A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II
Page 1
A HIGHER CALL
Most Berkley Caliber Books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, or educational use. Special books, or book excerpts, can also be created to fit specific needs.
For details, write: Special Markets, The Berkley Publishing Group, 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
AN INCREDIBLE TRUE STORY OF COMBAT AND CHIVALRY IN THE WAR-TORN SKIES OF WORLD WAR II
A HIGHER CALL
ADAM MAKOS
with Larry Alexander
BERKLEY CALIBER, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL,
England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin
Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community
Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,
Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books,
Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China,
B7 Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2012 by Adam Makos
Jacket design by Bryan Makos of Valor Studios Inc.
Jacket photos: Franz Stigler courtesy of Franz Stigler.
Charlie Brown courtesy of Charlie Brown.
Painting A Higher Call © Valor Studios and John D. Shaw, 2009.
Photos on pages 372–373 are from the collection of Franz Stigler.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BERKLEY CALIBER and its logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
FIRST EDITION: January 2013
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Makos, Adam.
A higher call / by Adam Makos with Larry Alexander.
p. cm.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61895-0
1. World War, 1939–1945—Aerial operations, American. 2. World War, 1939–1945—Aerial operations, German. 3. Bombing, Aerial—Germany—History—20th century. 4. Bomber pilots—United States—Biography. 5. Fighter pilots—Germany—Biography. 6. Brown, Charlie, 1912–2008. 7. Stigler, Franz, 1916–2008. I. Alexander, Larry, 1951– II. Title.
D785.M34 2013
940.54’443092—dc23 2012015546
ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON
In a church graveyard in Garmisch, Germany, a headstone
stands against the backdrop of the Alps. Mounted to the stone is
a photo etched on a porcelain circle, an image of a farm boy
hugging a cow. He was killed while serving in World War II.
This book is dedicated to him and all the young men who
answered their countries’ calls but never wanted war.
Contents
INTRODUCTION
1. A Stranger in My Own Land
2. Follow the Eagles
3. A Feather in the Wind
4. Fire Free
5. The Desert Amusement Park
6. The Stars of Africa
7. The Homecoming
8. Welcome to Olympus
9. The Unseen Hand
10. The Berlin Bear
11. The Farm Boy
12. The Quiet Ones
13. The Lives of Nine
14. The Boxer
15. A Higher Call
16. The Third Pilot
17. Pride
18. Stick Close to Me
19. The Downfall
20. The Flying Sanatorium
21. We Are the Air Force
22. The Squadron of Experts
23. The Last of the German Fighter Pilots
24. Where Bombs Had Fallen
25. Was It Worth It?
AFTERWORD
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TO LEARN MORE
NOTES
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INTRODUCTION
ON DECEMBER 20, 1943, in the midst of World War II, an era of pain, death, and sadness, an act of peace and nobility unfolded in the skies over Northern Germany. An American bomber crew was limping home in their badly damaged B-17 after bombing Germany. A German fighter pilot in his Bf-109 fighter encountered them. They were enemies, sworn to shoot one another from the sky. Yet what transpired between the fighter pilot and the bomber crewmen that day, and how the story played out decades later, defies imagination. It had never happened before and it has not happened since. What occurred, in most general terms, may well be one of the most remarkable stories in the history of warfare.
As remarkable as it is, it’s a story I never wanted to tell.
GROWING UP, I had loved my grandfathers’ stories from World War II. One had been a crewman on B-17s and the other a Marine. They made model airplanes with my younger brother and me, which we invariably destroyed. They took us to air shows. They planted a seed of interest in that black-and-white era of theirs. I was transfixed. I read every book about WWII that I could get my hands on. I knew that the “Greatest Generation” were the good guys, knights dispatching evil on a worldwide crusade. Their enemies were the black knights, the Germans and the Japanese. They were universally evil and beyond redemption. For being a complex war, it seemed very simple.
On a rainy day my life changed a little. I was fifteen and living in rural Pennsylvania. My siblings, best friend, and I were bored, so we decided to become journalists. That day we started a newsletter on my parents’ computer, writing about our favorite thing—World War II aviation. We printed our publication on an inkjet printer. It was three pages long and had a circulation of a dozen readers.
A year later, my life changed a lot. It was the summer after my freshman year in high school when my neighbor, classmates, and teacher were killed. A great tragedy struck our small town of Montoursville called “TWA Flight 800.” Sixteen of my schoolmates and my favorite teacher were traveling to France aboard a 747 jetliner. They were all members of the school French Club. Their plane exploded, midair, off the coast of Long Island.
I had planned to be with them. I had initially signed up for the trip but faced a tough choice. My Mom had sold enough Pampered Chef products in her part-time job to earn a vacation for our family to Disney World. The only catch was that the Disney trip was the same week as the school trip to France. I chose Disney with my family. I was in Disney when the USA Today newspaper appeared on the floor outside our hotel room to a
nnounce the crash, 230 deaths, and the first reference to a shattered small Pennsylvania town. When I returned home, my parents’ answering machine was full of condolences. In their haste to identify who had gone with the French Club, someone had posted the roster of the students who had initially signed up for the trip to France, and my name was there.
The funerals were tragic. When school resumed, my neighbor Monica was missing from the bus stop. Jessica always boarded the bus before us, but she was gone. My best friend among any and all girls, Claire, no longer sat next to me in class. And Mrs. Dickey no longer led the lessons. She was a great lady, a lot like Paula Dean, the jovial Southern TV chef. When we picked our adopted French names that we would be called during class hours, I had picked “Fabio.” It wasn’t even French. But it was funny and Mrs. Dickey let me keep it. That’s the kind of lady she was.
Flight 800 taught me that life is precious because it is fragile. I can’t say I woke up one day and started living passionately and working faster to make some impact on the world. It never happens in an instant. But looking back, I see that it happened gradually. By the end of high school, my siblings, friend, and I had turned our hand-stapled newsletter into a neatly bound magazine with a circulation of seven thousand copies. While our friends were at football games and parties, we were out interviewing WWII veterans.
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.”
WHEN 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.
AFTER 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 Ot
to. 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
1
A STRANGER IN
MY OWN LAND
MARCH 1946, STRAUBING, GERMANY
FRANZ STIGLER 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.