War Stories Page 31

  Kurt Vonnegut

  A NAZI CITY MOURNED AT SOME PROFIT

  As a prisoner of war in Germany, Kurt Vonnegut witnessed the destruction of Dresden by Allied bombers in 1944, an experience which inspired his classic novel, Slaughterhouse-Five. The following extract, written in 1976 and taken from his ‘auto-biographical collage’, Palm Sunday, is a sharp and witty reflection on the ‘hidden benefits’ of a wartime tragedy.

  I HAVE NOT only praised a Nazi sympathizer, I have expressed my sorrow at the death of a Nazi city as well. I am speaking of Dresden, of course. And I have to say again that I was an American soldier, a prisoner of war there, when the city was simultaneously burned up and down. I was not on the German side.

  I mourned the destruction of Dresden because it was only temporarily a Nazi city, and had for centuries been an art treasure belonging to earthlings everywhere. It could have been that again. The same was true of Angkor Wat, which military scientists have demolished more recently for some imagined gain.

  Being present at the destruction of Dresden has affected my character far less than the death of my mother, the adopting of my sister’s children, the sudden realization that those children and my own were no longer dependent on me, the breakup of my marriage, and on and on. And I have not been encouraged to go on mourning Dresden – even by Germans. Even Germans seem to think it is not worth mentioning anymore.

  So I myself thought no more about Dresden until I was asked by Franklin Library in 1976 to write a special introduction to a deluxe edition they were bringing out of my novel, Slaughterhouse-Five.

  I said this:

  This is a book about something that happened to me a long time ago (1944) – and the book itself is now something else that happened to me a long time ago (1969).

  Time marches on – and the key event in this book, which is the fire-bombing of Dresden, is now a fossilized memory, sinking ever deeper into the tar pit of history. If American school children have heard of it at all, they are surely in doubt as to whether it happened in World War One or Two. Nor do I think they should care much.

  I, for one, am not avid to keep the memory of the fire-bombing fresh. I would of course be charmed if people continued to read this book for years to come, but not because I think there are important lessons to be learned from the Dresden catastrophe. I myself was in the midst of it, and learned only that people can become so enraged in war that they will burn great cities to the ground, and slay the inhabitants thereof.

  That was nothing new.

  I write this in October of 1976, and it so happens that only two nights ago I saw a screening of Marcel Ophul’s new documentary on war crimes, ‘The Memory of Justice’, which included movies, taken from the air, of the Dresden raid – at night. The city appeared to boil, and I was down there somewhere.

  I was supposed to appear onstage afterwards, with some other people who had had intimate experiences with Nazi death camps and so on, and to contribute my notions as to the meaning of it all.

  Atrocities celebrate meaninglessness, surely. I was mute. I did not mount the stage. I went home.

  The Dresden atrocity, tremendously expensive and meticulously planned, was so meaningless, finally, that only one person on the entire planet got any benefit from it. I am that person. I wrote this book, which earned a lot of money for me and made my reputation, such as it is.

  One way or another, I got two or three dollars for every person killed. Some business I’m in.

  James Salter

  THE HUNTERS

  Drawing on his own experience as a fighter pilot in the Korean War, James Salter’s novel The Hunters (1956) is the story of Cleve Connell, leader of a flight of jet fighters striking at enemy MiGs along the Yalu river. His dreams of becoming an ace seem to be slipping out of reach when weeks pass without a single engagement. Meanwhile the competition among the pilots grows as they all hope to encounter ‘Casey Jones’, the elusive enemy with black bars painted on his plane.

  FLASHING LIKE FISH silver, they broke through a low, billowing surf of clouds and into unmarked sky. They climbed. They crossed the Han and into enemy territory, passing the invisible line beyond which little was forgiven. Time seemed to be going quickly. The tempo of landmarks was greater than usual. The compounding hands of the altimeter seemed to be moving more rapidly. Over the radio, nothing except for routine traffic. The fight had not started. Cleve felt elated. He had not hoped for such luck.

  He looked back towards Hunter, and his courage and pride swelled. There was nothing to compare with the happiness of leading. Towards the final test and winnowing they flew together, and though a man on the ground could neither see nor hear them, they were up, specks of metal moving through a prehistoric sky, contaminating an ocean of air with only their presence, electrifying the heavens. Cleve felt a distilled fulfilment. For these moments, no price could be too high.

  As they neared the Yalu, the cloudiness increased, and above a spotty floor of white there was one huge cumulus build-up, a towering mushroom of brightness as big as a country. It looked like a cosmic fungus, like layers of wrath. They were at forty thousand feet then and climbing. The river was still five minutes away. Suddenly, cutting through the lesser voices, there was Colonel Imil’s.

  ‘Dust on the runway at Antung, boys,’ he called. ‘Heads up.’

  It was as if they had waited for him, Cleve thought slowly. He tried to see the reddish plumes rising, but the cumulus was in the way. Beyond that vast cloud and beneath it, they were taking off to fight. He began searching the sky with the intensity of a man who has lost a diamond on a public beach.

  The first train was called out, a confirmation of the colonel’s sighting. Less than a minute later, they were announcing a second. Then a third.

  ‘They’re climbing to altitude north of the river,’ Imil said. ‘It won’t be long.’

  As Cleve reached the river, they were up to five bandit trains. He turned northeast, towards the dam and reservoir already marked by noiseless explosions that seemed as small as those made by stones dropped into lake silt. He watched as they appeared irregularly in unexpected places. Smoke from a big fire was starting to rise. He looked behind. Hunter was in good position, steady as a shadow. Over the radio an unemotional voice was tolling again:

  ‘Bandit trains numbers six and seven leaving Antung, heading north. Trains six and seven leaving Antung.’

  He reached the reservoir and turned back towards the southwest, high, higher than the others, climbing very gradually all the time. There was a brittle expectancy running through the flights. Urgent, confused calls came continually over the radio, but nobody had made definite contact. Nobody was in a fight yet. The eighth and ninth trains were announced. It would all happen at once. He felt himself living by individual seconds. He flew along the river, turning at the mouth.

  ‘Bandit train number ten is on a heading of three three zero. Train number ten heading three three zero.’

  Ten was more than he remembered ever having heard. The eleventh was called, and twelve, like compartments filling in a stricken ship. It was a flood. He could feel the skin all over his shoulders and back, as if there were eyes staring at it. His sensitivity was almost unbearable. Then he heard Hunter’s quick voice:

  ‘Bogies high at ten o’clock!’

  He looked up into the vacant sky to his left.

  ‘Five, six of them,’ Hunter called.

  Six. That number made it a certainty. Cleve started a gentle turn to the left, trying to locate them as he did.

  ‘I don’t have them.’

  ‘They’re at ten o’clock, high, way out, passing to nine now!’

  Cleve looked. The sky was bright, empty blue. He stared hard at it, fighting to see, working painfully across it.

  ‘Do you have them?’ Hunter cried anxiously.

  Surely they would appear at any second. The effort made his eyes water.

  ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t have them. Go ahead, you take them.’

&n
bsp; Hunter did not turn. Cleve watched him and waited.

  ‘Go ahead. Take them.’

  There was still a pause.

  ‘Aw,’ Hunter said, ‘I’ve lost them now.’

  In silence they took up a track along the river again. The last of the fighter-bombers were going in towards the dam, serenely, but he knew how they must feel. Everybody was uneasy. It was unbelievable that the MiGs would not strike, but slowly, as the minutes sank away, he began to accept it. Flights were starting to leave the area, low on fuel. He heard Imil turning towards home. He checked his own gauge: twenty-one hundred pounds.

  They were going up the river, throttled back now for economy and descending slightly all the while to maintain good speed. They reached the reservoir and flew about twenty miles past it before turning towards Antung again. Halfway there, he called Hunter.

  ‘How much do you have, Billy?’

  ‘Eighteen hundred pounds.’

  One more time, he thought. He listened impassively to more and more flights starting their withdrawals, intact, unsuccessful. In roughly the same order that they had arrived in, their fuel dropped to the minimum, and they departed. Fortune was a matter to be measured in minutes. At Antung, as he swung around towards the northeast, he had sixteen hundred pounds.

  ‘Just once more,’ he said. ‘How much do you have now?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred.’

  They started up the river. It was like swimming alone far out to sea. The minutes were a tide they were moving against. His eyes kept coming back to the fuel gauge. He knew it would be motionless for as long as he could look at it, like a clock. They were at the reservoir. The radio was almost silent. They were among the last ones remaining within fifty miles. They made a large orbit to the left and encountered nothing. They had stayed too long. Turning south, Cleve had twelve hundred pounds. He started climbing for home.

  He looked in Hunter’s direction, back, over his shoulder. A memorial smoke hung over Sui Ho. He stared for a few moments. On the other side, as he turned his head, the great cumulus still rose near Antung, but now it seemed as inanimate and fading as an extinct volcano. It was a relic, enormous in a lonely sky. His gaze moved slightly. Something that could not be seen had drawn it, a force beyond all things sensory. He continued to watch idly, without a motive. Then, as if from out of nothing, so far off and delicate that if he were to move his eyes even slightly or blink he would not be able to pick them up again, aeroplanes appeared. He could not glance into the cockpit to check his fuel. He called Hunter instead, as he began turning towards them.

  ‘How much fuel, Green Two?’

  ‘I’m down to eleven hundred. What are you turning north again for?’

  Cleve did not answer. He maintained his focus. The ships slowly grew to be unmistakable specks. They were still miles away, becoming not so much bigger as a little darker. A minute later, Hunter called them out.

  ‘Four bogies off at one o’clock, Lead!’

  ‘I have them.’

  ‘They’re crossing to two now. They’re starting in!’

  ‘What?’ Cleve said. The ships he was looking at were no more than decimal points.

  ‘Four of them coming down from three o’clock, Cleve!’

  Then, ‘Get ready to break!’

  He looked quickly up to his right. There were MiGs, four of them. He had not even seen them, concentrating as he had been on the ones out ahead.

  ‘Take it around to the right, Billy!’

  They turned into the attacking ships. The MiGs did not continue in, then, but pulled back up. Cleve watched them flash overhead. He reversed his turn to follow. He watched with chilling recognition as they did something he had never seen before. They split into pairs.

  ‘We’ve got some cool ones this time, Billy.’

  ‘Cleve?’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Did you get a good look at them?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘The leader has black stripes.’

  His heart became audible. Something opened within him, full and frightening. He watched them as they swung apart, trying to pick the one out. Of all the times to have his chance. He came close to laughing, but he was too electrified.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Yes, absolutely. Finally to meet him, this far north with this much fuel. He looked at his gauge now: nine hundred pounds. He could almost feel the tanks draining as he flew. It was like blood from his own arteries.

  ‘Let’s keep working south,’ he said.

  They were not to do it that easily, though. The MiGs started back in, working in coordinated pairs: two first, with two more timing their pass so that they would be coming in behind Cleve as he met the others. It took skill to operate that way. It was difficult, and murderous if expertly done. He waited as long as he could before turning into the nearest ones. He wanted to carry the fight as far south as possible. The MiGs might be low on fuel, too.

  ‘Around to the left,’ he said.

  The first two were already in close. He strained to watch them over his shoulder, the Gs tugging at his head. They were firing. The cannon tracers were streaming by, just behind and below him, like dashes of molten ore.

  They did not follow in the turn, but began climbing right back up, to achieve position and come in again. The two teams of them were going to work like that. As the MiGs went by behind him the first time, he called, ‘Reverse it!’ to Hunter, hoping to get a shot in as they went away from him. He was not able to. He was behind them, but too far back and out of line. He stole a glance over his shoulder. He could not see Hunter.

  ‘You with me, Billy?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Billy!’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  Cleve looked back again, on both sides. He still could not see him.

  ‘Break right!’ he heard Hunter call.

  It was the second pair. Cleve turned into them as hard as he could. He caught sight of Hunter then a little below him, turning too. The MiGs fired and passed behind him. Cleve rolled out of the turn immediately. He was heading west. He turned back towards the south. As he did, he saw the first two coming in again, but not from so good a position this time. They were too far forward. Cleve was going to be able to meet them almost head on. He turned into them and, at the last second, was able to fire as they came. Hunter was firing, too.

  They passed the MiGs in a brief instant, and Cleve turned hard after them, without hesitation, caught up in the blood lust, brimming with lunacy. He was fighting for any advantage, and the MiGs were not climbing away. They were turning, too. He was astonished to see it. He recognized the chance.

  He was not completely conscious of what he was doing or even planning. A hand that had done this for years was guiding his ship. He was merely riding along, it seemed, striving to see better, to see everything; and he was cutting the MiGs off in the turn, getting inside them. He could distinguish the black markings on the leader. He pulled after him, distended. As he did, still far from being in a position to shoot, he was stricken with a sense of resignation and fear. They went around and around in this silent, unyielding circle. His fuel was getting lower and lower. He glanced quickly at it: seven hundred pounds. They were going down steadily; they had passed through twenty thousand. The airspeed was building. He had lost sight of the other two MiGs, of Hunter, of everything but the winding earth and the lead ship turning with him, motionless as the world spun about them.