I remember Henri from the ENH (watchmaking school) in Cluses. I’m not sure if he ever was in my class, but we were the same age and ended up together on the same French Air Force base of Salon de Provence during our 16 month mandatory military service.
His dad was a custom agent and had been based for a while in Montriond, the village I was raised, before being stationed in nearby Samoëns, also in Haute-Savoie. During my service, I would ride a night train to return to the base and hitchhike to return home. I covered more than 6,000 miles this way.
One day, I happened to hitchhike with Henri. We probably got a first lift and then a second. It was a young guy driving a white Peugeot 403 sedan. We were driving north on Route Nationale 7 (RN 7), a busy two-lane highway that was the only road from Paris to the Riviera. I was in the front seat and my buddy in the back; in 1968 cars weren’t even equipped with seat-belts.
We were between Avignon and Orange, when my buddy got a sudden urge to smoke and after putting a cigarette in his mouth, tapped the driver on his right shoulder to offer him one too. Surprised, the driver turned around and, in so doing, lost control of the car that immediately swerved, rolled over and began spinning in the center of the road.
By the grace of God, no car came across in these few seconds and we ended up in the ditch, my head bloodied because the sun roof was open and I hit the road as the car roof was scratching the road. Except for that, none of us was injured, so we said goodbye to the driver and resumed our trip hitch-hiking for the remaining 250 miles.
Henri was 74.
Heartfelt condolences to his wife Colette and his family.
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