These rigs, literally giant chemical reactors strapped to car fenders, worked by “gasifying” coal. The process involved lighting a coal fire fiercely starved of oxygen so it burned hot enough to break down the fuel, releasing a toxic cocktail of flammable gases including carbon monoxide and hydrogen. This combustible mix was then piped into the engine’s intake, effectively replacing gasoline.
It might sound ingenious, but the reality was brutal. Gazogènes were filthy and fussy. The gas had to be cooled and scrubbed through filters packed with cork to catch ash and tar before it reached the engine. Even on a good day, these cars lost roughly a third of their power—a crushing price to pay for mobility.
And forget about ignition in an instant. Getting a gazogène-powered car ready to roll took patience and effort—a 30-minute warm-up for the fire to reach the necessary temperature. Then came a painfully short driving range of just 30 miles before loading up more coal. All while strapped to a furnace emitting deadly carbon monoxide—a toxic, invisible killer.
The French weren’t alone in this coal-powered automotive oddity. By war’s end, nearly a million such vehicles were running across Europe, with Germany leading the pack. They were a hallmark of wartime scarcity and ingenuity, a step backward in the march of progress forced by harsh necessity.
Once the war ended and fuel supplies normalized, these clunky coal burners were quickly discarded, but they left a strange legacy. Today, gazogènes are mostly relics for collectors, though they linger showing how desperation can fuel creativity—even when the solution feels like a big, smoky step back.
