A Report On The Accident That Killed Bill
Vukovich In The 1955 Indianapolis 500-Mile-Race
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A Report On The Accident That Killed Bill Vukovich In The 1955 Indianapolis 500-Mile-Race
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Who was this man? Who was this person who seemed to be far and away above anybody else we had ever heard of? Where did he come from? What drove him – what drove any of these men – to participate in an event as grueling and dangerous as the Indianapolis 500? We had other heroes – the test pilots at Edwards Air Force Base, the huge sports stars like Mickey Mantle. Fighters like Rocky Marciano. The great movie stars of that era. But he was a giant to us – somebody who was immense in his existence – who did things not one of us would ever try to do in our wildest dreams. And what was this strange place called the Indianapolis Speedway? Who were the voices coming out of the radio on Memorial Day talking about "Offenhauser" engines….the pits….the huge grandstands. What was this place really like? Was it as spectacular and colorful as the pictures painted in our minds by the announcers? Was it really a place like we imagined -- thousands and thousands of people sitting in the warm Indiana sun watching men race beautiful, deep throated, rumbling race cars around a vast 2 ˝ mile brick and asphalt surface? The answer was yes. The man’s name was Vukovich. A strange name to us – not like the normal American names we were familiar with. And he was a mysterious figure. We never heard much of what he had to say. But his silence spoke volumes. And somehow we understood. We only saw fleeting pictures of him in newspapers and magazines. The ones we were most familiar with were of a beaten and tired human being barely able to hear or talk – covered with sweat and oil – or sitting crumpled up on a garage bench. Or maybe a photo of him in a race car driving through a turn. The driving style – the tilting of the head, the arms powerfully yet gently holding the wheel and guiding the powerful and dangerous machine through the vast turns of Indianapolis. Or maybe it was a simple picture of him sitting in his car in a Firestone Tire ad. But we did know him by the radio announcer’s descriptions. We could visualize him even though we had never even seen a picture -- of him or his car. We had no idea what qualifying was, the pits, the garages or a torsion bar. What we did know is that these men like Vukovich drove those vehicles at breakneck speed subjecting themselves to extreme dangers on a regular basis. We knew right away that these men were not like you and me. They were a breed apart. And let us never forget it. Even of today’s racers. But in those days, they were truly something special and illustrious. Always a unique character to their faces – always an engaging name whether it was Sweikert, McGrath, Bryan, Flaherty, Hanks – and always showing unbelievable courage of the kind we struggled to comprehend. But this one driver was special. We learned later that he came to Indianapolis as a "rookie" in 1950 where he failed to even make the race and the next year, while getting in the show, finished far back in the field. We rationed that he was driving junk cars – that they didn’t give him what he needed those years. Then came 1952 and the strange "Roadster" that he almost drove to victory – a car which would eventually go on to Speedway immortality. With this car he was able to show what he could do, we thought. But it somehow broke down with only 8 laps to go while Vukie was leading. Certainly he would have won that one. Then in 1953 he drove through the hottest 500 on record. While other drivers dropped like flies, Vukovich kept up the pace and ran all others into the ground to take his first victory. In 1954 he came back and won his second by fighting off the best the other drivers could offer. Jack McGrath and Jimmy Bryan, as valiant as they were, they were no match for the Mad Russian. Oh, how we took him for granted. We just expected that he would win every race he was in. Maybe that was all we knew of him. Not much about his life, his family, what he did off the track – nothing. But we did know he was great. We could only dream of being that successful in our lives. Sure, we all had it in the back of our minds to be race car drivers – and fantasized of pulling into Victory Lane with all of the flash bulbs going off and the Official Speedway Announcer thrusting a microphone into our faces wanting to know our first words. But how many of us would do that? We could only hope that somehow we could be a fraction as successful in whatever occupation we eventually decided to pursue. That set the stage for 1955 where everybody thought he was all but invincible. The race started and Vukovich and McGrath put on a ferocious duel which had been building all month between the two rivals. Vukovich had opted not to race except for Indianapolis. And this was Flying Jack’s one big chance to achieve immortality himself. And a historic duel it was with McGrath finally pulling into the pits – his motor gone. Whether you were there, were listening on the radio or heard it from someone after it happened – no one who experienced it will ever forget where they were and what they were doing when the word came down that the all but unconquerable Vukovich was killed in an accident on the backstretch. The words left you with a total emptiness and shock and stopped you cold in your tracks. While we knew it was true we still couldn’t accept it. It just couldn’t be. You fought it. No, it couldn’t be. Not Vukovich. When the newspapers came out later that day – and the next -- the screaming headlines which drove home the reality and the terrible first pictures of the car upside down and in flames – left us in total shock and disbelief. How could Vukovich had met such a spectacular and horrible fate? What happened? We struggled to piece together a coherent description from all the reports of what really transpired. God, if he was to be gone, please let us know – somehow – what happened. Please let us come to understand amid the confusion a coherent description of the facts. That was never to happen. A lot of us were very young when Vukie was killed. It was maybe the first real person who we knew that died. And to have it be your hero – the person you thought was indomitable – the person you thought was the "Iron Man" to the end of time – was the one who wound up gone – was almost too much to bear and doomed us to an empty feeling that would never go away. We are left with the images in our minds of the car going over the wall and flipping wildly, of the car upside down and the rescue people standing helplessly by the car, of the enormous impact that it all had on our minds. If you are lucky enough to go to the Indianapolis Speedway, you walk to the backstretch and try to visualize where it happened and try to deal with the enormity of what the scene must have been like. Today, all we have is that Fuel Injection Special sitting in the Speedway Museum. Folklore has it the engine has been rendered inoperable so that no driver will ever take it on a lap around the historic oval ever again – part of an agreement. You stare at the car -- trying to visualize the giant who drove it for all it was worth. You imagine the rumble of the exhaust as the Offenhauser comes to life. You imagine him shifting the gears, letting the clutch out and taking to the oval one more time. But it will never happen. The car will sit motionless for the rest of time. And rightfully so. The Vukovich legend will live on as long as there are people fascinated by drivers willing to strap themselves into whatever race cars of a particular era look like, where they race and how fast they go. A lot of them may wonder if another driver like Vukovich will ever come along. With the way things have changed, that is very doubtful. Cars now are faster but so much safer. It doesn’t take the same breed of man to drive them. And there probably will never be a man explode onto the scene like Vukovich did – and in such a colorful era – and dominate like he did and go out in such a blaze of glory as he did. And we will all remain transfixed the rest of our lives over just who this man was. |
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