The Roaring Road 1: The Roaring Road, #1

Chapter 1 ~ October 1926

Railroad Crossing,

Look Out For The Cars

The engine roared when the Elgin Six Victory Scout automobile jumped sideways after hitting a rock in the road, carelessly pushing the rear wheels adrift toward the outside of the curve. Tires struggled for traction in the hard-packed rough gravel. Calmly looking over the side from my seat at the right rear of the open automobile, the tires appeared to be losing the battle for traction as we slid ever closer to the edge. When the wheels dropped into the narrow roadside ditch at this speed, the car would flip over. I wondered how many times it would roll and if I would be thrown clear or trapped under the car.

Would the engineer in the thundering locomotive on the tracks two hundred feet from our left rear laugh when he saw our car roll? He was not a very pleasant fellow when we met before the race. Even so, I was confident that my father’s driving skill would keep us in the race.

As if he knew what I was thinking, Dad downshifted and flicked the steering wheel, correcting the slide. The tires spun and spit gravel, slowly scrabbling away from the road’s edge. With the sideways slide corrected, we regained forward momentum and the engineer acknowledged our continued presence on the road with long angry blasts from the locomotive’s whistle.

My notes from our three practice runs indicated the road ahead was a long rough left handed curve of about a mile before the next railroad crossing. I tapped Jake, our mechanician in the front seat ahead of me on his shoulder to make our predetermined road condition hand signs, since voice communication was impossible over the roaring road, wind and locomotive sounds. Jake nodded and repeated the signs for Marvin.

The young man sitting to my left in the rear seat was an official competition observer from the Chicago American newspaper’s Automobile Department. Chester Foust was looking pale as he hung on for dear life when Dad began swerving to avoid the worst of the potholes and ruts. My father was one of the top rated drivers in the Elgin National Road Races but even he couldn’t avoid every rock and rut. Our racecar bounced, jolted, slid and became airborne a couple times as we covered one of the most dangerous sections of the road at high speed. Good thing Jake replaced the standard wood spoke wheels with steel disc wheels, or they would have been smashed to smithereens by now.

I looked over at Chester and grinned, and a few seconds later we began laughing our fool heads off to relieve the tension. My Dad yelled Shut up you two weirdos or I’ll stop this car and throw you both off which of course made us laugh harder. Even Jake chuckled at his friend’s toothless threat. Dad couldn’t dump Foust off because without an official observer our race win could not be certified, and I knew my father wanted to win the race more than he wanted to drop me off in the middle of nowhere. However, I decided not to push things too far.

The track ran straight while the road curved toward the crossing, so the constant side-to-side movements to avoid road hazards caused us to lose some of our lead. Looking back I saw the white hot steam from the locomotive’s stack showing that the fireman knew his onions about managing the fire in the locomotive’s firebox. I wondered if he was pushing the steam pressure limit. Never had I seen a train going so fast or heard a steam engine so loud. White flags at the front of the locomotive indicating its special status were pulled straight back in the over seventy-mile-per-hour wind. There was only about four hundred yards of road ahead before we hit the crossing.

My route notes showed that at the end of this long curve there was a rough track crossing. Chester warily looked back at the monster locomotive, the smokestack spewing huge clouds and the big wheels turning so fast the side rods were just a blur. The engineer leaned out his side window watching us as he raced to deny our crossing the tracks ahead of his locomotive.

Poor Chester Foust was trying to decide if he should jump now or hope for the best. But he had confidence, knowing my father’s reputation as a smooth, fast driver and our Elgin automobile was running perfectly.

Wednesday, August 27, 1919 was a hot, humid summer day in Indiana. I was 16 years old and this was my first automobile competition. The motor club competition rules stated that the automobile had to carry four people and luggage to approximate what a family of four would have loaded into the automobile. I begged and pleaded with Dad to let me ride in the fourth seat while my mother begged and pleaded with him to leave me at home. I laid out every point I could make to convince Dad. I reminded him a hundred times that race car driver Charlie Merz drove a National automobile in a 100 mile race at the Indianapolis State Fairground when he was 17, and at 23 he drove to a 7th place finish in the first Indianapolis 500 race in 1911. I finally overwhelmed his defenses, or at least he let me think I did.

The week before our race with the Chicago to Indianapolis express train, my mother, with tears in her eyes, agreed that I could ride as observer. She knew I was determined to follow in Dad’s footsteps and she had to let me grow up.

On the day of the race Dad, Jake, Chester and I, wearing white racing coveralls with the name Elgin printed in an arc across the front were as ready as we could be. Before the race my mother gave me a box and told me to open it. Inside there was a brand new pair of racing goggles to replace my old scratched and pitted hand-me-downs, thus showing her reluctant acceptance of my participation in the race. She hugged me and said Hang on and to do exactly as your father tells you, without question.

Thank you for the goggles Mother I replied, even though her instructions were unnecessary. My father had sternly laid down the rules and the penalties for disobedience would be severe. One of them was that I could be thrown from the car when it hit a bump if I was not holding on properly. The worst was that my father would never let me ride in another competition event with him, should I fail to follow his instructions.

During his pre-race talk, Dad told us that he had confidence in us, Jake’s thorough preparation of the automobile, and our pre-race test run notes. He looked us each in the eye to see if any of us had doubts, but we all said we were jake and everyone laughed when I noted that even Jake was jake. In the test runs made before the race I served as the map man and scribe, sitting in the front seat writing road notes that Dad dictated while he drove. I also made sure the route map was kept folded correctly to our exact location. During the test runs Jake rode in the back seat with his big railroad pocket watch, giving me elapsed times through each route section to add to the notes.

Jake’s toolkit and spare parts were clipped within easy reach so he could jump out and fix any problem with the motorcar should the need arise. On the seat next to me was a large box with more parts and tools. My job was to open it if we had a mechanical breakdown. I knew each part and tool by name and use so I could hand them to Jake as he called out what he needed. We practiced this until I could anticipate what he needed.

Jake listened to the motor and the chassis and suspension working over the rough road. Jake could tell a lot about a car by listening. If something was not right he would know it before anyone else. He said automobiles talked to him and Dad believed him. Chester Foust might never want to ride with us again but I gave the young newspaperman credit as he resolutely hung on, writing in his reporter’s notebook whenever we were on a smooth piece of road.

Foust’s eyes got big when he looked back at the locomotive and ahead at the decreasing distance to the crossing. This was his first time as an official observer for a motorcar race. It had been considered a dangerous event by Chicago American management and the senior reporters declined the assignment. Chester Foust was not married and the new guy, so he took it. At the start he was excited but that excitement was now tinged with a healthy amount of fear. I tapped Jake on the shoulder and pointed back to the train. He turned and looked, then gave my father the hand sign to pick up speed and go for it!

Almost as if we had rehearsed it, each of us braced ourselves, expecting a rough track crossing. The engineer gave us two long warning blasts on the whistle. Jake looked back and repeated the go for it sign. Dad later said the engineer was trying to intimidate us, to make us worry and slow down so the train could take the crossing first while we waited for the railroad cars to clear. The danger was that at the speeds we were traveling, there would be nothing left of us but memories if the worst happened and the locomotive smashed into our Elgin racecar.

As we got closer to the grade crossing the car lurched and jumped wildly but Dad remembered this part of the road and the line he wanted. Without lifting on the gas Dad drifted through the curve of the road toward the grade crossing. Jake took a last look back to the locomotive and gave Dad the ‘go’ sign for the final time. Was the train picking up speed too? But now we were committed, we would not be able to stop in time. It was mere seconds to the crossing but for me time seemed to slow down. Each of us, except for my father who concentrated on the road, looked back and forth at the distance to the crossing and the rapidly closing locomotive. The engineer gave us another long mourning wail from the whistle, but my father remained calm, trusting Jake’s call to go for it. Jake sat there like a rock, holding on to the grab bar he had welded in after the first practice run. I was holding on to my grab bar and Chester gripped his so hard his knuckles turned white. He looked like he was going to pee his pants.

We were only about fifty feet in front of the thundering locomotive when the Elgin Six Victory Scout hit the crossing and became airborne. It flew two or three feet above and fifteen or twenty feet along the road until the automobile landed with a solid thump.

The car held together and there were no sounds or vibrations of broken suspension parts or burst tires. I looked back at the locomotive and the stoker, Sven the Swede, smiled and waved. He was a cheerful fellow and not upset like the engineer was about the race. Dad smoothly turned the steering wheel as the road curved to the right and then straightened out parallel to the tracks. We had made it. For a few seconds the only sound was from the roaring road and the train engineer’s series of short angry whistle blasts. Then we started laughing and waved to Sven, who probably expected to see human body and automobile parts strewn all over the landscape. I imagined the engineer cussing Sven, having lost the race to the crossing. But we still had a lot of road race ahead of us. We had only gone about a quarter of the 163 road miles from Chicago to Indianapolis.

For the next hundred miles it was a battle with the train gaining when we slowed down for road intersections and rough or muddy spots, then we would pull ahead when the road got better. The track crossings became smoother as we neared Indianapolis and we were steadily moving ahead of the express train.

Arriving at the train station in Indianapolis, Chester Foust and I ran to the telegraph office to get a time stamp for proof of our arrival time. People stopped and stared at us in our dirty coveralls with our faces looking like raccoons with all the coal dust, dirt, sand and mud making an outline around where our goggles had been. A railroad gumshoe gave us the evil eye and followed to see what we were up to. We got the time stamp and figured the elapsed time to be four hours and six minutes, then raced back to give it to my dad. I still have the Indianapolis Star newspaper clipping:

A New Elgin Six, standard stock Victory Scout model, Series II, No. 826 carrying four passengers and luggage, covered the 163 miles between Chicago and Indianapolis today in four hours and six minutes running time, an average of forty-seven and seven-tenths miles per hour. This breaks all records for a standard stock car with full passenger load over this route and beat the Monon ‘Hoosier Limited’ express train by fifty-six minutes. The official observers were Chester Foust of the Chicago American newspaper’s automobile department. The driver was Marvin Lindner of the Elgin Competition Department, the mechanician, Jake Winiarzski of the Elgin Engineering Department. The fourth crew member was Daniel Lindner.

Gasoline average, sixteen and one-third miles per gallon. The Elgin Six finished the run in fine condition and was driven back to the Elgin factory the next day. Motor worked perfect, no additional water required.

Meeting the victorious automobile and crew was B. M. Wylie, Indianapolis distributor for Elgin Motor Car Company and C. F. Jamieson, Elgin Engineering Department. Elgin Motor Car Corporation president C. S. Rieman sent a telegram of congratulations. Also present was Arthur P. Lane of the Monon Railroad and Patricia Beebe, 1919 Miss Indiana State Fair.

When we got back to the car, Elgin and Monon representatives and Indianapolis newspaper reporters were interviewing Dad and Jake. Also waiting for us was a photographer and a very pretty girl.

The dignitaries held no interest for me after I cast my peepers on Miss Indiana State Fair of 1919. Jeepers creepers what a kitten! I already wanted to drive racing cars, but I figured if the race winner got one of these for winning I would be well motivated to win. Miss Indiana State Fair looked to be 18 or 19 and had dark brown hair and a curvy body. She looked me over and decided I was 16, which was true, and proceeded to ignore me. Well, that was tough luck for her. I made sure to introduce myself and tell her my name because I thought some day she would ruefully remember the time when she could have had me all to herself. The photographer took a lot of photos and agreed to send copies to us at Dad’s shop. Somehow I finagled the photographer to take a picture of Miss Indiana State Fair with me. She kept a smile on her face, but then, that’s what she was supposed to do.

One thing for sure, our Elgin Six was a tough motorcar. Jake inspected the chassis and suspension, listened to the motor, changed two of the wheels and test drove the car and pronounced it roadworthy for our return trip to Chicago the next morning. Dad allowed me to drive part of the way back. I pretended that I was Charlie Merz driving a real racecar in the Indianapolis 500 on my way to winning the race and Miss Indiana State Fair, until I got a little carried away and my father growled at me to slow down so we could get home in one piece.

The impressive win was printed in newspapers nationwide. My father and Jake each received a bonus of a new Elgin Touring Six Victory Scout. A few years later it would become my first car.

Chapter 2 ~ 1915 – 1918

The Story Of The Colt M1911 Pistols

Marvin Lindner modified and raced motorcars, building a reputation as one of the best drivers in the Elgin National Road Races. In 1915, my father won a National Trophy race driving a Stutz, and the competition director for the Elgin Motor Car Company met Marvin after the impressive win and signed him to drive for the company.

Jakob Winiarzski emigrated from Poland to the United States and lived with his family in Argo, a small town south of Chicago. Jake had no formal mechanical training but his natural ability became evident soon after he landed a job at the Elgin Motor Car Company. He was able to fix anything and came to management’s notice because he often helped the engineers re-design components when there were patterns of failures. When Marvin was signed as a factory driver, management promoted Jake to mechanician in the Competition Department and assigned him to work with Marvin, and they became best friends.

The Elgin Motor Car factory was located in Argo, and like many automobile manufacturers Elgin entered races and endurance events to enhance their reputation. Elgin found a winning combination with Marvin and Jake as they chalked up a long list of victories and awards, and they paid Dad and Jake handsomely for showcasing the speed, strength and endurance of Elgin motorcars.

In May 1917 my father drove an Elgin up a ramp at over fifty miles an hour and the automobile landed 60 feet 5 inches from the ramp. Mom and I were there and saw the car come down with a solid bang on the macadam road at Fort Sheridan in Illinois, where one of the Army officers watching the event was a captain by the name of George S. Patton. After Dad, Jake, and the Chicago Motor Club official observers inspected the motorcar, it was declared safe and Dad repeated the jump to the delight of the cheering spectators. After replacing a burst tire it was inspected once again and found roadworthy, so Dad drove Mom, my little sister Claire and me fifteen miles home to Long Grove.

The U.S. government turned to conscription to raise troops for the war in Europe and the Army decided it needed Marvin and Jake. Their draft notices ordered them to report to Ft. Sheridan, where they were sent to different training camps and lost track of each other. Jake was given a rifle and assigned to sniper training, but in a lucky twist of fate an officer took notice when Jake fixed a troublesome Army truck and he was re-assigned to a truck motor pool unit. Upon completion of basic training, the boys were separately shipped out to join General Pershing’s Allied Expeditionary Force in France.

Dad, tell us The Story of the Colts. My Mom and my sister Claire groaned, but they stayed to listen. I never got tired of hearing it and sometimes he told parts of it differently. Jake told me that Dad exaggerated a few details, but the substance of the story was true.

In June 1918, Marvin was in France tasked as a supply clerk and test driver in a tank maintenance unit of the 304th Tank Brigade, commanded by Lt. Col. George S. Patton. My father came to Patton’s attention because of his ability to acquire things that were not available by normal requisition through military channels.

One day Jake was at a supply depot to finagle some hard-to-get parts for his truck maintenance unit, and found Marvin doing the same for the 304th Tank. The two friends were glad to be reunited, and Marvin helped Jake get the parts he needed. Later that day, Marvin told Col. Patton that his best friend was a mechanical genius in a truck unit. Col. Patton asked for his name but didn’t say anything else. The next day Jake received orders to report for duty to Patton’s 304th Tank Brigade.

It wasn’t long before Marvin and Jake were called to Patton’s HQ together. After praising their work, he told them You two have done a great job in your shop and my other tank maintenance units need help. Sometimes more than half our tanks are out of service. I can’t have my tankers sitting in a battle getting killed because a motor won’t start. I heard it was both of you who prepared and drove that automobile up the ramp and made those jumps at Ft. Sheridan.  You two got moxie and I want you to get my maintenance units jumping. I won’t tell you how to do your jobs, and I won’t ask questions. Do whatever it takes, but do it quick Patton told them. And I’m promoting both of you to sergeant. Now get out of here and get my tanks running! Patton laid down the challenge. Marvin and Jake stood up, said Yes, sir and saluted. Challenge accepted. Patton stood up and returned their salute.

"You get the list of things I need? Jake asked when they were on the way back to maintenance HQ.

Yes, already got over half. There’s a truckload heading for you first thing in the morning Marvin answered. And I’m sending a couple guys who were truck mechanics in Chicago for you to check out. If you like ‘em, I’ll get Patton to have their transfer orders issued before lunch.

Marvin scrounged hard-to-get parts and supplies and scheduled the jobs. Jake motivated, trained and supervised mechanics, often helping on the tough jobs. Almost overnight the 304th Tank Brigade readiness went from lousy to great, and Patton protected them from being snatched away by other motorized units. The boys liked working for Patton. He was a tough taskmaster but his soldiers were loyal and did not want to serve anyone else.

Patton commanded his tank brigade from the front, and in September of 1918 the 304th Tank was in the Meuse-Argonne offensive near a French village called Cheppy. It was foggy and as usual, Col. Patton was leading the attack when his tank was hit and Patton was seriously wounded in his left thigh. Patton’s orderly, PFC Joe Angelo, got him out of the tank and into a deep shell hole for protection as the battle raged around them. For a while they were pinned down by a German machine gun nest and because of his wounds Patton couldn’t move fast enough for evacuation. PFC Angelo performed basic first aid and helped Patton get orders to his tank units during the battle while they waited for an ambulance.

Sgt. Marvin Lindner was helping load and move the headquarters company when word came that Col. Patton was wounded and needed evacuation. Marvin ran to find Jake, appropriated a 1917 Dodge staff car, and they were on the way, Jake having grabbed a 1903 Springfield and ammunition clips. The boys got about a half mile from where Patton was and had to hoof it the rest of the way. With the assistance of PFC Joe Angelo, Col Patton’s aide, they moved Patton to the road, Joe and Marvin helping the colonel and Jake watching for snipers.

When they got to the Dodge they found the enraged captain to whom the car was assigned with his driver trying to start the car. PFC Angelo had put a coat over Patton’s shoulders so snipers could not see his rank insignia and the captain didn’t recognize Patton. The pissed-off captain began ripping Marvin and Jake new assholes, telling them they were under arrest and they would be court-martialed for stealing the Dodge. Patton silenced the officious captain when he spoke in his distinctive voice, telling him Captain, I am reassigning this staff car to the sergeants as of yesterday, and you WILL NOT court-martial them. You WILL report to me when this action is over. IS THAT CLEAR?

That’s when Jake pulled the coil wire out of his pocket to the goggling eyes of the captain and installed it while PFC Angelo got Patton into the back seat of the Dodge. The captain, afraid of Patton’s temper, decided to walk back to headquarters. Patton said OK boys, I saw you at Fort Sheridan, how fast can you jump us out of here?

Marvin drove the rough roads as if his pants were on fire, but Patton ordered him to stop at his HQ to file his action report before being taken to a field hospital. Patton laughed as he recounted the look on the captain’s face when Jake took the cable from his pocket. Jake claimed he did that so the Germans couldn’t steal the Dodge.

In the hospital recovering from his wounds, Patton wrote letters to their families about what the boys had done and how proud he was to have such fine soldiers in the 304th Tank. He also sent each of them new U.S. Army Colt M1911 pistols in presentation wood boxes. PFC Joe Angelo received the Distinguished Service Cross for getting Col. Patton safely out of the line of fire and communicating Patton’s commands to his tanks. Dad and Jake were promoted to First Sergeant and received letters of commendation, but they treasured Patton’s personal letters and Colt M1911s most of all.

Jake and Dad returned from the war and Elgin management put them back to work in the competition department. Jake also worked in my Dad’s repair shop in Long Grove Illinois.

I never tired of hearing The Story and I have my father’s Colt M1911. The framed letter to my mother from Lt. Col. George S. Patton is proudly hanging on my office wall.

Chapter 3 ~ July 1921

A Yellow Marmon Roadster

On a hot Midwestern July day in 1921 I was working in Dad’s shop doing odd jobs, running errands, pushing a broom and learning everything I could from my Dad and Jake. Dad paid me sometimes, enough to go to Cubs Park in Chicago now and then. I had been there last weekend and met Max Flack, the Cubs right fielder. Max was not a popular player, having made the famous throwing error in the third inning of the sixth and last game of the 1918 World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the Cubs. His error allowed the Red Sox to score two runs and the final score was Boston 2, Chicago 1. Many people blamed Max for the Cubs losing the series and accused him of throwing the game. I arrived at Cubs Park early because younger fans were often allowed on the field to meet players before the game. Max was a nice guy and I got his autograph. He didn’t seem to me to be the kind of guy who would throw a game.

Long Grove Illinois is a small village northwest of Chicago, a farm community with a general store and a few other shops, a church, a tavern, a blacksmith, a one room schoolhouse, a few dozen houses and a covered bridge. Our shop was just out of the village, a half mile from our house. The shop was busy, with Dad working full time and I helped after school and in the summer. Jake worked at the Elgin Motor Car Company in Argo where he and his family lived. Recently, Elgin announced that they were cutting back because sales were dropping. When the competition department was cut back and Jake did not have enough work at Elgin, he came up to Long Grove to work for us. Dad asked Jake to join us as a partner, but Jake’s wife and family wanted to stay in Argo. Sometimes Jake would go to Gauthier’s Field near Wheeling, where the local pilots flew aeroplanes. Jake was building a reputation as a talented airframe and engine mechanician.

Dad had a truck driving job which took him away from the shop for several days at a time. Jake was often there when Dad was driving the truck. I was learning the automobile repair trade and Jake told me I had a natural ability. It was a good thing, because I had been somewhat casual about school until the train race a couple years ago, when I decided I wanted to race cars. I started working hard, amazing my dad who thought I had been turning into a sheba chaser. I asked Dad to take me with on his truck job, but he said no, it was boring work and my mother needed me at home while he was away.

My mother had gone to visit her brother in Arlington Heights and Dad was away on his truck job. At noon Jake sent me to the Long Grove Village Tavern to pick up sandwiches and beer for lunch. In 1921 Prohibition was the law but many small town taverns remained open. It was only a half mile so I walked to the tavern because the road took me past Nancy Linford’s house and if she was outside I would stop and visit. We were going steady and Nancy would ride with me to the lake in Dad’s Elgin for a petting party and sometimes more. She was a great kisser, but what was important was that Mom and Dad liked her and thought someday we would get married. She was an attractive brunette, fun to be with and a willing companion at the submarine races.

Hutfilz bought the Village Tavern two years before Prohibition and was doing as good a business now as before. Town Constable Sherman was often seen there having a beer with his friends. Arriving at the tavern, I noticed a new-looking bright yellow Marmon Touring Convertible parked in the lot. No one in town had a car like that, so I deduced that we must have a well-heeled visitor in town. The car pulled me to it like a magnet and I circled it to look at every detail. It was the bee’s knees, the berries, the cat’s meow all rolled up in one. I was dreaming how I would look driving it with Nancy sitting next to me. The Marmon was a two-seat roadster so only one girl at a time could ride and the others would be envious and line up for rides. Maybe they would even fight over who got to ride next!

Hutfilz stuck his head out the door to call me inside. I reluctantly turned, not knowing why on earth Hutfilz would be calling me. Danny, I just called the shop and Jake told me you were on the way over and for you to try to fix that Marmon or hitch a horse and pull the car down to the shop. I’ll get your sandwiches ready while you take a look at the car. Here’s the driver. Wally, this is Danny, son of our local auto repair shop owner. I turned and first noticed a beautiful woman a couple years older than me with a chassis that easily was the equal to the sexy Marmon roadster waiting outside. I inspected her carefully. She wore a pale yellow summer dress that set off her beautiful blonde hair. If I could have taken her picture I would tear down that old photo of me with Miss Indiana State Fair and put the photo of this girl in the frame on my bedroom wall. I must have just stood there for a few seconds and the man named Wally next to her laughed.

Dawn has that effect on young men. But if I can pry your peepers off her for just a minute, I’d like you to take a look at my Marmon. The engine began running rough and we were lucky to be coming into this charming little village and better yet, this fine tavern. I was still staring at Dawn. I was sure to have dreams about Dawn for the rest of the summer. Dawn smiled sweetly back at me.

Danny, would you do us a favor and look at the car? she asked, trying to break the eye lock I had on her body. That woke me up and I looked at the man, his face in a shadow for a moment and I started mumbling an apology for being rude. Then I stopped, as if I were suddenly paralyzed. It couldn’t be. Here in Long Grove? We were a long way from Hollywood but I was sure it was him. I had seen his movie The Roaring Road and just a few weeks ago Nancy and I had gone to see Excuse My Dust. I had seen some of his other movies too, but Wallace Reid made the best auto racing movies.

Tall and handsome, he had a reputation as a musician and a fast automobile driver who did his own stunts. Wally was at the top of the Hollywood popularity list with both men and women, young and old, right up there with Valentino and this new guy Chaplin. The magazines called him the screen’s most perfect lover. Men liked him for his daring racing and girls swooned at the thought of being his lover.

My knees were getting wobbly and I might have collapsed to the floor but Wally grabbed my hand to shake it and put his other hand on my shoulder to steady me. He must