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Showing posts from 2013

Ernest Hemingway and a Bailey Bridge - Belgium 1944

On September 11th, 1944, Colonel Charles Trueman Buck Lanham, with a smouldering Lucky Strike permanently dangling from the left corner of his mouth, was looking through a splendid pair of captured German Zeiss field-glasses toward the river that formed the German border less than a hundred yards away.
“ Damn!”
“ What's the problem, Buck?” asked Hemingway, who was playing a hand of gin rummy with Pelkey.
“ They've blown the damned the bridge. That was obviously the explosion we heard a minute ago.”
“ Who the hell are “they”, Buck?”

Ernest Hemingway, Archie Pelkey and James Joyce

Pelkey, now fully dressed, puts a steaming pot of real coffee, a cup and saucer, and two slices of buttered toast, onto a table at which Hemingway is sitting, reading. " What's the book, general?" " Well done, Archie." " Hell, I know a book when I see a fellah reading one." " Well, this book, Professor Pelkey, is called Ulysses, and was written by an old friend of mine called James Joyce. He's dead now." " Is that so?" " That is so." " So what's it about, this book by your dead friend?" " It's about one day in Dublin, back in 1904, a day seen from the viewpoint of several people, most notably Stephen Dedalus, Buck Mulligan, Leopald Bloom and his wife, Molly." " Looking at the thickness of the book, general, it must have been one hell of a long day." " Archie, just pour me a cup of coffee." " Yes sir, general."