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

in a happy, unassuming grin.
    “Nowhere has it been demonstrated more plainly that no one person can survive without the other as it has here in the desert,” Neumann called out. “Nowhere is the
esprit de corps
more important than here!”
    The crowd bellowed a shout of agreement.
    “Today is therefore declared a day of merriment,” Neumann shouted. “Today you can—and should—all paint the town red!” 1
    Applause echoed between the bluffs.
    Neumann’s men loved him. He was to JG-27 who Rommel was to the Afrika Korps. Everyone called Neumann “Edu,” a short clipping of his name, “Eduard,” although few knew his story. As a boy Neumann had been orphaned and raised by his grandmother. His lonely upbringing imparted him with a sensitive demeanor, perhaps the very reason he was able to control Marseille and mold him into JG-27’s finest fighting weapon.
    As the sun set, the men congregated on a hill to watch a variety show. At the back of the audience, Lieutenant Schroer served as the show’s emcee and narrated a play-by-play over a loudspeaker from a booth made of crates. A sign painted over his head identified his station—radio martuba. Behind Schroer, technicians adjusted glowing radio dials to transmit his radio show to nearby units.
    On the stage made of sand, pilots tried their hand at comedy, and soldiers tried theirs at vaudeville. Between acts Schroer spouted dirty jokes. Neumann introduced Captain Maak, who presented “Maak’s World Show”—a series of skits acted out by airmen dressed like bellydancers. The audience roared with laughter. At the climax of the show, Neumann took the stage wearing a genie costume and performed a slapstick magic show set to Schroer’s music.
    A screeching sound from the speakers suddenly drowned out the sound of laughter. Schroer’s music turned to static and he pulled the headphones from his ears. The British must have heard their show, he announced to the crowd. They were jamming his transmissions. The mood grew somber. The men remembered what the games, costumes, food, and drink had tried to make them forget—that they were still at war.
    THREE WEEKS LATER, EARLY MAY 1942
     
    In the darkness, Franz stumbled over tent ropes and pegs as he ventured down a small hill into the wadi where Squadron 3 had pitched their tents. He spotted a tent, larger than the others, that served as the pilots’ bar and casino. Schroer had told Franz to drop by the bar that night and he would introduce him to Marseille. If the introduction went well, Franz planned to ask Marseille for an autograph.
    The Squadron 3 bar itself was a tribute to Marseille, bearing a sign just above the doorway that read: THE STAR OF LIBYA . The sign had been put there during the filming of a newsreel about Marseille, and no one wanted to take it down.
    As Franz entered the tent, the rhythm of rumba music blasted from a phonograph, even though such “Americano” music had been banned in Germany. Oriental rugs lined the floor. On the walls hung pictures of actresses and models who had written to Marseille. Franz had heard rumors that Marseille had slept with all of them.
    Schroer was there already, watching two men play chess. He spotted Franz and signaled him over. One of the chess players was Marseille, the thin, dashing, bohemian Berliner. He looked the way hisFrench ancestry suggested he would, with an angular face, arching eyebrows, a sharp nose, and thin lips. He was young, just twenty-two, and wore his long hair swept back over his ears. Had it not been slicked back, it would never pass regulations. He wore the Knight’s Cross around his neck.
    The other player was a young African man with short fuzzy hair who wore the same tan shirt and shorts as Marseille, but without shoulder boards of rank. He was the former Corporal Mathew Letuku, known to the squadron as “Matthias.” Franz had heard of him. Matthias had fought for the South African Army before the Germans had captured him the prior