Deciding I was as well concealed as possible for the moment, I lay there thinking of the past and speculating as to my chances for a future. The area was soon swarming with curious civilians and German troops. I could hear their shouts above the exploding ammunition in the burning plane.

It would be dark in a short time. My chances of escaping would be much better then. The Germans realized this too, and were combing the countryside. Next thing I knew, a trooper came crashing through the underbrush and stepped right on me. He was so startled, he shook all over. I was afraid he would shoot me accidentally — if not on purpose.

I soon discovered that my captors were SS troops, the backbone of Hitler’s forces. This could have been the end of the road, except that they needed information. I was led to an automobile parked under a tree nearby. It was then I discovered my left hoe was full of blood. A piece of flak had hit my leg. Somehow, in the excitement, I had not felt it.

The soldiers that captured me were a bit rough. Soon I found myself in a small command post where a doctor removed a piece of metal from my leg and dressed the wound.

Three stern but respectful officers began questioning me. This went on until about eleven o’clock when apparently they grew tired of hearing nothing but my name, rank, and serial number. They locked me in the local jail for the remainder of the night, and I was soon sound asleep. Sometime during the night the flak officer came in and asked what caliber of antiaircraft I thought it was that brought me down. I gave him my name, rank, and serial number and went back to sleep.

The next morning I was transferred to a hospital in Verona. The third day they began bringing their own wounded in by the truckload. Apparently our Thunderbolts had caught a troop train moving in daylight.

An officer who had been questioning me every day came to my bedside and said, “I cannot force you to talk here, but at your net camp you will tell everything.” With that I was led to a waiting train and was pushed into a boxcar. Inside were five wounded British soldiers lying in bunks. A guard climbed aboard, and soon the train began to move. The guard looked us over and decided we weren’t much to worry about. After a while the train stopped, and an Italian boy came alongside with a jug of wine. The German guard gave the boy his wool blanket and took the wine. Thinking that we were in no condition to cause trouble, the guard began drinking.

As I watched the guard becoming careless, I thought of what the officer in the hospital had said. I moved my leg, it was sore and stiff. The knee would not bend and was swollen, for I had hit the tail of the plane when I bailed out.

At first I could hear opportunity knocking — faintly. But as the train rolled on into the night, each click of the wheels bringing me closer to that concentration camp, opportunity knocked louder and louder. I prayed, planned, and prayed again. Then, purposing in my heart that I would rather risk death for freedom than rot in a prison, I made for the door of that train and out into the night.

The train was moving rapidly, and I hit the ground hard — so hard that I lay there limp as a rag. Most of the fight was taken out of me. But I was free — for the moment at least! It was so dark I could scarcely see, so I just started out perpendicular from the tracks, stumbling into the back yards, encountering big dogs, and falling over rock walls. Finally, unable to take another step, I lay down in a cornfield and went to sleep.

Space would not permit me to tell everything that happened in the nearly six months that followed. But God was with me every moment, giving strength, courage and patience.

My legs refused to carry me over the Alps before winter set in, but the Lord led me to some kind people who were friendly to Americans. They gave me shelter and food until March 1 when I again headed for Switzerland. After thirteen days of mountain climbing and dodging the enemy, I passed a green and white post marking the Swiss border.

Walking down a mountain path, I again felt a gun pressed against my ribs, but this time I was on Swiss soil; the steady finger on the trigger belonged to a Swiss border guard. After being identified by the American consulate in Bern, I began to relax. After living in almost constant danger for six months, it took a while for the tension to leave my system. My release was arranged, and on March 18 I was put across the border at Geneva into France, then in Allied hands.

The days that followed were pleasant. The struggle was over. A few days at headquarters for interrogation, then down to Casablanca, North Africa, where on April 13, I stepped aboard a four-engine transport bound for home. In 22 hours I was back in the land of the free! To those who read this story I’d like to leave this thought: God is good. He is powerful. He is able and willing to do anything to help you. He loves you with an everlasting love. But friend, you cannot trifle with that love. “It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.”

[Lawrence died in 2007 at Hamilton, Montana.]