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Robert is in France and is “in charge of this convoy” (69). Two years of fighting have “failed to dislodge” (69) the Germans from an unexceptional nearby ridge. The surrounding fields are nothing but mud: a contaminated, cloying mud that drowns and infects. It is a “shallow sea of stinking grey from end to end” (70). Robert is heading toward Wytsbrouk, an occupied town. There have been language problems with the locals. Robert tries and fails to appease one man, who mutters “maudit anglaise” (71) as he leaves.
Robert’s assigned assistant is Bulger Willie Poole. Unlike most Bulgers, Poole can actually play a bugle. The two of them pause in the road to allow the rest of the convoy to catch up in thick fog that smells of chlorine. A flock of crows bursts out from behind the fog. They feel something is wrong, so Robert sends a man back to search, telling him to use the bugle every fifty seconds. The sounds stop after a while; Robert and Poole discuss birds. The bugle sounds again, and Robert guides the man toward him through the fog using his voice. A different man appears—Levitt, the officer at the rear. Levitt says Robert took a wrong turn on to a dike and now the dike is collapsing.
They pick their path carefully back across the dike. Robert hears guns in the distance; they’re coming from the wrong direction. He steps forward and falls through the dike. Waist deep, the mud sucks him in. He manages to wrestle free but the chlorine in the mud burns his eyes. Poole finds him. They look out over the field, filled with crows eating dead bodies. They must swim through the burst dike. Robert leads the horses in. On the other side, he falls from the horse. The men grab him and place him next to the fire. Robert tells the men to “break out the rum” (79).
The situation at the front has been stable for “almost a year” (80). The Allies control Ypres and fight for the surrounding towns and villages. Robert becomes acquainted with the schedule of life at the front. News comes from Verdun of a huge German operation, and Robert can taste the drifting gas on the snowflakes. After Robert finishes his week-long convoy duty, he and Levitt take charge of the 18th Battery guns. From the observation point, they can see the enemy at last. Walking around, Robert sees injured Germans, as well as deserters. Robert suggests to Levitt that “we can thank our lucky stars that the Germans must be just as badly off as our poor chaps—or worse, if they’re deserting” (82). Robert and Levitt arrive at their post and are warned not to “hit the door” (82), which contains a panel of stained glass, collected by a man named Devlin. The panel in the door depicts St. Eloi, the “patron saint of smiths and metalworkers” (83). Devlin considers it “rather attractive” (83), while Levitt does not. Rather than being religious, Devlin claims to be “devoted to fragility” (83). A man named Rodwell stays sometimes in the dugout and keeps a small toad in a wire cage. Rodwell also keeps birds, rabbits, hedgehogs, and any injured animals he finds.
The dugout is “civilized” (85), and the officers eat dinner together. Devlin, Bonnycastle, and Rodwell join Robert and Levitt. Poole cooks and eats with them. Captain Rodwell illustrates children’s books; he draws animals and has developed a close bond with his subjects. After dinner, Devlin and Bonnycastle leave. Robert considers Levitt to be a practical man, and both Levitt and Rodwell are strange in their own unique ways. Robert tries to fall asleep but “the dugout was full of eyes” (88).
At the Canadian forces’ reserve barracks in Kent, Harris is so sick that he is sent to London for treatment. Robert takes his leave and visits Harris, using the opportunity to collect the automatic pistol his father sent. In London, “everyone remained a stranger” (90), and Zeppelins pass overhead at night to add to the sense of “silent menace” (90). When Robert visits, Harris seems to be dying, though occasionally he wakes up. Robert feels strange as “no one since Rowena had made Robert feel he wanted to be with them all the time” (90). Harris’s fragments of conversation are strange stories about swimming. One day, Robert visits after a matinee performance at a theatre, still tapping his toes to the music. Eugene Taffler enters with Lady Barbara d’Orsey at his side. Taffler recognizes Robert and approaches. They reminisce and Taffler insists on introducing Robert to his companion; their introduction is short, and Robert soon departs. He watches as the two people visit a man wrapped entirely in bandages. The bandaged man cannot reply, and after Taffler and Lady d’Orsey depart he seems so racked with pain that Robert mentions it to the nurses. The nurse reveals that the man is Captain Villiers and says that she doesn’t know “how [Lady d’Orsey] dares to come here” (93).
The narrative then shifts to Juliet d’Orsey’s memories of Robert. They are “the most vivid and personal we have” (93). She was born into the aristocracy, and as an old woman works at the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, which is a confused and bureaucratic institution. She is “proud of Robert Ross” (95) and critical of “his detractors” (95), a group which includes Stuart Ross. Juliet’s sister Barbara met Robert “because of that man Harris” (95). Barbara “wasn’t a snob [but] you had to intrigue her or you didn’t exist” (96). She had known Villiers for years; he and her brother had been in love, though Barbara had failed to notice this. Barbara, fiercely competitive, eventually “snatched him away” (97) in 1915. Juliet believes that “Robert was in love with Harris” (97), though love “has so many ways of expressing itself outside of the physical” (98). Robert visits Harris every day and Barbara visits Villiers; Harris and Robert stay up late talking. Only days before Robert is set to leave for France, Harris dies. Before Robert can deal with the body, he discovers that Harris has been cremated. Robert is given the ashes in a “square wooden box the size of a very large cannister of tea” (101). He is holding the box when Taffler and Barbara arrive, and he explains the problem. Barbara suggests they scatter the ashes on the river in Greenwich. They walk to the end of a pier in the snow and Robert and Taffler remove their caps because “this is not a military funeral. This is just a burial at sea” (101). After a final conversation with Barbara, Robert boards the train for France.
On 27 February, the Germans explode a string of land-mines “ranged along the St. Eloi Salient” (102) and blow up the ground in front of the trench where Robert and Levitt are staying. The ensuing battle rages for five days and kills 30,000 men without winning “an inch of ground” (102).
In Part 2, the environment begins to react to the presence of war. The emergence of the cloying, poisonous mud is a reflection of the battle being fought. This is a war of attrition: a bloody grind in which two forces try (and frequently fail) to wear down the opposition. The war that was meant to be over by Christmas has extended through the seasons and shows no signs of ending any time soon. The environment has taken on this sucking, deathly tenor. The mud sucks men in and kills them without a care. The ground itself is poisonous, so infused with chlorine that Robert can smell it, and when it gets in his eyes, he is momentarily blinded. This is an example of pathetic fallacy. The environment has begun to reflect the emotional condition of the characters. Just as the men begin to realize that they have found themselves in hell, the landscape transforms from the serene French and Belgian countryside into a Dante-esque hellscape from which they cannot escape. Robert’s near-death experience in the mud is a fate suffered by many men, and when he looks out through the fog across the battlefields, he can see the crows feasting on the corpses. The world has been changed to reflect the reality of the war; the earth itself is rebelling against the atrocities of man.
Amid this barbarity, there is a clear delineation between the inside and the outside. The dugout becomes a small oasis of serenity. It is a symbol of the last remnants of civilization. Nestled amid the mud and the death, the dugout is home to books and healing animals. It even has a stained-glass panel fitted into the doorway, a religious artefact which seems to ward off the hell which has infected the outside, uncivilized world. The men sit down to a meal together, eating dinned peaches while death lingers outside. This is a privilege only afforded to the officers, however. The enlisted men remain stuck in the trenches and are afforded little space in the narrative. If the dugout is the one oasis of serenity and civilization at the front, then the trenches are part of the muddy, infected hell. While the officers pretend to cling on to the fragments of civilization as best they can, the rest of the men must face the terrible reality in which they find themselves. Even if it is small, the last remnants of civilization are a privilege only afforded to the commissioned officers. This is an extension of the class dynamic which would, in many ways, come to define the First World War.
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