It was 5.00 a.m. and the soldiers of two platoon were beginning to change sentries and look-outs. Dvr. Hilshein was about to relieve the guard at sector 13, a trench looking out to no mans land,, He moved into position and sank into the normal smell of rotting flesh, his keen eyes straining through "regular issue" binoculars, even though he knew he would become tired of staring into the quiet, desolate, war-whipped landscapes Occasionally the silence was broken by the familiar crack of a rifle being fired just to remind someone- that there was still a war on.

He had been in his position for roughly six hours now and everything was still alright, With the sun still shining on his muddy, unshaven, war-moulded face he had another glance through the binoculars. He was exhausted and hot for sitting in the warm, morning sun. He felt it on his back, soothing, warming, easing.....No! if he went to sleep now he wouldn't be able to warn his sector of any English advances suddenly he became aware of a quiet but rough, throbbing in the distance. Stiff fingers tightened around his rifle. He listened intently wondering whether he should warn his comrades. But as quickly as it came the sound ceased. He relaxed a little, yielding just a bit to the gently insistent sun. His bones were aching and beads of sweat appeared on his face. Suddenly he was wrenched to full awareness. He shook his head in despairing disbelief and the great muscles in his neck hurt abominably. He sprang up. The sweat on his hands and back went cold. For advancing towards him at a slow pace were three 'crafts'. That was the only way he could describe them because he had never seen such things before. He watched them advance and fought to quieten his sobbing breath There was no way of telling what senses they might bring into action. He crouched down into 'his trench, every nerve a charged wire. He watched the crafts with painful anxiety. They were still screeching on at their consistent, slow speed crossing the trenches with ease. He loaded his rifle and a grim, little smile touched his lips as he squeezed the trigger for he knew his rifle could force a bullet to travel at 2700 feet per second. Probably it would keyhole its target and blow the foul thing into a mush.
Wham! the familiar kick against his shoulder. Eeee! the whining sound of a ricochet Frantically he worked the bolt. He blasted two more rounds in their general direction, then sprinted through the maze of trenches to Sector Headquarters. He reported everything to the Oberhauptman. It must have meant something to the Major because his face which was a rose colour, went purple and a quiver came to his bottom lip. He rushed to the field telephone and shrieked down it. After he had received an answer he ordered every man to the frontial position. He then told Hilschein to take two crates of dynamite, a radio and various other items to his look-out post. When he returned he noticed the three crafts had stopped. He tested his radio and then watched the machines.

Evening came and everywhere was still once again. He had been told that the three crafts were in fact British machines designed to carry, according to German intelligence, four men.

That evening he radioed to tell of any movements. At 11.30 pm two of the crafts pulled out leaving one, watching and waiting Hilsheins body lusted for sleep. He fell into a troubled sleep two hours later and awoke abruptly expecting to find himself staring down a muzzle. He looked towards the machine. All day long the beads of sweat trickled down him, blurring his vision and making his clothes sopping wet. He began thinking of ways to destroy the craft. Then it hit him; if he could work his way to the craft. Then pack the explosives in its path he could set them off as it passed over them.