by Adam Makos
“Where will I be flying?” Franz asked.
“You like the routes to Spain?”
“I know them.”
Franz knew why the Air Force would have an interest in Spain. A year before, the Spanish Civil War had broken out, between the socialist-leaning Republicans and the fascist-leaning Nationalists. Germany was unofficially sending “volunteers” to fight for the fascist side.
“You think it’s smart to train pilots by flying them into a war zone?” Franz asked.
“There also may be supplies in the belly of your plane,” the officer said.
The officer looked to Franz for his response. Franz nodded and accepted the assignment, knowing he had never had a choice in the first place.
A YEAR LATER, SUMMER 1938, EASTERN GERMANY
One thousand feet above the trees, the silver biplane flew in the evening light over the nature preserve within the suburbs of the city of Dresden. The pilots flew from two open cockpits, one in front of the other. The instructor sat in front, the trainee behind him. The plane was a perfect marriage of beauty and ugly functionality. Its radial engine was open to the wind and its spokes stuck out at all angles of the clock. Its landing gear was obtrusively fixed downward. The plane’s flanks were long and silver and wore the large black cross of the German Air Force. Painted on its elegantly curved tail was the smaller, crooked cross of The Party, the swastika. The plane was a Heinkel 72 “Cadet,” designed for the Air Force as a pilot trainer.
Franz flew the plane from the instructor’s front seat. In the cockpit behind him sat a student pilot. After Franz’s successful missions to Spain, the Air Force had wanted him to keep training its pilots, and so he remained an instructor. Franz sought to return to the airlines but no longer had a choice—the airlines had given him to the Air Force. In his new role, the Air Force made Franz a head instructor at their pilot school for officers in Dresden. Franz’s students were called “cadets,” but they were the cream of the crop—some were already officers, and those who were not would become officers upon graduation.
On this evening Franz was supposed to be off duty, but he had volunteered to take a struggling pilot up for some extra practice. The boy was one of the worst flyers of the twenty in his class. Beneath his gray canvas flight helmet, the boy had a strong jaw but fleshy childlike features. His dark blue eyes darted with nervousness. The boy’s name was Gerhard Barkhorn, but outside of class, everyone called him Gerd. He was from East Prussia and well mannered. A quiet nineteen-year-old, Barkhorn had told Franz he wanted to fly fighters someday. Franz thought it unlikely but gave him extra practice to help him toward his goal.
Franz taught the B or second level of instructing. In A-level training, pilots like Barkhorn had learned the basics of flying and had soloed after forty “hops.” Franz’s job now, over the course of five months, was to teach cadets the finer points of flying—skills such as distance flying, navigation, how to handle emergencies, and advanced aerobatics. B school was serious—if a cadet washed out, there was no second chance—he would end up in the infantry. Germany was not yet at war, but everyone sensed the nation was building for one.
As they flew, Franz wondered how Barkhorn had ever soloed successfully. He was jittery and panicky. This kid is a horrible pilot, Franz thought. He should be washed out. Franz had already pinpointed Barkhorn’s problem. The young cadet was thinking himself into a knot. He had to detach his mind and fly by instinct.
The He-72 did not have a radio, so Franz turned and faced Barkhorn.
“Relax!” Franz shouted over the wind. “Feel the plane in your seat, in the stick, in your stomach. Let go of your worry!”
Barkhorn nodded, but Franz noticed his maneuvers remained rigid. Franz signaled to Barkhorn with hand motions to tell him he was taking back the controls. Barkhorn leaned his head against his seat back, defeated. Franz put the biplane into a hard turn and flew north, toward the airfield. But he did not land. Instead, Franz kept flying until they passed over several small lakes nestled among a patch of forest. In the middle of the trees along a lake lay a series of wooden buildings. Franz banked and flew over the buildings. As he dipped the plane’s wing for a better view, Barkhorn grinned. People ran out of the buildings, waving. They were all naked! Barkhorn knew he was looking down on the nudist camp that instructors sometimes flew students over as a reward. Franz reached into his cockpit and held up a roll of toilet paper he had placed there. Before the flight, Barkhorn had seen a roll of toilet paper on the floor of his cockpit, too, but thought it was there should they land on some practice field and need to answer nature’s call.
Franz banked the plane around for another pass over the nudists. He threw his roll of toilet paper over the cockpit ledge as he flew across the camp. The nudists were accustomed to this and encouraged their children to run to catch the streaming white paper.
Barkhorn and Franz laughed. Circling around, Franz lined up for another pass on the colony. Franz made a throwing motion. Taking the cue, Barkhorn tossed his toilet paper over the side and watched the roll spiral to the children as they ran in circles. Turning back for base, Franz wagged the plane’s wings to the nudists. He gave Barkhorn the signal to take over. Barkhorn was so busy laughing he flew smoothly, like a natural pilot.
FRANZ ENJOYED BEING a flight instructor. Every morning when he walked into his classroom, he oversaw four instructors, each of whom looked after four students. The Air Force let him remain a civilian. They paid him his airline salary, which was the equivalent to a major’s wages and gave him a major’s authority. Franz’s final report determined if a cadet earned his wings, and the higher Franz ranked a cadet, the more choice a young pilot would have in picking his next assignment to further training in either single- or multi-engine aircraft. All the cadets vied for single-engine training because that meant fighters, whereas multi-engine aircraft could be bombers, transports, or reconnaissance planes. Franz ultimately gave Barkhorn good scores, and the young pilot qualified for single-engine school.
THE ONLY THING Franz lacked in his new role was rank and the respect that came with it, because he was a civilian. Although most of his pupils were cadets who would be officers one day, some of Franz’s students were officers who had been in the military for years and now had decided to become pilots. They presented Franz’s biggest challenge. One day, Franz gave a class in navigation. All the while, a captain sat in the back of the room and read a newspaper, ignoring Franz.
Franz had had enough. “Captain,” he said, “would you come to the front and read the newspaper out loud so we’ll all know what’s going on?”
The captain folded his newspaper and walked up to Franz in front of the others. “You have no right to give me orders,” the officer said. “You’re just a civilian.”
Franz felt the back of his neck grow hot. He closed the class, dismissed the pupils, and went straight to the general who ran the school. The general was a hefty fellow and liked Franz because Franz flew him to Munich every Friday so the general could see his doctor. Franz explained the problem with the disrespectful captain.
“Get your logbook,” the general told Franz.
“Now write ‘Private’ next to your name.”
Franz did so and looked at the general, confused.
“I’ll handle your enlistment papers personally,” the general said. “You’re now officially a member of the Air Force.”
Franz opened his mouth but was at a loss for words.
“As for the unruly captain,” the general said, “now you can send him packing.”
Franz did and expelled the captain from the school.
The next day the captain tracked down Franz to protest his expulsion—he fumed that a private had cast him out and would keep him from ever becoming a pilot. Franz now wore the blue uniform of a Luftwaffe enlisted man, with a tent cap atop his head, red collar tabs on his tunic, a silver belt buckle, and black boots.
“If you, as a captain, do not know how to behave,” Franz said, “how could we hav
e made you into a good pilot?” The captain cursed Franz as he hauled his bags away from the school.
Franz found that his new rank solved some problems, but being a private only got him so far. A few weeks later, while flying home from the doctor in Munich, the general asked Franz how he liked being a private. Franz said it helped, but so many of his students were majors and captains that they still looked down on him. The general was in a good mood, so in the air, he promoted Franz to corporal.
IN EARLY 1939, the cadet who would become Franz’s most cherished student waited for him as Franz climbed from his plane after a lesson. Franz was shocked to see his older brother, August, standing before him on the tarmac. Franz knew August had enlisted in the Air Force against their mother’s wishes, but the odds that he would be sent to train under Franz seemed incredible.
Franz had not seen August since his brother had left for boot camp. August was on the path to become an officer.* He had already soloed with ease and passed stage A. He would now spend eight months under Franz’s tutelage to earn his wings.
Franz knew why August had joined; all young men were being drafted into the military, and August knew that by enlisting first he could pick the branch of service he wanted. August had a lot to lose. He was engaged to the niece of a cardinal, a match their mother had made. August had his education, his job as a high school teacher, his family, his church, and his freedom. “Why risk everything?” Franz had asked him. August had said he was certain a war was coming and he would be drafted. If he had to fight, he preferred to fly.
To be impartial, Franz could have assigned August to another instructor. But Franz did not care what the other cadets whispered. He was burdened by the thought that his brother’s survival in combat one day could hinge on his training. So Franz picked August as one of his personal students. For months Franz taught August aerobatics, high-altitude flying, and emergency procedures.
As their training period wound down, August told Franz that he planned to apply for a twin-engine assignment to fly aircraft that allowed a pilot to “enjoy the ride” instead of the diving and twisting dogfights of fighter pilots. Franz knew that August lacked the killer instinct a fighter pilot needed, but this was a good quality in Franz’s eyes. With only weeks remaining that they could be together, Franz gave August extra lessons after class to hone skills a bomber pilot would need—skills such as distance flying, night flying, and flying blind (by instruments only). Franz trained August harder than any other instructor would have. He demanded perfection.
August earned a weeklong vacation prior to his final exams. He decided to go home to spend time with his fiancée. It was a Friday, and that morning Franz had sent him on a long-distance training hop where August had followed his map from airfield to airfield. At each point he was to land and get his logbook stamped by the duty officer in the tower as proof. When August reported back to Franz that evening along with the other students, Franz found that only one pilot was missing a stamp—his brother. August explained that he could not find the duty officer and left without the stamp. Franz knew his brother had been in a hurry. August admitted this was true.
“Hurrying in an airplane can get you killed,” Franz told him.
In front of the other cadets, Franz tore up August’s holiday papers and canceled his leave. August was shocked and angry. Franz told his brother to go prepare an airplane for more training. August obeyed and left Franz’s office, sulking.
The brothers took to the skies, Franz in front, August behind, to practice August’s least favorite mission—flying blind. Soon after takeoff, Franz ordered August “under the hood.” August pulled a handle and a black cloth covered his canopy, locking him into a cockpit lit only by instruments. Franz flew the plane for a while to disorient August. Then he shouted orders between cockpits and told August which course to steer and for how long. Franz knew that August had no idea where he was going.
An hour and a half later, Franz told August he was taking control of the plane. August asked to remove the hood, which was customary, but Franz denied the request. Franz landed the craft, taxied to a stop, and only then told August he could remove the hood. August started to give Franz a piece of his mind for keeping him in the dark for so long, but he stopped mid-sentence.
Waiting for him by a hangar on the tarmac was his fiancée. August immediately recognized the airport—Regensburg—they weren’t back at Dresden—they were home. August’s fiancée giggled at the shock on his face. She knew what Franz had done.* August embraced his fiancée and tried to rustle Franz’s hair as Franz squirmed away. They were like boys again.
During their weeklong holiday the brothers stayed at their boyhood home on a quiet street in Amberg. While looking for August one afternoon, Franz wandered into his brother’s bedroom. There on August’s desk, Franz found a stack of letters. Franz picked one up and read it. His hands began to tremble. The letter was a copy of “With Burning Concern,” the Vatican’s secretly composed message to all of Germany’s Catholics. On Palm Sunday, 1937, the letter had been read by every priest, bishop, and cardinal across Germany to their congregations and three hundred thousand copies had been disseminated. Drafted by Munich’s Cardinal von Faulhaber and Pope Pius XI, it told German Catholics in carefully veiled terms that National Socialism was an evil religion based on racism that stood contrary to the church’s teachings and every man’s right to equality. It made reference to “an insane and arrogant prophet” without naming Hitler. When Hitler found out about the letter, he and The Party roared in backlash, outlawing the letter and seizing monks, priests, and any press shops that had printed it.
Franz’s mind raced as he set down the letter. Franz wanted to burn it and the others. He wanted to run. Instead, he waited on the front steps for August to return home. Franz suspected the letters really belonged to August’s fiancée, the cardinal’s niece. The Catholic clergy of Germany were known enemies of The Party, thanks to their sermons that reviled Hitler, his Gestapo secret police, and the early crimes of the Third Reich. Franz was certain that his brother’s fiancée, via her uncle, was dragging his brother into something dangerous: opposition.
When August returned, Franz confronted him, asking him what he was doing with such dangerous literature. August brushed Franz off and said he had found the letters and kept them as a curiosity. Franz reminded August that the letters were dangerous.
“Do you want to wind up in Dachau?” Franz asked him. August scowled. They both knew of Dachau and the concentration camps that existed to “concentrate” in one place any Germans who had angered The Party.
The camps were common knowledge in most German households. The Party wanted the camps to be known, as a deterrent, and had publicized Dachau as their “model camp.” The Party had built Dachau in 1933. Any German, regardless of religion or background, could be labeled a “political enemy” and imprisoned there. A year after seizing power, in 1934, The Party had passed a law that made a person’s private or public criticism of The Party a crime worthy of a camp sentence.
The Party went to great lengths to show their fellow Germans, and the world, that Dachau was a “civilized” camp. The Party’s private security force, the SS, ran the camps and even invited Red Cross representatives and American prison wardens to tour Dachau. The international visitors walked away impressed with what they saw: well-fed prisoners who whistled as they marched to work details, tidy barracks, flower beds, and even a store where the prisoners could purchase tinned food. When the prisoners were released, the SS gave them back their possessions. This was the image of a concentration camp that The Party had fed Franz, August, their fellow Germans, and the world, during the 1930s. The camps were so well publicized that German mothers used to tell their children that if they were bad, they would be taken away to Dachau.*
Seeing Franz’s turmoil, August promised to dispose of the letters. Franz did not fault August for opposing Hitler. Franz knew their parents opposed Hitler, too. They always said that Hitler was not their leader. In 1933 th
ey had voted for the BVP (the Bavarian People’s Party), the Catholic party that had won a million votes but still fell far short of the National Socialists’ 44 percent. As a teenager, Franz had paid little attention to the 1933 election. He was apathetic about politics and not initially alarmed by the National Socialists’ victory.† But now, as a twenty-four-year-old man in spring 1939, Franz had come to think of The Party differently than he had as a boy in 1933. He had come to realize that The Party had turned Germany itself into a concentration camp. There were no elections. No freedom of press. No freedom of speech. No freedom to travel. No freedom to choose to serve in the military. No freedom to change things. In the days when possessing an outlawed letter could earn someone a sentence in a camp, the best Franz knew was to stay out of the line of fire, so neither he nor his brother would end up in Dachau.
THAT SUMMER, FRANZ pinned the wings on August’s uniform when he graduated from flight school. August received his wings in time to wear them when he married his fiancée shortly thereafter. During the wedding ceremony, Franz could not bring himself to look upon his new sister-in-law with much affection. He was still worried. After the wedding, August went to twin-engine school, the path of a bomber pilot, and Franz returned to instructing.
THAT AUTUMN 1939, Franz’s cadets approached him in the mess hall one morning waving newspapers in their hands. The big, gothic headlines declared: WAR WITH POLAND! The young cadets were smiling and shouting. They wanted Franz’s opinion—would their training be hurried so they could get into the war? Franz did not share their glee. War was the last thing he wanted. But in the minds of the flight school cadets, the world’s affairs were simple. According to the German papers, the Poles had threatened German farmers on the shared border. Polish troops had attacked a German radio station on the border in order to transmit slander against the Germans, and Hitler had no choice but to declare war. The cadets thought Hitler was right, just like they had reasoned that Germany’s other neighbors, Czechoslovakia and Austria, had wanted to become part of the new German empire. The annexation of those countries, that year and the year prior, had been bloodless.