Rudolf Caracciola

We stood by the cars and waited. Music drifting across in snatches from the grandstands was interrupted by the occasional roar of an engine, and on the terrace of the timekeeper's hut the lottery numbers were drawn. I listened for a moment; I would have liked to know who had drawn my number. But down here not a word could be heard; the commentator's voice sounded like the barking of dogs.

We were waiting for Marshal Balbo. I was in the third row next to Varzi. At last the Governor arrived, preceded by twelve men on motorcycles; he was riding in a large open touring car.

The Giovinezza (the Italian national anthem) sounded, the people in the stands rose and the soldiers on the grass strip before the stands stood at attention.

Balbo stopped right in front of the drivers. Walking through their rows, he exchanged a word with them all. Addressing me in German, he asked, "Are you quite fit again?"

"Yes, Excellency."

"That's good then. In bocca allupo!" [Good Luck]

He walked on, a slim man of middle height with copper-colored hair and beard. We climbed into our cars. The large clock over the pits showed 2:57 P.M.

One minute to three. Marshall Balbo gives a quick order to one of the soldiers standing on the wall. The soldier runs to execute it.