Luftwaffe Pilot Müller bumbled like Walt Disney’s Dopey. Whenever his Messerschmitt squadron buzzed over the Fifth Army front in Italy, he fluttered on the formation’s edge, a lame duck awkwardly trying to join in.
Allied airmen called Müller their best assistant, the Germans’ worst flyer. “Tally ho!” they yelled when they spotted him. “Here comes Müller’s bunch!” As they went after the Messerschmitts, they could hear the Nazi commander bellowing angry curses over the inter-plane radio: “Müller, verdammter Esel! [damn ass!]. . . . Müller Menschenskind! [man alive!]. . . . Müller, Sie Trottel! [you dope]. . . .”
Nobody wished Müller harm. Word had been passed that he was to be left to bumble. But last week there was a slip: Müller was shot down. As a British sergeant-pilot put it, “now some mug has pranged him.”
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