Mr Blettsworthy on Rampole Island* is the story of one of those in section three. He joins up in 1916 because it's expected of him, goes through the humiliation of basic training, is transported to France, sees men blown to bits and finds himself in the front line trench waiting to go over the top. Then comes a moment of clarity.
I stood up suddenly. "My God!" I said- quite inappropriately. "What am I doing here? I'm going home, out of all this cursed foolery. I've got serious things to see to."
My captain was a little shop-man sort of fellow, a temporary gentleman, as we used to call them, of about my age and type. He held a revolver in his hand without either menace or concealment. But he knew how to restrain me.
"It's foolery all right, old chap," he said, "but you'd better stick it now. The way home for all of us here, is over the top and east. You won't last a minute if you try going back out of this trench. It's just suicide for you."
"Well, take us over soon ," said I, and subsided.
The barrage begins, Mr Blettsworthy's troop advance across No Man's Land, he gets his leg smashed up and- having achieved absolutely nothing on the battlefield- returns to civilian life with a clear conscience.
Honour has been satisfied.
*H.G. Wells 1933