A little boy of about eleven years old was strolling to and fro along a rectangular patch of bright orange pumpkins, as carefree as he was.  The boy lived during a time of fierce fighting, as in 1940’s England, it was under heavy bombardment from the massive German air force, the Luftwaffe.  Life for the boy of eleven years was a dreary existence, with no telephone, a seldom functioning radio, but large and vast amounts of grassland and farmland to play.  Why, this boy’s family even had a horse, a light-brown palomino with a flowing black mane and long, stocky legs, truly a sight to see on such a dreary prairie. 
As the boy of eleven years frolicked through the pumpkin patch, an explosion rang out from the partly cloudy blue sky. 
Strange.  There were no sirens of an air raid, the boy thought.  Even if there was, they wouldn’t strike so close to here.  There isn’t a city for ages.
Hell, London was about 100 miles, by carriage or automobile.
The boy looked up and his little heart nearly skipped a beat.  It was a German plane alright!  Though not a fighter plane, but a reconnaissance craft.  The plane started hurtling towards the green, grassy earth with the appearance of a giant fireball.  With a sharp metallic crunch, the fireball found land, though not safely anyway.  The boy began to sprint toward the wreckage, which at this time, was now covered by a cavalcade of billowing smoke and cinders. 
Absolutely no one could have survived that, thought the boy of eleven years.  That’s bloody near impossible.
Ah, but much to the boy’s surprise, it was possible, as a figure crawled out from the the c***pit of the smoldering craft to the boy’s feet.  The German was a young man seemingly in his mid-twenties, with clean shaven head and a small scar on his right cheek, possibly due to the crash.  He was a handsome man indeed, and the boy thought this too.
But suddenly, like a zombie, the German lifted his head first.  Then an arm.  He then feebly pointed to a canteen strapped to a belt wrapped tight around the boy’s waist and in a broken voice, he managed,
“Va-ter...vater please…”
Quick as a flash, the boy unstrapped the canteen and handed it to the injured and parched German.  Boy, was he parched.  He drank the entire canteen like it was a fresh bottle of crisp schnapps.  Once he downed the water, the German slowly stood up and brushed the dirt and dust from his pilot uniform. 
“Sank you, child”, said the German.
“You’re very welcome, sir”, said the boy.
“Now, child, I must venture to mine fort near ze bay.”
“If you’d be willing, sir, you can use my family horse. My father can’t ride him anymore, and I don’t know how to ride.”
“Child, no. I could never do zat. Zat is your family’s beast of burden. I couldn’t. Besides, you vill learn in time.”
“Okay, sir”, said the boy flatly.
As the German picked up his gear from the plane and turned to walk to his fort by the bay, he looked over his shoulder at the boy of eleven years and said,
“I can tell you’re a very kind child viss a big heart, unt zat is gut. Sank you for ze vater.”
And with that being said, he was off.
“Lord, that was a genuinely nice fellow”, said a man of about 80 years old to himself. “Nice fellow indeed.”