Park took the accusations made against Hemingway very seriously indeed, and had, over the weeks since receiving Patton’s instructions, interviewed many of the correspondents and army personnel – who had witnessed the goings on at Rambouillet – all of whom testified that Hemingway, who had come to France as a civilian newspaperman (albeit under the jurisdiction of the US Army) – had “borne arms against the enemy.” For this – and because he was under army jurisdiction – he could only be courts-martialled. He did not come under French jurisdiction because there wasn’t any, he could not be sent back to the States to be tried as he had not committed a crime there. An American Army military court was the only solution, and if found guilty Hemingway could be sentenced to a long stretch in a military prison, or, at the very least, be sent back to the US in disgrace, with his passport withdrawn.

As historian Charles Whiting points out, had Hemingway “fallen into German hands bearing arms as a civilian dressed in US Army uniform, he would have prejudiced the enemy against any other correspondent unfortunate enough to be taken prisoner.”

And Hemingway was famous in Germany too, with all his books translated into German. He was high profile and a huge risk to the safety of other correspondents. Something should have been done sooner of course, but everyone, including Hemingway, was too busy fighting a war.

The Germans had acted very quickly throughout the war when they felt that the “Rules of Land Warfare” had been infringed by the Allies. They, of course, broke virtually all of those rules themselves, especially on the Eastern Front, but that made no difference. When the Canadians raided Dieppe, in 1942, they handcuffed their German prisoners which resulted in British POWs being handcuffed when captured thereafter. Rather more brutally, two years later, the German high command ordered that all captured Allied commandos be summarily executed without trial in retaliation for several German prisoners executed by Allied commandos.

Before Hemingway ever set foot on French soil, in 1944, it was turning into a very dirty war indeed. It was not a place to play games.

What Park also knew was that when Hemingway was brought to trial – and Park informed Patton there was no way out of that course of action – the manure was going to hit the fan big time; and if it wasn’t handled very carefully the American Army, and the US government, could be seriously embarrassed.

On the 2nd of October, 1944, Private Christopher Buckley, First Class, eventually found Ernest Hemingway sitting on a bench less than a hundred yards from the Eiffel Tower, he was reading a volume of Robert Frost’s poetry, and eating a bar of US Army chocolate. Buckley stood in front of Hemingway for a moment or two before speaking.

” Mr Hemingway, sir?” asked Buckley.

Ernest Hemingway looked up from his book.

” There are several Mr Hemingways these days. Which one did you have in mind?”

” Mr Ernest Hemingway, the novelist, and war correspondent, sir.”

” Well, I’ve never heard of another novelist, or war correspondent, by that name, so I reckon you’ve found your man. Your name soldier?”

” Buckley, sir, Private First Class.”

” What can I do for you, Private Buckley, First Class?”

” I have an order for you, sir, from Colonel Park, Inspector General, Third Army.”

Hemingway puts another piece of US Army chocolate in his mouth and chews, throwing the now empty wrapper away. He’s silent for a while.

” Sit down, Private Buckley.”

Buckley sits beside Hemingway on the rusty metal bench.

” As I say I have an order for you, sir. I shall need you to sign for it.”

” Sure, sure. No rush. You ever read any Robert Frost?”

” At school, sir. Our teacher thought his work quite original, and very moving, with a touch of Whitman here and there, but not enough to make it beholden.”

” You had a good teacher, soldier. What’s your first name?”

” Christopher, sir.”

” Drop the sir.”

” Yes, sir. I mean, yes.”

” Do you remember any of his poetry?”

” Remember? Sure. But not enough to recite. But there’s one I kinda liked. Can I take a look?”

Hemingway hands Buckley the book, who flips through the dog-eared pages until he finds the poem he wants, then reads:

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away,
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost -
For the grapes sake along the wall.

” Who are the grapes, soldier? Who the leaf at break of day?”

” I guess this goddam army are the grapes, and although I’ve not read the order I guess you might just be the leaf already burnt with frost.”

” You don’t have to read it to know it, Christopher. Goddam, don’t I know it too.”

” I have to get back, it’s a long ride.”

” Join me for lunch, Chris?”

” I don’t know…”

” Come on, the Dome is just across the way. The least I can do is feed you before you head back.”

” Well?”

” Come on, son.”

” Okay.”

Over a potato and onion omelette, and decent bottle of wine, Ernest and Christopher talked about the poetry of Robert Frost, and how very difficult it was to separate the poetry from the public personality.

Not since Longfellow had there been a national poet in the way Frost had become during the 1930s. Christopher argued that Whitman was surely the national poet, but no, not according to Ernest, who argued that Whitman should be the national poet, may very well be so one day, but not yet, and that Frost was the nearest the US had to a poet laureate at the moment, but had he risen to the danger the country, the world, was in? Ernest didn’t think he had. He then explained that poetry was, unlike prose, very much a moveable literary feast, and that it usually took three generations for good poetry to sink into the subconscious, and that Frost’s poetry might seem better than it was – oh, it was still good, damned good, as Christopher’s teacher had said – but that it just might not last. Time would tell.

” I hope it lasts.”

” So do I, Chris.”

” Can I give you the order now, Mr Hemingway?”

” Sure, sure.”

Buckley takes the rather crumpled order out of his leather pouch and hands it to Hemingway. Buckley then asks Hemingway to sign a piece of paper acknowledging receipt.

” Where’re you from, Chris?”

” Abilene, Texas. The folks own a small farm down there. The old man inherited it from an uncle. Before that he worked on the railroads.”

” What kind a stuff do you raise?”

” It used to be Long Horns, but recently the old man’s gone in for Hereford milk cows, and they do seem to thrive pretty well.”

” Did you work on the farm before the war?”

” Not much, there wasn’t really any need of my help, what with Ma and Pa, and my two brothers. No, I got a job on a road gang, then went to night school and learned to be a typist, which came in pretty damn useful when war broke out and I got drafted. They needed more typists than riflemen it seemed to me, and I could ride a motorbike pretty well so I ended up as a courier which, I have to say, got me a bit too close to the front line at times. Both my brothers got drafted too of course, and Bill went and got himself killed back in June. Ain’t heard from Tom in months. Mind he never was much of a letter writer, and Japan is one hell of a long way away. Guess when I get back Pa’s gonna need some help on the farm, what with Ma taken last spring?”

Private Christopher Buckley, First Class, finished his wine and took the signed chitty from Hemingway, who stood and shook the soldier’s hand and wished him well.

As Buckley walked away from the cafe toward his motorcycle, parked in the grounds of the military acadamie, he looked back to see Hemingway reading again from the Robert Frost and, as if he knew he was being watched, Hemingway looked up and waved to the departing courier, who smiled, and waved back.

On reaching his motorcycle Buckley wound-up the charger on his radio and sent a plain message back to Colonel Park’s office: ” Hemingway hooked.”

Later that day Hemingway said his farewells to Mary and presented himself at a large US Army transport base on the outskirts of Paris where he was appointed a driver, and early on the morning of the 5th October, 1944, they headed north for Nancy.

The journey took the best part of a day, and when they came within half a mile of the hotel, on the evening of the 5th, Hemingway excused his driver and made his way on foot – in the bright, almost blue moonlight – to the hotel that was now the HQ of the Inspector Generals Office, Third Army (Rear).