He didn’t kill him, William realised as he watched. The pilot could have killed that man, yet he let him live. And the German observer knew it. I’ve seen something generous and noble, William thought. Or something pointless and foolish.
That afternoon, it began to rain. Gently at first, then a steady downpour. Men huddled under waterproof capes that turned out not to be waterproof. Rain dripped from the back of William’s helmet down his neck, dribbled down his sleeves, seeped inside his boots. The bottom of the trench became porridge-like mud, then ankle-high water. Rain drove into the alcoves where men tried to shelter or sleep. It poured down the walls in streams. By evening, work parties with buckets were bailing water from the deepest parts, sloshing it out onto the ground behind. Hal
