‘The bravest man I knew’

Campbell had been to Bonneville too, with this very Bluebird in 1960, and came away lucky to have survived what was then the world’s fastest car accident. The site was familiar with Land Speed Record breakers in general and his family in particular, for it was here in 1935 that his father, Sir Malcolm Campbell, broke the record for his ninth and final time, becoming in the process the first man to travel across the surface of the planet at more than 300mph.

Donald’s gas turbine-powered Bluebird had to gain speed rapidly on the relatively short strip of Utah salt. The four big wheels, all driven by the Proteus gas turbine, began to spin as they struggled for traction. Lacking the vertical stabiliser fin it would later gain, Campbell lost control of the blue monster at over 300mph. It began to cartwheel, pulverising the salt, discarding its bodywork, and shedding its wheels in an orgy of destruction. It was a miracle that Campbell survived, his injuries including a fractured skull, a ripped ear, burst eardrum and contusion of the brain.

The lesson from Utah was clear. A longer track was needed, and that’s where Lake Eyre came in. Later, it’s where my father came in, too.

After the failure of 1963, Campbell’s main financial backer BP withdrew. So did the project manager. Instead, the Australian oil company Ampol became the principal sponsor. My dad was a former PR manager for Ampol who had directed the 1958 Ampol around Australia Trial, and had a decent knowledge of the Outback. Aged just 33 at the time, he was asked to project manage the new record attempt.

They met in a restaurant in Sydney, just after Campbell returned to Australia for the 1964 attempt. He described Campbell as, ‘like the Duke of Edinburgh with just a hint of a Graham Hill waiting to be turned loose’.

Four days later, they were in Lake Eyre. He flew in with Ken Norris, co-designer of Bluebird, in a small plane and headed to the main camp of Muloorina, a sheep and cattle station 38 miles south of the lake.

The practice runs began, on a specially graded 20-mile strip. Bluebird ran in the cool morning air unless it was windy. Every component was checked, as the speed increased, beyond 200, 250, then to 300mph, the team exploring tyre grip, air resistance, braking and more. The afternoons were spent washing the salt from Bluebird and repairing the track. Evening press briefings were usually held in Muloorina’s shearing shed.

The weeks dragged on. My father got close to Campbell who would often speak of his father whom he clearly both feared and revered. My dad wrote: ‘He would recount stories of the most appalling, unfeeling treatment as though the episodes had been great fun. It was as though Sir Malcolm hovered in Donald’s sub-conscious ready to grab him by the throat if he didn’t do what was expected of him.’

Sir Malcolm epitomised an era of British heroism and died at the end of it, just after World War Two. It was his son’s bad luck to live in a less generous era, where heroes were less celebrated and far more readily condemned for failure.

He surrounded himself with memories of his father. His chief mechanic Leo Villa had been a key part of Sir Malcolm’s team. He chose the same name, Bluebird, for his machinery. Like Sir Malcolm, he was intensely patriotic, but in an age when patriotism was valued. He was driven by the need to emulate his famous father, including conquering the same twin challenges: world speed records on water and land. He much preferred the boat, he confided; he had far more experience of going fast on water. It was of course the boat that would eventually kill him.

He was highly superstitious. Aware that the local Aboriginals believed the lake cursed, he would play a card game each night before a run, and study them for any sign of gloom. He carried a lucky teddy bear mascot, Mr Whoppit, which had survived the Utah crash with its owner. He regarded green as an unlucky colour and, when surnames had to be discussed, my dad became Evan Turquoise.

He spoke dismissively of the American Craig Breedlove, who had exceeded 400mph in 1963 but in a car powered by a jet engine not connected to its wheels, and thus against FIA regulations. Not legal, Campbell reassured himself. Though it must have galled him that someone else was the fastest man on Earth, and had done it in Utah, scene of Campbell’s most spectacular failure.

And then the rain came, again, and the winds. Just like 1963, the 1964 attempt now seemed doomed. But Campbell was no quitter. Though the favoured 20-mile strip was flooded and would be unusable for months, other areas of the vast lake had fared better. A shorter 12-mile section was identified. Not long enough for Bluebird to hit its design maximum of more than 450mph, but just about long enough to beat Cobb’s record – probably.

More test runs, more adjustments, more anxiety. Six weeks after arriving at Lake Eyre, the team was finally ready. Evan Turquoise had stayed throughout, missing the birth of my younger brother, on June 13, 1964.

The first attempt failed. He hit a soft patch of salt on his return and had to slow the beast to bring it back under his command, manfully controlling the world’s fastest car slide. That return run, on that dangerously rutted track, was when I think my father fully appreciated Campbell’s astonishing bravery. Another attempt followed, this time hamstrung by a faulty throttle.

The salt track had been badly cut up. Again, a hiatus was needed. A month passed, to let the lake heal. My dad came home and arrived to news of his son, born three weeks early. My mother and grandparents had been unable to contact him. Campbell went to Sydney and Brisbane and spoke of moving to Australia permanently.

In July, the Bluebird circus returned. There was a smaller support team. The track had hardened. Bristol-Siddeley had told Campbell it was okay to dial more power into the Proteus turbine, an important gain on a shorter track. A practice run showed the track was firm, and that Bluebird was fast.

On July 17, 1964, Campbell went for the record again. My dad watched from the measured mile, in a car with Campbell’s wife Tonia.

He described the sight of Bluebird: ‘We heard the distant thunder of the engine and the eerie, banshee wail of the car approaching at full power. That strange sensation of part excitement, part fear, that knotted the stomach. And the weird mirage effect, of a monster bursting through the horizon, pursued by its vapours. The arch of salt spray, the explosive noise, and then the Bluebird, side-on, beautiful, graceful, incredibly fast and chased by a noise of shattering magnitude. And like some beautiful creature pursued by demons, it vanished in a cloud of gas and spray.’

On the return run, the wheels broke through the salt and spun, wasting power. But Campbell did not back off. At the end of the measured mile, Bluebird was still accelerating – at more than 430mph.

The average for both directions was 403.1mph. Finally he had done it. Donald Campbell never was the fastest man on Earth, but he had broken the Land Speed Record. Nine weeks after my dad arrived at Lake Eyre, the team celebrated with a barbecue. Campbell seemed the least happy person there. He found it hard to understand or accept success, despite his achievements.

Rather, he was already discussing his next challenge: breaking the water speed record. He did it on the last day of 1964, again in Australia, becoming the only man to set both land and water speed records in the same year, a record likely to stay with him for all time.

I don’t think my father ever saw Campbell again after Lake Eyre, although he stayed in touch with Tonia. He had one memento from that successful Land Speed Record attempt. A slim dark blue tie, decorated by a Southern Cross and a bluebird in flight.

He never wore it.