her chest.

I stare back at her, leather baton in my left hand resting across my front to hide my enjoyment of this little show.

Swishing her hips again, she places both hands on the hem of her shirt, ripping it up and over hear head in one fluid motion.

I want her!

I start toward her.

Damn the rest, this one’s mine!

She crumples up her shirt, throwing it in my face.

Sweaty, grimy, dirty, female pheromones; I’m taking her right now! 

Her shirt covers my face; enveloping my senses in the dream of sensuality.

Just then, I feel a shove against my chest, and a grab at my right arm.

What was that?

Who was that?

Was that her?

Instead of pulling the siren shirt from my face, I reach down, unclasping my Luger from its leather holster.

What’s happening?

Two hands throw my right arm up, away from my pistol.

With my left hand I pull the encapsulating shirt away from my face.

Dirty blond is directly before me, my pistol in her right hand.

No!

I bring my left hand up to throw the shirt in her face just as she pulls the trigger on the Luger.

PPHHUUMMPP, PPHHUUMMPP, two rounds enter my stomach.

NO! NO!

Emmerich rushes over as she turns the pistol on him, firing at his leg.

Doubling over, and collapsing to the hard cold concrete floor, I lose site of the pretty pistol armed inmate.

I could have had her.

Commotion reigns around me as screaming women let loose on the other guards.

It’s a riot.

Automatic gunfire erupts from within the undressing room. Repetitive fire follows from outside where the rest of the prisoners were lined up waiting to enter.

We’re saving gas and wasting bullets today.

I lose site of everything.



On October 23, 1943 Franceska Mann, a beautiful Polish Jew with blue-black hair was one of 1,700 Jewish women arriving at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Part of a trainload of prisoners told they were heading to Switzerland to be exchanged for German POW’s, the 1,700 were told to undress before being disinfected so they could cross the border. As they were undressing, Franceska noticed SS roll call officer Josef Schillinger ogling her with his eyes. There are different accounts of exactly what happened, but what is known is she seductively began to undress, keeping his attention on her. She either threw her shirt at his face or smashed a high-heal against it, covering his eyes either way. Then she grabbed his pistol, firing two shots into his stomach. At this point, the other inmates attacked the SS guards, all of whom were rushed out of the room. Machine guns set up outside the room killed the lined-up prisoners who were waiting to enter while grenades were thrown into the undressing room to kill those inside. Schillinger died of his wounds. Emmerich survived with a permanent disability. All 1,700 women prisoners were killed, possibly all in defiance.

The 1,700 women had been told they were a special transport because they had all paid large amounts of money to the Gestapo for permits to emigrate to Paraguay. Turns out, that was just a ruse to take their money and get them on the train. The permits were not real. Nor was the intent to send them to Switzerland. They were, instead, taken to a death camp for execution. When the women learned of this, they rose in revolt.

Also of note, the SS uniforms were designed by Hugo Boss. This is how the fledgling company first came to prominence. Turns out, somehow, it’s done quite well since then.