The title of Graham Greene's strangest, bleakest and most deeply cynical novel could not have been better chosen. Near the approach of the heartbreaking and bitterly ironic ending, a character (I won't reveal who) muses upon this very paradox - of how men and women, all inevitably a part of a greater war for justice, for the victory of right over wrong, find themselves confronted instead with their own private battles and thus end up losing sight of the main objective in the first place. At heart, "It's A Battlefield", a great London novel in the vein of Conrad's "The Secret Agent" and Chesterton's brilliant "The Man Who Was Thursday" (but certainly less ponderous than the former and considerably grimier than the latter), explores this paradox and portrays it as a fundamental failing of humanity itself. When Greene called it as a novel about the injustice of man's justice, he was being most astute in his summing up of its complex but profound themes.
At the heart of the multi-layered plot, woven of many small and significant threads and featuring a cast of characters, either directly or indirectly affected by the primary situation, is the story of a Communist bus driver named Drover, who has been arrested and sentenced to death for killing a policeman. Here's the thing, though - even as this quiet, enigmatic man, about whom we never really learn enough, except what is told or thought about him through other people, is on the throes of death, nobody, not even the people closest to him, seem to realise the devastating import of this certain fact. This reminded me of how Greene, in the much later "The Honorary Consul", devised a starkly similar situation, in which a man, wrongly abducted for a hopeless cause and now doomed to his fate, is almost willfully ignored by the very people supposed to be concerned for his life. But while the latter novel was also a bravura thriller of suspense, machismo and the stiff upper lip, "It's A Battlefield" is the very opposite of that - it is instead an ironic portrait of a general and universal condition of stoic and even selfish indifference that prevails and thus inures and insulates people from taking action to protest against injustice.
It is this selfish indifference that Greene portrays most incisively and scathingly in the characters that surround like scattered military units around the battle between life and death, between justice and injustice, that rages as Drover awaits his fate at the gallows. There is the Assistant Commissioner, aging, world-weary, dispassionate, an exile from the East who is trying desperately to reconcile himself again to England; there is the Fleet Street journalist Conder, who keeps on switching identities and backstories in his relentless pursuit of a story and finds himself ineffectual in the throes of paranoia; there is the false and pretentious Mr. Surrogate, an aging salon Communist who has only taken advantage of political and social causes in his decadent pursuit of sensual pleasure and through these three utterly self-centered characters, Greene reveals scathingly, almost angrily, the moral corruption that runs deep through the institutes of law and order, press and Drover's brotherhood itself.
Then there are some more characters, closer to the scene of the battle, a little more determined to put in their best effort at ensuring victory but still unsure about how to proceed. There is Kay, Drover's sister-in-law, a young woman seeking permanent romance and instead resorting to temporary affairs with men, there is Jules, Drover's possible comrade, an exile from France whose quest for a honourable cause transforms into a hopeless romance instead and at the very heart of the novel is the doomed illicit romance between Milly, Drover's wife, driven to despair at the inevitability of solitude and Conrad, his world-weary and bitter brother, who is tormented by the fact of his rise from sordid poverty to respectability. It is this broken, almost dysfunctional tryst between these two helpless and ill-fated people most loyal to the man on the death row, that forms the beating, feverish heart of this novel.
Even as Greene's portrait of his characters is deeply cynical, he never loses his sense of boundless empathy and even compassion; these characters are, in the words of Zadie Smith, those who, as to be expected in this writer's moral universe, "fail in degrees" and yet the realism of their ethical and moral failures is natural and unaffected. We feel for and understand the mediocrity, the despair, the maddening pathos of the lives of these characters and yet we are equally disturbed and upset by their selfishness. Some readers might be disoriented by how their narrative threads do not lead to any significant conclusions or consequences and yet what they would fail to realise is how the title's meaning is brilliantly manifest in these individual arcs and in the meager, half-hearted attempts of these sordid characters to escape their petty, commonplace lives, regardless of the death of another man.
Above all, as said before, "It's A Battlefield" is a terrific and even terrifying portrait of 1930s London, a panoramic vista of a city and its mean streets and its immensities, its squalid corners and its stately avenues, the paradoxical contrast between its majestic elegance and its mediocrity, thus delineating more ironically the vast gulf between comfort and poverty, between justice and injustice themselves. The novel, even when dwelling on the inward thoughts of its doomed and failed characters, never loses its pace, the writer orchestrating his prose with the speed and precision of a film camera and also embellishing his lean, brisk writing with the unmistakable poetic touches that distinguish him from all other writers so wonderfully. "It's A Battlefield" is a must-read novel for not only his admirers but for even those looking for a novel that argues and incriminates and seethes in anger without ever sounding preachy, propagandist or ponderous.