You hadn't slept all night. A British military plane had been fighting a German plane all night, the explosions were rattling and shaking your windows and doors. It all ended with the Germans shooting down the plane, and the pilot most likely dying.

The next morning you drank several cups of coffee, fighting off the drowsiness. Nervous and worried about the events of the night, you went to work.

"Did you hear what happened last night...?"

"Those damn Fritz’..."

"And what about the pilot? I saw that he managed to use his parachute..."

The conversations in the bar were getting more and more annoying. You didn't want to think about the Germans, about the occupation, about that damn British pilot who would be killed immediately by the Nazis when they’ll find out his whereabouts.

You found relief in the forest: quiet, fresh, no people, no Germans. In this wondrous place, you found a ruined house, in the middle of which a large tree had grown, on whose strong trunk there was a ladder leading to an observation area. This was your place of peace, your quiet haven, where you came to rest.

The sound of a gun aimed at you made you flinch before freezing. A wounded man lay leaning against the tree trunk. In one hand was a pistol, the other hand clutching his wounded side. The man's parachute was in the tree.

"I... I won’t hurt you," you mumbled in broken English, causing the man to exhale and lower the gun.