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

by Brock Yates

  Fitch's face darkened. "I was having a coffee in the Mercedes trailer with his wife when it happened. I left her to help get some of the injured people out of the pits. When Macklin spun, he hit some crewmen and journalists. At first we thought it was Fangio. His wife was hysterical. Then someone said that it was my car. Then I found Levegh's wife. Before I could speak, she looked at me and said, `I know, Fitch. It was Levegh. He is dead. I know he is dead: I tried to tell her that he might have been thrown clear, but she'd have none of it. She just kept repeating, `I know he is dead: She was right."

  He turned away from us and rushed into the crowd.

  A large man with a stone-bald head staggered out of the confusion. A battery of Leicas was draped over his shoulders. He was wearing the khaki vest with multiple pockets favored by professional photographers. It was spattered with blood.

  I had seen him before at Indianapolis. Dan Rubin was a top photographer for Time and Life and other major periodicals.

  "Are you all right?" I asked.

  "No. Not after what I just saw. I had just crossed over on the Dunlop bridge and was walking through the crowd. I planned to shoot the Hawthorn pit stop from across the track. I was checking my F-stops when I heard this terrible explosion off to my right. I looked up to see Levegh's car carom onto the barrier. Then these giant hunks of steel pinwheeled into the crowd. It was awful. Then suddenly people were rushing toward me, all of them screaming. Most of them were covered with blood. Some were holding gaping wounds on their faces, arms, and upper bodies. An old man collapsed in front of me. I knelt down to help him and was nearly crushed. I covered Korea and I never saw anything like this."

  "They say some people were killed."

  "Some? You've got to be kidding. There has to be a hundred dead over there. Maybe more. I need a drink."

  "The Ferrari box. All you need up there. Tell 'em I sent you," said Coltrin.

  Rubin reeled off.

  "You think they'll stop the race?" I asked.

  "They bloody well ought to," said an English journalist. "This is a bloody catastrophe."

  "They're still running out there. You can hear 'em," said Coltrin. "Like nothing even happened."

  "Same at Indy," I said. "They cleaned up the Vukovich crash and the race went on. Within minutes it was forgotten."

  Fitch reappeared. "Thank God I got through to her," he said. "Elizabeth had just heard on Armed Forces radio about the crash. They were saying that it might have been me."

  "What now?" I asked.

  "I've told Uhlenhaut and Neubauer that we ought to retire. Quit right now. Pull out the cars. There's enough bad blood between these two countries. We don't need this."

  "The French are saying that three or four people are dead," I said.

  "Good God! There are dozens dead. Maybe hundreds. What's the matter with them? That's nonsense," said the Englishman.

  "So will Mercedes withdraw?"

  "I doubt it. Fangio wants to run. He's very tough-minded. Moss is ready to keep going as well. But for the sake of the company's reputation, Mercedes ought to drop out."

  "They ought to stop the whole bloody show," said the little Englishman. "Enough is enough."

  Another man with a scrawny beard and wire-rimmed glasses butted in. "No way they'll stop. They've decided that stopping the race would clog the road, and the emergency vehicles would be stranded. No way to get the injured out. So they'll keep it going." I recognized the face. Dennis Jenkinson was perhaps the best-known British motor sports journalist, a regular for the venerable Motorsport monthly magazine and having recently won fame as the navigator for Stirling Moss on his epic, record-shattering victory drive in the Mille Miglia. "Jenks" was not only a vertitable encyclopedia of racing knowledge, but a three-time world champion-with Eric Oliver-in the insanely dangerous sport of motorcycle sidecar racing.

  "That's a shitty excuse," said Coltrin.

  "Maybe. Maybe not," I said. "They've got to get people t hospitals. Jamming the highways with traffic won't help. I can see their reasoning:'

  "That's ridiculous," snapped Coltrin. "Stop it now. Respect the dead. Worse yet, the car is German. They've already stirred up the old Franco-German antagonisms. It's in Mercedes' best interest to retire to affirm the Company's basic humanity and reputation."

  "That's bloody nonsense," growled Jenks, rising to his full five-footfour-inches. "Thousands of people die each day for one reason or another. It would be bloody sentimentality for Mercedes to withdraw someone because some people died here. One death is the same as a hundred."

  "The press will report that the ruthless German drove to victory over the dead bodies of Frenchmen. Neubauer wants to keep going. So do Moss and Fangio. But Uhlenhaut is on the phone trying to reach the board of directors in Suttgart. They'll be the ones to decide, said Coltrin.

  The argument going nowhere, Jenkinson stalked away.

  The place had devolved into madness. The screech and roar of the cars continued, mixed with the cacophony of the carnival and the endless wailing of ambulances and fire trucks. As darkness fell, the giant Esso blimp hung dolefully on its flagstaff, seemingly losing air. A bright neon Mobil Flying Red Horse sign and the garishly lit press tribune and grandstand were the only hints of color on the gray landscape as the brightly hued cars blended into the oncoming night.

  Rumors flew about the carnage. It had been officially announced that Levegh was dead, although the track press office remained circumspect about the civilian casualties. Coltrin spoke with crewmen and other journalists and all agreed that the toll would be high, perhaps over one hundred dead, with scores more injured.

  The Fangio and Moss Mercedes had now established supremacy over the Jaguar, which had fallen two laps in arrears. The team Ferraris had broken, leaving the little hospitality box dark and empty, save for a chilled bartender and a few Scuderia loyalists. The floor was littered with empty champagne and wine bottles. The food platters were picked clean.

  Tired and depressed, I sat on the tongue of a small trailer behind the pits, trying to decide what to do. Surely hard news of the crash would be forthcoming, although there seemed to be an official reluctance to deal with the reality, perhaps out of fear that more of the massive crowd would flee the track and further clog the adjacent highways. Coltrin reported that intense phone calls were being exchanged between team manager Uhlenhaut and the Daimler-Benz board of directors in Stuttgart. The sentiment seemed to be leaning toward an official withdrawal.

  It came shortly after two o'clock in the morning, 10 hours after the start of the race and eight hours following the disaster. An official statement from Stuttgart claimed that in deference to the dead and injured, the two remaining Mercedes-Benz 300SLR cars would be retired. The statement also noted that all of the team cars had operated within the rules of the event and could not be held responsible for the crash.

  I sensed that this would be the opening volley in an ugly, protracted effort by drivers, teams, and even nations to fix the blame on anyone but themselves.

  With the Hawthorn/Bueb Jaguar now far ahead in an uncontested lead and the major competition from both Ferrari and MercedesBenz gone, the drama had been drained from the race. The night was dark and cold. It was time for bed. I found Coltrin dragging on one of his countless cigarettes and sharing a bottle of Scotch with an English journalist behind the pits.

  He agreed to leave, and we trooped to his Fiat in the nearly vacant press parking lot and weaved back to the city. He dropped me off at the Moderne with an agreement to meet for a late breakfast at the Continental Hotel.

  My room was pulsing with heat. I opened the window. The whine of the race cars at the faraway track drifted in, along with the faint glow of dawn in the east. As I lay there my mind fixed on the image of Levegh's car's nose pointed into the air, then pancaking onto the fence, followed by two sharp detonations and the burst of fire and flying metal. If anything, the crash resembled wartime newsreels of a fighter plane crash. Thankfully, the smoke and the high earthen ba
rrier that was supposed to protect the crowd had at least shielded me from the awful carnage that ensued. I finally drifted off to sleep while trying to compose the lead to my story, which I knew would have to center on the greatest disaster in motor racing history.

  Coltrin was at a table in the Continental dining room when I arrived, unshaven and wearing the same rumpled shirt as the day before. He was drinking champagne and reading several French and English newspapers, along with the international edition of the Herald Tribune. He handed me the front page of Le Monde and said, "It's all in there. Just as bad as we thought it." The picture accompanying the story showed the Mercedes tumbling over the fence toward the crowd, and a second shot of a pile of dead and injured amid a jumble of upturned chairs, scattered knapsacks and purses, and shredded clothing.

  "The car itself never got into the crowd," he said. "The engine and the front axle assembly tore loose. That's what did the killing. That and the spilled fuel that caught fire. Most of the papers are saying eighty were killed. Plus Levegh. But a few of 'em are claiming the death toll is over one hundred. I doubt the frogs will ever tell us. A friend of mine who works for Renault says official count will only include French citizens. The rest will be ignored."

  "Why is that?" I asked.

  "National pride. The effect on their tourism industry. The fact that some of the critically injured will also croak. Who knows how many in the end? So they'll keep the number at a minimum."

  "Whose fault do you think it was?"

  "Fangio and Macklin are saying it was Hawthorn's. That he cut in front of Macklin and caused Lance to spike the brakes. Levegh had no room and nailed him in the back. Fangio says in one of the papers that Levegh raised his hand-warning him-just before he hit Macklin. That's the German version."

  "Are there others?"

  "Hell, yes," said Coltrin as he rustled through the pile of papers beside his chair. He pulled up the London Telegraph and pointed to a page-one story. "The Brits are blaming Levegh. The Jaguar team manager, Lofty England, is claiming that the Frenchman was so worried about being overtaken by Fangio on the main straightaway in front of all his countrymen that he was glued to his rearview mirror and paying no attention to Macklin and Hawthorn. England says he has photos to prove that Levegh never changed course when Macklin veered in front of him. Others are saying it was Macklin's fault, because he panicked when Hawthorn braked in front of him and headed for the pits. That's hard to believe. Lance had six Le Mans under his belt and is a good, steady driver."

  "So everybody is blaming everybody," I said.

  "Except the French for running a race where cars will go over 180 on a road about as narrow as a country lane. That's the problem. There is just no damn room for cars that fast to maneuver. It was only dumb luck that Fangio didn't get into the pits and kill a few dozen more. They are saying that when he weaved through the mess, his Mercedes scuffed some paint off Hawthorn's Jaguar. It was that close."

  "What do you think will happen? Some politicians in America are already screaming about banning racing," I said.

  "Same thing in Europe. The Swiss government is saying it will ban all racing immediately and the French and Germans are talking about at least a hiatus until the investigations are completed. It will raise a shit storm, I'll guarantee you that."

  Briggs Cunningham and Phil Walters came in for breakfast. With them was a rotund man wearing glasses. It was Bill Spear, the skilled amateur who had co-driven with Walters until their Jaguar expired. There was no joy at the table. Walters looked particularly morose, sipping a cup of dark coffee and saying nothing.

  When we finished, Coltrin gathered up his armload of newspapers and stopped at the Cunningham table.

  "A shitty way to run a motor race," cracked Coltrin.

  "Cunningham shook his head and exhaled heavily. "This is the worst that could happen."

  "Will I see you in Modena, Phil? When do you plan to get there?" Coltrin asked.

  Without looking up from his coffee, Walters said firmly, "Never."

  "Never?" said Coltrin. "Your contract with Ferrari-what about that?"

  Walters looked up, his clear blue eyes glinting with anger. "Look, Coltrin, I've been racing for over ten years. I've seen a lot of guys buy it, especially in the midgets. That was OK. They knew what they were facing. But this? Those people in the grandstands didn't come here to risk death. They came to have a good time in the French countryside. Dying wasn't part of their deal. I can stand guys like me getting killed, but innocent spectators-that's bullshit. If that's the way it's gonna be, count me out."

  "So no Ferrari?" Coltrin asked, shocked.

  "No Ferrari. No Cunningham. No nothing. I just told Briggs I'm through. Kaput. Finito. I used to love the sport. But after what I saw yesterday, I don't even want to have anything to do with it."

  "So you're quitting."

  "Right now. On the spot."

  "You could have run with the best of 'em," mused Coltrin.

  "Maybe. Maybe not. That we'll never know."

  "So what are your plans?" I asked.

  "Tomorrow I'm driving to Wolfsburg, Germany, just across the border. The Volkswagen plant. It's a hot little car. It's starting to sell pretty good in the United States. If I can get a dealership or a distrib- utionship, I'm in the car business."

  "What do you think about losing your star driver?" Coltrin asked Cunningham.

  "That's Phil's call. He's proved his point in a race car. If he feels this way, we're behind him 100 percent."

  We moved away, stunned at the news that one of America's most accomplished and honored road racing drivers was suddenly retiring, in turn giving up a chance to drive with one of the greatest Grand Prix teams in the world.

  "That's got to be a kick in the ass for Briggs," said Coltrin. "First he loses Fitch to Mercedes-Benz, now Walters quits, and the government is shutting down his car-building operation for tax reasons. Maybe he ought to try something else." (Cunningham did. While he continued to race Jaguars, Listers, and Corvettes until the mid-1960s, he also diverted his talents to ocean racing and skippered the America's Cup twelve-meter Columbia to victory in 1958.)

  We stepped into the square. Traffic was moving routinely. The faint hum of the race could still be heard. "Sweet Jesus, will they ever stop that fucking race?" I asked in frustration.

  "Three more hours and it's over," said Coltrin, looking at his watch. Hawthorn and Bueb have it. They're just cruising around hoping the car doesn't break."

  "What are your plans?"

  "I'll go back to the track and pick up the press clippings and final interviews. Then a drive back to Modena." He paused, then said, "You still want to come with me? A lot of laughs. It'll help you forget all this madness."

  "I dunno..."

  "Come on. Italy is a gas."

  I thought about my alternative. A train to Paris, packed flights to Los Angeles, and back to work. On the other hand, how could a few days in Italy hurt? A tour of the Ferrari factory and possibly hooking up with the Commendatore himself might generate more stories. I was more than halfway there already. Why turn back now?

  "What the hell," I said, stepping back from the curb as a leggy blonde oozed from a Porsche cabriolet that had skidded to a stop. "I'll pack my stuff and meet you here in twenty minutes."

  With a Le Mans victory in hand, Hawthorn's initial remorse over the crash disappeared and was replaced by a noisy conviction that the crash had been caused by Levegh's poor judgment and his preoccupation with being overtaken by Fangio and Kling. A year later he met John Fitch in London, where the American told him he was on his way to Stuttgart for a meeting with Mercedes-Benz. "Take along a bomb for me," Hawthorn said bitterly.

  Mike Hawthorn raced for thee more seasons, concentrating on the Formula One Grand Prix competition. In 1958 he won the world championship by a single point over arch-rival Stirling Moss, yet was devastated by the death of two of his Scuderia Ferrari teammates, close friend Peter Collins and the fiery Luigi Musso. Having reached
the pinnacle of international motor racing, Hawthorn abruptly announced at age thirty that he was retiring to concentrate on his thriving automobile business and occasional forays into vintage racing.

  On January 22, 1959, he left his home in Surrey for a trip into London. On the way he met his old friend Rob Walker, gentleman, sportsman, race car owner, sometime journalist, and heir to the Johnny Walker liquor fortune. After lunch at a pub, the two began a casual, high-speed duel between Hawthorn's 3.8 Jaguar-sedan and Walker's Mercedes-Benz 300SL gullwing coupe. A Jaguar-Mercedes rematch. This time the results were reversed. On a bypass around the village of Guildford, Hawthorn's Jaguar skated on a patch of standing water, and then caromed off an oncoming truck and into a stout English oak. He was killed instantly.

  GROUSING ABOUT THE CHATTERING GEARBOX IN his road-weary Fiat, Coltrin headed east across France's superb network of Routes Nationales. Two days earlier, we had witnessed the terrible carnage at Le Mans, and I was happy to be fleeing the morbid scene. Despite my driver's steady complaining, I could not help liking him. He insisted the blame for the crash lay with the French for having failed to modernize and widen the Le Mans circuit and for placing the crowds so close to the track that any sort of flying debris would cause a catastrophe.

  The French, Spanish, and German governments had cancelled all motor sports until further evaluations of safety conditions could be made. The Swiss had simply outlawed all forms of racing. The Swiss Grand Prix would never be run again. The Vatican was at full cry about the savagery of the sport. Meanwhile, Coltrin had spoken with friends at Road & Track magazine in Los Angeles and had been told that the American Automobile Association, which sanctioned all major racing in the United States, was considering leaving the sport entirely. The AAA had edged toward the decision following Vukovich's death; now the Le Mans disaster seemed to have tipped the scale. The world of automobile racing was in chaos, with rumors now filtering out of Stuttgart that Mercedes-Benz, which had been involved in the sport for half a century, would also drop out at the end of the season.