Against Death and Time: One Fatal Season in Racing's Glory Years

by Brock Yates

  Unlike at Indianapolis, where the entered cars were housed in Gasoline Alley, there were no such centralized accommodations at Le Mans. Cars were prepared for practice and the race at rented garages and car dealerships scattered around the city, and driven daily to the track on public roads. Indy machines were Spartan single-seaters, but the sports cars set for Le Mans carried full road equipment-lights, fenders, two seats, spare tires, and even horns-according to the fiendishly complex regulations that governed the race.

  While the large teams entered by the Mercedes-Benz and Jaguar factories rented warehouses and factory annexes and filled them with mountains of spare parts and legions of expert mechanics-all clothed in the coveralls that were the fashion of the day-smaller operations were left to prepare their cars in private garages and in the open courtyards of small hotels.

  The Moderne was no exception. Below my window in the small courtyard, two independent English teams, one with an MG, the other with a Triumph, labored into the night, the rattle of their spanners and the garble of Cockney mechanics echoing off the stone walls of the little canyon. Everywhere in the city, the rumble and whine of racing engines being tuned up for the race added to the chatter of the crowds, the clatter of the street traffic, and the cries of vendors hawking souvenirs.

  Having arrived at Le Mans before official practice began, I spent the days at Gruber's Curbside cafe. It was alive with beautiful people decked out in the latest fashions. Men in Lacoste shirts, tailored slacks, and Gucci loafers were everywhere, while an endless parade of Pucci- and Chanel-draped women battled for my attention. The square swarmed with all manner of Ferraris, Porsches, and other svelte roadsters, all vying for space and adoration.

  Early in the going, I met an American journalist named Peter Coltrin. He was a scrawny man in his early thirties with a receding chin and wispy reddish hair. A Kansan by birth, he had left the heartland as a private in Patton's Third Army-and never returned. He had begun photographing motor races for several obscure British magazines and had taken up residence in Modena, Italy, near the fabled Scuderia Ferrari, a place that was becoming increasingly important in international motor sports circles.

  Embittered about what he considered to be the excess and hubris of his homeland, Coltrin was a classic expatriate whose forerunners had convened in Paris in the twenties following World War I and again in the forties and fifties following the collapse of Germany. Coltrin was given to rages on subjects ranging from President Eisenhower's middle-class obsession with golf to the brinksmanship of John Foster Dulles to the dreadful state of American car engineering. He was a Europhile, a midwestern emigre who ardently rejected American culture and technology. Yet Coltrin was a fountain of information about the European racing scene and I therefore tolerated his tirades in hopes of gathering valuable inside gossip.

  Late in the afternoon, as we drank Camparis and sodas, Coltrin smiled and said, "Oh god, here they come. The guys from Cunningham."

  I turned in my chair to see two clean-cut men in sports shirts ease under the blue canopy of the restaurant and seat themselves at a small table near the curb.

  I recognized them from Watkins Glen. The older one, with a square jaw and a sandy wad of curly hair, was Briggs Cunningham. The other, leaner, and with a level stare of faint defiance, was Phil Walters, the superb driver who had won at the Glen with ease.

  "Briggs keeps showing up here trying to beat the Europeans;" Coltrin said. "Got to admire him. At least this time he was smart enough to give up on his giant Chrysler-powered lumps and buy a Jaguar. But his second car is powered by an Offenhauser, one of those silly dirt-track engines from Indianapolis."

  "Like the one that dominated the 500 with Vukovich?" I mused.

  "Yeah, they do allright with that roundy-round stuff, but not here where real performance counts," countered Coltrin.

  "Why do you have such a hard-on for your own country?" I asked.

  "A lot of us do. We're tired of being linked to a nation of smalltown Babbitts. Like Gertrude Stein said, `There's no there there."'

  "Cunningham is an heir to a meat-packing fortune," I countered. "His middle name is Swift, like in the meat-packing business. He's a very wealthy Yale man. He can afford to build his own sports cars. He doesn't look like a small-town Babbitt to me."

  "Maybe not. But he's out of his league here," said Coltrin, waving at the waiter for another drink. "Briggs is a pure gentleman amateur. A sportsman loaded with money who surrounds himself with real talent. Like Walters. Glider pilot in the war. Ran midgets and stock cars professionally under the nom de plume `Ted Tappet' because his family thought racing as a professional was beneath his station. Began to use his given name when he hooked up with Briggs. Now he's got a shot with Ferrari. He's headed to Modena right after this. Wants to run Formula One. No more of this sports car stuff. Walters wants to go head-to-head with guys like Fangio and Moss."

  "Is he good enough?" I asked.

  "Probably. But you never know. It takes more than the physical things-reflexes, eyesight, endurance. All that. It's a head thing. You either have it or you don't. We'll have to see with Walters."

  "Vukovich had it. And see what it got him," I said.

  "Braver than Dick Tracy. That I'll give him."

  "So who's gonna win this thing?" I asked.

  "Jaguar has to be the favorite. Won it the last two years. Hawthorn's their lead driver. Very quick. Then there's Mercedes-Benz. Three new super cars. They carry air brakes-big panels that flip out of the rear deck to help them slow down at the end of the Mulsanne straight. Three flat-out miles that end with a forty-mile-an-hour right-hander. They've got Juan Manuel Fangio, the world champion, teamed up with Stirling Moss. Two of the best drivers in the world." Coltrin paused and lit a cigarette, a foul-smelling Gauloise. "But one of their cars is a bit of a joke. Very political, those Germans."

  "Meaning what?" I asked.

  "Meaning they've teamed John Fitch with a Frenchman, Pierre Levegh. Mercedes picked a Frenchman and an American to gain a few points with the French public. He's over fifty years old. Maybe fiftyfive, for god's sake. They call him the `Bishop: Weird man. Stony and distant. Two years ago he tried to run the whole damn twenty-fours hours solo. Insanity. He got in a fugue state. Delirious. Round and round like an automoton. With less than an hour to go, he had a lead of twenty-five miles. Three goddamn laps on the second-place Mercedes. Then he missed a shift and broke the engine. All of France went insane. He hid out in Paris for two weeks. Real name is Bouillion. His Uncle, Louis Levegh, drove for the French Mors team back around the turn of the century. Bouillion legally changed his name in honor of his uncle.

  "He got the ride with Mercedes when another Frenchman, Paul Frere, a very good driver and a journalist, turned down the seat because he had already signed with Aston Martin. So the Krauts thought they could score a few public relations points with the Frogs by signing poor old Levegh."

  "His teammate is John Fitch. He ran with Cunningham, didn't he? Now he's with Mercedes?"

  "Yeah, the guy is really good. Won the grand touring class for Mercedes at the Mille Miglia. Finished fifth overall in a basically stock gullwing coupe. That got him the ride here." Coltrin took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaling the smoke through his nose. "Fitch ran the Millie with a guy named Kurt Gessel as his so-called navigator. A reporter for some Hamburg newspaper. Never even been to a race before, and they stuck him in a car for a thousand miles of the wildest driving in the world. Scared the shit out of him, but it got Mercedes some good press. They were lucky Fitch was good enough so he didn't crash and kill the poor bastard. Mercedes' little public relations game would have backfired then."

  "It doesn't sound like you've got a whole lot of love for the Germans or the French."

  "You spend time in Italy and you'll know why."

  "Ferrari?" I asked.

  "Yeah, Ferrari. The food. The women. The sense of humor. No place like it on earth. You come to Modena and I'll show you what I mean." Coltrin continued t
o grump about practically everything in sight as I left him and introduced myself to Cunningham and Walters. They were both reserved easterners, endowed with that subtle elan that radiates from old money and privilege. They invited me to sit down, and the conversation turned quickly to the event at hand and Walters' future.

  "Phil will be leaving us, and we'll miss him;" said Cunningham. "From here he's headed to Modena. Ferrari wants him to drive for the Scuderia. No American has ever run Formula One, so we're hoping Phil gets a fair shot," said Cunningham. "They say that Rex Mays was invited to join the Alfa Romeo team after he ran so well at the Vanderbilt Cup on Long Island in'37. But when Rex heard that you had to dress for dinner and be very social, he said `to hell with it' and stayed in California."

  "So I guess you've brought along your tux," I said to Walters.

  "It's in my luggage, right next to my helmet," he said, smiling.

  "What do you think about running for a European team?" I asked.

  "It'll be different. Old man Ferrari is a real character. Pretty much a tyrant. But running Formula One will be a kick. Going against Fangio and Moss and Hawthorn will be a real challenge. Right after this I'm going down there to test. Phil tells me the politics are pretty tricky at the factory."

  Walters was referring to young Phil Hill, a talented Californian who was already on the Ferrari team as junior sports car driver and was running his first race for the Scuderia at Le Mans. He would be teamed as the second driver with Umberto Maglioli, although his chances to compete in the more challenging Formula One cars seemed dim, at least for the near future.

  "We'll just have to wait and see how the Italians treat us," Walters mused.

  "At least you'll make a little money," said Cunningham.

  "I won't be rich. Tavoni, the team manager, says I'll get 40 percent of any appearance money they wangle out the of the promoterswhich won't be much, considering that I'm unknown in Europeand 50 percent of my winnings. Whatever that might be."

  "The Europeans all think Americans are rolling in money. So they get us to race for nickels and dimes. And we're so eager we'll take anything. There are ten Americans running here and not one of us will make enough to buy a new suit. I suppose that's our fault," Cunningham shrugged.

  A lanky man with a wide smile walked up and sat down. John Fitch was taller and thinner than I had expected, once again affirming that race car drivers come in all sizes and shapes. Yet they seem to share one characteristic. It was the eyes. Someone had once described them as "gunfighter's eyes," even and clear, deeply penetrating, unblinking, laser-like at their target. Eyesight was one of the most important ele ments in fast driving, and Fitch was not only accomplished in all conditions, day and night, but had been a trained P-51 fighter pilot in the recent World War.

  After some light banter between the three about how their old teammate had deserted Cunningham for a ride with the vaunted Mercedes-Benz, the conversation turned to the upcoming race.

  Between them, the trio had dominated American sports car racing for three years, and it was Fitch and Walters who had driven a Cunningham to third overall in 1953 at Le Mans. It was to be the highest finish for the team in the legendary contest. The same year, the pair won the Sebring 12-Hour, thereby becoming the first allAmerican team in history to win an international championship endurance race. Because of the long bond between the three, the conversation flowed freely, even though Fitch now belonged to a major rival.

  "Your Merc looks damned good," said Walters.

  "The thing is amazing. Rock solid. The engine's unbelievably responsive. Fuel-injected. Magnesium bodywork. The air brake is like an anchor at the end of the Mulsanne."

  "Is the team as good as they say?" asked Cunningham, referring to the legendary organization led by Mercedes-Benz chief engineer Rudolph Uhlenhaut and team manager Alfred Neubauer, both veterans of over twenty years of competition.

  "You can't believe it. Every detail is attended to. Like an army. I thought we were pretty good when we ran together, but these people are amazing.

  I watched the exchange with interest, recalling the banter between Vukovich and McGrath prior to the 500. It had been profane and hard-edged, full of good-natured threats and rough talk. But now the chat was civilized and understated. Fitch, dressed in a tailored tweed jacket and perfectly creased slacks, appeared to have stepped out from a Brooks Brothers store window, the epitome of country chic. When the waiter asked for his drink order, he spoke in French.

  "What about Levegh?" asked Cunningham, referring to Fitch's co-driver.

  "A good fellow. I had dinner with him and his wife a few nights ago. A bit morose. Still haunted by his failure to win here a couple of years ago. Has mixed feelings about the Germans, of course, like a lot of Frenchmen. They're the ones who beat him when his Talbot broke and now they're giving him a chance to win again. That seems to gnaw at him."

  "He's at least fifty years old. Maybe more," said Walters.

  "Yes, but he can find his way around here blindfolded. He probably has more miles under his belt at Le Mans than anybody. And this time no one-man heroics. He'll follow team orders. He's going to run the first four hours. Kind of a salute to his devotion to the race over the years."

  "Still, he's damned old for this sort of stuff," said Walters.

  "This will be his last race if he wins it, you can be sure of that," said Fitch. "But Le Mans rules his entire life. A bit intense for me, but a decent teammate. Our plan is to run easily for the first half of the race, then up the pace. Levegh isn't particularly comfortable with the car. Hates driving on the left side for some reason and maintains that the circuit-especially the front straight-is too narrow for the current cars.

  "He's probably right. I'd be hell trying to run three abreast. In the old days with skinny-tired Alfas and Bentleys, maybe. But not today," said Walters.

  "The car looks fantastic," said Cunningham, referring to Fitch's Mercedes.

  "About perfect. We tested at Hokckenheim for twenty-four hours last month. The whole track was pitch-black at night, except for some tiny lanterns they'd placed on the tops of the corners. The headlights were a bit weak, which made for some bad moments. But they've fixes that with a big pair of extra lights in the grille. I think we're ready."

  "You've moved," said Cunningham, changing the subject.

  "Yes, to Lugano. Lovely place. Elizabeth is pregnant, you know. So she's staying there until the baby. Sometime later this summer, we expect."

  Again I was struck by the civility of it all. Living in a beautiful Swiss resort, staying in the best hotels, dining in the finest restaurants, and driving with a bunch of gentlemen in exotic sports cars. Cunningham, a man of great wealth and social stature, heir to uncounted millions-able to race cars and yachts as his mission in life. I thought of Vukovich's family, now struggling to survive, his legacy amounting to little more than a pair of gas stations, a small house, and two Ford convertibles.

  Were these gentlemen as hard-edged and courageous as the flinty professionals who risked everything at Indianapolis? Was this form of sport as elemental, as fiercely challenging and physically demanding as that which I had witnessed at Indianapolis and Syracuse? My exposure to sports car racing at Watkins Glen had indicated otherwise. A thin layer of artifice and faintly feminine gentility had pervaded the atmosphere, counterbalanced only by the professionalism of the Cunningham team.

  "Was doing the movie fun?" asked Cunningham, referring to Fitch's work on the soon-to-be-released The Racers starring Kirk Douglas and Belle Darvi. He had been critical to the production, arranging for three faux Grand Prix cars to be created from old Maseratis and doing extensive driving as Douglas's double in various European locations.

  "Good fun. Hard work. The Hollywood types are very professional. Everything on schedule. Like the Germans."

  "What was Kirk Douglas like?" asked Walters. "A good guy?"

  Fitch laughed. "Douglas? Never met him. He never came to Europe. Stayed back in Los Angeles and shot all that foot
age in the cars at the studio. The magic of motion pictures. They call it rearscreen projection. He just sat there, sawing the wheel back and forth, looking fierce, while the scenery was rolled in behind him." Fitch stood up to leave. "Got to run. Another meeting. The Germans love meetings."

  He turned to me. I had remained silent during the conversation. "I enjoy your magazine," he said. "We get it by airmail in Lugano." He reached into his coat, pulled out a small leather packet, and withdrew an engraved business cards. "If you ever get to Lugano, don't hesitate to call. Elizabeth and I enjoy entertaining our American friends involved in the sport." Fitch handed me the card, which read: "John Cooper Fitch. Via Seminario 2, Lugano, Switzerland."

  "Thank you sir. Perhaps the next time I'm in Europe," I responded, blithely implying that I was a regular traveler to the Continent.

  "Perhaps," said Fitch politely.

  "If you see me in your rearview mirrors, make sure you get out of the way," said Walters, smiling widely.

  "Of course I will," returned Fitch, laughing. "Because that will mean I'll be slowing down to make a pit stop."

  With that good-natured jab, Fitch drifted back into the crowd.

  After a few more perfunctory exchanges, I thanked the men and returned to Coltrin. "Maybe I'll take you up on that offer to go to Modena," I said.

  "You can drive down with me. I'll get you a room at the Albergo Real, the hotel where all the action is. And I mean real action."

  Thanks to Coltrin, who could speak reasonable French, I was able to work my way through the Byzantine madness of gaining proper press credentials from the track officials, a maddening process of furious paper shuffling, endless signatures and jackhammer rubber stamping on a pile of duplicate forms. Irascible, as he was, Coltrin knew the right moves in the middle of the shouting, arguing, and pandemonium as journalists from all over the world fumed and raged with the officials, who icily stood their ground behind their littered desks.