War and peace, a family account, cont’d

Previously on “War and peace”, from my great-grandfather Élie Martin to my great-uncle Philippe Onraët, an account of the family members who went to war, from the Chinese-French war of the 19th century to WWI… This post will deal with WWII onwards. (All images: family archives)

1939, Rwanda-Urundi, East Africa, my uncle Gérard Leclerc was looking for gold mines. I joke you not. Gold mines. Note the Johnny Walker bottle on the folding table.

After the defeat in 1940, De Gaulle rallied those parts of the “Empire” that he could, with the help of Governor general Félix Eboué. Parts of French Africa did join the Free French Forces: Chad, Cameroon, French Equatorial Africa. Not Sénégal or North Africa which kept their allegiance to Vichy. In October 1940, de Gaulle delivered a speech on the radio in Brazzaville, the capital of then French Congo. Many Frenchmen in Africa travelled to Congo to volunteer and join the Free French Forces. Including my Uncle Gérard. It must have taken him weeks or more to cross Africa from Rwanda to Congo.

Uncle Gérard in Casablanca, 1943. In November 1942, Americans and English forces had landed in North Africa. Free French Forces were not involved, since Roosevelt disliked de Gaulle immensely and tried to “outrank” him with General Giroud. A typical Roosevelt ploy which de Gaulle had to work around.

Regardless, in 1943, Uncle Gérard was in Casablanca with the Free French Forces. Now that I think of it, he probably saw his in-laws, my grandparents, Pierre Martin and Julie Martin, née Onraët, who’d retired there. (See the first part). Eventually Uncle Gérard would land in Normandy in 1944, with the French Second Armoured Division under General Leclerc (not related) all the way to Berlin in May 1945. Not sure what his rank was. A sergeant would have two stripes. One silver stripe is weird.

My father Cyril Martin-Onraët (1918-2010) was a second lieutenant for a few months until France surrendered. See “1940, the war lost” which I recently posted:

1940, the war lost

My father Cyril, in Karachi, Pakistan, c.1950. Peace? Not really. He was an Air France man. Pakistan was the obliged stop-over between France and Saïgon and the French Vietnam war. Even then, as now, military air transport was not our forte. So my father flew soldiers to the East, on commercial Air France planes, and coffins back west from Indochina. Including the body of Lieutenant De Lattre, the son of Marshall De Lattre de Tassigny, commander-in-chief of the French army in Indochina. Even generals lose their sons in war.

Peter Goutière, born in India in 1914. Though a contemporary of my father’s, Peter is actually my grandmother Julie’s first cousin; as often happened then in large families, his father George, was twenty years younger than his eldest sister, Marie-Wilhelmine Goutière, my great-grandmother. In other words, Peter’s aunt. (See first part). (Are you taking notes? There will be an exam at the end.) Peter’s father died when Peter was a small child, who then emigrated to the US.

Peter fought the entire WWII in China under General Claire Chennault, with the Flying tigers, supporting Chiang Kai-Shek against the Japanese, and Mao Zedong incidentally. CNAC means China National Aviation Corporation. The flying tigers were formed in April 1941, officially as a Chinese force. Months before Pearl Harbor, the US could not be officially involved. (Sounds familiar?) Peter was a military pilot; after the war, he became a commercial airline pilot with Pan Am I believe. (Remember PAA?)

Last I heard, “Uncle Pete” was still alive in late 2020, at 106. Smoking a cigar on his birthday party, and wearing the CNAC Flying Tigers cap. I don’t think his glass only has Coke in it. Cheers Uncle Pete.

My mother Renée, née Prodault, (1926-2004) joined the French Air Force in 1944, after Brittany was liberated by the Allies. As a “WAC”, she did mainly typing and clerical work, though she was called on a special mystery mission in May 1945, which you can read in “An unexpected trip” if you haven’t already:

An unexpected trip

My parents, Cyril and Renée, c.1952, in Karachi, Pakistan. A few years after the war, I guesstimate they had at least 3 to 5 social events weekly. Peace?

My brother Richard, born in 1946. He joined the French Navy in 1963 for 3 years. He was lucky. The Algerian war was just over. No other war or “operation” had started. Good timing.

Richard, c.1968, with his Mod/Rocker look, after his service, when he joined the student barricades in May ’68. He didn’t do it for political reasons, just for the eyes of a pretty Maoist French Lit. student. Peace? The American Vietnam war was already under way. If Americans had asked us we would have told them: “Don’t go there. They beat the crap out of us… in Diên Biên Phú in 1954.”

1960. Conakry, Guinea, West Africa. Little sister and yours truly, dressed up as little Bretons (that we were). The Cuba missile crisis was only two years away. Never heard anything about it at the time. Kids were very much shielded by grown-ups then. On some weeks the French news magazines “didn’t make it in the post.” Ha! The first President of newly indenpendent Guinea, whose name I cannot get myself to write, was already moving his pawns towards full dictatorship and massive slaughter of opponents.

1976-1977, the author of these lines as a corporal in the French Army. 41st Infantry Regiment based in Brittany. The regiment dated back to 1634. Dissolved by Chirac in 1999 as a consequence of the end of military service. One of his many political mistakes. The regiment’s motto was “Hardi Bretagne.” (Dare! Brittany!)

I was lucky too. Interventions in Africa (Chad mainly, early 70’s) were temporarily over. No overseas expeditions in view. Training was a serious affair though. In one year military service, we spent 130 days in maneuvers. Discounting leave of absence, and cleaning up the barracks, half the year. After a coupla months we were “experts” in any kind of weapons from 9mm pistol all the way to 81mm mortar, including the Browning M2 machine gun that fires 500 bullets a minute. Goes through a steel plate of almost an inch. (Don’t want to think what they have invented now).

Thinking back to my great-grandfather, the “Admiral” Élie Martin, the rest of the family has fared poorly rank-wise. My father was “only” a second lieutenant, my brother a first class sailor. I barely made it to corporal. My Captain used to verbally trash me at least once a week: “Corporal, you have an issue with authority!” I kept thinking “I only have an issue with stupidity. Captain. Sir.” I kept my thoughts to myself. Safer. But I never made it to “caporal-chef”.

Honourably discharged – despite the Captain- in July ’77, I went to Grad School at the “Univershity of Alabamer, Tuscalooser.” (Roll Tide of course). Peace? The Iranian revolution started in ’78-79, as I was “learnin’ Sudern y’all” and wrapping up my MBA…

Many years after the Wall had fallen in Berlin, with my brother Richard in Paris, near the Porte de Vanves flea market where he had a stand. We thought we had Peace. Ha! (His dog’s name was Nouba.)

As I post this on the 42nd day of the Russian invasion of Ukraine, no-one can really tell what will happen in Ukraine and beyond. All things considered? It is well possible that Peace can only be achieved after War is fought. In this line of thought, Peace would not be an alternative to War but a consequence.

Free Ukraine. 🇺🇦