A few years ago I stood in Langemark cemetary, looking out down the north eastern slope from one of the German pilboxes, one of our party read outloud the following from a book of diary.

“We sat drinking coffee after a very busy day, my goodness how it rained that night and it was not pleasant.
All we could hear was the rain and the wounded Tommies in the shell holes calling out for their mothers. As the rain fell it ran down the slope and filled the shell holes. By four o’clock that afternoon they cried out no longer, we wept for them.”