Read Online The Complete McAuslan by George MacDonald Fraser - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: George MacDonald Fraser
Tags: Biographical fiction, Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Sea stories, War & Military, Short Stories (Single Author), Adventure stories, Soldiers, Scots
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ran.
Then the Navy showed how good they were. They attacked, and for the first and only time in my experience of them I saw my team panicked. They had snatched a possible draw from certain defeat, and they were scared stiff of slipping back. They were wild; they fouled twice, once perilously close to the 18-yard line, and I could see, although I couldn’t hear, the corporal barking at them, swearing horribly, no doubt, steadying them. He was wise, that corporal; whenever he got the ball he looked for McGlinchy. He sensed, like me, that he was in the presence of a phenomenon; it couldn’t last, but he knew to use it while it was there. ‘Feed him, feed him, he’s bewitched,’ I found myself saying, and McGlinchy went off down the wing, fair hair flying – I made a note to make him get it cut – and was tackled and the ball ran out.
He clapped his hands for it, trapped it as it was thrown in, back-heeled it through an opponent’s legs, and ran on to it. He stopped, on the edge of the centre circle, foot on the ball, looking round. And for a split second the sound died. Then:
‘Coom to ‘im, man!’ in a great Yorkshire voice.
‘Get rid o’ it, mac! See the winger.’
The roar swelled up, and he swerved away, dummied past a half-back, reached the penalty circle, slid heaven knows how between two defenders, almost lost the ball, scratched for it, pushed it forward, feinted to shoot, swerved again, and now he was on the penalty spot, with the blue jerseys converging, and little Forbes screaming for the ball, unmarked, and Campbell on the other side of him beating his hands. But he went on, the Admiral covered his face, the Governor rose to his feet cramming his handkerchief into his mouth, McGlinchy had one sailor at his elbow and another lunging desperately in front of him; he checked and side-stepped, looked at Forbes, shoved the ball under the tackler’s leg, went after it, and just for a split second was clear, with every sailor except Lord Nelson thundering in on him, the goalkeeper diving at his feet, and then the blue flood swept down on him.
‘Get rid o’ it!’
‘Kill him!’ bawled the Admiral, decency forgotten.
‘Get tore in!’ cried the Governor.
He went down in a heap of navy jerseys, and a sudden bellow went up from behind the goal. I couldn’t see why, and then I saw why. The ball was lying, rolling just a little, a foot over the goal-line. It came to rest in the net, just inside the post.
At such times, when all around is bedlam, the man of mark is distinguished by his nonchalance and detachment. Calmly I took out my cigarette case, selected a cigarette, struck a match, set fire to my sporran, roared aloud, dropped cigarettes, case, and matches, and scrambled on my knees along the floor of the box trying to beat the flames out. By the time I had succeeded the box was full of smoke and a most disgusting stench, one of the Admiral’s aides was looking round muttering that expressions of triumph were all very well, but the line should be drawn somewhere, and the Fleet were kicking off in a last attempt to retrieve the game.
They didn’t make it, but it was a near thing. There was one appeal for a penalty when the corporal seemed to handle – if I’d been the referee I believe I’d have given it – but the claim was disallowed, and then the long whistle blew. We had won, 5 – 4, and I found myself face to face with a red-faced petty officer who was exclaiming, ‘By, you were lucky! I say, you were lucky! By!’
I made deprecating noises and shot downstairs. They were trooping into the dressing-room, chattering indignantly – it was their curious way not to be exultant over what had gone right, but aggrieved over what had gone wrong. I gathered that at least two of the Fleet should have been ordered off, that the referee had been ignorant of the offside law, that we should have had a penalty when . . . and so on. Never mind, I said, we won, it had all come out all right. Oh, aye,
Then the Navy showed how good they were. They attacked, and for the first and only time in my experience of them I saw my team panicked. They had snatched a possible draw from certain defeat, and they were scared stiff of slipping back. They were wild; they fouled twice, once perilously close to the 18-yard line, and I could see, although I couldn’t hear, the corporal barking at them, swearing horribly, no doubt, steadying them. He was wise, that corporal; whenever he got the ball he looked for McGlinchy. He sensed, like me, that he was in the presence of a phenomenon; it couldn’t last, but he knew to use it while it was there. ‘Feed him, feed him, he’s bewitched,’ I found myself saying, and McGlinchy went off down the wing, fair hair flying – I made a note to make him get it cut – and was tackled and the ball ran out.
He clapped his hands for it, trapped it as it was thrown in, back-heeled it through an opponent’s legs, and ran on to it. He stopped, on the edge of the centre circle, foot on the ball, looking round. And for a split second the sound died. Then:
‘Coom to ‘im, man!’ in a great Yorkshire voice.
‘Get rid o’ it, mac! See the winger.’
The roar swelled up, and he swerved away, dummied past a half-back, reached the penalty circle, slid heaven knows how between two defenders, almost lost the ball, scratched for it, pushed it forward, feinted to shoot, swerved again, and now he was on the penalty spot, with the blue jerseys converging, and little Forbes screaming for the ball, unmarked, and Campbell on the other side of him beating his hands. But he went on, the Admiral covered his face, the Governor rose to his feet cramming his handkerchief into his mouth, McGlinchy had one sailor at his elbow and another lunging desperately in front of him; he checked and side-stepped, looked at Forbes, shoved the ball under the tackler’s leg, went after it, and just for a split second was clear, with every sailor except Lord Nelson thundering in on him, the goalkeeper diving at his feet, and then the blue flood swept down on him.
‘Get rid o’ it!’
‘Kill him!’ bawled the Admiral, decency forgotten.
‘Get tore in!’ cried the Governor.
He went down in a heap of navy jerseys, and a sudden bellow went up from behind the goal. I couldn’t see why, and then I saw why. The ball was lying, rolling just a little, a foot over the goal-line. It came to rest in the net, just inside the post.
At such times, when all around is bedlam, the man of mark is distinguished by his nonchalance and detachment. Calmly I took out my cigarette case, selected a cigarette, struck a match, set fire to my sporran, roared aloud, dropped cigarettes, case, and matches, and scrambled on my knees along the floor of the box trying to beat the flames out. By the time I had succeeded the box was full of smoke and a most disgusting stench, one of the Admiral’s aides was looking round muttering that expressions of triumph were all very well, but the line should be drawn somewhere, and the Fleet were kicking off in a last attempt to retrieve the game.
They didn’t make it, but it was a near thing. There was one appeal for a penalty when the corporal seemed to handle – if I’d been the referee I believe I’d have given it – but the claim was disallowed, and then the long whistle blew. We had won, 5 – 4, and I found myself face to face with a red-faced petty officer who was exclaiming, ‘By, you were lucky! I say, you were lucky! By!’
I made deprecating noises and shot downstairs. They were trooping into the dressing-room, chattering indignantly – it was their curious way not to be exultant over what had gone right, but aggrieved over what had gone wrong. I gathered that at least two of the Fleet should have been ordered off, that the referee had been ignorant of the offside law, that we should have had a penalty when . . . and so on. Never mind, I said, we won, it had all come out all right. Oh, aye,
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