Killing Japanese didn't bother me very much at that time... I

The words of Curtis LeMay — “Killing Japanese didn't bother me very much at that time... I suppose if I had lost the war, I would have been tried as a war criminal.” — are the confession of a soldier hardened by duty and haunted by the paradox of victory. They reveal the brutal truth that war does not abide by eternal justice, but by the justice of the victors. In them we hear both the chilling detachment of one who carried out merciless orders and the sober recognition that history’s judgment is written not by moral absolutes, but by power and outcome.

LeMay was the architect of the American bombing campaign against Japan in the Second World War. He directed the firebombing of Tokyo and other cities, raids that incinerated tens of thousands in a single night. To him, this was the grim arithmetic of war: destroy the enemy’s will, cripple their cities, and shorten the conflict. But behind the efficiency of his strategy lay rivers of fire, children suffocated in shelters, entire neighborhoods reduced to ash. When he later admitted that his conscience was dulled at the time, it was not indifference alone, but the survival instinct of one who must silence pity in order to wield such destruction.

His reflection, however, pierces deeper when he adds: “If I had lost the war, I would have been tried as a war criminal.” Here LeMay acknowledges the terrible relativity of wartime justice. The same actions that earned him medals as a victor might have earned him the gallows as a vanquished. History has seen this before: when Nuremberg judged the crimes of the Nazis, those in the dock protested that their deeds were little different from those of other generals — only they had lost. LeMay’s honesty, though unsettling, forces us to confront this truth: the moral lines in war are often drawn by power, not purity.

One can see the same tension in the history of Carthage and Rome. When Rome finally triumphed in the Punic Wars, it annihilated Carthage, razing the city and enslaving its people. To Romans, it was righteous victory; to Carthaginians, it was atrocity. Had the outcome been reversed, Roman commanders might have been condemned for their cruelty. Thus, LeMay’s words echo an ancient law: in war, the defeated rarely write the verdict.

Yet there is also a warning in his candor. If the difference between honor and crime lies only in victory, then humanity risks excusing any brutality so long as it succeeds. This is the abyss into which civilizations may fall — where morality is consumed by expedience, and compassion silenced by the drums of war. LeMay’s words should stir us not to cynicism, but to vigilance, that we may demand a higher standard: that even in war, humanity must not be abandoned.

The lesson is clear: war distorts the conscience, and its judgments are too often written by winners, not by truth. But as inheritors of history, we must strive to rise above this cycle. Let us not excuse cruelty simply because it succeeded, nor condemn only the defeated while ignoring the sins of the victorious. True justice must look beyond power and reckon honestly with suffering, wherever it falls.

What, then, should we do? In our lives, resist the temptation to measure right and wrong by outcomes alone. Do not excuse harshness simply because it brought success, nor justify cruelty because it was effective. Whether in conflict, in politics, or in daily dealings, hold fast to principles that transcend victory. In this way, we honor those who perished in fire and ash, and we guard against repeating their fate.

Thus let LeMay’s words endure as a double-edged truth: war consumes morality, and victory defines judgment — but wisdom demands we see deeper. To remember this is to walk the path of conscience, even in an age where might so often masquerades as right.