BILLY PILGRIM got onto a chartered airplane in Ilium twenty-five years after that. He knew it was going to crash, but he didn’t want to make a fool of himself by saying so. It was supposed to carry Billy and twenty-eight other optometrists to a convention in Montreal.
His wife, Valencia, was outside, and his father-in-law, Lionel Merble, was strapped to the seat beside him.
Lionel Merble was a machine. Tralfamadorians, of course, say that every creature and plant in the Universe is a machine. It amuses them that so many Earthlings are offended by the idea of being machines.
Outside the plane, the machine named Valencia Merble Pilgrim was eating a Peter Paul Mound Bar and waving bye-bye.
The plane took off without incident. The moment was structured that way. There was a barbershop quartet on board. They were optometrists, too. They called themselves “The Febs,” which was an acronym for “Four-eyed Bastards.”
When the plane was safely aloft, the machine that was Billy’s father-in-law asked the quartet to sing his favorite song. They knew what song he meant, and they sang it, and it went like this:
In my prison cell I sit,
With my britches full of shit,
And my balls are bouncing gently on the floor. And I see the bloody snag
When she bit me in the bag.
Oh, I’ll never fuck a Polack any more.
Billy’s father-in-law laughed and laughed at that, and he begged the quartet to sing the other Polish song he liked so much. So they sang a song from the Pennsylvania coal mines that
Me and Mike, ve vork in mine. Holy shit, ve have good time. Vunce a veek ve get our pay. Holy shit, no vork next day.
Speaking of people from Poland: Billy Pilgrim accidentally saw a Pole hanged in public, about three days after Billy got to Dresden. Billy just happened to be walking to work with some others shortly after sunrise, and they came to a gallows and a small crowd in front of a soccer stadium. The Pole was a farm laborer who was being hanged for having had sexual intercourse with a German woman. So it goes.
Billy, knowing the plane was going to crash pretty soon, closed his eyes, traveled in time back to 1944. He was back in the forest in Luxembourg again—with the Three Musketeers. Roland Weary was shaking him, bonking his head against a tree. “You guys go on without me,” said Billy Pilgrim.
The barbershop quartet on the airplane was singing “Wait Till the Sun Shines, Nelly,” when the plane smacked into the top of Sugarbush Mountain in Vermont. Everybody was killed but Billy and the copilot. So it goes.
The people who first got to the crash scene were young Austrian ski instructors from the famous ski resort below. They spoke to each other in German as they went from body to body. They wore black wind masks with two holes for their eyes and a red topknot. They looked like golliwogs, like white people pretending to be black for the laughs they could get.
Billy had a fractured skull, but he was still conscious. He didn’t know where he was. His lips were working, and one of the golliwogs put his ear close to them to hear what might be his dying words.
Billy thought the golliwog had something to do with World War Two, and he whispered to him his address: “Schlachthof-fünf.”
Billy was brought down Sugarbush Mountain on a toboggan. The golliwogs controlled it with ropes and yodeled melodiously for right-of-way. Near the bottom, the trail swooped around the pylons of a chair lift. Billy looked up at all the young people in bright elastic clothing and enormous boots and goggles, bombed out of their skulls with snow, swinging through the sky in yellow chairs. He supposed that they were part of an amazing new phase of World War Two. It was all right with him. Everything was pretty much all right with Billy.
He was taken to a small private hospital. A famous brain surgeon came up from Boston and operated on him for three hours. Billy was unconscious for two days after that, and he dreamed millions of things, some of them true. The true things were time- travel.
One of the true things was his first evening in the slaughterhouse. He and poor old Edgar Derby were pushing an
empty two-wheeled cart down a dirt lane between empty pens for animals. They were going to a communal kitchen for supper for all. They were guarded by a sixteen-year-old German named Werner Gluck. The axles of the cart were greased with the fat of dead animals. So it goes.
The sun had just gone down, and its afterglow was backlighting the city, which formed low cliffs around the bucolic void to the idle stockyards. The city was blacked out because bombers might come, so Billy didn’t get to see Dresden do one of the most cheerful things a city is capable of doing when the sun goes down, which is to wink its lights on one by one.
There was a broad river to reflect those lights, which would have made their nighttime winkings very pretty indeed. It was the Elbe.
Werner Gluck, the young guard, was a Dresden boy. He had never been in the slaughterhouse before, so he wasn’t sure where the kitchen was. He was tall and weak like Billy, might have been a younger brother of his. They were, in fact, distant cousins, something they never found out. Gluck was armed with an incredibly heavy musket, a single-shot museum piece with an octagonal barrel and a smooth bore. He had fixed his bayonet. It was like a long knitting needle. It had no blood gutters.
Gluck led the way to a building that he thought might contain the kitchen, and he opened the sliding door in its side. There wasn’t a kitchen in there, though. There was a dressing room adjacent to a communal shower, and there was a lot of steam. In the steam were about thirty teen-age girls with no clothes on. They were German refugees from Breslau, which had been tremendously bombed. They had just arrived in Dresden, too. Dresden was jammed with refugees.
There those girls were with all their private parts bare, for anybody to see. And there in the doorway were Gluck and Derby
and Pilgrim—the childish soldier and the poor old high school teacher and the clown in his toga and silver shoes—staring. The girls screamed. They covered themselves with their hands and turned their backs and so on, and made themselves utterly beautiful.
Werner Gluck, who had never seen a naked woman before, closed the door. Billy had never seen one, either. It was nothing new to Derby.
When the three fools found the communal kitchen, whose main job was to make lunch for workers in the slaughterhouse, everybody had gone home but one woman who had been waiting for them impatiently. She was a war widow. So it goes. She had her hat and coat on. She wanted to go home, too, even though there wasn’t anybody there. Her white gloves were laid out side by side on the zinc counter top.
She had two big cans of soup for the Americans. It was simmering over low fires on the gas range. She had stacks of loaves of black bread, too.
She asked Gluck if he wasn’t awfully young to be in the army.
He admitted that he was.
She asked Edgar Derby if he wasn’t awfully old to be in the army. He said he was.
She asked Billy Pilgrim what he was supposed to be, Billy said he didn’t know. He was just trying to keep warm.
“All the real soldiers are dead,” she said. It was true. So it goes.
While Billy was unconscious in Vermont, he recalled a memory of the work he and the others did in Dresden a month before the city was destroyed. They washed windows, swept floors, cleaned bathrooms, packed jars into boxes, and sealed cardboard containers in a factory that produced malt syrup.
This syrup was fortified with vitamins and minerals and meant for pregnant women. It had the taste of thin honey mixed with hickory smoke, and everyone in the factory secretly indulged in spoonfuls throughout the day. Though they weren’t pregnant, they craved the nutrients too. Billy didn’t try the syrup on his first day, though many other Americans did.
On his second day, Billy gave in. Spoons were hidden everywhere—tucked in rafters, drawers, and behind radiators—left behind by others who had snuck tastes but quickly concealed their spoons at the sound of approaching footsteps. Stealing a taste was strictly forbidden.
While cleaning behind a radiator, Billy found a spoon. Behind him, a vat of syrup was cooling, and the only person who could see him was poor Edgar Derby, washing windows outside. Billy dipped the spoon, swirling it in the thick syrup like a sticky lollipop, then brought it to his mouth.
As he tasted it, a wave of intense gratitude swept over him, and every cell in his body seemed to cheer.
There were di dent raps on the factory window. Derby was out there, having seen all. He wanted some syrup, too.
So Billy made a lollipop for him. He opened the window. He stuck the lollipop into poor old Derby’s gaping mouth. A moment passed, and then Derby burst into tears. Billy closed the window and hid the sticky spoon. Somebody was coming.
