Category Archives: Novelizing Facts

Indie Everyday

A4904C51-3483-49D0-8D64-E022F045510C

With apologies to Nathanial Hawthorne, this shirt is my version of the Scarlett Letter.  “Hello, my name is Gail, and I’m an Indie author . . . the process is hard, but very gratifying (even while pulling weeds in the garden).

This weekend I invite you to pick up River of January, and the sequel, River of January: Figure Eight.  If in Boise, check out Rediscovered Books, in Salt Lake, Sam Weller’s in Trolley Square, and Spokane’s Aunties Books. Also available on Amazon.com.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, River of January.

The Pitch

Long rows of rectangular tables, draped and decorated, filled the hall. Cellophane covered baskets, revealing festive gifts sat inches apart, attracting hopeful bids from the browsers wandering about the silent auction. Attendees seemed to understand the drill, strolling from basket to basket, pen in hand, increasing the previous bid. And the purpose behind this auction? The IEA Children’s Fund; a statewide account to help Idaho kids with food, clothing, supplies, shoes, and any other need disadvantaged students face.

I squeezed in between colorful, refugee-sewn bags and wallets, and a boxed WiFi yoga program, complete with a mat and ready-to-use internet software. My books sat displayed below eye level, requiring some adjustments to attract possible buyers.

Both “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight” are rich with archival images. However, space limitations left the usual eye catchers tucked in a satchel, under my chair. Though dismayed at first, I remembered that the books have photo galleries inside, and my tactic instantly shifted. “Are you a reader?” I begin. And what’s cool about teachers is that 99.9% told me ‘yes.’ (Of course they are, we teachers are the champions of literacy.) Then I whipped out the photos in book one.

I begin . . . “River of January is a true story, a memoir, that I have written in a novelized style. Here is my main charter, a pilot, who won an air race in 1933. Here he is receiving the winning trophy from actress Helen Hayes at the premier of her newest movie, Night Flight co-starring Clark Gable.” (The listener looks mildly interested. I go on.)

helenhayes0001

 

The girl in the middle, laughing, was his girlfriend, she was a pilot too. On the left is Amelia Earhart, the president of the female flying group called The 99’s.”  (I hear an audible WOW. We’re getting somewhere.)

Image

“And this girl is the other main character, and she was a show girl, dancer, and actress. The picture is a clip from a 1931 movie she appeared in called Women of All Nations. Not much of a film, but she had a closeup. Oh, that’s Bela Lugosi in the turban.” (Now I hear a ‘that’s amazing.’)

Women0001

“Yeah,” I agree. “And it’s only the first book. In book two, he ships out to the Pacific, and she becomes a professional ice skater in a Sonja Henie Ice Show.”

helenskates0001

(I reach for the second book, “Figure Eight.”). Here he is with the head of Eastern Airlines, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker. You know, the WWI flying ace?” Now they want to know the price, and would I take a debit card?

Rickenbaker0001

“Would you like me to sign the books?” They would. And I thank the purchaser, and ask for feedback on Amazon.

What is nice is that all teachers share an innate sense of wonder. My natural fascination with the story easily connected to like-minded listeners among the professional educators circling that hall.

And that’s my pitch. I let the two main characters sell the memoir because they were nothing short of amazing.

Plus I , too, happily made a donation for each book sold to the IEA Children’s Fund.

 

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, “River of January” and “River of January: Figure Eight.” Both books are available at www.river-of-january.com, or on Amazon.

 

 

 

You Know You Should Be Glad

th

It was the night of February 9, 1964, a Sunday, when my older brother and I had to make a crucial decision.  We were both over stimulated, frantic, not one of our four feet remaining long on the floor. The house vibrated with our excitement and the weight of our impossible dilemma. For starters our birthday was the following day–the 10th, (though we’re not twins–he’s a year older). Still, that pre-birthday fuse had already ignited and by the 9th the two of us were banking off the walls.

The quandary we faced that Sunday night was whether to watch “Davy Crockett at the Alamo,” starring Fess Parker on Disney (The Alamo!), or the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. This was that first historic Beatles broadcast, live on American television, and we agonized between the two choices.

In 1964 there were no video players, no DVD players, no home computers, or dvr’s, in fact televisions were the size of Volkswagen’s and transmitted in glorious, flickering black and white. This difficult decision counted because there was no rewind, there were no do-overs. One gain meant one loss.

We liked Davy Crockett an awful lot.  We had watched all the previous episodes, and Davy biting the dust in San Antonio was the much anticipated grand finale. But, oh, the Beatles! And the adoration was real, palpable, an injection of adrenaline without the needle. We worshiped at the warmth of our bedroom radios, perpetually tuned in to our local AM radio station. Reverent silence accompanied replays of “She Loves You,” and “I Want To Hold Your Hand.”

What could two grade schoolers, sick with anticipation do with such a weighty conundrum?  It was 1964 and we had to choose.

Before the proliferation of electronic media, this little girl of the 1960’s viewed momentous events as they beamed across the screen. MLK’s elocution at the Lincoln Memorial, President Kennedy’s inaugural address, his assassination, and the escalating war in Southeast Asia–all experienced as reported at that moment.

In an earlier era, when Chum flew in his air race, and Helen danced in Rio at the Copacabana, there were no camcorders or Iphones. His signature landing and Helen’s near disastrous opening night grew silent as the applause subsided, then faded in time. Much like my brother and myself in 1964, they lived life forward, one opportunity at a time.

Silent photos and written records are all that remain verifying Chum’s aerial dash through darkened skies, and Helen’s energetic dance routines. They lived life forward, embracing events as they unfolded–experienced once, then gone. I would love to see footage of Chum’s Waco airplane lifting off at dusk, or watch Helen spring across the stage. But those wishes are pipe dreams, never to happen. No vintage film or recording, (except one I found by accident) exist in the historic record. The best I can do for myself, and for readers, is try to recreate the magic of the first time around in the pages of my River of January.

Oh, by the way, I’ve never seen “Davy Crockett at the Alamo.”

Gail Chumbley is the author of the two-part memoir, River of January and River of January: Figure Eight. Also available at www.river-of-january.com.

Dancers and the Lady Pilot

 

Their names were Carmen Morales, Maria Gambarelli, Mistinguett, and Frances Harrell Marsalis. These four women carved out professional careers, achieving various levels of fame, in an early 20th century largely dominated by men. All four figures also weave into my first book, River of January, as friends and employers of my main characters. It has been an interesting journey, filled with pleasant surprises, plus an honor to revive their names, and present these women to 21st Century readers.

All four women lived life on their own terms.

Frances Harrell Marsalis, an ambitious, Texas-born wife, left her husband and children, relocating to New York’s Roosevelt Field. Obsessed with aviation, Frances dutifully put in her time, honing the specialized skills necessary to aviation until she, too, finally strapped into the cockpit.

Allying with other women pilots at the famed airfield, Frances joined in forging The Ninety Nines, a sorority of women flyers, electing Amelia Earhart the organizations first president. These women formed a tight-knit association, attracting endorsements from advertisers, (usually for products like cosmetics) to earn enough money to stay in the air.

In a 1934 Dayton, Ohio air race, Frances met her demise while rounding a pylon, trapped in wing-to-wing congestion. Another plane bumped hers, and flying low Frances launched into a fiery cartwheel. She survived in the wreckage, but died shortly after.

Frances Harrell Marsalis entered the pages of River of January as Mont Chumbley’s first serious love.

Rich in Old World sensibilities, Carmen Morales and Maria Gambarelli embodied excellence in the performing arts.

Gambarelli, American-born, of Italian descent, rose to fame as a celebrated New York ballerina. Renowned for her devotion to dance, Gambarelli promoted American ballet with a missionary’s zeal. In 1932 the prima ballerina agreed to headline a European tour featuring talented American ballerinas. Twenty-year-old Helen auditioned, made the cut, and joined this company of ingenue dancers, soon crossing the Atlantic aboard the SS Ille de France. Once in Paris, an unexpected dispute erupted between Gambarelli and the tour producers over creative authority. The prima ballerina either quit or was fired—Helen’s letters indicate the girls weren’t sure. Gambarelli returned to America embroiled in a lawsuit with the promoters.

Born in Spain’s Canary Islands, lovely Carmen Morales found her way to culturally vibrant New York City by 1930. Like Helen, Carmen earned a spot in Gambarelli’s 1932 European tour. An accomplished dancer, she and Helen developed a warm friendship underscored with daily rehearsals, nightly performances, cheap hotel rooms, cheaper food, and endless hours on rail cars.

The bond between the two lasted a lifetime.

In Monte Carlo, Carmen met and fell in love with an American hoofer, Earl Leslie. The couple quickly married in Marseilles, and Carmen, with her new husband, left the show in 1933. The newlyweds accepted a position managing a string of German nightclubs from a central office in Berlin. Unfortunately, visits from Adolf Hitler’s paramilitary Brownshirts quickly convinced Carmen and her husband, to resign and escape the country.

The marriage with Leslie didn’t last much longer either, and Carmen left Earl while performing in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

Making her way to Los Angeles in the late 1930’s, Carmen settled in Sherman Oaks, and pursued a career in motion pictures. Director John Ford signed Morales to star in Warner Brothers, The Long Journey Home with John Wayne in 1940. Following that release, Carmen appeared in other features, and later took roles on television. She died in Sherman Oaks in 2000.

The most famous of the four was French entertainer, Mistinguett. Though not well known in America, this music hall icon is still revered by generations of French devotees of the stage. By the time Helen became acquainted with “Miss,” as she referred to the celebrity, the songstress was well into middle age; her beauty beginning to fade. Nonetheless, when Miss signed the American ballerinas to her variety show, following the Gambarelli fiasco, Helen and her fellow dancers were fascinated by their new boss.

Rumors abounded in the dressing room regarding the grand lady’s legendary love affairs, especially with French heart-throb, Maurice Chevalier. Though significantly older than Chevalier, Mistinguett had engaged in a torrid affair years earlier, when Chevalier had been a mere chorus boy.

But all gossip fell silent when the grand lady took the stage—no one spoke, nor laughed. They instead watched and listened in rapt awe and admiration. “Miss’s” signature song, Mon Homme, reliably brought the house down, with teary-eyed audiences clamoring for more. By the way, Mon Homme translates to My Man, first made popular in America by Ziegfeld girl, Fanny Brice, then again by Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl.

River of January, for me, lived up to its promise of adventure. My journey of discovery led back to an inspiring, adventurous era, where women dared fortune equal to their male counterparts.

For more about these fascinating ladies read River of January, and River of January: Figure Eight, by Gail Chumbley. Visit www.river-of-january.com. Also available on Kindle.

gailchumbley@gmail.com

A Brief Word (Once Again)

New York,1942

New York

1942

twilinghelen0001

Eileen pounded on the door to Helen’s apartment, down one flight from her own. “Have you ever been ready on time? We’re gonna be late for rehearsal.”

The lock popped and the door squeaked inward. Eileen continued her rant. “That war bond rally is going on in Times Square—the mayor’s there. We’ll have a crowd to get through. Rehearsal, Helen!”

“I’m hurrying, Sis. Keep your socks on. Just trying to find my skating sweater.” Helen fled down the hall to her bedroom.

Throngs of servicemen clad in navy blue or army khaki filled the streets and sidewalks. The Thompson sisters weathered a persistent barrage of catcalls, whistles, and hopeful winks. Red, white, and blue Civil Defense signs loomed along the girls’ route, directing them and the rest of New York to the nearest subway entrance in case of an emergency. Air raid wardens, their helmets bearing the CD insignia, were posted near the signs, ready to take control.

Flags of every description fluttered from office buildings and apartments. From countless apartment windows, silk banners bearing a single blue star notified passersby that a son, brother, or father had enlisted in the service. If the flag happened to field a gold star instead, Helen looked away; it meant a loved one had died battling the enemy. Automatically she thought of Chum, who had left that morning to wing his way to some undisclosed, classified destination. Peering down the narrow brick canyon to the docks, Helen detected the waving lines of maritime flags—navy troopships preparing to ship out. Though distant, those colorful standards added to the vibrant, festive atmosphere of bustling Midtown.

Half a block from Center Theater, Eileen began chuckling. Helen’s thoughts still on the gold stars, she grumbled, “What’s so funny?”

“Well, if I were to actually do everything advertised on the way over here—you know, join the armed forces, plant a garden, donate my girdle to make tires, and sew something for victory—I’d be a gun-toting, green-thumbed, bulging Betsy Ross.” Eileen giggled again.

“Did you miss the one that told you not to talk? Loose Lips Sink Ships? There’s one you could start right now.”

Eileen lunged. But Helen, feeling cheerier, dodged away and sprinted toward the dressing room—big sister in hot pursuit.

Following the success of last season’s It Happens on Ice, Sonja Henie’s new production at Center Theater, Stars on Ice, was several weeks into rehearsal. Both sisters skated four pieces in Act I, including a jitterbug finale titled “Juke Box Saturday Night.” In Act II, they accompanied headliners, blade-dancing the samba and rumba in a Latin-flavored number, “Pan-Americana.” The second act culmination was the all-cast, patriotic “Victory Ball,” with its signature song “Big Broad Smile.”

After rehearsal, the chorus gathered at the Latin Quarter on Forty-Seventh Street, toasting their first round to a successful, productive rehearsal.

“Sometimes I wonder if we’re doing enough for the war effort. Maybe other women are doing more meaningful work.” Helen tapped her nails thoughtfully against her bourbon and water.

“I don’t know, honey,” fellow skater Patsy O’Day answered. “Mayor LaGuardia thinks we’re doing our bit. Did you see the notice he placed in the new program thanking us for keeping up morale?” She sipped her cocktail. “Surely you’ve seen the soldiers and sailors in the seats. Those boys love our show.”

“Chum doesn’t like what you’re doing as it is,” Eileen chimed in. “Wouldn’t he be tickled to hear you’ve volunteered for more?”

Helen ignored her sister’s sarcasm and replied to Patsy, “I’ll have to look at that playbill tomorrow. I’d like to think morale is as important as munitions work, or joining the WAVES. Still, I don’t know how working women manage—especially mothers with small children—with their husbands away in uniform.”

Kay Corcoran, another line skater at the table, nodded in agreement. “I suppose if the woman is lucky, she has a mother or mother-in-law to help her out.”

“Right.” Helen looked thoughtful.

*

After an initial salute, Chum sparked the ignition switch and took off from Floyd Bennett Field, carrying a lieutenant and his aide to nearby Red Bank Field in New Jersey. He and his passengers passed a silent, fifteen-minute hop over New York Harbor. Leveling the nose on his Howard GH-1, Chum smoothly rolled onto the landing strip, slowing to a controllable speed to cross to a navy gray hangar.

A crew chief was watching them from the shade of the facility, and after the passengers departed, he marched over to greet Chum. “Afternoon, sir,” the mechanic saluted. “In case you haven’t heard, Lieutenant, the Japs have done it again.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, sir, they’ve hit us—this time the airstrip on Midway Island. Just came across the wires. Struck Dutch Harbor in the Aleutians too. As we speak, Jap carriers are launching waves of Zeros and Nakajimas.”

Aghast, Chum fought his impulse to leap back into that little Howard, open the throttle, and soar all the way to the Pacific. Forced by duty, and reality, he instead paced the hangar until the two commuters eventually returned. Still, rushing back to New York changed nothing, just another field to pace. The carrier battle raged on thousands of miles away, and no one could do much of anything but wait.

For three anxious days reports trickled in from the Pacific, dispatches that were spotty, vague, and inconclusive. When details emerged of this first-ever clash in the sky, the United States Navy found much to celebrate and, tragically, as much to mourn.

The particulars surfaced days after the attack, presenting a clearer picture of the Battle of Midway. At a morning briefing, base personnel learned firsthand the events surrounding this aerial showdown. “The Imperial Japanese Navy,” began an officer Chum recognized as Lieutenant Commander Kirby, “in an attempt to eliminate US forces on Midway Island, launched multiple airborne assaults. The number of enemy aircraft carriers present in the attack has convinced the Department of War that the Japanese military intended to occupy the island in order to menace US installations farther west in Hawaii.” Kirby paused, somberly measuring his words. “The Empire of Japan has utterly failed in their effort.” The lieutenant commander smiled faintly. “Of the six Japanese carriers under Admiral Yamamoto’s command, four now sit at the bottom of the central Pacific.”

For a moment, the gathering seemed to hold its collective breath, pondering the lieutenant commander’s words. When the full significance sank in, the men jumped to life, roaring in satisfied approval. After the shouting and fraternal backslapping, the crowd finally stood together in a rousing standing ovation.

Kirby couldn’t help but grin at the enthusiastic response, but quickly quelled the celebration with a brief “As you were.” When everyone was seated again, he continued. “Ahem. Yes, this is good news, good news.” Glancing down at his notes and taking a deep breath, he said, “Gentlemen, this great triumph has come at a grim price for the navy. Fellas, we have lost the USS Yorktown. An enemy sub took the old girl down. She was too disabled from the Coral Sea campaign to maneuver away. Our losses so far are sobering—over three hundred casualties at latest count.”

Kirby’s eyes scanned the crowd. “Among the dead, five squadrons of Devastator torpedo bombers from both the USS Enterprise and the USS Hornet. These bombers were utterly blown from the sky while executing attacks on Japanese vessels. The Department of the Navy verified the few who survived the shelling were slaughtered in the water by the enemy rather than rescued. Initial reports from Honolulu indicate that Wildcat fighters, assigned to protect these torpedo bombers, lost all contact, leaving the Devastators hopelessly exposed to Japanese ordnance. Boys, we lost them all, all of our torpedo bombers and pilots—but one, a pilot from Texas.”

The room fell silent, as if there had been no good news at all, no victory in the Pacific. Kirby concluded the briefing with, “Their brave sacrifice made it possible for the rest to find and sink those Japanese carriers.”

Seated among his fellow pilots, Chum shook his head sadly, reminded of a conversation nearly fifteen years before, when he was just a boy—a Seaman, First Class. After a morning of training—of war games—he and a buddy were perched on stools at the base canteen in Panama. Flying his torpedo bomber yards from service vessels had left him unsettled, and he said to his friend, “We approach in low formation, drop our payload and bank, while dangerously showing our undersides to the enemy. We’d be lucky to keep our asses dry, Win. Makes me wonder what desk genius dreamed up this idea. It’s a suicide mission.”

“A suicide mission,” he repeated, in a hopeless whisper, coming out of his reverie.

“Permission to speak, sir,” came a voice from the rear of the hall.

Kirby responded, “Permission granted.”

“How does a sailor go about transferring to the Pacific, sir? With all due respect to our mission here in New York, I want to whip those Japs bad.” Murmurs of agreement swept across the room.

“Fill out the proper paperwork, son.” The lieutenant commander sounded weary. “Complete with your commanding officer’s signature.”

*

Helen quietly turned her key and gently opened the door. Tiptoeing through the dark living room, she saw a stripe of light beaming from under the bedroom door. No wonder it’s quiet—Chum’s awake, no snoring. Entering the lighted room, Helen saw her husband sitting on the bed with an open file folder in his hands. “Honey? Can’t you sleep? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

He smiled her way. “No sweetheart. I thought I would wait up. We haven’t seen each other in a few days. Good crowd tonight?”

Helen smiled back, equally glad to see her husband. “And how! A marvelous audience tonight. Uniforms everywhere—and they gave us a standing ovation.”

“Ha. No kidding! I was part of one of those today myself.” Chum laughed quietly.

“It is so grand to see you awake, Chum. I’ve missed you terribly.”

“Me too.” He paused, choosing his words. “Helen, honey, I stayed up to have a little talk about my . . . about our future. Now, don’t look so panicked,” he added, watching her face drain to pale. “It’s nothing too terrible, honeybunch.” He reached over and patted her arm. “Did you hear the radio reports today—the big brawl out in the Pacific?”

“Of course,” she mumbled, slumping down on the bed. “The radio is always on in the dressing room. No one has the heart to switch it off. We listened to the updates on WCBS. Some of the girls’ husbands have shipped out.” She frowned.

“I want you to know that I am going to talk to Vice Admiral Andrews,” Chum said. “I want . . . I need a transfer to the Pacific too.” Helen stared at her lap. “Honeybunch, please don’t be sad. The navy is fighting back hard . . . I’m not sure how I can explain this so that you’ll understand. Those villains have to be stopped. I owe it to my country, to you, and to myself. Those bastards attacked American soil. Oh, please don’t cry, darling. Please.”

Her voice hitched as she slowly replied, “You told me once that I would have to be brave. You said I needed to trust you, and not to worry. And I have been trying, Chum, really, really hard. I know the country is at war and you have a duty to perform. And, well, I want you to know that I understand how you feel. I—I want to contribute my part too. Even if that only means waiting for you to safely come home and skating to make audiences happy.”

Chum frowned. “You don’t have to keep ska—”

“Yes, I do. It makes me happy too,” she snapped. “People need the distraction now more than ever.”

He sighed—this talk wasn’t going the way he had intended. “Fair enough, Helen. You keep skating. I only wanted to share my intentions, because you need to know. And I am determined to ship out as soon as I can. Helen . . . I want an operating squadron, honey. That means flying fighters—Corsairs, Hellcats, Wildcats, and the like.” He paused a moment in thought. “Frankly, almost everyone on base is bucking for a Pacific transfer after today’s briefing. Look, we—the navy—can whip those devils. We’ve now proven we can beat them in the air.”

Chum took a deep breath before continuing. “I understand that protecting New York is essential, but honestly, the Germans have been restricted. They’re not able to do too much close to shore. We’re in far more danger on the West Coast, and I want in. But”—he shook his head—“first I wanted to talk things over with you . . . and I still have to get the go-ahead from the vice admiral. What he’ll say is anyone’s guess.”

Helen could feel her heart growing numb. With a heavy sigh, she said, “So, you want to go after the enemy.” Her voice became flat. “To fight the Japs in the air. Never mind that you could be killed. Never mind that even if you didn’t die in the air, you’d likely drown in the ocean.” A solitary tear trickled down her cheek.

“Helen, it’s my job. And believe me, sweetheart, I have no particular death wish. Flying is my job, and I think about the risks every time I prepare for takeoff.”

That said, they both grew silent, lost in thoughts words couldn’t phrase. Finally, Chum murmured, “You know, it’s funny—”

“No it’s not,” Helen snapped.

“I suppose ironic is a better word. It strikes me that this argument must be going on all over the country—of wives asking why husbands have to go.”

*

Lieutenant Chumbley remained beside a Lockheed Lodestar, cigar in his teeth, flight plans to Anacostia in his hands. The vice admiral and his aide, Captain Henry Mullinix, had not yet arrived for their flight to Washington and the Department of the Navy. I’m going to ask today. He seems to like me enough to listen. Chum looked up from the documents as the two officers approached, striding side by side to the aircraft.

“Morning, sir. Welcome aboard.” Chum gave a crisp salute as Vice Admiral Andrews climbed into the aircraft.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” the vice admiral replied in passing. “Let’s keep this plane in the air and absolutely no turbulence. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” Chum said with a chuckle.

“Captain Mullinix.” Chum greeted Andrews’ aide with a salute too, as he climbed up the steps.

“Beautiful day for a flight, wouldn’t you agree, Lieutenant?” Mullinix smiled.

“Yes, sir. The tower reports high, scattered clouds, with unlimited visibility. Will you be joining me in the cockpit, sir?”

“Roger that, Lieutenant.”

Upon reaching altitude, Chum turned the Lodestar over to the captain, a mutually agreed upon arrangement, but only until picking up radio contact for landing. He then relaxed for the hour-plus flight to Washington.

“I’m meeting with Secretary Knox first,” said the vice admiral. “Did I mention that, Captain?”

“Affirmative, sir. A transport vehicle is waiting at the field. We’ll head directly to the navy yard, sir.”

“Very good, Captain.” The vice admiral settled back in the cabin, and with a deep sigh, closed his eyes.

This isn’t the time to ask for any favors, Chum thought, maybe on the way back. There’s time.

The Lockheed descended squarely onto the Anacostia landing strip, soon circling in the direction of the hangar. A large, blue sedan with stenciled white stars on the doors idled nearby, awaiting the high-ranking visitor. Chum grew confused when Andrews, unbuckling his harness, remarked, “Come on with us, Chumbley. Mullinix here needs some company while I breathe the rare air of the Operations conference room.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you, Lieutenant,” Mullinix answered. “I have a set of checkers in my briefcase. These meetings can last forever.”

The three officers stepped into the newer model Cadillac, doors punctually opened by a stiffly saluting chief petty officer. Andrews returned a lackluster gesture to the driver, and the sedan headed toward the city. From the backseat, Chum caught sight of the massive Capitol Building, with the Washington Monument rising in the foreground. But still his thoughts focused on his objective. Maybe I should open the subject with Captain Mullinix first. He’s a real nice gentleman, and could maybe approach Andrews on my behalf.

“How are you at checkers, Lieutenant?” The captain interrupted Chum’s musing.

“Fair, sir, fair. But I haven’t played in a long time.”

“Well, Lieutenant, Mullinix does not extend charity when it comes to checkers, or war for that matter. He plays to win.” Andrews grinned, winking at Henry Mullinix.

Chum smiled in return. “Thanks for the advice, sir.”

The chauffeur braked at the Latrobe Gate outside the navy yard. The driver opened the vice admiral’s door, again formally saluting. The captain reached for his own door handle, stepping out with no pomp. Chum followed suit. Immediately surrounded by subordinates, Andrews walked directly to the entrance, leaving Mullinix and Chum to fend for themselves.

“Let’s head to the canteen, Lieutenant. I’ll call upstairs and let them know where to find us when the vice admiral is ready.”

It wasn’t long before both men were leaning over a Formica table, studying the red and black grid. Mullinix lorded over small stacks of red discs he had captured, while Chum defended the few he had left on the board.

Chum decided to speak up. “Captain, I was hoping for some advice.”

“Now, what more could a pilot with a terrific assignment need?”

“Well, sir, I am rather anxious for active duty . . . out in the Pacific.”

Jumping two of Chum’s checkers, Mullinix smiled sheepishly, snapping the pieces off the board. “You and the rest of the boys in the Eastern Sea Frontier. Most of the paperwork we’re processing comes from fellows just like you—all sailors gunning for Tojo.”

Chum jumped a black disc to crown another.

“Ha. I think you’ve been sandbagging me, Lieutenant.” The captain chuckled. “If you are seriously intending a transfer out to Honolulu, talk to Andrews directly. He’s a reasonable man, and he likes you.” Chum smiled at that. “But that can work against you too, Chumbley.”

Chum’s smile faded. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“The vice admiral is approaching retirement this coming year. He hasn’t been particularly well and is only staying on until the U-boat situation has been satisfactorily eliminated from coastal waters. My guess is that he’s happy with you as his pilot and would want to keep you on his staff. Very hard to predict what Andrews might say. But I will let you in on one tidbit.” Both players unconsciously sat straighter, the game between them temporarily forgotten. “I’m to receive my flags soon, becoming a vice admiral myself.”

After a moment’s pause, Chum felt he should say something. “Congratulations, sir. You have certainly earned the promotion.”

“Yes, thank you, Lieutenant. I will post to the Pacific within the next eight or nine months. The scuttlebutt is I’ll first take command of the Saratoga. As you know, she’s coming out from refitting and heading back to the Solomon Islands. So if you can wrangle a transfer west, I’ll see that you get the duty you want.”

“You would, sir? With an operating squadron?”

“Fighter pilot, huh? I thought you liked this transport-chauffeur service, Chumbley.”

“It is an honor, sir. And I have enjoyed the job enormously. But after Midway . . . well, I too want to settle some scores with those sneaky rascals.”

“Get yourself out to ‘The Show,’ Lieutenant”—the captain sighed—“and I’ll take care of you. How does that sound?”

“That sounds grand, sir.” Chum smiled, relieved.

Resuming their game, Captain Mullinix proceeded to beat Lieutenant Chumbley four games out of six.

grummondgoose

River of January: Figure Eight, pps. 200-212.

Gail Chumbley is the author of the River of January series.

Also available on Amazon.com

Gail Chumbley

 

This is Happening!

th

“River of January: Figure Eight” is ready on November 1st! Ordering begins after midnight, on All Hallows Eve.

Go to www.river-of-january.com or to Amazon.com. If you haven’t read the first installment, “River of January,” go to our webpage at www.river-of-january.com or to Amazon.com

Also available on Kindle.

Premier Sunday

Ladies and gentleman! Today, October 2, 2016 I proudly present the cover art for book two of River of January.

Please welcome River of January: Figure Eight, available for purchase one month from today, November 2, 2016.

mock3

Huge thanks go out to the talented Brooke Rousseau, and her brilliant mother, Yvonne at Point Rider Publishing.

Perorders available at gailchumbley@gmail.com.

To catch up with book one, River of January is available at www.river-of-january.com or at Amazon.com. Also found on Kindle.

Author Gail Chumbley can be found at gailchumbley@gmail.com or at http://www.river-of-january.com

An American Girl Abroad, 1932

newgamby0001

frenchsticker0001

bonvoyagecard10001  bonvoyagecard20001

frenchlines0001    lakecomo0001

hotelhapsburg0001  hotelbasel0001

boattoafrica0001  hotelalgiers0001

Image  voila0001missgroup0001

Read River of January for the story behind the pictures.

Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January, a memoir, also available on Kindle. Watch for the sequel, “River of January: Figure Eight” out in November.

Guanabara Bay at Sunrise

HVienna0001

South Atlantic

 1936

Aside from the never-ending Elie issue, the voyage itself passed pleasantly. Helen and Lila scrambled out of their beds each morning ready for fun. They hurried to breakfast in the dining room, joining the other young people on the ship. And depending on their moods, Helen and her cohorts played shuffleboard, ping-pong, or other games on deck. After meals she strolled with Lila around the upper level, and the girls always found time to take in the afternoon sun.

Helen enjoyed the scenic two-week voyage, which included additional ports of call along the way, for passengers and mail. Helen noticed that each time they docked, The Southern Cross steered into harbors increasingly clogged with more ocean-going traffic. Recife, in particular was congested enough the ship had to sit off shore until its scheduled arrival time. Anxious for Rio, Helen asked a crew member why the ship had to sit and wait.

“Must keep to the timetable, Miss. The cost of coming into port early can be as high as $500 a day.”

After another stop in Vitorio, the ship downshifted to a veritable crawl. She could feel the air thicken, heavy and muggy, in the motionless heat. Sweltering, the two American girls grew impatient with the slower pace and filled their time packing then repacking their trunks.

The last night on board, Helen took her time washing and setting her hair. She had painted her nails and toes a bright red, and had gone to bed early; 8:00 PM. Lila did the same. The day before, during lunch, an elderly lady from Connecticut had described the beauty of approaching Rio by sea.

“There is no panorama more exquisite than entering Guanabara Bay at sunrise,” the matron declared, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.

Their curiosity piqued, the girls thanked their luncheon partner, and agreed to greet the dawn as it lighted their nearly mythical destination.

The deck appeared empty, dark, and still just before 4:30 AM.  The girls had stumbled out of their beds, pulled on their robes, and stepped out into the cool air. As Helen’s eyes adjusted, she could identify other early risers, also clad in their robes. Clustering at the railing, the onlookers were absolutely overwhelmed with the panorama that gradually unveiled before them.

Helen gazed as the sun, rising from behind her, shadowed an elongated silhouette of the ship on the quiet water. Sugar Loaf Mountain presented slowly, from the summit down, exposed by the rising light, cobalt and gold reflecting on the calm, glassy bay. The relatively dry morning air and growing excitement over their imminent departure from the ship left both girls exhilarated.

“Lila, this was a keen idea!”

“Sure was. Glad I thought of it,” Lila replied, laughing.

*

Helen’s intuition alerted her that something wasn’t quite right. Standing behind Lila, in the customs queue, she watched as a short, balding official approached them from the head of the line. He tapped both girls on the shoulder, gesturing for them to step off to the side.

Innocently, she and her friend complied, dragging their trunks and pulling smaller bags with them. The official then returned to the front of the passageway without a word. The two girls looked at each other, puzzled at the strange request. There seemed to be no special reason they were targeted, and no one who bothered to provide them with an explanation.

The Club Copacabana manager, Mr. Max Koserin arrived to the docks to personally pick up his American dancers around 10:00 AM. He smiled at his new employees, whom he noticed at once. His expression shifted dramatically, however, when he realized they were standing alone, outside of the customs queue, with their baggage at their feet.

“Good Morning, ladies. I presume that you are Miss Thompson and Miss Hart?” Koserin asked.

Helen spoke first. “Yes. I’m Helen, and this is Lila. Thank goodness you’re here, Mr. Koserin. That man at the front pulled us out of line without telling us why. We don’t understand what’s going on.”

“Please try not to worry,” their new boss assured, looking them both in the eye. “I will get to the bottom of this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

Koserin walked to the customs officer and began what quickly escalated into a heated exchange. Helen felt her hope for a quick resolution fade.

“This gentleman has informed me that the city of Rio has recently passed an ordinance requiring all foreign acts coming into the city to deposit a bond with the police,” the club manager explained when he returned.

“We have to…?” Lila began to cry out.

“No, no, my dear, that is my job,” Koserin soothed the frightened dancer.

Mr. Koserin explained that the sum required for their bond totaled the entire eight-week salary for both girls, paid in advance. Strangely, Helen again became calm when the manager didn’t blink at the so-called “news.” In fact he showed no surprise at all. She guessed he expected the snag.

Still, he turned to the girls and cautioned, “Please do not worry, I will be back.”

Lila opened her mouth to speak, but Koserin raised his hand, continuing, “It will take most of the day to generate that sum of money. Stay together and please don’t be alarmed.”

Koserin smiled serenely and then departed.

Again watching the little bald bureaucrat, she noticed that he barely glanced at the passports of travelers he was processing. She quickly understood that the two of them were victims of petty corruption. No actual protocols existed for performers or any other workers to enter the country. She recalled her trips to the police station and consulate in New York, now wondering why she had bothered.

As the day dragged on, Helen grew more certain that their new boss’ presence wasn’t just limited to a warm welcome and a lift to their hotel. She believed that Koserin had rescued other new acts delayed the same way. And though she trusted that he would return with their affidavits, it didn’t help that both girls were stranded in the heat and humidity. No one offered them a chair, a drink of water, shade, or any help. The two Americans just stood miserably under the Rio sun.

When Lila meekly asked, the chief steward refused to permit them to go to their compartment to wait out of the heat.

Wiping her forehead with a handkerchief from her purse, Helen sighed.  It had been hours, and there was no sign of Mr. Koserin with their ransom. Her eyes, automatically raked the docks searching for their boss, then toward the departing passengers. It was at that moment Helen locked eyes with the bullish little customs agent.

“That official over there, do you see him? Helen whispered to Lila.

“The man who pulled us out of line?” Lila asked.

“Yes, him.”  He keeps leering at me. It’s been getting worse the last hour or so.”

“Disgusting!” Lila scoffed.

“I wonder how often that little twit gets away with his scheme,” Helen quipped. Both girls shuddered, glancing again toward the toad-like bureaucrat.

Time ground on and they watched as a queue of new passengers began boarding from the dock below.

Observing the foot traffic Helen realized, “Lila, I think we have another problem. This ship is scheduled to leave for Buenos Aires at five o’clock.”  Swallowing her panic she added, “And we’re going too, if this problem isn’t resolved.”

Out of the corner of her eye she caught the official again, grinning suggestively. Tears traced down Lila’s pink, burning cheeks.

Turning away, glancing automatically toward the dock, Helen gasped as a throng of newspapermen and photographers swarmed up the passageway. “Someone’s tipped a Rio newspaper. We’re news, now.”

Reporters crowded around their trunks, shouting in Portuguese, vying for a story or photo of the two trapped American starlets.

Lila, wet-eyed, stared ahead, not acknowledging the cameras or chaos. Helen, feeling protective of her new friend, held up one hand, blocking the mob, while placing her other arm around her distressed friend. Beginning to lose her own composure, she glanced again from her wristwatch to the dock, as Mr. Koserin suddenly appeared. He had finally returned. Striding with authority up the passageway, carrying papers above his head, Koserin presented two affidavits of money placed with the local magistrates.

“I have never been so happy to see someone in my life!” Helen laughed, now equally as teary eyed. Truly, for both girls, Koserin was a sight for sore eyes. The manager glared coldly as the disappointed official shrugged, accepting the documents—releasing the Americans to enter the city.

After the all-day ordeal the two demoralized girls descended the passageway with their benefactor. Helen asked Koserin for only one kindness, “Could we please have a drink of water?”

Gail Chumbley is the author of “River of January,” and “River of January: Figure Eight,” a memoir. Hard copies are available at http://www.river-of-january.com, and also on Kindle

Questions or comments? Contact Gail at gailchumbley@gmail.com