The Complete McAuslan by George MacDonald Fraser

when he gets worked up about a thing like this; he sounds positively Scotch. What’s a sumph, by the way?’
    I wasn’t listening any longer. I was sweating. It wasn’t panic, or the fear of defeat. After all, we had done well, and no one could expect us to hold the Navy; we would just have to put on a good show. I was just concentrating on details – get the boys to bed quickly, two men in hospital, choose the team, balance it as well as possible. I ran over the reserves: Beattie, Forbes, McGlinchy, myself . . . Lord, the Fleet! And I had 14 to choose from. Well, barring miracles, we would lose. The Governor would be in mourning; that was his hard luck, if he didn’t know better than to pit us against a side that would be half First Division pros, and possibly even an internationalist. Suddenly I felt elated. Suppose . . . oh, well, we’d give them something to remember us by.
    I simply told the boys at bed-time who they were playing, and they digested it, and the corporal said:
    ‘Aw-haw-hey. Think they’re any good, sir?’
    ‘Not as good as we are.’
    ‘We’re the wee boys,’ said the corporal, and the wee boys cried ‘Way-ull,’ mocking themselves. They were pleased at the thought of another game, that was all. I doubt if their reaction would have been different if their opponents had been Moscow Dynamo or the Eye Infirmary.
    The corporal and I pored over the team all morning; the one doubtful spot was left wing, and after much heart-searching we fixed on McGlinchy, but the corporal didn’t like it. He at least knew what we were up against ‘an’ we cannae afford a passenger. If Ah thought he’d wake up mebbe half the match, O.K., but no’ kiddin’, sir, yon yin’s no’ a’ there.’
    ‘He’s all we’ve got,’ I said. ‘Beattie’s a half-back, and I’m just not good enough. It’s got to be McGlinchy.’
    ‘Aye, weel,’ said the corporal, ‘that’s so. But by half-time I’ll bet we’re wishin’ we’d picked . . . McAuslan, even.’
    In the unlikely event that we had been daft enough to do just that, we would have been disappointed. For when we embussed for the stadium McAuslan was mysteriously absent. We waited and swore, but he didn’t appear, so Beattie was detailed to run the touchline, and off we went. With any luck McAuslan had fallen in the harbour.
    The dressing-room was hot and sunny under the stand as we sat around waiting. The boys chewed gum and McGlinchy played ‘wee heidies’ against the wall – nodding a ball against the partition like a boxer hitting a punch-ball. (‘Close-mooth, tanner-ba’ merchant,’ muttered the corporal.) Outside we could hear the growing rumble of the crowd, and then there was the peep of a whistle and the referee’s step in the passage, and the boys shifted and said, ‘Way-ull, way-ull,’ and boots stamped and shorts were hitched, and outside a brass band was thumping out ‘Heart of Oak’ and a great thunder of voices was rolling up as the Fleet came out, and the corporal sniffed and said:
    ‘Awright, fellas, let’s get stuck intae these matlows,’ and I was left alone in the dressing-room.
    I went out by the street door and was walking along to the grandstand entrance when I came face to face with Samuels in the crowd that was still pouring into the ground. It was a shock: I hadn’t given him a thought since last night. Before I could say anything, he slapped me on the back, addressed me as Old Jocko, and said I was luv-ley.
    ‘Goin’ up to watch the slaughter?’ he shouted. He was well ginned up. ‘The massacre of the innocents, hey?’
    ‘I like that,’ I said. ‘You’ve won enough off them; you could at least show some sympathy.’
    ‘Who for?’ he guffawed. ‘The other lot?’
    A horrible cold hand suddenly laid itself on the base of my spine.
    ‘The other lot,’ I said. ‘You know who we’re playing?’
    ‘Been on the ship all mornin’, checkin’ stores,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Who’s the