A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II (39 page)

“We hit hard, hit first, then get the hell out of there,” Franz told the pilot, a young corporal named Heinz Mellman. Mellman nodded rapidly with fear. Today would be his first combat mission. Mellman looked like a teenager compared to Franz, now twenty-nine years old. Franz’s face had grown leaner, his jaw stronger, and his nose sharper. Flying three hundred combat missions had turned him into a grown man. Franz and the rookie wore the new flight uniform: all gray leather with a black velvet collar. The rookie wore the other new fashion, a forage cap, a boxy ball cap with a long brim that kept
falling snow from one’s eyes. Franz didn’t like the forage caps and instead kept his gray officer’s crush cap that was crumpled and worn in spots.

Franz gazed south across the airfield and saw three squadrons, some thirty-six fighters, scattered about. Graz Airfield was an earthen strip set almost within the city’s southern limits. On some days the grass runway wore a blanket of snow. On either side of Franz and Mellman sat ten other pilots in their 109s, each waiting for a flare to arc across the field and tell them to start their engines, the sign that the Four Motors were near. The ground crewmen in their dirty black coveralls kept their distance out of respect for the aviators.

Two months earlier, Roedel had taken Franz from Bobbi, Willi, and his comrades in Squadron 6 and shipped him to Yugoslavia. Roedel had promoted Franz and made him the leader of JG-27’s Squadron 12. Eleven pilots came under Franz’s care. Bobbi had to remain with Squadron 6 because he was their mascot, but before Franz and Willi parted, Willi had promised Franz, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after the bear.”

Just three days prior, Franz had led Squadron 12 to its new home at Graz. At Graz, new faces appeared—rookie replacement pilots. Within the batch of rookies were Mellman and another youngster, Sergeant Gerhard Sonntag, both assigned to Franz. Both of the young men were in their early twenties, but neither had flown combat yet. That day Franz had scheduled them to fly as his wingmen on their first mission. He knew if they survived a week’s worth of missions they might just make it as pilots.

Franz thrust a hand into his thigh pocket and scooped out a handful of roasted coffee beans. He chewed a few, savoring the caffeine kick. Franz offered some to Mellman, who declined. The days were gone when replacements were veterans of Spain or the Channel Front. What veterans the Air Force still had left were scattered at all ends of the continent, dropping one by one, leaving rookies like Mellman to
take their place.
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When Franz looked at Mellman, he knew he was looking at Germany’s great tragedy—a generation of innocents too young to have seen the rise of Hitler or The Party who now were forced to pay for their leaders’ sins.

Franz looked to the tower but still saw no flares. He knew the bombers were on the way. The early reports said three hundred American heavies had departed Italy and were heading north. At that moment, German Air Force spotter girls were sitting in the mountains of Italy and Yugoslavia, tracking the bombers with binoculars and calling in their progress to JG-27. The lower half of Italy had become the Allies’ newest base after their conquest of Sicily. Everyone knew the invasion of France would come next, giving the Allies new airfields, even closer ones.

“If you’re hit, bail out away from the bombers,” Franz reminded Mellman. “Float through a bomber formation and the gunners will shoot you.” The rookie nodded, gulping.

Seeing the ill effect of his warning so close to takeoff, Franz slapped the rookie on his back and assured him, “Stick close to me and you’ll come home alive.” Mellman managed a smile. Franz never was cocky before, but now he exuded a forced confidence to bolster the spirits of the younger guys.

Franz slid from the wing and walked to the fighter of his other rookie, Sonntag, to give him the same talk. Franz stopped and shouted back to Mellman, “If you’re going to get sick, do it now, outside your plane!” The ground crewmen thanked Franz with a chuckle.

After talking with Sonntag, Franz settled into his fighter. He still flew his old
Yellow 2
, only now the plane’s rudder was painted white, the mark of a squadron leader. Franz’s plane no longer wore the Berlin
Bear crest on the nose. Instead, an edelweiss flower had been painted in its place, the badge of his new parent unit, IV Group. Sealing the canopy, Franz relaxed within the familiar aroma of oil, gun powder, and sweat-drenched leather. Franz rapidly cycled his black rosary beads through his fingers. The black paint had begun to fleck from the beads, revealing their true color, a pale purple. His prayers had changed lately. He now prayed that he would lead others well. He no longer prayed for himself or for his safety. He had long given up on the idea of surviving the war. Franz had been away from Squadron 6 for only two weeks when a sergeant came looking for him on his base in Yugoslavia. The sergeant nervously told Franz that the wing commander—Roedel—was on the phone in the tower, waiting to talk with him. The sergeant thought Franz was in trouble, not knowing that Franz and Roedel were protégé and mentor. The date was January 29 and Roedel was calling from his headquarters near Vienna. He sounded disturbed. The day’s casualty report, a teletype, had come across his desk. Willi was dead.

Willi had led his squadron against eight hundred bombers that had bombed Frankfurt. The bombers’ P-38 escorts had chased Willi down to earth, where the clouds were low and foggy. Disoriented, Willi had flown into the ground. Franz could not believe it. Willi was gone, at twenty-two years old, planted into the earth fifty miles west of Wiesbaden, near the town of Wurrich. All Roedel could say was that he was sorry. Franz heard defeat in Roedel’s voice. When he hung up, Franz buried his face in his hands. For a few days he beat himself up over the thought that he could have saved Willi, because they had once handled a dozen P-38s—just the two of them.

A red flare shot across the field. Dropping his rosary into his chest pocket, Franz signaled his ground crewman to crank over the engine. Franz and his pilots ignited their fighters’ snarling V-12s. The spinners of planes belonging to their sister squadrons—Squadrons 10 and 11—also spun to life around the field. Franz looked to his left and right to confirm that all his pilots’ engines were humming. White smoke
belched from their exhaust ports. When green flares arced across the field, Franz flashed a half salute to his crew chief and taxied away. His two young wingmen and the others followed him into the skies.

Franz had not shot down a plane since encountering the wounded B-17 over Bremen on December 20. Since that encounter Franz’s priorities had changed. He no longer strove for victories. Now his mission was to get his boys home. With the arrival of 1944, the benchmark for the Knight’s Cross had been raised to “magic 40.” Franz couldn’t care less.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, FORTY MILES SOUTHWEST OF GRAZ

From his perch at twenty-nine thousand feet, Franz and his squadron mates circled. Franz smiled through his oxygen mask. Some ten thousand feet beneath him flew thirty-five B-24 Liberators without fighter escort. The B-24s looked like mustardy brown Ts against the thick winter clouds. Several miles behind the bomber formation Franz saw a second batch of B-24s that looked to be even fewer in number.

Checking his wingtips, Franz told his rookies to tighten up. Mellman flew on his left wing and Sonntag on his right. The old days of staggered formations were gone. Now, with so many rookies in the ranks, the new German formation was to fly side by side so the flight leader could keep an eye on his wingmen.

The B-24s kept motoring northward, their gunners undoubtedly watching the 109s, waiting for them to attack. His heart pounding, Franz scanned the skies for their escort fighters. He saw none. This never happened over Germany. Franz was accustomed to raids of five hundred bombers and had heard that the 8th Air Force was now sending thousand-bomber raids, since February 20, a milestone the Americans called “Big Week.” What Franz saw below him seemed too good to be true.

“Keep your eyes peeled for escorts!” Franz’s group leader snapped
over the radio. The group leader was talking to him. “Yes, sir,” Franz replied. Franz’s squadron was on “high patrol,” and their job was to watch for escort fighters and cover the other squadrons so they could attack the bombers. Below, Franz could see the group leader as he led the unit’s other two squadrons.

Franz scanned the skies, again, but was certain that the bombers had come without escorts. “Sir, you’re clear to attack,” he radioed the group leader. But something was wrong. The group leader was not attacking. Instead, he led his twenty-four fighters in an orbit beyond the range of the B-24s’ guns.

“Sir, no enemy escorts in sight,” Franz said again.

“Keep looking!” the group leader replied tersely.

Franz saw the B-24s turning northeast. Franz’s heart sunk. The bombers were aiming for a target near Graz, maybe one in the city itself.

“Sir, what are you waiting for?” Franz asked the group leader, alarmed.

“Shut up!” the group leader retorted. “I’m watching for their escorts!”

Franz had seen some leaders, after they had won the Knight’s Cross, grow cautious and weary of combat, as if their incentive to fight had waned, but this group leader had no Knight’s Cross and half the victories that Franz had. Still, he was in command.

As the B-24s curved right, toward Graz, their American crews marveled at the sight of so many 109s doing nothing. In the lead plane a navigator of the 450th Bomb Group would report: “From the lack of aggressiveness displayed it was evident that the enemy aircraft were trailing our formation waiting for stragglers damaged by flak.”

Angry, Franz radioed the group leader and told him they needed to attack at once. He could see they were headed for Graz, the city of all cities that they were to protect. The group leader did not reply.

The first thirty-five bombers got away. Franz could see them, turning onto their bomb run. Flashes blinked through the gaps in the
clouds over Graz and told Franz the bombers had dropped their payload. Franz saw the second formation of nineteen bombers now passing beneath him. Franz radioed the group leader and asked permission for Squadron 12 to attack the bombers below.

“Hold position!” the group leader replied. The second flight of bombers slowly slipped away. Franz had heard that Roedel was in the air with planes from I Group and III Group, patrolling northwest of Graz. But summoning him would require an act of mutiny.

Switching radio channels, Franz called the radio operator back at the air base. A female voice replied. Franz told the woman to alert Roedel’s flight that the heavies were approaching Graz from the south. A few minutes later, the female controller reported back that Roedel was near Graz and preparing to attack.

Relieved and emboldened, Franz radioed his squadron, “Follow me!”

In defiance of his leader, Franz throttled forward and engaged the superchargers hidden behind his fighter’s bulges.
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His 109 surged. Franz felt the torque build through the stick. With his squadron behind him, Franz raced north to catch up to the heavies. Far ahead, Franz saw a swarm of 109s—Roedel and his pilots—diving and attacking the bombers. Franz wanted to cheer.

Minutes later, Franz caught up to the B-24s. On the tops and sides of the bombers’ tails were two white circles, one containing a black number 1 and the other a black diamond, the markings of the 454th Bomb Group. Franz told his rookie wingmen to wait a few seconds then follow him. He radioed his men, “Let’s get them!” and unleashed his squadron. Breaking from flights into solo elements, they dove on their prey. Franz pulled up and over and dove toward the B-24s from an almost vertical angle.

A screaming plummet from the heavens had become Franz’s attack method of choice against bombers. He aimed just ahead of the rearmost bomber. As his altimeter wound backward, Franz had no time to look back to see if his wingmen were there. He knew that of any attack, this eye-watering test of courage was their best chance at survival. Through his gun sight Franz saw his target from above and at its widest. He knew the bomber was also at its weakest. Only its top turret gunner could fire at him, but to shoot the gunner had to aim straight up into the sky.

Franz’s cheeks sucked back against his oxygen mask. His fighter’s wings quivered. The 109 raced toward the earth like a bolt from the blue. Franz’s control yoke and rudder grew heavy from the terrifying speed. As Franz neared his target, time seemed to accelerate. As the bomber flew faster, its wings seemed to stretch and swell. The B-24 grew vivid in color, sharper in detail. Suddenly it filled Franz’s windscreen. Franz mashed his triggers, awakening his fighter’s machine guns and cannon. His guns belched their mechanical rage for a split second, stitching the bomber between its wings. Franz twisted his fighter and dove past the bomber’s double tail, barely missing it. He felt his fighter shake from the bomber’s wake. Franz did not know if the rookies had fired their guns, nor did he care.

“You did it, now head for home!” Franz ordered Mellman and Sonntag as they pulled up behind him. In Franz’s mind, his purpose had been served, to get them through the first pass. Now he was fighting for the people of Graz. With his rookies disengaged, Franz used the speed from the dive to climb back up and dive again. In his second dive, another B-24 fell, and then another fell on his third pass. Each time as he dove through the formation, the bombers’ gunners stopped firing, afraid to hit other bombers.

Of the two breeds of Four Motors, B-24s were easier to shoot down than B-17s. B-24s were faster due to their thin, high-mounted wing, but also more fragile. Their wings would fold if hit at the spot where they conjoined, and Liberators had fuel lines leading into the
bomb bay that could be easily ignited. When they caught fire, they would quickly burn the plane from the center out.

Roedel’s fighters kept pummeling the formation. Soon eight plumes of black smoke rose from crashed bombers in a path along the road to Graz. But Graz would not be unscathed. The first formation of bombers that the group leader let escape had dropped 105 tons of bombs on a factory in the city and across the south side of the town, as their after-action report would record.