David Dennington's Blog, page 5
March 12, 2018
DEATH IN THE AIR by KATE WINKLER DAWSON
I have just finished this book and must say I enjoyed it because I grew up in London, during the war and throughout those post war years when times were pretty tough.
This well-researched book reminds me of Erik Larson’s Devil In The White City (a favorite of mine) with two parallel events taking place, both with a serial killer at the core. This time, Death in the Air, tells the story of two killers, the London fog which killed thousands, and Reginald Christie who killed a mere half dozen or so (no one knows the exact number).
As a Londoner who’d lived through that era, I found it especially interesting. I remember listening to the grim reports on the BBC on a daily basis as a kid, as the bodies were uncovered in Reginald Christie's scruffy abode, 10 Rillington Place in Notting Hill. The newspapers, of course, were having a wild time too, with screaming headlines and sordid accounts of Christie’s depravity.
The book meticulously chronicles the events leading up to the fog of 1952, seen through the eyes of various families with loved ones who suffered and died hideous, slow, choking deaths in their homes. Hospitals, if you could find them, were full of dying patients, and there were no beds to be found. There are many interesting aspects of the story. The press had not the first inkling that this was a huge story of mass death—an enormous tragedy taking place under their very noses.
Of course, with the emphasis on pollution today, it seems almost impossible to believe this could have happened—but these events were partially responsible for our present concerns and attitudes—even though the exact number of dead was covered up for years. It should be remembered that this was at a time, just after the war, when Londoners were broke and trying to survive and to stay warm in harsh winter conditions. Cheap coal was all that was available and the only means of staying warm. Every home in Great Britain had a fire grate with a coal fire burning. Unfortunately, that cheap, inferior fuel spewed thousands of tons of deadly pollutants into the air and with certain weather conditions caused it to hang over London and other big cities, like ‘pea soup’, choking and killing their residents.
The author of this saga, Kate Winkler Dawson, switches back and forth between Christie the murderer and the killer fog (later called smog), making it informative and interesting. The Christie story had aspects to it which make it seem like pulp fiction—as when a policeman visits Christie’s humble abode regarding another matter, and is almost overcome by the stench of rotting bodies under the floor boards and concealed in a closet sealed with wallpaper. Others who visit Christie’s garden, seeking the whereabouts of a missing neighbor, fail to notice a woman’s thigh bone conveniently propping up the garden fence. The unfolding story becomes more and more incredible and tragic, largely due to bumbling police work.
We find out that Christie’s neighbor, Tim Evans, a Welshman, was also a murderer, arrested for killing his wife and child. Evans paid the price. Justice was swift. He was hanged in Pentonville Prison. But was he the murderer, or just unfortunate to be living in the flat above our serial killer, Reginald Christie?
It was a good read for me as I grew up in London and familiar with the locations: Lewisham, Catford, Bromley, St. Paul’s and Notting Hill etc. I remember as a kid how dirty my white shirt collar was after one day at school; how when you blew your nose your handkerchief became covered in soot! Since then, they’ve done a good job of controlling pollution, no question. Of late however, by insistence of ‘the experts’ by urging the use of diesel engines to drive trucks and cars, things are reaching critical stage once more.
With the advent of the Clean Air Act came the big cleanup of the city. Stone cleaning companies have done all right. After scrapping and cleaning through the sixties and seventies, centuries of soot and grim were removed and London’s old buildings look fine indeed. In that same vein, did the execution of the wrong man, lead to the abolition of the death penalty in Britain? (Though of course, it was never admitted that the wrong man had swung for a crime he did not commit—and in all fairness, nobody actually knew, but the old phrase ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ may have weighed more heavily with a jury.)
It took years for the London air to improve. I remember a bad one in 1962. I was traveling down the Edgeware Road on my way home to Brixton Hill (where Christie had been locked up in jail ten years earlier awaiting his fate). When I got to Marble Arch, where Oxford Street, Bayswater Road, Park Lane and Edgeware Road converge, traffic was at a standstill and drivers were standing around lost. The driver of an eighteen wheeler spoke to me in plaintively “Can you show me the road to Wales, mate?” he asked. Since I couldn’t see further than the end of my nose, I could only tell him he needed to get on the Bayswater Road heading west. I pointed into the fog in the opposite direction to which he was headed. I always wondered if the poor devil made it to Wales. Finally, after following a convoy I made it to Brixton Hill, but could not find my street. I got out of the car and went to look for it, but after locating Arodene Road, I could not find my car! Thank Goodness the days of peasoupers are over!
As a footnote: While researching more on this story I read where the hangman, Albert Pierrepoint received a complaint from one of his ‘clients’ whose hands and arms were trussed up behind his back.
‘My nose is itchy’ the condemned man cried.
“Don’t worry, it won’t bother you for long,” was Pierrepoint’s reply.
This well-researched book reminds me of Erik Larson’s Devil In The White City (a favorite of mine) with two parallel events taking place, both with a serial killer at the core. This time, Death in the Air, tells the story of two killers, the London fog which killed thousands, and Reginald Christie who killed a mere half dozen or so (no one knows the exact number).
As a Londoner who’d lived through that era, I found it especially interesting. I remember listening to the grim reports on the BBC on a daily basis as a kid, as the bodies were uncovered in Reginald Christie's scruffy abode, 10 Rillington Place in Notting Hill. The newspapers, of course, were having a wild time too, with screaming headlines and sordid accounts of Christie’s depravity.
The book meticulously chronicles the events leading up to the fog of 1952, seen through the eyes of various families with loved ones who suffered and died hideous, slow, choking deaths in their homes. Hospitals, if you could find them, were full of dying patients, and there were no beds to be found. There are many interesting aspects of the story. The press had not the first inkling that this was a huge story of mass death—an enormous tragedy taking place under their very noses.
Of course, with the emphasis on pollution today, it seems almost impossible to believe this could have happened—but these events were partially responsible for our present concerns and attitudes—even though the exact number of dead was covered up for years. It should be remembered that this was at a time, just after the war, when Londoners were broke and trying to survive and to stay warm in harsh winter conditions. Cheap coal was all that was available and the only means of staying warm. Every home in Great Britain had a fire grate with a coal fire burning. Unfortunately, that cheap, inferior fuel spewed thousands of tons of deadly pollutants into the air and with certain weather conditions caused it to hang over London and other big cities, like ‘pea soup’, choking and killing their residents.
The author of this saga, Kate Winkler Dawson, switches back and forth between Christie the murderer and the killer fog (later called smog), making it informative and interesting. The Christie story had aspects to it which make it seem like pulp fiction—as when a policeman visits Christie’s humble abode regarding another matter, and is almost overcome by the stench of rotting bodies under the floor boards and concealed in a closet sealed with wallpaper. Others who visit Christie’s garden, seeking the whereabouts of a missing neighbor, fail to notice a woman’s thigh bone conveniently propping up the garden fence. The unfolding story becomes more and more incredible and tragic, largely due to bumbling police work.
We find out that Christie’s neighbor, Tim Evans, a Welshman, was also a murderer, arrested for killing his wife and child. Evans paid the price. Justice was swift. He was hanged in Pentonville Prison. But was he the murderer, or just unfortunate to be living in the flat above our serial killer, Reginald Christie?
It was a good read for me as I grew up in London and familiar with the locations: Lewisham, Catford, Bromley, St. Paul’s and Notting Hill etc. I remember as a kid how dirty my white shirt collar was after one day at school; how when you blew your nose your handkerchief became covered in soot! Since then, they’ve done a good job of controlling pollution, no question. Of late however, by insistence of ‘the experts’ by urging the use of diesel engines to drive trucks and cars, things are reaching critical stage once more.
With the advent of the Clean Air Act came the big cleanup of the city. Stone cleaning companies have done all right. After scrapping and cleaning through the sixties and seventies, centuries of soot and grim were removed and London’s old buildings look fine indeed. In that same vein, did the execution of the wrong man, lead to the abolition of the death penalty in Britain? (Though of course, it was never admitted that the wrong man had swung for a crime he did not commit—and in all fairness, nobody actually knew, but the old phrase ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ may have weighed more heavily with a jury.)
It took years for the London air to improve. I remember a bad one in 1962. I was traveling down the Edgeware Road on my way home to Brixton Hill (where Christie had been locked up in jail ten years earlier awaiting his fate). When I got to Marble Arch, where Oxford Street, Bayswater Road, Park Lane and Edgeware Road converge, traffic was at a standstill and drivers were standing around lost. The driver of an eighteen wheeler spoke to me in plaintively “Can you show me the road to Wales, mate?” he asked. Since I couldn’t see further than the end of my nose, I could only tell him he needed to get on the Bayswater Road heading west. I pointed into the fog in the opposite direction to which he was headed. I always wondered if the poor devil made it to Wales. Finally, after following a convoy I made it to Brixton Hill, but could not find my street. I got out of the car and went to look for it, but after locating Arodene Road, I could not find my car! Thank Goodness the days of peasoupers are over!
As a footnote: While researching more on this story I read where the hangman, Albert Pierrepoint received a complaint from one of his ‘clients’ whose hands and arms were trussed up behind his back.
‘My nose is itchy’ the condemned man cried.
“Don’t worry, it won’t bother you for long,” was Pierrepoint’s reply.
December 27, 2017
KINDLE COUNTDOWN DEAL & FINAL GIVEAWAYS
THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN HINCHLIFFE Book Giveaway
Enter For A Chance To Win A Copy - Offer Ends December 31st 2017
30 second video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A22tL...
Excerpt:
Millie: "Who's this woman you're talking to?"
Hinchliffe: "She's an heiress--a feminist."
Millie rolled her eyes. "Oh, spare me, please!"
Video maybe also be viewed on author’s goodreads profile page
Kindle Countdown Deal For This Book Ends January 1st, 2018
*
THE AIRSHIPMEN Book Giveaway
Enter For A Chance To Win A Copy. Offer Ends December 31st, 2018
Riveting … Cinematic … Fist-biting suspense …Will Lt. Cmdr. Lou Remington climb the gangplank one last time? Be prepared to lose sleep. Based on actual events of the 1920’s.
Happy New Year Everyone!
Best Regards
David
Enter For A Chance To Win A Copy - Offer Ends December 31st 2017
30 second video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A22tL...
Excerpt:
Millie: "Who's this woman you're talking to?"
Hinchliffe: "She's an heiress--a feminist."
Millie rolled her eyes. "Oh, spare me, please!"
Video maybe also be viewed on author’s goodreads profile page
Kindle Countdown Deal For This Book Ends January 1st, 2018
*
THE AIRSHIPMEN Book Giveaway
Enter For A Chance To Win A Copy. Offer Ends December 31st, 2018
Riveting … Cinematic … Fist-biting suspense …Will Lt. Cmdr. Lou Remington climb the gangplank one last time? Be prepared to lose sleep. Based on actual events of the 1920’s.
Happy New Year Everyone!
Best Regards
David
September 14, 2017
THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN HINCHLIFFE GIVEAWAY
Enter for a chance to win one of three signed copies.
GIVEAWAY ENDS MONDAY SEPT 18, 2017.
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe
by David Dennington (Goodreads Author)
He saw Elsie studying his eye patch and scar.
"Care to tell me about it?" she said.
"No."
He saw compassion in her eyes.
She left it alone.
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
GIVEAWAY ENDS MONDAY SEPT 18, 2017.
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe
by David Dennington (Goodreads Author)
He saw Elsie studying his eye patch and scar.
"Care to tell me about it?" she said.
"No."
He saw compassion in her eyes.
She left it alone.
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
September 11, 2017
THE AIRSHIPMEN—KINDLE COUNT DOWN DEALS
USA SEPT 14—16, 2017
UK SEPT 15—17, 2017
Riveting … Cinematic … Fist-biting suspense …Will Lt. Cmdr. Lou Remington climb the gangplank one last time? Be prepared to lose sleep. Based on actual events of the 1920’s.
A gripping story masterfully told, this book reverberates in the reader's mind long after it's over. - Steven Bauer, former Director of Creative Writing, Miami Univ. Oxford, Ohio.
EXCERPT:
After an hour, Lou cradled her in his arms until it was time to leave. He got up and washed and put on his uniform. He went downstairs and left his kit bag by the door. Before going back upstairs, he took the framed photograph of Charlotte from the mantelpiece in the living room, wrapped it in a shirt, and slipped it into his kit bag. He searched for Fluffy, but she was nowhere to be found. He opened the back door. She wasn’t there.
Charlotte got up and put on a long, white, silk nightdress and came to him at the center of the bedroom. She stared at him and put her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips slowly and deliberately, seeming to savor the moment. He held her and took a handful of her hair, running it through his fingers at her back. She gazed at him with those huge, blue eyes, as if for the last time. He sensed she believed she’d never see him again.
God, you’re so beautiful! he thought.
“Oh God, I love your hair,” he said softly.
“Make the most of it,” she whispered.
“I am coming back, you know—I promise you.”
Doubt showed in her eyes.
“Better go,” he said, letting go of her.
She slowly removed her arms and followed him down to the door. They embraced and kissed again on the recessed front porch.
“See you in about three weeks, honey,” he said. “I love you.”
Her voice was barely audible. “Goodbye, Lou.”
He descended the steps to his motorbike, fastened his kit bag on the luggage rack and kicked it over. He climbed on and turned to Charlotte standing in the doorway, her long, white nightdress backlit by the overhead light. She looked like an apparition of a Greek goddess, her flowing, black hair shining in the moonlight. He felt sick leaving her now, and guilty. He wished he could stay another hour, or just not leave at all. He bowed his head to her and waved. She didn’t move or make any gesture. Like a statue. He drove away believing he could never feel more miserable than this. But he was wrong.
Amazon US
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01A...
Amazon UK
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Airshipmen-S...
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
UK SEPT 15—17, 2017
Riveting … Cinematic … Fist-biting suspense …Will Lt. Cmdr. Lou Remington climb the gangplank one last time? Be prepared to lose sleep. Based on actual events of the 1920’s.
A gripping story masterfully told, this book reverberates in the reader's mind long after it's over. - Steven Bauer, former Director of Creative Writing, Miami Univ. Oxford, Ohio.
EXCERPT:
After an hour, Lou cradled her in his arms until it was time to leave. He got up and washed and put on his uniform. He went downstairs and left his kit bag by the door. Before going back upstairs, he took the framed photograph of Charlotte from the mantelpiece in the living room, wrapped it in a shirt, and slipped it into his kit bag. He searched for Fluffy, but she was nowhere to be found. He opened the back door. She wasn’t there.
Charlotte got up and put on a long, white, silk nightdress and came to him at the center of the bedroom. She stared at him and put her arms around his neck. She kissed his lips slowly and deliberately, seeming to savor the moment. He held her and took a handful of her hair, running it through his fingers at her back. She gazed at him with those huge, blue eyes, as if for the last time. He sensed she believed she’d never see him again.
God, you’re so beautiful! he thought.
“Oh God, I love your hair,” he said softly.
“Make the most of it,” she whispered.
“I am coming back, you know—I promise you.”
Doubt showed in her eyes.
“Better go,” he said, letting go of her.
She slowly removed her arms and followed him down to the door. They embraced and kissed again on the recessed front porch.
“See you in about three weeks, honey,” he said. “I love you.”
Her voice was barely audible. “Goodbye, Lou.”
He descended the steps to his motorbike, fastened his kit bag on the luggage rack and kicked it over. He climbed on and turned to Charlotte standing in the doorway, her long, white nightdress backlit by the overhead light. She looked like an apparition of a Greek goddess, her flowing, black hair shining in the moonlight. He felt sick leaving her now, and guilty. He wished he could stay another hour, or just not leave at all. He bowed his head to her and waved. She didn’t move or make any gesture. Like a statue. He drove away believing he could never feel more miserable than this. But he was wrong.
Amazon US
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01A...
Amazon UK
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Airshipmen-S...
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
September 10, 2017
THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN HINCHLIFFE - KINDLE UK COUNT DOWN DEAL Sept 21—24 2017
Another riveting tale from David Dennington, author of The Airshipmen. This time, he cleverly weaves together a couple’s amazing love and the temptation it faces with the drama of a transatlantic flying record attempt and a spine-tingling psychic connection from beyond the grave that becomes the only hope of preventing a horrific aviation disaster. It’s an intriguing recipe that makes it hard to put down The Ghost of Captain Hinchcliffe.
David Wright, former journalist with the Daily Mirror, London.
Dear Readers,
When writing Ghost, I researched what music I thought Emilie Hinchliffe would have played. That made it all the more intriguing for me and brought those scenes to life. In the scene below, and in some others, I saw her playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata – ‘the third movement’, as she tells Elsie. This heartbreaking piece is played magnificently by Valentina Lasitsa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zucBf...
Millie uses her piano to express her moods and release some of the terrible tensions caused by recent awful developments in her life which threaten to destroy her.
EXCERPT:
The issue was brought to a head the following day. Millie was in studio feverishly playing the stormy third movement of Moonlight Sonata. Hinchliffe was in the yard hanging Millie's new bird feeder. She thought she heard a motorbike in the front driveway. The doorbell jangled, but Millie ignored it, playing until the end of the piece. The bell went again. When she'd finished, she went to the door. There, she found someone dressed in a brown leather jacket, pilot's cap and goggles—about her own height.
“You must be Millie!” the rider said in a husky voice, removing a pair of gloves.
“Er, yes?”
“Hello, I'm so pleased to meet you,” the woman said, thrusting out a beautifully manicured hand. “I'm Elsie, I hope you've heard of me.” She pushed up her goggles to reveal her exquisitely made up, gorgeous brown eyes.
“Elsie …?”
“Elsie Mackay ...”
The penny dropped. “Oh, yes, Elsie Mackay,” Millie said with a half-smile.
“My goodness what wonderful playing. Was that you? I've been standing here for ages, listening.”
“Yes, it was, actually. I’m so sorry—” Millie replied.
“Oh, no, no. It was great! What was it?”
“The third movement.”
“The third movement? Well, whatever it was, it was absolutely bloody marvelous, if I may say so! And I just love your accent.”
“Yes, I like yours too,” Millie countered.
Hinchliffe was just coming in from the garden, and after puzzling for a while, figured it could only be Elsie at the front door. He wasn't sure where this would lead. It might spoil everything.
“Elsie! What brings you here?” he asked.
“I'm so sorry, Raymond, to drop in on you like this, but I was out riding through the South Downs on the old Harley and I thought, well, why not drop in and introduce myself to your wife—and yes, she is just as lovely as you said, and her music, oh my God!” Elsie clapped her hands together and rambled on in her frightfully, frightfully upper class accent. “Me, I know nothing about music—planes and horses are my thing—and a spot of tennis, of course.”
VIEW AMAZON PAGE FOR THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN HINCHLIFFE https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B074XR737V
The first two chapters maybe viewed on a previous blog.
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
David Wright, former journalist with the Daily Mirror, London.
Dear Readers,
When writing Ghost, I researched what music I thought Emilie Hinchliffe would have played. That made it all the more intriguing for me and brought those scenes to life. In the scene below, and in some others, I saw her playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata – ‘the third movement’, as she tells Elsie. This heartbreaking piece is played magnificently by Valentina Lasitsa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zucBf...
Millie uses her piano to express her moods and release some of the terrible tensions caused by recent awful developments in her life which threaten to destroy her.
EXCERPT:
The issue was brought to a head the following day. Millie was in studio feverishly playing the stormy third movement of Moonlight Sonata. Hinchliffe was in the yard hanging Millie's new bird feeder. She thought she heard a motorbike in the front driveway. The doorbell jangled, but Millie ignored it, playing until the end of the piece. The bell went again. When she'd finished, she went to the door. There, she found someone dressed in a brown leather jacket, pilot's cap and goggles—about her own height.
“You must be Millie!” the rider said in a husky voice, removing a pair of gloves.
“Er, yes?”
“Hello, I'm so pleased to meet you,” the woman said, thrusting out a beautifully manicured hand. “I'm Elsie, I hope you've heard of me.” She pushed up her goggles to reveal her exquisitely made up, gorgeous brown eyes.
“Elsie …?”
“Elsie Mackay ...”
The penny dropped. “Oh, yes, Elsie Mackay,” Millie said with a half-smile.
“My goodness what wonderful playing. Was that you? I've been standing here for ages, listening.”
“Yes, it was, actually. I’m so sorry—” Millie replied.
“Oh, no, no. It was great! What was it?”
“The third movement.”
“The third movement? Well, whatever it was, it was absolutely bloody marvelous, if I may say so! And I just love your accent.”
“Yes, I like yours too,” Millie countered.
Hinchliffe was just coming in from the garden, and after puzzling for a while, figured it could only be Elsie at the front door. He wasn't sure where this would lead. It might spoil everything.
“Elsie! What brings you here?” he asked.
“I'm so sorry, Raymond, to drop in on you like this, but I was out riding through the South Downs on the old Harley and I thought, well, why not drop in and introduce myself to your wife—and yes, she is just as lovely as you said, and her music, oh my God!” Elsie clapped her hands together and rambled on in her frightfully, frightfully upper class accent. “Me, I know nothing about music—planes and horses are my thing—and a spot of tennis, of course.”
VIEW AMAZON PAGE FOR THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN HINCHLIFFE https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B074XR737V
The first two chapters maybe viewed on a previous blog.
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
September 7, 2017
The First Two Chapters of The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe
I would love to hear from readers about these two opening chapters and if anyone''s curiosity was slightly aroused.
A giveaway is now in progress for this book.
Enter for a chance to win a signed copy.
It's under the genres of Historical Fiction and Paranormal.
CHAPTER 1
CAXTON HALL
Saturday, December 20, 1930.
It was dark and it was cold when Millie arrived at Caxton Hall in a black Daimler sent by the organizers to collect her from Pickwick Cottage. Despite the weather, there were throngs of people under the canopy awaiting Millie's arrival at the front steps. Two festive Christmas trees, decorated with colored lights, stood each side of the entrance. An advertisement in a glass case announced coming events.
TONIGHT 8 p.m.
MRS. HINCHLIFFE SPEAKS
LIFE AFTER DEATH
Speed Graphics flashed as Millie elegantly eased herself out of the limousine onto the sidewalk. For a few moments she posed, beneath a striking, red cloche hat, wrapped in black furs, her face radiant. Photographers and reporters pushed forward excitedly around her, calling out their questions.
“Mrs. Hinchliffe, what've you come to tell us this evening?”
“I am overjoyed! And tonight I shall tell you why,” she responded.
“Is it true you're writing a book ma'am?”
“How do you feel about airships now?”
Millie closed her eyes, pained.
“I'm very sad—and extremely bitter, as you can imagine. I suppose hard lessons have been learned by our government—at least we can only hope so!”
She made her way to the doors and was escorted along a corridor to the rear of the stage in the Great Hall. Caxton Hall, a place of some notoriety, built of red brick and pink stone, had once been Westminster's town hall. It'd also been a meeting place for British suffragettes, who held a Women's Parliament there and then marched to the Houses of Parliament each year to present a petition to the prime minister. The hall was also used by occultist Aleister Crowley, where his Rites of Eleusis—which some considered blasphemous and immoral—were performed. This was where concerts were held and where the famous performed.
There was an excited buzz in the auditorium filled with mostly older ladies dressed in their Sunday best. At last, the house lights were dimmed and a voice came over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Caxton Hall. It gives us great pleasure to bring you a lady who needs no introduction, a person whom the British people have taken to their hearts. A lady who has for the past two years issued dire warnings—warnings from the grave. Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe will speak to you about her experiences and the subject of ‘life after death’. Please give a big welcome to Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe!”
Enthusiastic applause erupted. All eyes watched the dark blue stage curtains in anticipation. And then, to everyone's delight, came the lamentation of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata in its own mournful, ghostly voice. The Great Hall fell silent. The curtains slowly opened to reveal Millie at a grand piano, dressed in cobalt blue, surrounded by her artwork displayed on easels, each bathed in its own beam of light.
When Millie had finished playing the first movement, she got up and came to the lectern amid cheers and more applause. She looked down into the front row seats into faces she knew well, especially her good friend, Mrs. East. As the applause died, Millie instinctively scanned the auditorium for Hinchliffe. She checked the end seat on the back row. It was the only empty one in the house. A wave of sadness washed over her and her heart almost stopped. He'd gone. She'd be on her own from now on. For solace, she put her hand to her neck, touching Elsie's gold crucifix, preparing herself to begin. But before she did, she thought of Doyle. How she missed him. He'd been so good to her—a protective father figure. She remembered his words, and did as he'd instructed. She lifted her head high and spoke boldly to those at the back of the auditorium.
“Good evening, my name is Emilie Hinchliffe—my friends call me Millie.” More applause. “... I've come here tonight to tell you my story.” She gestured to the relevant subject of artwork as she spoke. “It's about an heiress, an aeroplane, a ghost, and the mightiest airship the world has ever seen.”
Five hundred ladies and a handful of men listened in rapt attention, eager for answers. Nearly three years ago, Mrs. East, whom Millie had come to know and love, had been as equally transfixed at her kitchen table, next to the fire-grate oven. The old woman had sat watching the planchette on her Ouija board move slowly from letter to letter. Keeping her left hand on the wheeled gadget, with her right, she'd written down an incoming message in wobbly block capitals with a thick, black pencil.
PLEASE HELP ME I AM A DROWNED PILOT
Later, when Millie read those words, they'd made her cry. She smiled at Mrs. East and went on, “I know you've read the story of what happened to me, and to my husband and to many of his friends recently. Tonight, I'm going to tell you the whole story. During and after that terrible war, Ouija boards became an obsession. How could they not, with so many of our husbands, sons, fathers and brothers lost—not to mention our sisters who went to nurse those very men at the Front in those fields of death, to comfort and to heal. and who were, themselves, killed. My husband always called them 'our Angels of Mercy'. There wasn't a family that hadn't lost someone. First, I'm going to tell you about the man I love and why at this moment I'm so happy. No, it’s not about the money, although that will help of course, and guarantee our family's future, which Raymond so desperately wanted.”
At this, applause broke out again accompanied by cheers—they'd heard all about that.
“Life was perfect. Raymond was a vibrant man, full of life and energy—and still is, I want you to know! He was a decorated war pilot, having shot down six enemy planes. Then he, himself, was shot down in the dark of night, crash-landing in a tree in Nieppe Forest. He never spoke of the horrors of that night—even to me. He didn't like to think about it.
The audience was giving Millie its undivided attention.
“Getting shot down cost 'Hinch' his left eye, and caused a bad leg injury. But this horrendous event didn't stop him, or diminish his love of flying, nor did it reduce his great sense of humor. He spent six months in hospital and three months at a convalescent home. He continued flying, getting certified in just about every plane there was. After the war, Raymond joined the new Royal Dutch Airline KLM, becoming their chief pilot. It was there, in Holland, that we met. I was at art school and working for KLM part time as a shorthand typist. A year later, we were married at a lovely, little church here in England. Many of his friends were in attendance—some of whom sadly are no longer with us, due to recent tragic events.
“After six blissful years of marriage, we had two beautiful daughters. Most days, he was off flying passengers to the Continent, at first with KLM, and then later with Imperial Airways. They loved him, but he said some passengers were a little fearful being flown by a one-eyed pilot.
There were a few chuckles at this.
“He pioneered new routes for Imperial with his close friend, 'Johnny' Johnston 'the Navigator'. They’d flown to India, Ismailia and Baghdad.
“One year, Hinch was asked to go to an aerodrome in France to discreetly retrieve a German Fokker war plane, which many of the French had taken exception to. They didn't want it anywhere near their Paris Airshow—and who could blame them for that?”
CHAPTER 2
THE FOKKER
Monday, June 15, 1925.
Water splashed into the hedgerows from the brown and khaki war limousine as it rushed along the country roads near Thiepval toward Hinchliffe's old aerodrome. He'd been based there during the war—one of several places. He sat in the back seat. Smoke swirled from a cigarette he held in his left hand. In his right, between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled a string of worry beads with its black cat lucky charm—something he'd picked up at the souk in Baghdad and carried with him always. At this moment, being alone, his rugged face was haunted, his jaw set, his piercing gray eye, searching. Memories were still vivid, especially in this place. He heard the rat-a-tat-tat of Fokkers on his tail; saw exploding Archie and black smoke around him, planes on fire, men in flames, friends leaping out in death agony.
He was jarred from his reverie as the car slowed to turn onto the aerodrome. He resumed his determined air, taking a last drag on his cigarette before throwing it out. At the airport building, the car came to a stop and Hinchliffe clambered out with a word of thanks to the driver. He drew up his six-foot-one frame, his back ram-rod straight, and marched across the gravel parking area, his slight limp just discernible. He entered the office building. Two young secretaries looked at him approvingly, and then at one another.
“Bonjour, mesdemoiselles,” Hinchliffe said.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the girls said together.
“I'm Captain Hinchliffe. I'm here to pick up the Fokker for KLM.” His English was tinged with a Scouse accent. He repeated it in French.
The girls’ eyes met again knowingly. One licked her lips.
“Zee Fokker is 'ere, waiting for you, monsieur,” one said. Hinchliffe smiled to himself. A small, balding man fluttered in from an adjoining office, a look of disdain, a permanent smell under a bulbous nose.
“So, you 'ave finally come to remove this piece of junk from French soil, monsieur!” he snapped.
Hinchliffe grinned, unfazed—prone to toy with such people.
“I understand your sentiments exactly. I've had my share of encounters with these lousy Fokkers. I've had them shooting at me on many occasions.”
The little man was suddenly interested. “Ah, really, monsieur?”
“One thing I can tell you though, these Fokkers are not junk!”
“It is junk, I tell you! Pah!”
Hinchliffe winked at the secretaries.
“Bon après-midi, mesdemoiselles,” he said, as he turned and walked out the glazed doors.
“Good riddance to you, English pig, and to your damned Fokker!” the airport manager snapped as the door closed.
“Beautiful English pig!” one girl purred.
Hinchliffe walked round the building to the plane: a gleaming red Fokker DR1 triplane. Hinchliffe caught his breath when he saw the black German crosses emblazoned on the side and tail-plane. He'd seen these things in the Red Baron's flying circus. They used to swarm in masses of thirty or forty. They'd been imposing, although not always ready to engage.
He was joined by a mechanic, who told him the plane was gassed up, checked and ready. They nodded to each other, and after Hinchliffe had physically made his own inspection, he climbed aboard, pulling on his leather flying cap and goggles. He checked the gauges and worked the rudders and ailerons.
Everything appeared to be in order. He ritualistically pulled out his lucky black cat on its chain of worry beads and hung it on the instrument panel and then gave the signal for the mechanic to prime the engine. This was done with a couple of turns of the propeller. The mechanic stood back.
Hinchliffe shouted, “Clear!” After turning on the magnetos, he gave another shout, “Contact!”
The mechanic swung the propeller. It caught first time with a pop, and the chocks were pulled away from the wheels. Hinchliffe eased on the throttle and with a roar, the Fokker pulled away. With a wave to the man, he moved toward the grassy runway.
Hinchliffe gave it full throttle and the aeroplane charged forward. The mechanic stood watching; in moments, the shiny machine was airborne, tearing into low cloud.
The manager, who was watching from the window, stood with his hands behind his back, relaxed, pleased to get that horrible reminder of the war removed from his aerodrome. He nodded in satisfaction. But this was short-lived. Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable screaming whine of a plane descending from a great height above their heads—the sound of a crashing plane.
A broad grin filled Hinchliffe's face in the inverted Fokker's cockpit as it sped toward the airport building. The little Frenchman rushed back to the window, where he saw the Fokker speeding toward him at an elevation of twenty feet. The girls threw themselves under their desks. After skidding across the polished parquet floor, the manager dived down to join them.
Hinchliffe whooped with glee and then pulled the plane up at the last moment. The tail missed the roof by inches and the building shook violently. Hinchliffe rolled twice, turned right side up, and climbed away into the clouds.
“Well, so much for discretion!” he muttered.
He banked the plane around and set course for Holland, a glorious red sky in his wake.
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It's under the genres of Historical Fiction and Paranormal.
CHAPTER 1
CAXTON HALL
Saturday, December 20, 1930.
It was dark and it was cold when Millie arrived at Caxton Hall in a black Daimler sent by the organizers to collect her from Pickwick Cottage. Despite the weather, there were throngs of people under the canopy awaiting Millie's arrival at the front steps. Two festive Christmas trees, decorated with colored lights, stood each side of the entrance. An advertisement in a glass case announced coming events.
TONIGHT 8 p.m.
MRS. HINCHLIFFE SPEAKS
LIFE AFTER DEATH
Speed Graphics flashed as Millie elegantly eased herself out of the limousine onto the sidewalk. For a few moments she posed, beneath a striking, red cloche hat, wrapped in black furs, her face radiant. Photographers and reporters pushed forward excitedly around her, calling out their questions.
“Mrs. Hinchliffe, what've you come to tell us this evening?”
“I am overjoyed! And tonight I shall tell you why,” she responded.
“Is it true you're writing a book ma'am?”
“How do you feel about airships now?”
Millie closed her eyes, pained.
“I'm very sad—and extremely bitter, as you can imagine. I suppose hard lessons have been learned by our government—at least we can only hope so!”
She made her way to the doors and was escorted along a corridor to the rear of the stage in the Great Hall. Caxton Hall, a place of some notoriety, built of red brick and pink stone, had once been Westminster's town hall. It'd also been a meeting place for British suffragettes, who held a Women's Parliament there and then marched to the Houses of Parliament each year to present a petition to the prime minister. The hall was also used by occultist Aleister Crowley, where his Rites of Eleusis—which some considered blasphemous and immoral—were performed. This was where concerts were held and where the famous performed.
There was an excited buzz in the auditorium filled with mostly older ladies dressed in their Sunday best. At last, the house lights were dimmed and a voice came over the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Caxton Hall. It gives us great pleasure to bring you a lady who needs no introduction, a person whom the British people have taken to their hearts. A lady who has for the past two years issued dire warnings—warnings from the grave. Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe will speak to you about her experiences and the subject of ‘life after death’. Please give a big welcome to Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe!”
Enthusiastic applause erupted. All eyes watched the dark blue stage curtains in anticipation. And then, to everyone's delight, came the lamentation of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata in its own mournful, ghostly voice. The Great Hall fell silent. The curtains slowly opened to reveal Millie at a grand piano, dressed in cobalt blue, surrounded by her artwork displayed on easels, each bathed in its own beam of light.
When Millie had finished playing the first movement, she got up and came to the lectern amid cheers and more applause. She looked down into the front row seats into faces she knew well, especially her good friend, Mrs. East. As the applause died, Millie instinctively scanned the auditorium for Hinchliffe. She checked the end seat on the back row. It was the only empty one in the house. A wave of sadness washed over her and her heart almost stopped. He'd gone. She'd be on her own from now on. For solace, she put her hand to her neck, touching Elsie's gold crucifix, preparing herself to begin. But before she did, she thought of Doyle. How she missed him. He'd been so good to her—a protective father figure. She remembered his words, and did as he'd instructed. She lifted her head high and spoke boldly to those at the back of the auditorium.
“Good evening, my name is Emilie Hinchliffe—my friends call me Millie.” More applause. “... I've come here tonight to tell you my story.” She gestured to the relevant subject of artwork as she spoke. “It's about an heiress, an aeroplane, a ghost, and the mightiest airship the world has ever seen.”
Five hundred ladies and a handful of men listened in rapt attention, eager for answers. Nearly three years ago, Mrs. East, whom Millie had come to know and love, had been as equally transfixed at her kitchen table, next to the fire-grate oven. The old woman had sat watching the planchette on her Ouija board move slowly from letter to letter. Keeping her left hand on the wheeled gadget, with her right, she'd written down an incoming message in wobbly block capitals with a thick, black pencil.
PLEASE HELP ME I AM A DROWNED PILOT
Later, when Millie read those words, they'd made her cry. She smiled at Mrs. East and went on, “I know you've read the story of what happened to me, and to my husband and to many of his friends recently. Tonight, I'm going to tell you the whole story. During and after that terrible war, Ouija boards became an obsession. How could they not, with so many of our husbands, sons, fathers and brothers lost—not to mention our sisters who went to nurse those very men at the Front in those fields of death, to comfort and to heal. and who were, themselves, killed. My husband always called them 'our Angels of Mercy'. There wasn't a family that hadn't lost someone. First, I'm going to tell you about the man I love and why at this moment I'm so happy. No, it’s not about the money, although that will help of course, and guarantee our family's future, which Raymond so desperately wanted.”
At this, applause broke out again accompanied by cheers—they'd heard all about that.
“Life was perfect. Raymond was a vibrant man, full of life and energy—and still is, I want you to know! He was a decorated war pilot, having shot down six enemy planes. Then he, himself, was shot down in the dark of night, crash-landing in a tree in Nieppe Forest. He never spoke of the horrors of that night—even to me. He didn't like to think about it.
The audience was giving Millie its undivided attention.
“Getting shot down cost 'Hinch' his left eye, and caused a bad leg injury. But this horrendous event didn't stop him, or diminish his love of flying, nor did it reduce his great sense of humor. He spent six months in hospital and three months at a convalescent home. He continued flying, getting certified in just about every plane there was. After the war, Raymond joined the new Royal Dutch Airline KLM, becoming their chief pilot. It was there, in Holland, that we met. I was at art school and working for KLM part time as a shorthand typist. A year later, we were married at a lovely, little church here in England. Many of his friends were in attendance—some of whom sadly are no longer with us, due to recent tragic events.
“After six blissful years of marriage, we had two beautiful daughters. Most days, he was off flying passengers to the Continent, at first with KLM, and then later with Imperial Airways. They loved him, but he said some passengers were a little fearful being flown by a one-eyed pilot.
There were a few chuckles at this.
“He pioneered new routes for Imperial with his close friend, 'Johnny' Johnston 'the Navigator'. They’d flown to India, Ismailia and Baghdad.
“One year, Hinch was asked to go to an aerodrome in France to discreetly retrieve a German Fokker war plane, which many of the French had taken exception to. They didn't want it anywhere near their Paris Airshow—and who could blame them for that?”
CHAPTER 2
THE FOKKER
Monday, June 15, 1925.
Water splashed into the hedgerows from the brown and khaki war limousine as it rushed along the country roads near Thiepval toward Hinchliffe's old aerodrome. He'd been based there during the war—one of several places. He sat in the back seat. Smoke swirled from a cigarette he held in his left hand. In his right, between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled a string of worry beads with its black cat lucky charm—something he'd picked up at the souk in Baghdad and carried with him always. At this moment, being alone, his rugged face was haunted, his jaw set, his piercing gray eye, searching. Memories were still vivid, especially in this place. He heard the rat-a-tat-tat of Fokkers on his tail; saw exploding Archie and black smoke around him, planes on fire, men in flames, friends leaping out in death agony.
He was jarred from his reverie as the car slowed to turn onto the aerodrome. He resumed his determined air, taking a last drag on his cigarette before throwing it out. At the airport building, the car came to a stop and Hinchliffe clambered out with a word of thanks to the driver. He drew up his six-foot-one frame, his back ram-rod straight, and marched across the gravel parking area, his slight limp just discernible. He entered the office building. Two young secretaries looked at him approvingly, and then at one another.
“Bonjour, mesdemoiselles,” Hinchliffe said.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” the girls said together.
“I'm Captain Hinchliffe. I'm here to pick up the Fokker for KLM.” His English was tinged with a Scouse accent. He repeated it in French.
The girls’ eyes met again knowingly. One licked her lips.
“Zee Fokker is 'ere, waiting for you, monsieur,” one said. Hinchliffe smiled to himself. A small, balding man fluttered in from an adjoining office, a look of disdain, a permanent smell under a bulbous nose.
“So, you 'ave finally come to remove this piece of junk from French soil, monsieur!” he snapped.
Hinchliffe grinned, unfazed—prone to toy with such people.
“I understand your sentiments exactly. I've had my share of encounters with these lousy Fokkers. I've had them shooting at me on many occasions.”
The little man was suddenly interested. “Ah, really, monsieur?”
“One thing I can tell you though, these Fokkers are not junk!”
“It is junk, I tell you! Pah!”
Hinchliffe winked at the secretaries.
“Bon après-midi, mesdemoiselles,” he said, as he turned and walked out the glazed doors.
“Good riddance to you, English pig, and to your damned Fokker!” the airport manager snapped as the door closed.
“Beautiful English pig!” one girl purred.
Hinchliffe walked round the building to the plane: a gleaming red Fokker DR1 triplane. Hinchliffe caught his breath when he saw the black German crosses emblazoned on the side and tail-plane. He'd seen these things in the Red Baron's flying circus. They used to swarm in masses of thirty or forty. They'd been imposing, although not always ready to engage.
He was joined by a mechanic, who told him the plane was gassed up, checked and ready. They nodded to each other, and after Hinchliffe had physically made his own inspection, he climbed aboard, pulling on his leather flying cap and goggles. He checked the gauges and worked the rudders and ailerons.
Everything appeared to be in order. He ritualistically pulled out his lucky black cat on its chain of worry beads and hung it on the instrument panel and then gave the signal for the mechanic to prime the engine. This was done with a couple of turns of the propeller. The mechanic stood back.
Hinchliffe shouted, “Clear!” After turning on the magnetos, he gave another shout, “Contact!”
The mechanic swung the propeller. It caught first time with a pop, and the chocks were pulled away from the wheels. Hinchliffe eased on the throttle and with a roar, the Fokker pulled away. With a wave to the man, he moved toward the grassy runway.
Hinchliffe gave it full throttle and the aeroplane charged forward. The mechanic stood watching; in moments, the shiny machine was airborne, tearing into low cloud.
The manager, who was watching from the window, stood with his hands behind his back, relaxed, pleased to get that horrible reminder of the war removed from his aerodrome. He nodded in satisfaction. But this was short-lived. Suddenly, they heard the unmistakable screaming whine of a plane descending from a great height above their heads—the sound of a crashing plane.
A broad grin filled Hinchliffe's face in the inverted Fokker's cockpit as it sped toward the airport building. The little Frenchman rushed back to the window, where he saw the Fokker speeding toward him at an elevation of twenty feet. The girls threw themselves under their desks. After skidding across the polished parquet floor, the manager dived down to join them.
Hinchliffe whooped with glee and then pulled the plane up at the last moment. The tail missed the roof by inches and the building shook violently. Hinchliffe rolled twice, turned right side up, and climbed away into the clouds.
“Well, so much for discretion!” he muttered.
He banked the plane around and set course for Holland, a glorious red sky in his wake.
September 3, 2017
Writing The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe
I lost my dad, when I was twenty. He died of Lou Gehrig’s disease after suffering for six years. He was forty-eight years old.
I’d been at school with a fellow whose grandmother was a spiritualist medium. He often asked me if I’d like to meet her and I always declined. But when he asked me that question years later after the death of my father, I took him up on it and went to see the old lady.
She was a sweet person with a great sense of humor and I felt relaxed in her company. She took us to her spiritualist church and I attended for two years. I found it uplifting and extremely interesting. I wanted to find out about all this ‘life after death stuff’ for myself. I wasn’t interested in having someone telling me things after going on a fishing trip, asking me dozens of questions—like there’s someone here whose name begins with B or XYZ. If there was something to be learned I wanted to be the one ‘receiving’ those messages for myself.
I learned a lot and found it rewarding. I sat ‘in circle’ for a year, and yes, I did see stuff for myself. No, not trumpets flying around the room, or bells tinkling, but images and messages in my head. Some, seemingly insignificant, or it would have been insignificant to others, but when you receive these things yourself, no matter how small—it’s a big deal! I should mention that I felt my dad's presence around me for a couple of years after his passing. I think he was watching over me.
While working in the Bahamas some years later, I used to fly small planes. I was a scared pilot, I have to admit. Flying in those tropical unpredictable skies over shark infested waters didn’t do much for my nerves. But it enabled me to experience terror in the sky in a small plane.
These experiences helped me to write The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe. I’ve studied the facts of the Hinchliffe story for a long time. I obtained the transcripts of the séances Emilie Hinchliffe made (no one had recording devices those days and she was a shorthand typist—so they were accurate). I incorporated her findings and some of her feelings into the novel. I’ve used a great deal of artist’s license to make the story entertaining and interesting. Early reviews have been excellent and highly encouraging. I based the lovable character of 'Mrs. East', who liked to work the Oija board, on my friend's grandmother the spiritualist medium.
I’d been at school with a fellow whose grandmother was a spiritualist medium. He often asked me if I’d like to meet her and I always declined. But when he asked me that question years later after the death of my father, I took him up on it and went to see the old lady.
She was a sweet person with a great sense of humor and I felt relaxed in her company. She took us to her spiritualist church and I attended for two years. I found it uplifting and extremely interesting. I wanted to find out about all this ‘life after death stuff’ for myself. I wasn’t interested in having someone telling me things after going on a fishing trip, asking me dozens of questions—like there’s someone here whose name begins with B or XYZ. If there was something to be learned I wanted to be the one ‘receiving’ those messages for myself.
I learned a lot and found it rewarding. I sat ‘in circle’ for a year, and yes, I did see stuff for myself. No, not trumpets flying around the room, or bells tinkling, but images and messages in my head. Some, seemingly insignificant, or it would have been insignificant to others, but when you receive these things yourself, no matter how small—it’s a big deal! I should mention that I felt my dad's presence around me for a couple of years after his passing. I think he was watching over me.
While working in the Bahamas some years later, I used to fly small planes. I was a scared pilot, I have to admit. Flying in those tropical unpredictable skies over shark infested waters didn’t do much for my nerves. But it enabled me to experience terror in the sky in a small plane.
These experiences helped me to write The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe. I’ve studied the facts of the Hinchliffe story for a long time. I obtained the transcripts of the séances Emilie Hinchliffe made (no one had recording devices those days and she was a shorthand typist—so they were accurate). I incorporated her findings and some of her feelings into the novel. I’ve used a great deal of artist’s license to make the story entertaining and interesting. Early reviews have been excellent and highly encouraging. I based the lovable character of 'Mrs. East', who liked to work the Oija board, on my friend's grandmother the spiritualist medium.
August 30, 2017
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe, has now been released as a paperback and on Kindle. This novel is based on actual events which occurred between 1920 and 1930. In those days, there were many women who sought to prove to the world that they were as good as any male pilot in the sky. And they were. Especially, when you look at the accomplishments of Amy Johnson and Amelia Earhart and many others. These were very brave people and they will make your heart bleed. The sad thing is that their stories have been almost forgotten.
This novel tells of a woman married to a decorated World War 1 fighter pilot, Raymond Hinchliffe, whose days are now numbered as a commercial airline pilot due to the loss of an eye. The Hon. Elsie Mackay, an anxious suffragette, seeks him out, suggesting they go for the east-west Atlantic flying record. He will get the 10,000 pounds reward and they will share the glory. The war is over. The world abounds with optimism and is alive with craziness just now—nothing is impossible, even for women. Everyone is mad to try it. Many have failed.
If they succeed Hinchliffe reckons he and his wife, Millie, will be set for life. He could retire or even start his own airline. But what if they fail …?
This novel tells of a woman married to a decorated World War 1 fighter pilot, Raymond Hinchliffe, whose days are now numbered as a commercial airline pilot due to the loss of an eye. The Hon. Elsie Mackay, an anxious suffragette, seeks him out, suggesting they go for the east-west Atlantic flying record. He will get the 10,000 pounds reward and they will share the glory. The war is over. The world abounds with optimism and is alive with craziness just now—nothing is impossible, even for women. Everyone is mad to try it. Many have failed.
If they succeed Hinchliffe reckons he and his wife, Millie, will be set for life. He could retire or even start his own airline. But what if they fail …?
December 21, 2016
The Airshipmen—Kindle Book Giveaway Dec 29 – 31 2016
Riveting … Cinematic … Fist-biting suspense …Will Lt. Cmdr. Lou Remington climb the gangplank one last time? Be prepared to lose sleep. Based on actual events of the 1920’s.
Reviews on Amazon and Goodreads show a 4+ rating.
Thank you Goodreaders, followers and friends for your encouragement this year.
Free Kindle copies available on Amazon December 29, 30 and 31.
Reviews appreciated.
https://www.amazon.com/Airshipmen-Sto...
Happy New Year.
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
Reviews on Amazon and Goodreads show a 4+ rating.
Thank you Goodreaders, followers and friends for your encouragement this year.
Free Kindle copies available on Amazon December 29, 30 and 31.
Reviews appreciated.
https://www.amazon.com/Airshipmen-Sto...
Happy New Year.
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
http://www.daviddennington.com
November 30, 2016
Kindle Book Giveaway 2nd & 3rd December
I’d like to thank Goodreaders, followers and friends for the help and encouragement shown by your support during this year of publication of my debut novel. It is much appreciated, more than you could know.
The Airshipmen is based on actual events of the 1920’s. I should say that although there are strong elements of love of all types, this is not a light romance novel. It is, I’ve been told, an entertaining, suspenseful adventure, as well as being a work of historical fiction. I’ve been more than thrilled with the reviews on Amazon and Goodreads which show a 4+ rating.
Free Kindle copies will be available on Amazon on Friday December 2nd and Saturday December 3rd.
https://www.amazon.com/Airshipmen-Sto...
My best wishes to all and happy holidays!
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
The Airshipmen is based on actual events of the 1920’s. I should say that although there are strong elements of love of all types, this is not a light romance novel. It is, I’ve been told, an entertaining, suspenseful adventure, as well as being a work of historical fiction. I’ve been more than thrilled with the reviews on Amazon and Goodreads which show a 4+ rating.
Free Kindle copies will be available on Amazon on Friday December 2nd and Saturday December 3rd.
https://www.amazon.com/Airshipmen-Sto...
My best wishes to all and happy holidays!
Read well, be well.
David Dennington
