Air Raid, You Little Freshman Bitches!

The sun is high in the sky as noon approaches. It's a beautiful day but there's something ominous in the air. It's too peaceful out, and it's making me a bit uneasy. But I shrug it off and go back to my book, sitting on the tatami, and occasionally looking out the window at the quaint tiled rooftops of this little fishing village.

Then it happens. At noon exactly, the shrieking whine of air raid sirens pierces the air.

I'm overcome by a palpable sense of duty.

As a squadron of Allied bombers is sure to be approaching, my time has come to suit up, don the rising sun headband, and do a shot of sake with my compatriots. And then I must climb into my Mitsubishi Zero, which only has enough fuel for a one-way trip. A trip into the hull of the USS Kenosha, or whatever flyover cowtown American carriers are named after. For the glory of the Emperor, the Empire, and of all the people of Nippon - every honorable man, gentle woman, and bright-eyed child - I shall sacrifice myself.

Or maybe it's just lunchtime.

Every day at noon, old air raid sirens from the war era are used to signal that it's time to eat. It happens again at night, too, as a signal that it's dinner time - for the kids to stop playing and for the men to come home from the bars.

This also means that twice a day, everyone old enough to have lived through WWII gets PTSD symptoms, with each gusty blow of the whirring siren bringing back memories of having the living fuck bombed out of them.

What sort of city scares the living crap out of its own elderly people? For a society that respects its elders almost to the point of worship, it's puzzling. And really damn amusing at the same time.

You know, this wouldn't be happening if my great grand-dad were still mayor.