by Adam Makos
A tap on the fabric of Franz’s tent interrupted his self-pity. Franz looked up as Lieutenant Ferdinand Voegl thrust his face inside, his dark, narrow eyes scanning the room and his thin lips curled in a mischievous smile.
They called Voegl “the Birdman” because vogel means “bird” in German. Shrewd yet likeable, Voegl was an Austrian and one of Squadron 4’s top flight leaders. Voegl was also the squadron’s black sheep because he had black hair, black eyes, and a tendency to be dark-minded and quirky.
Franz had yet to fly with Voegl, but he snapped upward on his cot as the officer entered. After seven months in the desert Voegl had scored two kills, on top of his four 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 accordion from 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 he had 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 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 belly dancers. 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 his French 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 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. Marseille personally 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 out an edict that no pilot should ever again attempt a stunt like the one Marseille had.
“Is the story true?” Franz said to Marseille.
Schroer nodded slightly, for only Franz to see.
“We only need to answer to God and our comrades,” Marseille said. To Franz, this sounded like something Father Josef had told him years prior. Curious, Franz asked if Marseille was a man of faith. Marseille revealed that he was a Catholic, too.
As their conversation grew in depth, Franz realized that he was drunk, more drunk than he had ever been. He was not accustomed to liquor, having been raised on Bavarian beer, and had never tried cognac before that night. Franz stood, wobbly, to excuse himself. He thanked Marseille and Schroer for their hospitality and tried to salute but swiped his hand at the wrong angle. Marseille saluted back just as sloppily, with a grin. Marseille’s salute was known for always being that bad, sober or drunk. Stumbling into the darkness as the breeze kicked up the sand, Franz realized he had forgotten to ask for an autograph.
SEVERAL NIGHTS LATER
Voegl grew tired of hearing Franz talk in the squadron bar about his meeting with Marseille.
“I want to show you something,” Voegl told Franz and pulled him outside. Franz did not feel like a walk in the blowing sand, but he followed his superior. Strolling by the silent rows of parked planes, they stopped at Marseille’s Yellow 14. Nearby, crewmen worked on another plane’s engine by floodlights covered with heavy tarps. Voegl pointed to the rudder of Marseille’s plane. “I have twelve kills. But this kid has sixty-eight,” he told Franz. “Do you really believe that’s possible?”
Franz counted the hash marks silently. Franz had once seen Marseille fighting, alone in the distance while the rest of Marseille’s squadron watched his aerial ballet. Franz believed. He also knew of Voegl’s intense ambition. Despite being physically weak and the son of a postal worker, Voegl had somehow married the daughter of the German state secretary in Berlin. To Franz, Voegl always seemed to be trying to get somewhere. Rather than cross him, Franz said nothing.
“I’m not trying to slander Marseille,” Voegl said. “What I’m saying is that in combat there’s seldom time to watch an enemy crash, so there’s room for doubt. Marseille gives himself the benefit of that doubt.”
Slapping Marseille’s rudder, Voegl sulked away into the darkness, back toward the squadron bar.
THREE WEEKS LATER, MAY 31, 1942
Franz settled his 109 down onto the hard desert floor and landed through the dust clouds stirred by Voegl’s fighter ahead of him. The rising sun revealed their new home, a destitute, unfinished airstrip called Tmimi that lay some twenty miles east of Martuba, close to the front lines. Rommel had summoned II Group to Tmimi. He was planning a big push but first needed the Air Force’s slow, antiquated Stuka dive bombers to soften up the enemy lines. To keep the Stukas from being blown out of the sky, he had called on JG-27. Franz and his comrades had lamented leaving Martuba’s primitive comforts, but orders were orders, especially when issued by II Group’s new commander—Roedel. Recently promoted, Roedel now led the group’s three squadrons—4, 5, and 6. In leaving Squadron 4, Roedel had given Voegl command due to Voegl’s seniority, although Roedel still had doubts about him.
Grinning, Franz slid from the wing of his fighter. Voegl ran up and slapped his back. Voegl called the crew chiefs around and announced that Franz had scored his first victory. They had just flown a Stuka escort to a place called Fort Acroma, seventeen miles behind enemy lines. There, with seven 109s they had battled it out against sixteen fighters of the Desert Air Force over a raging sandstorm. Just as Marseille and Schroer had advised him, Franz had waited until a P-40 was close—so close its tail was as tall as a sail in his gun sight when he blasted it from the sky. Franz and Voegl hurried to II Group’s headquarters to check in and debrief. They encountered Roedel as he ducked out of the tent’s canvas door.
Roedel asked how the mission went. “I got my first kill, sir,” Franz said. Roedel’s smile slowly disappeared. Franz wondered if he
had said something wrong.
“I got two,” Voegl added. Roedel seemed unimpressed. He asked if there were any losses.
“Three,” Voegl replied. “Fluder, Krenzke, and Gromotka.” The missing pilots were from Squadron 6. Fluder had been the squadron leader and Roedel’s friend. Franz told Roedel he had witnessed both Fluder’s and Krenzke’s 109s exploding and was certain that both had been killed.
“Then why are you both smiling?” Roedel asked, his eyes emotional.
“Because of his first kill,” Voegl said.
Roedel dropped his arms to his sides.
“You score victories, not kills,” Roedel told Voegl, frustrated. “Haven’t you learned anything?” Turning to Franz, Roedel added, “You shoot at a machine not a man.”
Voegl muttered something and looked toward the horizon.
Roedel looked like he was going to say something more, but he shook his head and walked away.
Voegl muttered that Roedel had it out for him. He stomped away. Franz knew Voegl was trying to save face. But Franz also knew that Roedel had reason to dislike Voegl. The previous day Voegl had landed and claimed to have shot down three fighters within fourteen minutes, his eighth, ninth, and tenth victories, all in one flight. Voegl’s wingman and sidekick, a pilot named Sergeant Karl-Heinz Bendert, had confirmed Voegl’s story as a witness. But others in Squadron 4 doubted Voegl’s claims. “Marseille could knock down three planes that quickly, but not Voegl,” they whispered. Roedel had no proof to overturn Voegl’s claims, so he forwarded the victories to Berlin.
Franz sulked back to his tent, alone. He had achieved a fighter pilot’s milestone and tasted revenge. Instead of feeling accomplishment, he suddenly felt very hollow.
* * *
