They're Off!

At 10 sharp there was a fanfare of trumpets from the municipal band. "Defense absolue de fumer!" roared the loudspeakers around the park. With a hiss and a rush, the mixture of hydrogen and municipal cooking gas poured into the first of the great balloons lying limp on the greensward of Le Mans' Quinconces des Jacobins. At home, the housewives of Le Mans were busily trying to cook their Sunday dinners, so from time to time the gas had to be turned off again. But in the park a milling crowd of 10,000 cheered lustily in the hot sun as the big gas bags, their sides painted with advertisements of the local brewers and corsetiers, began to take shape like elephants rising from a nap.

It was the start of France's annual Prix Alfred Leblanc balloon race, and nine dauntless aeronauts from France, The Netherlands and Switzerland were on hand to compete for the grand prize of 6,000 francs (about the price of a good pair of shoes). The French aeronaut, Pierre Jacquet, turned up in a natty sports suit and floppy hat with two duck feathers stuck in it. Erich Tilgenkamp, the Swiss entry, looked trim and sharp in his checkered cap, despite an anguished evening spent searching for his balloon, which had somehow got lost in the freight shed of Paris' Gare de l'Est.

When the first balloon was ready, lean Jean Boesmans, the Dutch entry, and his wife stepped into the basket. As 40 gallant soldiers of the Republic clung fast to its ropes, Boesmans launched into a flowery speech in praise of French sportsmanship. Just then the band struck up the Dutch National Anthem. "Tell the music to shut up," shouted Boesmans. "Lachez tout!" (let it go) roared the crowd. Promptly the soldiers dropped the ropes and Boesmans soared aloft, while the crowd shouted: "Vive la Hollande!"

Second Thoughts. The Swiss balloon was next on the line. But at the last minute doughty Tilgenkamp had decided that the French postwar gas was too anemic to trust. Without Tilgenkamp, the Swiss balloon, manned by two assistants, struggled to a height of twelve feet and began to settle earthward. The crowd gasped. Like lightning the Swiss aeronauts jerked the strings on their sandbags. Amid a shower of sand the big orange ball went bounding over the treetops, to land 50 kilometers away. "Vive la Suisse!" cried the crowd. Then France's first entry, ample, blonde Mlle. Paulette Weber, sailed off alone, equipped only with ham sandwiches and a bottle of rum "to keep warm, in case we should soar to the cold upper air." The band blared La Marseillaise.

At 5 o'clock a rash of worried whispering broke out among the officials. An announcement followed. At the last minute the gas workers, in charge of blowing up the bags, had gone on strike. The last four balloons were left at the post.

At the Aero Club in Paris, the officials waited breathless for news of the landings. One by one telegrams filtered in, but there was no word of Jacquet or the Dutch couple. For two days they were feared lost at sea. At last the word came. Jacquet had won, landing near Ghent, Belgium, after a flight of 430 kilometers (less than half the record distance). As for the Boesmans, they had landed only 50 miles from Le Mans. They hadn't bothered to telegraph, they explained, because they couldn't speak French.

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