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

summer. Somehow Matthias had wound up reemployed by Squadron 3 as a driver and bartender for squadron parties, a far better fate for him than languishing in a P.O.W. camp. During duty hours, Matthias doubled as a sort of “batman” (or butler) for Marseille, doing odd jobs such as cooking and laundry. In off hours, Matthias and Marseille socialized and played chess. Matthias helped Marseille improve his English, and Marseille taught German to Matthias. In the process, they had become best friends. In Germany, this would have violated laws meant to keep races apart. But in the desert, Marseille and the pilots of JG-27 accepted Matthias as more than a prisoner—he was their friend.
    “Franz, pull up a chair,” Schroer said. Marseille and Matthias pushed their game aside. Schroer introduced Franz to Marseille, who sat in a wooden armchair made from shipping crates, a gift from the supply men. Marseille and Schroer had been roommates in flight school and wingmen over the Channel. Marseille had a bottle of French cognac on a nearby table and called for an orderly to bring a snifter glass for Franz. Matthias excused himself to let the pilots talk.
    Franz was surprised that Marseille was quietly charismatic and gracious, far from his boisterous reputation.
    “Franz is new to the unit,” Schroer said.
    “Have you scored a victory yet?” Marseille asked.
    “Not yet,” Franz said, embarrassed. Everyone knew it was JG-27’s policy to try to get a new pilot his first victory within ten missions. But for Franz, ten had come and gone.
    “There’s no reason to apologize for never having killed a man,” Marseille said. He poured Franz a tall glass of cognac. “As soldiers, we must kill or be killed, but once a person enjoys killing, he is lost. After my first victory I felt terrible.” * An empty cognac bottle later, Marseille and Schroer shared their secrets of combat and survival with Franz, who leaned in close, his eyes lazy from too many drinks.
    “Shoot from as close as possible, seventy-five yards or less,” they told him.
    “Drink lots of milk, it’s good for your eyes.”
    “Stare at the sun a few minutes per day, to build your tolerance.”
    “Strengthen your legs and abdominal muscles so you can take more Gs.”
    Franz nodded, forming a foggy mental checklist.
    Franz wanted to ask Marseille if all the stories he had heard were true, if Marseille had a flat where he entertained an Italian general’s wife, if he had slept with a field marshal’s daughter, and if he dated an American lady who worked as a newspaper reporter. But, although those tales of philandering interested Franz, one question burned hotter in his mind. “Is it true you flew over a British airfield and dropped notes to them?” Franz asked.
    Marseille knew what Franz was getting at, but he just shrugged with a guilty, thin grin.
    Franz had read and heard the story but never had it corroborated. The legend went that Marseille had shot down a British pilot named Byers, who had been badly burned when captured. Marseillepersonally took Byers to the field hospital, where hospital staff told Marseille the prisoner’s name and unit. That evening, Marseille flew through British flak to drop a note over Byers’s airfield, addressed to his comrades. The note said that Byers was badly wounded but was being cared for. Two weeks later, when Byers died of his wounds, Marseille felt so badly that he flew back through the flak to the British field and dropped another note notifying Byers’s friends and sending deepest regrets. It was a gallant act that earned the respect of many in the Air Force except for one: the second most powerful man in The Party, who doubled as the Air Force’s leader—
Reichsmarschall
Hermann Goering. Goering had once been an ace in the Red Baron’s squadron in WWI but had since become known throughout the Air Force with disdain. Someone had nicknamed Goering “the Fat One,” due to his heft, and it had stuck. Goering put