by John Pearson
‘I'm sure that you know best,’ she said.
As it turned out Bond's official transfer to the Secret Service wasn't simple. It meant a change in status from a serving officer to a peacetime civil servant. Bond's application was submitted early in February 1946. A few days later he was summoned to an office on the sixth floor of the Regent's Park headquarters to meet the newly appointed head of the Secret Service. This was Sir Miles Messervy, a former Admiral and secretary to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Bond had never met him but knew his reputation. His enemies criticized his arrogance and inflexibility; his admirers described him as the most brilliant officer of his generation. As a man he was something of a mystery. All that most people knew of him was his initial – M.
Bond's first impression was unfavourable. Perhaps it was the pipe. (Bond had never cared for pipe-smokers since Eton – his housemaster had been a devoted Bruno Flake Cut man.) And there was something less than warmth in M.'s manner – no word of welcome, not even an invitation to sit down. The steely eyes surveyed him from the weatherbeaten face. Bond noted the closely cut grey hair, the tightly knotted tie, the neat arrangement of the ruler, blotter, shell-case ashtray on the desk, and, once again, remembered school. The last time he had felt such apprehension was when summoned by the head during the trouble over Brinton's sister. M. had the same headmaster's trick of staring at his victim hard before speaking.
‘Commander Bond,’ he said at last. M. had a cool dry voice. ‘I have been looking at your records.’ He tapped a thick, much-handled manilla file on his desk. Bond would have given much to read it. ‘An interesting career. Experience like yours must be unique.’
Bond didn't like the way he said ‘unique’.
‘It remains to be seen whether we can use you. Things are changing fast, Commander. The postwar pattern of the service will be very different from what you are used to. What I propose is that you join us on probation. During this period I thought that you might like to go to America for us – on attachment to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington. They're expanding and are keen to pick our brains. They've requested someone with field experience and you've been highly recommended.’
M. relaxed slightly then.
‘It's quite a chance,’ he said. ‘Be sure to make the most of it.’
Bond was uncertain whether to be pleased or not. He liked the idea of America and of working with Americans. But, on the other hand, he knew that this sort of foreign attachment was often a discreet way of disposing of unwanted personnel. He discussed arrangements with the young Sapper colonel M. had just brought in as his Chief of Staff. He was to leave at once and travel through New York to Washington where he would be officially on the staff of the British Embassy. He would have diplomatic status and allowances and the attachment was for a minimum period of three months.
‘The Americans can't wait to see you,’ said the Chief of Staff and grinned. ‘Go easy on the bourbon and those fresh young secretaries.’
Bond flew into New York in the spring. It was the first time he had been there since he killed the Japanese in the Rockefeller Center; the memory haunted him. He was twenty-five but felt immensely old. For ten years he had been at war, plotting and struggling and murdering his fellow men. Now it was over and he realized his soul was sick of it. The time had come to catch up on a lot of living.
In For Your Eyes Only, Fleming quotes Bond as saying that the best things in America are the chipmunks and the oyster stew. He saw no chipmunks during his few days in New York, but it was then that he discovered oyster stew – in the Oyster Bar on the suburban level of Grand Central Terminal. It struck him as the greatest dish since the bouillabaisse he ate with Marthe de Brandt in Marseilles before the war. He discovered other things as well. After the years of wartime London he was excited and appalled by the affluence of New York. He enjoyed shopping for objects that would give him pleasure – things had to work and either be extremely cheap or extremely luxurious. He bought a 25-cent Zippo lighter and the Hoffritz razor which he has used ever since. He also bought Owens toothbrushes, socks from Triplers, and an expensive set of golf clubs from A. and C. But what gave him greatest pleasure was to discover what he always called ‘the greatest bargain in New York’ – the 5-cent Staten Island Ferry from the Battery.
It was the perversity of a puritan, loving and rejecting the richest city in the world – an attitude which Bond has always had towards America. During these few days in New York he stayed at the Stanhope, a five-star hotel opposite the Metropolitan Museum. Sir William Stephenson had recommended it. Its dignity and calm appealed to Bond, despite its cost. Similarly, he made great show of eating simply in the most expensive restaurants. As a friend of Sir William's and something of a celebrity, he was entertained extravagantly; but at Voisins he insisted on dining off vodka martinis, eggs benedict and strawberries. At Sardis he had scrambled eggs. When he flew on to Washington, Bond had the feeling that he had put New York firmly in its place.
In Washington the Embassy took care of him. This was a mistake. The last thing James Bond needed was to dine with the Ambassador or swap gossip on the city's cocktail circuit. Washington was not his city. After New York he found it formal and pretentious with too much marble and too many monuments. It brought out the worst in him. The Head of Chancery offered to take him round the White House. Bond replied that he'd rather see the Washington gasworks – end of conversation.
The one thing Bond was grateful for was his flat. The Embassy had lent him a ground-floor service apartment in a brownstone off N Street. Bond had never seen Georgetown before: almost in spite of himself he found that he was captivated by it. He liked its style, its easy elegance. Also, although he won't admit it, he clearly did enjoy the rich indulgent lives of the wealthy set who lived there.
For, socially and sexually, Bond was a success in Georgetown. He was invited everywhere. His arrogance and obvious dislike of politicians appealed to the masochistic instincts of his hosts – and, more still, of their wives. His British accent and his hard good looks seemed to guarantee him all the conquests that he wanted. He was quite ruthless, knowing and very cruel to women, a policy which, as usual, paid rich dividends.
Somewhat hypocritically, Bond insists that once again he was distinctly shocked by the eagerness of these rich American wives to go to bed with him. ‘They had no self-respect. It was all too easy. There was absolutely no romance.’ But this time, absence of romance did not stop him making the most of things.
Bond had work to do. It suffered. He claims that not until much later did he discover what a crucial period this was for American Intelligence.
Men like Alan Dulles and General ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan were hard at work revamping the whole U.S. secret-service structure. The old Office of Strategic Services was about to be transformed into the all-powerful Central Intelligence Agency, the C.I.A. And several of the top men genuinely wanted to draw on Bond's advice and expertise. Bond didn't want to talk. He got on well with Donovan, and, in later years, Alan Dulles became something of a personal friend. But he still had a condescending attitude to most of the American secret servicemen he met. Some of them clearly were naïve and others inexperienced but Bond made the mistake of treating them all as something of a joke. He gave little and was particularly bored by the organizers of the O.S.S. who consulted him (unlike Ian Fleming who was in Washington a few months later and who compiled a detailed constitution for the C.I.A. for General Donovan). The simple truth was that in U.S. Intelligence circles, Bond soon made himself heartily disliked. He never had been a tactful man, particularly with anyone who bored him; within a few days of his arrival in Washington, he had begun to put the backs up of several men who mattered. His socializing made things worse.
There were several warning incidents. The first involved a young French diplomat. A former Vichyite, he had somehow got himself appointed to the French Embassy. At a small dinner given by a leading Georgetown hostess, he taunted Bond about the British in North Africa. There was a s
cene. Bond replied in the sort of French that is rarely heard in Washington, and when he hit the man the Frenchman fell, smashed an almost genuine Chippendale escritoire and needed his jaw pinning in three places.
A few days later there was another scene at a big reception for a famous film-star who had just made a film on the Normandy invasion. Bond arrived slightly drunk with a U.S. Navy captain. Both of them laughed a lot throughout the film, and afterwards Bond told the star to stick to Westerns – they were safer.
None of this mattered over-much. People who knew James Bond liked him and made allowances. The final incident was different.
This time there really could be no excuses.
As usual, the cause of all the trouble was a woman, but, for once, Bond was innocent. She was the wife of an influential Congressman, a rich pro-British democrat and friend of the Ambassador. He was in his fifties, his wife in her early thirties. ‘She was,’ says Bond, ‘a hard-faced, predatory bitch.’
The husband had heard of Bond from Sir William Stephenson, and was anxious to meet him. He made a fuss of him, and invited him for the weekend to his house near Albany. Bond went. He liked the Congressman and, as he had a private golf course near his house, Bond was looking forward to a weekend's golf. He felt he needed it.
That night the Congressman got drunk, and the wife suggested Bond should sleep with her. Bond claims that he refused, ‘but as things turned out it would have been much better if I had.’
The following weekend the Congressman again invited Bond. Bond declined: the man insisted. There was a golfing competition which he wanted Bond to join. Bond packed his brand new clubs and went. He felt safer in this genial all-male company. His host was charm itself, and Bond was relieved to see that the wife was absent.
If she had taken umbrage at Bond's refusal, so much the better.
But on Sunday morning she appeared. She had a Piper Cub and had piloted herself up from New York, landing on an airstrip just behind the house. Her arrival brought an air of tension to the place. She was difficult, rude to her husband, awkward with the guests, and after lunch Bond heard doors being slammed upstairs. Shortly afterwards the Congressman told Bond that he had sudden urgent business back in Washington and left.
For Bond it was an embarrassing situation. He had been planning to take the evening plane back to Washington from Albany, but the wife insisted she would fly him back herself. They seem to have had an eventful Sunday afternoon. There was more golf, a lot of drinking, supper round a barbecue and then, at ten o'clock or so, the last guests left and Bond found himself alone with his hostess. She began calmly to prepare for bed.
Bond tried to handle the situation lightly for he insists that he was still acting the gentleman, ‘a fatal thing to do’, and telling the woman that he liked her and her husband far too much to spoil things with a casual affaire. She was incensed at this. He kept his temper and said that he had to get back to Washington. Finally she said that, fine, she'd fly him there.
She was a skilful pilot, and it was only later that Bond was to learn just how drunk she was. At the time he thought she was doing her best to scare him. She certainly succeeded, but he was determined not to show it. He admits it was the most hair-raising flight he has ever lived through. They were following the main line of the Turnpike but losing height. Bond asked her twice about their altitude: she didn't answer. He asked again. This time she swore at him, shoved the stick forward and shouted, ‘O.K., big boy – fly the bloody thing.’
Bond tried to grab the stick. The plane was a bare few hundred feet above the Turnpike. It stalled, the engine roared, and the plane fell like a dead bird. It landed in a field some twenty yards from the road and flared immediately. Bond seems to have been thrown clear. The first patrol car at the accident discovered him along the road. There was not much that anyone could do to save the woman.
It was a very messy business and this time nobody could hush it up. The press had something of a field day. Bond felt he had a duty to see the husband and at least try explaining what had happened. It was harder than he expected. Incredibly, the man had loved his wife, and Bond found it impossible to tell the truth. The Congressman was very bitter. So was the man from the British Embassy who had the task of dealing with the press. Bond told him the truth. This made the situation worse.
The diplomat, a Wykehamist, had disapproved of Bond from the moment he arrived. He thoroughly disliked him now that he was attempting to shift the blame on to a dead woman. Bond was a cad – as well as a diplomatic liability: his usefulness in Washington was over.
Coldly, the diplomat suggested Bond had better catch the evening plane to London. Once he had gone the Embassy would do its best to smooth things over. These things did happen, but in future Commander Bond might be advised to steer very clear of politicians' wives.
Bond says that he was sorely tempted to hit the man. ‘He was so very smug, so very Foreign Office about it all.’ The fact that he was right did not make it any better, although in fact James Bond has followed his advice religiously ever since.
Bond's disgrace was serious. He did his best to salvage what was left of his reputation by seeing M. at once: at least he managed to make sure that M. heard his version of events before anybody else's. But if James Bond was expecting a sympathetic ear from that old sailor he mistook his man.
M. said very little, but his silence made it clear what he was thinking. While Bond was talking he went on filling his pipe. He said ‘humph’ once or twice, then lit up, puffed, and muttered ‘most distasteful’. Finally he told Bond that he would be looking into the affair in detail. Bond would be hearing from him.
Bond had been hoping that things could somehow be glossed over and forgotten: he did not know the rancour of an outraged Wykehamist. A full report arrived from Washington along with all the newspapers. None was particularly flattering to Bond.
It was a bad time to have come unstuck. With the ending of the war, establishments were being pruned, and good men thanked for their services and given their bowler hats. Even his old ally, Fleming, was soon to leave Whitehall for Kemsley Newspapers. The whole style of the Secret Service was changing too. The new fashion was for what Bond sardonically refers to as the ‘Dirty Mackintosh Brigade’, the self-effacing, slightly shabby men whose subfusc image was so different from his own.
These were the men who called him ‘Playboy Bond’. He claims that they were jealous of him – of the money that he spent, the women he enjoyed, the life he led. Above all, they were jealous of his past success. Now they could have their own back. They did so with a vengeance.
Bond understands that he had to go, but the way he was dismissed still rankles. He was kept waiting nearly a fortnight. There were reports on him which he had no chance to see, let alone answer. After his years as one of the stars of the department, he felt himself an outcast. Even the C.M.G., for which he had been warmly recommended, was withheld.
Finally M. did see him; he was at his frostiest, and gave Bond no chance to argue or defend himself. After considering the case he had decided that a board of inquiry would not be in the interests of the Service. Commander Bond must not feel from this that he was in any way exonerated. Words could not express the disapproval that he felt at his behaviour whilst on a delicate and most important mission. The Commander would leave the Service. This would be best for everyone.
Even as M. spoke, Bond found it hard to credit what he was saying. But the verdict had been given – the case was closed. There was no word of thanks for all that Bond had done, still less of regret or consolation: only the noise of M. sucking his dead Dunhill. Bond said, ‘Thank you, sir.’
M. said nothing.
They did not shake hands.
It was an early summer morning; Bond walked down Baker Street after the axe had fallen, feeling a little dazed. The unthinkable had happened, but he was alive and still comparatively unscarred. According to the Paymaster he had £300 in his old account with Glyn Mills Bank. The sun was out, the first summe
r dresses in the shops. It was 1946, the first full year of peace.
Bond's spirits rose. By Marble Arch he noticed new leaves on the plane trees by the park. People were strolling past him, leading their ordinary, uncomplicated lives and suddenly Bond realized that he was one of them. He was no longer tied to a life behind a gun, no longer threatened with the fear of sudden death. M. had set him free and he could start a normal life at last. The idea was so exciting that he crossed Park Lane, entered the Dorchester and ordered a half-bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate.
Bond began looking for a job. He was quite optimistic now that the time had come to settle down. He reviewed his assets – youth, good looks, and skill with languages. He was single and without dependents. But as he soon found out, these were assets which he shared with several thousand other young ex-servicemen.
He took job-hunting seriously and wrote endless letters that began, ‘Dear Sir, I wonder whether …’ One in ten brought a reply. There were a few offers. A jute mill in Madras required a manager. A stock-broking firm in Mincing Lane required a clerk. A private eye in Marylebone needed investigators … ‘most of the work's divorce-court stuff. You'll find it stimulating.’ Bond thought otherwise.
A fortnight passed. Bond was rising late by now, skipping breakfast, then getting down to writing letters. He lunched alone, generally in a pub along the King's Road. The afternoons went on job-hunting. The rent on the flat in Lincoln Street was due. It was ten days since he had seen his current mistress, a snub-nosed secretary in the press department of the Ministry of Defence. Purely by chance he met a wartime colleague who was now working as chief security officer with Harrods: he offered Bond a job as store detective.
