In 1962 James Jones was in Paris, struggling to finish The Thin Red Line, his novelization of his experiences in the Battle of Mount Austen during Guadalcanal.

As Jones was agonizing over a scene in which a member of the company, badly wounded, lay crying for help in no man’s land, the laundry man came to collect his bill. When Jones answered the knock, his face was wet with tears.

“Pas nécessaire,” said the man, taken aback. “It’s okay. You no have to pay now.”