by Adam Makos
Franz saw the thick clouds along the sea and ran for them. But instead of fleeing with Franz, Swallisch doubled back and flew toward him, flying over Franz’s head. Seeing this Franz thought, Voegl was right—he is ill in the head!
Franz steered for the safety of the clouds, but kept checking his tail. There, he saw an incredible sight—in a tan streak he watched Swallisch fly head-on into the formation of P-40s, his guns firing. The P-40s peeled in all directions. Swallisch plowed through the melee and somehow emerged on the other side. Franz saw black smoke and knew that someone had been hit. He cursed Swallisch for not escaping with him.
Franz blew out a heavy sigh as the cloud’s floating tentacles wrapped around his canopy, enshrouding him in mist, turning the daylight into dimness. Banking westward, he wove through the heavenly white river, following his compass until he popped into the blue, alone, above his desert home. After landing, Franz found Swallisch circling his parked fighter, checking it for damage. Relieved, Franz shouted, “You never go tooth to tooth with a Curtiss!”
“In the east we don’t run from Ivan,” Swallisch chuckled, “Why start now?”
Franz realized the “ill” pilot’s antics were actually his odd brand of bravery. Franz reached out his hand and Swallisch shook it, flashing a big, toothy grin.
Around noon that same day, Voegl and Bendert returned from their flight and found Franz and Swallisch in the mess tent. Franz told Voegl that he and Swallisch had each bagged two planes. Voegl and Bendert said that they, too, had each knocked down two planes.* Franz and Swallisch gritted their teeth. When Voegl and Bendert had departed, Swallisch and Franz agreed that their group leader and his wingman were up to no good.
In the evening of August 14, Voegl delivered a message from JG-27’s commander, Neumann, to Franz and Swallisch. Neumann had ordered the Voegl Flight to assemble on the flight line the next morning. Franz immediately thought that someone was in trouble. When Franz and Swallisch plodded to the flight line the next day, as ordered, Swallisch was sullen. He was certain that Voegl and Bendert were going to drag him and Franz down with them.
But when they reached the flight line, they found Neumann and his staff waiting with photographers. Neumann congratulated the men and said he wanted to celebrate their recent successes. In the weeks prior, the Voegl Flight had kept Neumann’s orderly busily painting palm fronds on their girls. In fifteen days they had scored a squadron’s worth of victories. Franz had chalked up nine victories, upping his total to fourteen. Swallisch had added fifteen victories, doubling his score to thirty. Voegl posted six victories and now had twenty-six overall. Bendert added sixteen, bringing his total to thirty-four, elevating him among the ranks of Marseille and Roedel as one of JG-27’s top ten scorers. With Marseille on leave, the Voegl Flight had become the new “Stars of Africa.”
Voegl arrived wearing a white officer’s hat like Roedel’s and black sun goggles atop its brim. Despite the heat, Bendert wore a fancy green jacket. Franz and Swallisch just wore their everyday attire. The photographers steered the group to Swallisch’s plane because Swallisch had unique victory marks—his rudder bore thirty hash marks and the black silhouettes of two ships that he had sunk on the Eastern Front. Voegl joked to Franz that no one would want to be seen by his naked rudder and ordered Franz to paint it up. Franz nodded with reluctance while wondering what Roedel would think.
The photographers arranged the men in a lineup along the plane’s rear fuselage. But Swallisch let his arms hang, looking dejected. “Laugh!” a photographer urged. “Tell a joke!” the other said. Franz said something to Swallisch to make him laugh as the shutter snapped.
When Neumann shook each pilot’s hand, Franz and Swallisch knew this was their chance to reveal their suspicions of Voegl and Bendert. But they said nothing. They knew it was too late and they were already guilty by association. As other pilots walked past the photo shoot, their glares did all the talking.
That night, while Neumann’s orderly painted palm fronds, in the squadron bars around the airfield, the unit’s pilots debated the Voegl Flight’s meteoric rise. Among the squadrons of I Group, Marseille’s group, some pilots gave the “Voegl Flight” a mocking new name: “the Expert Flight.” They, too, knew that victories were the key to the Knight’s Cross, fan mail, and a ticket home. At the time, Germany had no bigger heroes than her fighter pilots, and even the heroes had a hierarchy according to their scores. The I Group pilots saw the Voegl Flight’s soaring claims as Voegl’s underhanded attempt for his group to compete against theirs. Had Marseille been there, he might have told his comrades otherwise, for he was the master at scoring multiple victories, day after day. But he was on leave in Germany. In his absence, a few I Group pilots decided: “the Expert Flight” was cheating and had to be stopped.
ONE DAY LATER, AUGUST 16, 1942, OVER EL ALAMEIN
When the Voegl Flight plunged into combat in the early morning of August 16, they did so to answer another flight’s cries for help. Two planes from I Group had radioed in distress. The leader of Squadron 2, Lieutenant Hans-Arnold Stahlschmitt, a twenty-one-year-old ace with forty-five victories, and his wingman were badly outnumbered in a dogfight against as many as thirty-eight enemy fighters.
Although Stahlschmitt was a rival, the Voegl Flight scrambled to his aide with a fifth plane in their formation instead of the usual four. That day, Voegl had invited along a rookie, Corporal Ferdinand Just, who had recently arrived with a plane of his own. Voegl was good to the new guys because they were black sheep like him.
After fifteen minutes of fighting, the Voegl Flight and its rookie turned for home, victorious. They had saved Stahlschmitt and his wingman while claiming a combined eleven victories. Even the rookie, Just, had scored his first victory. But it was not what they would claim that would seal the Voegl Flight’s fate. It was what they did next.
At three thousand feet over friendly lines, Voegl radioed Just and asked for his ammo status. Just replied that he was “about full.” Voegl decided to give the rookie some target practice by playing a game called “Shoot the Shadow.” Franz appreciated Voegl’s concern for the new guy, but he knew the skies were unsafe and asked Voegl if this was wise. Voegl dismissed Franz and told him, “Stigler, you can play the shadow.”
Franz hated being ordered to play a game when he should be watching for enemy fighters. Swallisch promised he would keep an eye out. Franz flew ahead and positioned his plane so its shadow “flew” in front of him on the sands. Voegl ordered Just to get on his wing as he dropped down to one thousand feet.
“See the shadow?” Voegl asked Just. “Kill it.”
But the young pilot did not understand.
“Strafe the shadow on the sand,” Voegl clarified.
Franz flew straight and level to keep his shadow flat. He heard Just’s gunfire crackle beneath him then saw geysers of sand rip through his shadow before Just’s 109 peeled off to re-form with Voegl.
Franz flew onward, sweating out the silly game. Voegl ordered Franz to make things challenging. Franz rolled his eyes. He began snaking right and left using just his rudder, so his shadow stayed flat as it made lazy S patterns. Voegl ordered Bendert and Swallisch to attack the shadow as examples to Just. Both veterans wove along with Franz, mirroring his moves. When they passed beneath Franz, they cut loose with what ammo they had remaining. Each veteran’s bullets perfectly tracked the shadow, tossing sand and obliterating rocks. The Voegl Flight was having so much fun in their mock dogfight that they failed to see two black specs paralleling them in the distance by the ocean.
The Voegl Flight landed, claimed their victories, and headed to the squadron tent to celebrate their most momentous day yet. But their rival, Stahlschmitt, had already landed. He and his wingman had marched straight for Neumann’s headquarters, now an aboveground bunker after his circus wagon had been destroyed.
The next day a rumor ran rampant throughout the pilot camps. The Voegl Flight was going to be stripped of their victories. Franz and Swallisch could not b
elieve it. They asked around and learned that Stahlschmitt had reported seeing the Voegl Flight in mock dogfights, “emptying their guns into the sand.” Stahlschmitt believed that this was the secret behind the Voegl Flight’s victories—they would pretend to fight and come home with their ammo exhausted to lie about what they had done.
A day later, Voegl spotted his squadron leaders entering Neumann’s headquarters. When Voegl asked why he had not been invited, Neumann’s orderly told him, “It’s a private matter.”
Swallisch took the news hard and grew melancholy. “It’s an omen,” he told Franz. A fighter pilot since 1936, his victories were his résumé and his life. He was a professional flyer. The hashmarks were all he had to show for his six years of dueling with death. Now he had heard that the pilots of the Voegl Flight would be stripped of all of their victories. It was no longer their two weeks of combat being questioned, but each man’s honor.
A DAY LATER, AUGUST 19, 1942
At dawn, Neumann’s orderly delivered messages to Franz, Swallisch, Voegl, and Bendert summoning them to report to Neumann’s headquarters that afternoon. Swallisch ran to Franz’s dugout, distraught. He was certain that Voegl and Bendert had destroyed them.
“We’re to be court-martialed!” he said. Franz’s stomach sank.
Voegl and Bendert were dressed in flight gear when they found Franz and Swallisch moping. Voegl said they were answering a scramble mission and wanted Franz and Swallisch to come. Bendert was glib as usual. Franz admitted he was not in the mood to fly and Swallisch agreed. Voegl knew what was eating them and reassured Franz and Swallisch that Neumann would see that Stahlschmitt was wrong when they presented their side of the story. Voegl and Bendert departed to fly.
Franz did not fear a court-martial. He feared a court-martial going wrong, and them taking the blame for any loose claims since JG-27 had arrived in the desert. After the midday meal, Franz felt overwhelmed by worry. He lay on his cot in his grave and stared through cracks of light in the canvas ceiling. Around 1:00 P.M. he heard noise above and saw Swallisch peel back the canvas. Swallisch said he was taking a plane up for a maintenance test flight before the meeting with Neumann. Franz thought nothing of it. Many times he had gone flying to clear his head. Before leaving, Swallisch told Franz that regardless of the meeting’s result he would always think of him as “the best of comrades.” Franz knew Swallisch was scared because he had no clout with JG-27 and no relationship with the powers that would be judging him. Franz promised Swallisch that he would ensure their names were cleared. Swallisch smiled and departed, the canvas flap swinging behind him. Franz fell asleep. An hour later he opened his eyes with distress when the realization hit him: Why would a thirty-three-victory ace undertake a maintenance flight? That’s a rookie’s job!
Franz’s heart screamed with alarm. But he was an hour too late.
Swallisch never came back from his maintenance flight. Neumann canceled the meeting. The next day, on the shores north of Quotaifiya, German sentries found Swallisch’s body, carried to land by the tide. Some said his plane had malfunctioned. But Franz knew otherwise. Swallisch had wanted to disappear—that’s why he had flown out over the sea. There he had committed suicide, diving into the water rather than live to see his victories and honor wrongly stripped from him. On the day Swallisch died, Voegl and Bendert landed from their scramble. Voegl claimed one victory and Bendert another two.
ELEVEN DAYS LATER, AUGUST 30, 1942
A month after his crash, Roedel returned to the unit. Franz found him moving his belongings into his hole in the earth. Roedel had resumed control of II Group, sending Voegl back to Squadron 4. Roedel told Franz he had spent only a week at home in Merseburg and the rest of the time traveling there and back.
“I prefer it here,” Roedel admitted, a comment that Franz found odd. Franz tried to explain what had happened with the Voegl Flight, but Roedel cut him off. He had already talked with Neumann, who told him the matter was closed. All the victories in question had been confirmed and sent to Berlin. Franz looked at Roedel with disbelief. Roedel explained that Neumann decided not to pass judgment because he had not been there, flying with them in life-and-death combat. Neumann had decided to give his men the benefit of the doubt.
Franz told Roedel that there had been a breach of honor. Roedel asked Franz if it was worth reopening a closed case. Roedel explained that during the month in question, Bendert had scored his thirtieth victory—“magic 30”—and had been nominated for the Knight’s Cross. But Franz told Roedel he had promised Swallisch he would see their names cleared, and there would always be doubt unless the truth was told. Roedel agreed to look into the matter but knew it would get ugly. “You could have saved us a lot of trouble if you had just taken a stand,” he told Franz, who nodded in silent agreement.
“I’m afraid you won’t be here to see the results,” Roedel said. Franz did not understand. “You’re going home,” Roedel said. “It didn’t do me any good, but you might enjoy it.”
For a moment, Franz reacted like Roedel had, after his crash. There was something about the simplicity of the desert life, even its hardships, that made him not want to leave.
DURING THE FIRST week of September 1942, Franz found himself sitting on a lonely bench at the far end of the airfield, where Ju-52 transports delivered the unit’s supplies. Franz had his orders: hitch a ride on a transport to Libya, then fly to Sicily, then Italy. From there he would take a train to Germany.
Every so often an old sergeant emerged to tell Franz that a Ju-52 was due any minute. The wind sock hung limp. There were no eager rookies checking in for a great adventure, just mechanics linking ammunition belts while orderlies inventoried supplies.
Franz had said good-bye to Roedel, his comrades, and even Marseille, who had just returned from leave. Franz had found Marseille lounging around, strangely reluctant to return to the cockpit. Marseille no longer displayed photos of actresses and models in his dugout and had replaced them with just one framed picture of his girlfriend, Hanneliese, a school teacher. “We just got engaged,” Marseille told him. “On my next leave, hopefully at Christmastime, we’ll be married. If not, I’m waiting until next Christmas—it’s the best time for a wedding.” When Franz suggested that Marseille would never be as much fun, the Star of Africa proved otherwise and recited the latest dirty jokes he had learned. Marseille recommended restaurants Franz could visit in Berlin. “Tell them you’re my friend,” he told Franz, “and they’ll throw you out before they’ll seat you!”
From his airline days, Franz knew the sound of a Ju-52 by heart. In the distance, the plane landed through a wave of heat. High above, its 109 escorts circled the transport, their duty not completed until the plane had unloaded, reloaded, and was flying back the way it had come.
The Ju-52 taxied to a stop but kept its engines running as crewmen erected a ramp up to the plane’s side fuselage. They wheeled barrels from the plane’s belly. Franz shouldered his bag as a kubelwagen screeched to a stop behind him. Roedel climbed out.
“I always see my pilots off,” Roedel reminded Franz. “I’m just glad we’re not talking through a slab of wood.”
Franz tucked his hat into his sweaty armpit. Dropping his sea bag, he went to salute Roedel who instead stuck out his hand, just like when they had first met. They shook hands, both serious. They knew there was no guarantee that Franz’s plane would make it across the Mediterranean and Roedel had just checked himself back into hell.
The Ju-52’s load master grabbed Franz’s shoulder and pointed toward the waiting plane. The plane’s pilots stared through their windows at Franz, annoyed, eager to get as far from the front as possible. Franz entered the plane and sat uncomfortably in the back, not used to riding. The plane carried him away. The next day he would leave the Dark Continent on a Ju-52 loaded with wounded, groaning Afrika Korps soldiers. As the plane passed over the African coast, this time Franz did not look out the window.
* * *
* Franz would remember, “Half of u
s were crying… I can’t describe it. We felt left out of everything.”
* Desert Air Force squadron diaries would later reveal that Voegl and Bendert had shot down none of the fighters that they claimed that day. South African Air Force Squadron 2 would report: “Dogfight with two 109’s—no results,” and Royal Air Force Squadron 80 would report: “On two occasions 2 Me 109Fs were seen, these made dive attacks but they were ineffective.”
7
THE HOMECOMING
A WEEK LATER, EARLY SEPTEMBER 1942, NEAR AMBERG
FRANZ APPROACHED THE door to the pub. He smoothed his grayish-blue blazer and pulled its yellow collar tabs. His crush cap sat straight on his head, so he cocked it at a jaunty angle like the other veterans did. A tan cloth band encircled the left cuff of his blazer and read AFRIKA, a badge that only men who had fought there could wear. He cinched his black tie. The tie was not just for special occasions. The Air Force fashioned itself as Germany’s most gentlemanly military branch. Everywhere but in the desert, German pilots wore ties, even when flying.
Inside the pub, Franz strolled up to the brewmaster’s daughter, the girl of his teenage dreams, whose blond hair and busty influence had helped steer him away from the priesthood. Franz beamed a wide smile and removed his hat, revealing his hair neatly slicked back, with the sides and back cropped short. The girl emerged from behind the bar, looked him over, and stopped an awkward foot away from him. Franz gazed at her. She slapped him hard on the cheek. Smarting, Franz looked at her wide-eyed.
“Aren’t you ashamed to be here?” the girl snapped.