‘You!’ says Fletcher. ‘You couldnae get oot yer own way. Mind that own goal against A Company?’
‘Aw, fur Pete’s sake, Fletcher, come affit!’ Ah says. ‘Ye still gaun oan aboot that? Ah niwer even seen ra ba’ comin’, hoo wis Ah tae know McGuffie wis gaun tae dae a back pass – the eejit! – it wisnae ma fault, Ah wis markin’ the winger, Ah wis – ’
‘It’s that gommeril Macleod!’ says Fletcher, glowerin’ at ra telly. ‘He’ll haftae go! The man’s no’ up tae it. Trust the Esseffay tae pick a teuchter as Scotland’s manager. A Macleod, no kiddin’. The Macleods is a’ away wi’ the fairies, everybuddy kens that. Ye know they’ve even got a fairy banner?’
‘Zattafac’?’
‘Aye, they fly it on their castle at clan gatherin’s, an’ Ally Macleod mustae been wearin’ it draped ower his heid a’ the way tae Argenteena frae Gartnavel, or he’d have seen whit a pile o’ rubbish his team wis. Shootin’s too good fur him – ’
’Haud oan,’ Ah says. ’Jist haud oan, Fletcher. Keep the heid. Cool it. Tak’ it easy. DON’T PANIC!! Macleod, ye say? Weel, Ah’ll tell ye sumpn, Fletcher. Ah’ve been watchin’ while thae bums has been gettin’ crucified by Perroo, an’ noo by the bluidy Assyrians or whitever they are – GAUN YERSEL, JORDAN! BREENGE AT HIM! IT’S WIDE OPEN! HIT THE THING, FUR GOAD’S SAKE! Aw, ye widnae credit it! Jie Dee widda had that past ra keeper in his sleep! Honest tae Goad, they want tae wrap the ba’ up in a parcel an’ post it tae ra wog goalie, it’ll get there sooner! Onyway, Fletcher, whit Ah’m sayin’ – Ah’ ve been watchin’, an’ ye know, Ah hivnae seen Macleod make a single bad pass, or miss a single tackle, or balloon ra ba’ ower the bar, or fa’ on his erse, or dae ony o’ the things thae wandered bums in blue jersies has been daein’. It’s no’ Macleod that’s oot there playin’ like he’d been ten year in the Eastern Necropolis. Leave Macleod alone, the man’s daein’ his best. Sich as it is. Goad preserve us frae his worst. He’ll be keepin’ that fur ra game against Holland.
‘Whit’s that ye say? Ach, whiddy ye mean, he should have watched Perroo beforehand, an’ he didnae get dossiers on a’ their players, an’ he didnae show oor boys fillums o’ the Perroovians? So whit! Naebuddy showed us fillums o’ A Company, did they? Awright, awright, we got beat aff A Company! Ah know, Ah wis there, wisn’t Ah? That’s no’ the point at a’. D’ye hear whit Ah’m sayin’, Fletcher? Will ye listen? The point Ah’m makin’, if Ah can get a word in edgewise – the point Ah’m makin’s this: naebuddy done me a dossier on that dirty big animal that A Company had playin’ at ootside right, an’ kicked me stupit afore hauf-time. Ah didnae need a dossier, or fillums o’ the beast, did Ah? No’ bluidy likely. Ah just went oot there an’ kicked him stupit in the second hauf. So the point Ah’m makin’ ― will ye sharrup? The point Ah’m makin’, is that if ye cannae come up against a side, an’ tak’ them as ye find them, an’ beat them at their own game, then you’re no’ much o’ a fitba’ team. Ye neednae blame it on the manager, even if he isnae fit tae be a lollipop man at the Gobi Desert Secondary School. Whaur’s the Gobi Desert? Hoo the hell dae Ah know? Whitsat gottae dae wi it, that’s a red herrin’, Fletcher – COME OOT, ROUGH, FUR THE LOVE O’ GOAD!! THE WOG’S GAUNAE SCORE! AW, LOVELY, ALAN! Aw, did ye see that? Whit a save! Oh, jeez, Ah thought fur a horrible minute . . . Ye’re awright, Alan! Even if ye do take fits. Oh, gie’s anither pint, Ah’m needin’ it! An’ a wee hauf, miss – KICK IT UP RA PARK, YE GREAT MARYHILL MUG, YE!! Aw, Goad, aw, dearie me . . .
’Awright, they’re rubbish. Awright, they’re hellish. Awright, they’re no’ fit tae play for the Normal School Reserves. So whit? They’ve been rubbish afore, an’ they’ll be rubbish again. But Ah’ve seen them when they wis good. Ah mind them at Wembley an’ Hampden an’ Lisbon an’ a’ sorts o’ places when they made the park seem like it wis a magic carpet, and John White wi’ the ba’ like it wis tied tae his boots, an’ Tommy Gemmell bangin’ them in frae thirty yards, an’ big George Young guardin’ ra box like a polis, an’ Denis Law flickin’ it in wi’ the back o’ his heid, an’ Slim Jim Baxter sittin’ on the ba’ – sittin’ oan it, but, inside his own eighteen-yard line, waitin’ fur the English tae try tae tak’ it aff him! The cheek o’ the man! Goad, they could dae wi’ Baxter oot there the night. Jist fur five minutes. Or auld Jie Dee. Ye mind Jie Dee, Fletcher, wi’ his baldy heid?
‘Weel, they’re daein’ their best, Ah suppose. Okay, so it’s no’ much o’ a best. They’re no’ very good – the noo. Ah’ve seen them good. Awright, awright, they’re bluidy terrible the night. But – CENTRE IT, GEMMELL!! CROSS IT, YE BAMPOT, THEY’RE LINED UP WAITIN’ LIKE IT WIS A BUS STOP! Aw, wid ye believe it? AFFSIDE? Hoo the hell could yon be affside? There’s mair wogs in that goal area than there is in Egypt! Who’s that referee, Fletcher? Whaur’s he from? Does he speak English, even? He’ll be a Yugoslavakian, by the looks o’ him. Or a cannibal. AWAY TAE LIZARS AN’ GET YER EYES TESTED, YA BIG POULTICE! Referees? Aw, Ah’ve had it . . .
’Whit wis Ah sayin’? Aye! Ah wis sayin’ they’re terrible. Aye, but, see you, Fletcher. Mind when Jordan hit ra post, an’ Dalgleish pit one jist past, an’ Masson scraped ra cross-bar? Suppose they’d gone in – suppose they’d been six inches the ither way – suppose they’d been three goals instead o’ three misses – you’d no’ hiv been bawlin’; “Bring back hangin”! Macleod’s got tae die!’ Aw, no! Ye’d hiv been takin’ the width o’ the Maryhill Road, gassed tae hellangone, singin’ “Ally is ra greatest, Ally fur king, Ally fur Pope!”, an’ ye widnae hiv bothered yer backside if the ootfield play wis rubbish, an’ the defence lookin’ like a Sunday School treat in the rain, an’ big Jordan performin’ like he wis between the shafts o’ a coal-cairt. No fears. As long as the ba’ went in the wog net, or the dago net, ye widnae care hoo it got there! There’s a’ you ken aboot fitba’, you . . .’
‘Look, McAuslan,’ says he. ‘It didnae go in the wog net! Did it? It didnae go in the dago net! Did it? No, it didnae! That’s whit Ah’m complainin’ aboot!’
‘. . . an’ ye widnae hiv cared if the whole Scots team wis mainlinin’ on sulphuric acid or sherbet, ye’d hiv been screechin’: “Scotland can beat ra world an’ ooter space! Aw-haw-hey! We’re the wee boys! We’re the champs!” ’
‘Look, McAuslan!’ cries he. ‘They got beat! B-E-E-T! An’ Ah’m scunnered! Disgustit! Ye hear me?’
‘Aye, Ah hear ye. Ah know. Pathetic, so it is. But whit’s the point o’ belly-achin’ at the boys? Ah’ve nae time fur that. See yon yahoos, ca’ themselves supporters, mobbin’ the team bus, bawlin’: “Macleod is rubbish! Awa’ hame, Forsyth, yer tea’s oot! We want wur money back! Scotland are rubbish!” See them? Ah widnae gi’e them the time o’ day. Did they qualify fur ra World Cup finals? No’ on yer nellie! Did they beat ra Czechs an’ ra Welsh? They did not! Did they ever dae onything but staun on ra terracin’ makin’ pigs o’ themselves when Scotland wis winnin’, and yellin’ dog’s abuse when they got beat? So whit entitles them . . . SEE THE WINGER, MACARI! HE’S OOT THERE LIKE RA UNKNOWN SOJER, NAEBUDDY KENS HE’S THERE! Aw, jeez, aw Goad – ye bampot, Macari, ye pudden, are ye related tae that Irranian sweeper, ye’re aye gi‘in’ the ba’ tae him! As Ah wis sayin’ . . . Ach, whit the hell, itsa waste o’ time. Ah’ve had it. Up tae here. Switch that damned telly aff, barman, or let’s hiv Bill an’ Ben the Floorpot Men, at least they’ve got mair intelligence than whit we’ve been watchin’ . . . Ah jist wish . . . Ah jist wish . . . Ach, whit’s the use? Jie Dee disnae play here any more. Neither does Toamy Walker. Hughie Gallacher’s deid, an’ Ma Ba’ Peter isnae aroond (thank Goad, he wis a’ they needed in Cordova, anither Partick Thistle comedian – but he wis magic on his day, mind). Aye, they’re a’ gone. Jimmy Logie’s sellin’ papers oan Piccadilly, Erchie Macaulay’s a traffic warden, an’ Baxter’s got a pub in ra Govan Road. It’s no’ the same . . .
‘Here, but . . . that boy Souness isnae bad. An’ there must be ither young fellas comin’ on. When’s the next World Cup, Fletc
her? 1982? Dear Goad, we goat tae go through a’ this again? Ah cannae stand it, so Ah cannae. But Ah’ll hiftae. It’s like politics an’ dry rot; ye cannae get away frae them, an’ there’s nae cure. An’ noo we’re gaun tae hiv tae sit through the game against Holland – can ye picture it, Fletcher? We’ll get murdered! Murdered! It’ll be aboot six-nil, Ah’ll no’ be able tae watch . . . Mind you, Ah know the Dutch are good, but they’re just eleven men, efter a’. Ye niwer know, fitba’s a funny game. Aye, no’ that funny. Still, Scotland cannae be worse than they were tonight . . . weel, no’ much worse. Ah hope. Tell ye whit, though. Ah’ll tak’ them tae beat England at Wembley next year. Mebbe.
‘Ye mind Jie Dee? Aw, Goad . . .’
It seems only just to record that Scotland, unpredictable as ever, played like champions against Holland and beat them convincingly – but not by a big enough margin to qualify for the final stages. Still, I have no doubt that the memory of that victory was enough to sustain McAuslan through the next World Cup, and the next, and so on for ever after.
Extraduction
The Highland battalion in this book never existed, inasmuch as the people in the stories are fictitious . . . and the incidents have been made up from a wide variety of sources, including my imagination . . .
I wrote those words in 1970 as part of the preface to the first collection of stories about Private McAuslan and Lieutenant MacNeill, entitled The General Danced at Dawn. They seemed true at the time, and again four years later when I repeated them in the sequel, McAuslan in the Rough. Now, reading them over so long after, I’m not so sure. This closing chapter may explain why.
For thirty years after leaving the Army I had no contact with my old regiment. Of course I followed their fortunes, at first in newspapers and cinema newsreels, and later on television; just the sight of that stag’s head badge or the sound of a certain pipe tune, and I would be on the edge of my seat with the hairs rising on the nape of my neck. I rejoiced the first time they escaped amalgamation (a wicked and unnecessary exercise which has since put an end to them), and felt that strange mixture of exultation and anxiety whenever I heard of them on active service in some corner of the world – Malaya, Korea, Africa, Cyprus, and, now that the frontiers have dwindled, in Ulster (which looks like an even nastier version of Palestine from where I’m sitting. Flak-jackets and camouflage blouses instead of kilt and K.D., and a most unwieldy-looking rifle in place of the lovely Lee Enfield – but I notice they still persist in wearing their bonnets pulled down like coal-heavers’ caps, and the faces underneath might have come straight from my old platoon. I watch them on T.V., doing that dirty, thankless job on the graffitied streets of Belfast, and just pray that they’re as quick and hard and canny as the men I knew. I needn’t worry, of course. They are. But I worry, just the same.)
That was as close as I came to the regiment in three decades, although very occasionally I might run into a former comrade, now civilian – and that was a disturbing experience, because they had got so ridiculously old; why, the youngest of them was bald and middle-aged and overweight. Extraordinary, when I had hardly changed at all. Well, perhaps an inch or two on the waist and a few grey hairs . . . and then I would glance in the mirror, and compare the reflection of the dyspeptic old man glowering out at me with the fading photo of that jaunty, innocent, childlike subaltern who was here just the other day, surely? What really put the tin hat on it was when I read some years ago that the regiment’s commanding officer was retiring – and recognised his name as that of a young second-lieutenant who had reported his arrival to me when I was a company second-in-command. That’s when you realise that those clear bright memories, of faces you knew and voices you heard only a moment ago . . . are history. It wasn’t a moment ago; it’s further away in time than the Second World War was from the Boer War. And that’s when you begin to wonder how well your memory has served you.
It was almost exactly thirty years to the day after I left the Army that I found myself in London en route for Yugoslavia, where I was to work on a film. Thirty years away from the regiment, in which time I had married, had children, emigrated, come back, worked my way from junior reporter to (briefly) the editor’s chair of a great newspaper, retired from journalism, and written several books. The latest one had just come out, and before catching my plane I was to attend a signing session at Hatchards of Piccadilly.
Signing sessions are ordeals. In theory, you stand in the bookshop, and the eager public, advised beforehand that you will be there in person (wow!), flock in to buy autographed copies. In practice, you can stand all day grinning inanely behind a pile of your latest brainchild, and the only approach you get is from an old lady who thinks you’re a shop assistant and wants to buy The Beverly Hills Diet. (This happens to all authors except the real blockbusters, and celebrities of sport and show business.)
Hatchards, fortunately, is different; being at the heart of the most literate metropolis on earth it is heaven-made for signing sessions – if you can’t sell your book there, it’s time to climb back on your truck. So it was with some relief that I arrived to find a modest queue forming to have their copies signed, and I was inscribing away gratefully and only wishing that my name was a more manageable length, like Ben Jonson or Nat Gould, when I became aware that the next customer in line was presenting for signature not my new novel but two battered copies of The General Danced at Dawn and McAuslan in the Rough. He was a tall, erect, very elderly gentleman in immaculate tweeds and cap, leaning on a ram’s horn walking-stick and looking at me like a grimly amused Aubrey Smith. I must have gaped at him for a good five seconds before I recognised him as the Colonel whom I had described in those two books (and have described again in this one). I hadn’t even heard of him since 1947, and suddenly there he was, large as life, looking nothing like the 80 that he must have been.
’Stick your John Hancock on those, will you?’ he growled amiably. ’No, carry on – we’ll say hullo later, when you’ve dealt with the rest of your public. You’ve put on weight,’ he added as I scribbled obediently – and I won’t swear I wasn’t doing it with my heels together, muttering ’Yes, sir, of course, sir,’ for he was every bit as imposing and formidable, even in mufti and long retirement, as he’d been in North Africa. Now he was taking up the books with a drawled ’Obliged t’you’, and limping stiffly away to seat himself at the side of the shop, filling his pipe and watching me from under shaggy eyebrows with what looked like sardonic satisfaction.
I went on signing like a man in an anxious dream. It’s strange ― when you write a book and put a real person into it, you don’t seriously consider the possibility that he’ll actually read it – at least, I hadn’t, idiot that I’d been. And now he was sitting not ten feet away, the same leathery grizzled ramrod with the piercing eye and aquiline profile, and obviously he’d read the damned things, and couldn’t have failed to recognise himself . . . oh, my God, what had I said about him? With dismay I recalled that I’d described him as ‘tall and bald and moustached and looking like a vulture’. Feeling sick, I shot a sidelong glance at him – well, it was true. He still did, and a fat consolation that was. Wait, though, I’d been pretty fair about his character, hadn’t I? Let’s see . . . I’d said he was wise, and just, and experienced and tough (but considerate), and respected . . . oh, lord, had I said ‘wise’ or ‘crafty’? In growing panic I scribbled on, and realised that the lady whose book I’d just signed was looking at it, and then at me, with a glassy expression.
‘Thank you so much. I do hope you enjoy it,’ I said, beaming professionally. She gave an uneasy smile and held out the book.
‘I think there’s some mistake, isn’t there?’ she faltered.
I couldn’t see one. ‘With all good wishes, George MacDonald Vulture’, was what I’d written, and then sanity returned and I wrenched it from her, babbling apologies, and signed a fresh copy. She hurried away, glancing back nervously, and I went on signing, trying to take a grip and telling myself that he couldn’t have t
aken offence, or he wouldn’t be here, would he?
Well, of course he hadn’t. I knew that – I’d always known it, or I’d never have set typewriter to paper in the first place about him and the regiment and McAuslan and the Adjutant and Wee Wullie and the Dancing General and all the rest of them. I had done it out of affection and pride, and to preserve memories that I loved. Not strict fact, of course, but by no means fiction, either – many true incidents and characters, as well as adaptations and shapings and amalgams and inventions and disguises, but always doing my best to keep the background detail as accurate as I could, and to be faithful to the spirit of that time and those people. And because newspaper training teaches you that truth is either the whole truth or nothing, it had had to be described as fiction. Hence that preface.
Once or twice, over the years, I had regretted the blanket quality of that disclaimer – as, for example, when readers and reviewers obviously regarded as complete invention some story in the books which was 90 per cent stark truth. But there was nothing to be done about it – until that day, after the signing session, when the Colonel and I finally got together, with effusion on my side and paternal tolerance on his, and repaired to the deserted bar of a West End hotel, where we hit the Glenfiddich together, and as we talked it gradually came to me that the disclaiming preface I had written for the first two books wouldn’t do for a third one, if I ever wrote it – which I have now done. I can’t reword it, because there is no satisfactory way of defining the misty margins where truth and fiction mingle. The best thing is to report as accurately as I can what he said that afternoon.