Faster, page 17
Bernd won his first Grand Prix race in the last event of his rookie season, the 1935 Czechoslovakian Grand Prix, run at the Masaryk circuit outside Brno on September 29. At the celebration party afterward, he met and fell in love with aviator Elly Beinhorn. Already famous, the twenty-eight-year-old was giving a talk in the Czech city about her latest aerial expedition. Always in a rush, Bernd asked her to marry him soon after meeting her. The newspapers labeled them “the fastest couple in the world.” In July 1936, a month after he won at the Nürburgring, Bernd and Elly wed.
Bernd Rosemeyer was the living embodiment of the Nazi ideal. As historian Anthony Pritchard remarked, “If [he] had not existed, then the National Socialist party would have had to invent him.” While he was racing motorcycles, he had worn a swastika armband, and like many ambitious young men, he had joined the SS. As a reward for his Eifel race victory, Heinrich Himmler personally promoted him to Obersturm-führer (senior leader).
Caracciola continued to be Germany’s best driver, but in comparison he was a crippled old veteran. Bernd was, the newspapers spun, “the radiant boy,” a “bold fighter” as well as “a man of action,” “risky but self-assured.” His looks, the Aryan ideal from head to foot, did not go unremarked: “Beautiful blond Bernd” was a charming rascal, one report went. “Unforgettable, dazzling Bernd, the young Siegfried among the racing aces in the world,” gushed another.
With his wife, Elly, the convention-breaking “German heroine” who had survived a crash landing in the Sahara Desert and who had flown solo from Europe to Australia, they were a fairy tale of the Reich, proof of the superiority of “Aryan blood.” The dashing race car driver and adventurous aviator were seen as “Das Traumpaar” (the perfect couple), and together they captured the popular imagination like few in the Reich had done before.
Thirteen days after Bernd and Elly’s marriage, Rudi faced his rival at the German Grand Prix. Bernd took a significant lead by the first half of the race and was never challenged. He spent his final lap waving at his adoring fans and finished four minutes ahead of his closest competitor. In front of photographers, he sealed his commanding triumph with a kiss from Elly. An exuberant Hühnlein presented him with the trophy and a laurel wreath.
Throughout the award ceremony, Rudi stood grimly beside Bernd. The Summer Olympic Games in Berlin would put their mounting rivalry on hold, and what was more, it would show the world how powerful a force sport had become in relations between nations.
On August 1, Adolf Hitler arrived at the Olympiastadion, a concrete coliseum festooned with swastika banners, to the peal of thirty trumpets. The Hindenburg airship floated above. As he crossed the stadium, many of the 110,000 spectators stretched out their arms and shouted “Sieg Heil” to a thunderous cadence.
A young girl in a white dress greeted him halfway across the field. She handed him a bouquet of flowers and then kneeled in obeisance. Hitler then mounted the steps to his high balcony while composer Richard Strauss led a choir of 3,000 singing his “Olympic Hymn.”
Once Hitler was seated, groups of athletes from forty-nine nations entered the stadium. They paraded before the German leader, arms raised in an Olympic salute that unnervingly resembled the Nazi raised arm. Finally, Hitler stood before a microphone and declared the Games open. Twenty thousand doves were released—ostensibly a symbol of peace among nations—and fluttered about. Those citizens caught in the recent outbreak of the Spanish Civil War would have seen their promise as a false one.
High above the stadium, the Olympic flag unfurled. Then a bell, deep and resonant, tolled, followed by a blast of cannons that sent the doves into a whirling panic. A slight German runner in a white singlet and shorts circled the stadium with the Olympic torch blazing in his hand, then dashed up the steps beside the Marathon Gate to a tripod basin to which he touched the torch. Billowing flames rose up from the basin.
Over the next two weeks, the Games enthralled Berlin—and much of the world. Millions listened to the events on radio broadcasts or watched on cinema newsreels. Each night, Nazi officials threw extravagant parties to entertain diplomats, journalists, athletes, celebrities, business tycoons, and other dignitaries. “Champagne flowed like water,” wrote one guest. Reich aviation minister Hermann Göring hosted an evening that included stunt airplane flights and Renaissance costumes.
Throughout the Games, Hitler was omnipresent. “Face contorted, he observed the performances of his athletes with a passionate interest,” the French ambassador remarked. “When they won, he beamed, slapping his thighs loudly and laughing as he looked at Goebbels; when they lost, his expression hardened and he scowled.” Given the strong state support of its athletes, the Germans dominated the point rankings. Der Angriff, the Nazi party rag, crowed that it was “truly difficult to endure so much joy” over the German medal count.
The Nazis presented a “New Germany” minus its worst militaristic and racial instincts. They allowed soldiers to wear civilian clothes, stowed away signs stating JEWS AND ANIMALS NOT ALLOWED, placed on hold vitriolic attacks against non-Aryans in newspapers, and even returned to library shelves some books authored by Jews that had been burned in earlier purges. Despite the Nazis allowing a single Jew, fencer Helene Mayer, to join the Olympic team—and this a token gesture conceded only after a boycott—Victor Klemperer, a Jewish professor living in Dresden, noted in his diary that foreigners came away with the impression that they were “witnessing the revival, the flowering, the new spirit, the unity, the steadfastness and magnificence, pacific too, of course, spirit of the Third Reich, which lovingly embraces the whole world.” Klemperer, however, was not fooled. In the same entry, he wrote, “I find the Olympics so odious because they are not about sports—in this country I mean—but are an entirely political enterprise.” This was an understatement. Time and again, Nazi propaganda called athletes “warriors for Germany” who stood “at the front lines of foreign policy.”
After leaving Berlin, a L’Auto columnist wrote about the “great lesson” of the Games: athletic success was now indelibly intertwined with the prestige and power of a nation. “The Age of Sport is now consecrated; deplore it or approve it, but you will not change it.” And within the sporting arena in 1936, the Germans looked unbeatable—from the Berlin Olympics to Max Schmeling’s twelfth-round knockout of Joe Louis in Yankee Stadium to the Silver Arrows’ dominance on racetracks across Europe.
To design any car, let alone a Grand Prix competitor to combat Mercedes and Auto Union, demanded many things: the inspirational leaps of an artist and the deductive patience of a mechanic, as well as insights into metallurgy, electricity, physics, mathematics, aerodynamics, production, and, of course, engineering.
There were the geniuses, like Ettore Bugatti, who relied on an intuitive feel for what worked. But for most, innate vision needed to be buttressed with academic study and long apprenticeship, all to understand what automotive historian L.J.K. Setright called the essential truth of the business: “A car is not a thing, it is an aggregation of things, a compound complex of numerous, mutually supporting components that are infuriating because they are also mutually interfering. The man who can see how to eliminate these incompatibilities, how to make each component in such a way that it does its various tasks as well as can be while detracting from the performance of all the other components as little as can be, can see how to design a car.”
Instinct, study, experience—all three influenced Jean François in his approach to what Delahaye was calling its Grand Prix car: the 145. A strong dose of his own practicality was also added to the brew.
Everything started with the engine. From his first sketches, made at Restaurant Duplantin, a V12 was the obvious choice, even though the company had not built one since its boat-racing days. Henry Ford figured that an engine shouldn’t have “any more cylinders than a cow has teats,” but he was in the minority. Most valued the V12 design. Although complex to build, it generally ran more smoothly, allowed for higher revs, and delivered more power than a six-cylinder engine of similar capacity. A driver once described the V12 as delivering “a peculiar pulse that is the sonic equivalent of strawberry mousse and cream.” There was simply something smooth and luscious about it.
Using the proven method, François set the two six-cylinder banks at a 60-degree angle to one another. Each cylinder had a bore of 75 millimeters, a measurement that matched the famous French field guns of World War I (“Les Soixante-Quinze,” the “75s”). With a maximum capacity of 4.5 liters, this left a low piston stroke in each cylinder of 84.7 millimeters, almost one-quarter of the length shorter than the Delahaye 135 engine.
The two engines were very different beasts, however, and François could not base the Delahaye 145 on an old truck engine. He needed to venture into new territory. One of his first creative leaps came in the design of the camshaft. His V12 would actually have three: one in the center to operate the intake valves, feeding fuel and air; and the other two placed on the sides of each cylinder bank to operate the exhaust valves from the engine. This would allow the engine to breathe better and operate more efficiently. Its crankshaft was similarly engineered to maximize performance. In another original move, François designed the one-piece cylinder block to be cast in magnesium alloy instead of traditional aluminum, reducing its weight by 35 percent.
Twin magnetos; twenty-four spark plugs; water, oil, and fuel pumps; a trio of carburetors; timing gears; roller bearings—these and dozens of other parts were also needed to create the engine. François’s early simple sketches turned into scores of iterative blueprints, enough to architect a city skyscraper, until he had finished plans ready to send to the factory floor.
François knew that his 4.5-liter design, regardless of how well built and tuned, would produce a maximum of 225–250 horsepower, a measurement almost half of what the Germans would likely produce from a three-liter, supercharged engine, particularly one operating on a custom fuel mix. But this was the new formula, and Monsieur Charles wanted an engine that could be installed in everything from a Grand Prix competitor to a sports car to a high-end coupé used for outings about the city or countryside. That was the Delahaye way.
Like their “son-of-a-truck” engine that had proved so successful when breaking speed and endurance records, the 145 would have efficiency, versatility, and toughness on its side. In a long race, these qualities were to be prized. Such an engine was useless without a chassis that could nimbly handle the road. In its design, François mirrored closely that of the 135—its innovative leaps had resulted in a command of everything from oval tracks to mountain climbs. A two-seater of rigid ladder-frame construction, the chassis sat a bit lower and ran slightly longer than its predecessor. But these were minor differences. They shared a similar independent front suspension, cable-operated drum brakes, and a retracted engine position to distribute the car’s weight evenly. “No wild innovations here,” one critic would write. “Just well-polished state-of-art logic as a foundation for refined tuning, development, and durability.” A small team of draftsmen and engineers created another shelf’s worth of blueprints, each several feet wide and many feet long when unfurled. François would have to hire a coach-builder since Delahaye lacked an in-house operation, but the car’s body would be lightweight and utilitarian.
The factory had four 145s on order from Écurie Bleue. Given the strikes and the widespread labor trouble, building them had been slow, but the first chassis was on course to be assembled by late fall 1936, and the company expected to have an engine ready for testing in early 1937. The finished cars, weighing roughly 850 kilograms to meet the formula minimum, were to be ready by late spring. Proof of whether the design was successful would emerge on the Montlhéry track.
Before that time, Lucy Schell needed to find a worthy driver.
That September, Lucy finished up her first season running her own team with the Royal Automobile Club’s 1936 Tourist Trophy in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Her two Delahaye 135s had failed to claim a top position, but they had competed in their maiden race outside France—another mark in the ledger of their progress.
Since spinning out of control on the La Turbie hill climb at the end of the Paris–Nice Rally, ruining her chances of a win, Lucy had followed through on her intention to devote herself completely to running her team. Her role included handling the drivers, managing the partnership with Delahaye, building out an organization of mechanics and support staff, and bankrolling the whole affair.
There was much to show for her efforts. Her two best drivers—her husband Laury and Joseph Paul—ranked well at the French Grand Prix and at several other sports-car events in France. The team now had its own garage, a two-car transport truck, and a mobile machine shop. Weif-fenbach had decided not to have a factory team after the two crashes at Marne; as a consequence, in an arrangement similar to Enzo Ferrari’s with Alfa Romeo, Lucy’s was the only team racing Delahayes.
After returning to France from Northern Ireland, Lucy began preparing for the 1937 season. She planned to field several Delahaye 135s for rallies and sports-car races. For the Grand Prix, the implementation of the new formula had been delayed until 1938 because of quibbling over final details. Since Jean François had much to do to turn his sheaf of blueprints into a working race car, this suited Lucy fine. Nonetheless, she wanted to start the search for and recruitment of a Grand Prix champion to lead her team.
Such drivers were few in number, and fewer still were those not already committed to established teams. Lucy was an inspiring force, but even if a Nuvolari or a Chiron could stomach taking orders from a woman, they would never take the leap to drive for an untested, independent operation whose cars were in development. She needed someone desperate, someone eager to prove or reestablish himself.
One name, and one name alone, came to mind: René Dreyfus. Anyone could see that he was not happy at Talbot-Lago. There was no place for him at Bugatti. Neither the Italians nor the Germans would have him. Since she formed her sports-car team, Lucy and René had crossed paths more often than in the past, though they rarely shared more than the short conversation they had at the victor’s table after the Paris–Nice Rally in 1934. Nonetheless, she had seen him race dozens of times. He was a driver, most of the press agreed, with “finesse and intelligence,” as well as one of “great precision who could teach a class on holding a line.” As a competitor, he was “calm, measured of movement, and patient as an angel.” Lucy knew he had the skill to win any race—if he had the fire anymore to do it—and she was nothing if not a fire-starter.
Lucy liked to conduct her business at her home in Brunoy. She would usually invite a prospect to tea or a stiff drink, have him sit in her finely decorated, two-story parlor, and offer a tour of the expansive grounds and her stable of cars behind the mansion. But this was different. She was not recruiting a fledgling young driver to her sports-car team. René may have been down on his luck, but he was a former top Grand Prix driver. He had driven for most of the greats: Bugatti, Maserati, and Alfa Romeo. He had been the teammate of many of the fastest drivers in the world. A fine house and a garage of dazzling shiny cars were not likely to impress him.
She knew she had to win him over. From the moment she entered the room, full of energy and enthusiasm and promise over what could be, René was swept away. Lucy did not so much ask him to join her team as tell him why he ought to. Jean François and Delahaye had proved they could build fast, reliable cars, and their design for the new formula was being given every attention. With her money, there was no resource that they or René would find wanting. “It is to be professional all the way,” Lucy said. René would have a salary, his pick of other drivers, and the freedom to help develop and test-drive the new car.
Most important, together they could bring France back into the victor’s circle and pierce the invincibility of the German Silver Arrows.
Neither recorded much about what was said that day in the autumn of 1936. Perhaps Lucy told René about always being the outsider looking to make good—not French enough in France; not American enough in America; the nouveau riche upstart in a class-conscious Europe; a woman in a sport ruled by men; a wife and mother who preferred the garage and the racetrack over the conventional hearth and home. No doubt she could tell him a thousand tales about malign looks and whispered comments.
Perhaps she called to his attention the fact that he was an outsider too. She knew he had been forced off the Ferrari team. She knew the Germans would never take him. All his skill and experience meant little when balanced against the name Dreyfus. It did not matter whether he saw himself as a Jew. They did—all the more so because he was the only one in the Grand Prix. Even if he did not hear the slights or see the looks, they happened nonetheless.
Together they could tip the scales in their favor, the outsiders atop the Grand Prix. Imagine it. The journey would not be easy. He would have to rediscover the fierceness of his early La Turbie days, as well as the fearlessness that first catapulted him into the Grand Prix with his 1930 Monaco win. Whether Lucy spoke of all or none of this, whether she needed to or not, René was bowled over by this fascinating lady “who talked a very good story.” In the end, as usual, Lucy got her way.
Part III
8
Rally
AFTER THE SUMMER Olympics, the Mercedes team took a break from competition to work on the cars and get them ready for the Swiss Grand Prix on August 23. Throughout the 1936 season, they had struggled with their redesigned W25s. The engineers had increased its engine size while shortening the wheelbase. This gave the cars a striking look, but race after race they proved difficult to control and broke down frequently. “Sheep in wolves’ clothing,” one writer labeled them.
