The following is a piece from a writing group where we're given a prompt and then nine minutes to write whatever comes to mind. Just for fun, I'm posting some of them here. This story is fiction, but is a mashup of several stories told by my grandfather, who did indeed learn to play the accordion as a POW in Germany:

Prompt: Everyone Needs a Spare Accordion

“Miller, you're up.”

I started to move, but not fast enough for Remington. He grabbed my arm and shoved me violently through the hole in the barracks wall. The Nazi guards had just come through for their nightly headcount. They counted 15, the correct number. On they went to the barracks next door, where 14 men were engaged in singing raucus sea shanties. The 15th member of that barracks was currently ten feet below ground, digging a tunnel to freedom. That's where I came in. I fell backwards through the tunnel and into the adjacent barrack hall, ready to be counted as their 15th man, Nazis none the wiser.

I scrambled to my feet, and Fitzpatrick shoved an accordion into my hands. "Drunken Sailor in G," he whispered. I slung the strap over my shoulder and squeezed as hard as I could, just as the door opened.

“Attention on deck,” shouted the Nazi lieutenant. “Line up for headcount.”

It had only been a month since I'd arrived in the POW camp, my Boeing B-17 having been shot down on Valentine's Day. The camp band had an accordion, but no one knew how to play it, including me. How hard could it be, I had wondered, sizing up the piano keys on the side. I'd been playing piano by ear since grade school. By the end of my first week, I could no longer remember not knowing how to play the accordion.

“Shave his belly with a rusty razor,” I belted. “Shave his belly with a rusty razor.”

“I said line up,” shouted the guard, but I loved this song too much to stop now.

The next day, Jones tried to help me patch up my black eye, but no one could patch my accordion. No matter. The guards never figured out they'd counted me twice.