A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II (10 page)

“Indians, twelve o’clock low,” Roedel said, the code words for having spotted the enemy. Franz saw four Curtiss fighters below, gently weaving left and right in lazy S patterns as they flew on a reconnaissance mission toward the German lines. Desert Air Force planes were most likely flown by English or South African pilots, but the force also contained Australians, Canadians, New Zealanders, Scots, Irishmen, Free Poles, Free French, and even American volunteers. From far above, Franz could see the P-40s’ sharp red spinners and painted shark teeth with beady eyes, a frightening war paint the American “Flying Tigers” in China had borrowed from the Desert Air Force. Franz saw
the red, yellow, and blue concentric circles on their wings that brazenly marked them as his foe.

Roedel radioed Franz and told him he was attacking and to “stay close.” He peeled off and dove toward the enemy. Franz followed, his heart racing. His task was “dive, hit, climb, repeat.” This was the fighting style of the 109, a plane that could not turn with its enemies in spiral dogfights, but could outrun and outclimb most of them.

Seven thousand feet below, the P-40 pilots spotted the diving 109s. Franz saw the pack of P-40s break formation and peel wildly upward, aiming their shark mouths directly at him and Roedel. One thousand feet passed by in a split second. The needle in Franz’s altimeter whipped counterclockwise, 22,000 feet, 20,000, 18,000.

Roedel’s plane obscured half of Franz’s windshield as he flew just ahead of him. The P-40s seemed to swell as they climbed on their collision course. Franz had been told that going nose-to-nose with a P-40 was a fatal mistake because each carried six, heavy .50-caliber machine guns, more potent firepower than the 109’s two machine guns and single heavy cannon that fired from its nose. But Roedel seemed to know otherwise.

Roedel fired first. Flames spit from the nose of his fighter. His cannon’s roar startled Franz. The P-40s’ wings twinkled in reply. Franz knew that a combined twenty-four guns were now firing at him. He squeezed off a terrified, blind burst. In training, he had shot at fabric targets towed by biplanes but never while diving toward the earth with the target racing up at him. Roedel’s shell casings whipped by his windshield like a rain of brass nails. A P-40 burst into flames. Flaming tracers from the P-40s whipped around Franz’s canopy. He swore they were about to collide.

Franz could take it no more. He panicked. Hauling back on the stick, he pulled his fighter into a screaming climb, up and away from the onrushing enemy.

Aiming his plane’s nose toward the blue, he ran for the heavens.
Franz tucked his neck into his shoulders, bracing for the thud of lead on his armored headrest, but no bullets followed. “Horrido!” Roedel shouted over the radio. Franz knew this battle cry meant he had shot down an enemy plane and wanted Franz to visually verify its destruction. But Franz was too far away and unable to see a thing.

Franz felt sick. His shoulder straps, the 109’s cramped cockpit, his heavy leather jacket, and the sun’s blazing rays all seemed to squeeze him. Lifting his neck from his shoulders to look backward, he saw a sight that allowed him to breathe again. The P-40s had not followed him. Instead, they orbited in a defensive circle a mile beneath him, covering one another’s tails, expecting a dogfight that was not to be.

As Franz leveled off, a new wave of sickness struck his stomach. He realized he had abandoned his wingman. Worse, his wingman was his leader. Even worse, now he was alone and disoriented, easy prey should the enemy come across him. The fight had ended in mere minutes, as they did in the desert. Franz turned
White 12
in the direction of Martuba. Relying on the ocean as his northern compass point and the sun as his southern point, Franz reasoned that his base lay somewhere in the middle of the horizon.

The sun cooked him through the cockpit glass. He strained his eyes and felt his head grow heavy from shame. Franz shifted his weight over his parachute. He felt something wet in his seat. His first thought was that his plane had been hit and he was feeling its engine coolant. Then he touched a warm, dark patch in his crotch. He had lost control of his bladder. Franz flew until he saw the Green Mountains. Somewhere below, he knew, was home. Navigating in a land without forests or railroads or streets was a challenge Franz had never anticipated when he was teaching cadets to fly.

“There you are,” Roedel’s voice squawked across the radio. Franz scanned the skies and grimaced when he looked over his shoulder toward the sun. That’s where Roedel came from—by habit. A pilot could live longer by always approaching from the sun.

Roedel pulled up on Franz’s left wing, the wingman’s spot. Roedel could tell that Franz was scared by the way he flew, his plane bobbing and jittering.

“You lead,” Roedel told Franz and gave him a heading.

Franz preferred to follow but obeyed orders and flew onward until glints of light blinked below from the arid earth. Squinting, Franz saw small planes lined up along a desert airfield. They were home. Franz landed first and Roedel second.

Franz shut his own engine down and remained in his cockpit, the canopy flipped open. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the sweat-covered leather seatback. Lifting himself from his plane, Franz saw ground crewmen approaching so he hurried away, scurrying for his tent, hoping to dodge any embarrassment at the sight of his wet pants.

“Stigler!” Roedel shouted from behind. Franz stopped and approached Roedel, head hung, bracing for a verbal lashing. But instead, Franz was met by a grin.

“Today was a success,” Roedel said. “You survived. You brought yourself home. And if you think about it—you’ll never be that scared again for the rest of your life.”

“I’ll confirm your victory, sir,” Franz said, “but first I need to change my pants.”
^*

Roedel laughed and slapped Franz on the shoulder “You aren’t the first one that’s happened to!”

Franz opened the flap to his tent. A blast of heat hit his face. He flopped onto his cot, closed his eyes, and fell into an instant sleep. In the evening he went to the mess tent. He passed through the line and saw that dinner was the same as lunch—a tin of Italian beef his comrades called “Mussolini’s Ass.” Back home Franz had been picky and would tell his mother, “I’ll pass on anything that flies or swims.” Little did he know how he would come to regret those words.

Franz sheepishly sat apart from Roedel and the others. Before every bite, he tried to swat the flies from his food. Sneaking a glimpse at the other pilots, he saw that they ate without brushing away the flies, swallowing a few with each gulp of the tough, sticky meat.

Franz was only a few clean bites into his meal when Roedel stood and announced, “Fire Free!”

Franz looked at Roedel, aghast, his fork frozen in midair.

Roedel saw Franz’s wide eyes and full plate, then shouted a line he would use at every meal after that, needed or not: “Fire free—except for Stigler!”

The other pilots laughed. A few whacked Franz on the back with friendly slaps as they departed. With relief, Franz finished his dinner in solitude but knowing he was no longer alone.

The P-40 that Roedel had downed was the only German victory in Africa that day, but the rudder of Roedel’s 109 remained unmarked.

*
This was due to a German tradition called
Überparteilichkeit
, or “impartiality,” the separation of military from politics.

*
There was logic behind Roedel’s warning. When a pilot spared a defenseless enemy in a parachute, as was the unspoken practice in the Battle of Britain, if the enemy pilot returned to combat he would be more apt to repeat the gesture. It was for this same reason that the British tried to treat captured German airmen well, housing them in P.O.W. castles and manors. The Germans would write home and tell of their good treatment and hopefully the treatment of British P.O.W.s would improve in turn.

*
“Many times pilots came home, myself included, and we had to change our pants,” Franz would remember, “and not just when we were new to combat.”

NINE DAYS LATER, APRIL 18, 1942

T
HE SUN BLAZED
through the canvas of Franz’s tent. His watch read just after 4
P.M.
Franz lay on his cot trying to read the only book he had brought to the desert besides his Bible. It was about the lives of the Catholic saints, the heroes of the church. Sweat fell from his forehead and onto the pages. Franz mopped his brow frequently. The flies bothered him more than the heat. They buzzed around his head no matter how hard he swatted them. The more he read, the more Franz was bothered by the hypocrisy of the war he had joined, of people who believed in the same God fighting one another.

A persistent sound outside his tent distracted Franz. I Group’s squadrons 1, 2, and 3 were throwing a party in their tent cities to celebrate the one-year anniversary of their time in the desert. Franz had no intention of going to the party, although I Group had invited all the other squadrons and anyone who served at Martuba.

A tap on the fabric of Franz’s tent interrupted his self-pity. Franz looked up as Lieutenant Ferdinand Voegl thrust his face inside, his
dark, narrow eyes scanning the room and his thin lips curled in a mischievous smile.

They called Voegl “the Birdman” because
vogel
means “bird” in German. Shrewd yet likeable, Voegl was an Austrian and one of Squadron 4’s top flight leaders. Voegl was also the squadron’s black sheep because he had black hair, black eyes, and a tendency to be dark-minded and quirky.

Franz had yet to fly with Voegl, but he snapped upward on his cot as the officer entered. After seven months in the desert Voegl had scored two kills, on top of his four victories from the Battle of Britain. Like Franz, Voegl wore a light tan shirt and shorts, but instead of boots, Voegl wore sandals with socks.

“The squadron’s going to the party,” Voegl said. “You’re coming with us.”

“Would that be right, sir?” Franz asked. “I haven’t been here long.”

“You’ve flown in combat, yes?”

“Yes, sir—once.”

“Then get up,” Voegl said. “You’re one of us.”

Franz obeyed and followed Voegl outside. The two quickly caught up to the rest of Squadron 4 as the pilots walked toward the sounds of revelry. Roedel was already there, somewhere in the thick of the fun. A circle of tents and booths had been erected in the center of the squadron villages. A sign greeted them:
WELCOME TO NEUMANN’S DESERT AMUSEMENT PARK
. Franz had heard of Captain “Edu” Neumann—I Group’s colorful and beloved leader, more a father figure than commander. This party was his idea.

If Franz had not known that he was sober, he would have sworn that he was drunk. Barrel-chested tankers and tired infantrymen representing the Afrika Korps had turned out, as well as mechanics in their greasy coveralls and even Stuka dive bomber pilots.

The festival’s soundtrack boomed from a band of tankers loaned by the Afrika Korps. Franz tapped his hand on his thigh to the lively tuba and accordion beat and wished he had brought his own accordion
from home (his mother had made him take lessons). A clanking, creaking old convertible rolled past, honking its horn. The car teemed with pilots, who waved from the backseat, mimicking royalty. They wore pots on their heads, furs, fezzes, grass skirts, and goggles—their best imitation of lunatics. The vehicle had been hauled from a junk pile and brought to life again. Officers and enlisted men alike waited in long lines to ride in it.

Neumann had instructed his men to let off steam, to be eccentric, and to forget where they were for one night. They took his words to heart. Neumann’s group had been the first to arrive in Africa. They had Marseille and more aces than any other group due to timing and Neumann’s leadership. He was an ace with thirteen victories, but he led better from the ground, coaching, analyzing tactics, and planning missions. He knew when to push his men to bring out their best and when they needed a break.