“TEN-SHUN! Heels clap. Hands slap the fatigues. Backs straighten up. Just look ahead to a far and distant horizon of glory. Wait for the orders. “AT EASE!” Relax a bit. Spread your legs. Clasp your hands behind your back. Wait. “Today we shall do an explosive drill.” The Adjudant says. An ‘Adjudant’ is a non-commissioned…
Early morning under the African sky. The sun is already peaking over the palm trees behind the military airport. I tie the laces on my second-hand army ranger boots for the third time. What time is it? Seven thirty. What a ghastly hour. I have a slight hangover. I really shouldn’t have gone to the…
Let me tell you about a place, unique, so unique, a place where Man was born, where rivers hide under the earth, their path only marked by the rows of acacias that run on the ground, a place lost between the clouds, so white, so white, and the sky, so blue, so blue, that you…
My grandfather was a railroad man. Blue collar to a fault. I never saw him without his blue heavy duty cotton jacket and his cap. Well, never? Not quite. Sometimes, when he visited us in Paris or in the magic house in Normandy, he wore a black suit with vest and tie. A starched white…
Hi everyone. I hope your summer has been bright and happy. I did take a break from blogging. Though I collected a good bit of material for future posts. I was honoured to be interviewed by Yvette at Priorhouse. She has a wonderful blog and did a great job at interviewing yours truly. Allow me…
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…
Elie Martin (1843-1920), my great-grandfather on my father’s side. A graduate of the École Navale (French Naval Academy), he joined the service in 1862. Family lore says he fought – and defeated – the Black flags pirates in the Bay of Halong in Indochina, during the Chinese-French war (1881-1885). His Biography at the École Navale…
It’s a small booklet, bound in faded black cloth. A time-yellowed label bears a name written with a dip pen: Martin Cyril. My father’s name. Surname first as was and still is customary in France. It’s my father’s flight log in 1939-1940 at the beginning of WWII. My father, very dapper in his freshly cut…
I had a house in Africa… Not “a farm at the foot of the Ngong hills”, as Karen Blixen, though I did go to the hills later. (“But that, Best Beloved” is another story.) It was a simple house by the West African sea. A concrete jetty pointing North. The sun rose every day to…
“O-bla-di-o-bla-da. Life goes on, yeah…” “O-bla-di… Are you sure? That doesn’t sound right. Is it English?” “That’s what I can hear”, I said. “Wait, the lyrics are in the album. Pair of dummies that we are.” “Yeah”, Erik said. “But remember, we agreed the lyrics can only be used as a last resort.” “Right. Let…
Equinoxio 