In the fall, the war was always there, but we did not go to it any more.
That’s how Ernest Hemingway opens one of his most haunting short stories. It’s a line that sticks in your throat. You feel the cold of Milan and the smell of the chestnuts and the weird, heavy stillness of a hospital where men are trying to put their bodies back together. Honestly, if you’ve ever felt like an outsider in your own life, In Another Country by Ernest Hemingway is going to resonate with you in a way most "war stories" just can't.
It isn't about the glory of the charge. There are no cinematic explosions. Instead, it’s a story about the quiet, brutal realization that sometimes the things you lose can’t be fixed by a machine or a medal. It’s about being "in another country" in every possible sense—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.
The Cold Reality of the Milan Hospital
The narrator is an American soldier, widely believed to be a version of Hemingway’s recurring character Nick Adams. He’s in Milan during World War I, nursing a bum knee. Every afternoon, he walks to a hospital that is "very old and very beautiful." But he doesn't go to the old part. He goes to the new brick pavilions where they have the "machines."
These machines are supposed to be the cutting edge of 1918 technology. They are designed to "make so much difference." The doctor shows the narrator photos of a hand that looked like a withered claw before the machine and a perfectly normal hand after.
But nobody believes it. The Italian major, who sits at the machine next to the narrator, certainly doesn't. He used to be the greatest fencer in Italy. Now, his hand is the size of a baby’s. It’s useless. He winks at the narrator when the doctor makes his grand promises because he knows the truth. The machines are a joke. They are a distraction from the fact that their lives have been permanently altered.
This is the "Iceberg Principle" Hemingway is famous for. He doesn't tell you the men are depressed. He shows you the cold wind blowing the bridge across the canal. He shows you the way the men huddle together because the townspeople hate them. He shows you the machines clicking and whirring while the soldiers stare out the window.
Why the Medals Don't Matter
One of the most awkward parts of the story is the "medals" conversation. The narrator has a few medals. So do the three Italian boys he walks with. But there’s a massive gulf between them.
👉 See also: Ted Nugent State of Shock: Why This 1979 Album Divides Fans Today
The Italian boys are "hunting-hawks." They earned their medals by doing things the narrator knows he could never do. They lived through the kind of fire that changes your DNA. The narrator? He got his medals basically for being American and getting hit by a piece of scrap metal.
- The Three Hawks: They were brave. They are different now. They are "done."
- The Boy with the Black Silk Bandage: He doesn't even have medals. He was wounded in his first hour at the front. His face is gone. He’s going to South America because he can’t stand to stay where people know what he used to look like.
- The Narrator: He feels like a fraud. He’s afraid of dying, and he knows he isn't a hawk.
In Another Country by Ernest Hemingway isn't a celebration of bravery. It’s a confession of the lack of it. It’s about the shame of surviving when you don’t think you deserve the credit you’re getting.
The Major’s Breaking Point
The heart of the story isn't the war, though. It’s a conversation about marriage. The Major, who is usually very disciplined and teaches the narrator Italian grammar, suddenly snaps. He tells the narrator that a man "must not marry."
"He should not place himself in a position to lose," the Major says. "He should find things he cannot lose."
It’s a bizarre, aggressive outburst. But then we find out why. The Major’s young wife, whom he married only after he was safely out of the war and back in the hospital, just died of pneumonia.
Think about that for a second. The man survived the front lines. He survived the trenches and the fencing duels and the world-ending violence of the Great War. He thought he was safe. He thought his wife was safe. And then, a simple lung infection took her in three days.
The Major returns to the hospital wearing a black band on his sleeve. He sits at the machine. He looks out the window at the photographs of the healed hands—the "miracles" the doctor promised—and he doesn't even see them. He just stares at nothing.
✨ Don't miss: Mike Judge Presents: Tales from the Tour Bus Explained (Simply)
The Meaning of the Title
So, why call it "In Another Country"?
On the surface, it’s literal. The narrator is an American in Italy. But the deeper meaning is that all these men are living in a country where the "normal" people don't live. They are citizens of the land of the wounded.
They can’t talk to the girls at the Cafe Cova the way they used to. They can’t walk down the street without the locals shouting "A basso gli ufficiali!" (Down with the officers!). They are alienated from the world that hasn't seen what they’ve seen.
Even among themselves, they are isolated. The narrator is isolated from the "hawks" because he isn't brave enough. The Major is isolated from everyone because his grief is too heavy to share.
Hemingway wrote this in 1926, just eight years after the war ended. He was part of the "Lost Generation." He knew exactly what it felt like to come home and realize your "home" didn't exist anymore. You were still in another country, even if you were standing in your own backyard.
Technical Mastery: How Hemingway Does It
If you’re a writer, you study this story for the pacing.
Hemingway uses very simple, declarative sentences. "The hospital was very old and very beautiful." He avoids big, flowery adjectives. He doesn't say "The Major was deeply saddened." He says, "The major stayed very polite and stiff."
🔗 Read more: Big Brother 27 Morgan: What Really Happened Behind the Scenes
By stripping away the emotion from the prose, he forces the reader to feel it. It’s like a punch that you don’t see coming because the hand is moving so slowly.
He also uses repetition. The word "machines" appears constantly. The machines are a symbol of the modern world’s failure. We think technology can fix us. We think progress will save us from the ancient, messy reality of death. But the machines just go click-click-click, and the hand stays withered, and the wife stays dead.
Actionable Insights for Reading Hemingway
If you want to truly appreciate In Another Country by Ernest Hemingway, don't just read the words. Look at the spaces between them.
- Notice the setting: The story takes place in autumn and winter. Pay attention to how Hemingway uses the cold and the wind to mirror the emotional state of the characters.
- Look for the "Iceberg": When the Major is teaching the narrator grammar, he’s actually trying to maintain a sense of order in a world that has gone chaotic. The grammar isn't the point; the discipline is.
- Compare the injuries: Each character’s physical wound represents a deeper psychological loss. The fencer loses his hand. The boy with the "old family" loses his face. The narrator loses his sense of belonging.
- Re-read the ending: The final image of the Major staring out the window at the photographs is one of the most devastating endings in literature. It’s the ultimate expression of disillusionment.
To understand this story is to understand the core of Hemingway's philosophy: the world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places. But for some, like the Major, the break is just too clean, and there's no coming back.
Next Steps for Your Literary Journey
If this story hit you hard, your next move should be reading A Farewell to Arms. It covers much of the same ground—the Italian front, the hospital in Milan, the feeling of being an outsider—but on a much grander, more tragic scale. You can also look into Hemingway's Men Without Women collection, where this story was originally published, to see how he handles themes of loneliness across different settings.
Study the way Hemingway describes the "machines" versus the way he describes the "hawks." It’s a masterclass in using contrast to build tension without ever raising the volume of the prose. Keep a notebook handy; you’ll find that his "simple" sentences are actually incredibly difficult to replicate. Every word is doing the work of ten.