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A French hero of the Great War gets a proper memorial in Texas

"You know, my father is buried in Houston, Texas."

"Really? How'd that come about?"

"Well, right after the war, he went to America, for his health I think; he was gassed pretty badly in the trenches; and he died over there. That's about all I know; I never did meet him."

"Well, I'll be. I think we'd better go find him!"

That, or something like it, is how I imagine the conversation went, as my uncle and my dad sat around the dining room table in the little apartment on the Rue Boyer-Barret in Paris, drinking coffee after lunch, or perhaps apéritifs before dinner, in the early 1980s.

What I know is that my dad, back in the States, spent the next several years tracking down the final resting place of his brother-in-law's father. My dad was a patient and thorough man who loved a good challenge.

The first clue came from the Houston Chronicle, by way of the archives of the Houston Public Library. They were able to reproduce an article from microfilm, complete with indecipherable photographs, recounting how the Boy Scouts of America had played Taps at the interment of "the only French War Hero to be buried in Houston." My dad's excitement must've been palpable: war hero? Really? This was getting interesting!

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The Chronicle mentioned the cemetery of course; but somehow, they mentioned the wrong one. With the help of some -- and despite some other -- cemetery staff, the right repository was located. Full speed ahead!

Next, he was able to procure a death certificate. More details, more questions. He now had an official date and cause of death: April 14, 1921, "chronic infection of the lungs following being 'gassed' during War." Still, there were holes: age, date of birth and parents, all unknown. Now, the French keep pretty good records; still, some are apparently lost, presumably a result of the various wars and other destructive events that have been their lot throughout the 20th century. No government agency has yet been able to find a date of birth for my uncle's father, Lieutenant Henri Raymond Lacour. The folks at Holy Cross Cemetery, perhaps getting caught up in the mystery themselves, with some effort succeeded in finding Mr. Lacour's final resting place: a plot with the simple marker 462A. That of course wouldn't do; a proper gravestone was needed. The only piece missing was Henri Raymond's date of birth. And here, the irresistible force came up hard against the immovable object: there was no date of birth.

Fast-forward 30 years. My dad passes away, and I inherit his files and a few uncompleted projects. Then, my aunt and uncle, Henri Jacques Lacour, pass away. My cousin and I have spoken of the file, and I've sent him copies of what I have. He's made inquiries seeking his grandfather's date of birth with both civil and military authorities, as have I, to no avail. After his parents' deaths, my cousin goes through the little apartment on the Rue Boyer-Barret, cleaning it out and preparing it for sale, when he stumbles across an old document, an official government Acknowledgement of Paternity, wherein Henri Raymond recognized his son Henri Jacques as his own. And there, since the French are meticulous, were the dates of birth of both the son and the father. While the story of Henri Raymond was hardly complete, we now had all the necessary pieces to complete a proper grave marker. The marker was commissioned and, since there is a French Consulate in Houston, I asked if they'd be interested in participating in a small dedication ceremony. They readily agreed, and a date was set. My cousin and his wife bought airline tickets.

And then, things got really interesting. My contact at the consulate, Marie-Laure Reed, told the consul, Mr. Sujiro Seam, what was going on, and he took it upon himself to do a little sleuthing of his own. Mere weeks before the appointed date, long after the marker had been built and set in place, he discovered that Henri Raymond Lacour had come to Texas not just, and perhaps not even, for his health, but because he'd been awarded a scholarship to attend the University of Texas, in Austin. It was all there, in the 1918-1919 Cactus, the UT yearbook, complete with pictures of the young lieutenant in uniform. While in Austin, among other things, he helped found and was president of the university French club, Le Cercle Français, which is still active today. There's his picture, dapper and squared-away, with one other guy and over a dozen coeds. One imagines his attention was much sought-after ... and, according to the cutline in the Cactus, the Houston Chronicle was correct -- that he was a bona fide war hero, earning the Croix de Guerre during the Battle of Verdun, having been "wounded and cited for valor three times," as well as being decorated with La Fourragére.

What happened next, and why he left UT and Austin, we don't know; we do know that he spent the last two years of his life in Houston.

And so, on Nov. 11, 2014, 100 years after the start of World War I, on the date the Armistice was signed concluding the war to end all wars, Henri Raymond's grandson joined me and my family, the Consul-General of France and an honor guard provided by the Sons of the American Revolution to dedicate a permanent and appropriate marker, honoring his memory, service and sacrifice. Rest in peace, Lieutenant Lacour, hero of France and the Great War, in America's bosom.

Ken Landfield has lived in Homer since 1980.

The views expressed here are the writer's own and are not necessarily endorsed by Alaska Dispatch News, which welcomes a broad range of viewpoints. To submit a piece for consideration, e-mail commentary@alaskadispatch.com

Ken Landfield

Ken Landfield lives in Homer.

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