The God of the Captive and the Free (standard:drama, 4700 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: Jul 01 2008	Views/Reads: 3267/2541	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
George Cowan was a prisoner of war. Esther waited with her infant son and prayed for his safe return. This is their true story. It is a chapter in "The Road to Reconcilaion" due out in August. You and buy the book by contacting me at this web si

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

she had other things to concern herself with. Just then she felt sick 
to her stomach. 

Esther was sick the next morning. She was indeed pregnant. She went back
to live with her mother. George was in England. She had faith God would 
take care of him. After all they were both in their twenties and 
expecting their first child. They would have many years together, take 
their children to Sunday school and grow old together, wouldn't they? 

George was a second lieutenant, the co-pilot on a ten-person crew that
would be together the whole time they were overseas. 

Every morning the officers met in a planning room for briefing at 6:00
a.m. George was flying as co-pilot in a B-17 bomber. On the morning of 
the fourteenth day of waiting, the order came. “The 306 Bomb Group will 
take off at 0600 hours, destination Cologne, Germany.” The flight was 
to be a ten hour round trip. The sky was gray with a natural cloud 
cover and smoke from anti-aircraft guns. One of the crew was sixteen 
years old. The other men had no idea he was that young. Another secret 
was the turret gunner was fourteen years old, a child. Both mothers 
lied giving in to their sons' begging and signed permission to enlist. 
The rest of the crew was ignorant about it. 

This was the morning they had all been waiting for. The 306 Bomb Group
was ready for takeoff. Each man was in his place; dressed in proper 
uniform, trained for the mission. Their orders were to destroy a 
factory that made gasoline from coal. It was located in Cologne, 
Germany. One thousand planes left the ground, one after another like a 
flock of geese, toward enemy lines, some to victory, some to their 
death, others to prisoner-of-war camps. That morning no one knew which 
column his name would be in by nightfall. Each man faced his own 
destiny, praying, remembering, or concentrating desperately on the 
things he had been trained for. 

Over Germany, 88 mm flak guns hit the 306 Bomb Group. The airplane lost
an engine, then another engine. It was getting more difficult to 
handle, but with much effort the pilot could do it. The plane headed 
for the target and to drop the bomb. Unfortunately the weather was so 
bad they couldn't locate the factory. Then time was getting away. They 
had to make a decision and the pilot gave the order to drop the bombs 
on railroad tracks. That would delay the German army from getting 
through. 

Then unexpectedly, the plane was hit again and the third engine was
lost. It was time for the whole squadron to turn back to base in 
England but the pilot had trouble maneuvering the airplane because of 
the loss of three engines. When the other planes headed back to base, 
he couldn't make the turn and the airplane moved straight ahead into 
unknown airspace. The ten men watched their comrades pull away. Now 
they were like a lone Canadian goose missing from the flock. They were 
alone, the ten men in their cocoon of a home, on their way to—no one 
knew where. It was their first bombing mission and they were headed the 
wrong way: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, bombardier, tail gunner, turret 
gunner, waist gunners and radio operator, all in it together. 1000 
airplanes raided Germany that day. 110 were shot down in enemy 
territory. 

The pilot and George, the co-pilot, knew the terrain and landmarks. The
Rhine River was the boundary between France and Germany. France had 
been liberated and was the place the plane needed to land. Germany, of 
course, was enemy territory and to land there would be almost certain 
death. 

They were flying at 120 miles an hour with one engine. They should have
been flying at 110 miles per hour with some flaps down to hold 
altitude. They were drifting down at 300 feet a minute because the 
flaps were not down. The pilot wouldn't slow down to 110. He yelled, 
“People are shooting at us.” 

“Ten miles an hour hardly makes a difference to a bullet,” George yelled
back. Ahead was the Black Forest, as beautiful as they had always heard 
but they didn't have time to enjoy the scenery. The airplane had to 
land, but where? “Where are you headed?” George turned to the pilot by 
his side. 

“To Switzerland, to safety.” 

“How do propose to get over the Alps with only one engine?” 

“We'll get as close as we can and then walk in.” Maybe it would work.
They would have to land soon. They had to find as safe a place as 
possible and hope for the best. 

Then the pilot saw a river. “What river is that?” 

The navigator replied, “The Rhine.” The pilot thought they were in
France, and all of France was liberated. Trees stretched as far as eyes 
could see. When the pilot found a flat field he decided to land. At 
6000 feet altitude, the proper settings, they could have gone to 
England. But the pilot thought he was in France, finding the field and 
thinking the river below was the Rhine and France on the other side, 
the plane began the descent. 

The ground thumped under the belly of the plane. “France!” the pilot
yelled, “France! See that little village. The villagers will come get 
us and soon we will be warm and safe.” Each man had an “escape kit” 
with a small water bottle in it that was to be placed around the neck 
on a string and hung under the shirt. The tail gunner put his bottle 
around his wrist instead and hid it in his sleeve. They landed nine 
miles from Allied lines and freedom. They were getting ready to 
disembark. “Lieutenant, do you have a knife?” the tail gunner asked 
George. 

“What do you want with a knife?” 

“I am going to kill some Germans.” George put his knife back into his
pocket. The Germans would have guns. 

The villagers did see the plane come down and did come to get them. The
only problem was that they were not Frenchmen; they were Germans and 
when they were close enough to see them.  The ten men ran, spreading in 
all directions. They could be facing death by pitchforks, knives or 
whatever the villagers had in their hands. The Americans were the ones 
that were bombing their cities and their farms. Civilians hated the men 
in the airplane. 

The men ran! But they were rounded up within minutes. 

“Hands up!” the German command. The tail gunner raised his hands.
Someone in the crowd saw the water bottle in his sleeve and took it for 
a hand grenade. A shot rang out and he fell to the ground. He had been 
struck in the shoulder. It wasn't a soldier who fired the shot, but a 
civilian, a twelve-year-old boy. The tail gunner was the only one 
injured and the next day the ten boarded a train bound for a 
prisoner-of-war camp. 

They were kept together on the train and spoke in hushed whispers. On
either end of the car, armed Germans stood guard. This was the scene 
they would see from now until the end, German soldiers standing guard 
ready to shoot any moment. 

Esther was due to have her baby in three months. The morning sickness
was over. Her family and her church people supported her in prayer and 
comfort in the best ways they could. Her Sunday school class stood 
beside her. One day a local uniformed policeman stood at Mrs. Cowan's 
door with an official looking letter in his hand. Esther was there. 
Before her fingers touched the envelope she knew it was about George, 
and it was bad news. Missing in action! Only God knew where George was 
and He was not going to forsake him. 

When they were captured the ten men had taken strange comfort from the
German soldier with the rifle. The civilians could do anything; 
torture, death—anything. The villagers had no interest in gathering 
prisoners; but the soldier's duty was to get the Air Corps crew to the 
train and on to the prison camp. The rifle handling guards on either 
end of the train car stood vigilant. At dusk the steam engine chugged 
into the yard of the camp. 

The men were ushered past barbwire fences, past towers where heavily
armed guards watched day and night, and taken into a large building, 
that appeared to be hurriedly altered to serve as a prison. Wood-walled 
rooms were small with a barred window in the door. Make no mistake 
about it—this was a prison. The ten stood at attention. 

A German officer addressed the prisoners. The enlisted crewmen were
separated from the officers and not seen again. 

George was put into a room alone where he was left for the next
twenty-four hours. This gave him time to think of his wife and child, 
his family and his Maker. George had been a born-again Christian since 
he was a boy and it was prayer got him through the awful days that 
followed. 

On the third day he was taken into what appeared to be an office. A
German sergeant, who spoke perfect English, stood behind a desk. George 
had no idea what he would ask him, but he knew according to the Geneva 
Convention all he had to tell was his name, rank, and serial number. 
The guards had taken his wallet. His personal information was in it, 
including his Georgia driver's license. Maybe they would go to his home 
and harm his family! 

The German sergeant was easy to talk to. If it hadn't been for the
uniform he wore George wouldn't have known he was German. Besides the 
desk there were two chairs in the room. There were no pictures on the 
desk. There was no flag on the wall, nothing to make the room personal. 
The sergeant read the information they had gathered about George from 
the things they had taken when they brought him to the camp. All they 
needed was to verify who he was. George confirmed the information. 

The crew was detained for three or four days. The food was sparse and
barely palatable. The men could only wonder as to what was going to 
happen. Many prayers were raised to heaven that day. 

Next they were taken into a train yard where they were asked to sign a
paper saying they would not try to escape. If they signed they could 
keep their boots and belts. It would be hard to be in a prisoner-of-war 
camp without boots, or at least not the good quality marching army 
issue they wore now. George was standing next to an officer who was 
from West Point. He whispered. “Don't sign anything. You're supposed to 
try to escape.” No one signed the documents. Their shoes and belts were 
taken and George was given a military belt and old shoes that were in 
poor condition. 

The men were again loaded into train cars and in one day's journey
arrived at the prison camp, Stalag Luf Three, where 2000 prisoners were 
barracked. The men soon learned there were other camps nearby, probably 
housing as many as 4000 Allied soldiers. At this camp the prisoners 
were allowed into the yard, where the officers spent the days playing 
ball, talking and walking. An American officer briefed a hundred 
officers. “The most important thing to remember is that if you hear a 
siren, run indoors and shut all windows and blinds. Don't open the door 
until the all clear sounds. One man looked outside to see what was 
going on during a raid, and he took a bullet right between the eyes.” 
The example was taken seriously and this was one rule the men took to 
heart. 

They were counted twice a day, morning and late afternoon. Men would
take themselves off to a quiet place and pray as they had been taught 
as children. Few claimed to be atheists then. 

They still wore their uniforms, the clothes they had on when they were
captured. They were able to wash under a spigot. Then one day, the 
unheard of happened. “All stand by that wall and get ready for your 
showers.” At first each man was overjoyed at the idea of getting a real 
shower; the thought of hot water, soap, being able to really wash the 
lice off and feel the water run over his whole body sounded great. At 
first—and then George had a second thought. The worry almost paralyzed 
him. He had heard of the Nazi way of taking showers. None of them might 
come out of the building alive. But they were not asked if they wanted 
to go in or not. They were given the order. 

Each of the men left a dirty uniform on a hook in the dressing room and
fearfully entered the showers. The doors were closed behind them. The 
room was indeed equipped with showerheads. The men stood naked under 
them, some of them shivering, some praying, some looking up at the 
holes in the metal showerheads. A German soldier walked to the wall, 
reached for a special spigot and turned it. Then in a few seconds—the 
soldier stepped out of the room. The men waited, collectively holding 
their breaths, and from the overhead showerheads came—blessed hot 
water! That was the only time they had showers, but George would never 
forget the wonderful hot water, in spite of the guards with the rifles. 


The guards were always there. The prison yard was enclosed with two big
fences. One strand of barbed wire was twenty feet inside the inner 
fence. The area between the fences and the barbed wire was called “No 
man's land”. No man could go there. If he did he would be immediately 
shot, no questions asked. 

American sergeants passed out the daily rations, that were comprised
mainly of one or two slices of pumpernickel bread, made without 
shortening, but somehow baked on sawdust. The prisoner had to guard 
against splinters in his mouth. Sometimes there was even sawdust in the 
bread. 

Did they ever laugh? Yes, the human spirit cannot go on in anxiety
forever without let up. Yes, they laughed. “Why does a chicken cross 
the road? Knock, knock. Who's there? Sam and Janet. Sam and Janet who? 
Sam and Janet Evening.” They laughed about the silly things, the 
juvenile things that children laugh about. They told the jokes they had 
told before there ever was a war. They talked about home—family, 
mothers, wives, girlfriends, fried chicken and chocolate cake—home. 
And—babies they had not yet seen. Yes, they laughed and they talked and 
they remembered—for seven months behind barbed wire. 

They clung to the belief that they would soon be going home, that the
end of the war was near. They smoked cigarettes or swapped them for 
food, or socks, or a bit of candy. One day ran into another, and one 
week into another until seven months passed. 

On one occasion the prisoners were fed burgers, meat known to the French
as “cheval”. George discovered this was his first and last taste of 
horsemeat. 

The Red Cross sent packages every two weeks. They contained a can of
powdered milk, butter, two or three small cans of jelly, cigarettes, 
soup, toothpaste and brush, two big hard tack crackers, corned beef, 
Spam, two bars of candy and can of George Washington instant coffee. 
The men looked forward to these packages with much anticipation. They 
gave them hope as well as food. These packages could well save the 
men's lives. George wrote to Esther. She sent packages but he never got 
them. 

The prisoners were moved from one prison camp to another. They were
marched in foot deep snow with no place to sit. They were allowed to 
stop every hour for five minutes, but they only stood in place, as it 
was hard to start walking again. 

They marched for three days to a railway station where they boarded a
train for Nuremberg. The first day at the camp rolled into night while 
the men tried to sleep. The next morning they were fed a type of gruel, 
a watery soup with two or three thin slices of potatoes. It was not 
very tasty but it was better than starving so they ate all of it and it 
kept them alive. The war was coming to a close and the German civilians 
weren't eating much better. The best food was committed for the German 
soldiers. War prisoners were the last to get good food and they could 
hardly stomach what was given them. But the meager food kept them from 
starving. 

A month later they were taken to Mooseburg where they were barracked for
two weeks. They were being moved further and further from the front 
lines and Mooseburg was the end of the line. George was losing weight. 
The rations were less and less and harder to keep down. gh 

Thirty days after getting the telegram that George was missing in action
the next telegram came. He was a prisoner of war. His family knew he 
was alive, at least had been when it was written. Esther prayed next to 
her bed, when she stood at the sink washing dishes, and when she looked 
into the eyes of her son, George Cowan Junior. He was three months old 
now and his father had never seen his face. The baby heard all about 
his him, “Your Daddy is the bravest man, little one. He is the kindest 
husband. He taught me to drive. He says I am not a good driver, but I 
am. Your daddy loves you very, very much.” She prayed without ceasing 
and she never gave up hope. 

The crewmen were prisoners for seven months. Then one wonderful day in
April 1945 the end came to the sound of marching feet. The prisoners' 
day had begun just like every other day. The prisoners were inside when 
they heard the sound. They looked out to see American soldiers running 
past. German guards hurried down from the towers with their hands up. 
American GI's barked orders. The Germans quickly complied. Rifles, 
helmets and side arms were tossed on the ground. The gates were opened. 
Freedom had come! The prisoners were still wearing the uniforms that 
they were captured in. The sight of the soldiers sent them running to 
the gates. New York accents, along with Alabama drawls never sounded so 
good! Some prisoners were stunned into statues, not able to move. Some 
silently prayed, some shouted, many had tears running down their faces. 
Freedom! Thank God this was the long awaited day of freedom! The tanks 
were coming to rescue them! Red Cross trucks came to pick up the 
Germans. This was the day the airmen would never forget. They were 
being liberated! 

The prisoners lined up to hear what to expect next. “You are being
liberated. But I am sorry to tell you that you are not to leave the 
grounds. You are free, yes, but don't leave the grounds. A lot has to 
happen. Just be patient. You'll see the states soon.” 

Many of the prisoners did leave the grounds, walking into the city. They
hunted down pigs and cows, slaughtered them quickly and brought the 
meat back to camp. The liberating army had no food for the prisoners 
and whatever the men found in town kept them alive. George went to 
town, looked around and came back to camp. The Red Cross packages had 
stopped coming weeks ago and many men were losing weight. George lost 
40 pounds. 

That first afternoon amid much commotion, a jeep bearing the insignia of
a general came through the gates. The man stood up in the jeep and the 
entire camp crowded around. George S. Patton had personally come to 
Mooseburg Prison Camp. It was a day George Cowan would remember 
forever. “I'm almost home!” 

A week later the men were taken out of the camp, past the vacant guard
towers, past the barbed wire no-man's land, out the prisoner-of-war 
camp. They had survived. They were going home. Then the Americans took 
over. They hadn't eaten for two or three days. The Americans raided the 
Germans food supply and brought back what they had to the prisoners. 
During that week they were each given one-tablespoon of rice—the daily 
ration along with twelve ounces of dehydrated potato soup. Within a 
week trucks came with food parcels. The prisoners were told to make the 
rations last all day, but few did. Many got sick from eating too fast. 

On April 29, 1945 they were taken from the prison camp.  There they
caught an airplane for Reims, France. The pilot allowed the 
ex-prisoners to fly the airplane but not land it. At Reims for the 
first time in months, each man took a real shower, was deloused and 
given fresh clothes, including Khakis. 

In Georgia, USA, Esther and her in-laws received another wonderful
official letter. George and all of the prisoners in the camp had been 
liberated. That was the happiest day of the Cowan family's life. Son, 
husband, father, was coming home, home to see his firstborn child. 

The members of the crew were debriefed in Reims. George said he had to
make an important telephone call. Between laughter and tears Esther and 
Mrs. Cowan listened to his voice. The war was over. Praise God! Esther 
heard his voice but until she saw his face she would not allow herself 
to really believe it. 

A friend, Alex, took Esther and her son to Fort McPherson in Atlanta.
Waiting for the men to leave the train Esther strained to see George. 
Each one that disembarked looked worn and thin, but none of them were 
George. There was a six-foot fence that separated the men from the 
families. Esther studied each face then, there he was—dark beautiful 
George Cowan, older, much thinner, khakis loose on his frame, but 
unmistakably it was her husband! Esther strained toward the fence, 
holding the baby. Alex was tall and took him from her arms. Esther 
touched George's fingers through the fence. Alex handed the child up 
over the fence. And George Cowan, lieutenant in the Army Air corps held 
his son for the first time. It was worth everything. George got through 
it all by praying and thinking of his red haired wife and three month 
old son. George always expected to come home, although there were 
several occasions when he wasn't sure. Esther never lost faith. It was 
a day to praise God! 

George Cowan was home. There were things that happened in the camp that
he could never talk about. For the rest of his life, from time to time, 
he had nightmares 

George and Esther's son, George Jr., has a PHD in computer science and
works in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Their daughter, Mary, lives near them in 
Georgia, where they get to see the grandchildren often. 

In their later years George and Esther loved to take their camping
trailer and spend a month visiting the experimental aircraft 
conventions in Oshkosh, Wisconsin or Florida. 

George said, “God has been good to us all these years. We are not bitter
about the things that happened. God was in it.” After all is that not 
what it is all about, God's fingerprints in our lives? Oh, yes, Thomas 
came home safely, too. Isn't God good? 

George Cowan died on June 18, 2005, at a ripe old age. He attended
church and Sunday School with Esther, the beautiful red head, sipped 
coffee in his warm, sunny, kitchen; he drove to Florida and Wisconsin 
in a travel trailer, and like Israel of old, saw his grandchildren 
raised. 

“Israel said to Joseph, ‘I never expected to see your face, and behold,
God has let me see your children as well.'” Genesis 48:11-NASB 


Tweet