Ghosts of Ortona, page 10
But as Norman had told the CBC correspondent Matthew Halton, he didn’t like what that job was doing to him. Norman told Halton that he used to like hunting, but now when he thought of going home he hoped to never see a rifle again. Maybe he told Rollie that, too—or Rollie had sensed it—when they shook hands on April 12 as they were going up the line in Holland. Maybe that was on Norman’s mind when he told Rollie that he was never coming home.
THE ARMY SERVICE FILES of the Canadian World War II dead are open to the public. It’s not hard to retrieve a file. But in all of these years during and after my fieldwork, I have never wanted to look up Norman’s.
I’m doing that now. Filling in the search fields on the online form.
Name. Date of Death.
Search results. There he is. That’s his number. M30851.
Here’s his army enlistment form. He joined the Edmonton Fusiliers, as Sam had figured. It’s dated August 15, 1940. That’s the date that Rollie remembered. I’m picturing Rollie there, the third guy ahead of Norman in the line, signing up.
It says Norman’s nineteen years old. Left school at age fourteen. Completed up to Grade Ten. Occupation, farm work on father’s 320 acre farm. Home is Lac Ste. Anne. I Google that. Yes, it’s near Alberta Beach, as Sam had told me. Not that I doubted it. Next of kin is his mother, Mary. Curious that he’d put his mother as next of kin, when it says on the form that his father is still alive. Languages, English and Cree. Says he can speak and read both, fluently. Religion, Roman Catholic. Physical description, health good, complexion dark, hair black, eyes brown, height five foot ten and a half, weight one hundred forty-two pounds. A tall, skinny guy.
For the next year of his service record, he’s stationed in Alberta. There’s a long list of transgressions—absent without leave, breaking out of barracks, refusal to obey an order—for which he’s repeatedly confined to barracks and docked his pay. Then there’s the paperwork for a discharge. July 16, 1941. He’s convicted of “improper possession of a sum of money belonging to a comrade.” He’s kicked out of the army.
Here’s a letter, handwritten by Norman. “Dear sirs …” He’s writing from Lac Ste. Anne to the headquarters in Calgary, requesting to be readmitted. Apologizes for his actions. Says he tried to re-enlist but the recruiting office told him he needs permission from higher up. “Please give me instructions on how to get back to the service of my country. Thanking you in advance. Norman J. Letendre.” For a guy who left school at fourteen, this is pretty well written.
His request is rejected. The army’s internal review of his application doesn’t mince words. “It is the opinion of this Headquarters that Letendre should definitely NOT be re-enlisted.” The decision quotes a report from his former commanding officer. “This soldier is a halfbreed Indian of very little education and less than average intelligence. He has been a continual source of trouble since his enlistment…This man is unlikely ever to become an efficient soldier.”
There’s nothing here showing how that news was conveyed to Norman.
Next document in the file. It’s another army enlistment form. February 18, 1942. The name of this new recruit is Norman Joseph Collahan. His home is Lac Ste. Anne. Left school at age fourteen. Father’s still alive. Next of kin is his mother, Mary. Fluent in English and Cree. Religion, Roman Catholic. Physical description, health good, complexion dark, hair black, eyes brown, height five foot ten and a half, weight one hundred fifty pounds. Number M35164.
During the first months of Collahan’s service, there are a few minor transgressions. Absent without leave now and then.
Five months into service. June 29, 1942. Private N.J. Collahan is court martialled. His crime is giving a false name on enlistment. His real name is Letendre. He’s sentenced to forty-two days detention. On the service record they’ve crossed out Collahan, typed Letendre over it, and replaced the number given to Collahan with the old one belonging to Letendre. It’s back to M30851.
But it looks like, after serving his punishment, he’s going to stay in the army. There’s nothing in here about kicking him out.
So his little trick has worked.
Next in the file.
Dear Sir
It’s a typed letter from Mrs. Marie Anettainte Letendre.
Just a few lines to let you know that I would like to know about my son Pte. Norman J. Callahan.
She wants to know why he’s in jail and for how long.
Please give me answered by return mail I nearly went craizzy when I heard that because poor kid as I did in know where he was for long time.
Unlike her son, Marie is clearly not fluent in English. To make sense of her letter, in some places, it helps to read it out loud. It goes on and on, a full page as one single paragraph, very loosely punctuated. It’s like a stream of consciousness. The poor woman is in distress.
He did in not steal that name is father’s name was Sam J. Callahan and he died when he was a baby. then when he was small I got married to Norman Letendre from Wabumun. And had three kid from him so he ues to be so mean to my son Norm J.C. at last one day he kick him out so so poor kid never had a home and had to make is leaving till after my husband left me with the kid’s so my son come back home…and help me to make my leaving with is step sisters. You know now dear sir if you don’t want him in the armie please sent him home because I need.
She is having a hard time. She’s ill. Can’t pay for—something. And it’s haying season and there’s no one to help. Norman has been sending her the money he earns but she’d rather have him on the farm.
He should never joiejent the armie because I have so much work for me to around place. And is just a kid to and foolish no body to adives him xesept is poor mother…I guiss if he dadd was still leaving he wont be like that.
She begs the dear sir, if the army doesn’t want her son, would they please just send him home. But most of all, she wants her son to be free.
I prayed to god in heaven poor son of mine would be free…Yes I would rather like to see him to be sent over seas then to be in jail poor kid…He said he like the army but I would rather have him home.
From army headquarters, there’s a short, polite reply to Marie. They say that her son must serve out his sentence. Norman can request compassionate leave to visit her, but the request needs to come from him. Marie is advised to write to her son and tell him to make that request.
Did it happen? I can’t tell. By the time his mother heard about his detention and then these letters went back and forth, Norman’s forty-two days of punishment might have been nearly over.
And then he’s overseas. The record shows him taken on strength by the Edmonton regiment in England. He catches up with the regiment in April 1943, which is just a few months before they left England and went into action in Italy.
So maybe this is why his number was such a puzzle to Sam. Rollie could remember Norman from the beginning when they first signed up. But then Norman had been kicked out, had taken time trying to re-enlist, and got held back from the regiment during his time in detention. To other guys in the regiment, like Sam, Norman might have appeared to be a new recruit who had joined after they did, who showed up in England just before the action started. When Sam looked up Norman in the memorial book on the couch with me that day, it surprised him to see that Norman had the number of an early recruit.
Next item. June 15, 1943. Embarkation, United Kingdom.
July 10, 1943. Disembarked. That’s the date of the Sicily landing.
August 5, 1943, he’s promoted to the rank of corporal. That’s a few days after the battle of Agira.
October 29, 1943, he’s reverted to the rank of private. The record notes, “at own request.” So he didn’t want to be a corporal anymore. I wonder what he didn’t like about it. This was a few days after the battle of Colle D’Anchise.
Next item is January 10, 1944. That’s after Ortona. He’s awarded the Canadian Volunteer Service Medal.
And now here’s his crime and conviction.
Date of offence: December 28, 1943.
Trial: January 26, 1944.
The evidence of the prosecution is somewhat confusing …
The trial is summarized in a few pages. It says that the original military court documents were lost in transit from Italy to England. It doesn’t say how, but that’s easy to imagine. There was a war going on all around them. The truck carrying the originals was destroyed. The plane carrying them crashed and burned. The ship carrying them sank. Or, they were lost in a very ordinary way, misplaced or cast away somehow in all of the confusion.
So the crime happened in a house in Ortona. Norman pleaded not guilty. Said he was very drunk at the time. He thought the woman had invited him into the house. He thought the woman had consented. The woman and her family testified, as did a Canadian soldier who intervened. The military court ruled that while “a very confused state of affairs seems to have existed,” the woman’s testimony was more plausible than Norman’s. It was inconceivable that a woman, who it was noted had recently given birth, would consent to intercourse with a stranger while her husband and entire family were in the house. And even if it were accepted as true that no physical force had been used, the court noted the woman’s testimony that she had been intimidated by Norman’s rifle.
Evidence was given, by two officers, of the accused’s good character as a soldier. He was said to have an exceptionally good record in action.
Norman was convicted and sentenced to three years of detention in military prison barracks.
There’s a letter from Norman appealing his conviction. Repeats his claim that he didn’t use force, was very drunk, and thought there was consent.
I would like very much to go back to the front line and serve my country as I have already done willingly and to the best of my ability.
The appeal is rejected.
This is now July 1944. He’s in Canadian military prison in Italy.
February 7, 1945. Sentence suspended.
Embarked Italy, disembarked France, March 6, 1945.
March 28, 1945. Taken on strength, Loyal Edmonton Regiment. He joined the regiment at a staging area near Antwerp, Belgium. They were about to go into action for the liberation of the Netherlands.
The next item, of April 12, 1945, is the last.
Killed in Action.
The regiment had crossed the IJssel in amphibious vehicles during the middle of the night. On the morning of the twelfth, they were fighting to establish a bridgehead. The engineers putting in the pontoon bridge were under fire from the Germans who were behind a dyke 600 yards from the river. Norman’s company was sent forward to push the Germans back.
He was buried temporarily in the nearby town of Zutphen.
There’s an inventory of what they found in Norman’s kit. This was to be sent to his next of kin.
newspaper clipping
souvenir bank note and coin
snapshots
pocket book
sport medal
prayer pamphlet
rosary
cig. case (leather)
pair of moccasins
There’s a Canadian Pacific telegram:
Ottawa
April 20, 1945
To Mrs Mary Anne Letendre. General Delivery. Lake Ste. Anne, Alberta.
Regret deeply M30861 Private Norman Letendre has been officially reported killed in action twelfth April 1945.
Lastly, there’s a form that Norman’s mother had to fill out and send in to claim her son’s army service estate.
On the form, she’s put May 5, 1923 as Norman’s birth date. This is curious. It’s not what Norman had told the army. On his enlistment form, his year of birth is 1921. That made him nineteen years old at the time of enlistment. Perhaps not coincidentally, nineteen was the minimum age to join the army. But if his mother was correct—and how could she be not—then Norman was only seventeen when he joined.
I remember something from way back during my fieldwork when I had been reading through files in the Edmonton archives. In some copies of the regimental journal from the war years, I’d seen notices of the deaths of the regiment’s overseas soldiers, complete with their photographs. Had I made copies of these pages? Was Norman’s image within them?
I’m searching through the box on my living room floor.
I have it. On a page of the journal from July 1945, here is Norman. He’s in his army dress uniform. Yes, he sure does look like a kid aged seventeen. I guess you could say that he’s smiling in the picture, but you could also say that his eyes aren’t smiling. At the time of this picture, Norman still liked hunting. And he must have been good at it—a great shot. I wonder who he learned it from, this kid without a father, around the shores of Lac Ste. Anne.
“I WAS TWENTY-ONE YEARS old and, I didn’t know what the hell was botherin’ me.”
We had moved from the study to the kitchen to make ourselves some tea. Mel’s wife had gone out to do some shopping. Mel was telling me about his agonizing struggles with his stomach which had started during the war.
“And at the time,” I said, “you just thought it was ’cause you were—”
“Scared. Yeah.”
“Were the other guys scared too?”
“I don’t know anybody who wasn’t. If you weren’t scared, you were dead.”
A low rumble started rising from the kettle on the counter.
“Yes,” Mel continued. “And there was guys, there was a fellow by the name of Sam Hately. I used to hear great tales about him. If they needed a prisoner he’d go out and get one. Uh, I think he’s still alive out in BC someplace.”
“And what makes you think of him?”
“Well, just the tales that I used to hear about him. He, he didn’t seem to be afraid of anything, you know?”
“You heard stories about him?”
“Yeah.”
There was a click from the roaring kettle as it switched itself off. Mel poured the hot water into two mugs with tea bags. I looked around the kitchen.
“Do you have sugar?”
“Oh yeah,” Mel said, directing me. “Just in the corner. Yeah. Next one. Should be the second bowl in, on the bottom. Spoons right there.”
I sat on a stool and stirred my tea at the kitchen island across from Mel.
“You never actually were with him, were you?”
“Who, Hately? No, just heard about him. Knew him to see him but I didn’t know him.”
“Were there other guys like him? Like, was that a certain kind of soldier that you could—”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Like a category?”
“Oh I think, exceptional, you know. I think exceptional. Because, like I say, uh, I don’t think you’d find me volunteering to go on a patrol. But uh. What would you like to eat with that. I don’t think there’s much. There’s some cookies here, but, they might be kinda crunchy.”
He held an open bag of cookies in my direction. I took one.
“People like that were probably a minority, eh?”
“I think so. There was a fellow by the name of Norm Letendre who was a sniper with the regiment. And Norm I think—” Mel paused for thought. “He had about seventeen to his credit. Whether he had notches on his gun or not I don’t know but, how he kept track I don’t know that either. He was an Indian too. A good f—”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“No. Not really. But a friend of mine by the name of Barney Pellowe was also a sniper and, and Barney was never the type of guy that told you how many, but, how I found out that uh, that Norm Letendre had seventeen to his credit, I forget how that come about, but he said—I never want to see a gun after this war.”
Mel lowered his voice and shook his head gently when speaking Norman’s words, as if he had tried to imitate how he figured Norman would have said that. Then, back in his own voice, still quietly, Mel continued.
“But he was, he wouldn’t either, because he was killed in Germany after the regiment moved on, you know.”
Mel was silent. He sipped his tea. I sipped mine. I wondered what to ask.
As I write this now, I wish that I had asked Mel to tell me more about the connection in his mind between Hately and Letendre. How had one man reminded him of the other? On one hand, he seemed to regard them both as exceptional in terms of their courage and ability to capture and kill so many Germans. On the other hand, he had described Hately as someone who relished the task, whereas he remembered Letendre—to the point of becoming him, in that moment—as someone who felt revolted by it.
Mel broke the silence. “But Sam Hately. Let me see if—” He left the kitchen island, went to his study, and came back with his regimental association’s members list. He turned its pages, sipping his tea, scanning the list—but to no avail. Later we learned that Hately had died a few years before.
AFTER THE BATTLE OF Ortona, Mel had started wishing for an injury that would get him sent home. He finally experienced a breakdown in the next combat action after Ortona.
“I got through, I got through Ortona there was, I think, I’m not sure eleven or twelve of us left after the battle in Ortona, in my company.”
“How many were there to begin with?”
“Oh I would say about a hundred and, a company runs between 120 and 130.”
“So you were brought down from about 120 to, to twelve?”
“Yeah. Yeah, yeah. Yeah, some taken prisoner, some wounded, some killed. So there wasn’t uh, it got to the uh, so that you were wonderin’ just when your time was up, you know? And, which was always, always kind of stressful, but you were there, what are you going to do about it, you know? So, guys, some guys had premonitions of what, you know, and I think each of us, after a while I think you got to think to yourself, well, uh, if I get hit I want a good one, you know. I want to get out of this.”
He described the guilt that he felt for wishing this, and for the fact that he had indeed made it home safely when others had not.
