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

victories from the Battle of Britain. Like Franz, Voegl wore a light tan shirt and shorts, but instead of boots, Voegl wore sandals with socks.
    “The squadron’s going to the party,” Voegl said. “You’re coming with us.”
    “Would that be right, sir?” Franz asked. “I haven’t been here long.”
    “You’ve flown in combat, yes?”
    “Yes, sir—once.”
    “Then get up,” Voegl said. “You’re one of us.”
    Franz obeyed and followed Voegl outside. The two quickly caught up to the rest of Squadron 4 as the pilots walked toward the sounds of revelry. Roedel was already there, somewhere in the thick of the fun. A circle of tents and booths had been erected in the center of the squadron villages. A sign greeted them: WELCOME TO NEUMANN’S DESERT AMUSEMENT PARK . Franz had heard of Captain “Edu” Neumann—I Group’s colorful and beloved leader, more a father figure than commander. This party was his idea.
    If Franz had not known that he was sober, he would have sworn that he was drunk. Barrel-chested tankers and tired infantrymen representing the Afrika Korps had turned out, as well as mechanics in their greasy coveralls and even Stuka dive bomber pilots.
    The festival’s soundtrack boomed from a band of tankers loaned by the Afrika Korps. Franz tapped his hand on his thigh to the lively tuba and accordion beat and wished he had brought his own accordionfrom home (his mother had made him take lessons). A clanking, creaking old convertible rolled past, honking its horn. The car teemed with pilots, who waved from the backseat, mimicking royalty. They wore pots on their heads, furs, fezzes, grass skirts, and goggles—their best imitation of lunatics. The vehicle had been hauled from a junk pile and brought to life again. Officers and enlisted men alike waited in long lines to ride in it.
    Neumann had instructed his men to let off steam, to be eccentric, and to forget where they were for one night. They took his words to heart. Neumann’s group had been the first to arrive in Africa. They had Marseille and more aces than any other group due to timing and Neumann’s leadership. He was an ace with thirteen victories, but he led better from the ground, coaching, analyzing tactics, and planning missions. He knew when to push his men to bring out their best and when they needed a break.
    As Franz and the others strolled through the grounds, they saw pilots riding a flimsy merry-go-round brought in from a coastal city. Others waited before food stands that served tin cups of red wine and sausages flown in from Germany. Men bowled, knocking pins into the sand at homemade bowling lanes. The crack of rifles rang from men shooting at targets against a sand dune backdrop. Squadrons battled each other in a tug-of-war for a bottle of French cognac, and on a sand hill mechanics competed for the title of “strongest man” in a King of the Mountain–styled game called “Knock Lukas Down.”
    On the fringe of the party, Franz saw Neumann’s famous headquarters, a circus wagon. The wagon rode atop four massive wheels. Neumann had first located the wagon while flying in the Battle of France, where the wagon had been abandoned by its traveling circus. Somehow Neumann managed to have it shipped to Africa. The wagon had large windows with brightly colored shutters, and the words NEUMMAN’S COLORFUL CABARET were painted on its sides in tall letters. Franz had never been inside, although he had heard stories that Neumann had a painting of naked native girls, and above each girl hehad scrawled a pilot’s name upon the man’s entry to his unit. With each victory, Neumann would have his orderly paint a grass palm frond on the grass skirt of the pilot’s “girl.”
    A horn’s bellow brought the games to a halt. Neumann appeared and stood on a stage of crates. Dressed in his desert fatigues, the captain wore his black hair cropped short. He had calm blue eyes. His chin was small, and when he smiled, he scrunched his face