HEMINGWAY’S WAR

Dressed in plain khaki, with an American flag patch on his right shoulder and no insignia on his left, the young officer stood knee-deep in the stream, enjoying the cool water that offset the heat of the midsummer day. Thrilled to have a chance to fish, he had almost forgotten he was behind German lines in France and that the year was 1944. Soon he was fully absorbed in placing his flies, casting from right to left and letting each fly float downstream past the trout he could see darting this way and that below the surface.

He heard little apart from the sound of riffles running over the rocks—that is, until marching boots were about 40 yards away, behind him to his left. His heart beat faster when he saw that they belonged to members of a German patrol who were now looking down at him as they marched along a set of railroad tracks above the limestone bank. Without raising their voices or addressing him directly, the soldiers seemed to be bantering, probably about his skill as a fisherman. He prayed that he would not hook a fish before the enemy moved on; they would almost certainly stay for the spectacle and notice the flag on his shoulder as he worked his catch.

Mercifully, the fish ignored the lures and, after what seemed like an eternity but probably was only a minute or two, the Germans continued on their way. The officer was again alone. Trembling, he forced himself to collect his gear and make his way onto the right bank, quickly putting as much distance as he could between himself and the railroad tracks.

THE SCENE COULD BE FROM one of Ernest Hemingway’s many novels or short stories that mixed war and outdoor pursuits, especially hunting and fishing. In “Big