Portrait of Pierre Fyot by Bernard Kouchner.
He had a heart of gold and a movie-star face, Doctor Pierre Fyot left us at the end of September.
Of course, we must retrace his medical career, which was anything but ordinary, but first let us meet his family, the Fyot clan of rue Turgot in Dijon, in that house whose style and whiteness I remember.
How can one tell here the saga of this singular family? At every generation it produced its heroes, many dead in the wars of France.
It counted among its members academic scholars, bar association presidents, archaeologists, and even Pierre’s father, a lawyer, who for more than 30 years was deputy mayor and made the city of Canon Kir function.
Pierre began his medical studies in Dijon, but as early as 1943, at age 20, he joined the Maquis and committed himself to the Resistance: Arc-en-ciel network.
The tone was set: simplicity and heroism.
At the end of the war, during a final confrontation with the occupying forces, the friend who had accompanied him since joining the Maquis died at his side along with 15 other volunteers. Pierre, the sole survivor, went to announce the tragedy of his death to his friend’s mother.
Thus began what Pierre would call all his life the “survivor’s complex.”
Pierre Fyot continued his path in General de Lattre de Tassigny’s army, in the 121st infantry regiment, and took part in the liberation of Alsace, then Germany, before resuming his medical studies in Dijon.
He was an officer, sensitive to the speech and to the political vision of General de Gaulle on the greatness of France and the defense of its colonies.
A graduated doctor. He joined the marine troops and became an officer of the chasseurs. He was placed in charge of commanding a fort on the high plateaus of Laos.
It was the time of pursuits and commando combat in the jungle. He spoke of it not as a warrior but as a man more sensitive to the inhabitants and to the beauty of the country. Between two battles, he treated the locals who came to consult him.
Demobilized, he returned to Dijon. He did not stay long. This was his contradiction: Pierre was a calm man who never stayed in one place.
In 1950 he was recruited as a civil-service doctor by the medical-social assistance in Algeria.
He became a dedicated doctor. Loved in the most remote villages, treating all his patients in the same way, FLN or anti-FLN. Caring for women, which was not customary.
Pierre Fyot (in the middle, without a beard) on a humanitarian mission in Afghanistan in the nineteen-eighties.
His office was in Les Oudhias, in the heart of Kabylia. Those were happy years. He visited his patients fearlessly across these mountainous regions, and in that period of war they sometimes confided to him their belonging to the fellagas. They trusted one another.
Not far from Pierre’s little town arrived a young man doing his national service in the SAS (Specialized Administrative Section), a new structure working only with civilians.
This young man, Gérard, was the brother of Hubert, the one who had died at his side in the Arc-en-ciel Maquis in Burgundy. Pierre asked an FLN leader he knew for protection for the young Frenchman, thus “entrusting” his friendship for Gérard.
The militant promised this protection. In 1956, Gérard was assassinated. Pierre, devastated, enlisted at the head of a commando of the 5th Moroccan Rifle Regiment, and to avenge Gérard, pursued the assassins for a long time up to a large cave serving as a refuge. He entered it and the rebel leader was killed.
Pierre returned to France to announce to Gérard’s mother the death of her second son. She then told him: “Why do my sons die and you always make it out alive?”
The eternal survivor…
At first, because of this “Algerian reputation,” I took him for a man of the right… But no, he was simply a true, a great humanist.
Pierre had married in Algeria, an attractive and intelligent pied-noir woman with whom he had two children. After this re-enlistment episode, from which he emerged lieutenant-colonel, and the independence of Algeria, he decided to return to France by sailboat with his wife.
Withdrawn from the army, the doctor and lieutenant-colonel took some science certificates. Having completed his studies in Dijon, he directed one then two clinical analysis laboratories.
Withdrawn from the army, he often travelled with IHEDN (Institute of Advanced Studies in National Defence). Then this ultra-gifted man began writing “Le Vent de la Toussaint,” translated into several languages and whose film directed by Gilles Béhat was quickly released.
This was only the beginning of his written work. I will not list all his books but only one of them, Les Remparts du Silence, which impressed me greatly.
He created a television series with Jacques Perrin, “Médecins des Hommes,” which would illustrate humanitarian adventures through their missions on three continents.
It was also his involvement with the Guilde du Raid, and especially in 1968 and 1971 his decision to join Médecins Sans Frontières. He was with us in Biafra. That is where our paths met.
From the early 1970s onward, I can no longer count the missions we did together for weeks and months from Lebanon to the China Sea, from South America to Africa.
Pierre never bragged about his adventures nor his real acts of bravery. Always available. He answered every call for Asia as for Africa.
He remained even-tempered throughout the mission, no work, no fatigue ever daunted him.
Political discussions occupied part of our nights, often punctuated with a doubtful expression he frequently used: “I can’t tell you,” or “I don’t know.”
This exquisite politeness hid an elegant reserve about the agitation of his life, about its diversity.
Diversity: thus was he also doctor to the Presidency on two occasions, and involved with Olivier Gendebien, the famous racing driver.
Finally and above all with filmmakers Pierre Schoendoerffer and Jacques Perrin, the actor of La 317e Section, who became an excellent producer and faithful friend of Pierre.
He did not often talk about his adventures, and yet what a beautiful life in its diversity.
This adventurer became a public figure.
Once, in Asia, I remember we thought we had lost him.
He had dived or fallen from this large American launch chartered by Médecins du Monde to help the boat people. There were two boats, ours and another, very close.
As the two steel hulls came together to collide with a thunderous noise: disappearance of Pierre!
All the volunteers leaned over one side, thinking our friend dead, when a cry sounded, almost a laugh, drawing us to the other side.
Pierre had dived under the boats and the eternal survivor was waving at us.
That sea anecdote reminds me that he owned a great boat, an Empereur, with which we sailed among the Venezuelan islands a long time ago.
I had a very great friendship for Pierre. I often came to Dijon for the weekend. We did not then have only old war stories; our ambition was to comment on the course of the world!
With him ends an entire generation of the founders of French-style emergency humanitarian action.
Bernard Kouchner.
Pierre Fyot, testimony of Philippe Gautier.
Friend Pierre, Farewell
Close friend of Jacques Perrin,
I had the chance to rub shoulders with Pierre during the writing of the television series Médecins des Hommes (the story of Médecins Sans Frontières)
Then during numerous meetings for Jacques Perrin’s projects (with Jean-François Deniau and many others) for the Caen Memorial,
Then Le Dernier des Hommes which took 25 years to be completed.
During these moments of exchange, Pierre liked to share and recount all these encounters during his humanitarian commitment.
Attentive to others, we have lost one of the pioneers of the “French Doctors,” a great defender of the humanitarian cause.
Philippe Gautier.
Testimony of D. Martiny, filmmaker.
I met Pierre Fyot in 1993 at the premiere of my film Erythrée, 30 ans de solitude, produced by Jacques Perrin.
At the bar, Jacques introduces Pierre to me, a good generation separates us but we immediately get along.
And the following year, Jacques brings us together for a new documentary on the memory of the army, a subject Pierre knew well—understandably, since he had fought three wars.
The end of this film would take us to Yugoslavia, in full war, with the Foreign Legion, sent by France to Bosnia-Herzegovina (as part of the Rapid Reaction Force) and positioned on Mount Igman overlooking the city of Sarajevo.
I leave with Pierre, who will become a friend. He is 73 at the time.
He is a doctor, big mouth, fine drinker and as discussions unfold I discover his impressive path: resistance fighter, then volunteer in General Leclerc’s troops — Alsace and Germany campaign up to Berchtesgaden — and again volunteer in Indochina where he is both fighting Captain and doctor “I shot at the enemy and afterwards I went to treat the wounded.”
During this trip, a tasty anecdote comes back to me.
We found ourselves, after a chaotic journey, in Zagreb at the FORPRONU Headquarters in a huge camp where the various military contingents of several nations called by the UN to serve in Yugoslavia were stationed.
There was everything: from Filipinos to American GIs, through many nationalities, hundreds of men and streams of trucks loading and unloading impressive equipment every day.
Pierre and I were housed with civilians, journalists and photographers of various nationalities.
I had the top bunk, Pierre the bottom one, in the huge dormitory where we were assigned. Two days of waiting before boarding a C-130 Hercules for Sarajevo. Blue helmet and 15-kg bulletproof vest mandatory. Sarajevo airport being under fire from Bosnian Serbs.
Pierre railed against all this gear (which he would refuse to wear during patrols on Mount Igman “You’re not going to bother me with your stuff! I fought three wars and not once was I hit by a bullet!”) and he told me he was hungry!
To eat, it was open bar. Everything was free with the FORPRONU badge and one could choose one’s mess hall and eat Indian, American or Scandinavian food at will.
We opted for some mixed Euro-whatever thing which was less crowded with noisy men.
Pierre and I followed the self-service line then found a large table where two guys were sitting, a Malaysian and a tall Czech chewing loudly.
We ate. Pierre had also taken on his tray a large bowl of soup.
As we were starving, we devoured our dishes in silence — sounds of forks and no conversation.
Pierre grabbed his bowl of soup, and with both hands raised the precious bowl to his lips.
He drank abundantly. Suddenly his look cracked, he grimaced violently and spat out, choking, the soup he had so longed for.
Soup that was not soup! It was in fact a full bowl of hyper-mustardy vinaigrette that he had just swallowed.
He coughed like a madman, choking.
I stood up, while the Czech quickly deserted the table, now covered with puddles of oil and vinegar.
The Malaysian did not move.
I pounded Pierre’s back like crazy; he gave me the desperate look of a drowning man sinking.
By shaking him, while he gulped down liters of water, I managed to calm his rocky cough that terrified the Malaysian.
He collapsed on the table to recover.
I could not hold back an uncontrollable laugh because I remembered his joy at savoring that soup and the gustatory betrayal he must have experienced.
He ended up laughing too, railing against those idiots who had placed that bowl in his path.
The Malaysian, appalled by us, slipped away without the slightest hint of compassion.
Pierre asked me to find cheese to cauterize.
D. Martiny.