West Palm Beach, 1934

Howard Hughes

“Night is a great time to fly—very peaceful. And things here are pretty quiet. Yeah, you got yourself a pilot.”
Refueling in Raleigh and again in Savannah, the young man managed to land the new model at the West Palm airstrip on time, taxiing to the numbered hangar about 7:30 AM the next morning.
“Who are you?” asked the tall, thin, dark-haired client. “Where’d that plane come from? You couldn’t be here all the way from New York?!”
Too groggy to argue Chum replied, “Howard Ailor sent me down with your plane. Flew here overnight.”
“Not possible” the client insisted. “That’s not the plane I ordered. This one has to be used.”
“Sir, I was asked to fly this Waco down from Roosevelt Field. It’s new, not used, and it’s yours.”
“I’m calling my head mechanic over—he’ll know if it’s new or not,” the tall man challenged. “What’s your name young man?”
“Chumbley, sir. Mont Chumbley.”
“You must be one hell of a pilot, Chumbley, if you’re not trying to put one over on me. I’ve never known any flyer that could have made that trip from New York. My name’s Hughes. Howard Hughes, but I guess you knew that. I just don’t believe you got here overnight. What time did you leave last night?”
“About ten, sir. Only stopped to refuel and eat. Can I get a lift to the train station? I need to get back to New York,” the sleepy pilot requested.
As though he wasn’t listening Hughes replied, “I don’t believe this. Ailor is pulling something here. It’s impossible that you flew here that fast.”
“Sir—Mr. Hughes, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a business to run at Roosevelt Field. I need to get home. I’m not making any money here. Your issue is with Mr. Ailor. I delivered the plane, and now I need a lift to the train station.”
Hughes began walking toward his hangar as if Chum hadn’t spoken. He heard Hughes shout, “Get Rusty out here to look this Waco over, and get Ailor on the phone in New York.”
For the next two days Hughes and Ailor wrangled back and forth, via telephone, between Florida and New York. Chum impatiently hung around the hangar waiting for some kind of resolution.
“This engine’s used. I won’t buy the plane,” Hughes finally informed the young pilot. “But Chumbley, you sure know your way around a propeller. I’m going to keep you instead.”

Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January

This Week, 1935


The old pilot’s time with us grew to mean a great deal to me, personally, but made it that much harder to let him go at the end.

Chum’s last years brought him out west to Boise. It was much easier for my husband to care for him than the semi-regular flights to Miami, sorting out some kind of preventable crisis. Once his father settled in here, they were together every day at the assisted living facility. I believe their time together gave both of them a lot of comfort.

As for Me? I just loved to sit and talk to my father-in-law. If he had felt more spry I would have dragged him into my history class for my own version of “Show & Tell.” I mean, really! William Howard Taft was in the White House the year Chum was born! His life was a damn book. (see River of January)

On one particular Sunday we drove over for a visit, and brought him Mexican food . . . Chum’s favorite. I was anxious to talk to him because we had rented “The Aviator” the night before, the film about Howard Hughes, and Chum had worked for the millionaire at one time.

Me: So we watched a movie about your old buddy, last night–Howard Hughes.

Chum: Ha. He kept the Kleenex business in the black.

Me: (Oh, geez! How could he know that?) And your old girl friend, Kathryn Hepburn.

Chum: Yeah. Katy. She was a nice girl.

Me:(Katy? A nice girl?)

Chum: Her boyfriend, that theater producer, Leland Hayward–I taught him flying lessons, and she came along.

Me: Yeah. (Yeah)

And here it is folks, if you didn’t see at the top. The old history student has to whip out the proof. Have a nice weekend.


Gail Chumbley is the author of River of January. Available on Amazon.