Brown & Stigler

 

Five days before Christmas 1943, Major Franz Stigler stood near his Messerschmitt fighter on a German airbase when he heard a bomber’s engine. Looking up, he saw a B-17 flying low; it disappeared behind some trees, and Stigler took off in pursuit. Already an ace, he was one kill away from earning The Knight's Cross, Germany’s highest award for valor.

 

Once in the air, he looked at the B-17’s tail gunner. He was still, his white fleece collar soaked with blood. The bomber’s skin had been peeled away by shells, its guns knocked out. He could see crew members inside the plane tending the wounds of others.

The B-17 pilot, 2nd Lieutenant Charles Brown, was flying his first combat mission. Swarming fighters had shot the bomber to pieces. It flew alone, struggling to stay aloft. Half of the crew was wounded, the tail gunner dead.

 

Brown glanced outside the cockpit’s windshield and froze. He saw the fighter hovering just 3 feet from his plane’s wingtip, closing in for the kill. Brown hoped it was a mirage, but his copilot, Spencer “Pinky” Luke, saw it, too. “My God, this is a nightmare,” Pinky said. “He's going to destroy us,” responded Brown.

 

But when Brown and Pinky looked at the fighter pilot again, instead of pulling the trigger, Stigler stared back at the bomber and saluted.
     

Pressing his hand over the rosary he kept in his flight jacket, Stigler eased his index finger off the trigger. He couldn’t shoot. Stigler had descended from knights living in 16th century Europe and studied for the priesthood. He lived by a code. Even though he risked execution in Nazi Germany, he could not commit murder. Furthermore, He recalled the words of his commanding officer: “You follow the rules of war for you―not your enemy. You fight by rules to keep your humanity.”

 

Alone with the failing bomber, Stigler began flying in formation so German antiaircraft gunners on the ground wouldn’t shoot it down, escorting it over the North Sea. He took one last look at Brown and saluted him, peeling his fighter away to return to Germany.

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“Good luck,” Stigler said to himself. “You're in God's hands now.” He didn't think the bomber would make it back to England. For years, he wondered what happened to that pilot and crew.

 

Watching the German fighter fly off, Brown thought only of survival as he headed back to his base in England, landing with one engine dead, one failing, and little fuel. After his plane rolled to a stop, he placed his hand over a pocket Bible he kept in his flight jacket, sitting in silence.

 

Brown flew more missions before the war’s end after which he got married, reared two daughters, and supervised foreign aid for the U.S. State Department during the Vietnam War. He eventually retired to Florida.

 

But his encounter with Stigler haunted him. In his nightmares, he would awaken as his plane plunged to earth. He decided to find that German pilot, scouring U.S. and British military archives. He attended a pilots’ reunion and shared his story. Finally, he ran an ad in a German newsletter for former Luftwaffe pilots, telling his story and asking if anyone knew the pilot.

 

His efforts resulted in a letter from Stigler in 1990 that said, “Dear Charles, All these years I wondered what happened to that B-17; did she make it home? Did her crew survive their wounds? To hear of your survival has filled me with indescribable joy.”

 

Stigler had left Germany after the war and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, and gone into business. In his letter, he told Brown that he would be in Florida that summer, and wanted to talk about their encounter. But Brown couldn’t wait; he found Stigler’s phone number and called him. Stigler answered the phone. “My God, it's you!” Brown shouted, tears flowing down his cheeks.

 

In the lobby of a Florida hotel, the two met that summer. Dressed in ties and formal shirts, they hugged each other and wept and laughed. They talked about the event in a light, joking tone.

 

The war had robbed Stigler of his brother, friends, and country. Of the 28,000 pilots who fought for the Luftwaffe, only 1,200 survived. For Stigler, meeting Brown was the only good thing that came out of the war. The meeting also helped quell Brown’s nightmares.

 

Brown and Stigler formed a lasting friendship, taking fishing trips together, flying to each other’s homes, and taking road trips together to share their story at schools and veterans’ reunions. The two spoke on the phone weekly. Their wives, Jackie Brown and Hiya Stigler, became friends.

 

Eventually, Brown organized a reunion of his surviving crew members and invited Stigler as guest of honor. The event featured a video of the children, grandchildren, and other relatives who lived because of Stigler’s generous act.

 

Stigler and Brown died within months of each other in 2008, at age 92 and 87, respectively.

 

After Brown’s death, his daughter found a book of his on German fighter jets, a gift from Stigler. Inscribed inside was the following:
 
In 1940, I lost my only brother as a night fighter. On the 20th of December, 4 days before Christmas, I had the chance to save a B-17 from her destruction, a plane so badly damaged, it was a wonder that she was still flying. The pilot, Charlie Brown, is for me as precious as my brother was. Thanks Charlie.

 

Your brother, Franz