Charles Carrington on Kipling’s verse (1955)

Charles Carrington’s biography of Kipling is a masterpiece, not only of privileged research (he had access to family papers and diaries which were later destroyed, as well as close advice from Kipling’s only surviving child, Elsie, b.1896) but of balance and careful judgment, and with wonderfully evocative passages of its own.

For a whole generation homesickness was reversed by Kipling’s magic spell. Englishmen felt the days of England sick and cold and the skies grey and old, heard the East a-calling, fawned on the younger nations, learned to speak the jargon of the seven seas; while, in the outposts of empire, men who read no other books recognised and approved the glimpses of their own lives in phrases from Kipling’s verse: the flying-fishes and the thunder-clouds over the Bay of Bengal, the voyage outward-bound till the old lost stars wheel back, the palm-tree bowing down beneath a low African moon, the wild tide-race that whips the harbour-mouth at Melbourne, the broom flowering above the windy town at Wellington, the islands where the anchor-chain goes rippling down through the coral-trash. (Rudyard Kipling His Life and Work by Charles Carrington, Penguin paperback edition p.398)

Carrington on Kipling’s verse

Two thirds of the way through the 600-page book, Carrington pauses his narrative to give a ten-page essay on Kipling’s verse, which is packed with insights:

The ballad

Carrington draws a direct link between Kipling and Sir Walter Scott, another writer prolific in popular verse and tales, who dominated his age. Kipling’s mother (Alice MacDonald) was Scottish, and he showed a marked fondness for Scottish characters (notable the famous engineer McAndrew) and Scots dialect.

Carrington summarises on page 413 the elements of Scott’s use of Lowland popular verse as including:

  • the free borrowing or adaptation of  his predecessors
  • stylised imagery
  • the use of incantatory repetitions
  • harmonics of words meant to be recited against the background of simple instrumental music
  • changes of sentiment indicated by changes of rhythm
  • the violent alternations of the grotesque, the horrible and the pathetic

To this list I’d add the deliberate use of older ‘poetic’ words and phrases. But whereas in Scott these are references to older Scots speech and pseudo-medievalisms, Kipling’s poems are drenched with the lexicon and rhythms of the Bible.

Influence of the Bible

Both Kipling’s parents were the children of Methodist ministers, reared in God-fearing, Bible-quoting households. In his horrible childhood in Southsea the young Kipling was tyrannised by a tub-thumping, Evangelical housewife in a household where Bible readings and hymn singing were compulsory.

This was the common fare of the great bulk of the English people in the nineteenth century – of almost all of them, it may be said, except the deracinated intellectuals. It was precisely because Kipling’s prose repeatedly echoes Biblical rhythms and turns of phrase that it was accepted and understood by a public that read the Bible, but did not read Walter Pater. (p.415)

His more serious poems were written in a didactic and sonorous style which directly derives from Hymns Ancient and Modern, ‘by far the most popular volume of verse in nineteenth century England’.

Popular tunes

But Carrington’s biggest insight into Kipling’s verse is the fact that he composed it to the rhythm of musical tunes. From his Methodist parents, from his harsh Evangelical upbringing, from weekly attendance at school chapel, Kipling knew a wide range of hymn tunes and, once he’d moved to London in 1889, he developed an enthusiasm for the London music hall, which introduced him to all the popular hits and melodies of the age – ‘The Man Who Broke The Bank At Monte Carlo’, ‘Knocked ‘Em In The Old Kent Road’ – as well as American classics from earlier in the century like ‘John Brown’s Body’, ‘Marching Through Georgia’ and so on.

Carrington here and elsewhere in the biography quotes eye-witness accounts of the way his wife, friends and visitors would see and hear Kipling humming a tune as he walked round his study or up and down the garden or along the deck of an ocean liner, humming and singing to himself and slowly forming words which matched the rhythm of the song. His wife noted in her diary ‘Ruddy was singing a new poem today…’

He would say ‘Give me a hymn-tune’ and, when someone suggested one, would go about for days humming it over, drumming it out with his fingers until words framed themselves to the tune, intent upon that and oblivious of the world, until he had finished his verse. It did not matter, for that purpose, that the song whose tune he borrowed was quite incongruous with the poem he intended; it was the rhythm he wanted and made his own. (p.321)

It is best to think of many of his poems as music hall songs, which aren’t designed to evoke sensitive emotional responses from an aesthete drawling on a divan, but are intended to be recited and even sung, to a wide audience. Like music halls songs, they adopt a character or persona and are replete with comic ‘patter’, as a music hall star might intersperse jokes and comments into a song. And, like a song, instead of evoking a range of emotions in a range of readers, they are meant to unite an audience of listeners onto one clear and forceful message.

Carrington exemplifies the relevance of the musical interpretation over a purely technical interpretation by pointing out that both Kipling’s ‘Mandalay’ and Tennyson’s ‘Locksley Hall’ are written in trochaic lines of eight feet.

Kipling

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ lazy at the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!’

Tennyson

Thro’ the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day;
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

The rhythm of the Kipling is more emphatic, as is the break or ‘caesura’ in the middle of each line – made crystal clear by the use of a comma – because it is a song and even if we read it silently, it still rings in our heads more like a song than a poem.

Carrington notes that Kipling himself fictionalised the process of ‘adapting’ a popular song in his comic story ‘The Village That Voted The World Was Flat’, where the village is pilloried in a popular song created by its enemies which is a straight lift of the tune of ‘Here We Go Gathering Nuts In May’. The title of the story is the title of the song and fits the tune perfectly.

Carrington identifies some tunes with specific poems: ‘Mandalay’ with a contemporary waltz tune; the refrain of ‘Follow Me ‘Ome’ with the Dead March; ‘Birds of Prey’ with ‘Knocked ‘Em In the Old Kent Road’ and, strikingly, the rhythm of ‘A School Song’ with ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’!

Let us now praise famous men’ –
Men of little showing –
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,
Greater than their knowing!

Kipling’s daughter is among the many witnesses quoted as to the importance of music in the composition process and herself suggests musical bases for some poems:

R.K. usually worked in the morning, if he had anything in hand, either doing the actual writing, or pacing up and down his study humming to himself. Much of  his best known verse was written to a tune, the ‘Recessional’ to ‘Melita’, the tune usually sung to ‘Eternal Father, strong to save’; ‘Mandalay’ to an old waltz tune: and so on; this was curious as R.K. was quite unmusical. (Quoted on page 481)

The story about ‘Recessional’ fits. You can indeed fit the words of Kipling’s poem to the hymn tune:

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Ghostly presences

Carrington’s last thought is that most of the poems can’t be easily identified with specific songs: only Kipling knew their derivation and source, and kept his secrets. But – and this makes them all the more effective – the ghosts and hints of old-time music hall songs, popular tunes or classic hymns known to millions float across the poems, underpin them, appear and disappear in their rhythms. And this deeper fugitive layer of meaning, of rhythmic and harmonic meaning, is one of the reasons why poems which, so often, ought to be trite and vulgar, in fact possess a strange and eerie power.

Related links

Other Kipling reviews

Rudyard Kipling: His Life and Work by Charles Carrington (1955)

Since the true story of the British, fifty years ago, was the story of the British Overseas, in the age of Cromer, Curzon, Kitchener, Milner, Johnson, Lugard and Rhodes, it was Kipling’s task to reveal the secrets of their actual life to his contemporaries. (Rudyard Kipling His Life and Work by Charles Carrington, Penguin paperback edition p.398)

Charles Carrington’s biography of Kipling is a masterpiece, thoroughly researched, beautifully written, and above all packed with good sense and grounded judgments.

Charles Carrington  (1897 — 1990)

Carrington was himself a military man. Although under-age, he enlisted in the British Army in 1914, and wangled a posting to France, where he spent six months on a quiet part of the Western Front before taking part in the Battle of the Somme. In 1929 he published memoirs of his time as an officer on the Western Front, A Subaltern’s War. He rejoined the Army during the Second World War, working as liaison with the RAF. In his book and in later text and TV interviews, he consistently took the line that the Great War was worth fighting, and that it had to be seen out to the end, a view – having read a number of revisionist histories on the subject in recent years – which I agree with.

After the Second War Carrington was approached by the Kipling family to write the official biography. He was given access to family correspondence by Kipling’s only surviving child, Elsie, who is deeply thanked in the Preface, where Carrington says she was so closely involved that she ought to have been credited as joint author. Although this sounds limiting, his biography has stood the test of time and is still the standard work which all others refer to.

Carrington’s unique position

1955 was less than twenty years after Kipling’s death (1936) and Carrington was old enough to remember the tremendous influence Kipling had as a creative and cultural force through the 1890s, 1900s and into the post-war years – to have experienced it himself as a patriotic schoolboy.

But the biography itself was written after the watershed of the Second War, in the era of decolonisation, as Kipling’s beloved India and Pakistan were given independence, followed by a long stream of Asian and African colonies.

What makes Carrington so valuable, then, is that – as a military man – he has a good working knowledge of the British Army which Kipling revered so much and whose values he promoted – and throughout the book is sympathetic to Kipling’s super-patriotism (and often disdainful of the educated artistic elite which held Kipling’s – and by extension – much of the nation’s values in contempt). Yet Carrington lived on into the disillusioned, decolonising and unrecognisably more liberal post-War era and so is able to distance himself from Kipling’s more extreme political and social views.

So this biography inhabits two eras, brilliantly interpreting and translating the earlier one for the later one. It is consistently sympathetic but not afraid to be critical, and I think it’s this balancing act which makes the book so attractive and which later writers on Kipling have found difficult to repeat. In our politically correct times it is all too easy to dismiss Kipling as the sadistic, racist Imperialist which so much of his writing reveals him to be and so never to experience the imaginative power and force that his best writing, particularly the poetry, without doubt still possesses.

My attitude to Kipling

I am not an ancient Greek, but I have spent many days and weeks trying to imagine my way into the intellectual, psychological and cultural world of Agamemnon and Achilles, of Aeschylus and Plato. Neither am I a Roman Catholic, but I have spent many weeks imagining myself into the mental world of the Fathers of the Church, of early English Catholics like Gildas and Bede, of the medieval Scholars, of Chaucer and his pilgrims. I am not a Viking, but I have spent months reading the Norse sagas and trying to understand the world-view and beliefs which gave rise to their appalling ferocity and effectiveness. I am not a medieval zealot, but I have spent weeks reading about the millenarian cults and witch-burning frenzies of the Middle Ages. I am not a Nazi, but I have spent long periods reading about Nazi Germany and trying to imagine myself into the minds of both the demented Nazi leaders and fanatical rank and file. I am not a Stalinist, but I have spent time imagining my way into the minds of the comrades who oversaw the mass famines and then the show trials of the 1930s.

Similarly, I am not a racist but I am spending these weeks rereading Kipling’s life and stories and poetry in order to feel my way into the minds of sometimes unpleasantly arrogant and racist white Sahibs, the better to understand the complex of beliefs and behaviours which existed in Imperial India and the broader British Empire in Kipling’s time (the key years from 1885 to the 1930s) – in order to understand how people lived and believed then – and how we, now, today, are still living amid the heritage of those views and beliefs.

The biography – childhood

This is a long and thorough account of a fascinating life, which would take far too long to summarise – and anyone can read a good outline on Kipling’s Wikipedia page or at the Kipling Society (links below). For me the key learnings are:

  • Very artistic family Kipling’s father, (John) Lockwood Kipling, was an artist, designer and writer in his own right, who spent his career in Bombay then Lahore, dedicated to reviving and teaching traditional Indian crafts during his thirty years’ service in the sub-continent. Kipling’s mother was one of the four MacDonald sisters, who were famous in their day and have had several books devoted to them. Alice MacDonald married Lockwood Kipling. Her sister, Georgiana, married the pre-Raphaelite artist Sir Edward Burne-Jones. The third sister, Agnes, married the artist Sir Edward Poynter. And the fourth sister, Agnes, married the MP Alfred Baldwin, whose son Stanley was to become British Prime Minister. So, although he was sent to a fierce boarding school set up to train the sons of Army officers (the basis of the Stalky and Co stories) and although it was his proud boast to prefer the company of rough soldiers and sailors to long-haired aesthetes – Kipling also had this completely different Arts’n’Crafts heritage and eminent artistic family environment to draw on (as he did when he created the artist protagonist of his novel The Light That Failed) and to support him, emotionally, artistically, psychologically.
  • Toddler years in India Kipling was born and spent his first five years in his parents’ house in Bombay, with a native ayah, snakes in the garden, dust and the searing heat – sights, sounds and smells which never left him.
  • Cruelty in Southsea In 1870 Kipling’s parents brought him and his sister Trix back to England to visit the various in-laws, before they heartlessly abandoned them both in the house of a working class couple in Southsea (part of Portsmouth) who advertised as ‘caring’ for the children of India Army officials. Although the father, a retired captain, was sympathetic, the little Rudyard was routinely beaten by the cruel mother, Sarah Holloway, and then beaten by the bully son. He was sent to attend a prep school, which also featured routine physical punishment. The Mrs Holloway was a fervent Evangelical Christian and beat the whole of the Old Testament and every element of the church services into the quivering boy – arguably his deepest artistic influence.
  • Army boarding school In 1878, aged 13, he was moved to the United Services College at Westward Ho! in Devon, a boarding school for the sons of Army officers. Here there was more bullying and cruelty but, as the years passed, Kipling found his feet and a few sympathetic teachers who opened his eyes to literature and cultivated his talent for writing.
  • Kipling never went to university He wasn’t bright enough for Oxbridge, which his parents couldn’t have afforded anyway. So, aged 17, he graduated from the College, sailed back to India and started work as a journalist on the small Lahore-based local newspaper, the Civil and Military Gazette.

These early years set the pattern:

  • Emphatic support of the Army and the Empire, particularly of the working men, the soldiers and sailors and engineers at the cutting edge, who made things work.
  • A strong streak of violent physical bullying and punishment (it is hard not to be revolted by the number of ‘natives’ who get casually kicked in Kipling’s earlier stories and his idea of a practical joke always involves cruelty and humiliation; even the Just So stories often feel harsh), let alone the cruelty in the various Stalky stories.

In terms of style, the two hugely important influences of his childhood are:

  • A complete soaking in all aspects of the Bible, a deep working knowledge of the most recondite characters and stories from the Old Testament, along with word-perfect recall of the various collects and services in the Book of Common Prayer. These dominate his prose and poetic style (and his letters), allowing him to whistle up portentous and deep-sounding phrases at will when he moves into ‘Nation Addressing’ mode, but also appear as frolics and casual references throughout the works, references which almost all need footnotes now in our post-Christian age.
  • A complete absence of classical references. Contemporaries as diverse as Oscar Wilde or Thomas Hardy could confidently refer to the Greek gods and myths and legends and authors, as part of the broader shared heritage of a classical education. Kipling has none of that; it is a great gap in his imaginative world. Instead, Kipling has India and the vast multifarious faiths of the East to draw on. And, as he travelled the world in his 20s and 30s, he was fascinated by the native gods of everywhere he went, from Africa to Greenland. Its almost complete absence in Kipling’s oeuvre makes you realise the effect they have in almost everyone else’s writings – that is, a reassuring effect, reassuring the reader that we are all operating/writing/reading within the same realm of shared values and references. But it is also a big plus as well, since the casual way Kipling can mention Eskimo or Ashanti or Aborigine or Afghan gods is one of the things which give his works such an incredible global range – the sense of reaching into the lives of peoples and races which most of his audience had barely even heard of. And this was one of the reasons for his huge impact on his generation, the sense of One Man single-handedly opening up to them the vast and disparate new territories of the Empire, in all its mystery and exoticism.

Journalism

Instead of going to university Kipling returns to India and starts working, aged 17, on Lahore Civil and Military Gazette, quickly learning the ropes of newspaper production and seeing at first hand every aspect of British rule in India as experienced at the hard end, by the working soldiers and administrators and doctors, working themselves to death for little or no thanks and a steady chorus of denigration and criticism from Liberals back home.

Kipling learned how to write features and articles to order and to length. He develops a cult of ‘work’ and the fitness of ‘the day’s work’, putting in long hours in the newspaper’s offices and print rooms, and then spending thousands of hours wandering the native quarters of Bombay or Lahore at night, seeking out mystery and strangeness.

Plain Tales from the Hills

Not only did Kipling learn to write all kinds of copy to order – articles, interview, reviews – and to length and to a deadline, but he was secretly converting anecdotes and incidents large and small which he came across, into ‘stories’. Carrington’s pages devoted to the creation and publishing of the Plain Tales stories is fascinating, as is Kipling’s unbelievable productivity: Some thirty-nine stories appeared in the Gazette between November 1886 and June 1887 and were republished in Plain Tales from the Hills, his first prose collection, printed in Calcutta in January 1888.

London

By 1889 Kipling had learned everything he could in the newspaper and a new editor suggested it was time to move on. He travelled to London in 1889 (characteristically going right round the world, via the Far East, Japan and sight-seeing all across America) before crossing the Atlantic to arrive in Liverpool, then travel to London.

a) His art world contacts and his father provided him introductions to various magazine editors and publishers who, between them, promptly flooded the literary world with Kipling’s accumulated stories and poems, creating a massive Boom and the impression of a superstar appearing from nowhere. He was just 22.

b) I’ve always been fascinated by the way he found digs in Villiers Street, next to Charing Cross station, over a pie and mash shop and opposite Gatti’s music hall. It was the rhythms and diction of music hall songs which inspired the phenomenally popular Barrack Room Ballads (1892).

The 1890s

Like many bohemian students I tended to associate the 1890s with ‘the Decadence’, the fin-de-siecle, with Oscar Wilde, Aubrey Beardsley and the Yellow Book. It is chastening to realise how wrong this is, and that it was really the decade of Kipling’s greatest popularity. He bombarded the reading audience with stories and novels and poems about worlds they’d barely heard of before, in a phenomenal outpouring of stories, novels and poems;

  • The Light That Failed (novel, 1891)
  • Life’s Handicap (short stories, 1891)
  • Barrack Room Ballads (poems, 1892)
  • The Naulahka, A Story of West and East (novel, 1892)
  • Many Inventions (1893)
  • The Jungle Books (short stories, 1895, 1895)
  • The Seven Seas (poems, 1896)
  • Captains Courageous (1897)
  • The Day’s Work (short stories, 1898)
  • Stalky and Co (short stories, 1899)

What emerges from this list is:

  1. His equal facility in verse and prose (not unique for that period: Wilde wrote successful poems, stories, a novel and plays; Thomas Hardy was equally fluent in novels and poems).
  2. The weakness of the novels –
    • The Light That Failed is about an artist who has a frustrated love affair, realises he is going blind and goes off to the Sudan to die a ‘hero’s death’ in the desert. Respectable but not rave reviews.
    • Nobody liked The Naulahka, which was a collaboration with his American friend Wolcott Balestier (who died half way through writing it).
    • Captains Courageous is really a short story (the licking into shape of a spoilt millionaire’s son aboard a tough New England trawler) stretched out and told in Kipling’s impenetrable attempt to convey New England trawlermen diction.

And what is so hard to capture is how quickly and completely he came to dominate the tone and discourse of the period. Carrington quotes a very useful description of Kipling’s influence from a man at the opposite end of the political spectrum, H.G. Wells, in his novel The New Machiavelli (1910).

The prevailing force in my undergraduate days was not Socialism but Kiplingism. Our set was quite exceptional in its socialistic professions. And we were all, you must understand, very distinctly Imperialists also, and professed a vivid sense of the ‘White Man’s Burden.’ It is a little difficult now to get back to the feelings of that period; Kipling has since been so mercilessly and exhaustively mocked, criticised and torn to shreds;—never was a man so violently exalted and then, himself assisting, so relentlessly called down. But in the middle nineties this spectacled and moustached little figure with its heavy chin and its general effect of vehement gesticulation, its wild shouts of boyish enthusiasm for effective force, its lyric delight in the sounds and colours, in the very odours of empire, its wonderful discovery of machinery and cotton waste and the under officer and the engineer, and ‘shop’ as a poetic dialect, became almost a national symbol. He got hold of us wonderfully, he filled us with tinkling and haunting quotations, he stirred Britten and myself to futile imitations, he coloured the very idiom of our conversation. He rose to his climax with his “Recessional,” while I was still an undergraduate. What did he give me exactly? He helped to broaden my geographical sense immensely, and he provided phrases for just that desire for discipline and devotion and organised effort the Socialism of our time failed to express, that the current socialist movement still fails, I think, to express. (H.G. Wells The New Machiavelli, Chapter 4)

Marriage and America

When Wolcott Balestier died suddenly in Germany, Kipling cut short a Christmas trip to his family in India, returned to London for the funeral, and proposed to Wolcott’s sister, Caroline Starr Balestier. They were married on 18 January 1892 (with Henry James giving away the bride) in a service with just four attendants – but ‘Carrie’ was to be an invaluable rock to him for the rest of his life.

They moved to America, to rural Vermont, to be near the other Balestier sibling, Beatty and here they had their three children, Josephine, Elsie and John. Kipling helped build the family home and furnished it exactly according to his requirements, with a big study window looking out over beautiful New England scenery, carpeted with rugs from India. Here he wrote The Jungle Books and, a few years later, took the trips to the New England cod harbours with a friend, an American doctor, to collect the factual, technical and above all slang and diction of the sailors which makes Captains Courageous almost unreadable.

The crisis of Imperialism

For me the most compelling section of Carrington’s brilliant biography covers the years 1898 to 1902. A massive falling out with Carrie’s brother made their Vermont home unpleasant, and this was compounded by a wave of Anglophobia whipped up by the administration of President Cleveland when American nearly went to war with Britain about the border between Venezuala and British Guiana in South America.

The Kiplings returned to England and settled, first in Torquay, then in Ringwood in Hampshire. Kipling wrote the first of a series of grave, sombre admonitions to The Nation, Recessional, about the state of the nation at Queen Victoria’s Jubilee in 1897. It is an extraordinarily sombre, serious poem, notable for not mentioning the Queen at all.

But it was the two white men’s wars at the turn of the century which form the axis in Kipling’s career and reputation:

  • The Spanish-American War (1898) during which the US defeated Spain in the Philippines.
  • The Second Boer War (1899-1901) which Kipling went out to South Africa to contribute and report on, for which he wrote his immense bestseller, The Absent-Minded Beggar, and where he saw how mismanaged the war was, how ill-prepared the British were, how badly organised and badly led, and was shocked to realise that a large part of the population and most of the intelligentsia were strongly against it.

Anti-imperialists at the time and all the way to our time, see both wars as grotesque bullying of small peoples and unashamed wars of conquest designed to open up areas of the world for British economic exploitation. Carrington’s is a useful corrective, emphasising that Kipling and the millions of patriots like him saw them as wars to ensure Progress – material, economic and social – and Freedom. The Boers oppressed the indigenous Africans and refused to give any legal or political rights to the three-quarters of the population who were Uitlanders – white settlers from Britain or the colonies. The Boer War was fought to defend their rights and freedoms – and this, Carrington points out, explains why thousands of men volunteered from Australia and New Zealand to fight the Boers: they were fighting for mates like themselves.

Kipling and those like him felt that Britain and America were united in being at the cutting edge of Civilisation and Progress: they were pledged to bring political freedom and the blessings of civilisation – law, order, agriculture, irrigation, proper drains, schools, hospitals – to areas where many millions of native peoples lived in breath-takingly primitive conditions and savagery.

To inhabit this point of view, no matter how briefly, is the only way to get inside Kipling’s famous booming national poems, like The White Man’s Burden. We may disagree with every shred of its utterance and assumptions, but it is important, historically, to get inside the mind of its maker and its many, many, fans. As I write these words the British House of Commons is debating whether we, the British Army or Air Force, should intervene somehow in Syria to stop the Russians bombing Aleppo, to arrange peace agreements which will allow the return of law, order and all the blessings of civilisation – hospitals, schools etc, and plenty of bien-pensant newspapers, TV and radio programmes feature pictures of the bombings and voices calling for Western intervention.

But why? Why should British armed forces personnel put their lives on the line for people five thousand miles away who, as the examples of Afghanistan, Iraq and Libya show us, will not thank us and will not do as we wish and adopt the nice, human rights-based democracies we’d like ’em to, any more than they did during Kipling’s day? Because we are still labouring under the delusions of Kipling and his time, that ‘the West’ somehow has a duty, a responsibility and a ‘burden’ to bring peace, civilisation, law etc etc to troubled parts of the world. Why?

The engineers of Empire

Over and over Carrington places Kipling’s stories and poems in their historical and technological context, celebrating the tremendous achievements and breakthroughs of the age.

To write poetry and prose about steamships, for the men who worked in the engine-rooms, was so new a practice that it left the literary critics gasping, but Kipling’s own public was to be found among the makers of the world as it was at the turn of the century. They found no difficulty in his vocabulary, no unfamiliarity in his subject-matter. The generation that bridged the Forth, built the Uganda Railway, damned the Nile, laid the Pacific Cable, irrigated the Punjab, sent radio messages across the Atlantic, crushed the ore of the Golden Mile at Kalgoorlie, servid with the Mounties at the Klondyke, tunneled through the Rockies, revealed the last secrets of the earth’s surface, and learned to fly, had found its own laureate and not upon the advice of the approved literary critics. (p.398)

From the mid-1890s Kipling took an increasing interest in the Royal Navy and, by this stage, had the friends and contacts to be taken out on various naval vessels and shown round the Fleet. Carrington makes the point that in every year from 1889 to 1908 Kipling took a long sea voyage, and his love of the sea and seafaring men grew and grew. This resulted in a series of short ‘stories’ (many really just glorified reportage) aboard RN ships – not least the half dozen ‘stories’ about Petty Officer Emanuel Pyecroft. These are, frankly, pretty poor.

Far more impressive are the poems he wrote about the sea, about the naval engineers who keep the ships running, such as the famous McAndrew’s Hymn (1894). And they are just part of Kipling’s commendable and admirable interest in the practicalities of WORK and in the astonishing scientific and technological achievements of the last decade of the nineteenth century. Carrington captures this mood of a generation really well:

They [Rhodes and Kipling and Theodore Roosevelt] lived in a world in which the British and the Americans were immeasurably the most progressive of nations; in which their standards of conduct prevailed wherever civilisation spread; in which they were in fact spreading those standards over all the world. The partition of Africa, of South-East Asia, and of the Pacific, the revelation by explorers of the last secrets on the earth’s surface, the linking of all the world’s seaports by telegraph cables and steamship routes, the crossing of all continents by railways, the bridge-building, the engineering, and the commerce: these astonishing achievements made a revolution in history unlike anything that had ever happened before, and Kipling’s genius had revealed to his generation what it was that they had done. (p.335)

The Edwardian Kipling

After the Boer War his contempt for Liberals and anyone who questioned the ‘civilising mission’ of the Empire makers hardened, his fictional and poetic satires of them grew more savage, the brutality of his brutal stories tougher and harder to read.

And yet the 1900s were also the decade of The Just So StoriesPuck of Pook’s Hill and Rewards and Fairies, overtly light and dainty children’s stories, after he settled into his final home at ‘Bateman’s’. a comfortable country house near the village of Burwash in Sussex, and fell in love with the English countryside and its traditions.

Carrington’s biography continues to be informative and to provide fascinating background, especially around the political crises of the years 1910 to 1914, during which Kipling made increasingly vehement statements in defence of the Empire, against Irish Nationalism, in defence of the Ulster Unionists and so on, speeches and articles which crystallised his reputation as a fiery demagogue of the Right. Many of his earlier fans and supporters fell away, disappointed and alarmed at the ferocity of his political opinions, but also at their increasing estrangement from reality.

For the events of the Great War and then of the post-war years, see my reviews of the two key collections of short stories, A Diversity of Creatures (1917) and Debits and Credits (1926).

Early adopter

One of the minor themes which emerges is that Kipling was a gadget freak. He not only was riveted to learn everything possible about every piece of technology which was shown him – and then stuffed his stories with show-off facts and jargon, from steamships to the new wireless – but he himself adopted, bought and experimented with them.

While in Vermont he took delivery of one of the first pairs of modern skis and off he went. He was an early adopter of the new-fangled bicycle in the 1890s, until he and his wife fell off their tandem in Torquay and gave it up. He was one of the first motorists, buying a steam-driven ‘Locomobile’ in 1900, a breakdown-prone machine which features in the story ‘Steam tactics’. In fact, from that point onwards Kipling was fascinated by cars and owned a sequence of steadily better and better spec machines – while the joys and perils of motoring appear in quite a few of the Edwardian short stories – as well as creating the frame for one of his best supernatural stories, ‘They’ (1904). In fact, he was inspired to write a series of parodies of classical and English poets writing about motor cars, which was eventually collected in the light-hearted volume The Muse Among The Motors.

He was fascinated by the new technology of electric lights, got Bateman’s rigged up and then wrote an eerie ‘comic’ story about a cat and rat and the millwheel and water, all of whom get speaking parts in a story about how an old mill gets fitted with a blazing electric light, ‘Below The Mill Dam’ (1902). Similarly, he describes an amateur and very early radio ham in Sussex trying to fix an aerial to the roof of the local chemists’ shop in another supernatural tale, ‘Wireless’.

His 1904 story ‘Mrs Bathurst’ contains one of the earliest references to the new cinematograph in fiction: in it a man obsessed with a remote love affair he had with a woman in New Zealand drags the narrator of the tale along to see an amazing coincidence – that the subject of his long distance love has been captured on a few seconds of film walking towards a very early movie camera in a London railway station, a film which is now being shown as part of a sideshow attraction in South Africa. The man insists on paying the entry fee again and again to sit through forty minutes of jerky black and white figures, just to see the few seconds of his beloved jerking towards the camera. An eerie premonition of the circular relationship between film, repetition and obsession which was to haunt the medium throughout the 20th century.

Conclusion

Carrington’s biography is compulsory reading for anyone interested in Kipling. It has at least four inestimable strengths:

  1. Access to the family’s private papers, to Kipling’s correspondence and to his wife’s diary, alongside the guiding hand, anecdotes and personal memories of Kipling’s own daughter.
  2. It offers sensible, grounded, unideological insights into scores of the poems and stories, thoroughly explaining their background and genesis, and shedding new light wherever he turns his attention.
  3. Carrington was a military man himself who served in both world wars, and shares some of Kipling’s animus against both the elite urban intellectuals who looked down on Kipling and his vulgar little ways, and against the Liberal politicians who campaigned so violently against Kipling’s Conservative party friends during the Edwardian era. This makes Carrington an unusual right-wing voice in the world of academia, of modern introductions and editions and commentary on Kipling which is uniformly politically correct, feminist, post-colonial and often shrilly critical of the man and all his works. I don’t agree or disagree with his views; but it is just fascinating to see the world from that point of view and to be forced to reconsider a whole set of issues and events from a different perspective.
  4. Finally, Carrington is simply a good critic. He has interesting things to say about almost every aspect of Kipling’s output and sheds light on every poem or story which he considers. This is why you often come across him being quoted in later editions and essays and introductions to Kipling’s work: because Carrington got there first and often said it best. This is an indispensable work.

Related links

Other Kipling reviews

Moonraker by Ian Fleming (1955)

Moonraker is divided into 25 chapters, themselves grouped into three fast-moving parts:

  1. Monday (chapters 1 – 7)
  2. Tuesday-Wednesday (chapters 8-17)
  3. Thursday-Friday (chapters 18-25)

The tight time-frame and the solely English locations (London, the Drax rocket firing complex on the Kent coast, and the roads between) make this feel like a very domestic adventure. Fleming’s Othello.

Sir Hugo Drax

Le Chiffre in Casino Royale, Mr Big in Live and Let Die, now Hugo Drax – in each novel Bond is up against an evil criminal mastermind. More interestingly, each one traces their origins to the Second World War: Le Chiffre was an unnamed inmate of Dachau Displaced Persons camp at the end of the war; Mr Big served with US Special Forces during the war; Drax was one among many men injured in the blowing-up of an Allied hospital by German commandos in 1945. Amnesiac, he responded to the name Hugo Drax when shown it, and has officially used that name since.

So, all three are baddies with made-up names. And like the other two, Drax is also physically big, with exceptionally broad shoulders, big hands, a prognathous jaw with protruding teeth, and one eye larger than the other as a result of imperfect plastic surgery after the wartime bomb. Like the others, physically intimidating, and mishapenly ugly. ‘A bullying, boorish, loud-mouthed vulgarian’ (p.32)

Drax’s rise has been phenomenal. In just five years he made himself a multi-millionaire by cornering the market in various rare metals and commodities. Then returned to London in 1950 and began leading a high-profile playboy lifestyle, combining clubs, cards, horses, gambling, with charitable donations to hospitals, orphanages etc. Not a week went by without him appearing in the tabloids and he has become the People’s Darling, ‘Hugger’ Drax. In his most recent coup, he wrote to the new Queen (crowned in 1953) directly, offering the funding to design and build an atomic-powered missile which would secure Britain’s defences. Now, a year later, it is built and ready to be tested, the so-called ‘Moonraker’ rocket.

Part 1. Monday

But M plays cards with Drax at his very exclusive London club, Blades, and has noticed that Drax cheats at bridge. Would Bond mind coming along today, Monday, night, to have a first class dinner then make a pair to play Drax and his partner, Meyer, to confirm whether he is cheating, and maybe somehow warn him off. ‘We don’t want a scene, old boy; just to persuade him to be sensible.’

So we are treated to a luxurious description of Bond a) showering and preparing for a smart night out b) driving in his Bentley to Blades in St James’s c) joining M for dinner, and then i) Bond’s impression of meeting Drax in the flesh – described as a big, hairy, powerful, intimidating, bantering monster ii) of Bond watching Drax play bridge and realising how he is cheating – by dealing over his shiny silver cigarette case in whose reflection he momentarily sees each card he is dealing.

M explains the technique to the chairman of Blades, Lord Basildon, who is appalled at the scene and possible law suits which will follow any formal reprimand. Bond promises to save the day by beating Drax at his own game. Cue a sophisticated and amusing game of bridge, during which Bond pretends to get drunker and drunker before pulling his coup – namely using a sleight-of-hand to replace an entire deck of cards, just before it is due to be dealt, with one he has carefully prepared beforehand. This doctored set makes that Drax think he has an unbeatable hand lures him into gambling massive stakes, which Bond doubles and redoubles. (The novel includes a diagram of the four hands held by all the players and carefully explains how the deceit works.) Drax is humiliatingly defeated, left owing some £15,000 (p.57) – a colossal sum in 1955 – and furiously storms out of the club.

M and Basildon congratulate Bond who is exhilirated (and pleased to be suddenly fabulously rich) but eventually comes down off his benzedrine high, heading home to pass out.

Part 2. Tuesday-Wednesday

The next morning Bond has barely sloped into the office at the regulation hour of 10am (!) before M calls him upstairs. During their game last night, there was trouble at the Drax rocket complex near Dover. At the pub the workers are allowed to frequent, one of them drew a pistol, accused the Ministry of Supply’s security man at the complex – Major Tallon – of seducing his girlfriend, shot him dead, then turned the gun on himself and committed suicide.

M has pulled a lot of strings to have Bond himself recommended as the replacement security man at the complex. The reader just has to swallow the massive improbability:

a) that Bond could be deployed even though MI6 have no jurisdiction within the UK and so, apparently, deploying Bond internally had to be signed off in person by the Prime Minister (p.100)
b) that Special Branch or MI5 would accept this
c) that Drax himself, humiliated beyond belief in front of London society just a few hours previously, would accept his humiliator into his operation as a key member of personnel

Bond is briefed by Assistant Commissioner Vallant of Scotland Yard on what happened in the pub, along with profiles of the murdered security man and the murderer/suicide, as well as a profile of Vallant’s operative at the base, a woman agent called Gala Brand, a Special Branch officer working undercover as Drax’s personal assistant. This is followed by a crash course on rocket engineering from Professor Train, ‘one of the greatest experts on guided missiles in the world’ (p.71), all gyroscopes, telemetry and Kepler ellipses.

So Bond motors down to the complex on the Kent coast, meets Drax and both of them agree to forget about the previous night while Drax gives him (and the reader) an extended tour of the facilities. We meet the 50 or so all-German rocket specialists, note along with Bond that they all have shaven heads but sport individual and odd moustaches (p.88) We meet Drax’s chief scientist, Dr Walter, along with his creepy ADC, Willy Krebs (p.79) – caricatures of a mad scientist and Peter Lorre, standing next to the red-haired ogre-ish figure of Drax.

And we meet the beautiful (and bosomy) Gala Brand, all tight lips and professionalism (p.81). The reader wonders how long that will last. Then we stand in the rocket silo looking at the immense fifty-yard-tall sleek silver Moonraker rocket, the rocket which will ensure ‘peace in our time’ by providing Britain with a perfect defence system.

In the early hours Bond breaks into the filing cabinet in the dead Major Tallon’s rooms and discovers security files on all 50 of the complex’s staff. a) They are all German b) they all have perfect records, far too clean and impeccable. He also finds an Admiralty map of the sea around Dover, with lines pressed into it converging on a point not very far offshore, and Tallon’s binoculars on the window ledge. Did Tallon climb up on the roof to get a sight of something unexplained offshore? What?

Next morning Drax suggests Bond and Gala go along the shoreline to check the exhaust vents for security. (The Moonraker rocket has been assembled in an underground silo built next to the white cliffs a little north of Dover. The idea is that, when it takes off, the flame from the rockets will thrust down into the silo, and be vented sideways through exhaust holes built into the side of the cliffs.) Bond and Gala take what is in effect a holiday stroll along the pebbles and sand at the foot of the cliffs, with the tide out, on a lovely sunny May day. So much so that Bond persuades her to strip off to her underwear (p.116) and they go skinny-dipping in the sea (God, it must have been freeeezing cold!).

He cheekily surges up out of the water to put his arms round her and kiss her, much to her mixed feelings, before scooting off to scan the defences from seaward, thinking seriously about security, and then finding a lobster in a shallow pool, which he shows her. Eventually they end up, salty and happy, lying against the foot of the cliffs. Which is when there is a detonation and a huge slab of the top of the cliffs come plummeting down on top of them. When Bond regains consciousness he is lying on top of Gala – who he had moved quickly to cover and protect with his own body – badly cut and bruised but still alive, and just about able to move his right arm, everything else pinned under fallen rock. With this he eventually makes a breathing space and then an escape hole and, after some time, scoops and burrows and tunnels their way free. They were saved by being so close to the cliff bottom. The really big blocks of chalk which would have squashed them flat fell further out; they were just pinned by smaller rubble.

Dazed, cut and bleeding and bruised, they both throw up, then bathe in the sea, struggle back into the clothes they’d left further down the beach, back up paths to the cliff-top and motor to a nearby pub where they freshen up and eat. Later that night, when they arrive back at the complex, flash their security passes, park the Bentley, then enter the main house in the complex, they find Drax, Krebs and Walter merrily laughing and drinking over dinner. There is a cartoon moment of astonishment as they walk in, all three baddies pausing with forks half way to their mouths. Then Drax is on his feet and full of concern. Amazingly, there is still doubt in Bond’s mind about whether they are trying to kill him, but he goes to bed (after a long bath and self-treatment with antiseptics for the cuts) realising that Drax’s table was only set for three. They weren’t expecting them. Drax tried to kill them. But why? He is the nation’s saviour, a patriotic hero. He is clearly utterly devoted to the Moonraker project. And Bond is on his side. So what possible threat can he be?

Part 3. Thursday-Friday

The threat becomes shockingly clear the next day when Drax drives up to London with Gala and Krebs; he has to make a final presentation to Government Ministers before the launch on Friday. All this time Gala has been instructed to take a daily record of the firing figures, ranges and aims, to pass on to Drax. She has become aware that soon after she does this, Krebs goes into a private meeting with Drax and discusses a completely different set of figures. On the car journey up to London, Gala in the passenger seat casually plumps her overcoat down next to Drax, and waits for the right moment to pick his pocket of the notebook which he is never without. She then makes a girly plea to stop at the nearest pub so she can have a pee. In the ladies’ room she reads Drax’s notebook and the horrible truth dawns.

All the trajectories and figures have been altered by 90 degrees, making the target zone for the Moonraker’s first flight from Dover, not the wide open wastes of the North Sea, but…. London! In a flash she realises the entire Moonraker is a dastardly enemy plan to bomb London and with a nose not full of measuring instruments but… an atomic bomb! In a horrible vision she sees London reduced to an atomic waste and herself just one of many million blackened charred potato crisps which used to be human beings (p.137).

Back in the car she tries to slip the notebook back into Drax’s pocket but is caught by Krebs, who has been watching from the back seat. He shows Drax what she has been doing. Well, well, well. They knock her unconscious and drive on to London. Here they park at Drax’s flat in Ebury Street, just west of Buckingham Palace. When Gala regains consciousness it is in a room full of radio transmitters and generators. She realises with horror that this is the homing signal the Moonraker will be aimed at. An atomic bomb going off here, in the heart of London, the casualties will be in the millions! Drax is out meeting British officials which gives Krebs the opportunity to interrogate her, then unbutton her blouse and torture her in undescribed but typically sadistic Fleming style.

Meanwhile, Bond has also motored back to London to report to M, and then await Gala for dinner in Regents Street. When she doesn’t appear, he rings Vallance who says she has also failed to appear for her meeting with him. Worried, Bond motors over to Blades, to find Drax’s Mercedes parked outside. Soon Drax gets into it and Bond tails him back to the house in Ebury Street, parks, walks round the corner in time to see the two men carrying an unconscious-looking body into the Mercedes. So he jumps back into the Bentley and there begins a car chase from Ebury Street, London, to Dover, down empty night-time A roads. Fleming lets rip with his fondness for fast cars and the sheer pleasure of driving very fast. Both cars seem to hit 90 miles an hour; weren’t there speed limits in those days?

Outside Maidstone, a fast sports car – an Alfa-Romeo supercharged straight-eight – comes up outside Bond with his lights off as a kind of joke. Bond watches the prankster drive by him and pull the same trick on Drax. Only Krebs has realised that they are being followed and told Drax, and when a fast car with bright lights appears just by them, Drax rams it off the road where it goes flying and spinning and Bond watches the driver – no seatbelt or other protection – hurtled spread-eagled to his death (p.149). Now Bond (rather late in the day, you might think) is confirmed in his enmity. He is dealing with a killer.

Bond is still in hot pursuit as Drax comes up behind one of Bowaters’ huge eight-wheeled AEC Diesel carriers carrying 14 tons of rolled newsprint. In a daring stunt Drax pulls up alongside it while his creature, Krebs, jumps onto the back and uses a knife to cut through the restraining ropes. Enormous rolls of paper as huge and hard as boulders roll off the back and fill the A road just as Bond turns the corner. Crash. Drax drives back to recover Bond’s body, thrown clear, bloodied but unconscious. (His Bentley comes in for nearly as much punishment as Bond, having been written off in Casino Royale and now again, here.)

They chuck Bond in the back with the girl and drive on to the complex, where Krebs takes them at gunpoint into Drax’s office. Here they are both tied securely to chairs with copper wire. (Bond was tied to a chair and tortured in Casino Royale, then tied to a chair and tortured – had his little finger deliberately broken – in Live and Let Die.) Now Krebs lights a blowtorch and comes to sit very close to Gala, as Drax begins his interrogation. Wisely, Bond tells him everything and a disappointed Krebs puts the blowtorch back on the table.

In chapter 22 Drax does what all cartoon baddies want to do, which is explain his complete life story and motivation to Bond. Yes, he is a German, a fanatical Nazi. He and his team had planted a bomb at the Allied hospital in captured British Army uniforms when he was strafed by an aircraft from his own side, picked up and taken to the hospital for treatment which promptly blew up. In the rubble he agreed his identity was this ‘Hugo Drax’ and allowed himself to be healed and processed by the Allies just as the war ended. Returning to England he murdered a Jew and used his money to start trading in rare commodities abroad. After making a fortune he returned to England and deluded the poor, stupid, snobbish British into believing he was a world-beating patriot. Then came the idea of building a rocket to destroy London; he was helped by Allies who were employing German scientists in West Germany, and building the missile was fairly easy. But – he reveals – the nuclear warhead was supplied by the Russians who delivered it by submarine to the complex’s channel jetty. This is what Tallon saw, which is why he had to be eliminated.

And now he is poised on the edge of triumph and huge revenge for the Reich and his fallen Fatherland. Bond goads him into a fury and Drax beats him almost unconscious before leaving, announcing that this office and they will be incinerated tomorrow (Friday) when the Moonraker is launched. Bond provoked him because he wanted him to forget about his cigarette lighter. In a precarious feat, Bond inches his chair over to the table, pumps the blowtorch handle with his teeth, then picks up the lighter with his teeth, rasps the flint and ignites the blowtorch. Not without burning his nose and forehead. Again using his teeth he directs it at the copper wire restraining Gala’s hands, unavoidably burning her, too (p.166). But once she is free, she releases them both and they have a shower in the bathroom adjoining Drax’s office.

What now? Bond can see no other way than that he should somehow ignite the fuel in the rocket and blow it up. And himself. But Gala has a better plan. She has been taking down the gyro readings and map bearings for a year. Why not switch the gyro bearings on the Moonraker back to make it actually fly towards its intended destination in the middle of the North Sea?

Agreed. But first they must hide from Drax’s goons. They make a fake rope and dangle it down one of the escape chutes, but then climb up into one of the 50 or so air vents. (The exact layout of the missile silo and adjoining office is quite hard to visualise). Hours later Drax, Walter and Krebs appear to make the final corrections to the missile and suddenly notice Bond and Gala’s absence.

Much shouting and ordering of search parties, then Drax tells his men to use the steam pump to scour each of the vents. Gala and Bond brace themselves, covering as much of their skin as possible, using shirts and clothing, and they hear it getting closer and closer until a burst of scalding steam floods them for a few agonising seconds, then moves on to the next vent, leaving their bodies tingling in agony and blisters beginning to form all over their skin (p.174).

Soon the men have gone because the time for the historic launch is coming and Drax must go to meet government officials. A huge crowd of adoring public has turned out and the BBC are broadcasting live. Bond and Gala slip back down the concrete exhaust vent (further cutting themselves on exposed steel rods). Now comes the heroic part. Bond climbs up the gantry to the nose cone of the rocket and redirects its gyros and technical gismos so it will not target London but fly into the North Sea. He re-attaches all the wires, reseals the nose cone -shinnies down – patience, patience – then joins Gala in Drax’s stainless steel, sealed office. Here they lock all the doors and themselves in the shower and turn the water on and block their ears with soap against the blast, but the narrative very excitingly gives us the countdown from Ten, while Bond and Gala try to control their fear and panic. Then there is the loudest explosion ever, a devastating roar, the shower water turns burning hot, the world shakes and they pass out.

Moments later they regain consciousness on the floor – they are still alive! – and then scrabble for the radio. It is via the radio – in best rattling yarn style – that they hear the BBC announcer describe the lift-off of the Moonraker and its rapid disappearance into the clear blue sky. To everyone’s surprise a submarine has surfaced by the jetty and is taking the German workers on board, presumably to take them to the target sight (we know it is the Russian submarine come to take away the Germans) and Drax – after a violent and vengeful speech which confuses the BBC man, also takes the lift to the jetty and boards the submarine.

Cut to another BBC announcer near the test site who describes a) the approach of the submarine, whose presence has got the Royal Navy puzzled, it seems to be steaming directly into the target area (we know this is because Drax thinks this is the safest place to be); and b) then describes the instantaneous arrival of the Moonraker missile and a colossal explosion at the test site, causing the beginning of a mushroom cloud and an enormous tidal wave which rushes towards him, ‘Oh my God!’ and – … the transmission is cut off (p.181).

Epilogue

Chapter 25 cuts to Bond, heavily bandaged, using a cane and in great pain, back in M’s office where this whole affair began so innocently just 5 days earlier. The Russian sub carrying the Germans and Drax was vaporised. But so were several Royal Navy ships, and the BBC announcer’s vessel, and the coastal defences of Holland were breached. M explains there will be the mother of all cover-ups, and we and Bond listen as he works through the improbable details. Then M takes a phone call in his office and Bond listens while he says Yes sir, No sir, Thank you very much sir etc. It is, of course, the Prime Minister phoning in person to thank him and convey his thanks to Bond.

M then tells Bond he and Gala are to get out of the country for at least a month, so they’re not linked to the calamity and help the Press put two and two together. Down on the eighth floor, in his office, is the present of a new Beretta pistol and the keys to a brand new 1953 Bentley Mark VI. Bond tells the test driver to have it delivered to the Dover docks where he’ll collect it. His next appointment is to meet Gala in St James’s Park. He is already imagining in detail the romantic trip he’ll take with her from Calais down to the Loire and then heading south, exploring beautiful little French villages during the day and each others’ bodies at night.

However, she turns up at the rendezvous (opposite the island in St James’s Park) with her fiancé. They’re getting married tomorrow. Bond forces a smile, congratulates her, shakes her hand. Then walks away with no smile in his cold grey-blue eyes.


Thoughts

The first two novels had pulp elements but there was lots in them which felt authentic, had grit and traction – the epic game of baccarat, swimming off the coast of France, Vesper’s tragic dilemma; the New York skyscape, the clubs of Harlem, the scenery of Jamaica, the underwater odyssey out to Surprise Isle.

From start to finish Moonraker feels more preposterous than its predecessors. The whole one-man-builds-a-ballistic-missile-for-a-grateful-nation storyline doesn’t persuade. The entire scientific staff made up of Germans with silly moustaches is, well, silly. The ogre Drax, with his henchman Warner and the repellent creature Krebs are – as Fleming himself acknowledges – caricatures. The schoolboy mentality comes out in an overt comment Bond makes to Gala as they discuss his plan to ignite the rocket in the silo, thus saving London but himself being blown to smithereens.

‘The boy stood on the burning deck. I’ve wanted to copy him since I was five.’ Bond (p.169)

The combination of absurdly over-the-top stakes (London being obliterated; the Prime Minister giving personal permission and then personal thanks to our hero), along with shiny rockets and secret bases, has more in common with the cartoon tone of the movies, which are on a uniformly dumbed-down, adolescent level, than the sometimes more penetrating texts. It feels like the gateway to stupid.

Almost the only part of the novel which had, I thought, any real feeling, were the last few pages in which Bond sketched out a realistic motoring tour of rural France, and then had his fantasies crushed by the announcement of Gala’s marriage. These had a genuine note of bitterness.


Bond’s biography

Bond’s office is on the 8th floor of the Secret Service building overlooking Regents Park. He has a beautiful secretary, ‘Lil’ (Loelia Ponsonby) a County and Kensington gel. (We learn that her biological clock is ticking and she needs to decide whether to take a Service husband, whether to quit altogether to marry someone in a sensible job, or – as seems to be happening – to stay on, becoming a spinster, ‘married to the job’).

We get a physical overview of Bond in chapter 4:

And what would a casual observer think of him, ‘Commander James Bond, GMG, RNVSR’, also ‘something at the Ministry of Defence’, the rather saturnine young man in his middle thirties sitting opposite the Admiral? Something a bit cold and dangerous in that face. Looks pretty fit. May have been attached to Templer in Malaya. Or Nairobi. Mau Mau work. Tough-looking customer. (p.28)

Later on Fleming takes us inside the mind of Gala Brand as she muses about the arrogant young Secret Service man who’s just arrived at the base. She notes the comma of black hair falling over the right eye, and compares him to the popular entertainer Hoagy Carmichael (p.100), but with a cruel mouth and cold eyes.

We learn that only three men in the Service have earned the double 00 prefix to their Service numbers (‘the only three men in the Service whose duties included assassination’):

  • 008 (‘Bill’), just escaped from the Eastern bloc
  • o11, missing in Singapore

For the first time we hear about the elderly Scottish housekeeper, May, who looks after Bond’s small but comfortable flat off King’s Road, Chelsea (p.10). He tells us that agents are taken off field work at age 45, and that he has 8 years left to go, making Bond 37 years old.

When M invites him to his club, Blades, we learn that his full title is Admiral Sir M- M-, and that his first name is Miles (p.35).

Bond’s food

For lunch in the MI6 canteen Bond has a grilled sole, a large mixed salad with his own dressing laced with mustard, some Brie cheese and toast and half a carafe of white Bordeaux (p.22).

The dinner at Blades is a set piece: Bond has smoked salmon, lamb cutlets with peas and new potatoes, asparagus with Béarnaise sauce, and a slice of pineapple for dessert; M has caviar, devilled kidney and bacon, peas and new potatoes, with strawberries in kirsch for dessert (p.37). The waiter suggests a marrow bone as a special treat. Bond shows M his habit of scattering a little black pepper on the ice-cold vodka to sink to the bottom any impure residues (p.39)

Breakfast at a diner in Dover – scrambled eggs, bacon and plenty of coffee (p.96).

Recovering from being half-buried by chalk under the Dover cliffs, Bond and Gala go to the Granville hotel for a bath and freshen up, before drinking brandies-and-sodas followed by delicious fried soles and Welsh rarebit and coffee (p.124). The recommended dinner for after you’ve been buried in a landfall.


Credit

Moonraker by Ian Fleming was published in 1955 by Jonathan Cape. All quotes and references are to the 1989 Coronet paperback edition.

Related links

Other thrillers from 1955

The Bond novels

1953 Casino Royale Bond takes on Russian spy Le Chiffre at baccarat then is gutted to find the beautiful assistant sent by London to help him and who he falls in love with – Vesper Lynd – is herself a Russian double agent.
1954 Live and Let Die Bond is dispatched to find and defeat Mr Big, legendary king of America’s black underworld, who uses Voodoo beliefs to terrify his subordinates, and who is smuggling 17th century pirate treasure from an island off Jamaica to Florida and then on to New York, in fact to finance Soviet spying, for Mr Big is a SMERSH agent. Along the way Bond meets, falls in love with, and saves, the beautiful clairvoyant, Solitaire.
1955 Moonraker An innocent invitation to join M at his club and see whether the famous Sir Hugo Drax really is cheating at cards leads Bond to discover that Drax is in fact a fanatical Nazi determined on taking revenge for the Fatherland by targeting an atom-bomb-tipped missile – the Moonraker – at London.
1956 Diamonds Are Forever Bond’s mission is to trace the route of a diamond smuggling ‘pipeline’, which starts in Africa, comes to London and then to follow it on to New York, and further to the mob-controlled gambling town of Las Vegas, where he wipes out the gang, all the while falling in love with the delectable Tiffany Case.
1957 From Russia, with Love Bond is lured to Istanbul by the promise of a beautiful Russian agent who says she’ll defect and bring along one of the Soviets’ precious Spektor coding machines, but only for Bond in person. The whole thing is an improbable trap concocted by head of SMERSH’S execution department, Rosa Klebb, to not only kill Bond but humiliate him and the Service in a sex-and-murder scandal.
1958 Dr. No Bond is dispatched to Jamaica (again) to investigate the mysterious disappearance of the station head, which leads him to meet up with the fisherman Quarrel (again), do a week’s rigorous training (again) and set off for a mysterious island (Crab Key this time) where he meets the ravishing Honeychile Rider and the villainous Chinaman, Dr No, who sends him through a gruelling tunnel of pain which Bond barely survives, before killing No and triumphantly rescuing the girl.
1959 Goldfinger M tasks Bond with finding out more about Auric Goldfinger, the richest man in England. Bond confirms the Goldfinger is smuggling large amounts of gold out of the UK in his vintage Rolls Royce, to his factory in Switzerland, but then stumbles on a much larger conspiracy to steal the gold from the US Reserve at Fort Knox. Which, of course, Bond foils.
1960 For Your Eyes Only (short stories) Four stories which started life as treatments for a projected US TV series of Bond adventures and so feature exotic settings (Paris, Vermont, the Seychelles, Venice), ogre-ish villains, shootouts and assassinations and scantily-clad women – but the standout story is Quantum of Solace, a conscious homage to the older storytelling style of Somerset Maugham, in which there are none of the above, and which shows what Fleming could do if he gave himself the chance.
1961 Thunderball Introducing Ernst Blofeld and his SPECTRE organisation who have dreamed up a scheme to hijack an RAF plane carrying two atomic bombs, scuttle it in the Caribbean, then blackmail Western governments into coughing up $100,000,000 or get blown up. The full force of every Western security service is thrown into the hunt, but M has a hunch the missing plane headed south towards the Bahamas, so it’s there that he sends his best man, Bond, to hook up with his old pal Felix Leiter, and they are soon on the trail of SPECTRE operative Emilio Largo and his beautiful mistress, Domino.
1962 The Spy Who Loved Me An extraordinary experiment: an account of a Bond adventure told from the point of view of the Bond girl in it, Vivienne ‘Viv’ Michel, which opens with a long sequence devoted entirely to her childhood in Canada and young womanhood in London, before armed hoodlums burst into the motel where she’s working on her own, and then she is rescued by her knight in shining armour, Mr B himself.
1963 On Her Majesty’s Secret Service Back to third-person narrative, and Bond poses as a heraldry expert to penetrate Blofeld’s headquarters on a remote Alpine mountain top, where the swine is carrying out a fiendish plan to use germ warfare to decimate Britain’s agriculture sector. Bond smashes Blofeld’s set-up with the help of the head of the Corsican mafia, Marc-Ange Draco, whose wayward daughter, Tracy, he has fallen in love with, and in fact goes on to marry – making her the one great love of his life – before she is cruelly shot dead by Blofeld, who along with the vile Irma Bunt had managed to escape the destruction of his base.
1964 You Only Live Twice Shattered by the murder of his one-day wife, Bond goes to pieces with heavy drinking and erratic behaviour. After 8 months or so M sends him on a diplomatic mission to persuade the head of the Japanese Secret Service, ‘Tiger’ Tanaka to share top Jap secret info with us Brits. Tiger agrees on condition that Bond undertakes a freelance job for him, and eliminates a troublesome ‘Dr Shatterhand’ who has created a gruesome ‘Garden of Death’ at a remote spot on the Japanese coast. When Bond realises that ‘Shatterhand’ is none other than Blofeld, murderer of his wife, he accepts the mission with gusto.
1965 The Man With The Golden Gun Brainwashed by the KGB, Bond returns from Japan to make an attempt on M’s life. When it fails he is subjected to intense shock therapy at ‘The Park’ before returning fit for duty and being dispatched to the Caribbean to ‘eliminate’ a professional assassin, Scaramanga, who has killed half a dozen of our agents as well as being at the centre of a network of criminal and political subversion. The novel is set in Bond and Fleming’s old stomping ground, Jamaica, where he is helped by his old buddy, Felix Leiter, and his old secretary, Mary Goodnight, and the story hurtles to the old conclusion – Bond is bettered and bruised within inches of his life – but defeats the baddie and ends the book with a merry quip on his lips.
1966 Octopussy Three short stories in which Bond uses the auction of a valuable Fabergé egg to reveal the identity of the Russians’ spy master in London; shoots a Russian sniper before she can kill one of our agents escaping from East Berlin; and confronts a former Security Service officer who has been eaten up with guilt for a wartime murder of what turns out to be Bond’s pre-war ski instructor. This last short story, Octopussy, may be his best.

That Uncertain Feeling by Kingsley Amis (1955)

We moved together towards the entrance-hall. I felt I was walking in an absurdly unnatural way, like a school-boy on the stage for the first time in his life. Did I always swing my arms as if I were carrying a pair of empty buckets? (p.21)

Amis’s second novel (he was 33), told in the first-person by John Aneurin Lewis, a frustrated, poor young married librarian in (the fictional town of) Aberdarcy, south Wales; this is the comic tale of how he is seduced by the sophisticated wife of a local businessman, but learns his lesson!

Self-consciousness

As in Lucky Jim, a lot of the comedy stems from the narrator’s hyper self-awareness. He is continually onstage to himself, playing a part or, more accurately, numerous parts copied from an amusingly wide range of sources, to alleviate the boredom of his job and his endlessly roving self-consciousness. That Uncertain Feeling is a good summary of the book’s worldview; Lewis’s consciousness is awash with feelings but he is never very certain what they mean or what he should be doing about them.

A huge bewilderment settled upon me (82)…

I had just started to tremble a little bit and to feel, on the whole, like a new boy at a large and prosperous school. (p.115)

Bolshie

As in Lucky Jim the protagonist mutinies against stifling provincialism – albeit in an essentially innocent overgrown schoolboy sort of way. He sticks his tongue out at a painting of the founder in the library, he confuses a local woman seeking to renew her library ticket, like Jim he makes funny faces behind people’s backs, and odd noises of triumph or despair when he thinks he’s alone.

When nothing’s going on or likely to start going on, which is a lot of the time, I start practising certain poses and tones and phrases, for no very clear reason. (p.10)

He thinks of himself as a bit of a rebel. When he’s invited to a posh party at the big house of Mrs Elizabeth Gruffydd-Williams he is determined to stand up to ‘those people’ – her well-to-do friends – and not be talked down to. He’s not going to be impressed by Schubert and other craps or by so-called art probably laid on the canvas with a trowel or by the ‘reproduction of some rotten old tapestry’ in a pub, and he only reads books if he hasn’t got a new copy of Astounding Science Fiction magazine available.

He spends a lot of time wondering who to be rude to and how much. He describes the prolonged campaign he’s been waging against the downstairs neighbours who won’t let him or his wife go through their kitchen door so as to use the garden to hang out their washing: in response John refuses to take mail when they’re out, misdirects callers, leaves rubbish on their doorstep and so on.  Angry with Elizabeth, he fantasises about shouting abuse at her down the phone. He fantasises about bursting into one of her posh dinner parties and cartwheeling round the room dressed in traditional Welsh outfit with SOD THE LOT OF YOU sewn on the back. A life full of fantasies.

Because, like Jim Dixon’s, John Lewis’s (generally well-hidden) rage against the world is actually the reaction of a man who is deeply afraid of other people. Instead of standing up for himself and ‘the workers’ at Elizabeth’s posh party, he quickly retreats to the safety of the loo, happier to be hiding from clever, articulate upper-middle-class people. Chapter Four opens with a character- defining sentence:

It was wonderful in the lavatory. (p.48)

‘Panic’, ‘unmanning’, ‘afraid’, all occur within a few pages. Several times he envies people their ‘whole-heartedness’, obviously afflicted with the self-conscious sense of somehow being a fake. At a dance, when Elizabeth is more or less man-handled away from him by some toughs and he tries to intervene, John is in danger of getting pummeled, and is only saved by the intervention of his downstairs neighbour’s son, a genuine hard case. When he is caught snogging Elizabeth at her house by the unexpected return of her husband and friends, he ends up making a sharp exit from the bedroom window. He is a confirmed runner-away.

‘Don’t you feel you’re running away, though?’
‘Yes, I do, thank God.’ (p.245)

In other words, Lewis comes across – despite his marriage and two small children – as an overgrown schoolboy and is therefore a pushover for the sophisticated Mrs G-W who takes him to a dance, takes him to a ghastly modern play, kisses him, then drives him back to her place where there is some partial stripping off, in order to, as she explains, get him hooked. She is more amused by toying with this naive fool than by having an actual ‘affair’.

But all this is not cost-free for Lewis or his wife, Jean. The book is leavened by the real hurt and pain this rather pointless affair causes her. She can see right through him, see the look of lust on his face at Elizabeth’s party, is hurt when he comes home after the pubs have shut the night of the play: it is all too obvious and she despises him for his feeble excuses.

Now don’t stand there giving me that little-boy face, you’re getting too old for it. Try it on her, she’s not so particular. Go on, get out. (p.161)

Key events

The pace is slow and even and ‘realistic’. Entire chapters can be made out of a married couple chatting on the sofa or Dixon talking to the professor or a student. There is a lot of dialogue in Amis novels. With the result that there is only a handful of really memorable scenes:

  • Elizabeth Gruffydd-Williams invites John Lewis and his wife, Jean, to a party of posh upper-middle-class people at the mansion of her rich businessman husband, Vernon Gruffydd-Williams. It is to escape the smug superiority of the other guests that Lewis ends up hiding in the toilet.
  • Elizabeth invites Lewis to a dance at a club a little outside town. They dance and flirt. Lewis, instructed to turn on the lights in one of her posh friends’ cars, appears to let the brake off and it rolls backward into a ditch. While drunk revellers are pushing it out, Elizabeth first kisses Lewis and he realises he wants it to happen; he wants something to change in his life and this could be it.
  • Elizabeth invites Lewis to the performance of the ghastly play in blank verse, The Martyr, by pretentious playwright Probert. Half way through they sneak out and drive back to her place (her husband being out) and, after numerous drinks, progress from snogging on the sofa to lying on the bed in a state of undress, when a car crunches up the drive. Hubby’s home!
  • Probably the most obviously comic set-piece in the novel, Lewis stumbles into an enormous closet which he discovers to be full of fancy dress outfits. Stuck in it while he overhears husband talking to wife and walking up and down outside, in a typically motiveless whim, he puts on a traditional Welsh woman’s outfit, complete with red jacket and tall black bonnet. When the coast seems clear he sneaks out and down the stairs but then more revellers arrive and he is forced to hide in the pantry, and so on. Eventually he escapes out the bedroom window and walks the long road back into town but now, every attempt to sneak off into a dark field to take the costume off is foiled, and he ends up catching the last bus home dressed as a little old Welsh lady, keeping his head well down (especially when the conductor asks his fare), and is quite close to his house when he is molested by a drunk man.
  • When Lewis finally arrives home, Jean is sullen and sulky. She knows something is going on. Lewis is called for an interview for a more senior job at the library. Waiting outside the interview room with three other candidates merits an entire chapter of conversation as we get to know the other types. Then he is called in for the interview which is a comic shambles and merits another entire chapter.
  • He is invited to another ‘party’ by Elizabeth, this time out at their ‘place’ by the sea. A lot of her drunken crew are there, as the sun sets, becoming completely inebriated, passing out, throwing up, disappearing off with each other’s wives. Lewis tells himself he loathes these rich smug craps, but when Elizabeth takes him by the hand and invites him to go skinny-dipping he obediently strips off and goes. And then, once back out of the sea, they finally have sex among the sand dunes.

The post-sex conversation turns nasty when Elizabeth raises the matter of Lewis’s interview for the library job. She reveals that her husband, who was sitting on the interview board, had made his mind up before the process even began, to hire Lewis, purely to irritate the Head of the Library. Lewis is humiliated, and asks her if it is not also because he is her fancy man, was it some kind of posh fix-up between them? Is he just a pawn?

He ends up telling her to stuff her job and storming off. Elizabeth runs after to catch him up and offers to drive him back to town in her car. But on the way she has a kind of fit, becoming hysterical and as Lewis reaches across her to the wheel the car crashes. From one of the cars which was coming towards them emerges her husband, Vernon. Together they extract the unconscious and bleeding Elizabeth from her wreck, transfer her to Vernon’s car and he drives home, dropping Lewis at the edge of town, and tells him in no uncertain terms never to contact his wife again.

When he arrives home he is drunk and dirty and it is 2am and his wife has stayed up incongruously accompanied by the dire Welsh playwright, Proberts. When the latter leaves, the couple have a blazing row, Jean knowing, with feminine intuition, that Lewis has finally had sex with Elizabeth, and announcing that their marriage is completely over, but says what has made her absolutely furious is that he has the lack of morals to be unfaithful but then the misplaced scruples to turn down the job and extra money which his wife and two young children so desperately need to move to a place of their own.

In a strange sequence he goes out roaming the empty streets of Aberdarcy looking for something bad to happen and is heading towards the sea when he comes across the downstairs neighbour’s son, drunk and unconscious in the street with a bad head wound. He helps him home to the effusive thanks of the mother. He goes upstairs resolved to be a better man.

Themes and variations

Resentment Both Jim and Lewis are disgruntled lower-middle-class young men with a grudge against anyone and everyone more educated, arty, literate, richer or posher than them. In a very vague way this is supposed to be some kind of ‘up the workers’ attitude, but is really envy and resentment.

My familiar embarrassed defensiveness at talking to a member of the anglicised upper classes… (p.14)

I felt my role of proletarian spy slip away a little… (p.115)

Pusillanimity They are mice fantasising about being lions.

The last few weeks I’d been enjoying myself no end, practising the role of the truly strong man, the man superior to things like sex. (p.15)

I felt as if something had happened which had made me feel very frightened, and that I must do something which would make me feel even more frightened if I was ever to get rid of the first frightening thing. (p.231)

Plights Amis often makes brisk comparisons of his heroes to men in realistic but challenging situations. In their day they were probably hilarious comic exaggerations but now they read like homely metaphors from a more innocent age.

As I got nearer I felt more and more like a man going in to bat in his first Test Match with the score at nineteen for three. (p.198)

Close observation of others Part of Amis’s sometimes painful self-consciousness, is his acute other-consciousness, captured in hundreds of detailed descriptions of other people.

When she asked a question I noticed that she spoke with her teeth together but with her lips moving very freely. This gave her voice a harsh resonant quality which I thought suited her looks. (p.17)

A man in the late forties with a dark red face and thick lips came by degrees into the room. Every straight grey hair in his abundant crop seemed the same length as if it belonged to a little furry animal or shaving brush. (p.18)

His mouth, which had all the mobility of a partly-collapsed inner tube, was incompletely surrounded by a brownish grime of stubble; his greying hair came horizontally out of his scalp and projected in two stiff, inorganic shelves over  his ears. (p.38)

Funny voices His own which he puts on, and noticing other people’s.

‘Have I read this one?’ she began by asking – a popular query, this, and spoken in the tone of high-level business executive to confidential secretary. (p.23)

I went out on to the landing. ‘Is there someone calling?’ I asked in my special cultured accent, which I retained for the whole of the subsequent dialogue. (p.100)

My voice sounded oddly near at hand, as if I was muttering directly into my own ear. (p.118)

‘Hello dear people,’ I said, mimicking the generic accent of the Gruffydd-Williamses and their pals… He was now giving a strong, hairy-eyebrowed stare. He said in his film-Welshman’s voice… (p.221)

Funny faces Hardly any compared to the epidemic of them in Jim.

This would be a good time, I decided, to try out a new smile, featuring the lower lip and nostrils, which I had been practising that week. (p.53)

Showy philistinism You can’t fob me off with all that hoity-toity crap!

Earlier that day I’d been led by what must have been exceptional boredom to look into a book about Dr Johnson, of all people… (p.42)

Military metaphors It is a standard comic trick to apply advanced military terminology to humdrum domestic situations, a kind of comic exaggeration, but the terminology was also presumably very familiar to Amis’s generation who either served during the war or did National Service. Thus he is taking Elizabeth through the hall of his shared house, when the dire Mr and Mrs Jenkins emerge, and they back away:

A patrol encountering a vastly superior enemy force should avoid contact and retire at once before suffering any casualties. (p.18)

I went to the window again and saw her come out on to the pavement, glance quickly to and fro as if fearful of snipers, and hurry off across the road… (p.96)

The Davies incident this evening had been no more than patrol activity, successful from my point of view, but limited. the war had been begun by Mrs Davies… By a long and resolute campaign… she’d converted her kitchen door into an obstacle as impassable as an anti-tank ditch. (p.103)

Much of the garden was thickly planted with trees and shrubs, like a mimic jungle for infantry training. (p.114)

She at once got up with a fair show of decision and began a careful flanking approach to the door, securing her rear by sliding with her back to the tall box-like couch. (p.155)

Aggression and violence Jim and John, in their minds, are prone to sudden bursts of rage and hatred, triggered by almost anything other people say to them. The thing is, they are never expressed, remaining always bottled up internally, thus conveying the sense of comic frustration and impotence.

I had a rude word ready to say to her, but suppressed it.. (p.63)

Where she went just a wee bit wrong was in assuming, as she gave every sign of doing, that if she stayed another few minutes I might suddenly spring at her with a hatchet, or possibly not bother to fetch the hatchet and just sink my canines into her jugular. (p.153)

A condition of rage wasn’t perhaps a bad starting point… (p.163)

Conclusion

The last chapter makes a big jump in time and space to a completely new town, a mining town where John has taken up a post in the office at the mine. He and Jean are fully reconciled and they are seen walking across town to a party, nodding and helloing everyone they see, quite obviously more in touch with their Welshness and their lower class roots than in the falsely English and posh Aberdarcy. Comic novels should end happily, but I was puzzled whether this was meant to be some kind of morality tale. Are we to conclude that adultery in a ‘fast set’ is not only immoral but hurts the ones you love most, and always ends in tears as that kind of person is always damaged? Is that what the book was ‘about’?

I couldn’t believe it appeared to be as straightforward and tritely moralistic an ending as it appeared.

That said, I liked this more than Lucky Jim, maybe because it doesn’t carry the weight of its predecessor’s fame. It’s a jobbing novel from its era, humorous throughout with some very funny scenes, but also with the oddness of the married-woman affair and Lewis’s strangely passive acceptance of the situation, and the upsetting scenes with his wife. All a bit more unnerving and thought-provoking than Jim‘s more standard boy-gets-girl happy ending.

Related links

The movie

It was made into a film in 1962, renamed Only Two Can Play, directed by Sidney Gilliat and starring Peter Sellers and Mai Zetterling. This clip of the opening ten minutes keenly conveys the poverty, the crampedness, the narrowness of life in post-war Britain.

Kingsley Amis books

1954 Lucky Jim – Jim Dixon is a fraudulent history lecturer at a non-entity college, beset on all sides by problematic relations with his boss, Professor Welch and his unbearable family, a clingy neurotic girlfriend, and amiably contemptuous colleagues at his cheap rooming house. Very funny in a sometimes rather desperate way.
1955 That Uncertain Feeling – Bored, frustrated librarian John Lewis in south Wales finds himself being seduced by the worldly wife of a local industrialist. Some hilarious scenes rather damped down by the wrenching portrayal of the genuinely hurt wife. An intense scene of dissipation, then sex, on a nearby beach, then the mistress’s mad car driving leading to a crash. Lewis eventually rejects the whole monied, corrupt scene and moves to a mining town where he feels more in touch with his Welsh roots.
1958 I Like It Here – Welshman Garnet Bowen, happily scraping a living as a ‘writer’ in London, married to Barbara with three young children, is persuaded by his publisher to go ‘abroad’, to make some money from writing articles and also to check on a long-silent famous author who has resurfaced with a new novel – resulting in an amiable travelogue with comic characters and not much plot.
1960 Take a Girl Like You – the adventures of Jenny Bunn, twenty-year-old northern lass come down south to be an infants school teacher, who is pursued by every man she meets, not to mention the lesbian lodger, and falls into a fraught relationship with public schoolteacher Patrick Standish, who is sometimes unforgivably harsh with her, sleeps with a number of other women, before they both rather reluctantly agree they have to get married.
1962 My Enemy’s Enemy – seven varied and persuasive short stories, including three set in an Army unit which anticipate The Anti-Death League and a seventh which is a short, powerful science fiction tale.
1963 One Fat Englishman – Obese, alcoholic, lecherous English publisher Roger Micheldene drinks, eats, insults and fornicates his way around New England, hideously embarrassing himself, his country, and the reader.
1965 The Egyptologists (with Robert Conquest) – an intermittently hilarious novel about a ‘society’ of Egyptologists with elaborate rules designed to prevent anyone outside the select few attending meetings which turns out to be the front for a group of women-hating adulterers.
1966 The Anti-Death League – A long, convoluted and strikingly unfunny story about an Army Unit somewhere in the countryside which is preparing for an undefined and rather science fiction-y offensive, Operation Apollo, with dire consequences for its officers, in particular dashing James Churchill and his love affair with beautiful sensitive Catharine Casement.
1968 Colonel Sun: a James Bond Adventure (pseud. Robert Markham)
1968 I Want It Now – The adventures of Ronnie Appleyard, an ambitious and predatory TV presenter, who starts off cynically targeting depressed young Mona, daughter of Lord and Lady Baldock, solely for her money and contacts but finds himself falling in love with her and defying both the dragonish Lady B and the forces of the Law, in America and London.
1969 The Green Man – a short, strange and disturbing modern-day ghost story, told by the alcoholic, hypochondriac and lecherous Maurice Allington.
1971 Girl, 20 – Music critic Douglas Yandell gets dragged into the affair elderly composer Sir Roy Vandervane is having with a 17-year-old girl and the damage it’s doing his family and grown-up daughter, the whole sorry mess taken as symbolising the collapse of values in late-60s England.
1973 The Riverside Villas Murder – Detective novel set in suburban Home Counties where the loss of of handsome 14-year-old schoolboy Peter Furneaux’s virginity is combined with the murder of a neighbour both – it turns out – performed by the same good-looking neighbour.
1974 Ending Up – Five old people, relatively poor and thrown together by circumstances into sharing a run-down cottage, are shown getting on each others’ nerves, appalling younger relatives when they visit, plotting and scheming against each other, until the bleakly farcical ending, in which they all die.
1975 The Crime of the Century – detective serial written for the Sunday Times then published as an entertaining novella, Amis’s style stripped to the bone in this yarn of a serial killer of women who succeeds in sowing multiple red herrings and false leads, before his melodramatic attempt on the Prime Minister’s life!
1976 The Alteration – a brilliantly imagined alternative reality in which the Reformation never happened and England is a central part of the ongoing Catholic Hegemony over all Europe, known simply as Christendom, in a novel which explores all aspects of this strange reality through the story of a ten-year-old choirboy who is so talented he is selected to be castrated, and how he tries to escape his fate.
1978 Jake’s Thing – Oxford don Jake Richardson has become impotent and his quest to restore his lost libido is a hilarious journey through the 1970s sex therapy industry although, as always with Amis, the vitriolic abuse and sharp-eyed satire is interspersed with more thoughtful and even sensitive reflections on middle-age, love and marriage.
1980 Russian Hide-and-Seek – Soft science fiction set in an England of the future which has been invaded and conquered by the Russians and in which a hopeless attempt to overthrow the authorities is easily crushed.
1984 Stanley and the Women
1986 The Old Devils
1988 Difficulties with Girls
1990 The Folks That Live on the Hill
1991 We Are All Guilty
1992 The Russian Girl
1994 You Can’t Do Both
1995 The Biographer’s Moustache

Loser Takes All by Graham Greene (1955)

Greene refers to this long short story as a ‘frivolity’ in the dedication. It is short and surprisingly funny.

Plot summary

Loser Takes All is narrated in the first person by Bertram, an accountant in a large industrial concern. Called in by the Chief Executive, the ‘Grand Old Man’ (Mr Dreuther), to fix an accounting error, he lets slip that he is due to be married soon, whereupon the not-to-be-disobeyed Boss invites him to get married in Monte Carlo before joining him on his yacht. His secretary will see to the details.

So Bertram and his beloved Cary travel to Monte Carlo, put up in the best hotel in town, and settle down to await Dreuther’s yacht. But it doesn’t show up. As the days pass their money runs low, they economise by skipping meals or eating coffee and rolls at a little café, waiting for Dreuther to arrive, until the money runs out and they start running up bills at the hotel which they can’t pay – now they’re trapped.

Eventually, Bertram – an accountant by training, a mathematician by instinct – wonders if he can devise a ‘system’ to beat the roulette tables at the Casino. Slowly he is sucked in, gambling all their money, then borrowing more, then losing the borrowed cash, as the couple sink into unhappiness, bicker and argue. Until he wins. Massively. His system works!

But it is too late: he has lost his girl. Cary is at first sarcastic about his daily ‘commute’ to the Casino, about his long hours ‘at work’ and wonders when he will ‘retire’. Bertram insists it’s for their good as a couple, ‘I’m working for both of us, darling’. Their arguments escalate and eventually she spends an evening with a poor but handsome gambler they met on their first night.

Meanwhile, Bertram’s luck takes a further leap upwards when he meets the old boy who owns the controlling shares in the company he works for and who is losing heavily at the tables. The old boy asks him for a loan. There follows some hard bargaining, which concludes with Bertam offering him the money to gamble with, on condition that he is repaid and gets the controlling shares. He will hold the balance of power at his firm. He will be able to shaft old Dreuther for getting them into all this trouble.

Thus this once-unassuming accountant reaches a pinnacle of wealth and success – and loses the only thing he cares for in the world, his wife. At this opportune moment, the Grand Old Man’s yacht hoves into view in the marina. Bertram meets him in the casino and is angered to realise Dreuther has completely forgotten who he is and what their arrangement was. But he is not the Grand Old Man for nothing. Dreuther soothes Bertram, plies him with champagne and wine, and eventually the sad accountant breaks down and tells him the whole story. Aha. Dreuther helps him cook up a plan to recover his wife.

Later that night Bertram goes to the little bistro where his wife now dines with the poor gambler and confronts them. He offers all his money to the gambler for just half an hour to talk to his wife. The gambler hesitates, then takes the opportunity to take the money and try out his system, in preference to staying with Cary. Off he goes to the Casino leaving Cary in tears. Men.

Bertram takes his crying wife out to Dreuther’s yacht, where she is wined and dined and soothed by Dreuther. When they retire to their cabin, Bertram explains he has given away all the money he won. They are now back to where they began, untainted by wealth. In fact, Dreuther has, maybe from guilt, offered Bertram a promotion, so they will be a little better off. Maybe they’ll be able to afford a holiday in Eastbourne next year! Cary is reconciled. Their love revives. But what about your deal with the rich shareholder? his wife asks. Bertram tears it up and throws it out the porthole. Let’s start over again.

Happy ending. And for once a Graham Greene story allows you to draw your own conclusions about money, gambling, big business, love and so on.

Computers and Original Sin

At the start of the story, when Bertram is called in to find and correct the mistake in the accounts, he realises it was caused by a glitch in the computers the firm uses. 1. It’s interesting that computers are familiar enough to be used in a fiction from 1955. 2. It’s funny that as soon as they’re being used, they are a by-word for error. 3. But most revealingly, it’s typical of Greene that, when writing a little paragraph summing up how pleased with himself Bertram feels, he slips in a bit of Catholic theology. Very possibly he’s making a joke at his own expense, but it does seem typical of the technique of most of his fiction that at every point he is looking to slip in Catholic theology because it adds a (spurious) depth and intellectual coherence to what are otherwise often trivial incidents.

I sat back on the sofa with a gasp of triumph. I felt the equal of any man. It had really been a very neat piece of detection. So simple when you knew, but everyone before me had accepted the perfection of the machine and no machine is perfect; in every joint, rivet, screw lies original sin. (Penguin paperback edition, p.23)

Maybe it’s not even that calculating. Maybe Greene himself genuinely saw Original Sin all around him, in every aspect of human lives, and it therefore appears naturally in his fictions.

JRR Tolkien was a devout Roman Catholic. Tom Shippey’s book about him explains that when Tolkien had finished The Lord of The Rings, he went back through it and carefully cut anything which even hinted at a spiritual or religious dimension. The less religion, the greater the imaginative impact. As if he trusted the liberated imagination to lead towards belief.

Greene has no such trust. Apart from the explicitly Catholic novels, where religion plays a crucial part in the plot (The Power and The Glory, The Heart of The Matter, The End of The Affair), many of his other novels would benefit from pruning the casual references to God, Original Sin and so on which distract and even irritate the reader. It would focus our attention more on the story and less on the author’s editorialising, giving them greater artistic integrity, making them more imaginatively effective.

Related links

The movie

With the unerring luck Greene enjoyed with the cinema, he himself had the opportunity to adapt this slender tale into a glamorous comedy-drama starring Italian screen idol Rossano Brazzi, along with Glynis Johns and Robert Morley, released just a year after the novella.

Greene’s books

  • The Man Within (1929) One of the worst books I’ve ever read, a wretchedly immature farrago set in a vaguely described 18th century about a cowardly smuggler who betrays his fellows to the Excise men then flees to the cottage of a pure and innocent young woman who he falls in love with before his pathetic inaction leads to her death. Drivel.
  • The Name of Action (1930) (repudiated by author, never republished)
  • Rumour at Nightfall (1931) (repudiated by author, never republished)
  • Stamboul Train (1932) A motley cast of characters find out each others’ secrets and exploit each other on the famous Orient Express rattling across Europe, climaxing in the execution of one of the passengers, a political exile, in an obscure rail junction, and all wound up with a cynical business deal in Istanbul.
  • It’s a Battlefield (1934) London: a working class man awaits his death sentence for murder while a cast of seedy characters, including a lecherous HG Wells figure, betray each other and agonise about their pointless lives.
  • England Made Me (1935) Stockholm: financier and industrialist Krogh hires a pretty Englishwoman Kate Farrant to be his PA/lover. She gets him to employ her shiftless brother Anthony who, after only a few days, starts spilling secrets to the seedy journalist Minty, and so is bumped off by Krogh’s henchman, Hall.
  • A Gun for Sale (1936) England: After assassinating a European politician and sparking mobilisation for war, hitman Raven pursues the lecherous middle man who paid him with hot money to a Midlands town, where he gets embroiled with copper’s girl, Anne, before killing the middle man and the wicked arms merchant who was behind the whole deal, and being shot dead himself.
  • Brighton Rock (1938) After Kite is murdered, 17 year-old Pinkie Brown takes over leadership of one of Brighton’s gangs, a razor-happy psychopath who is also an unthinking Catholic tormented by frustrated sexuality. He marries a 16 year-old waitress (who he secretly despises) to stop her squealing on the gang, before being harried to a grisly death.
  • The Confidential Agent (1939) D. the agent for a foreign power embroiled in a civil war, tries and fails to secure a contract for British coal to be sent to his side. He flees the police and unfounded accusations of murder, has an excursion to a Midlands mining district where he fails to persuade the miners to go on strike out of solidarity for his (presumably communist) side, is caught by the police, put on trial, then helped to escape across country to a waiting ship, accompanied by the woman half his age who has fallen in love with him.
  • The Lawless Roads (1939) Greene travels round Mexico and hates it, hates its people and its culture, the poverty, the food, the violence and despair, just about managing to admire the idealised Catholicism which is largely a product of his own insistent mind, and a few heroic priests-on-the-run from the revolutionary authorities.
  • The Power and the Glory (1940) Mexico: An unnamed whisky priest, the only survivor of the revolutionary communists’ pogrom against the Catholic hierarchy, blunders from village to village feeling very sorry for himself and jeopardising lots of innocent peasants while bringing them hardly any help until he is caught and shot.
  • The Ministry of Fear (1943) Hallucinatory psychological fantasia masquerading as an absurdist thriller set in London during the Blitz when a man still reeling from mercy-killing his terminally ill wife gets caught up with a wildly improbable Nazi spy ring.
  • The Heart of The Matter (1948) Through a series of unfortunate events, Henry Scobie, the ageing colonial Assistant Commissioner of Police in Freetown, Sierra Leone, finds himself torn between love of his wife and of his mistress, spied on by colleagues and slowly corrupted by a local Syrian merchant, until life becomes intolerable and – as a devout Catholic – he knowingly damns himself for eternity by committing suicide. Whether you agree with its Catholic premises or not, this feels like a genuinely ‘great’ novel for the completeness of its conception and the thoroughness of its execution.
  • The Third Man (1949) The novella which formed the basis for the screenplay of the famous film starring Orson Welles. Given its purely preparatory nature, this is a gripping and wonderfully-written tale, strong on atmosphere and intrigue and mercifully light on Greene’s Catholic preachiness.
  • The End of The Affair (1951) Snobbish writer Maurice Bendrix has an affair with Sarah, the wife of his neighbour on Clapham Common, the dull civil servant, Henry Miles. After a V1 bomb lands on the house where they are illicitly meeting, half burying Bendrix, Sarah breaks off the affair and refuses to see him. Only after setting a detective on her, does Bendrix discover Sarah thought he had been killed in the bombing and prayed to God, promising to end their affair and be ‘good’ if only he was allowed to live – only to see him stumbling in through the wrecked doorway, from which point she feels duty bound to God to keep her word. She sickens and dies of pneumonia like many a 19th century heroine, but not before the evidence begins to mount up that she was, in fact, a genuine saint. Preposterous for most of its length, it becomes genuinely spooky at the end.
  • Twenty-One Stories (1954) Generally very short stories, uneven in quality and mostly focused on wringing as much despair about the human condition as possible using thin characters who come to implausibly violent endings – except for three short funny tales.
  • The Unquiet American (1955) Set in Vietnam as the French are losing their grip on the country, jaded English foreign correspondent, Thomas Fowler, reacts very badly to fresh-faced, all-American agent Alden Pyle, who both steals his Vietnamese girlfriend and is naively helping a rebel general and his private army in the vain hope they can form a non-communist post-colonial government. So Fowler arranges for Pyle to be assassinated. The adultery and anti-Americanism are tiresome, but the descriptions of his visits to the front line are gripping.
  • Loser Takes All (1955) Charming comic novella recounting the mishaps of accountant Bertram who is encouraged to get married at a swanky hotel in Monte Carlo by his wealthy boss who then doesn’t arrive to pick up the bill, as he’d promised to – forcing Bertram to dabble in gambling at the famous Casino and becoming so obsessed with winning that he almost loses his wife before the marriage has even begun.
  • Our Man In Havana (1958) Comedy about an unassuming vacuum cleaner salesman, Jim Wormold, living in Havana, who is improbably recruited for British intelligence and, when he starts to be paid, feels compelled to manufacture ‘information’ from made-up ‘agents’. All very farcical until the local security services and then ‘the other side’ start taking an interest, bugging his phone, burgling his flat and then trying to bump him off.
  • A Burnt-Out Case (1960) Tragedy. Famous architect Querry travels to the depths of the Congo, running away from his European fame and mistress, and begins to find peace working with the local priests and leprosy doctor, when the unhappy young wife of a local factory owner accuses him of seducing her and fathering her child, prompting her husband to shoot Querry dead.
  • The Comedians (1966) Tragedy. Brown returns to run his hotel in Port-au-Prince, in a Haiti writhing under the brutal regime of Papa Doc Duvalier, and to resume his affair with the ambassador’s wife, Martha. A minister commits suicide in the hotel pool; Brown is beaten up by the Tontons Macoute; he tries to help a sweet old American couple convert the country to vegetarianism. In the final, absurd sequence he persuades the obvious con-man ‘major’ Jones to join the pathetic ‘resistance’ (12 men with three rusty guns), motivated solely by the jealous (and false) conviction that Jones is having an affair with his mistress. They are caught, escape, and Brown is forced to flee to the neighbouring Dominican Republic where the kindly Americans get him a job as assistant to the funeral director he had first met on the ferry to Haiti.
  • Travels With My Aunt (1969) Comedy. Unmarried, middle-aged, retired bank manager Henry Pullman meets his aunt Augusta at the funeral of his mother, and is rapidly drawn into her unconventional world, accompanying her on the Orient Express to Istanbul and then on a fateful trip to south America, caught up in her colourful stories of foreign adventures and exotic lovers till he finds himself right in the middle of an uncomfortably dangerous situation.
  • The Honorary Consul (1973) Tragedy. Dr Eduardo Plarr accidentally assists in the kidnapping of his friend, the alcoholic, bumbling ‘honorary consul’ to a remote city on the border of Argentina, Charley Fortnum, with whose ex-prostitute wife he happens to be having an affair. When he is asked to go and treat Fortnum, who’s been injured, Plarr finds himself also taken prisoner by the rebels and dragged into lengthy Greeneish discussions about love and religion and sin and redemption etc, while they wait for the authorities to either pay the ransom the rebels have demanded or storm their hideout. It doesn’t end well.
  • The Human Factor (1978) Maurice Castle lives a quiet, suburban life with his African wife, Sarah, commuting daily to his dull office job in a branch of British Security except that, we learn half way through the book, he is a double agent passing secrets to the Russians. Official checks on a leak from his sector lead to the improbable ‘liquidation’ of an entirely innocent colleague which prompts Castle to make a panic-stricken plea to his Soviet controllers to be spirited out of the country. And so he is, arriving safely in Moscow. But to the permanent separation with the only person he holds dear in the world and who he was, all along, working on behalf of – his beloved Sarah. Bleak and heart-breaking.
  • Monsignor Quixote (1982) Father Quixote is unwillingly promoted monsignor and kicked out of his cosy parish, taking to the roads of Spain with communist ex-mayor friend, Enrique ‘Sancho’ Zancas, in an old jalopy they jokingly nickname Rocinante, to experience numerous adventures loosely based on his fictional forebear, Don Quixote, all the while debating Greene’s great Victorian theme, the possibility of a doubting – an almost despairing – Catholic faith.
  • The Captain and The Enemy (1988) 12-year-old Victor Baxter is taken out of his boarding school by a ‘friend’ of his father’s, the so-called Captain, who carries him off to London to live with his girlfriend, Liza. Many years later Victor, a grown man, comes across his youthful account of life in this strange household when Liza dies in a road accident, and he sets off on an adult pilgrimage to find the Captain in Central America, a quest which – when he tells him of Liza’s death – prompts the old man to one last – futile and uncharacteristic – suicidal gesture.

The Quiet American by Graham Greene (1955)

‘God save us always,’ I said, ‘from the innocent and the good.’ (p.20)

Page for page I think this is the most effective of Greene’s books (up to this point in his career). The plot is taut and neat, the Catholic theologising which mars his other books is kept to a minimum – but it is the writing, the precision and accuracy and evocativeness of the words and sentences and paragraphs on page after page, which make this the Greene novel I’d most recommend to people who’d never read one.

Backdrop

Vietnam, 1952. Colonial masters, the French, are struggling to contain the campaign by Ho Chi Minh’s communist army to expel them. There are organised attacks on outlying regions accompanied by terrorist attacks (hand grenades, bombings) in the major cities, Hanoi and Saigon. It’s a complicated situation, though, because there are numerous smaller armies with their own nationalist or religious causes. Already there are several hundred US ‘advisors’ in the country, managing the in-flow of arms and other resources, ostensibly to help the French, but also pursuing their own agenda of seeking to build up a ‘third force’, a nationalist political force which will kick out the French, establish independence, but reject and defeat the communists.

In Saigon, the small world of journalists, diplomats, advisers and so on all know each other, drink together, exchange gossip and bitch about each other. The main characters are:

  • Thomas Fowler, a cynical British journalist, an old Vietnam hand who knows all about opium, brothels, the etiquette of Vietnamese society, and the complexity of the political situation. A confirmed atheist, he’s separated from his religious wife back in England and has a Vietnamese mistress, Phuong, who would like his wife to divorce him, so she can become the second Mrs Fowler! The story is narrated by this fallible, biased source.
  • Alden Pyle, a young, fresh-faced, crew-cut, idealistic, virginal Boston American who joins the US ‘Economic Mission’ but everyone knows he’s got additional, ‘secret’, responsibilities.
  • Phuong, beautiful Vietnamese woman who has become Fowler’s mistress, prepares his opium pipes, creates domestic and order and peace around him.

Plot

Pyle’s arrival starts the plot. His naiveté is contrasted with the crudeness and vulgarity of the other American correspondents and military men, who drink heavily, insult the natives, visit the brothels and boast about it. Pyle stands out from the first for being that rare thing, a quiet American. He is on a naive mission to ‘save’ the world. He has read books about south-east Asia and democracy. A troupe of them get drunk and go to an industrial-scale brothel where the other Yanks get laid but Pyle’s new England Puritanism is appalled. He is enchanted by Fowler’s mistress and high-mindedly determines to save her from this married, drunk Brit, marry her and take her home.

Fowler goes visiting different parts of the scattered ‘front’ against the Viet Minh and (slightly improbably) Pyle turns up in both places. This enables dialogues where Pyle everso decently announces he is going to take Phuong off Fowler and ‘do the decent thing by her’, and Fowler and Pyle to act out their roles of cynical old hand and innocent idealist.

Flashback

As with the End of The Affair there is a sophisticated use of a multi-layered timeframe. Essentially, the story is told in flashback and so we know within a few pages of the start that Pyle is dead. Briefly, Fowler is enraged on a personal level by Pyle’s guileless theft of his mistress, and his innocent expectation that Fowler will continue to be friends with him.

But in the last 40 pages or so we see the practical impact Pyle’s idealism is starting to have. One of his contacts in the Vietnamese/Chinese underworld is almost certainly a communist sympathiser and he shows Fowler barrels full of a sort of plastic flour substance and moulds. Soon afterwards bombs shaped like bicylce pumps on bicycles around Saigon explode, injuring passersby. Fowler realises that Pyle is working to create a ‘third force’ in Vietnam. Fowler argues directly with Pyle that the chosen man, one General Thé, is just a bandit with a few thousand followers, but for Pyle – indoctrinated by his Harvard courses and idealistic lecturers – he can be the leader who saves South-East Asia for Democracy.

Things come to a head when Fowler notices people leaving a bar he’s in, looking at their watches and muttering about ‘time to leave’, then, minutes later, a massive car bomb goes off in a main Saigon square. As Fowler stumbles through the debris, noting the man blown in half and the baby ripped to pieces, he (very conveniently) bumps into Pyle, who is also shocked and muttering that this wasn’t supposed to happen, the bomb was meant to hit a big military parade and discredit the communists, with a view to rallying support for his General Thé. Fowler is outraged. It’s one thing being an idealistic young puppy; it’s another conniving with terrorists to blow up women and children.

So that when he meets his probably-communist contact a few days later, he falls in with their suggestion that he lure Pyle to a restaurant right on the edge of the Secure Zone. With all kinds of misgivings and reeking of bad faith and almost not going through with it – Fowler does go through with it, invites Pyle to dinner, Pyle never shows at the restaurant, and his body is found the next day.

The (tired, jaded) French police sniff around Fowler a little but then give up. They’re as relieved as Fowler to have Pyle out of the way. Phuong returns to Fowler. And the novel ends as he opens a telegram from his wife saying she is relenting and granting him a divorce. He has everything he wants. Why, then, does he feel so wretched? (Because he’s a Graham Greene hero, silly.)

Anti-American

No wonder this novel got so many American reviewers’ and journalists’ backs up. It is really a hymn to how ill-conceived, ignorant and harmful naive American do-goodism is in a world far more complex than their culture prepares them for. In some interviews and letters Greene explained that one purpose of The Heart of The Matter was to show how destructive an emotion pity is. In that book it destroys one man – the main character, Scobie. This novel expands the scope to show how unintentionally destructive an entire foreign policy (American foreign policy) can become which is based on an idealistic and unrealistic sense of pity, a naive wish ‘to help’, ungrounded by experience.

Beyond the character of Pyle himself, the other Yanks, as a group, are described as loud-mouthed, drunk, vulgar, tremendously rude and crude. They are epitomised by the figure of Granger, the drunk, boastful foreign correspondent who files fire-breathing reports without actually going to the scenes of any events, delights in embarrassing the authorities at press conferences, is always drinking and boasting in bars, and on the look-out for women, whores, ‘tail’.

Throughout the text the narrator loses no opportunity not only to criticise the American characters in front of him but almost every aspect of American life. He particularly dislikes their gadget culture, the fridges and air conditioning, the cellophane-wrapped food. Pyle is pilloried for eating his vacuum-sealed Vit-health sandwiches at a restaurant when everyone else is eating the local dishes.

There is also, of course, an undercurrent of rivalry between the sinking Imperial power, Britain, and rising new superpower, America.

Is confidence based on rates of exchange? We used to speak of sterling qualities. Have we got now to talk about a dollar love? A dollar love, of course, would include marriage and Junior and Mother’s Day, even though later it might include Reno or the Virgin Islands or wherever they go nowadays for their divorces. A dollar love had good intentions, a clear conscience, and to hell with everybody. (Penguin paperback edition, p.63)

Terrific scenes

As with all Greene’s novels, The Quiet American is divided very precisely into books (four in this instance) which are sub-divided into chapters which are sub-divided into scenes. It is interesting to speculate whether the experience of writing and helping to produce a stage play (The Living Room, 1953) resulted in the taut feel to all the scenes in this novel and the precision, the pithiness, the effectiveness of the dialogue.

  • Scenes: Fowler goes to the village of Phat Diem, and then beyond it to a scattering of farmhouses where he joins a French patrol, crossing canals full of dead bodies. Later, he visits Tanyin for the religious festival, then gets caught in an army watchtower when his car runs out of gas, as night falls and the Viet Minh sneak closer. In a third gripping episode, Fowler is taken out on a ‘vertical bombing’ mission ie in a French plane which repeatedly bombs a village in the north. Norman Sherry’s biography of Greene confirms that all three scenes are based on Greene’s actual experiences reporting for Life magazine. They are terrifically described.
  • Dialogue Snappy and pithy. In earlier novels characters are wont to make long speeches. Here they genuinely converse. An indication of this is the appearance of Wit. Fowler is consistently sarcastic, making rude, impertinent and sly comments in reply to the Americans’ crudities or Pyle’s naivety or, sometimes, to the French police enquiries. There is more back-chat. You can imagine it translating easily into movie dialogue.

Religion and relationships

Alas, religion rears its ugly head. Fowler’s wife back in England is a High Church Anglican, as he explains to an uncomprehending Phuong, which explains why she refuses to grant him a divorce (until right at the end). Fowler basks in guilt at having deserted his wife for one mistress, and then deserting her for Phuong in Vietnam. Norman Sherry’s biography recounts in great detail how Greene abandoned his wife of 18 years to live with his mistress in London during the Blitz, before dumping her in favour of the Great Love of his Life around 1948. Ie the dynamic of Fowler’s fictional relationships exactly mirrors Greene’s own situation and the sense, and sometimes the phrasing, of these sections of the novel closely echo Greene’s actual letters, diary entries and so on quoted in the biography. It is all heavily recycled from his own life.

I read the words in these sections, and registered the precision with which they convey a morass of misery but, after reading the biography, I personally am sick of Greene’s shabby love life and the endless excuses he makes for his behaviour, to himself and everyone around him. Therefore this aspect – the relationship aspect – of the novel made no impact on me.

  • First and foremost it is a marvellous evocation of the tragic country of Vietnam at a specific historical moment, along with the sights and sounds and smells of its cities and countryside.
  • Second, it is a fascinating and prophetic document of what 1950s anti-Americanism sounds like, what arguments and sarcasms and sneers it used to make its case.
  • Third, it is a slightly creaking thriller-style plot – bombs, spies, assassination – but infinitely more plausible and crafted than any of the popular ‘entertainments’ he’d written up to this point.
  • Fourth, there is a steady flow of platitudes and verbiage about wives and lovers and mistresses and love and sex and why do we make the ones we love so unhappy, and so on, which I skimmed.
  • Lastly, despite making an obvious attempt to write a non-Catholic novel (after the orgies of Catholic guilt which are The Heart of The Matter and The End of The Affair) Greene can’t help slipping in quite a few references to God, ‘do you believe, no I’m not a believer, and yet I found myself praying to something I don’t believe in’ etc. which are irrelevant to the plot and so the reader can take or leave according to taste.

Related links

The movie

Showing that Greene’s stories still have relevance, the book was made into a 2002 movie, directed by Phillip Noyce and starring Michael Caine, Brendan Fraser, and Do Thi Hai Yen. As all films do, this one simplifies and exaggerates the text, but in doing so makes a number of themes clearer.

The third force led by its General Thé is much more obvious: they have a military parade through Saigon (not in the novel), Fowler interviews a testy General Thé (not in the novel), Fowler sees General Thé himself in the warehouse where the explosive components are being stored (not in the novel). These changes make the movie conform to standard thriller stereoypes – making the baddies much more obvious and sinister. General Thé could come from a Die Hard or Bond movie.

Similarly, the script makes Pyle’s role bigger and simpler: Fowler realises that Pyle is actually in charge of the operation to build up the third force and, in a key confrontation, directly blames Pyle for the deaths in the car bombs and Pyle, in reply, is clearer than his counterpart in the book about the need to stop and contain communism in Vietnam, to use the people you’ve got to hand, and that’s why the Americans have to get in bed with Thé.

The film also brings out more clearly that everything revolves around Fowler’s decision to betray Pyle to what he knows is a certain death. In the novel lots of other scenes are more interesting and better written. The movie strips those away to focus on the moments when Fowler makes the decision, inviting Pyle to a dinner date he’ll never make, showing us Fowler’s face as he signals to the communist agent out in the square that the deal has been done, closing in on Michael Caine’s eyes as he makes a decision he knows he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life.

Greene’s books

  • The Man Within (1929) One of the worst books I’ve ever read, a wretchedly immature farrago set in a vaguely described 18th century about a cowardly smuggler who betrays his fellows to the Excise men then flees to the cottage of a pure and innocent young woman who he falls in love with before his pathetic inaction leads to her death. Drivel.
  • The Name of Action (1930) (repudiated by author, never republished)
  • Rumour at Nightfall (1931) (repudiated by author, never republished)
  • Stamboul Train (1932) A motley cast of characters find out each others’ secrets and exploit each other on the famous Orient Express rattling across Europe, climaxing in the execution of one of the passengers, a political exile, in an obscure rail junction, and all wound up with a cynical business deal in Istanbul.
  • It’s a Battlefield (1934) London: a working class man awaits his death sentence for murder while a cast of seedy characters, including a lecherous HG Wells figure, betray each other and agonise about their pointless lives.
  • England Made Me (1935) Stockholm: financier and industrialist Krogh hires a pretty Englishwoman Kate Farrant to be his PA/lover. She gets him to employ her shiftless brother Anthony who, after only a few days, starts spilling secrets to the seedy journalist Minty, and so is bumped off by Krogh’s henchman, Hall.
  • A Gun for Sale (1936) England: After assassinating a European politician and sparking mobilisation for war, hitman Raven pursues the lecherous middle man who paid him with hot money to a Midlands town, where he gets embroiled with copper’s girl, Anne, before killing the middle man and the wicked arms merchant who was behind the whole deal, and being shot dead himself.
  • Brighton Rock (1938) After Kite is murdered, 17 year-old Pinkie Brown takes over leadership of one of Brighton’s gangs, a razor-happy psychopath who is also an unthinking Catholic tormented by frustrated sexuality. He marries a 16 year-old waitress (who he secretly despises) to stop her squealing on the gang, before being harried to a grisly death.
  • The Confidential Agent (1939) D. the agent for a foreign power embroiled in a civil war, tries and fails to secure a contract for British coal to be sent to his side. He flees the police and unfounded accusations of murder, has an excursion to a Midlands mining district where he fails to persuade the miners to go on strike out of solidarity for his (presumably communist) side, is caught by the police, put on trial, then helped to escape across country to a waiting ship, accompanied by the woman half his age who has fallen in love with him.
  • The Lawless Roads (1939) Greene travels round Mexico and hates it, hates its people and its culture, the poverty, the food, the violence and despair, just about managing to admire the idealised Catholicism which is largely a product of his own insistent mind, and a few heroic priests-on-the-run from the revolutionary authorities.
  • The Power and the Glory (1940) Mexico: An unnamed whisky priest, the only survivor of the revolutionary communists’ pogrom against the Catholic hierarchy, blunders from village to village feeling very sorry for himself and jeopardising lots of innocent peasants while bringing them hardly any help until he is caught and shot.
  • The Ministry of Fear (1943) Hallucinatory psychological fantasia masquerading as an absurdist thriller set in London during the Blitz when a man still reeling from mercy-killing his terminally ill wife gets caught up with a wildly improbable Nazi spy ring.
  • The Heart of The Matter (1948) Through a series of unfortunate events, Henry Scobie, the ageing colonial Assistant Commissioner of Police in Freetown, Sierra Leone, finds himself torn between love of his wife and of his mistress, spied on by colleagues and slowly corrupted by a local Syrian merchant, until life becomes intolerable and – as a devout Catholic – he knowingly damns himself for eternity by committing suicide. Whether you agree with its Catholic premises or not, this feels like a genuinely ‘great’ novel for the completeness of its conception and the thoroughness of its execution.
  • The Third Man (1949) The novella which formed the basis for the screenplay of the famous film starring Orson Welles. Given its purely preparatory nature, this is a gripping and wonderfully-written tale, strong on atmosphere and intrigue and mercifully light on Greene’s Catholic preachiness.
  • The End of The Affair (1951) Snobbish writer Maurice Bendrix has an affair with Sarah, the wife of his neighbour on Clapham Common, the dull civil servant, Henry Miles. After a V1 bomb lands on the house where they are illicitly meeting, half burying Bendrix, Sarah breaks off the affair and refuses to see him. Only after setting a detective on her, does Bendrix discover Sarah thought he had been killed in the bombing and prayed to God, promising to end their affair and be ‘good’ if only he was allowed to live – only to see him stumbling in through the wrecked doorway, from which point she feels duty bound to God to keep her word. She sickens and dies of pneumonia like many a 19th century heroine, but not before the evidence begins to mount up that she was, in fact, a genuine saint. Preposterous for most of its length, it becomes genuinely spooky at the end.
  • Twenty-One Stories (1954) Generally very short stories, uneven in quality and mostly focused on wringing as much despair about the human condition as possible using thin characters who come to implausibly violent endings – except for three short funny tales.
  • The Unquiet American (1955) Set in Vietnam as the French are losing their grip on the country, jaded English foreign correspondent, Thomas Fowler, reacts very badly to fresh-faced, all-American agent Alden Pyle, who both steals his Vietnamese girlfriend and is naively helping a rebel general and his private army in the vain hope they can form a non-communist post-colonial government. So Fowler arranges for Pyle to be assassinated. The adultery and anti-Americanism are tiresome, but the descriptions of his visits to the front line are gripping.
  • Loser Takes All (1955) Charming comic novella recounting the mishaps of accountant Bertram who is encouraged to get married at a swanky hotel in Monte Carlo by his wealthy boss who then doesn’t arrive to pick up the bill, as he’d promised to – forcing Bertram to dabble in gambling at the famous Casino and becoming so obsessed with winning that he almost loses his wife before the marriage has even begun.
  • Our Man In Havana (1958) Comedy about an unassuming vacuum cleaner salesman, Jim Wormold, living in Havana, who is improbably recruited for British intelligence and, when he starts to be paid, feels compelled to manufacture ‘information’ from made-up ‘agents’. All very farcical until the local security services and then ‘the other side’ start taking an interest, bugging his phone, burgling his flat and then trying to bump him off.
  • A Burnt-Out Case (1960) Tragedy. Famous architect Querry travels to the depths of the Congo, running away from his European fame and mistress, and begins to find peace working with the local priests and leprosy doctor, when the unhappy young wife of a local factory owner accuses him of seducing her and fathering her child, prompting her husband to shoot Querry dead.
  • The Comedians (1966) Tragedy. Brown returns to run his hotel in Port-au-Prince, in a Haiti writhing under the brutal regime of Papa Doc Duvalier, and to resume his affair with the ambassador’s wife, Martha. A minister commits suicide in the hotel pool; Brown is beaten up by the Tontons Macoute; he tries to help a sweet old American couple convert the country to vegetarianism. In the final, absurd sequence he persuades the obvious con-man ‘major’ Jones to join the pathetic ‘resistance’ (12 men with three rusty guns), motivated solely by the jealous (and false) conviction that Jones is having an affair with his mistress. They are caught, escape, and Brown is forced to flee to the neighbouring Dominican Republic where the kindly Americans get him a job as assistant to the funeral director he had first met on the ferry to Haiti.
  • Travels With My Aunt (1969) Comedy. Unmarried, middle-aged, retired bank manager Henry Pullman meets his aunt Augusta at the funeral of his mother, and is rapidly drawn into her unconventional world, accompanying her on the Orient Express to Istanbul and then on a fateful trip to south America, caught up in her colourful stories of foreign adventures and exotic lovers till he finds himself right in the middle of an uncomfortably dangerous situation.
  • The Honorary Consul (1973) Tragedy. Dr Eduardo Plarr accidentally assists in the kidnapping of his friend, the alcoholic, bumbling ‘honorary consul’ to a remote city on the border of Argentina, Charley Fortnum, with whose ex-prostitute wife he happens to be having an affair. When he is asked to go and treat Fortnum, who’s been injured, Plarr finds himself also taken prisoner by the rebels and dragged into lengthy Greeneish discussions about love and religion and sin and redemption etc, while they wait for the authorities to either pay the ransom the rebels have demanded or storm their hideout. It doesn’t end well.
  • The Human Factor (1978) Maurice Castle lives a quiet, suburban life with his African wife, Sarah, commuting daily to his dull office job in a branch of British Security except that, we learn half way through the book, he is a double agent passing secrets to the Russians. Official checks on a leak from his sector lead to the improbable ‘liquidation’ of an entirely innocent colleague which prompts Castle to make a panic-stricken plea to his Soviet controllers to be spirited out of the country. And so he is, arriving safely in Moscow. But to the permanent separation with the only person he holds dear in the world and who he was, all along, working on behalf of – his beloved Sarah. Bleak and heart-breaking.
  • Monsignor Quixote (1982) Father Quixote is unwillingly promoted monsignor and kicked out of his cosy parish, taking to the roads of Spain with communist ex-mayor friend, Enrique ‘Sancho’ Zancas, in an old jalopy they jokingly nickname Rocinante, to experience numerous adventures loosely based on his fictional forebear, Don Quixote, all the while debating Greene’s great Victorian theme, the possibility of a doubting – an almost despairing – Catholic faith.
  • The Captain and The Enemy (1988) 12-year-old Victor Baxter is taken out of his boarding school by a ‘friend’ of his father’s, the so-called Captain, who carries him off to London to live with his girlfriend, Liza. Many years later Victor, a grown man, comes across his youthful account of life in this strange household when Liza dies in a road accident, and he sets off on an adult pilgrimage to find the Captain in Central America, a quest which – when he tells him of Liza’s death – prompts the old man to one last – futile and uncharacteristic – suicidal gesture.

HMS Ulysses by Alistair MacLean (1955)

HMS Ulysses was Maclean’s first and arguably best novel. It describes the ordeal of a ship on one of the notorious Murmansk conveys, taking oil, weapons, supplies to beleaguered USSR up over the top of Scandianavia, through the Arctic Ocean in one of the most pitiless and harsh environments known to man. MacLean, born 1922 and so 17 when the war started, had himself served on these convoys during the War. He knew whereof he spoke. To recap his war career:

He joined the Royal Navy in 1941, serving with the ranks of Ordinary Seaman, Able Seaman, and Leading Torpedo Operator. He was first assigned to PS Bournemouth Queen, a converted excursion ship fitted for anti-aircraft guns, on duty off the coasts of England and Scotland. From 1943, he served in HMS Royalist, a Dido-class light cruiser. In Royalist he saw action in 1943 in the Atlantic theatre, on two Arctic convoys and escorting carrier groups in operations against Tirpitz and other targets off the Norwegian coast. In 1944 he and the ship served in the Mediterranean theatre as part of the invasion of southern France and in helping to sink blockade runners off Crete and bombard Milos in the Aegean. In 1945, in the Far East theatre, MacLean and Royalist saw action escorting carrier groups in operations against Japanese targets in Burma, Malaya, and Sumatra. After the Japanese surrender, Royalist helped evacuate liberated POWs from Changi Prison in Singapore. (Wikipedia)

From the first words the tone is one of immense weariness as Admiral Starr confronts the captain and senior officers of HMS Ulysses to demand an explanation for the full scale mutiny which broke out in Scapa Flow harbour. This scene sets the atmosphere of absolute mental and physical exhaustion combined with stress and nervous tension under which these men operated. With 24 hours they are putting back to see as part of a convoy – FR77 – linking up with a pack of merchantmen carrying vital supplies to the beleaguered USSR.

The novel a) introduces us to a large set of characters among the ship’s crew b) describes the events of the ill-fated convoy FR77 as it battles a massive storm, the routine horrors of the freezing Arctic weather, and repeated attacks by German ships and the terrifying U-boats. Aboard ship are:

  • Vice-Admiral Tyndall, formerly known as Farmer Giles, now exhausted and disillusioned, who breaks down after making a series of disastrous miscalculations about the attacking German ships and U-boats; returns to the bridge in his pyjamas and soon after dies of frostbite and shock.
  • Captain Richard Vallery, dying of TB who nonetheless, heroically, rallies the crew and leads by example; until he finally, inevitably, dies, his last thoughts for the crew.
  • Surgeon-Commander Brooks, “Old Socrates”
  • Johnny Nicholls, his assistant, who cleans out the various bombed stations, scooping up grisly bits of disintegrated and burnt human body, before being perilously transferred by breeches buoy to the Sirrus (I was sure he’d die) and ending up being the only survivor of the Ulysses who, in the heart-wrenching Epilogue, makes his final report to the Admiralty.
  • Commander Turner who takes over command on Vallery’s death and is last seen supporting two ratings in the sea after Ulysses’ death.
  • Navigator: the Honourable Andrew Carpenter, also known as the Kapok Kid, infallibly correct with his navigations, who has an eeries premonition of his own death and is, sure enough, peppered with machine gun fire from a Stuka.
  • Lieutenant-Commander Carrington, a natural seaman with intuitive grasp of weather conditions, who survives the ordeal.
  • Chief Bentley, takes & receives signals, has his face blown off by the Condor attack.
  • Master-at-Arms Hastings: stern disciplinarian: sacked for his vindictiveness towards Ralston.
  • Gunnery Officer Etherton: shoots himself after a mistake causes the death of the padre, the reverend Winthrop, Able Seaman Charteris and Peters.
  • Able Seaman Ralston, his brother killed in the mutiny, his mother and family killed in a German bombing raid on Croydon; he is forced to fire the torpedo which sinks the stricken freighter Vytura, thus killing his own father.
  • Sub-Lieutenant Carslake, an incompetent fool whom Ralston punches to find himself on a charge; who goes mad and tries to kill Ralston in the aftermath of the Condor attack, killing himself in the process.
  • Chief Petty Officer Hartlet who accompanies the dying captain round his ship.
  • Signalman Courtney, vapourised when a German shell hits the Radio Room.
  • Able Seaman Ferry, whose arm gets caught and pulled into a cable winch and whose life is saved by Ralston’s quick thinking, but who then falls where the railings have been destroyed and slips helplessly overboard to be mashed by the ship’s propellors.
  • Chief Stoker Hendry in the boiler rooms.
  • Engineer Commander Dodson in the Engine Room.
  • Chrysler, the 17 year-old Able Seaman who spots the glint of the U-boat’s telescope, but lives to see his brother eviscerated by airplane fire in the Asdic chamber.
  • Assistant Cook McQuater, his boots soaked with freezing seawater in the arsenal, who sets the sprinklers off to kill the fire threatening the armoury even though he knows the hatchway out is jammed ie who drowns.
  • Stoker Riley, the apelike product of a Liverpool slum, a petty thief who stirs up the mutiny but volunteers to take coffee to Dodson in the damaged steering shaft.
  • Able Seaman Pedersen who superhumanly opens the jammed hatch to the Low Power Room allowing Brierly and the other trapped sailors to be rescued, before himself jumping in and pulling the hatch shut, dooming himself in order to save the ship.
  • The crews of all the merchantmen, destroyers, Condors and Stukas who are blowm uo, burned alive, drowned, frozen to death and otherwise destroyed in war’s horrifying futility…

MacLean’s style is both pared-down and rhetorical. Factual descriptions are given in a clipped, textbook style – to the extent of there being a number of purely factual footnotes throughout the book, correcting technical and historical fact – but psychological portraits often use rhetorial techniques, particularly repetition, to convey moods and feelings, especially of the extremity of exhaustion and physical ordeal the men are going through.

I read this book when I was 11 or 12 and was struck by the way the men swear softly, viciously, fluently. None of the swearwords I’ve ever learned in English or other languages, since, have come close to capturing Maclean’s description of the muttered, fluent swearing of men pushed past the bounds of endurance.

The horrors the book describes are hard to assimilate. That our grandfathers endured times like these, scenes and experiences like these, beggars belief. The scene where captain Vallery deliberately steers through the hundreds of sailors burning to death in the oil released by the torpedoed tanker Blue Ranger in order to put them out of their agony is hard to forget…

Book cover of HMS Ulysses by Alistair MacLean

Book cover of HMS Ulysses by Alistair MacLean

The seeds of MacLean’s later success and failure are here. The awesome scale of the horrific subject matter here redeems the unrelenting negativity of the characters, their reliance on alcohol and fluent swearing to get them through, their tiredness and jadedness, and their ironic wit in the face of brutality. But these same characteristics will then be appended to all the male leads in all Maclean’s books, the bitterness, the jadedness, the world-weariness, the technical expertise mixed with bone-crunching physical injuries until it becomes a formula. A formula which served him well for at least the first ten of his 29 bestselling thrillers, but a formula none the less, and one which ran increasingly threadbare in the second half of his career.

The MacLean formula

  • Technical expertise with equipment, speedboats, scuba gear, cars, guns
  • Tough guy heroics combined with no-longer-young male worldweariness

The topos of tired, old men

The figures of the dying Captain Vallely and the Vice-Admiral Tyndall, two older men pushed beyond the bounds of endurance to their deaths, reminded me of the characters in John Le Carre’s Karla trilogy, particularly ‘Control’, the ageing head of MI5 who is pushed into retirement and dies a disillusioned man; and of Smiley himself who has officially retired at the start of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. These kinds of thriller aren’t exactly aimed at pension-age men; maybe it’s that they appeal to the archetype of the exhausted, venerable old man (all four of the men named above are Good Men, honest old timers who’ve served their country well). They are noble, venerable and somehow too good for the horrible conditions of the modern world. To make a rather grandiose link they are similar to King Hrothgar in Beowulf or King Priam in the Iliad – aged, venerable men who give the entire story a kind of epic grandeur, a sense of the older generation inevitably but nobly passing away.

The first 22 Alistair MacLean novels

1955 HMS Ulysses – war story about a doomed Arctic convoy.
1957 The Guns of Navarone – war story about commandos who blow up superguns on a Greek island.
1957 South by Java Head – a motley crew of soldiers, sailors, nurses and civilians endure a series of terrible ordeals in their bid to escape the pursuing Japanese forces.
1959 The Last Frontier – secret agent Michael Reynolds rescues a British scientist from communists in Hungary.
1959 Night Without End – Arctic scientist Mason saves plane crash survivors from baddies who have stolen a secret missile guidance system.
1961 Fear is the Key – government agent John Talbot defeats a gang seeking treasure in a crashed plane off Florida.
1961 The Dark Crusader – counter-espionage agent John Bentall defeats a gang who plan to hold the world to ransom with a new intercontinental missile.
1962 The Golden Rendezvous – first officer John Carter defeats a gang who hijack his ship with a nuclear weapon.
1962 The Satan Bug – agent Pierre Cavell defeats an attempt to blackmail the government using a new supervirus.
1963 Ice Station Zebra – MI6 agent Dr John Carpenter defeats spies who have secured Russian satellite photos of US missile bases, destroyed the Arctic research base of the title and nearly sink the nuclear sub sent to rescue them.
1966 When Eight Bells Toll – British Treasury secret agent Philip Calvert defeats a gang who have been hijacking ships carrying bullion off the Scottish coast.
1967 Where Eagles Dare
1968 Force 10 From Navarone The three heroes from Guns of Navarone parachute into Yugoslavia to blow up a dam and destroy two German armoured divisions.
1969 Puppet on a Chain – Interpol agent Paul Sherman battles a grotesquely sadistic heroin-smuggling gang in Amsterdam.
1970 Caravan to Vaccarès – British agent Neil Bowman foils a gang of gypsies who are smuggling Russian nuclear scientists via the south of France to China.
1971 Bear Island – Doctor Marlowe deals with a spate of murders aboard a ship full of movie stars and crew heading into the Arctic Circle.
1973 The Way to Dusty Death – World number one racing driver Johnny Harlow acts drunk and disgraced in order to foil a gang of heroin smugglers and kidnappers.
1974 Breakheart Pass – The Wild West, 1873. Government agent John Deakin poses as a wanted criminal in order to foil a gang smuggling guns to Injuns in the Rockies and planning to steal government gold in return.
1975 Circus – The CIA ask trapeze genius Bruno Wildermann to travel to an unnamed East European country, along with his circus, and use his skills to break into a secret weapons laboratory.
1976 The Golden Gate – FBI agent Paul Revson is with the President’s convoy when it is hijacked on the Golden Gate bridge by a sophisticated gang of crooks who demand an outrageous ransom. Only he – and the doughty doctor he recruits and the pretty woman journalist -can save the President!
1977 – Seawitch – Oil executives hire an unhinged oil engineer, Cronkite, to wreak havoc on the oil rig of their rival, Lord Worth, who is saved by his beautiful daughter’s boyfriend, an ex-cop and superhero.
1977 – Goodbye California – Deranged muslim fanatic, Morro, kidnaps nuclear physicists and technicians in order to build atomic bombs which he detonates a) in the desert b) off coastal California, in order to demand a huge ransom. Luckily, he has also irritated maverick California cop, Ryder – by kidnapping his wife – so Ryder tracks him down, disarms his gang and kills him.

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