France, 1917

The muddy trenches stretched to the horizon, a maze of death and despair. Private William Carter, a young English soldier, was stuck in the cold, wet earth. The smell of rotting meat and gunpowder hung heavily in the air. For months he had endured the constant shelling, the screams of wounded and the orders of officers who never entered the front lines themselves. But last night he had made a decision: he would disappear.

The idea of desertion was unthinkable, a crime punishable by death. But William was no longer afraid of death – at least not as he feared the madness of war. He had seen how his friends died for a few meters of no man's land, how men turned into shadows of themselves. He could no longer fight for a matter he did not understand.

As the moon hid behind dark clouds, William crawled out of the trench. His heart pounded in his chest as he sneaked through the muddy darkness. He knew that guards could see him, that a single shot could make him stumble in the wet earth, but he was lucky. The rain fell like a veil and he disappeared into the night.

For days he wandered through the devastated landscape of northern France. He ate stolen bread, drank from puddles and edoded patrols. But the fear continued to gnaw. Not only for the soldiers who could pick him up, but also for themselves. Where could he go? England would never forgive him. The war had destroyed all safe havens.