A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II (32 page)

Franz saw the coast a few miles ahead. There he knew alarms were blaring and soldiers were running to their guns. Any second explosions would ring out, showering the bomber in a rain of steel. Franz had chosen to spare the bomber’s crew from his own guns, a gesture that would have been enough for most men. But Franz decided he would try something more.

Looking along the wing and into the cockpit he saw that the copilot
was absent. Through the shadows he saw the pilot in the left seat, his hands gripping the controls. Franz waved, trying to get the pilot’s attention, but the man stared straight ahead. Franz remained on the bomber’s wing, the machine’s laboring engines drowning out his 109’s purr. He wanted to shout to the pilot, to tell him that time was running out.

I
NSIDE THE BOMBER’S
cockpit, Charlie’s eyes alternated between his instruments and the white coastline that filled the windshield. He knew the flak guns would start popping any second. He hoped Pinky and the others had jumped.

Charlie leaned forward to check the gauges, watching for any signs of trouble from engine four, his problem child. Glancing out the copilot’s window at the engine, Charlie saw a sight that made his heart freeze for a second.

A gray 109 with a green spine bobbed in the turbulence, three feet from
The Pub
’s right wingtip.
^*

Charlie shut his eyes and shook his head, thinking he had slipped into a bad dream. But when he opened his eyes, the 109 was still there.

In the nose, Doc caught a glimpse of the same dark shape through Andy’s window. He locked his eyes on the 109 and witnessed something unbelievable.

The German pilot nodded to the American pilot.

Charlie saw the German nod at him but thought he was seeing things. Instead of nodding back, Charlie just kept staring. In the nose, Doc remained glued to Andy’s window.

Pinky climbed into the cockpit and took his seat beside Charlie. “We’re staying,” he said. “The guys all decided—you’re gonna need help to fly this girl home.”

Pinky expected Charlie to grin or object. Charlie stared past him. Pinky followed Charlie’s eyes out the window.

“My, God, this is a nightmare,” Pinky said.

Unblinking, Charlie said to Pinky, “He’s going to destroy us.”

F
ROM HIS PERCH
on the bomber’s wing, Franz saw the two pilots staring at him. He saw shock and fear in their eyes. They knew they were helpless.

With his left hand, Franz pointed down to the ground, motioning for the pilots to land in Germany. He knew it was preferable to be a P.O.W. than to have one’s life snuffed out in a flak burst. But the American pilots shook their heads. Franz cursed in frustration. He knew he could be shot for letting the bomber go. That alone was treason. But Franz also knew that leaving the bomber now would be no different than shooting it down.

Kicking the rudder, Franz moved a few feet away from the bomber’s wing so his silhouette could be seen from above and below. He knew that if another German fighter came along it would not interfere with him there. He reasoned the same for the boys on the ground. Germany’s flak gunners were the best in the world and would know the silhouette of a 109 by heart. If they spotted him they would know he was one of theirs. But when they saw the bomber on his wing, would they hold their fire?

T
HE SOLDIERS SCURRIED
between flak guns along the concrete embattlements of the Atlantic Wall. Nestled in their concrete gun pits, the flak gunners of the German Air Force watched the fighter and bomber flying toward them. Side by side, the two planes looked like a small sparrow and a large gull.

The gunners had been watching the planes with field glasses ever since they first appeared as two black crosses on the southern horizon.
Something was unusual about the approaching planes. It was their formation. The battery commander and his spotters studied the formation through their field glasses. Seeing the two planes flying in unison flipped a switch in their minds.

Whenever a bomber flew over them as a straggler, it was always alone—smoking, limping, and fleeing as fast as it could. But the approaching fighter and bomber had purpose and deliberation to their flight. They flew low and slow in unison, as if they had nothing to hide.

“It’s one of ours!” they saw and shouted.

“It’s one of theirs!” they realized as well.

No one knew what to do, not even the battery commander. Everyone in the German Air Force knew they had B-17s of their own, shot down planes that had been rebuilt to fly clandestine operations or be used in training, so fighter pilots could practice flying against the plane they would meet in combat. The battery commander knew there could be any number of explanations, but one thing was certain: there was a Messerschmitt 109 about to fly over him and he could not fire on one of his own.

“Hold your fire!” he shouted. One by one the gunners stepped back from their long-barreled cannons. The ammo bearers set down their shells. They tipped up the rims of their helmets, marveling as the fighter and bomber flew overhead. Side by side the 109 and the B-17 soared over the soldiers defending the Atlantic Wall then over the beach obstacles and the crashing surf.

The sight was a beautiful one, the little fighter protecting the big bomber. They flew together out over the gray sea as if they were leaving one world for another. The gunners watched, their hands shading their eyes, squinting as the two planes flew away and shrunk in the distance. No one said it, but it looked like the 109 was taking the bomber home.

B
EHIND THE CONTROLS
, Charlie was so fixated on the nightmare flying alongside his right wing that he had totally forgotten about the Atlantic Wall. It was not until he looked down and saw only the sea that he realized that dry land and one of Germany’s most tightly defended flak zones were behind him. Not a shot had been fired. But Charlie had not yet connected the dots. When he looked at the German pilot on his wing, he saw the enemy pilot as a threat, probably one of the same fighters who had shot his plane to pieces earlier, now toying with them, planning to finish them off over the sea.

Charlie felt a new emotion—despair. He wanted always to have the answers for his crew or a plan. This was the leader’s job, he believed, the reason he’d always pretended to be older than he was and had never told his crew otherwise. But now, with the German 109 stuck on his wing, he had no idea what to do next.

Unlike Charlie, Franz had a plan. He had seen the bomber’s wounds and knew the bomber’s damage better than its pilots. He knew what they needed to do. Franz waved to get the pilots’ attention. When they looked his way, Franz pointed across his body, motioning to the east.

“Sweden!” he mouthed to them. “Sweden!”

Franz knew that neutral Sweden was just a thirty-minute flight away. He saw the Americans slowly turning west and knew they were going to attempt a two-hour flight across the sea to England. All they needed to do was fly to Sweden, land, and be interned. There, doctors could care for their wounded and together the crew could all outlive the war in peace and quiet.

Franz pointed again, with greater vigor and mouthed, “Sweden!”

The American copilot just shrugged.

Flying over the sea was a scary prospect for Franz in his small fighter. He could not imagine what the bomber pilots were thinking in their plane that was slowly falling apart. “Sit out the war!” he wanted to shout to them. “It’s better than a watery grave!” But the B-17 copilot just looked at him, perplexed.

Franz knew he was not getting anywhere with the copilot, so he decided that the pilot was perhaps a more sensible man. Gently nudging his rudder, Franz leapfrogged the bomber, his shadow passing over the cockpit. Hovering above the left wing, Franz saw long brown oil stains creeping backward from the bomber’s knocked-out engine. Now he was absolutely certain. They needed to turn to Sweden or they would never make it home alive. When the bomber’s pilot looked at Franz, he did so with resignation, as if he had hoped that the German had left him for good when he departed the right wing. Again, Franz pointed toward Sweden and mouthed the word, “Sweden!” But the bomber’s pilot shook his head, confused.

What a dumb guy
, Franz thought.
^*

Inside the cockpit, Charlie asked Pinky, “What is he getting at?” Pinky had no idea. Charlie’s mind was so frayed from having passed out earlier that he never considered Sweden as an option.

Charlie shouted for Frenchy, who crept into the cockpit, having fallen asleep. Frenchy could not believe his eyes. “Look how relaxed he is,” Pinky marveled.

“Audacious SOB, huh?” Charlie said.

Frenchy was at a loss for words. Charlie told Frenchy the German was probably one of the ones who had shot them up earlier and was now out of ammo or else he would have shot them down. “He’s just curious,” Charlie concluded.

Pinky told Frenchy the German was pointing, trying to tell them something.

“He probably wants you to turn and fly back to Germany,” Frenchy said. Charlie’s face grew serious at the thought. His nerves were already stretched. The thought that the German could be a threat to his crew was the final straw.

“He’s not taking us anywhere,” Charlie promised Frenchy. Charlie asked if Frenchy’s guns were working. Frenchy said they were.

“Get up in your turret and swing toward him,” Charlie ordered. “See if you can chase this crazy bastard away.”