Michelle Jabes Corpora - The Fog of War: Martha Gellhorn at the D-Day Landings

I t was morning in March 1944, and Martha Gellhorn stood on the patio of her house in Havana, Cuba, her bare feet pressed against the cool stone tiles. She looked out over the big ceiba tree, which looked like a child had drawn it, and over the distant palms to the sea beyond. A breeze that smelled of salt and flowers swept her blonde hair back over her shoulders.

She breathed it all in, the bright freshness of the morning washing away the last shreds of sleep. Cuba was always beautiful. Martha sighed. One could almost forget that theres a war going on, she thought. Two wars, in fact.

One of them, World War Two, was reaching fever pitch. It was almost impossible to keep up with all of the troop movements and battles and bombings, even for a seasoned war correspondent like Martha. She had spent the last five months in Europe, writing more than two dozen articles about the War for Colliers. She fed the weekly US magazine thousands upon thousands of words, but it remained ever hungry for more. And Martha knew that the biggest story of all was still yet to come: the invasion of France across the English Channel. No one knew exactly when, of course that was top secret. But if the Allied forces were able to retake Western Europe from the Nazis, then it would turn the tide in their favour.

Any day now, Colliers would send word that shed be the one receiving the accreditation to report on the invasion. Only one reporter per magazine was allowed, and she was certain she was going to be chosen. She was their most decorated war correspondent, after all. But in the past few days, shed begun to worry about getting back to London in time. She gripped the metal railing of the patio, the sharp corners biting into her palms. I never should have left, she thought. Cuba was beautiful all right, and a welcome sight after war-torn Europe, but it wasnt where she belonged. For all the sunshine and flowers and quiet solitude, her home in Havana was the battlefield for the other war going on.

The war with her husband, Ernest Hemingway.

At first, it had been terribly exciting being married to the most famous writer in the world. They fell in love on the battlefields of Spain, and spent their first years together leaping from one great adventure to the next. War and words had brought them together, but now they seemed to be tearing them apart. Now that they were married, Ernest no longer seemed to admire Marthas commitment to her work. In fact, he hated it. Are you a war correspondent, hed written in one of his cables, or wife? Martha didnt understand why she couldnt be both.

His letters had followed her across Europe, full of complaints and bitterness about her absence. She tried her best to soothe him in her replies. She called him her beloved Bug, and pleaded with him to join her overseas. But all her letters seemed to do no good. Ernest was as stubborn as a mule, and wouldnt be told what to do. And so, against her better judgement, Martha had come back to the Finca Vigia, their house on a hill, hoping to patch things up between them.

Shed told herself it was the right thing to do. It was her duty, she thought, to try and talk some sense into the man, face to face. But her homecoming seemed only to make things worse. Theyd fought the moment she arrived back in Cuba, and every day since.

A grey tabby cat slipped out onto the patio and wound around her ankles, snapping Martha out of her thoughts. She bent to pick him up, and he bumped his face against hers. Hello, Will, she said. I suppose you want your breakfast? The warm, purring body of the cat soothed her. Perhaps today will be better, she thought, hopeful. It certainly couldnt be worse.

As Martha walked down the two flights of steps back to the main floor, other cats appeared, all yowling for attention. Ernest had a soft spot for the little beasts, and let them run amok like they owned the place. Yes, yes, darlings, Martha said, trying to make her way through their winding bodies without falling down the stairs. I know youre hungry, so am I. Wheres your Papa?

She came to the landing and walked into the living room, to find Ernest sitting bare-chested in one of the squashy armchairs patterned with pink roses. His bushy salt-and-pepper beard was particularly wild this morning, and Martha thought he made quite a picture this bulldog of a man, scowling at a newspaper, nestled in his pretty flowered chair. Undoubtedly, Ernest would have chosen more manly furniture, something made of leather and mahogany, but Martha had wanted the flowers.

All around Ernest, the house was an unholy mess, as it had been when shed arrived back. Dirty dishes and clothes were piled up in every room, empty bottles left to gather dust and flies, and a haze of unwashed stink hung over everything.

He hadnt noticed her yet. Martha took a deep breath and entered the room, the legion of cats following close behind. But shed only made it a few steps before nearly breaking her neck tripping over a bottle of whiskey left on the floor beside the sofa. Oh! Martha cried out in surprise, catching herself before she fell. The bottle tumbled over, its caramel-coloured contents glugging out onto the floor where a pile of books lay scattered.

Ernest looked up over his newspaper, his eyes alighting on the books slowly soaking up whiskey. Clumsy woman! he exclaimed, jumping up from his chair to rescue them. He brushed off the covers with one hand, and shook his head in dismay. This ones a first edition too.

If you care so much for your books, Martha muttered, grabbing a ragged undershirt and using it to mop up the puddle of liquor, perhaps youd think to put them back on the shelf where they belong.

Perhaps if you were a proper wife and did a little cleaning once in a while, Ernest snapped back, I wouldnt need to. He turned to the cats. Come on now, cotsies, Papa will feed you. The cats piled after him to the kitchen, a colourful, meowing ocean of fur.

Marthas face grew hot, and she felt the fire of rage rekindling in her chest. Good morning to you, too, she muttered into the empty room. Hed made this mess, she fumed. Why should she clean it up? Why was his work so much more important than hers?

Her hopes of a better day vanished. No, she thought grimly. Today promises to be quite as dreadful as all the rest.

The smell of hot coffee reached her, and she walked into the dining room to pour herself a cup from the steaming silver pot Ernest had left on the table. The bittersweet taste cleared her mind a little. She sat down in one of the wooden chairs with her cup, the open French doors letting in that same fragrant breeze from the garden. The room was spare and white, one wall made up only of windows, and the other lined with the mounted heads of animals Ernest had killed on safari in Africa. Its no use staying here, she thought. Ernest has dug his heels in, and nothing I can say or do will change his mind. Its time I started planning my return to Europe. Ill call my editor at Colliers at once and discuss my accreditation.