‘A bombing raid?’
I shook my head to clear it of unnecessary nonsense. Hadn’t I been here before? Déjà vu, and all that jazz? I felt like I’d been kicked in the behind.
Minus the couch, this time around.
I was nestled on a stool, on a dark footpath, next to a wooden dwelling I recognized, despite the poor light. Not Kohana’s hovel—her okiya. Oume-san’s place. No doubt the lantern aided in identification.
‘Not any garden-variety bombing raid, my sweet,’ Kohana was saying as she walked around me with small steps, surprisingly steady on precarious-looking geta. Yes, she was the almost fully-grown geisha again.
‘Hangyoku,’ she reminded me, suddenly very close to my ear. I nearly perfected the jumping-out-of-one’s-skin manoeuvre. She’d covered ten feet in less than a second, clogs or no clogs.
‘I get you,’ I assured her, tense.
I was also annoyed, because I could make out those bees again. It was an irritating sound. Would I be allowed no peace? Give me Wagner any day.
Then I made up my mind to do something.
‘Do you mind if I explore? I know this street well enough, though last time I was comfy in a couch. The stool is a bit hard.’
I stood up, stretched my back, and eyed off an alley three doors down. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always had a fascination for lanes—something that stems from growing up in Melbourne, where there are fascinating laneways aplenty.
‘No.’ Kohana’s arm stopped me.
‘Just a brisk walk.’
‘Not now.’ She sounded adamant. ‘Focus. Listen. You hear that?’
‘Yes, yes, the bees, or the Allied planes, are whatever they are.’
‘It’s the sound of over three hundred American B-29 Superfortress bombers.’
I glanced at her. ‘As many as that, you say?’ I walked around her arm. ‘So why are we here, again? Would you like to fill me in on something poignant?’
‘I’m getting there. Give me time.’
‘Time, time. That’s all we ever seem to talk about.’
‘Wolram, this one does take time, believe me. There’s so much I need to tell you. There are three hundred and thirty-four B-29s on their way here, right now, powered by one thousand, three hundred and thirty-six twin-row turbocharged radial pistol engines, manufactured by a company founded by aviation pioneers Orville and Wilbur Wright—you must know them?’
‘Of course, I do. I’m not thick.’
‘Never the implication.’
‘This is the second time we’ve been here. When are you going to tell me what this is about? I detest a mystery.’
‘Well, where do I start? There are so many facts and figures to relate to you, before we arrive at the big event. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm you. For starters, these aircraft carry three thousand, seven hundred crew-members and have two thousand tons of an experimental device, incendiary explosives, neatly tucked away in their bellies—a hotchpotch of white phosphorus and napalm.’
‘Napalm? The munitions used in Vietnam?’
‘Invented twenty years earlier, during World War Two. This street will be one of its first testing grounds—along with all the other roads you can picture, in every direction, for miles.’
Kohana punctuated the sentence with a sweep of her huge, hanging sleeve. I was impressed with the flourish.
‘That includes the laneway over there?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Yes?’
She was apparently not listening. ‘Napalm was a brand new, jellied-gasoline mixture, concocted from a wonderful Harvard University recipe of oleic acid, naphthenic acid derived from crude oil, palmitic acid derived from coconut oil, and aviation fuel.’
‘How do you know these ingredients—let alone remember them, off the top of your head, this way?’
‘I read a lot about it.’
‘Obviously. You and your reading.’
‘Yes. Me and my reading.’
She gave me a lively look, before rattling off more data.
‘The mixture was placed inside M-69 cluster bombs, nicknamed “Tokyo Calling Cards”, which were designed to spray napalm over a one hundred foot area, before or after impact, then explode—sending flames rampaging through the densely packed wooden buildings.’
The houses here were, indeed, densely packed.
‘Asphalt will boil in the one thousand, eight hundred degree warmth; super-heated air is going to suck people into the flames. The fires can be viewed one hundred and fifty miles away. Operation Meetinghouse, as it’s dubbed by the Americans, is going to be the most devastating air raid in history.’
The urgent wail of air raid sirens began.
‘Tonight?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Can we leave now?’ I asked.