A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II (2 page)

We continued the magazine in college and missed all the Greek parties and whatever else kids do in college, because we were meeting veterans on the weekends, at air shows, museums, and reunions. We interviewed fighter pilots, bomber gunners, transport crewmen, and anyone who flew. On our magazine’s cover we wrote our mission: “Preserving the sacrifices of America’s veterans.”

People began noticing our little magazine. Tom Brokaw, who penned
The Greatest Generation
, wrote us a letter to say we were doing good work. Tom Hanks met us at the ground breaking of the WWII Memorial in Washington and encouraged us to keep it up. Harrison Ford met us at the AirVenture air show in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. He read our magazine on the spot and gave us a thumbs-up. So did James Cameron, the director of
Titanic
, when we met him in New York City.

After college, we worked for our magazine full-time. We worked faster and harder because we knew the WWII veterans were fading away. As the magazine’s editor, I enforced our three journalistic rules: get the facts right, tell stories that show our military in a good light, and ignore the enemy—we do not honor them. As for that last rule,
we never had to worry about ignoring Japanese veterans—there were none in America that we knew of. But the German veterans were different. We crossed paths with them, several times.

At the air show in Geneseo, New York, an old WWII German fighter pilot named Oscar Boesch flew his sailplane for the crowd. He did beautiful gliding routines at age seventy-seven. But did I ever go to talk with him when he stood by his plane alone? No way. In Doylestown, Pennsylvania, I met an old German jet pilot, Dr. Kurt Fox, at a museum unveiling of a restored German jet. Did I care what he had seen or done? Not a chance.

I read about Germans like them in my books, saw them in movies, and that was enough. I agreed with Indiana Jones when he said, “Nazis. I hate these guys.” To me, the Germans were all Nazis. They were jackboot zombies who gathered in flocks to salute Hitler at Nuremberg. They ran concentration camps. They worshipped Hitler. Worse, they tried to kill my friends, the eighty-year-old WWII veterans who had become my heroes.

But something began to puzzle me. I noticed that the aging American WWII pilots talked about their counterparts—the old German WWII pilots—with a strange kind of respect. They spoke of the German pilots’ bravery, decency, and this code of honor that they supposedly shared. Some American veterans even went back to Germany, to the places where they’d been shot down, to meet their old foes and shake hands.

Are you kidding?
I thought.
They were trying to kill you! They killed your friends. You’re supposed to
never
forget.
But the veterans who flew against the Germans thought differently. For once, I thought the Greatest Generation was crazy.

I
HAD NOT
been out of college a year when I called an old American bomber pilot named Charlie Brown. I had heard of him and had sent him a magazine and letter to ask if I could interview him. Legend had
it that Charlie’s bomber got shot to pieces and there was a twist, although I couldn’t quite catch the full story at first. Supposedly he had some unusual connection with a German pilot named Franz Stigler, whom he called his “older brother.”

Charlie agreed to an interview then he threw me for a loop. “Do you really want the whole story about what happened to me and my crew?” Charlie asked.

“You bet,” I said.

“Then I don’t think you should start by talking with me,” Charlie said.

“Really?” I asked.

“If you really want to learn the whole story, learn about Franz Stigler first,” Charlie said. “He’s still alive. Find out how he was raised and how he became the man he was when we met over Europe. Better yet, go visit him. He and his wife are living up in Vancouver, Canada. When you have his story, come visit me and I’ll tell you mine.”

I was about to make excuses and tell Charlie I had little interest in a German fighter pilot’s perspective, when he said something that shut me up.

“In this story,” Charlie said, “I’m just a character
—Franz Stigler is the real hero
.”

W
HEN
I
BOOKED
my ticket to Vancouver in February 2004, I had to explain to my young magazine partners why I was spending $600 of our limited funds to fly across the continent to break my own rule. I was going to interview, in my words, “a Nazi pilot.” I was twenty-three years old. I flew to Vancouver and took a cab into the Canadian countryside. It was raining and dark. The next morning I left my hotel to meet Franz Stigler.

I never envisioned that Charlie Brown had pushed me into one of the greatest untold stories in military history.

I ended up spending a week with Franz. He was kind and decent.
I admitted to him that I thought he was a “Nazi” before I met him. He told me what a Nazi really was. A Nazi was someone who chose to be a Nazi. A Nazi was an abbreviation for a National Socialist. The National Socialists were a political party. As with political parties in America, you had a choice to join or not. Franz never joined them. Franz’s parents voted against the Nazis before the Nazis outlawed all other political parties. And here I’d thought it was in every German’s blood. I never called Franz a “Nazi” again.

A
FTER MY WEEK
with Franz, I flew to Miami and spent a week with Charlie. We had a blast and drank Scotch each night after my interviews. We published the story of Charlie and Franz in our magazine. Ours readers loved it. So, in the next issue, we published a sequel to our first story. But this was not enough. Our readers wanted more. So I asked Charlie and Franz if they would let me write their story as a book, the tale of two enemies. They agreed.

Little did we know that the process of writing this book would span eight years.

What you’ll read in the following pages is built around four years of interviews with Charlie and Franz and four years of research, on and off. I say “on and off” because I was still busy with Valor Studios, the military publishing company that our once-tiny newsletter had become. I interviewed Franz and Charlie at their homes, at air shows, over the phone, and by mail.

Charlie and Franz were always gracious and patient. If I had been them, I would have kicked me out and said “That’s enough.” But Charlie and Franz kept talking, remembering things that made them laugh and cry. I must stress that I simply compiled this story. They lived it. Through the stories they told me, they relived a painful time in their lives—World War II—because they knew that
you
would someday read this book, even if they were not around to read the final copy themselves. This book is their gift to us.

In addition to the foundation of interviews from Charlie and Franz, dozens of other WWII veterans shared their time to talk to me and my staff—from “Doc,” the navigator on Charlie’s bomber, to a former fourteen-year-old German flak gunner named Otto. Three times my research took me to Europe, where much of this story is set. I toured bomber bases in England with eighty-year-old B-17 pilots and scaled Mount Erice in Sicily, searching for a cave that had once been a headquarters. I followed historians around fighter airfields and into musty bunkers in Germany and Austria. The archivists at the German Bundesarchivs, the National Archives of England, and the U.S. Air Force Historical Research Agency assisted me in finding rare documents.

I’ve drawn from my magazine adventures, too. The Air Force let me fly in a fighter jet with an instructor pilot to learn fighter tactics. I flew a restored B-17 bomber to feel how it responded to a turn and rode in a B-24 bomber, too. In September 2008, I flew into Baghdad, Iraq, in the cockpit of a C-17 transport. From there I traveled to Camp Anaconda to feel the desert’s heat and get a glimpse of a soldier’s life by accompanying them on patrols. I figured it was impossible to write about warfare without having ever heard gunfire.

What follows is the book that the old me, with my old prejudices, would have never written. When I first phoned the World War II bomber pilot named Charlie Brown, all I wanted was thirty minutes of his time. But what I found was a beautiful story worth every minute of eight years. The story has plenty of questions about the prudence of war and the person we call the enemy. But mostly it begs a question of goodness.

Can good men be found on both sides of a bad war?

Adam Makos
Denver, Colorado
September 2012

MARCH 1946, STRAUBING, GERMANY

F
RANZ
S
TIGLER BURIED
his hands in the pockets of his long, tattered wool coat as he shuffled along the streets of the small, bombed-out city. The frigid air crystallized his breath in the early morning sunlight. He walked with small, fast steps and hugged himself to keep warm against the wind.

Franz was thirty years old but looked older. His strong jaw was gaunt from weight loss, and his sharp, hawk-like nose seemed even pointier in the icy air. His dark eyes bore hints of exhaustion but still glimmered with optimism. A year after the war had ended, the economy across Germany remained broken. Franz was desperate for work. In a land destroyed and in need of rebuilding, brick making had become Straubing’s primary industry. Today he had heard the brick mill was hiring day laborers.