Soldier's Game

by James Killgore

  Upon reaching Waverley Market the men fell out and were provided a free lunch. Jack joined a long queue of men before a row of tables where waiters in white aprons served warm steak pies and cups of tea. Reaching the front he met up with Hugh, mouth stuffed with a pie, another in his hand.

  “Not bad, this,” he said.

  “See you saved one for me,” replied Jack.

  “Don’t worry, there’s plenty.”

  Jack had not taken his first bite when the officers began blowing whistles. All the men were reassembled in lines and marched across town to George Heriot’s School. Here temporary battalion headquarters had been set up in the grounds, with the examination hall and art classrooms fitted out as barracks along with four floors of an abandoned brewery building adjacent to the school playground.

  Chaos again ensued as the men crowded before a large bulletin board with lists detailing where they had been assigned. The battalion was organised into four “companies” with men serving alongside pals and workmates – distillery and brewery men, bankers and civil servants, students and teachers, printers and typesetters. Jack and Hugh were assigned to “C company” along with other sportsmen, including Hearts players and professional and junior footballers from Hibernian, Raith Rovers, Falkirk, Mossend and numerous local clubs. All were to share a billet on the third floor of the brewery building, which had been furnished with trestle beds along with communal sinks and flushing latrines.

  Tea was a noisy affair in the large exam hall. Jack sat with Hugh and Crossan and a few other players on a bench eating large plates of salty Irish stew.

  “Looks like they at least intend feeding us,” grumbled Crossan.

  “Cheer up, Pat,” said Annan Ness. “Just think how irresistible you’ll look in uniform.”

  “Well, there is that,” he replied. “Maybe a smart red tunic.”

  Harry Wattie shook his head.

  “Good thing you can pass a ball, Crossan, because you couldn’t pass a mirror if you tried.”

  It was an old joke but everyone laughed.

  Later that night Jack had trouble sleeping on the lumpy straw mattress. The air was stale and someone in one of the adjacent beds snored loudly. He had only ever spent a few nights away from home – a week with the Scouts in Pitlochry, a choral festival in Glasgow. This time he didn’t know when he might sleep in his own bed again.

  At 6.00 am they were roused by a bugle call and a bawling sergeant: “Come on – show a leg.” A few jokers obliged by sticking a foot out from under their blankets and had to be turfed out of bed.

  A quick wash at the sinks and breakfast was followed by assembly on the Heriot’s playground. Here the men were instructed in the basics of drill. Jack and the footballers had an advantage from the evening sessions at Grindlay Street. But the rest of the men formed at best a disordered rabble, despite much shouting and abuse from the drill sergeants.

  After lunch the entire battalion set out on a route march through Swanston Village into the Pentland Hills. Again the footballers performed well, being in top fitness, but other men struggled.

  Climbing a steep section of path, Jack and Hugh passed a boy throwing up in a clump of gorse. Jack recognised him – a fellow named Albert Ripley who was also in the sportsmen company, though he looked a most unlikely athlete: short and slight with thinning straw hair and thick round glasses.

  “You okay?” Jack asked.

  Ripley gasped for breath. “Must have been something I ate.”

  “Obviously,” said Hugh, trying not to laugh.

  They helped him up and waited as he caught his breath.

  “Better get a move on,” said Jack. “That sergeant will roast us otherwise.”

  Soon the three reached a high ridge overlooking Edinburgh below. Jack had never seen the city laid out like this at his feet: Castle Hill and the jumble of churches and stone tenements stretching down the Royal Mile to Holyrood Palace and the grassy slopes of Arthur’s seat and Salisbury Crags; beyond that the blue sea of the Forth.

  “Not a shabby view,” said Hugh, catching his breath.

  “Not at all,” replied Jack.

  Ripley could only manage a wheeze. But on the way back down the hill he felt much better and kept up a steady chatter. He told Jack and Hugh about his schooling at George Watson’s College and how he’d been training to be a lawyer before the war broke out. He didn’t play football but was Hearts daft and claimed to have never missed a match in the last seven years. Ripley could quote almost any Hearts statistics in any season you could name – ranking, win-loss-draw, even who scored what against which opponent. He had somehow convinced his father – a city councillor – to pull strings to get him in the sportsmen company just to be near his heroes.

  “Hard to imagine that I’m just three beds down from Tom Gracie,” he gushed. “Did you know he was a reserve for Scotland in 1911, the year they faced England at Goodison Park? That’s how he was spotted by Everton and then Liverpool before making the transfer to Hearts…”

  And so on, all the way back to the barracks.

  “Not a healthy interest,” Hugh muttered to Jack that evening as they washed for tea.

  ***

  Most of the men in the barracks with Jack were well into their twenties, yet the atmosphere was more like a Scout camp with all manner of childish jokes and pranks. One morning Pat Crossan awoke to find he’d been stitched into his bed. But it was inevitable that Ripley would become the favourite victim. He proved a constant annoyance to the footballers with all his questions and helpful statistics.

  One evening Crossan was arguing some trivial point with a rival Hibs player and called out to Harry Wattie, “How many goals did you have in home matches last season?”

  Wattie replied, “How should I know? Ask Ripley.”

  And of course Ripley had the answer in an instant – along with total career goals scored both home and away.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” Wattie asked, incredulous.

  “I just do,” said Ripley. “Ask me my mother’s birthday and I couldn’t tell you.”

  Jack also soon discovered that it had been Ripley snoring that first night – and every night thereafter. It was a marvel to think anyone so small could make so much noise. He kept all the men awake.

  One night Crossan and Wattie had enough. Ripley had fallen into an exhausted sleep and began his usual loud rhythmic snore. There was much whispered recruiting, and eight men took hold of Ripley’s bed and carried it down three flights of stairs as he slept. That next morning he awoke shivering and found his bed in the centre of the parade ground. A sentry stood over him along with Regimental Sergeant Major Muir.

  “Seems your bed’s gone a wandering, soldier,” he said.

  But of course that didn’t stop the snoring.

  The only player who spared Ripley grief was Tom Gracie. Certainly he was the most sensible man in the barracks and the one Jack most admired. Age 25 he had come to Hearts on a £400 transfer fee from Liverpool but had grown up in Glasgow. He was a talented and clever footballer – a top scorer – but, unlike most of the other first-team men, modest about his skill.

  The first time Gracie shook hands with Jack he said with a wry smile, “McCartney tells me I’d better keep an eye on you if I want to hold onto my job.”

  “Not a chance,” replied Jack.

  “Don’t undersell yourself,” said Gracie. “I’ve watched you play.”

  Jack shook his head but thought it just about the best compliment he’d ever been paid.

  ***

  Christmas approached and hard as Jack found the early training, neither he nor any of the other men suffered any shortage of food or warm bedding. One thing the battalion did lack though was uniforms. Most of the men were still training in the civilian clothes in which they mustered – marching in street shoes, climbing hills in thin wool overcoats. The clothes were growing ragged with hard wear and repeated soakings in the cold rain.

  “We’ll be down to our pyjamas by t
he time we get to France,” Crossan grumbled.

  McCrae and the rest of the officers were all too aware of the problem but there was a nationwide shortage of khaki. Other units had been waiting even longer. It seemed ridiculous that they should be defeated by a simple lack of proper shoes.

  Two days before Christmas the entire battalion was invited to attend the pantomime at the King’s Theatre – a special performance of Jack and the Beanstalk. Parts of the script had been rewritten with references to the war and there was much cheering and shouting. Jack sat with Hugh and Ripley near the back of the theatre and could barely hear the actors saying their lines.

  Halfway through the second act there was a scene where the character of Jack, having climbed the beanstalk, raps with his sword on the portals of the giant’s castle. The doors swung open revealing Sir George in full uniform. A roar of approval rose from the audience. In his hand the Colonel held a slip of paper from which he read the verse:

  “Do not ask where Hearts are playing and look at me askance.

  If it’s football that you’re wanting you must come with us to France.”

  McCrae then thanked the men for their hard work and promised a special surprise for that next day. During the morning drill two lorries appeared at headquarters. One of the sergeants yelled to the assembled men, “Father Christmas has come early, boys!”

  Inside were over 2,000 uniforms and 4,000 pairs of boots. Later a rumour circulated that senior officers under McCrae’s leadership had used a crowbar to break into a North British Railway supply depot. Here they stole a consignment of khaki cloth and other gear bound for a unit in the south, from which uniforms had been manufactured in record time.

  On 25 December crowds gathered along Princes Street and, to the beat of pipe and drum, McCrae’s battalion marched out in their crisp new tunics. This was followed by a traditional turkey dinner in the mess hall.

  Later, as Jack tucked into Christmas pudding along with the rest of the sportsmen, he heard Crossan comment to Harry Wattie, “You know this army lark ain’t all bad.”

  10. Maroon and Khaki

  Hearts played their second match of 1915 on 9 January against Greenock Morton. The entire battalion attended courtesy of the club. Jack and Ripley stood with the rest of the soldiers in the terraces, their breath steaming in the cold air. But it was a disappointing match. Gracie scored the only goal on a header from Scott, even though he had been unwell for most of the week. Next day the newspapers reported that Hearts looked “sluggish” and questioned whether military life was “altogether agreeing” with them.

  Certainly the relentless training was taking a toll – endless drill, daily route marches in the cold wet countryside. A few players had to wear oversized football boots to accommodate the dressings on their blisters. Influenza raged among the recruits and often Hearts were forced to play with a reduced squad. But the team was still neck and neck with Celtic in the League Championship and hopes remained high.

  The next home match was against Dundee. Hearts were two goals down by half-time but Gracie came through again, scoring from a pass off the winger. Bryden then equalised and Gracie made it three to win with a well-placed free kick.

  Jack went down to the changing room after the match to look for the trainer and came upon Gracie sitting slumped on a bench by the lockers. His face was ashen.

  “Are you okay?” Jack asked.

  Gracie shook his head. “Just feeling a bit weedy.”

  “Should I get the trainer?”

  “No. I’ll be okay in a minute or two,” he replied.

  Jack sat down on the bench next to him. “Are you sure?”

  Gracie offered a weak smile. “I’m fine. So how are you holding up with all this training?”

  Jack shrugged. “Okay. It beats steering a mail trolley around an office.”

  Gracie laughed. “Well, I can’t argue with that. I started out as a bookkeeper’s clerk before signing on with Airdrieonians. My father insisted I have a trade.”

  “Same as mine,” said Jack.

  Gracie reached down to untie the laces on his boots.

  “Not bad advice. But I could never stick an office job. For me it’s always been football – that or nothing.”

  He then stared a moment at the floor. “Are you ever worried?” he asked.

  “Worried about what?” Jack replied.

  “Being a soldier; facing the enemy.”

  “I try not to think about it.”

  Gracie laughed again but without any joy. “Maybe that’s the best thing for it – not to think too much.”

  ***

  Jack did have plenty else on his mind that winter. Hearts second team also struggled with sickness and exhaustion. In addition to army training they were working out three evenings a week with the club and playing matches most Saturdays. Not even Ripley’s snoring could keep Jack awake the instant his head touched the pillow.

  By the end of February the second team had lost only two of their regular season matches. Jack was lead scorer and more often than not on passes from Hugh Wilson. In one hard-fought match against Hibs, Jack drove in a header off a Wilson pass in the last thirty seconds of play to equalise. Local sports writers began to take notice of Jack Jordan – as did McCartney the manager.

  In late March a reserve centre forward on the first team tore a ligament in his knee. That Wednesday the trainer suggested to Jack he check the list for Saturday’s match against Clyde. Here he found his name just under Tom Gracie.

  His heart beat wildly as he hurried through the gates at Tynecastle and headed up Gorgie Road towards Fountainbridge. Jack figured no one at the barracks would miss him for the five or ten minutes it would take to pop home and announce the news. Letting himself in the front door he met his father in the hall. Tom Jordan smiled but looked sombre. Jack then heard his mother crying in the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Tom shook his head.

  “Your mother got a letter from Aunt Rose in Glasgow. The family received a telegram from the War Office. Dougie is missing in action, presumed dead.”

  Jack was stunned. His cousin Dougie was only two years older and had visited Edinburgh for his holidays every summer Jack could remember. Just out of school he joined the Royal Engineers and had gone to France with the British Expeditionary Force.

  “I thought he wasn’t even fighting. Just digging trenches,” said Jack.

  Tom shrugged. “The telegram said it was an artillery barrage.”

  Jack went into the kitchen and found his mother slumped at the table before a basin of unpeeled potatoes. He sat in the chair next to her and put his arm around her shoulder.

  “Promise you’ll take care,” she sobbed. “Promise.”

  Tom later saw him to the door but Jack didn’t mention the news about his place on the first team. It seemed trivial now.

  ***

  That Saturday Jack dressed with the rest of the players in maroon and white but there was little of the usual banter. Wattie had lost his father to influenza earlier that month. Gracie had been ill again all week but had risen from his sickbed to play the match.

  Jack sat on the bench during the first half, which was goalless. The second half was well advanced before Jamie Low scored. Gracie soon made it two but then lost pace and seemed to have trouble breathing.

  McCartney shouted back to the bench, “Jordan! Warm up.”

  There were ten minutes left of regular play. Jack jogged and jumped in place until McCartney called him to the line.

  “Give it your best, lad,” he said and signalled a substitution.

  Gracie smiled as they passed on his way back to the bench. His face looked deathly pale. Jack took up position, feeling small and exposed in the centre of that vast arena with its roaring crowd.

  Play was mostly defensive, the score being two-nil to Hearts. Much of the action now centred around the Hearts goal, as Clyde tried to get something on the board. Then one of the forwards took a shot from far outsi
de the box, which was saved easily by the Hearts goalie. He cleared it with a long low kick. Jack raced under the ball towards the Clyde goal. A defender checked the ball and fumbled about looking for a pass. Here Jack saw his opportunity. He charged in and tapped the ball between the Clyde player’s legs. An excited cheer burst from the crowd.

  Dribbling forward, Jack looked right and saw Wattie being held back by another defender. To the left was empty pitch. Ahead a lone centre back rushed in for a tackle. Jack raced left and then cut right, wrong-footing the man. Ten yards out he took the shot, which blistered past the goalie’s out-stretched hands just inside the right post.

  The crowd roared its appreciation, though it mattered little to the score. Everyone loves a debut goal. The rest of the match was a blur for Jack and at the final whistle Crossan and Wattie lifted him jokingly onto their shoulders.

  Back in the changing room the trainer waited to tell them that Tom Gracie had been taken by cab to the Royal Infirmary.

  ***

  That next evening after tea, Jack paid Gracie a visit on the respiratory ward of the hospital along with Hugh and Ripley. It was a long airy room with high ceilings and a dozen beds down each wall. Tom was sitting up, reading a newspaper.

  “What – no flowers?” he called.

  Jack thought he looked ghastly: skin grey, cheeks sunken, eyes hollowed.

  Ripley laid a chocolate bar on the bedside table.

  “Thanks – you’re a lifesaver,” said Gracie. “The food here is inedible even by army standards.” But he left the chocolate unopened.

  “Have the doctors said when you might be getting out?” asked Jack.

  “No one’s said anything,” he replied. “But I’ve never been more poked and prodded in all my life.”