James Bond: The Authorised Biography (15 page)

Secretly Bond had always dreaded submarines, which seemed like steel coffins, but he was excited by this new adventure. Fleming was there to see him off – a tall and somehow melancholy figure in his superbly cut lieutenant's greatcoat. There was a thin dawn drizzle from the sea. The submarine shipped moorings, the engines started. Fleming smiled wryly, raising a languid hand and Bond finally sensed how much he envied him his journey.

It was an exciting voyage. The Germans had anti-submarine patrols working from the Isle of Sylt: the submarine submerged by the Dutch coast and proceeded slowly northwards under water. There was a scare of enemy attack and only after dark did
Thruster
surface and pick up speed from her diesels. For a while Bond stood on the bridge with the Commander. It was pitch black with freezing sleet in the wind. The Commander pointed to the right, ‘Emden's through there and Wilhelmshaven's further on. We'll reach your place by midnight.’

Germany seemed such forbidden territory that Bond was surprised at how easily he landed. Just twenty minutes later he was climbing into a rubber dinghy from the submarine and being rowed ashore. Two sailors helped with his equipment. No one spoke or showed a light; when Bond was safely in the dunes they left him. Bond had never felt so lonely in his life before.

Not that he had much time to brood. First light was due at eight. By then he would have had to have dug himself in, camouflaged his hide, and made himself secure before his first full day. He worked furiously. There was a fishing village just along the coast. His stretch of beach was theoretically deserted at this time of year, but he could take no risks. The dunes were covered with thick clumps of dense sea grass and sea holly – more than enough to give the cover he required. The fine sand too was simple enough to burrow; as Bond dug he kept remembering himself as a small boy, building his sandcastles on the beaches of the Baltic.

Long before the dismal morning light reached Wangerooge, James Bond was ready. It had been easier than he expected, and he had excavated a sufficient cavity to hold himself, his stores and his transmitter. The walls were shored back with the aluminium planking specially devised by Fleming and the supplies department. The roof was driftwood, sand and grass. Thanks to Bond's weeks of training, his hide was virtually invisible. Bond had become a human mole.

He found a mole's life most unsatisfactory – boring and cramped and very cold. But he was busy. He had his specially constructed periscope binoculars to watch the sea. He also had his short-wave radio. The aerial was hidden in the dunes. He had prearranged times to speak to London.

During the first morning Bond could appreciate the accuracy of Fleming's thinking. Wangerooge was on the German navy's doorstep and there was a constant flow of inshore shipping – first the low crouching shape of German E-boats roaring their way home to Bremerhaven after a night patrolling in the Channel. Then came some coasters bound for Hamburg. And twice that morning Bond saw the quarry he was really after – two U-boats, grey steel whales sliding past so close that he could hear the throb of engines. He could see their numbers on the conning towers. Within two days they would be trailing Allied shipping out in the Atlantic.

This was exciting, but Bond found himself longing for a cigarette, someone to talk to, even a book to read. At times he felt a wild urge to leave his burrow and stroll across the sand. To console himself he munched biscuits and sucked malted milk tablets from his rations. Around six o'clock he made himself his first meal of the day – more biscuits, chocolate and a can of self-heating soup. Afterwards he thought that he had earned a double swig of brandy.

Like a large nocturnal animal, Bond crept from his lair when it was safely dark. The joy of stretching cramped limbs and sniffing the night air from the sea! For a while he worked, enlarging the burrow so that he could lie full length in it and sleep. He had an inflatable sleeping-bag and was soon comfortable. At 12.15 he called the Admiralty in London, using a simple code and prearranged wave-band, and reporting everything that he had seen. He would have liked a two-way conversation, even a word, with Fleming. This was too big a risk. He pulled the cover tight above his head, wound in the aerial, and slept.

He was awakened early by the roar of aircraft overhead. He raised his periscope and saw the grey-green body of a Dornier flying-boat passing some thirty yards away. He could see the pilot's face and an observer in the rear gun turret. There was a big white swastika on the tail.

The plane roared off. Bond breathed again, remembering there was a seaplane base at Cuxhaven. Three minutes later the plane returned. This time it seemed still closer, roaring along the surf-line of the beach. This was no training flight.

He watched the flying-boat wheel like a big suspicious sea-bird: then with a shower of spray it landed, and came taxiing towards the shore. It anchored. Bond watched four men climb into a black rubber dinghy. They rowed ashore, and then fanned out along the beach.

Fleming had been over-optimistic about the transmitter. The Germans must have intercepted last night's message and fixed its origin with accuracy. These searchers knew what they were looking for.

Bond thought he was lost. All he could do was lower the periscope and wait. Never had he felt so vulnerable and helpless. It seemed impossible that four trained German airmen could miss him. He could hear them calling to each other and even picked out certain words – ‘English spy’, ‘radio’. One of them was mentioning a gun. Finally the four men seemed to give up. They had stopped ten yards from where he lay. One of them, the leader, said, ‘It's no use. No one could hide out here. Perhaps the bastard's in the village.’

Someone replied, ‘But that's impossible. He'd have been spotted. He
must
be here.’

The first voice replied, ‘Well, he's not, is he? We'll just have to wait. The Herr Colonel will be furious.’ Bond heard them walk away – and then he breathed. Slowly he raised the periscope and saw the men climb back aboard the dinghy. There was the savage rasp of engines; the Dornier swept up and away.

Bond forced himself to think. The outlook seemed distinctly bleak. The Germans had been more efficient than anyone had guessed. True, they had not found him – yet – but it could only be a matter of time before they did. They were watching for him now. Once he broke radio silence they would find him, and there was no question now of summoning the submarine to take him off. Nor could he stay trapped in this hole for ever. Water would run out first – unless he went mad from solitude or claustrophobia.

Bond spent the morning trying to devise some method of escape – without success. Surrender in some form or other seemed inevitable. Bond shuddered at the thought of the remainder of the war inside a prisoner-of-war camp. Rather than this he would wait till nightfall, make his way up to the village, then steal a boat. It would be risky. The villagers must have been warned of him by now, but anything was preferable to surrender. Bond knew he must conserve his strength. He fed himself and slept.

It was late afternoon when he awoke. He was cold. He started to prepare the rations he would take with him that night for his escape. But first he needed to survey the beach. It was empty – so was the sea. Then he noticed something. Far to the right there was a ship approaching. There was the beginning of a North Sea mist, making it hard to identify, but as it came closer Bond was certain what it was. One of the outlines he had learned during his lessons on enemy shipping was of the high-speed ocean-going tankers – the Germans called them milch-cows – which the Germans had developed to refuel their U-boat fleets. This was one of them. Two E-boats followed it to give protection as it steamed off into the darkness.

For James Bond this changed everything. The tanker was a first-class prize. Once the Admiralty knew its route, it could be shadowed: at some point out in the Atlantic there would be a rendezvous with several German U-boats.

It would be worth a great deal for the Royal Navy to be there.

Bond knew then where his duty lay. Whatever the risk, he had to radio once more to London – only then would he try to escape. And then he had an even better plan.

He waited until dawn to send his message. Reaction from the Germans came more swiftly than he thought. They must have been waiting for him to break silence. The Dornier returned, flying in straight above him. Things were working out as he expected. There was the same routine, the same men landing in the rubber dinghy. This time they seemed more determined than before. All of them were armed. His plan was working. He heard the first man shout when he saw the transmitter Bond had left. It was a hundred yards or so behind him, on the far side of the dunes. He had left a lot of other equipment there – enough to keep the Germans occupied for several minutes, minutes he needed for his getaway. He couldn't watch them now. He had to take a chance, waiting just long enough for the search party to be diverted. Then he made a break for it.

It was easier than he expected. The Germans were quite occupied. Bond could crawl in the cover of the dunes right to the beach. His limbs were cramped and hardly moved at first, but he forced himself. He was almost at the water's edge before they saw him, and he was in the dinghy and away before the shots rang out.

Bond had never rowed so hard in all his life. Luckily, the sea was calm, and, luckily, the German airmen were no marksmen. But there was still the problem of the flying-boat. The Germans would certainly have left somebody aboard – this firing from the beach must have alerted him. But Bond possessed one advantage. Whoever was aboard the plane had no idea of what was going on. The last thing he would be expecting would be for the English spy his comrades were out looking for to come aboard of his own free will. Bond drew along the side of the Dornier. There was an open door in the fuselage. Here he shouted out in German.

‘Quick, you idiot, bring the first-aid kit. There's been shooting, somebody's hurt.’

‘What?’ said a voice.

‘Quickly,’ said Bond, ‘somebody's dying.’

A German's head appeared. Bond had his gun out.

‘Steady,’ he said, ‘don't move. I'm going to need you. It would be a shame to kill you.’

It was a terrifying takeoff. The aircraft roared and shuddered over the water. Some of the men on shore began to fire, and for a moment Bond thought the pilot would purposely crash the plane. Then the nose lifted and, reluctantly it seemed, the Dornier was away.

But even then, Bond's problems weren't over. The pilot was a surly individual – a heavily built, red-headed man. Bond had to keep his pistol firmly in his back as he ordered him to set his course due west for England and climb to 5,000 feet. For a while the man obeyed; then suddenly he shouted – ‘Look out, Englishman. Fighter-planes.’

Bond glanced where he was pointing. He should have known better. The pilot's fist landed against his jaw, and in a moment the two men were grappling in the cabin, 5,000 feet above the North Sea. It was a vicious battle. The pilot was heavier than Bond, and in the moment of surprise, had knocked Bond's pistol from his hand. Then he kicked out with all his strength. Bond doubled up in agony. As he did so, his shoulder lurched against the Dornier's controls. The nose tilted and suddenly the world became a dizzy, flailing madhouse with the engines screaming and the aircraft diving steeply towards the sea. In desperation Bond tried one last wild blow against the man's throat. Against all the odds it connected. There was a gurgling noise. The man went limp. Desperately attempting to remember his prewar flying instructions and hoping they held good for German aircraft Bond reached for the controls, the plane responded and he managed to pull the aircraft up. But only just. By now it was almost down to sea-level. Bond saw the grey waves just below. He eased the Dornier's controls towards him, and slowly the big lumbering plane responded.

By now, Bond had no idea where he was, or how much fuel remained. He had picked up his pistol and kept the pilot covered in the seat beside him. At the same time, he held the plane on course for England, trusting in his luck and the compass to get him there.

Bond estimates that they had been flying nearly two hours when the attack came. The first he knew of it was the uncanny sound of bullets ripping through the fuselage behind him. And then, away to the left, he saw two British Hawker Hurricanes, in their green and brown camouflage, wheeling away before returning to the attack.

The Dornier pilot was quite conscious now.

‘Bad luck, Englishman,’ he said. ‘Your own people will kill you after all.’

It looked as if they would. This time the fire was closer still. One of the cockpit windows shattered, and then the whole plane shuddered, and reeled sideways. Bond fought to hold it, but part of the tail was shot away. One of the Hurricanes returned, wheeling like a bird of prey around its victim. The flying-boat was now out of control, heading for the sea in a fast shallow dive. Bond struggled to keep the nose up. Then with a great thump they struck the water. There was a wrenching, tearing sound as the Dornier's back broke. The spray subsided and the plane began to sink.

It was the Dornier's red-headed pilot who saved Bond's life. He knew the escape hatch, and helped Bond through it to the roof. He also produced the rubber dinghy in which both of them spent the next two hours after the seaplane sank. An R.A.F. air-sea rescue launch finally brought them in to Harwich later that afternoon. The two parted more amicably than when they had first met.

Bond came back to Whitehall feeling jubilant, but not for long. True he had got the information of the German tanker through to the Admiralty, but there were delays and it was lost. And in the meantime the whole adventure had been criticized. Bond's old reputation as a glory-seeker was pursuing him, and Lieutenant Fleming had been reprimanded for a scheme which put a British submarine at risk. Having to be rescued by the R.A.F. was considered thoroughly bad form, and Bond, though still officially attached to the D.N.I., was in disgrace. He was sent to work at their offices at Penge. And it was here his great adventure ended.