The two Cobra Daytona Coupes faced stiff competition from the GTO Ferraris at Le Mans. Despite mechanical issues, John Ohlsen, Shelby’s crew chief, pulled the team to victory. Photograph Courtesy Peter Brock Collection

Ohlsen worked tirelessly through the remaining hours to combine our new, untested, Modena-built Coupe with a new BorgWarner four-speed and Ford-Cobra engine that had just arrived by air from California. A set of large 5s was painted on the Viking Blue surface, along with some distinctive white markings on the front fenders so the team’s signaling crew could tell the Italian Coupe apart from its almost identical twin, No. 6.

Without even firing the engine, Ohlsen’s baby was rushed to tech before the line was shut down. With the circuit now closed to practice, the only alternative was to take the just-completed Coupe to the small airfield behind the Le Mans main grandstands and make a few passes up and down the runways to ensure everything functioned properly and that there were no leaks.

By race morning, there were still a dozen small tasks to complete, detail refinements that had been learned at Sebring and Spa. The biggest change was the addition of a rear spoiler.

My original design, with a driver-controlled adjustable rear wing, had been overruled during the prototype’s final construction by a still-skeptical Phil Remington. When again pressed to build the wing after the Coupe’s convincing win at Sebring, Remington replied, “It’s already fast enough to win. It ain’t broke so we’re not going to fix it.”

But at Spa in Belgium, just weeks before Le Mans, Remington finally became a believer. My predictions of a need for more rear downforce came true. Driver Phil Hill exited the Coupe after the first few laps of practice on the superfast, undulating circuit, saying it was too dangerous to drive.

Overnight, Remington fashioned a rear spoiler from a sheet of scrap aluminum. It completely transformed the car’s handling! Hill set a lap record the next morning and then put the Daytona on the front row for the race. That single modification would completely change the Daytona’s potential for the rest of the season.

With the 24 Hours scheduled to start at 4 p.m., an already exhausted Ohlsen continued to labor, checking and rechecking every possible detail. America’s Bob Bondurant and Dan Gurney had been selected to drive the new Coupe. Neither had ever driven a Daytona, so the seating position was adjusted and personal preferences for comfort were attended to.

Their odds of success over 24 hours–in a completely untested car, with unfamiliar drivers, on one of the fastest circuits in Europe–seemed remote at best. Bondo’ was a rookie on the circuit, but Gurney had already raced there five times. By contrast, our well-proven Sebring winner, with New Zealand’s young phenom Chris Amon and Germany’s veteran Jochen Neerpasch, seemed a far better bet. And so it would prove to be long into the night.

The expected strong challenge from proven consecutive Le Mans winner Ferrari never materialized–even with its four works-backed GTOs. Our twin Daytonas dominated the GT class, running a solid one-two, with the Amon/Neerpasch Coupe setting a fast, destructive pace that humbled the Italians. With strict orders from Shelby that there be no internal challenge from Gurney and Bondurant in No. 5, our tired crews on pit row slept for hours between pit stops as the competition slowly disintegrated. Even the three highly anticipated new Ford GT40s had tanked.

All seemed perfect for the twin Daytonas until well into the night, when Amon came in to refuel and change drivers. Under the rules, the engine was shut off. When service was completed, Neerpasch was given the “go” sign. He flicked on the lights and hit the starter switch. Click, click.… The lights dimmed. Dead battery.

Our disbelieving crew scrambled, hauling out a set of jumper cables to restart the engine. “Non, non!” our pit marshal yelled, waving back the crew while explaining in broken English, “Ees not legal to start ze car with outside assistance!”

This bewildered our crew. Having never raced in France, they didn’t know the rules were completely different. This simply didn’t make sense.

What to do? They looked in their cache of spares for a fresh battery. “Non!” It wasn’t legal to replace the battery, either.

Our pit marshal kept repeating, “Ze car must start undair eet’s own power!”

Our guys looked at each other, wondering. His comment seemed so obvious. In the pressure of the moment, however, our crew didn’t understand that our pit marshal was actually trying to help by offering a clue. Under the rules, he was not permitted to offer advice or assist in any way.

Our leading GT had now been in the pits for over 17 minutes. The fastest works GTO Ferrari was catching up. In those dwindling seconds, Bondurant, in our No. 5, roared past the pits, taking the GT lead.

By now, our pit area was teeming with officials. Even some serious-faced crew from Ferrari’s pit had materialized to see what had detained our No. 6.

Even Shelby had scrambled down from the team’s scoring platform above the pit to take command of the situation. He talked heatedly with the ACO officials, who had appeared just as mysteriously to monitor the situation.

Ferrari’s pit boss was waiving protest paper! Pandemonium!

Frustrated with the time lost in arguing, our crew opted for what seemed the only possible solution: They simply inverted a spare battery over the failed unit and jump-started the car. The moment the car fired, an imperious ACO official stepped in front of the car, waving his arms and saying it would be disqualified if it moved.

Shelby pushed him out of way and told Neerpasch to get moving. Shelby was figuring it was best to have the car on track while a “solution” was being negotiated with the ACO officials.

Then an even more senior ACO official appeared, telling Shelby in no uncertain terms, in very plain English, that if our leading No. 5 car was not signaled in on the next lap, both of our cars would be DQ’d! No recourse. There was nothing to do except comply. Even Shelby’s status as a past Le Mans winner meant nothing to the ACO officials.

There were no pit lane “deals” to be negotiated. A grim-faced Shelby gave the order to our crewman to write “IN!” in large letters.

In the quieting aftermath of the situation, our French photographer and translator quietly explained to our crew chief our personal pit marshal’s misunderstood command: He had been trying to tell them that the car must start under its own power, which had been clearly understood, but not the secret meaning of his wording–which would have made sense had we raced at Le Mans in the past.

Since the engine had been started by “outside means” and the car had been waved onto the track against ACO orders, it was clearly DQ’d. But, if the engine had only been started and not moved a millimeter, that would have been allowed! The intent of marshal’s wording was to allow the engine to run for enough time to recharge the battery and then be shut off so it could restart under its own power!