Lord Oaksey

His piece on Mandarin and Fred Winter winning in France is regarded as a masterpiece.

To win at all would have been a famous victory - to win as Winter and Mandarin did was an heroic triumph over odds so steep that no normal man or horse could have been blamed for giving up long before the end.

None of this, of course, could even be guessed at, as, in the atmosphere of a Turkish bath, the 14-runners swept gaily

past the stands for the first of three intricate, twisting circuits.

So far as one could see in the friendly but chaotic tangle that serves Auteuil for a parade ring, the French horses were not a wildly impressive sight. Nor, to someone who had never seen him before, would Mandarin have been, but to the large band of English supporters, the sheen on his coat, the hard muscles writhing over his quarters and the way he pulled `Mush' Foster round the paddock, all told their own encouraging tale.

Sure enough, after flicking neat and fast over the preliminary hurdle jumped on the way to the start, Mandarin was soon upsides in front and past the stands pulling, as usual, like a train. He has always been a `heavy-headed' ride, with precious feeling in his mouth, and always runs in a rubber-covered snaffle to save his lips and jaws.

At the beginning of last season a brand new bridle was bought and Mandarin had worn it only half a dozen times, including his victories both in the Hennessy and Cheltenham Gold Cups. But the trouble with rubber bits is that a fault or wear can develop unseen

in the steel chain - and this,

no doubt, is what happened now.

After the first, sharp, left-hand bend the Grand Steeple-Chase course comes back towards the stands and there, going to the fourth, a soft but staring privet fence the best part of 6ft high, the bit snapped clean in the middle, inside Mandarin's mouth. I remember thinking at the time, "He got a little close to that one," but for a full circuit none of us in the stands realised the dreadful truth.

In fact, of course, Winter now had no contact whatsoever with the horse's mouth or head. The reins, kept together by the Irish martingale (or `rings') were still round Mandarin's neck, and they, together with the thick neck-strap of the breast girth, were Winter's only hand-hold.

To visualise the full impossibility of the situation you must remember first that when a racehorse, particularly a hard-pulling chaser, is galloping on the bit, much of the jockey's weight is normally balanced, through the reins, against that of a horse's head and forehand.

Now, for both Winter and Mandarin, this vital counterbalance was gone completely. The man, with no means of steering but his weight, had to rely entirely on grip and balance; the horse, used to a steady pressure on his mouth, had to jump 21 strange and formidable obstacles with his head completely free - a natural state admittedly, but one to which Mandarin is wholly unaccustomed.

Small wonder then, that, at the huge `Riviere de la Tribune' - the water in the front of the stands - he fiddled awkwardly, landing only inches clear of the bank and disaster. Thereafter, save for a nasty moment at the same fence next time round, the little horse jumped unbelievably well, and Winter, sitting still or driving on as the need arose, matched his every move with the sympathetic rhythm that is nine-tenths of horsemanship.

But the fences, needless to say, were only half the problem. Walking the course that morning with Winter, Dave Dick and Joe Lammin, Fulke Walwyn's head lad, we had all wondered afresh at the many turns, and countless opportunities for loosing your way.

The Grand Steeple-Chase is roughly two figures of eight in opposite directions and one whole circuit outside both. There are at least four bends through 180 degrees and to negotiate them all as Winter and Mandarin did, without bit or bridle was, quite literally, miraculous.

The answer lies, of course, in many things - in the matchless strength of Winter's legs, in Mandarin's own good sense, and in the absolute determination of them both never to give up while there was one shot, however forlorn, left on the board.

It is also, I think, only fair to give some credit - and our thanks - to the French jockeys, several of whom, had they pleased, could have taken advantage of the disaster and, without much risk to themselves, got rid of the biggest danger. Instead, at least one - Laumas on Taillefer, and probably several others, actually did their best to help, proving gloriously that the comradeship of dangers shared can, in some sports at least, count far more than international rivalry.

Throughout the race, save for a moment on the last bend, Mandarin was up in the first four and, as he jumped the Riviere for the last time, the full horror of his situation dawned upon us in the

stands.

From that moment on, the nerve-racking suspense, the wild, impossible hope, plunging to black despair and back again, were like nothing I have ever known on a racecourse - or, for that matter, anywhere else.

Mandarin cleared with ease the tricky posts and rails at which he hesitated fatally three years ago, and came to the junction of the courses a close fourth - close enough to lift the hearts of those who knew his and Winter's invincible finishing power.

But now disaster almost struck. Before the last right-handed turn, a large bush must be passed on the left - but can, with equal ease, be passed on the right. Mandarin, on the inside, with no rail to guide him, could not know until the last moment which way to go. For a few heart- stopping strides he hesitated, Winter threw all his strength and weight into one last desperate swerve - and somehow they were safe.

But priceless lengths had been lost and now, round the final bend, with only two obstacles to jump, Mandarin was only fifth, some six or seven lengths behind the leader.

On the turn, of course, Winter could hardly ride at all, but then, facing the Bullfinch, in a straight line for home at last, it was a different matter. From the stands, we saw the familiar crouching drive of his shoulders, and Mandarin, responding as he always has and always will, thrust out his gallant head and went for the Bullfinch like a tank facing tissue paper.

None will ever know what the little horse felt or thought between those last two fences. I have always believed he knows just what it means to win - and now none will ever convince me otherwise. In a hundred desperate yards he passed three horses as if they were walking, as he landed in front on the long run-in, my eyes, I am not ashamed to

say, were half-blind with

tears.

But it was not over yet. Mandarin was deadly tired and Winter, the reins gathered useless in his left hand, could do nothing to hold him together. He could only push and drive, and how he drove. Even so, inch by inch, Lumino, the only French horse able to accelerate, crept nearer and nearer.

In the final desperate strides, not knowing the angle, not one of us could really tell who had won. Winter thought he had got up, but he could not speak, so for several ghastly moments we had to sweat it out. By then, there it was - No. 1 in the frame - and as Mandarin came back, mobbed as no film star has ever been, head down, dog-tired, sweating - but surely happy - a cheer went up such as I have never heard on any racecourse.

For Winter, it was not the end. Riding a dream of a race, he went on, 40 minutes later, to win the Grand Course de Haies on Beaver. I have neither time nor space to describe that race and, triumph though it was for Beaver's trainer, Ryan Price, it served only as the perfect ending to an historic afternoon.

For on Sunday, Fred Winter and Mandarin had earned themselves a place among the immortal names of sport. I have never seen a comparable feat, never expect to - and can only thank God that I was there.