They found him with his parachute dragging and they cut him loose and took him across the fields to the village. The women had no weapons but he did not try to run. Inside his flying suit was soaked and filling with blood. They brought him to a house and made him sit at the kitchen table. A boy ran for the Constable and the Air Raid Warden. The women watched him.
``Tea?'' one said.
``Yes. Yes please,'' he answered.
``He must be a spy. He speaks English,'' said an old woman.
``He wouldn't if he was,'' said a child. They all nodded though some were not quite sure what was meant.
He drank a cup of saccharine sweetened tea and then another before the army came for him.
The people of the village heard no more for days. Then someone saw in the newspaper that a young German shot down over the village had died rather than be transfused with English blood.
The strange thing is that generations later the people of that place still speak of him.