It is spring 1955 and I arrive at the American army post in Verdun, France, the famous First World War battleground where after a very long struggle the Germans were stopped from getting through to Paris. I am assigned to barracks in Caserne Maginot, sort of a small walled city-within-a-city dating from the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. One day I spot an exotic old French car --- a 1936 Bugatti coupe --- sitting beside the Army fire station, with a For Sale sign in the window. From the faded and flaking paint, it looks like it spent the Second World War under a haystack, but apparently it runs.
I locate the owner. “Four hundred dollars” he says. “On my Army enlisted man's pay I don’t have four hundred dollars, so how about one hundred dollars a month for four months.” “OK", he replies, “but you won’t get possession of the car until it is paid off”. It is actually worth about twice that much, but the fireman is selling it as a favor for a friend who has been suddenly ordered to some remote outpost after getting in a fight with a French taxi driver. Four anxious months later I finally own a rare and famous Bugatti "grande routiere". I christen it Spirit of Verdun.
Now I have another problem. I have to register the car not only with the Army, but also with the French department of motor vehicles. It turns out that since the car did not have original registration in America, different regulations apply and a French driver’s license is required. I have to catch a train to the office of the “Préfecture”, equivalent to the county court house, in the nearby town of Bar-le-Duc to take the multiple-choice written exam. In French. After passing the exam, there remains an appointment the next week for the driving test. A friend tips me off that the examiner will direct me into a blind alley and then order me to turn around. Forewarned I borrow the Jeep from the radio repair shop where I work instead of using my long, streamlined Bugatti. The ploy works, and my driver's license is issued. (In fact I could still use it in 2010, as the “Permis de Conduire” is valid for life.)
Next it has to pass the Army safety inspection and the tires are worn completely bald. They are 5.50x18 inch size, unobtainable in France from what information I am able to obtain. However, there is a shop in town where they will “regroove” the tires using a burning tool like a soldering iron. The white fabric cords in the tires are now visible through the fresh grooves, but it satisfies the letter of the regulation for the Army safety inspector. Eventually, a new set of mail-order tires arrives from Sears-Roebuck in the U.S.
The following spring, my Army service nearly over, there is barely time to drive to the Bugatti factory in Molsheim, near Strasbourg, to pick up some spare parts. Soon afterward, rasping along at 70 miles-per-hour down the “Route Nationale” through the valley of the Loire river past fortress and chateau, my prized Bugatti arrives at the port of La Rochelle where the Army will ship it to New York.
In Brooklyn they hand me my discharge papers, and the car clears customs. Heading for Florida on the New Jersey Turnpike, a tire goes flat. I put on the spare but unfortunately in a few miles it also goes flat. The highway patrol stops and says a tow truck will cost me $50. As soon as the patrol car passes over the horizon I hitchhike back to the nearest service plaza. A kindly couple lets me ride in the back seat holding one of the wheels with the flat tire. Submerged in the water bath, the tube squirts a shower of air bubbles. The inner tube is perforated a dozen places where the spokes of the wheel have rusted through it. The mechanic at the service station patiently patches all the holes, when lo and behold, he also discovers a brand new 5.50x18 inner tube up in the dusty storage loft. I thumb another ride back to the Bugatti, hoping another highway patrol has not found it abandoned. The repaired wheel is soon in place. At the next station the new inner tube is mounted in the spare tire and an uneventful trip brings me home. The Bugatti serves as transportation for a year as I return to the University of Florida. I buy a beautiful 1953 Studebaker coupe and store the Bugatti in the garage at my mother’s house.
Later as a graduate student at Stanford on the GI Bill, I tow it to California and begin restoration. Having access to the master machinists at the Microwave Electronics Laboratory at Stanford is a big help in fabricating parts and special tools. Graduation, job, marriage, family, another twenty-five years pass while renovating each piece in my spare time in Carmel Valley. I get more repair parts, valuable assistance and advice from a gentleman named Bunny Phillips in Southern California. Friendship develops with Charlie Barnett in Woodside, and we go down the coast in his Type 57 convertible to a meeting of the American Bugatti Club hosted by Fred Treat in Los Angeles. An artist in Carmel named Bill Hinds puts on the finishing touches with a beautiful paint job.
So like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly in the cocoon of my garage, I realize it has morphed into a rare beauty. However, big changes are coming into my life. The Bugatti is sold in 1980 to an enthusiast named Alan McCrary in Vacaville, California. Soon afterward I move to a new job in Binghamton, New York and another twenty years pass until my retirement. After moving to Santa Rosa, California in 2009 I renew contact with Alan who tells me he recently sold it to a buyer in Europe. Bon voyage, ma cherie, merci pour les memoires.
My friend, Robert, died last week. Although I had worked with him for only a short time, at Sacks, the Hospice/Face to Face thrift store where I volunteer, we had developed a relationship that was meaningful to me. He was in charge of the toy department, repairing and bringing all manner of toys back to life. One day, as I passed by his workbench, I heard him talking to a stuffed animal he was sewing with a long needle.