TALES OF VEGAS PAST Clark Gable and Carole Lombard.

Thursday, March 06, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Tales of Vegas Past: The death of Carole Lombard

By Gregory Crosby

"She brought great joy to all who knew her and to millions who knew her only as a great artist. She gave unselfishly of time and talent to serve her government in peace and war. She loved her country. She is and always will be a star, one we shall never forget, nor cease to be grateful to." Thus spoke President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, in tribute to Carole Lombard after her death on the slopes of Mount Potosi, just west of Las Vegas, on Jan. 16, 1942. It was for many years the biggest and saddest story to have come out of Las Vegas, sadder still when one realizes the dimming of Lombard's star over the decades.

Often, a film star's early and untimely death turns him or her into an icon, but many of the truly great stars of the 1930s, once household names, are known only to film buffs today (even sex symbols such as Jean Harlow barely register on today's cultural radar). The dimming is all the more poignant in Lombard's case, since she was a supernaturally gifted comic actress in such films as Twentieth Century, Nothing Sacred, To Be or Not to Be and that supreme screwball comedy My Man Godfrey. By 1937 she was one of the industry's highest-paid stars, and had the honor of making by all accounts a deliriously happy marriage to none other than the King of Hollywood, Clark Gable, whom she wed in 1939 at the height of his popularity.

It was her burning desire to be reunited with Gable that set her on her doomed path. A little more than a month since America's declaration of war, the patriotic Lombard had offered her services as a fundraiser for war bonds. She had returned to her native state, Indiana, for a barn-storming tour to promote the bonds and had succeeded beyond expectations, raising $2,107,513 from her appearances at victory rallies. She was exhausted by the thought of a three-day train trip back to California and Gable, and she tried to convince her traveling companions, her mother Bessie Peters and MGM press agent Otto Winkler to fly back instead.

Like many an ill-fated flight, the portents for disaster were thick, especially given that Lombard's mother was a firm believer in astrology and numerology. Mrs. Peters had been warned by one astrologer to stay off airplanes in 1942, and she realized that the date--Jan. 16--was a bad sign, 16 being a warning sign of accident or death. Winkler's protest against flying was more prosaic: He suffered from airsickness. Lombard decided a coin toss was the only fair way to decide, and she was delighted when the toss went her way.

Winkler managed to book seats on a TWA flight leaving Indianapolis for Burbank at 4 in the morning. The Douglas DC-3 would be doing what was known as a milk run, making numerous stops along the route, but it was the best Winkler could do, given the new wartime restrictions on aviation. Lombard took it, her mother's superstitious misgivings aside.

Fate tried to step in once more, when Lombard and her party were asked in Albuquerque to give up their seats to some Army Air Corps men. Lombard felt she was too close to home to spend the night in New Mexico, and she reluctantly pulled rank (she was, after all, on a government mission) and kept their seats. Though the plane was supposed to stop at Boulder City, the pilot, Wayne C. Williams, requested a rerouting to Las Vegas, as there were no landing lights at Boulder City.

Lombard's plane touched down at Las Vegas at what would become Nellis Air Force Base, and took on fuel. Lifting off at 7:07 p.m., the plane headed west. At 7:23 p.m. a valley-shuddering explosion was heard as the plane collided with the top of Mount Potosi. It had failed to clear it by less than 60 feet. In the investigation, it was determined that Williams failed to adjust his flight plan after the switch from Boulder City to Las Vegas. The previous coordinates would have taken the plane safely around the mountain.

Gable rushed to Vegas that evening, taking a bungalow at the El Rancho Vegas, where he paced and drank, anxiously awaiting word from the rescue teams. But it was no use: There were no survivors. Lombard was identified only by thin wisps of her blond hair in the wreckage, and by a diamond and ruby clip that Gable had given her. Gable, shattered by the loss, wore the clip in a box around his neck for years until he remarried. He never got over her death, and measured his next two wives by the impossible standard that Lombard had set in his heart. The king had lost his queen in a fiery instant, and the movies had lost a brilliant and shining talent.