A Higher Call: An Incredible True Story of Combat and Chivalry in the War-Torn Skies of World War II Read Online Free
needed a scapegoat, and a fighter pilot stood right in front of them.
“Get out!” the manager hissed at Franz. “You Nazis have caused enough trouble.”
Nazi—
the word made Franz’s eyes narrow with anger. “Nazi” was the new curse word the Germans had learned from the Americans. Franz was no Nazi. The Nazis were known to Franz as “The Party,” the National Socialists, power-hungry politicians and bureaucrats who had taken over Germany behind the fists of violent, disenchanted masses. They shouldn’t have ever been in charge. They’d only come to power after the elections of 1933, when twelve parties campaigned for seats in Germany’s parliament. Each party won a portion of the vote—there was no majority winner. In the end, the National Socialists won the most votes—44 percent of Germany had voted in their favor. This 44 percent gave the Nazis, and their leader, Adolf Hitler, enough seats in parliament to eventually seize dictatorial powers. Soon after, Hitler and his Nazis outlawed all future elections and all other political parties except for theirs, which became known as “The Party.” Hitler and The Party took over Germany after 56 percent of the country had voted against them.
Franz felt the blood beginning to boil behind his ears. He had been just seventeen, too young to vote in the 1933 election although his parents had voted against The Party. When Franz had come of age, he had never joined The Party. The Party had ruined his life. “I’m not a Nazi!” Franz told the manager. “All I want is to work.”
“Be a man and move along,” yelled someone from the line of men. Others jostled Franz. He felt the wind of angry breath on his neck.
“Get off my back!” Franz shouted to them, twisting his shoulders. Nothing bothered Franz more than someone standing too close behind him. It was his fighter pilot’s survival instinct to fear anyone or anything that approached from his back, his “six o’clock.” Franz knew if he turned around to face the angry men it would only start a fight, so he avoided eye contact with any in the crowd.
The manager picked up a phone mounted on the wall. Its line ran out the shattered window and into the street. He made a call, then told the other workers, “The police are coming.”
“Please don’t,” Franz said. “I’ve got a family to care for.”
The manager just sat back, his arms folded. Franz removed his cap, revealing a dent in his forehead where an American .50-caliber bullet had hit him in October 1944 after piercing his fighter’s armored windshield. Franz pointed to the dent and said, “Don’t rile me!”
The manager laughed. Franz fished inside his pocket and slapped a piece of paper on the table. It was a medical form from his former flight doctor, who had written that Franz’s head injury and its resulting brain trauma “could trigger adverse behavior.” In reality, Franz had not suffered brain damage, just a dented skull. The doctor had given him the slip as a sort of “get out of jail free” card for anything Franz said or did wrong.
The manager took the note, read it, and crumpled it up.
“An excuse for cowardice!” he told Franz.
“You have no idea what we did!” Franz said, clenching his fists. He had watched his fellow fighter pilots fight bravely until they died, one by one, while The Party’s leadership called them “cowards,” deflecting the blame for the destruction of Germany’s cities onto them. In reality, Franz and his fellow fighter pilots never stood a chance against the Allies’ industrial might and endless warplanes. Of the twenty-eight thousand German fighter pilots to see combat in WWII, only twelve hundred survived the war.
Franz leaned close to the man and whispered in his ear. * Leaning back in his seat, the manager said, “Go ahead, try it.”
In one motion, Franz grabbed the manager by his collar, pulled him across the desk, and punched him between the eyes.
The manager stumbled
“Get out!” the manager hissed at Franz. “You Nazis have caused enough trouble.”
Nazi—
the word made Franz’s eyes narrow with anger. “Nazi” was the new curse word the Germans had learned from the Americans. Franz was no Nazi. The Nazis were known to Franz as “The Party,” the National Socialists, power-hungry politicians and bureaucrats who had taken over Germany behind the fists of violent, disenchanted masses. They shouldn’t have ever been in charge. They’d only come to power after the elections of 1933, when twelve parties campaigned for seats in Germany’s parliament. Each party won a portion of the vote—there was no majority winner. In the end, the National Socialists won the most votes—44 percent of Germany had voted in their favor. This 44 percent gave the Nazis, and their leader, Adolf Hitler, enough seats in parliament to eventually seize dictatorial powers. Soon after, Hitler and his Nazis outlawed all future elections and all other political parties except for theirs, which became known as “The Party.” Hitler and The Party took over Germany after 56 percent of the country had voted against them.
Franz felt the blood beginning to boil behind his ears. He had been just seventeen, too young to vote in the 1933 election although his parents had voted against The Party. When Franz had come of age, he had never joined The Party. The Party had ruined his life. “I’m not a Nazi!” Franz told the manager. “All I want is to work.”
“Be a man and move along,” yelled someone from the line of men. Others jostled Franz. He felt the wind of angry breath on his neck.
“Get off my back!” Franz shouted to them, twisting his shoulders. Nothing bothered Franz more than someone standing too close behind him. It was his fighter pilot’s survival instinct to fear anyone or anything that approached from his back, his “six o’clock.” Franz knew if he turned around to face the angry men it would only start a fight, so he avoided eye contact with any in the crowd.
The manager picked up a phone mounted on the wall. Its line ran out the shattered window and into the street. He made a call, then told the other workers, “The police are coming.”
“Please don’t,” Franz said. “I’ve got a family to care for.”
The manager just sat back, his arms folded. Franz removed his cap, revealing a dent in his forehead where an American .50-caliber bullet had hit him in October 1944 after piercing his fighter’s armored windshield. Franz pointed to the dent and said, “Don’t rile me!”
The manager laughed. Franz fished inside his pocket and slapped a piece of paper on the table. It was a medical form from his former flight doctor, who had written that Franz’s head injury and its resulting brain trauma “could trigger adverse behavior.” In reality, Franz had not suffered brain damage, just a dented skull. The doctor had given him the slip as a sort of “get out of jail free” card for anything Franz said or did wrong.
The manager took the note, read it, and crumpled it up.
“An excuse for cowardice!” he told Franz.
“You have no idea what we did!” Franz said, clenching his fists. He had watched his fellow fighter pilots fight bravely until they died, one by one, while The Party’s leadership called them “cowards,” deflecting the blame for the destruction of Germany’s cities onto them. In reality, Franz and his fellow fighter pilots never stood a chance against the Allies’ industrial might and endless warplanes. Of the twenty-eight thousand German fighter pilots to see combat in WWII, only twelve hundred survived the war.
Franz leaned close to the man and whispered in his ear. * Leaning back in his seat, the manager said, “Go ahead, try it.”
In one motion, Franz grabbed the manager by his collar, pulled him across the desk, and punched him between the eyes.
The manager stumbled
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