Fireball

by Robert Matzen

  The Gables invited the Winklers to the ranch to plan. After cocktails and dinner, they sat around talking about the pending trip, and Winkler lobbied hard that they shouldn’t go at all. They should stay put and do what the president of the United States advised: Entertain people. Make pictures. Be satisfied with that. Let others fight the war.

  “I was seated across from Carole,” said Jill, “and Clark was seated in a big club chair. Carole was sitting on the floor, her arms resting on Clark’s knees. I’ll never forget this picture of beautiful Carole’s lovely half-averted profile as she kept looking up at Clark, ignoring Otto’s speech.”

  Winkler knew he was getting nowhere. He took a drink and said, “I swear, I’ll never get used to you two and this obsession to do something for your country.” He said Lombard was foolish—his word—“foolish for acting this way.”

  Carole had simmered to a sudden boil. She leapt to her feet and with arms upraised shouted, “Fuck it, Otto! I’m going!”

  Silence fell upon the room. Winkler retreated and took a seat beside Jill. Gable smiled and winked at his wife. The tension of the moment eased. Otto leaned forward and began to speak

  Lombard cut him off. “You’re going into another speech that’ll get you nowhere, Otto. Save your breath.”

  Late the following Friday, January 9, with Carole’s trip three days off, Jean Garceau prepared to leave the ranch for the weekend. Carole handed Jean a stack of folded pieces of paper and instructed her to give one to Clark each morning. They were love notes written to Pa, and they had a purpose. “She wanted to keep him on the right path,” said Lombard archivist Carole Sampeck. “She wanted to be able to tap him on the shoulder and say, ‘Hey, remember me?’ She wanted to be there without being there. It was the longest they had been apart since they’d been a couple. It was like having her perfume in the room with him.”

  Early on Sunday, long before dawn, at the Winkler house on North Wilton, Otto awoke with a start. His pajamas were soaked in sweat. He lay there awake and then carried dark thoughts with him through the day. At dinner with Jill that evening, he finally broke down. He admitted, tears in his eyes, that he had dreamed his own death. “If I get on a plane on this trip,” he told his wife, “I won’t be coming home.”

  Luckily, the plan didn’t call for air travel at all. The party would depart Los Angeles by train on Monday morning January 12 and make a whistle-stop in Salt Lake City Tuesday morning January 13. They would arrive in Chicago on the 14th for a press day, then take the train down to Indianapolis, arriving there Thursday morning the 15th for an afternoon of bond selling. They would depart Indianapolis Friday morning by train, make more whistle-stops on the trip west, and reach home in time for Carole’s Monday, January 19, sneak preview of To Be or Not to Be at the Academy Theater in Inglewood.

  The Sunday evening prior to departure, Carole listened to Jack Benny’s wildly popular radio show and looked forward to seeing him in just eight days at the sneak preview. She then packed carefully for the trip, a subdued wardrobe of blacks and grays, as befitted wartime, that had been designed by her favorite, Irene. She included a new black strapless gown that she would wear for her big evening appearance in Indianapolis.

  This evening should have been moonlight and roses for Mr. and Mrs. Gable. Instead, insecurity brewed up in her mile-a-minute head into a warning to Clark: Stay the fuck away from Lana while I’m gone. Such a statement violated their non-aggression pact about his dalliances, and a pitched battle ensued that sent the parties slamming into their separate bedrooms for the night.

  Clark likely said in return, Fine, then stay away from Mr. Bob Stack. Gable found Stack far too young, far too good-looking, and far too familiar with Carole, who clearly adored him. Ma’s plan to teach Pa a lesson had worked like a charm.

  Later, a story concocted by MGM in defense of Gable placed him out of town this Sunday evening, and therefore no argument had taken place. But witnesses in Carole’s family and many of her friends place Gable at the Encino ranch that night, all reporting a long, jealousy-focused shouting match.

  Lombard departed the farm the next morning, and a newly arrived Jean Garceau reported that, “She left on a very quiet and rather sad note—which was unlike her, usually so gay and lighthearted.” Garceau also said, “Carole was not overly affectionate or demonstrative with her women friends, and had never put her arms about me or even kissed me until now. But when she was ready to leave, she hugged me hard, kissed me, and said: ‘Take care of my old man for me, will you, Jeanie?’”

  Tootie drove Petey to the train station and Jilliepants drove her Winkie. All consoled themselves that the trip was only a week. Carole boarded the train alone, with no good-byes from her old man.

  The Union Pacific streamliner, The City of Los Angeles, headed up through California to Sacramento and then swung east across northern Nevada toward Salt Lake City. Lombard was hard at work during the train ride, what she called the “clickety-clack,” composing a telegram to United Artists in response to plans to change the name of To Be or Not to Be to The Censor Forbids. UA figured that To Be was way too highbrow a title for middle America, to which Lombard’s boiling-mad telegram replied: “In the interest of a picture in which I am an investor as well as a participant, I feel that my investment is jeopardized by the proposed title change. I consider the title The Censor Forbids suggestive and definitely question its good taste. It in no way conveys the spirit of the picture and is unbecoming to an organization as important as United Artists. So strongly do I feel about this that had the picture been offered to me under [that] title, I definitely would not have accepted the engagement nor would I have invested in the venture under any circumstances whatsoever. I strongly recommend that no change be made from the original title..., which in my opinion fits the picture, the story, and the situation.”

  As the train lurched to a stop in Salt Lake City, Lombard handed Wink the telegram and then stepped out of the Pullman and up to microphones for broadcasts through Salt Lake radio stations KDYL and KSL. She introduced Petey, and when asked about the purpose of her trip to Indianapolis, Lombard likened herself to a carnival barker. “I’ll go out and say, ladieees and gentlemen, come on out and buy a bond!” The reporters chuckled; she had them at “good morning.”

  In remarks described by the local papers as “brief but punchy,” the movie star cut to the chase: “This is a year we should all devote to our country. The morale of the country is the main thing. We’ve got to get out and get the boys pumped up!” She posed for pictures with local servicemen and with a small child who shyly dropped a ceremonial dime into the hand of the screwball queen and whispered, “Here’s my dime for a stamp.” Carole’s face lit up.

  After a few minutes, during which Wink sent the telegram to United Artists, Carole and Petey pushed their way to the steps of the Pullman as Winkler returned and helped them up. Lombard turned back and shouted from the moving train, “I don’t have to tell you what to do: Go out and buy a bond!” She waved an apology for not being able to sign autographs, and the Salt Lake City train station receded into the distance.

  Otto expressed concern about the lack of security in Salt Lake City and the potential dangers of allowing a movie star to be mobbed by crowds. As the train approached Ogden, he advised that Lombard conduct the next appearance from the window of the Pullman. This she did, and took questions from reporters. She called out, “I think the wonderful thing about these defense bonds is that people are buying them so fast.”

  She was asked about Hollywood’s part of the war effort. “We will go from place to place all year helping sell bonds,” she said. As she spoke, autograph seekers handed papers in the window. She obliged, signing Carole Lombard Gable in a flamboyant script. She also revealed yet again a head for all aspects of the picture business, from production to distribution. “We’re planning to make special shorts for the training camps, and other movies to be sent out through the regular houses advising people what to do in blackouts and other new co
nditions.” She added, “Of course, movie companies have lost their European markets, but with new budgets they can make just about as much money in this country.”

  A mother lifted a small boy who handed a piece of paper to Lombard. “Hello, cutie!” she said to the moppet and signed an autograph.

  Lombard responded to a question about the blackouts and their effect on the picture business. “Our working hours have changed,” she explained, “so we’re usually home during a blackout.”

  Finally she was asked what were her favorite pictures to make. As the train departed the station she laughed and shouted, “Anything that’s good!” With that, Carole Lombard whistle-stopped her way out of Utah.

  She helped to kill a thousand miles of clickety-clack by hanging out with fellow actor Pat O’Brien, also on The City of Los Angeles on his way to New York City. He would remember the train ride and Lombard in his memoirs published a quarter century later.

  “She was a remarkable girl,” he said, “beautiful, down to earth and with a ready wit.” And O’Brien was never one to suffer fools. He and Lombard went back a decade to the saucy pre-Code picture, Virtue. Lombard liked him because he had a balanced energy, didn’t mince words, and wasn’t on the make. She found his stories hysterical.

  O’Brien had been under contract to Warner Bros. and mad mogul Jack Warner for years and spent hours talking shop with Lombard. And she needed distractions to take her mind off Gable and the fact that he would be reporting to MGM and Lana Turner at just about the time that the train pulled into Chicago.

  Lombard knew all about Warner Bros. from her experience making Fools for Scandal at the decidedly unfunny studio. O’Brien filled in many blanks for Lombard about the mad politics in Burbank, where Jack Warner served as warden to inmates that included Bette Davis, Jimmy Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, and Errol Flynn, headaches one and all. Lombard well recalled exchanging electric glances with bad boy Flynn in his Robin Hood costume as each headed to lunch in the Green Room and then back to the soundstages afterward.

  Suddenly, the gabbing pair realized they were nearing Chicago, and Wink pulled Carole and Petey into a meeting to go over another tight schedule that included a platform appearance and photo op with the press and then a quick tour of radio studios for broadcast interviews. At the North West Station in downtown Chicago, Carole said good-bye to Tots, who changed trains to go on to Fort Wayne and reconnect with friends.

  Carole asked Otto to check on the situation with the title change to her new picture. He returned with news that United Artists was “absolutely certain that the title To Be or Not to Be is not box office,” but the company had relented and the name of the picture would not change.

  Lombard squealed in delight, and then she and Winkler stepped into frigid Chicago winds. Dressed in a gray suit with matching turban to protect her from the cold, Lombard was ushered inside the station house for a series of Chicago Tribune photographs posing beside a red, white, and blue war bond poster that bore the words, BUY A SHARE IN AMERICA. UNITED STATES DEFENSE SAVINGS BONDS & STAMPS.

  She called MGM and tried to get through to her husband on the soundstage but had no luck. Then she and Wink were placed in a car along with suitcases and hat boxes for a drive to the Tribune offices and another photo shoot.

  The paper had asked to take photos of Lombard wearing a colorful hat, photos that would appear on the cover of the Sunday rotogravure section, and Carole had packed a gaudy number sporting red roses, green leaves, and black netting that would indeed provide deep color for the feature section. She knew that some of her hats were ridiculous and that’s why she liked them; it was sort of a joke on herself, and she especially enjoyed Gable’s sour expression when he saw an offensive piece of millinery planted on her head.

  Next, Carole and Otto were whisked to the studios of WGN Radio, where Lombard sat for an interview by reporter Marcia Winn of the Tribune. Or rather, Lombard paced, gesticulated, and joked her way through Wynn’s interview.

  “Vivid, gay, she never stopped talking,” said Winn of Lombard, “her comments as colorful as her hat.” She described Carole as “a flurry of mink cape, defense vigor, and Hoosier eloquence.” In the WGN lobby Lombard pounded the tile under her feet as she paced and spoke passionately about the bond tour and the need to support the war effort. Suddenly, she spied Don Budge and Bobby Riggs, two of her court cronies via Teach and Allie, rushing past.

  “Hello, sweetie!” she shrieked to Budge, and to Riggs, “Oh, Bobby dear!” Turning back to Winn she reminded that Riggs had won Wimbledon in 1939 and described him as “the Mickey Rooney of the tennis court.” Then Carole mugged for both pals as they cowered their way past. Lombard had already told Winn that she had spent hours with Pat O’Brien on the train, and it seemed to the reporter that famous men were moths to Carole Lombard’s flame. Winn described Carole as “constantly in motion and constantly talking and laughing.”

  When asked about the remainder of her schedule in Chicago and Indianapolis, Lombard reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope stuffed full of tri-folded pages. She rattled off everything that Otto had set up for her. She talked about the upcoming preview of her latest picture, and a radio appearance concerning the war effort in Latin-American countries later next week.

  After the Marcia Winn interview, Carole went live on the air on WGN radio, where she turned serious and spoke about the war effort bringing the studios together. “This is the first unity Hollywood ever had,” she said bluntly. “From now on it’s sell a bond, sell a bond, sell a bond.”

  Winkler had packed the schedule, which Lombard didn’t mind. But after a WBBM radio interview with Lorraine Hall and nothing further on the schedule in Chicago, and after another failed attempt to reach Pa, Carole began to second-guess the hectic schedule of the next day that had her taking the train into Indianapolis and then proceeding through 10 straight hours of activities. Instead, she ordered Otto to buy two plane tickets from Chicago to Indianapolis so she could check into the hotel and get some rest in advance of the bond sale.

  Marcia Winn had asked Carole whether she would fly from Chicago to Indianapolis. Her reply, said with a wink: “The governor of Indiana won’t let me. Guess he’s a pessimist.”

  The fireball thought it fine for bureaucrats to tell her what she should do and not do; men who didn’t have to participate in this brutal schedule.

  Otto wanted no part of flying; Carole insisted. So they took a cab to the airport and flew south, checking into the Claypool Hotel in downtown Indianapolis and hoping that their trailing luggage would catch up.

  Dog-tired, they stepped into an elevator and Winkler told the boy what floor. On Lombard’s mind was Gable’s lack of availability to speak with her, and she wondered what it was all about, but in her heart knowing full well. It was now after 6 P.M. back home. The studio had closed down for the day and Pa was…where? At the ranch with Jean? Out with the boys? Or with Lana? At times Lombard herself didn’t understand why the idea of Lana Turner steamed her to such a degree. Carole knew Pa well enough; he would never leave her for somebody else—never. Gable’s name would be mud from coast to coast if he ever pulled such a stunt.

  Wink turned the key on the door to Lombard’s suite. She wanted only to shed her clothes, kick off her shoes, and settle into a quick bath. He pushed open the door to furniture that was early American and... Carole gasped and then leaned into the frame of the door and felt a contented smile settle on her face.

  Vases and vases of fresh-cut roses filled the room in an explosion of red courtesy of Clark Gable. If it had been one vaseful of roses, she would have suspected the work of Jean Garceau acting without Gable’s consent, but for an expenditure this grand, no, it was Pa all right; Pa was saying he was sorry.

  But how did he know where to find her? She thought a moment. Otto, of course. She turned to Wink; Wink shrugged as if to say, all part of the job.

  Carole Lombard slept well the night of January 14, 1942, in the Claypool Hotel in Indianapolis, Indiana.
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  The next morning she and Otto found the church-like Indianapolis Union Station, complete with clock tower, to greet Tots, who had made the 125-mile trip from Fort Wayne.

  The schedule kicked into gear after an early lunch in what amounted to the first large-scale fundraising event of the new world war. The three Southern Californians headed for West Washington Street for a 2 P.M. flag-raising ceremony at the Indiana State House. There, Wink introduced Carole to Myron Davis, a Life magazine staff photographer assigned to cover the day’s activities for a planned two-page Life photo essay. By the look of him, Davis could barely shave, and had Pa’s jug ears.

  “Glad to know you, Myron,” she said, and couldn’t help but ask if he was new at Life.

  He told “Miss Lombard” he had been on the job a few months.

  “Just call me Carole,” she said with a wave, and he smiled.

  Davis would later recall, “I…sensed from the start of working with her that she was a wonderful, down-to-earth lady. Being in Hollywood and being a star and being married to Clark Gable hadn’t gone to her head.”

  After the usual speeches, Indiana Governor Henry F. Schricker introduced Lombard to a swelling crowd as “the little Hoosier girl who made good in Hollywood!”

  Lombard climbed risers carefully in her black Irene dress, full-length sable cape, black feathered pillbox hat, and black slingbacks to raise the flag in bitter January winds. And it wasn’t just any flag. This version of the Stars and Stripes had been flying over the United States Capitol Building when President Roosevelt formally declared war on Japan 38 days earlier, on December 8, 1941. Assisting Lombard and posing for photos were Indianapolis Star publisher Eugene C. Pulliam, who was also chairman of the Indiana Defense Savings Staff, and Will Hays, czar of the Hays Office that oversaw the censorship of Hollywood pictures. Hays was an Indiana native, like Carole, and how many times had he seen and grumbled over rough cuts of Lombard pictures in which her braless breasts jiggled before the camera, with hard nipples a-blazing? And now here they were, Hays and Lombard, united by the war effort.