The Letters
Hostile armies may face each other for years, striving for
the victory which is decided in a single day.
- Sun Tzu
Present Day
A small package was left by a delivery service on the front porch. I take my morning coffee at a downtown cafŽ so I was not at home when it was delivered. I call the cafŽ my “office” - a small table next to a giant wood stove in a former “Gentlemen’s Club” - a prohibition term for pub - that serves as the pool hall, bar, and restaurant for a small historic hotel called The Olympic Club. This is where I like to begin my day.
Today was quiet. My waitress brought me coffee in one of the “old cups,” reserved for regulars like myself. The manager had decided to spruce up the place by playing classical music (a good thing) and changing to large teacups for coffee (not so good). They were clumsy to hold and the coffee cooled too quickly. When the regulars revolted by bringing their own coffee cups, he relented and kept a small supply of the old cups for us troublemakers.
I finished some routine work - checked my email, reviewed some client notes, and chatted briefly with one of the customers about the massive urinals in the men’s room. These things resemble a porcelain coffin standing on end and are plumbed with ancient copper pipes with pressure valves attached, circa 1920 or so. There is a window in the door so people can take pictures without having to enter (another good thing if you have an aversion to infectious diseases). Centralia, Washington is likely the only town where a men’s room is the main tourist attraction.
After coffee I took a short walk around the corner to the bank and paid the mortgage, then drove to the local grocery to select something for dinner, then home. The package was waiting for me on the front steps. It was nondescript, irregularly shaped - a bundle wrapped in plain brown paper. The return address caught my attention - the writing was in French.
Courseulles-sur-Mer
I had never heard of Courseulles-sur-Mer, and knew no one in France for that matter. I had travelled to Europe only once, to Germany to visit my daughter and two grandsons. I have an interest in World War II history and worked in a family visit with trips to Munich, Berchtesgaden, and Berlin. I’ve never been to France.
I sat the package on my desk and went to pour myself a cup of coffee. When I sat down, I first typed “Courseulles” into my browser’s search field. The first return link piqued my curiosity.
COURSEULLES-SUR-MER Calvados - 18 km north of Caen ... In Courseulles-sur-Mer the Germans had fortified the mouth of the river Seulles. On 6 June 1944, ...
June 6, 1944. D-Day. The Invasion of Europe. I clicked on the link and read the first paragraph ...
In Courseulles-sur-Mer the Germans had fortified the mouth of the river Seulles. On 6 June 1944, at 7:45 a.m. the amphibious tanks of the 1st Hussars were launched in the ocean three kilometers from the coast; many of them sank because of the hard swell. Those that succeeded in reaching the sand of the beach immediately opened fire on the German positions. They enabled the 7th Brigade to liberate Courseulles-sur-Mer in a few hours. By the evening of 6 June, 21,500 men and 3,200 vehicles had landed on Juno Beach.
As an American I have often heard the stories and watched movies of the D-Day assaults on Omaha Beach and Point du Hoc by the American army. Admittedly, even though I was an amateur historian of World War II, I had spent little time studying the action on the other landing beaches. Just what connection was there between this package and the Canadian assault on Juno Beach?
I cut the tape holding the paper package together. It consisted of two bundles of old letters tied by coarse twine. Several of the envelopes had been opened and the letters appeared to have been recently read and refolded. There was a cover letter enclosed, and a name in the first paragraph immediately caught my attention. Henry Anderson. And further down, a date - 1918.
Henry W. Anderson, the Reverend H.W. Anderson, was my grandfather. He had served in France in WWI, and later served as an army chaplain in the Pacific during WWII. He retired with the rank of lieutenant colonel. Grandpa “Andy” had been the chaplain of the Veterans Administration hospital in Vancouver, Washington when I was a small boy. My family used to take the train from Tacoma to Vancouver to visit. He and “Nana” Lucile lived in the old Fort Vancouver Officer’s Row - vintage Victorian homes that housed the post’s officers.
The cover letter was in English.
To: Monsieur Lawrence Hewitt
Centralia, Washington USA
Dear M. Hewitt,
Recently our city demolished a small cottage on the outskirts of Courseulles-sur-Mer. The construction company found a metal container with these letters inside.
One set of letters is addressed to Henry W. Anderson in Tacoma, Washington. The other set contains letters written by the same Henry Anderson from several addresses in both the United States and overseas. The time frame is 1922 - 1944. I must apologize for opening and reading several letters, but we were trying to identity their owner.
We discovered through U.S. Army records there was a Henry Anderson stationed in Tours, France, in 1918. A further search of public records indicated he had a daughter named Bonnie who married John Hewitt of Tacoma, Washington. They had a son named Lawrence. Records indicate both John and Bonnie are deceased, but we traced a Lawrence Hewitt who had lived in Tacoma to Centralia, Washington, and surmised this may be the correct family.
If these are the letters meant for your grandfather, please accept them with our compliments. If not, please return them to me. It is our desire to see they are forwarded to the correct party.
Yours sincerely,
M. FrŽdŽric Pouille
Mayor, Courseulles-sur-Mer, France
I placed the letter aside and cut the twine binding the groups of letters. The first group was written in French by “Andy” Anderson to “Antoine.” The dates covered a span of some twenty years, the last one dated 1942.
The second group, also in French, was addressed from “Antoine” to Henry W. Anderson. They were sealed, except for a few opened by the city, but never posted. There was no indication as to Antoine’s last name and no return address.
All the envelopes were old and yellowed, obviously from the same period. I carefully slit them open with a pocketknife and removed the letters, organizing them by date. I examined the latest one first. It was from Antoine, but the writing was shaky and uncertain.
I opened the French - English translator on my computer and typed in small pieces of the text. Although the translation was a little clumsy, eventually the meaning of the letter came through. It read,
6 Jun 1944
My Dear Andy,
This will be my last letter, for I will die this day, I am certain of it. I wish only to be remembered as a patriot, but that cannot be.
Pray for me. You are my only friend.
Antoine
R