The major in “In Another Country” serves as an older counterpart to the narrator and is a strong example of the Hemingway code hero. He is initially presented as a man of immense discipline and stoicism. A former champion fencer, he now contends with a withered hand, an injury that reflects his deeper emotional suffering. He attends his physical therapy at the hospital with dutiful regularity, despite his private conviction that the machines are “all nonsense” (47). This commitment to routine and form is his primary coping mechanism. He channels his need for control into correcting the narrator’s grammar, transforming the Italian language into a system of rigid rules. This disciplined exterior is a carefully constructed defense, a performance of masculine composure in the face of loss and disillusionment. His skepticism toward medals, recovery, and conventional ideas of courage suggests that his experiences have left him disillusioned rather than comforted.

Beneath his controlled facade, the major is deeply cynical and pessimistic, a worldview forged by his experiences of war. He advises the narrator that a man must not marry because he “should not place himself in a position to lose” (47) things he cannot bear to part with. This bitter philosophy is not an abstraction but a direct reflection of his own tragic experience. His cynicism extends to the very idea of recovery, as he dismisses the doctor’s optimistic photographs and expresses no confidence in the healing power of the machines. His worldview is one of resignation, where loss is inevitable and emotional attachment is a liability. This perspective isolates him from the younger, more hopeful soldiers, creating a quiet tension between his resigned experience and their comparatively limited understanding of loss.

The character’s stoicism ultimately is tested, revealing the immense grief it was meant to contain. His angry outburst at the narrator about the folly of marriage is a prelude to the revelation that his young wife has just died of pneumonia. In this moment, his disciplined control momentarily gives way to grief. He cries openly, “his head up looking at nothing, carrying himself straight and soldierly, with tears on both his cheeks” (48). This image is a poignant illustration of the code hero’s limits; his military bearing remains, but his emotional defenses have been breached. The major’s story is a powerful exploration of the strain that loss places on stoic self-control. When he returns to the hospital days later, he ignores the new, encouraging photographs of healed hands and simply “looked out of the window,” (49) demonstrating that some wounds, particularly the emotional ones, cannot be so easily mended.

The girl, referred to as Jig by her partner, is the protagonist of “Hills Like White Elephants.” Throughout her tense conversation with the American, she reveals increasing frustration with his attempts to shape the discussion surrounding her pregnancy. Initially, she appears whimsical and perhaps a bit detached, initiating the story’s central metaphor by observing that the distant hills “look like white elephants” (50). This imaginative observation, however, quickly becomes a source of tension, revealing her desire for a deeper connection that her partner seems to dismiss. Jig is perceptive, keenly aware of the subtext of their conversation about the “awfully simple operation” (52). She understands that the procedure is not merely a physical inconvenience but a monumental decision with irreversible emotional consequences. Her gaze shifts between the barren, sun-beaten landscape on their side of the station and the fertile fields of grain and trees across the tracks, a physical manifestation of the choice before her: a continued life of transient pleasures with the man, or the potential for family and rootedness that the pregnancy represents.

Throughout much of the story, Jig displays a sense of passivity and uncertainty and vulnerability. She seems to seek the American’s approval, asking if her remarks are “bright” and repeatedly trying to gauge his feelings. Her statements suggest a willingness to consider the procedure as a sacrifice for their relationship. “Then I’ll do it. Because I don’t care about me,” (53) she says, a statement that underscores her tendency to subordinate her own needs to his desires. Her dialogue reveals a painful awareness of the transactional nature of their love; if she does this for him, he will find her interesting again, and things will go back to the way they were. This dynamic places her in a position of vulnerability, where her value seems contingent on her compliance.

However, as the American continues to pressure her, Jig’s passive demeanor gives way to a quiet but powerful resistance. Her responses become laced with irony, as when she remarks of others who have had abortions, “And afterward they were all so happy” (52). Her indirect resistance slowly builds into a direct emotional plea. The story’s climax is not a decision about the pregnancy but Jig’s assertion of her emotional boundary, begging him to “please please please please please please stop talking?” (54). This desperate request signals a breaking point, a moment where she stops participating in the circular and manipulative conversation. While her final state is ambiguous, her last line, “I feel fine,” is heavy with resignation and irony, suggesting that despite the uncertainty surrounding her decision, she has reclaimed a small part of her own emotional truth in the face of his pressure. Her experience reflects the story’s exploration of failed communication and emotional disconnection.

The American in “Hills Like White Elephants” acts as the story’s antagonist. He represents a self-absorbed and emotionally evasive perspective. His primary motivation is to maintain his lifestyle of travel and detachment, which Jig’s pregnancy threatens. To achieve this, he employs subtle but relentless pressure to persuade her to have an abortion. He consistently minimizes the significance of the procedure, framing it as “really an awfully simple operation” and something trivial, “just to let the air in” (52). This manipulative language has the effect of minimizing Jig’s fears and emotional turmoil, reducing a life-altering decision to a simple problem with a simple solution. He avoids any direct discussion of the fetus, focusing instead on how the abortion will restore their relationship to its previous state of carefree happiness. His argument is that the pregnancy is the “only thing that’s made us unhappy” (52), a self-serving claim that ignores Jig’s complex feelings.

His interactions with Jig reveal a lack of empathy. He is incapable of seeing the situation from her point of view or acknowledging the emotional weight of her sacrifice. When she expresses her anxieties, he becomes dismissive and patronizing, telling her, “You mustn’t feel that way.” He is preoccupied with his own emotional comfort, confessing, “You know how I get when I worry” (53). His promises of future happiness ring hollow, as they are entirely conditional on her compliance. Even his declarations of love are used as a means of persuasion, helping him pursue the outcome he prefers. He reflects a form of masculinity centered on personal freedom and avoidance of responsibility, prioritizing freedom and pleasure over emotional connection. The couple’s reliance on drinking rituals, as they order beer and Anis del Toro, underscores their inability to communicate directly, using shared routines to evade the painful reality of their situation.

Nick Adams functions is one of the collection’s recurring figures, providing a perspective on innocence, disillusionment, and isolation across several stories. In “The Killers,” Nick’s confrontation with the hitmen initiates his disillusionment. Unlike the pragmatic George or the more cautious Sam, Nick attempts to exert moral agency by warning Ole Andreson. However, Andreson’s passive acceptance of his own murder shatters Nick’s worldview, exposing a hostile universe where human action fails against “an awful thing” (66). Nick’s desperate decision to “get out of this town” (67) is an existential retreat. He cannot adopt George’s stoic advice to simply “not think about it” (67) reflects his inability to reconcile himself to what he has witnessed. Because he refuses to suppress his horror, this encounter marks the definitive end of his childhood innocence.

This loss of innocence is rooted in earlier emotional disappointments that introduce the theme of The Failure of Communication and Resultant Isolation, as seen in “Ten Indians.” When Nick’s father reveals that Nick’s girlfriend was unfaithful, the older man uses a detached, evasive delivery that leaves Nick to process the news largely on his own. Unable to articulate his grief directly to his father, Nick silently concludes his “heart’s broken” (116) and cries in isolation. Yet, the collection structurally contrasts this early heartbreak with the enduring trauma of his later years. Aided by the sensory comfort of the wind, Nick awakens “a long time before he remembered that his heart was broken” (117). This fleeting sorrow underscores an ability to recover from disappointment that becomes more difficult to sustain as he encounters the violence and loss of adulthood.

The endpoint of Nick’s evolution occurs in “Now I Lay Me,” where the motif of wounds shifts from superficial heartbreak to more enduring psychological suffering. Now a World War I soldier; Nick’s fear of death has become a persistent source of anxiety and sleeplessness. Having been “blown up at night,” he harbors the irrational terror that if he sleeps in the dark, his “soul would go out of [his] body” (145). To survive, Nick abandons the physical agency he attempted in “The Killers,” relying instead on strict cognitive defense mechanisms. Unlike the effortless healing the natural world provided in his youth, Nick must now exhaustively manufacture childhood trout streams in his mind to impose order on a mind troubled by fear and uncertainty. His alienation is sealed during his interactions with his orderly, John, who naively insists marriage will “fix up everything” (153). Nick’s polite evasion masks a total disconnect; his internal realization that memories of women quickly “blurred” (153) compared to his solitary fishing rituals highlights the distance he feels from John’s confidence in domestic stability and ordinary companionship. Ultimately, Nick illustrates how fear, loss, and isolation can narrow a person’s world, moving from youthful attempts at connection toward an increasingly inward existence.

Zurito, the veteran picador in “The Undefeated,” acts as a mentor and foil to the protagonist, Manuel. He represents a practical perspective shaped by long experience in the bullring, serving as the story’s most clear-eyed observer of Manuel’s situation. When Manuel asks him to pic for him, Zurito initially refuses, bluntly telling him, “You’re too old” (18). He sees what Manuel cannot, or will not, accept: that Manuel’s time in the ring is over and that continuing to fight will only lead to his destruction. Zurito urges him to “cut off your coleta, Manolo,” (17) advising him to retire with dignity rather than face a humiliating or fatal end. His perspective is grounded in the harsh realities of a physically demanding profession, standing in stark contrast to Manuel’s romantic and pride-driven self-image.

Despite his world-weary realism, Zurito is defined by his loyalty and affection for Manuel. His eventual agreement to pic is an act of friendship, conditional on Manuel’s promise to quit if he fails to perform well. This bargain reveals Zurito’s deep-seated care for his friend’s well-being. His professionalism in the ring is masterful; described as “the best picador living” (19), he expertly weakens the bull, giving Manuel the best possible chance to succeed. After Manuel is seriously injured, Zurito is the one who stays by his side in the infirmary, offering comfort and a final validation of his friend’s performance long after the promoter has departed. In the end, he respects Manuel’s identity enough to pretend his threat of cutting the coleta was only a joke, granting his friend a final moment of dignity.

Jack Brennan, the ageing prizefighter in “Fifty Grand,” is a veteran boxer confronting the realities of physical decline. As he prepares to defend his title against the younger Walcott, he struggles with insomnia, fatigue, and doubts about his ability to win. Unlike those around him, who continue to discuss his chances of success, Jack recognizes the limitations imposed by age and experience. His conversations reveal a man concerned with his family, finances, and future, suggesting that boxing has become both a profession and a means of financial security. Convinced that age and declining form have left him at a disadvantage against Walcott, he places a large bet on his opponent, treating the fight as a practical business decision.

Despite his pessimism before the match, Jack demonstrates considerable skill and experience in the ring. During the early rounds, he relies on superior technique, repeatedly using his left hand and his knowledge of close fighting to offset Walcott’s physical advantages. As the fight progresses, however, Walcott’s strength begins to overwhelm him. Although Jack absorbs a severe beating, he remains composed and focuses on staying in the fight for as long as possible. His determination to remain on his feet, even when physically exhausted, reflects his unwillingness to be stopped by his opponent.

Beneath Jack’s toughness lies an awareness of his vulnerability. His anxiety before the fight, his references to his wife and children, and his concern for money all suggest that he understands his career may be nearing its end. When Walcott strikes him below the belt, Jack refuses to accept victory through a foul because doing so would cost him the wager he has placed on Walcott. Instead, he continues fighting despite his injury, and Walcott ultimately wins the championship. Jack’s experiences highlight the pressures faced by ageing athletes whose livelihoods depend upon their physical abilities. His experiences highlight the tension between professional pride, financial necessity, and the realities of professional boxing.

The two hitmen in “The Killers,” Al and Max, function as a single antagonistic force. Their detached professionalism and casual attitude toward violence create an atmosphere of dread throughout the story. Their matching derby hats and tight overcoats give them a vaudeville-like appearance that belies their sinister purpose. Their dialogue is clipped, rhythmic, and filled with a condescending slang (“bright boy”) that they use to intimidate and control George and Nick. They operate with a detached professionalism, treating the impending murder of Ole Andreson as a routine job they have been hired to perform “to oblige a friend” (61). This lack of personal motive makes their presence all the more chilling; they are not driven by passion or revenge, but by a cold, business-like code. Their methodical takeover of the lunchroom, their precise timing, and their casual discussion of killing create an atmosphere of inescapable dread. They are less like individual men and more like a reminder of the impersonal violence that shapes the story’s world, bringing a dark, urban violence into the seemingly quiet world of Summit.

Ole Andreson, the intended victim in “The Killers,” is defined by his complete resignation to his fate. A former heavyweight prizefighter, his large frame is confined to a small bed in a rooming house, where he lies fully clothed, staring at the wall. When Nick Adams arrives to warn him about the hitmen, Andreson displays no surprise or fear. His response is one of utter passivity and fatalism. “There isn’t anything I can do about it,” he states, refusing all offers of help (65). He is trapped not by the killers, but by an unspecified past that he believes he can no longer escape. He has been “in here all day,” unable to “make up my mind to go out” (65). This inaction stems from his belief that he has “got in wrong” and is “through with all that running around.” His quiet, hopeless acceptance of his imminent death is what most profoundly horrifies Nick, as it represents a world where individual action seems powerless in the face of an inevitable, violent end.

Retana is the fight promoter in “The Undefeated” and represents the cynical, exploitative business of blood sport. He is motivated primarily by profit. While he has a momentary flicker of nostalgia for the old days, it is quickly extinguished by financial calculation. He offers Manuel a dangerous, low-paying substitute fight because he can get him “cheaply” (12). He refuses to pay for a quality picador, telling Manuel, “If you want something extra, go and get it” (13), fully aware that Manuel cannot afford it. His final act is to appear briefly at the infirmary where Manuel is recovering from a serious injury, a perfunctory visit before he shrugs his shoulders and leaves, having no further use for the fallen bullfighter.

George, the manager of the lunchroom in “The Killers,” serves as a foil to Nick Adams. He represents a more worldly, pragmatic response to the threat posed by Al and Max. He understands the danger more quickly than Nick does and complies with the killers’ demands to ensure his own safety. While he encourages Nick to go warn Ole Andreson, his own approach is one of disengagement. His advice to Nick at the end of the story, “you better not think about it” (67), encapsulates his philosophy of coping with a violent and incomprehensible world: Some realities are beyond an individual’s control and are best left alone. His attitude provides a stark contrast to Nick’s deeply felt horror and disillusionment.