Ernest Hemingway went on to cover the Allied invasion of Europe for Colliers magazine. There, he proceeded to break the rules. Most U.S. Army officers had little combat experience and few spoke French. Hemingway, who did and could, began to lead units of the French Resistance on reconnaissance missions to help the Americans.
He later claimed to have killed 122 German soldiers in combat and one SS man who had been taken prisoner. Hemingway historians say this was probably exaggeration, but Hemingway had surely engaged German troops in combat. The very nature of the missions—to determine the strength and position of enemy forces—required that you provoke brief firefights.
Other correspondents, who understood the danger posed by one of their own in a combat role, saw that Hemingway was brought up on charges, and only the outright perjury of a U.S. Army general saved him from banishment.
6 July 1943: Late afternoon, Aboard Pilar
As far as anyone could tell, there had not been a U-boat in Cuban waters since a Cuban Navy patrol boat sunk one two months ago off Varadero. Hemingway was realistic: The chances of him finding an enemy boat, let alone sinking one, was diminishing. Doors close and doors open, he thought. Bonkowski couldn’t walk. London was in survival mode, and London wanted its pound of flesh. So be it. God save the King. And fuck Edgar Hoover.
Hemingway decided to come clean with the rest of the crew about the true nature of the mission. The truth was that as a writer he made a lousy spy. A natural-born journalist is temperamentally disinclined to keep secrets when there is the slightest excuse not to.
“I’m going to complete the mission myself,” Hemingway said. “Then we’re going to hightail it south. But not tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to put on my yacht club duds. I’m going to meet with our Navy connection, then I’m going to reconnoiter the battlefield. Be back late. The rest of you stay on the boat. Anybody got anything to say one way or the other?”
“A mission is a mission, and orders are orders,” Saxon said with a mock salute. “And good luck taking that hill. That’s usually a job for the Marines.”
Hemingway looked at the sergeant quizzically. “The fat Navy broad, Ernie. Good luck with her.”
6 July 1943: Evening, Oakes house
Sitting across the coffee table from the Duke and Duchess of Winsor, Harry Oakes opened the inlaid wooden box. The lid bore the image of a dragon breathing flames. Inside was a medal in the shape of a Maltese cross with four swastikas in the talons of four eagles. Attached was a red ribbon, edged with black and white stripes.
Oakes carefully laid the medal on the table in front of the Windsors. The Duke acted as if the object had cholera. He made no move to pick it up.
“Now, Edward. The war ain’t over yet,” Oakes scolded. “Let’s hear what Berlin has to say.” He opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper. He threw back a shot of bourbon and began to read:
Dearest Friend,
I am writing to further reinforce the relationship that you have fostered with the Reich in general and myself in particular. Further, I heartily congratulate you for having been awarded The Grand Cross of the Order of the German Eagle, which should have arrived to you with this letter. Germany will never forget your loyalty.
Our situation is this: Germany and National Socialism are being severely tested. As you are aware, faced with subhuman barbarian hordes in the East, the Wehrmacht has been forced to give ground and regroup to ready for its inevitable counter-attack. Problems of supply also have necessitated a temporary cessation of operations in the African theater.
The Grand Cross of the Order of the German Eagle
The Bolsheviks are showing their true colors, and render it more essential than ever that we redouble our crusade or European civilization will be lost. London, meanwhile, has unleashed its red, white and blue poodle on our southern front. Rest assured this mongrel alliance of cowboys and Communists cannot prevail. Forged in fury and fire, the German sword is being honed to an edge sharper than ever before.
Prudence and military necessity require that I use my words here with restraint in so far as details. The big picture is straightforward: Our scientists are developing an arsenal of “wonder weapons” that will change the course of warfare on land, in the sky and over the oceans. Germany will unleash her dragons shortly, and Britain, per force, must be first to capitulate before them.
When that day comes, I will travel to London personally to welcome you and your wife home, my friend.
With hearty and comradely greetings
Yours,
A. Hitler
“There you have it, Edward. Berlin still has some tricks up their sleeves.”
“Yes, they’ve got poodles and mongrels, swords and dragons,” the Duke said. “They intend to best the Allies with an arsenal of mixed metaphors. To be expected, I suppose, with a commoner’s education.”
The Duchess sipped her wine. “Don’t forget the eagles, darling, and please don’t hold it against the rest of us, our commoner educations.”
“No offense, my dear. Being a snob comes with the territory. Never mind… Thank you, Harry, for agreeing to keep these for us. Mind you, if the miracle weapons turn out to be duds, I shall ask that you burn them.”
6 July 1943: Starlight Terrace, Nassau
They started with cocktails of course. Then they ordered steaks, which were wonderful because they had been flown over from the states, and wine, which was not-so-wonderful for the same reason. “Damn the expense, I haven’t eaten beef for over a month,” Hemingway said, explaining the prohibitive logistics of a long-range patrol. Miss Barry said she had not eaten beef in over a year, citing the realities of military pay and wartime rationing.
For a man with a big ego, Hemingway was a good listener. It’s what made him a good reporter. It also informed his uncanny ability to create believable dialogue in his novels. He asked about her career.
“Nassau is a test,” she said. “It’s away from the action, so stakes are low, but still bears watching for all the aforementioned reasons.”
“What does it take to fail?”
“Blabbing like I’m blabbing to you right now. They actually send chaps and other girls to set up you up. Disclose your cover and you’re finished.”
“Aren’t you worried that I will inform on you to Commander Fleming?”
“Perhaps you should worry that I will tell on you. Fraternization, old boy.”
With any luck worse than that. “So what happens if you don’t fail.”
“As a matter of fact, I return to London next month—if I don’t fail—where I will receive further training before I disappear into the maw of our Secret Intelligence Service…”
“Where you will learn the arts of blackmail, seduction and silent killing.”
“One of three would be nice,” she said.
She turned the conversation to the one Hemingway book that she had read. For Whom the Bell Tolls had been published two years earlier, and its anti-fascist message had been a welcome diversion for idealistic young Britons in the days during and after the London Blitz.
“Coincidentally, the movie is being screened in New York and Los Angeles next week with Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman in the leads. Coop’s a friend, and I insisted they cast him. Same for Bergman. Great cast, and I think the movie will do well, but they scrubbed out the politics. The average American will have no idea that the bad guys are Franco’s men.”
“Goodness, why would they do that? Franco is a fascist tyrant.”
“No Franco is a neutral fascist tyrant, and I guess Hollywood wants to do its part to keep it that way.”
“Did you base the American hero of the book on yourself. He was called Roberto, I think.”
“Roberto, yes. Not me, not exactly. He’s a different kind of guy. It’s hard to imagine having a beer with him, for example. Whereas me… But I do think we share the same motivation. That’s why I have my sub patrols. That’s why I’m here. Roberto and I both have skin in the game. We both feel the need to bury fascism even if we have to dig its grave with our bare hands. My wife, however, sees my sub hunting as a lark, and her constant putdowns make me sore.”
A large quantity of booze had been consumed by the time the waiter was offering coffee, and, having broached the topic of Martha Gelhorn, Hemingway felt free to go on about his failing marriage. Most of what he said was true, and Miss Barry believed him, mostly.
“Chief, you joked about fraternization earlier. Do you know what’s worse than fraternization.”
“What would that be, Ernie?”
His face wore a mischievous cock-eyed look. “Fornication beats fraternization every time…Is there a place we can go?”
“I do have a room,” she said.
“I can’t stay all night.”
“No, you can’t.”
As they left the Starlight Terrace, he took her by the arm and whispered something to her so comically wicked she would never forget it. “Terry, my dear, when I am done fucking you, nothing will remain but bones and ash.”
“Bloody hell. Anything to shed a few pounds.”
6 July 1943: Servants Quarters, Oakes House
After drinks and appetizers had been served to the guests, Oakes dismissed Laurete Abelard for the evening, and she returned to the little cottage behind the house. One of five servants, she alone lived on the grounds. The rest were Bahamians who returned to their families in the evening. Duvalier smiled when she stepped inside. She had invited him to wait for her after her boss had accepted the box and unceremoniously dismissed the man who had delivered it.
“It has been two years since I have come home to a man,” she said. “Like you, my husband and I came to Nassau on a sloop. He had work on a Bahamian fishing boat, and we lived with a relative on the poor side of the city. When his boat did not return, never returned, I continued to hope, but then one day, his cousin’s wife said to me, ‘Your David is dead, now you must move out.’ I guess she had noticed her husband looking at me. I did not know what to do.”
“How did you come to work for the Oakes man?”
“His wife saw me in the market, and asked one of her Bahamian girls why I looked so ragged. She told Madame Oakes that I was a poor Haitian with no family. She took pity and brought me into the household, as someone who could be available to work until late in the night during her entertainments…What about you, Odelin? You say you are Haitian, but you do not speak much Creole, only French.
Duvalier repeated his cover story of having left Haiti as an orphaned infant and the fabricated circumstances that had allowed him to return. He omitted, of course, the role of the German agent and said only that his captain had been paid by a certain gentleman to carry the package to Monsieur Oakes. And no, he had no idea what the box contained. Duvalier said he was chosen to deliver the box because no one else in the crew had a decent pair of trousers or shirt.
“Can I offer you a Guinness from the house? It is a brand of beer. Have you eaten?”
Duvalier, never a strict Muslim, was happy to drink the dark brew, and he wolfed down Laurete’s curried goat stew.
Pretty and a good cook, he thought. An educated and considerate man, she thought. They talked for more than two hours until they heard the car doors open and close, signaling that monsieur’s important guests had left the grounds along with the Marine guards that had been loitering out front.
“I must go back to the boat now,” Duvalier said. “Thank you for the food and drink. You are a remarkable woman.”
“Odelin.”
“Yes.”
“Will you come back tomorrow night?”
“It would be a great pleasure.”
“Good, please wait for darkness. Go to the park, and I will come for you. Tell your captain that you will not be returning to the boat until morning.”
Duvalier stepped onto the street and turned right, walking past the park of tomorrow’s assignation. There he noticed the white man with a dark moustache sitting on a bench observing the Oakes house. In the shadows, the big man made an impression. In this case, an erroneous impression. “I better watch out for this fellow,” Duvalier said to himself. “Monsieur has a security detail.” “Stalker” is what he should have said, the opposite of security.
Next: Hemingway takes over the assignment. Oakes and Christie get drunk and brawl.
