Death of a Hero
are a vivid, if one-sided, portrait of a late Victorian
lower middle class upbringing and of literary pre-war London, with vastly amusing, if breath-
takingly vituperative, portraits of Ford Madox Ford (Shobbe), Ezra Pound (Upjohn), D.H.
Lawrence (Bobbe) and T.S. Eliot (Tubbe). Aldington presents us with an analysis of the
materialism, philistinism and hypocrisy of middle-class society at the turn of the century
while the contempt he expresses through his narrator for George’s father and the anger with
which he portrays his mother are breath-takingly personal and violent. In his portrait of the
literary and artistic world there were certainly scores being settled, but the message is that the
artists and intellectuals, who claimed to be rejecting the humbug and hypocrisy of the
Victorians, were themselves guilty of the same vices: ‘Self-interest, though universal, is less
tolerable in those who are supposed to be above it’ and ‘[v]anity is none the less odious even
when there is some reason for it.’ Readers have assumed that Elizabeth and Fanny are
modelled on H.D. and Yorke, respectively, but, although there are some superficial
resemblances, the characters exist, more generally, as vehicles for Aldington’s views on
women and on sexual relationships. Aldington told H.D. that Elizabeth and Fanny were
modelled on Nancy Cunard and Valentine Dobrée, towards both of whom he had made
rejected advances in the period prior to the writing of the novel, and, again, there are some
marked similarities.
VII
As for Part Three: it is possibly the finest British account of warfare on the Western Front
and its impact on an individual that we have. That is partly achieved by what happens to
narrative viewpoint in this section. Aldington the author and his representative persona, the
un-named officer narrator, disappear from the page: everything we see is filtered through the
gaze of Winterbourne himself. Aldington lets George tell his own story; we get only one brief
appearance by the narrator. George is even given the opportunity for the kind of exposition
that has formerly been the province of the narrator, when, at rest camp at Boulogne, having
observed – and admired – the fighting men, he asks himself, ‘[W]ho were their real
enemies?’ and he sees the answer ‘with a flood of bitterness and clarity’:
Their enemies–the enemies of German and English alike–were the fools that had sent
them to kill each other instead of help each other. Their enemies were the sneaks and
the unscrupulous; the false ideals, the unintelligent ideas imposed on them, the humbug,
the hypocrisy, the stupidity. If those men were typical, then there was nothing
essentially wrong with common humanity, at least as far as the men were concerned. It
was the leadership that was wrong–not the war leadership but the peace leadership. The
nations were governed by bunk and sacrificed to false ideals and stupid ideas.
This passage is the continuation of the thoughts that have begun to consume Winterbourne
from the moment the draft set off on the journey to France, and this extended passage of
exposition is the last one in the novel. Here George becomes, not the earnest and naive dupe
and victim that he has been for much of the earlier part of the novel, but the thinker and
observer, through whose artistic, sensitive and increasingly mature vision, we are to be
introduced to the actualities of the battlefield. Here is the preliminary bombardment for the
Battle of Arras, viewed – and heard ‒ from the sector to the north:
The roar of the guns was beyond clamour—it was an immense rhythmic harmony, a
super-jazz of tremendous drums, a ride of the Valkyrie played by three thousand
cannon. The intense rattle of the machine-guns played a minor motif of terror. It was
too dark to see the attacking troops, but Winterbourne thought with agony how every
one of those dreadful vibrations of sound meant death or mutilation. He thought of the
ragged lines of British troops stumbling forward in smoke and flame and a chaos of
sound, crumbling away before the German protective barrage and the Reserve line
machine-guns. He thought of the German front lines, already obliterated under that
ruthless tempest of explosions and flying metal. Nothing could live within the area
of that storm except by a miraculous hazard. Already in this first
half-hour of
bombardment hundreds upon hundreds of men would have been violently slain,
smashed, torn, gouged, crushed, mutilated. The colossal harmony seemed to roar
louder as the drum-fire lifted from the Front line to the Reserve. The battle was
begun. They would be mopping-up soon—throwing bombs and explosives down the
dug-out entrances on the men cowering inside.
And here is Winterbourne a year later, now an officer, returned to the same sector of the
battlefield:
At dawn one morning when it was misty he walked over the top of Hill 91, where
probably nobody had been by day since its capture. The heavy mist brooded about
him in a strange stillness. Scarcely a sound on their immediate front, though from
north and south came the vibration of furious drum-fire. The ground was a desert
of shell-holes and torn rusty wire, and everywhere lay skeletons in steel helmets,
still clothed in the rags of sodden khaki or field grey. Here a fleshless hand still
clutched a broken rusty rifle; there a gaping, decaying boot showed the thin, knotty
foot-bones. […] Alone in the white curling mist, drifting slowly past like wraiths of
the slain, with the far-off thunder of drum-fire beating the air, Winterbourne stood in
frozen silence and contemplated the last achievements of civilised men.
George Winterbourne dies. But the narrator, like the author, lives on. He expresses the agony
of survival in an outburst towards the end of Part Two of the novel:
You, the war dead, I think you died in vain. I think you died for nothing, a blather, a
humbug, a newspaper stunt, a politician’s ramp. But at least you died. You did not
reject the sharp sweet shock of bullets, the sudden smash of the shell-burst, the
insinuating agony of poison gas. You got rid of it all. You chose the better part.
Aldington’s
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