Free A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II by Adam Makos Page A

combined twenty-four guns were now firing at him. He squeezed off a terrified, blind burst. In training, he had shot at fabric targets towed by biplanes but never while diving toward the earth with the target racing up at him. Roedel’s shell casings whipped by his windshield like a rain of brass nails. A P-40 burst into flames. Flaming tracers from the P-40s whipped around Franz’s canopy. He swore they were about to collide.
    Franz could take it no more. He panicked. Hauling back on the stick, he pulled his fighter into a screaming climb, up and away from the onrushing enemy.
    Aiming his plane’s nose toward the blue, he ran for the heavens.Franz tucked his neck into his shoulders, bracing for the thud of lead on his armored headrest, but no bullets followed. “Horrido!” Roedel shouted over the radio. Franz knew this battle cry meant he had shot down an enemy plane and wanted Franz to visually verify its destruction. But Franz was too far away and unable to see a thing.
    Franz felt sick. His shoulder straps, the 109’s cramped cockpit, his heavy leather jacket, and the sun’s blazing rays all seemed to squeeze him. Lifting his neck from his shoulders to look backward, he saw a sight that allowed him to breathe again. The P-40s had not followed him. Instead, they orbited in a defensive circle a mile beneath him, covering one another’s tails, expecting a dogfight that was not to be.
    As Franz leveled off, a new wave of sickness struck his stomach. He realized he had abandoned his wingman. Worse, his wingman was his leader. Even worse, now he was alone and disoriented, easy prey should the enemy come across him. The fight had ended in mere minutes, as they did in the desert. Franz turned
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in the direction of Martuba. Relying on the ocean as his northern compass point and the sun as his southern point, Franz reasoned that his base lay somewhere in the middle of the horizon.
    The sun cooked him through the cockpit glass. He strained his eyes and felt his head grow heavy from shame. Franz shifted his weight over his parachute. He felt something wet in his seat. His first thought was that his plane had been hit and he was feeling its engine coolant. Then he touched a warm, dark patch in his crotch. He had lost control of his bladder. Franz flew until he saw the Green Mountains. Somewhere below, he knew, was home. Navigating in a land without forests or railroads or streets was a challenge Franz had never anticipated when he was teaching cadets to fly.
    “There you are,” Roedel’s voice squawked across the radio. Franz scanned the skies and grimaced when he looked over his shoulder toward the sun. That’s where Roedel came from—by habit. A pilot could live longer by always approaching from the sun.
    Roedel pulled up on Franz’s left wing, the wingman’s spot. Roedel could tell that Franz was scared by the way he flew, his plane bobbing and jittering.
    “You lead,” Roedel told Franz and gave him a heading.
    Franz preferred to follow but obeyed orders and flew onward until glints of light blinked below from the arid earth. Squinting, Franz saw small planes lined up along a desert airfield. They were home. Franz landed first and Roedel second.
    Franz shut his own engine down and remained in his cockpit, the canopy flipped open. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the sweat-covered leather seatback. Lifting himself from his plane, Franz saw ground crewmen approaching so he hurried away, scurrying for his tent, hoping to dodge any embarrassment at the sight of his wet pants.
    “Stigler!” Roedel shouted from behind. Franz stopped and approached Roedel, head hung, bracing for a verbal lashing. But instead, Franz was met by a grin.
    “Today was a success,” Roedel said. “You survived. You brought yourself home. And if you think about it—you’ll never be that scared again for the rest of your life.”
    “I’ll confirm your victory, sir,” Franz said, “but first I need to change my