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Vice Admiral Guépratte (see in Wikipedia), commander of the French division of the allied fleet of the Dardanelles
Those clear blue eyes have gazed upon all the enchantments of the sea, whether in calm or furious mood, under the grey northern mists or sparkling in the sunshine of oriental cruises; in his romantically ruffled hair the great wind of the open sea would seem to be blowing. One could not imagine a more perfect sailor’s face, a Breton sailor, born for the rough life which generations of lads from Armorica have led, today it’s fishing, tomorrow it’s war, and always the sea for company.
For certain, sure he would have preferred the naval warfare of yesteryear, warships with three tiers of decks firing from every porthole, corvettes running before the wind, with fine names inscribed on their poops, the “L'Inconstante”, the “Zélée” and the “Tonnant”: the frenzy of the attack, the heavy smoke, the splendour of the colours in the sunlight, and vessels surrendering under the silent and respectful cannons of the enemy. All that is only a memory of past glory: naval war today is distant and mathematically calculated. But Admiral Guepratte did have, however, a vision of past days. Off the white cliffs of Gallipoli, under the unforgiving light he led his battleships towards the marvellous city, and when, in a few seconds the Bouvier was sunk, to the great acclaim of his crew the leader felt rise in his heart the pride of his race and the memory of traditional virtues.
“The sailors of the republic
Boarded the vessel le Vengeur.”