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

In March 1946, former Luftwaffe ace Franz Stigler trudges through the bomb-scarred Bavarian city of Straubing searching for day labor at a brick mill. Now 30 and gaunt, he wears patched civilian clothes and calf-high flying boots—the only footwear he owns. Allied food lines, homeless crowds, and American patrols underscore Germany’s post-war devastation; many civilians regard ex-soldiers like Stigler with contempt.

Stigler joins a long queue of applicants outside the brickyard. When the manager learns he was a fighter pilot, he brands Stigler responsible for the city’s destruction and refuses to hire him. The surrounding workers, themselves embittered and jobless, echo the accusation, calling him a “Nazi.” Provoked and cornered, Stigler punches the manager.

The mob retaliates until German police—now operating under U.S. oversight—arrest him. As he is hauled away, Stigler worries about his mother and girlfriend, who depend on his support. He reflects bitterly on how German fighter pilots have fallen from wartime heroes to vilified scapegoats.

In the summer of 1927, 12-year-old Franz Stigler races across a Bavarian meadow, cheering as his older brother, August, lands a handmade training glider the boys have built with schoolmates in their hillside shed. Supervised by their father (a former WWI reconnaissance pilot) and Father Josef (an ex-fighter pilot turned priest-teacher), the club has constructed a Stamer Lippisch “Pupil” sailplane from salvaged materials.

On Franz’s first scheduled solo, the launch team forgets to compensate for his light weight: the rubber-rope catapult hurls the craft almost vertically, and Franz crashes nose-first moments later—stunned but unharmed. During repairs, Franz slathers glue on the wing ribs until his father insists he sand each seam smooth, stressing that unseen workmanship still matters. Franz spends weeks perfecting the wing while others play.

Months later, ballast sandbag tied to his waist, he relaunches successfully, soaring a hundred feet above the rolling fields, turning away from forests, and learning August’s advice to “follow the eagles” into rising air currents—an early lesson in both flying technique and personal discipline.

In autumn 1932, 17-year-old Franz Stigler attends a Catholic boarding school, where his mother hopes he will become a priest. Father Josef—Franz’s former teacher and flying mentor—discerns Franz’s real passion and urges him to “go fly.” Franz studies aeronautical engineering at Würzburg, joins an underground fencing club (earning brief excommunication), then accepts free government flight training. He leaves university when Lufthansa offers him a post.

From 1933-37 Franz logs thousands of hours as a route-check pilot across Europe—training partly intended to quietly rebuild a German air force despite prohibitions in the Treaty of Versailles. In 1938 the Luftwaffe drafts Franz as an instrument-flight instructor. Still technically a civilian, he tutors cadets like Gerhard “Gerd” Barkhorn and contends with rank-conscious officers until a supportive general commissions him. The most important student proves to be his elder brother August, whom Franz rigorously prepares for multi-engine service. While August serves as a Ju-88 bomber pilot, Germany invades Poland and war spreads. In October 1940 August is killed on take-off in France, shattering Franz’s faith in the regime and propelling him toward frontline combat.

On 7 April 1942 Sergeant Franz Stigler ferries his brand-new Bf-109F from Munich to Libya with a group of rookie pilots led by veteran ace Lt. Werner Schroer. After crossing the Mediterranean they reach the primitive desert base at Martuba, home of Jagdgeschwader 27, the outnumbered “Desert Wing” charged with protecting Rommel’s Afrika Korps from the British-dominated Desert Air Force.

At squadron assignment Stigler avoids the abrasive Captain Ernst Maak and is placed in 4./JG 27 (the 4th Squadron of Fighter Wing 27) under Knight’s-Cross holder Lt. Gustav Roedel, who stresses personal honor over Nazi ideology. Over the next two days Stigler acclimates to Martuba’s harsh conditions, meets legends such as Hans-Joachim Marseille, and learns flight-line routines.

On 9 April Roedel takes him on a two-ship “free hunt.” Climbing to 25,000 feet, they attack four RAF P-40s; Roedel downs one, but Stigler panics, breaks off the dive, and returns alone—discovering he has wet his flight suit. Roedel finds him, guides him home, and, instead of scolding, tells Franz that survival and honor are the day’s true successes, cementing a mentor-protégé bond.

On 18 April 1942, the veteran pilots of I./JG 27 (the 1st Group of Fighter Wing 27) stage a lavish “Desert Amusement Park” to mark one year in North Africa, temporarily transforming Martuba airfield into a carnival of music, rides, food, and slap-stick stage acts led by their genial commander, Captain “Edu” Neumann. A reluctant Stigler is coaxed to attend by Austrian flight leader Ferdinand Voegl and experiences the unit’s egalitarian esprit de corps, where tank crews, mechanics, and aces mingle as equals.

Days later, Stigler visits Squadron 3’s bar to meet celebrated ace Hans-Joachim Marseille; over cognac, Marseille and Werner Schroer share practical combat tips and reaffirm a code that values mercy as well as skill. Yet underlying tensions surface: Voegl privately questions Marseille’s staggering victory tally and bristles at newly promoted Gustav Roedel’s moral leadership. On 31 May, after escorting Stuka dive-bombers near Fort Acroma, Stigler scores his first aerial victory, but Roedel’s sober reminder that they shoot machines, not men, tempers any euphoria—especially with three squadron comrades lost in the same engagement.