Sinclair McKay's book is a riveting account of the Allied bomb raid on the German city.
By the fateful February 13 1945, the citizens of Dresden had already endured their fair share of American attacks, one in the autumn of 1944 and the other on January 16 1945. Those raids have taken a heavy toll of human life – several hundred people on each occasion – and to add to the tension, the city's warning sirens had been howling every night, disturbing the people's sleep and reminding them of the war from which they had been removed for some years. This is why Dresdeners had found it hard to imagine any greater destruction than that which was already been wrought, explains McKay.
Yet, now, the news that the Red Army was a little over sixty miles away was spreading rapidly through the city, and the nightmarish rumor that on their way the Soviets had happened on a Nazi concentration camp and discovered thousands of "living skeletons", prisoners who had been left behind to die, was disseminating anxiety among the German civilians. "Yet, the real shadow over the city was not being cast by the Soviets," writes McKay. Instead, the unsuspected threat lay in the secret plans and intentions of the Allies in the west.
As McKay further reveals, by this stage of WWII, "the arguments, blazing and bitter, had long ago moved beyond ethics; possibly even beyond strict rationality," and the idea that civilians could be legitimately targeted was not new. As early as 1942, Joseph Stalin had told Winston Churchill that British bombers should be targeting German houses as well as German industry. But Churchill had not needed any such admonitions from Stalin: among senior British commanders and politicians, total war had already become an accepted fact. Before Stalin had made his views known, men such as the prime minister’s singular scientific adviser Lord Cherwell were insisting that bombing raids against Germany should aim to "de-house" the populations of the great cities; by doing so, they would begin to paralyse the industry and infrastructure of the entire country.
The most enthusiastic proponent of this idea was Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris of Bomber Command. A man "whose only streak of sentimentality seemed to extend to beautiful rural landscapes and the farmers who tended them," Harris never had a flicker of doubt about the need to destroy German cities. He was blankly indifferent to the ultimate fates of the civilians who lived in them, so he could morally justify all of this with ease. In a talk he gave in 1942 he insisted that he was not interested in retribution for the havoc wreaked upon Britain by German bombers. This was, as he saw it, simply about "bringing a swift end to the war", and he clung to this belief with religious fervour.
Just like Harris, comments McKay, other senior figures in RAF Bomber Command viewed cities such as Dresden simply as "coloured zones upon detailed maps, populaces presided over by fanatical authoritarians." There were few who bothered to make the exact distinction between civilians and soldiers, between German culture and Nazi cultism.
Since the First World War, Winston Churchill had dreamt of a weapon that could be created in a laboratory, and that would somehow contain hitherto unimagined destructive forces. He envisaged something "the size of an orange" which would be inconceivably more powerful than any existing technology. Such a weapon would be used by a decisive air power that, simply by threatening innumerable lives, would paradoxically serve to save many others. As McKay explains, it "could in one sense be cleaner."
Yet, reveals he, this is not how Britain began its air war with the Germans.
The RAF did not enter the war with a well-developed plan to conduct a strategic bombing offensive, designed to kill as many German civilians as possible. Even if it had wanted to, the means were not there: flight distances were limited, navigational technology was still rudimentary, the aircraft were not able to penetrate deep into Germany. In addition, the British had genuine scruples due to the the international rulings and guidelines that had been debated throughout the previous decade, as well as US President FDR's plea that civilian areas outside combat theaters should never be bombed.
The dissolution of the mutual code of aerial warfare was gradual, narrates McKay. For example, after the fall of France to the Germans in June 1940, when British forces were forced to retreat, the only way of taking the fight to the enemy was in the air. There was a British raid in August 1940 against Berlin, the targets including an airport near the centre. Ninety-five bombers flew in the raid, and though they caused some casualties and disruption, both were comparatively light. Nevertheless, the audacity inspired rage in Hitler.
On the night of September 7 1940 the Nazi began bombing London: "bombs that sounded like the footsteps of giant ogres, sheets of flame hundreds of feet high bringing choking clouds of toxic smoke laced with burning sugar and cinnamon, the result of warehouse blazes."
By 1941, Chief of the Air Staff Sir Charles Portal acknowledged that the approach of the RAF towards German targets was to change – the idea of precision bombing turned into area bombing. The targets were now large city centres, although generally, the industry lay on the peripheries of these urban areas. The intention now was to create wider social havoc, explains McKay. The US president was informed of the intensified strategy; there were no objections from America, and none from the Soviet Union either.
Air Chief Marshal Harris never had any doubts about the area bombing strategy, even as the Royal Air Force was being pushed by others in the Air Ministry to aim for more specific targets: synthetic-oil plants and refineries, and ball-bearing factories. According to him, their idea was too optimistic: reaching and pinpointing such targets was one thing, but damaging them so severely that they would be permanently out of commission was another. So many other factors – "cloud cover, flak, defensive fighters" – meant that such highly specific missions would carry the double risk of a low success rate and high mortality among British airmen, reasoned he.
In 1944, with D-Day and the invasion of Europe underway, there were many other senior Allied figures who shared Harris' opinion. "The administrative machinery that held the Nazi empire together continued to function, but now – with the Allies and the Soviets pushing from opposite directions through towns, across heaths and through forests – here was a chance to launch a different sort of mission," relays McKay. The target would be the city of Berlin and all of its people. The code name for this proposed mission was Operation Thunderclap. ("The term ‘thunderclap’ implies a moment of pure shock or fright, as opposed to damage. . . . But there is also the distant resonance of divine intervention: the angered gods sending forth punishing storms," explains the author.)
Winston Churchill, meanwhile, was impatient to hear more of the possibilities. He wondered if a vast raid on Berlin was possible. And – asked he – "what of these other cities in the east of the country?" This is when Dresden, as well as Chemnitz and Leipzig, were added to the hit list. In Paris, at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force (SHAEF), the HQ of the US and British in Europe, RAF Air Marshal Arthur Tedder (Eisenhower’s deputy) drew up a memo concerning joint American and British air attacks on east-German cities. Although more about concentrating on bombing transport links, power plants and telephone exchanges, in reality this meant essentially the same as Sir Arthur Harris’s approach: the annihilation of the entire target city. Soon Harris received these orders, with the list of potential objectives, and in airbases around the country, British, American, and Australian pilots began preparing to again "fly deep into the darkness of Germany." When bomber pilot William Topper and his colleagues were briefed for Dresden, which they knew to be "a lovely city . . . full of refugees and art treasures," they were told it had been the Russians who asked for it because Germans, allegedly, were sending vast quantities of supplies through the city to the eastern front.
Sinclair McKay pays little attention to the logistics of the raid itself, but he masterfully invokes the depths of human suffering and paints an amazing sketch of the picturesque Dresden, with its "fairy-tale architecture" and "exquisite galleries", a city that did not deserve to see any of the horrible things that occurred when 796 bomber planes flew over it and, in the words of one young witness, "opened the gates of hell."
Dresden was suffused with music, an art perhaps "too sacred for the [Nazi] regime to defile," describes McKay, and the city was famous internationally for opera. There was also a widespread fondness for trees: a rich variety were grown all over the city. Rudi Warnatsch, a boy living with his mother in a residential block, recalled vividly that "the larger part of the courtyard was taken up with a cultivated garden. A magnificent chestnut tree and a linden tree were to be found there."
First and foremost, Dresden was a city of science – just half a mile south of the central railway station there were laboratories where men were conducting a wide variety of experiments with cathode rays and thermionic valves. Here, in 1895, the first mouthwash was produced, the result of a heretofore unsuccessful former department store assistant called Karl August Lingner going into partnership with his old friend Richard Seifert, a chemist. People at that time were swilling their mouths with "anything from vinegar to brandy," but scientists had been examining the processes of tooth decay, and Lingner and Seifert’s new idea of making the liquid antiseptic was sensational, narrates McKay. The product was called Odol; it became a household item not only in Germany but across the continent and in Britain too.
Dresden's attackers were young men, who despite being granted extraordinary power, didn't feel like avengers at all – they were undertaking a mission where both the advantageous weather conditions and the lack of any meaningful defence meant that their target was wholly vulnerable beneath them. For them, this was just another fear-filled night, and the city was just another target.
For the Dresdeners hiding in the cellars, on the other hand, the fear and "the nausea of claustrophobia" were increasingly difficult to suppress. Gisela Reichelt, sitting in an ill-lit basement to the south of the railway station, had not just her own fear to cope with; her mother seemed absolutely paralysed, and the ten-year-old girl had no idea what to do. In other cellars, mothers sat on bare chairs, "staring into the eyes of strangers." There were other women, heads back, eyes closed. One witness recalled desperately trying to wake her mother, who was proving very hard to rouse. A cry of "The fire is burning here!" at last seemed to startle her, and they moved to another place. "Already there were uncountable numbers in that maze of cellars whose sleep had become death, either through suffocation or heart failure," graphically depicts McCay the unfathomable extent of civilian suffering.
What the citizens did not know yet was that this was only the beginning. The civic authorities were unintentionally cruel when they told the people emerging from the cellars that the worst was over. In fact, there was no immediate prospect for peace – at roughly the same time the initial wave of 244 bombers were beginning their flight back to England, the next wave, very much larger, of 552 bombers were already reaching up into the dark over England crossing the Channel to the continent.
Sinclair McKay doesn't overlook the moral side of the attack, showing that lies were often the way to lull heavy conscience. While for Harris it was almost too obvious that "the destruction of Dresden has fatally weakened the German war effort and is now enabling Allied soldiers to advance into the heart of Germany," and the attack was strategically justified, some eminent American figures, such as Telford Taylor, one of the prosecutors at Nuremberg, were preyed on by the issue of morality for the rest of their lives. "What Sir Arthur Harris’s purpose was, I do not know, but the British told the doubters that there was a German armoured division in or near Dresden blocking the Soviet advance from the east, and that the Russians wanted an aerial attack to clear their way," wrote he. "However, the British decoders had produced information that the German armoured division was not at Dresden but in Bohemia many miles to the south."
Dresden: The Fire and the Darkness is a brilliant history of the bomb raid that razed a whole city and took tens of thousand of human lives. McKay's style is highly evocative, rich, and compelling; his research is meticulous, and his eye for curious details impressive. Interesting and important, albeit hard-to-read (because of its subject), book.