[legendsport]

Maywood, IL - June 16, 1917:

Jimmy Barrell strapped on his helmet. This wasn't exactly the type of helmet he'd been expecting to put on, but he grinned with delight as he finished buckling the strap and tugged to make sure it was snug. This was probably the best birthday present he'd ever received.

"Ready?" a voice asked from behind.

Jimmy turned and smiled. Standing there was Charlie Coaker, who'd be serving as his chief mechanic.

Jimmy had been plucked out of training and sent to Chicago. Somehow the management of the Maywood Speedway had convinced the War Department to permit them to hold a "War Derby" race here. Jimmy had packed onto a train in Atlanta and sent to Chicago where Coaker met him at Union Station and took him out to Maywood. This was to be a quick two-day trip - it was right back to Georgia - and training - after the race.

"I believe I was born ready, Charlie," Jimmy said with a grin.

Coaker smiled back. A veteran mechanic, Coaker had been a racer but a severely broken leg suffered at a race in Indianapolis in 1910 had left him with a permanent limp - and an inability to work the clutch fast enough to drive a racing car. Now he was one of the best mechanics in the business. How the Army had managed to sign him up for Jimmy was a bit of a mystery. When Jimmy asked, Coaker had laughed and started whistling "Yankee Doodle."

"Well then, let's get you into the car, shall we?" Coaker slapped him on the shoulder and watched as Jimmy climbed into the cockpit of his Duesenberg racing car. Coaker patted the cowling as he said, "It's a bit ironic that a car built by German immigrants would be racing in a benefit for a war in which we're fighting Germany, but it's a crazy old world sometimes."

Jimmy nodded and then stiffened as he saw a man bearing the eagles of a colonel on his uniform come towards the car.

"Hello, Colonel," Coaker said. As a civilian he didn't need to salute - the same wasn't true for Jimmy, who struggled to salute in the tight confines of the racing car.

The Colonel, noticing this, waved a hand and said, "Don't worry about that Private Barrell."

"Yes, sir," replied Jimmy.

"You're a bit young for this whole thing, son," the colonel continued. "And by that I mean young for the army and certainly young for this," he motioned with his hand at the nearby track.

Jimmy nodded, not really knowing how to respond (or even if a response was required - he had already learned to let officers spout off without interrupting).

"By all accounts you're a good driver - or we wouldn't have asked you to be here. And for that you can thank Bill Merlon."

"Merlon? Isn't he working for General Pershing?" Coaker asked.

The colonel nodded. "Indeed he is - he has this harebrained scheme that you racing types should form an aero squadron. Says you're all used to high speeds and so forth. Pershing thinks he's crazy, but he's also practical, so who knows?"

Jimmy's eyes had widened behind his goggles. Aeroplanes? Now that would really be something...

"OK, Private Barrell - do the Army proud, son." The Colonel gave Jimmy a tight-mouthed nod and wandered off towards the stands.

"Holy crap! An aero squadron of racers!?!" Jimmy said to Coaker after a moment's pause to let the colonel get out of earshot.

"Nevermind about that - you keep your mind on driving, now." Coaker chided him.

"OK, let's get this thing started..."

Later that day...

These guys were good. Far better than anyone else Jimmy had raced. Maybe Merlon was right - if these guys could handle an aeroplane like they handled their cars, the Germans stood no chance.

The track - a board oval two miles in length - was streaked with rubber, grease and oil as the race neared its conclusion. Twenty-seven cars had started the race, but only seventeen were still running - and Jimmy's was one of the latter.

His goggles were dirty, sweat was dripping off his nose and his hands ached from gripping the wheel for over two hours. But he loved it. Some quick mental calculations told Jimmy that he'd been averaging over 100 miles per hour. This Duesenberg could really move.

Just two laps remained. Eddie Manning in his Stutz was ahead by over thirty seconds - no one would ever catch him. Roger Murphy, who had led for 69 laps was now second, and Jimmy - sitting in fifth, but only about five seconds back, thought he might be able to reel him in. But first he'd have to pass two other cars (and they wouldn't make it easy).

Canadian Paul Hendershot was right in front of him, and was capably using his Hudson to block Jimmy whenever he'd attempt a pass. Jimmy, with the impatience and inexperience of youth, attempted to go past on the inside, determined to either hit Hendershot, or get past him. Mentally he begged his car for a little bit more as he pressed the accelerator to the floor.

The Canadian saw the Duesenberg move up and slid to the left, but Jimmy's nose was already far enough forward that Hendershot now had to make a split-second decision to either bump Jimmy's car with his own and risk a crash at 105 miles per hour, or let him through. He chose the latter and Jimmy slid past, seeing Hendershot raise a fist in angry frustration. Jimmy's dirty face split in a grin.

That grin quickly turned into a frown as he heard a loud bang and smoke began pouring from his cowling.

Shouting a stream of words that his mother would have boxed his ears for uttering, Jimmy slid his car left off the track. Hendershot - and then the rest of the field - quickly shot past as Jimmy's car puttered to a stop on the infield.

Coaker came running over as Jimmy climbed out and angrily threw his helmet on the ground.

"You threw a cylinder! I told you not to push the car too hard!" Coaker shouted at him.

Jimmy, who looked like a photographic negative of a raccoon after removing his goggles, said nothing and gazed into the massive crowd - someone had said 60,000 people were there. He saw the colonel shaking his head.

He wanted to cry, but figured now that he was a soldier that weeping like a child simply wouldn't do. Instead he stamped his foot and screamed. He imagined Rollie telling him, "Yes, throw a tantrum, that's far better than crying."

He'd blown it - literally and figuratively. There was no way he'd get into Merlon's aero squadron now.