This is a short essay of 2997 words.

My uncle, Johnny Donovan of Dugiac Michigan, fought in Europe during WW2 He was captured and sent to a concentration camp. He told very few people about this, but as one of a few nephews, I asked him during a visit. “Tell me about your nose.”

His nose had a flat tip, at a slight angle. It was stark white surrounded by a narrow band of red scar tissue – a clown’s nose. He never had it fixed, even though that would not have been difficult to repair. It did not matter much because he had a wide wonderful smile that took over once it was flashed.

He briefly related this story to me in a few sentences. I did some research and added some fictional aspects, such as the names of people and places, plus some details to make it a complete story. Making it longer, perhaps into a book-length manuscript, would require that I know more about Johnny. Unfortunately, he has passed, his wife was much older than he was, and the relatives who knew him well are now departed.

This is the story of a quiet man, who had a hero’s moment.

Breakout from Stalag 5C

August 28th, 1944 – des Ballons des Vosges, Fr.

It was everywhere: stuck on boots, under fingernails, in one’s ears, at home within the beard, and incorporated within spittle. In the past week, troops had trampled every square foot across the occupied field, and the rain turned every footstep into mud. Each footfall splashed, making sure every tiny spot was soiled repeatedly. Even the fog was dirty and hung across the encampment like smoke.

When the rifle was cleaned, it wasn’t. Your life depended on the efficiency of that rifle, yet you could not be sure the fool thing would work when needed.

You got food on a tray, but when you sat down, there were visible brown spots that weren’t there when the food was served. Prayerfully, your stomach could tell the difference.

It got hectic that morning. Johnny Donavan and his cohort, Sam, were charged to sweep the right flank toward the Nazis’ position. They were in eastern France, in a semi-mountainous region. The area was devoid of homes, midst dense forest and undulating ground, with the two armies playing hide and seek. This day, the Allies would drive east toward the last sighting of a sentry encampment.

Earlier, there had been fog. This was another cloud-covered day, the sixth in a row. Darker clouds hung above, yet a soft breeze through the trees whipped through the wet clothing to chill the already cold skin.

This thrust would be without tanks, as trees were too numerous and the ground too irregular. 

Johnny and Sam were the most agile in the detachment; they were assigned the circuitous route 200 yards beyond, turning east, parallel to the regular troops.

They carried light, just weapons and a canteen. Sam had a chocolate bar tucked inside his jacket. The two men walked alongside the others into the forest, then jogged some 200 yards south, taking the far position, then moving forward with the others to sweep the woods.

This attack was a quick thrust to capture the sentries and take their position, forcing the main group to move back toward Germany. Perhaps with the rain, they would not be expected this early. The targeted area was a mile east.

Sam and Johnny were visible to the others as the group moved forward. Sight contact would maintain silence as the group of twenty moved through the forest.

Sam led until they approached a dense group of trees. Johnny swept around, coming at the growth from a different vantage point, where he led into the trees. They came together and continued forward. Beyond the grove was a modest gully, like a depression or natural dip where the glacier dug in while pushing south. Johnny and Sam took the higher ground on the far side. They temporarily lost sight of the other troops yet moved ahead, knowing the direction of the targeted position.

Thinking that the others would simply cross this depression, Johnny and Sam moved onward.

There had been no sounds of men traveling through the woods. No gunfire. They were not lost but detached and alone with the ever-present cold. They stopped to assess the situation and decided to work northeast to reconnect with the main force. 

Before starting, Sam remarked, “If the troops pulled back and broke off the plan, we surely would have heard the call.”

“Right!” Responded Johnny. “Let’s continue to move toward the targeted area. We should meet up at some point.”

The lead alternated when they came upon a large tree or dense area of bushes. The pair kept an eye on their compass, moving as silently as practical.

CRACK! 

Sam went down sharply as Johnny dove for the cover of a large bush.

Johnny called, “You okay?”

Sam was silent.

Johnny rolled to Sam’s side. Sam was dead.

Movement was evident, enemies were all around, 

“Halt!  Lassen Sie lhr Gewehr! Drop your gun!”

Johnny froze.

There were no options as he was in the open and outnumbered.

“Hande hoch! Hande hoch!” And from another direction, “Hands up! Do not move!”

Johnny sat up with his hands in the air. Swiftly he was surrounded and taken into custody by seven Nazi troops.

They turned Johnny around and searched him. Two gathered the rifles. One remained with the corpse and took everything useful or of value. Sam was left bootless, coatless, and face down in the mud.

The Nazis quickly shared Sam’s chocolate bar and led Johnny away, pushing him, with Sam’s belt strapping Johnny’s arms behind. 

November 1944 in Stalag 5C, Wildbap, Gr

Johnny emerged from the tunnel, coughing, spitting dirt, and wiping his eyes. He had spent 50 minutes clearing dirt from the tunnel.

“You did well!” said another prisoner. “You work longer in that airless shaft than anybody! Smithson wants to see you when you are ready.”

The group shifted in the small space. Someone replaced Johnny in the shaft. Others put dirt in their pockets to walk around the permitted area, slowly dropping it – unseen.

Johnny washed his eyes, face, and hands in a water bowl and brushed his shabby uniform with the wet towel. Everyone was dirty. He only needed some cloth showing through the dirt to mask the fact they were digging an escape tunnel.

Smithson gestured, “Come see!” 

The camp generally followed the Geneva Conventions. There were no civilians here. The prison guards paid attention to rank but with scant formality. There were no officers in this camp. Smithson took charge as the prisoners needed a leader.

Smithson and Johnny turned toward the door and looked out across the center court of the prison. The clearing was white, snow-covered, but packed solid from the light rain. Guard towers were every two hundred yards, and beyond were double barbed wire fences set twenty yards apart, some hundred yards from the forest’s surround.  

Smithson pointed, “See the depression? Earlier, the snow was flat across the tunnel. The rain has compressed the snow, and the depression has become evident this afternoon. We must change the plan. The guards will soon see what is before us with all this rain. We must send a group out tonight!”

The prior plan for everyone to escape was no longer possible. The breakout would have to be a small number of troops to find the allied line and hopefully bring back troops.

Smithson continued, “Johnny, you are the fifth. You are in better shape than the rest of us. Your sense of direction will be fresher. Jake and William will lead. Bernie and Ian are the other prisoners who are most able. Sending more than that will likely not succeed, so we must be content just to get out a few. You are quick, so it makes sense that you go last. Is that right with you?”

Johnny replied, “We have no choice. I could sense moisture in the shaft. It must be soon.”

“Just after dusk, you’ll go.”

“I have no idea just where we are. When I was brought to this camp, in the back of a truck, I could not keep track of either the direction or the distance.”

“We are in the Southwest corner of Germany, north of Switzerland. You may have noticed that planes rarely fly in the sky. The 8th flies out of England, and they enter Germany well north of us.      The 15th flies out of Southern France, but they do not pass over Switzerland. Instead, they take a southern route across the top of the boot of Italy and then come north. This area is a void for airplanes. We are some fifty miles north of Switzerland and about the same distance east of the French border.

Johnny offered. “I was captured in des Ballons des Vosges, a large mountainous park area in France.”

“I know of that, and it is about a hundred miles west of here and a little more to the north. Go now and get ready.”

Johnny redressed, wearing both of his shirts. He tucked his trousers into his large boots, helping them fit better. The pockets were empty. Waiting, he fumbled with his only personal possession, his dog tags.

This day ended gradually, with no sun evident; darkness came slowly, and the wait was exasperating.

Once darkness arrived, the five crept one by one into the shaft. The tunnel had reached beyond the first row of barbed wire but was short of the second lower wall of barbed wire. Jake was first dragging Johnny’s coat, which was old, worn, and had been shared by countless prisoners over the years. William was second. He and Jake arrived in the summer, caught roughly in the same time frame. Bernie was slighter, and like Johnny, he had stamina. Ian was older but lanky and capable, with Johnny in the rear. The other 763 inmates would pray and face the expected harsh discipline for digging the tunnel.

Jake pressed upward on the moist ceiling at the end of the tunnel. The turf gave way slowly; once he could crouch and push harder, it popped. Jake was out, jumped up, reached back for the coat, and pulled William up through the dirt with his free hand.

Commotion arose all around the camp.

The barracks were filled with prayerful eyes, hoping they would get away. The towers were shaking with movement.

Jake tossed the coat over the barbed wire fence while William helped the next one out. As Jake ran towards the woods, William climbed the fence. And Bernie helped Ian out of the tunnel. At this point, the commotion became organized. Shots rang out from the towers.

Panicking, Ian ran to the fence, leaving Johnny to climb out alone. The coat was half off when Johnny went up. Machine guns sprayed the ground. Johnny fell over to the ground, ripping his nose on the wire. He grabbed the coat and ran for his life toward the woods, and even with a zig and a zag, he passed Ian as they both dove into the woods with bullets spraying through the pine trees.

The five merged and ran. Jack picked the way, trying to keep a straight course.

Johnny had blood flooding his nose. He gagged and spat blood. Each breath was forced between spitting and coughing; he could not focus and ran into branches. Ian shouted, “Avoid the branches. They leave a trail!”

On and on they ran, weaving through the trees. The branches whipped back to hit others. It was not easy. In panic, they made their way.

Johnny was struggling. The four waited in a clearing; seconds seemed like minutes. Johnny appeared and declared, “I can’t keep up! I’m bleeding inside and out! You go! I’ll go another way – the dogs will follow my trail of blood. Go! Go!”

William said, “Good luck, Johnny!” Jake added, “May Christ be with you! Do you need anything?”

“No!” 

Bernie tore a ragged piece off the bottom of Johnny’s coat and wrapped the cloth around Johnny’s head, carefully securing it on his nose. “This will have to do; we all must get moving.”

With that, the four turned crossed the clearing, and ran further into the woods.

Johnny hacked, spitting more blood. Johnny was unsure he could run, so he walked across the clearing in the same direction as the others. With the bandage, his breathing was more manageable. He headed off in a different direction into a pine grove without snow under his footsteps. 

The soft wind bit. Every inch of uncovered flesh was painful from the cold.

Splotches of snow piled where the wind dumped snow off the high pine branches. Johnny moved around them. He no longer ran. His course was purposeful and roughly perpendicular to the direction taken by the other four men. It seemed best to keep quiet. He tried not to break branches or leave a trail.

A hundred yards further, he moved out of the grove into a leafless forest. Again, he moved tenaciously, avoiding the more plentiful snow where possible and crossing the snow patches in a different direction than his targeted line.

He knew he needed to head west eventually, but he was unsure which way that might be.

The forest was quite dark, with clouds above and no moon or stars above the tree canopy. He decided he could make better time during the daytime and began searching for a hiding spot.

Johnny heard shots fired in the distance and stopped. It had been a quick burst. He could not count the number. “OH!”  

That is not good news. Johnny figured the guards must have caught up with the others. It was certainly not a firefight. The prisoners did not have weapons. If they were shot on the run, the shots would not have happened at the exact moment. That sounded like a firing squad. “Shit! I’ve got to get some distance away.”

He did not know if the camp guards knew how many soldiers had escaped. To be sure, there would be a counting at the prison. That might give him some time.

The effort to get this far had been strenuous. Johnny was tired, hungry, and very thirsty. Yet, Johnny moved ahead with a newfound energy that propelled him for a long time. The land was flat, and he wove around the trees and bushes, sidestepping snow-covered areas. He ate some snow, figuring that would quench his thirst.

Johnny reached an area where the ground was uneven and turned down into a shallow gully, finding a small creek that was frozen over and stomped to break the ice. There was very little water under the ice, but he moved a rock, creating a space that slowly filled. Johnny palmed as much as he could get. Having nothing to use to carry water, he moved on, taking a couple of bits of ice.

The gully was thick with bushes and barbs. Progress was slow, and Johnny crawled under the tangle and up a slope.

The head of the gully was at a farmer’s field, with two visible haystacks and more stacks further down the hill, sloping down to the right. Johnny could not see a barn or house. He figured the buildings would be on the bottom land, perhaps just around the tree line.  

It was dark. Johnny decided to cross the field.  

He saw a space as he approached the larger of the two haystacks. The hay had been hand-rolled into a stack. Inside would be a spot out of the wind, so he crawled into the void in the stack and squirmed into a sitting position, facing the hole.

Dog-tired, Johnny moved pieces of the hay into the opening to close it and block the wind.

The haystack was warm. Johnny figured this was due to the decomposition of the hay, like a compost heap. The heat felt good. He concentrated on breathing efficiently and soon began to nod off.

There was movement near where his trousers had been tucked into his boots. It was a mouse, which he grabbed. He held it firmly but did not squeeze. Moments later, another movement, which he also caught.

He sat wondering what he should do with the mice. Eating them seemed repugnant. So, he sat.   

How does one eat this? He thought he should skin them, break them in pieces, push out the crud, and press them to break the bones. Was it worth the effort?  

He was famished but hesitated. And he sat gently holding the two mice.

Johnny remembered reading about the early Romans, who dipped mice in honey and rolled them in seeds. Mice were edible. He thought more about this tidbit of Roman history but did not recall if the mice were cooked. The thought made him queasy.

Crunch. Crunch. Someone was approaching. They were too close to dash into the woods.

“Guter Hund, Boras, bleib auf der Spur. Stay on the trail!”

Johnny froze, not breathing at all.

The walker came up the slope and around the haystack. Johnny flicked the mice out of the hole as walker approached the opening.

The dog barked and charged.

“Boras! Schauen wir uns den anderen Heuhaufen an. Let’s look at the other stack.“

The mice rushed back into the haystack and disappeared. 

Johnny kept his body still and silent, breathing cautiously.

The dog and soldier moved away.

Johnny could feel doubt and fear creep across his forehead, dragging an immense weight of doom that settled upon his shoulders, collapsing into hopelessness. He had sacrificed so that the others would find freedom. Yet Bernie’s last gesture of kindness to provide a bandage for Johnny’s nose had shifted the dynamic. The four had been tracked, seen, and shot. The count would show one missing, and a search would be launched. Without food or knowledge of the terrain, he would wander and be hunted, discovered, and shot.

Hunger and the thought of missing the meal of mice roiled around his brain until he fell fast asleep.

Somewhere, a rooster crowed.

Startled, Johnny woke knowing exactly where he was and why. The only noise was the wind trying to invade his warm spot. The goal to reach the Allied Lines was ever-present in his mind, yet he felt it was an impossible task. He was hungry, thirsty, and lost. With one soldier this morning, there would be others.

He tightened the bandage on his nose and clumsily rolled out of the stack, heading for the far trees. Packed snow left no footprints. Johnny stopped at the softer edge, taking a long stride, leaving no sign of passage. As his eyes adjusted to the shade, he noticed numerous mushrooms. Johnny hesitated. These looked like button mushrooms from home, so he ate one. And another. There were no issues, so he ate his fill and carried two pocketfuls, moving off into the forest.

Spotting moss on these trees, he realized where West was and set out to find the allied lines and hopefully rescue the prisoners.