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instructor. Franz sought to return to the airlines but no longer had a choice—the airlines had given him to the Air Force. In his new role, the Air Force made Franz a head instructor at their pilot school for officers in Dresden. Franz’s students were called “cadets,” but they were the cream of the crop—some were already officers, and those who were not would become officers upon graduation.
    On this evening Franz was supposed to be off duty, but he had volunteered to take a struggling pilot up for some extra practice. The boy was one of the worst flyers of the twenty in his class. Beneath his gray canvas flight helmet, the boy had a strong jaw but fleshy childlike features. His dark blue eyes darted with nervousness. The boy’s name was Gerhard Barkhorn, but outside of class, everyone called him Gerd. He was from East Prussia and well mannered. A quiet nineteen-year-old, Barkhorn had told Franz he wanted to fly fighters someday. Franz thought it unlikely but gave him extra practice to help him toward his goal.
    Franz taught the B or second level of instructing. In A-level training, pilots like Barkhorn had learned the basics of flying and had soloed after forty “hops.” Franz’s job now, over the course of five months, was to teach cadets the finer points of flying—skills such as distance flying, navigation, how to handle emergencies, and advanced aerobatics. B school was serious—if a cadet washed out, there was no second chance—he would end up in the infantry. Germany was not yet at war, but everyone sensed the nation was building for one.
    As they flew, Franz wondered how Barkhorn had ever soloed successfully. He was jittery and panicky.
This kid is a horrible pilot
, Franz thought.
He should be washed out.
Franz had already pinpointed Barkhorn’s problem. The young cadet was thinking himself into a knot. He had to detach his mind and fly by instinct.
    The He-72 did not have a radio, so Franz turned and faced Barkhorn.
    “Relax!” Franz shouted over the wind. “Feel the plane in your seat, in the stick, in your stomach. Let go of your worry!”
    Barkhorn nodded, but Franz noticed his maneuvers remained rigid. Franz signaled to Barkhorn with hand motions to tell him he was taking back the controls. Barkhorn leaned his head against his seat back, defeated. Franz put the biplane into a hard turn and flew north, toward the airfield. But he did not land. Instead, Franz kept flying until they passed over several small lakes nestled among a patch of forest. In the middle of the trees along a lake lay a series of wooden buildings. Franz banked and flew over the buildings. As he dipped the plane’s wing for a better view, Barkhorn grinned. People ran out of the buildings, waving. They were all naked! Barkhorn knew he was looking down on the nudist camp that instructors sometimes flew students over as a reward. Franz reached into his cockpit and held up a roll of toilet paper he had placed there. Before the flight, Barkhorn had seen a roll of toilet paper on the floor of his cockpit, too, but thought it was there should they land on some practice field and need to answer nature’s call.
    Franz banked the plane around for another pass over the nudists. He threw his roll of toilet paper over the cockpit ledge as he flew across the camp. The nudists were accustomed to this and encouraged their children to run to catch the streaming white paper.
    Barkhorn and Franz laughed. Circling around, Franz lined up for another pass on the colony. Franz made a throwing motion. Taking the cue, Barkhorn tossed his toilet paper over the side and watched the roll spiral to the children as they ran in circles. Turning back for base, Franz wagged the plane’s wings to the nudists. He gave Barkhorn the signal to take over. Barkhorn was so busy laughing he flew smoothly, like a natural pilot.

     
    F RANZ ENJOYED BEING a flight instructor. Every morning when he walked into his classroom, he oversaw four instructors, each of whom