Divorced. By Ernest Hemingway, 47, masculine, monosyllabic author: his third wife, Martha Gellhorn, 37, author of social novels and Hemingwayesque short stories; after five years of marriage, no children; in Havana. Grounds: desertion.

Divorced. By Hattie McDaniel, 46, amiable, enormous Negro cinemactress (Gone with the Wind): her third husband, James Lloyd Crawford, 49, real estate salesman; after four and a half years of marriage, no children; in Hollywood. She said he was jealous of her career, once threatened to kill her.

Divorced. James Ramsey Ullman, 38, mountain-climbing, best-selling novelist (The White Tower), onetime Broadway producer: by Ruth Fishman Ullman, after 15 years of marriage, two children; in Reno.

Died. Major General Leonard F. Wing, 52, rufous-polled, ruddy leader of the 43rd Division from New Guinea to Manila: after a heart attack; in Rutland, Vt. He was so popular that his men nicknamed their division the "Red Wing," promised to elect him U.S. Senator any time he chose.

Died. Thomas J. Martin, 64, New York City detective who liked chocolate ice cream, scorned the "looking-glass detective work" of fictional sleuths, solved or helped solve many a notable and grisly murder (James Masterson, Helen Clevenger, the Snyder-Gray case); after a heart attack; in Queens.

Died. Arthur Cheney Train, 70, novelist-creator of shrewd, lovable Yankee Lawyer Ephraim Tutt: after long illness; in Manhattan. Said Author Train ruefully: "As between Tutt and myself, Tutt will be remembered as the real person and I as the fictional character." Died. Moman Pruiett, 73, shaggy-browed Oklahoma criminal lawyer: of pneumonia; in Oklahoma City. Sent to jail for robbery at 18, he vowed "I'll open the doors of your damned prisons!" Later he became so expert at bringing tears to backwoods jurors' eyes (343 murder cases, 303 acquittals, no executions) that he was considered a menace to the community.

Died. Edward B. Marks, 80, publisher (Edward B. Marks Music Corp.) of some 20,000 songs including barbershop favorites and the urbane ballads of Jerome Kern, Sigmund Romberg, Rodgers & Hart: of pneumonia; in Mineola, L.I. While song-plugging in Manhattan saloons during the gaslit '90s, he saw a customer paw a tearful waitress, whipped out a pencil, wrote straight from life My Mother Was a Lady.

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