The Complete McAuslan (5 page)

With all this talent to choose from – the battalion was seventy-five per cent Glasgow men – it followed that the regimental team was something special. In later years more than half of them went on to play for professional teams, and one was capped for Scotland, but never in their careers did they have the opportunity for perfecting their skill that they had in that battalion. They were young and as fit as a recent war had made them; they practised together constantly in a Mediterranean climate; they had no worries; they loved their game. At their peak, when they were murdering the opposition from Tobruk to the Algerian border, they were a team that could have given most club sides in the world a little trouble, if nothing more.

The Colonel didn’t speak their language, but his attitude to them was more than one of paternal affection for his soldiers. He respected their peculiar talent, and would sit in the stand at games crying ‘Play up!’ and ‘Oh, dear, McIlhatton!’ When they won, as they invariably did, he would beam and patronise the other colonels, and when they brought home the Command Cup he was almost as proud as he was of the Battle Honours.

In his pride he became ambitious. ‘Look, young Dand,’ he said. ’Any reason why they shouldn’t go on tour? You know, round the Med., play the garrison teams, eh? I mean, they’d win, wouldn’t they?’

I said they ought to be far too strong for most regimental sides.

‘Good, good,’ he said, full of the spirit that made British sportsmanship what it is. ‘Wallop the lot of them, excellent. Right, I’ll organise it.’

When the Colonel organised something, it was organised; within a couple of weeks I was on my way to the docks armed with warrants and a suitcase full of cash, and in the back of the truck were the battalion team, plus reserves, all beautiful in their best tartans, sitting with their arms folded and their bonnets, as usual, over their faces.

When I lined them up on the quayside, preparatory to boarding one of H.M. coastal craft, I was struck again by their lack of size. They were extremely neat men, as Glaswegians usually are, quick, nervous, and deft as monkeys, but they were undoubtedly small. A century of life – of living, at any rate – in the hell’s kitchen of industrial Glasgow, has cut the stature and mighty physique of the Scotch-Irish people pitifully; Glasgow is full of little men today, but at least they are stouter and sleeker than my team was. They were the children of the hungry ‘thirties, hard-eyed and wiry; only one of them was near my size, a fair, dreamy youth called McGlinchy, one of the reserves. He was a useless, beautiful player, a Stanley Matthews for five minutes of each game, and for the rest of the time an indolent passenger who strolled about the left wing, humming to himself. Thus he was normally in the second eleven (‘He’s got fitba’,’ the corporal who captained the first team would say, ‘but whit the hell, he’s no’ a’ there; he’s wandered.’)

The other odd man out in the party was Private McAuslan, the dirtiest soldier in the world, who acted as linesman and baggage-master, God help us. The Colonel had wanted to keep him behind, and send someone more fit for human inspection, but the team had protested violently. They were just men, and McAuslan was their linesman, foul as he was. In fairness I had backed them up, and now I was regretting it, for McAuslan is not the kind of ornament that you want to advertise your team in Mediterranean capitals. He stood there with the baggage, grimy and dishevelled, showing a tasteful strip of grey vest between kilt and tunic, and with his hosetops wrinkling towards his ankles.

‘All right, children,’ I said, ‘get aboard,’ and as they chattered up the gangplank I went to look for the man in charge. I found him in a passageway below decks, leaning with his forehead against a pipe, singing ‘The· Ash Grove‘ and fuming of gin. I addressed him, and he looked at me. Possibly the sight of a man in Highland dress was too much for him, what with the heat, for he put his hands over his eyes and said, ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ but I convinced him that I was real, and he came to quite briskly. We got off to a fine start with the following memorable exchange.

Me: Excuse me, can you tell me when this boat starts?

He: It’s not a boat, it’s a ship.

Me: Oh, sorry. Well, have you any idea when it starts?

He: If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be the bloody captain, would I?

Now that we were chatting like old friends, I introduced myself. He was a Welshman, stocky and middle-aged, with the bland, open face of a cherub and a heart as black as Satan’s waistcoat. His name was Samuels, and he was not pleased to see me, but he offered me gin, muttering about the indignity of having his fine vessel used as a floating hotel for a lot of blasted pongos, and Scotch pongos at that. I excused myself, went to see that my Highlanders were comfortably installed – I found them ranged solemnly on a platform in the engine room, looking at the engines – and having shepherded them to their quarters and prevented McAuslan falling over the side, I went to my cabin. There I counted the money – it was a month’s pay for the party – and before I had finished the ship began to vibrate and we were away, like Hannibal, to invade the North.

I am no judge of naval behaviour, but looking back I should say that if the much-maligned William Bligh had been half as offensive as Lieutenant Samuels the
Bounty
would never have got the length of Land’s End, let alone Tahiti. At the first meal in the ward-room – which consisted for him of gin and chocolate biscuits – he snarled at his officers, bullied the stewards, and cross-examined me with a hackle-raising mixture of contempt and curiosity. We were going to the Grand Island, he knew; and what did we think we were going to do there? Play football, was it? Was that all pongos had to do? And who were wé going to play, then?

Keeping my temper I told him we had several matches arranged against Service and civilian teams on the island, and he chose to make light of our chances. He had seen my team come aboard; they were midgets, and anyway who had they ever beaten?

At this one of his officers said he had seen us play, and we were good, very good. Samuels glared at him, but later he became thoughtful, applying himself to his gin, and when the meal ended he was still sitting there, brooding darkly. His officers looked nervous; they seemed to know the signs.

Next morning the African coast was still in view. I was surprised enough to ask Samuels about this, and he laughed and looked at me slantendicular.

‘We’re not goin’ straight to the Island, Jocko,’ he explained. ‘Got to look in at Derna first, to pick up supplies. Don’t worry, it won’t take long.’ He seemed oddly excited, but distinctly pleased with himself.

I didn’t mind, and when Samuels suggested that we take the opportunity to go ashore at Derna so that my boys could have a practice kick-about, I was all for it. He went further; having vanished mysteriously into the town to conclude his official business, he returned to say that he was in a position to fix up a practice match against the local garrison side — ‘thought your boys might like a try-out against some easy opposition, like; some not bad footballers yere, give you a game, anyway.’

Since we had several hours before we sailed it seemed not a bad idea; I consulted with the corporal-captain, and we told Samuels to go ahead. And then things started happening.

First of all, Samuels suggested we change into football kit on the ship. There was nothing odd about that, but when we went to the baggage room the team’s fine yellow jerseys with the little tartan badge were missing; it transpired that through some inexplicable mix-up they were now in the ship’s laundry, being washed. Not to worry, said Samuels, we’ll lend you some blue shirts, which he did.

He took personal charge of our party when we went ashore – I was playing myself, as it was an unimportant game, and I wanted to rest our left-half, who had been slightly seasick. We played on a mud-baked pitch near the harbour, and coasted to a very gentle 7 – 0 win. Afterwards the garrison team invited us for drinks and supper, but Samuels interrupted my acceptance to say we hadn’t time; we had to catch the tide, or the wind, or something, and we were bundled into the truck and hurried back to the harbour. But one remark the garrison captain let fall in parting, and it puzzled me.

‘It’s odd,’ he said, ‘to find so many Scotsmen in one ship’s crew.’

I mentioned this to Samuels, back on board, and he sniggered wickedly.

‘Well, now, natural enuff,’ he said. ‘He thought you was all in the ship’s company.’

A horrid suspicion was forming in my mind as I asked him to explain.

‘Well, see now,’ he said, ‘I ’ad an idea. When I went ashore first, I looks in on the garrison an’ starts talkin’ football. “Got a pretty fair team yere, ‘aven’t you?” I says. “District champions, ” says they. “Couldn’t beat my ship’s company,” I says – cuttin’ a long story short, you understand. “Couldn’t what?” says they. “You want to bet?” says I.’ He sat back, beaming wickedly at me. “So I got on a little bet.’

I gaped at the man. ‘You mean you passed off my team, under false pretences . . . You little shark! You could get the jail for this.’

‘Grow up, boyo,’ said Samuels. ‘Lissen, it’s a gold mine. I was just tryin’ it out before lettin’ you in. Look, we can’t go wrong. We can clean up the whole coast, an’ then you can do your tour on the Island. Who knows your Jocks aren’t my matelots? And they’ll bite every time; what’s a mingy little coaster, they’ll say, it can’t have no football team.’ He cackled and drank gin. ‘Oh, boy! They don’t know we’ve got the next best thing to the Arsenal on board!’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Give me the money you won.’ He stared at me. ‘It’s going back to the garrison,’ I explained.

‘You gone nuts, boyo?’

‘No, I haven’t. Certainly not nuts enough to let you get away with using my boys, my regiment, dammit, to feather your little nest. Come on, cough up.’

But he wouldn’t, and the longer we argued the less it seemed I could do anything about it. To expose the swindle would be as embarrassing for me and my team as for Samuels. So in the end I had to drop it, and got some satisfaction from telling him that it was his first and last killing as far as we were concerned. He cursed a bit, for he had planned the most plunderous operation seen in the Med. since the Barbary corsairs, but later he brightened up.

‘I’ll still win a packet on you on the Island,’ he said. ‘You’re good, Jocko. Them boys of yours are the sweetest thing this side of Ninian Park. Football is an art, is it? But you’re missin’ a great opportunity. I thought Scotsmen were sharp, too.’

That disposed of, it was a pleasant enough voyage, marred only by two fights between McAuslan on the one hand and members of the crew, who had criticised his unsanitary appearance, on the other. I straightened them out, upbraided McAuslan, and instructed him how to behave.

‘You’re a guest, you horrible article,’ I said. ‘Be nice to the sailors; they are your friends. Fraternise with them; they were on our side in the war, you know? And for that matter, when we get to the Island, I shall expect a higher standard than ever from all of you. Be a credit to the regiment, and keep moderately sober after the games. Above all, don’t fight. Cut out the Garscube Road stuff or I’ll blitz you.’

Just how my simple, manly words affected them you could see from the glazed look in their eyes, and I led them down the gangplank at Grand Island feeling just a mite apprehensive. They were good enough boys, but as wild as the next, and it was more than usually important that they keep out of trouble because the Military Governor, who had been instrumental in fixing the tour, was formerly of a Highland regiment, and would expect us not only to win our games but to win golden opinions for deportment.

He was there to meet us, with aides and minions, a stately man of much charm who shook hands with the lads and then departed in a Rolls, having assured me that he was going to be at every game. Then the Press descended on us, I was interviewed about our chances, and we were all lined up and photographed. The result, as seen in the evening paper, was mixed. The team were standing there in their kilts, frowning suspiciously, with me at one end grinning inanely. At the other end crouched an anthropoid figure, dressed apparently in old sacking; at first I thought an Arab mendicant had strayed into the picture, but closer inspection identified it as McAuslan showing, as one of the team remarked, his good side.

Incidentally, it seemed from the paper’s comments that we were not highly rated. The hint seemed to be that we were being given a big build-up simply because we were from the Governor’s old brigade, but that when the garrison teams – and I knew they were good teams – got at us, we would be pretty easy meat. This suited me, and it obviously didn’t worry the team. They were near enough professional to know that games aren’t won in newspaper columns.

We trained for two days and had our first game against the German prisoners-of-war. They were men still waiting to be repatriated, ex-Africa Korps, big and tough, and they had played together since they went into the bag in ‘42. Some of our team wore the Africa Star, and you could feel the tension higher than usual in the dressing-room beforehand. The corporal, dapper and wiry, stamped his boots on the concrete, bounced the ball, and said, ‘Awright fellas, let’s get stuck intae these Huns,’ and out they trotted.

(I should say at this point that this final exhortation varied only according to our opponents. Years later, when he led a famous league side out to play Celtic, this same corporal, having said his Hail-Mary and fingered his crucifix, instructed his team, ‘Awright fellas, let’s get stuck intae these Papes.’ There is a lesson in team spirit there, if you think about it.)

The Germans were good, but not good enough. They were clever for their size, but our boys kept the ball down and the game close, and ran them into a sweat before half-time. We should have won by about four clear goals, but the breaks didn’t come, and we had to be content with 2 – 0. Personally I was exhausted: I had had to sit beside the Governor, who had played Rugby, but if I had tried to explain the finer points he wouldn’t have heard them anyway. He worked himself into a state of nervous frenzy, wrenching his handkerchief in his fingers, and giving antique yelps of ‘Off your side!’ and ‘We claim foul’ which contrasted oddly with the raucous support of our reserve players, whose repertoire was more varied and included ‘Dig a hole for ‘im!’ ‘Sink ‘im!’ and the inevitable ‘Get tore intae these people!’ At the end the Germans cried ‘Hoch! Hoch!’ and we gave three cheers, and both sides came off hating each other.