Manager McCartney also took the criticisms to heart. One afternoon a notice appeared in the changing rooms to announce mandatory drill sessions for all playing staff to prepare for possible military service. Jack and Hugh turned up for the first session at Grindlay Street Hall. A reserve back named Annan Ness was put in charge, being the only player on the team with any experience at soldiering.
That first night they drilled with field hockey sticks in place of rifles, and Ness had trouble convincing the other players that the exercise was anything more than a lark. They took to calling him the “Sergeant Major” but paid little attention when he gave instructions, much less orders. Worst among them was Pat Crossan, another defender on the first team.
Crossan was one of the most popular players on the squad, a superb all-round athlete, said by sports writers to be the fastest man in Scotland over one hundred yards. Hearts female supporters swooned over his tall good looks, to the annoyance of the other players who dubbed him “the handsomest man in the world”.
Crossan treated the drill sessions as a joke. Should Ness order, “To the left face!” he would turn right and stand nose-to-nose with the man next to him. And when Ness called, “About face!” he’d take one step forward and stand stiff at attention nearly kissing the man in front.
Ness would plead, “Come on, Pat. This isn’t exactly my idea of fun either.”
Crossan would then look contrite. “Sorry, Annan. I’ll get the hang of it soon. Promise!”
***
To further support the war effort, the club also allowed recruiting officers to set up tables at Tynecastle on match days to enlist volunteers. Only a trickle of men signed up and among them was a reserve centre forward for Hearts called Jimmy Speedie – an insurance clerk who Jack knew as an older boy at Boroughmuir High School.
But such measures were not enough to satisfy the club’s critics. One day a letter appeared in the Edinburgh Evening News signed “Soldier’s Daughter” which read, “While Hearts continue to play football, enabled to pursue their peaceful play by the sacrifice of thousands of their countrymen, they might adopt, temporarily, a nom de plume, say ‘The White Feathers of Midlothian’.”
Jack felt he could no longer bear the indignity and resolved to enlist at the Royal Scots recruiting office on Castle Street. He told Hugh of his plans one evening on the way home from training.
“We could join up together.”
Hugh said nothing for a few moments. It was a cold night in November. A fine but steady drizzle soaked their clothes.
“I’m not sure I want to join,” Hugh finally replied. “Or at least not as a volunteer. Seems to me from reading newspapers it’s mainly politicians and rich men behind this war. Lord This and Sir That with their pits and their mills and their factories. But when it comes to the fighting and dying it’s not them going to France.”
“But how can you stand being called a coward?” said Jack.
“Maybe it’s more cowardly to join up just because someone tells you to,” he replied.
So Jack remained torn. But soon another opportunity arose – one that would silence all the cranks and critics.
7. A Hearts Battalion
The first Jack heard of it was one evening after training at Gorgie Road. McCartney called all the players together into the dressing room. He stood up on a bench and removed his hat.
“There’s no need for me to remind you all of what the newspapers are publishing these days about the professional game,” he said. “Rot – pure and simple. I don’t like it and neither does the Board.”
A roar of agreement filled the room. McCartney raised his hand for silence.
“Well, in the past few days an opportunity has arisen to do something about it. Edinburgh already has one battalion preparing to join the British Expeditionary Force in France. Now a second city battalion is being raised by a long-time Hearts supporter, Sir George McCrae. He needs to enlist over a thousand men and has approached the directors with the idea of appealing for volunteers under the banner of Heart of Midlothian – a battalion of Tynecastle supporters to train and fight together.”
The men cheered and McCartney waited again for quiet.
“But to make the plan work,” he continued, “Sir George needs players to rally support. So the Board has agreed to keep paying full wages to anyone who enlists, as long as he’s able to play football in the regular season, and half wages when unable due to military service. This comes with an agreement to re-engage any player on original terms if fit and well upon return from the conflict. So I’m here to ask: will you join and serve king and country?”
Jack rose to his feet without hesitation, along with most of the other players. Hugh had been sitting next to him on the bench and looked up white-faced.
“Come on – a Hearts battalion!” urged Jack.
Slowly Hugh stood up as well.
***
That night over supper Jack said nothing to his parents. He knew how his mother would react – anger then tears, a dozen reasons for not going. He saw no point in arguing about it now.
Next day at training Sir George sent along a physician to check that all the volunteers were fit for service. Jack waited his turn in the line but decided not to mention his childhood asthma as the doctor listened to his heart and chest. Certainly if he could play football he was fit enough to be a soldier.
An appeal was published that week in all the local newspapers along with the announcement of a grand rally to be held on Friday night at the Usher Hall.
TO THE YOUNG MEN OF EDINBURGH
The present crisis is one of extreme gravity. World-wide issues are trembling in the balance. I appeal with confidence to the patriotism and generous enthusiasm of my fellow citizens… All cannot go, but if your home ties permit, and you shirk your obvious duty, you may escape a hero’s death, but you will go through your life feeling mean. In the presence of the God of Battles, ask of your conscience this question: DARE I STAND ASIDE?
Jack read that morning’s The Scotsman sitting out by the canal eating the sandwich his mother had packed. A hero’s death, he thought to himself. It sounded like something out of Greek legend – the Spartan borne from battle upon his own shield. Except there were no shields now, only a telegram from the War Office notifying the family that a son or father had been killed or was missing in action. A few families in Fountainbridge had already received such telegrams.
Yet the newspapers still spoke of a quick end to the war. Jack figured chances were he wouldn’t even see action – though he hoped not. Otherwise what was the point of being a soldier?
Staring into the murky water of the canal he tried to imagine his mother receiving such a telegram. Sitting with her cup of tea at the kitchen table, the knock at the door, her opening it to the uniformed boy, envelope in his hand… but here he pushed the image from his mind. Lunchtime was over and the chief clerk would already be looking for him to distribute the afternoon post.
Jack had never been inside the Usher Hall before – the massive ornate concert venue in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle. That Friday night it was filled to capacity with a crowd of over 4,000. Young men upon entering the doors were presented with an enlistment form and a copy of the appeal. Jack sat up on the stage with the rest of the Hearts players and a host of Edinburgh dignitaries, listening to speaker after speaker. Lords, MPs, professors – all of them urging the young, strong and fit “not to stand back from the fray”.
A mighty cheer arose for the last speaker to approach the lectern – Lieutenant Colonel Sir George McCrae. He was in his fifties then, a distinguished looking man with greying hair and a thick moustache. Sir George had been born in poverty to a housemaid but had earned his fortune in Edinburgh as a “hatter and hosier” before being elected an MP to Westminster. He had also been a soldier with the Royal Scots.
As the Colonel reached into his jacket for the sheet bearing his speech, someone in the audience shouted, “Well done, Sir George.”
But he didn’
t smile, just stared out over the audience and said, “This is not a night for titles. I stand before you humbly as a fellow Scot. Nothing more and nothing less. You know I don’t speak easily of crisis, but this is what confronts us…”
He then set out in simple terms his commission from Lord Kitchener to raise the battalion and his pledge to lead it in the field.
“I would not – I could not – ask you to serve unless I share the danger at your side,” he said. “In a moment I will walk down to Castle Street and set my name to the list of volunteers. Who will join me?”
And with that Sir George left the stage and walked up the aisle and out the door, bound for the battalion recruitment office at the Palace Hotel. By midnight over 300 men had been added to the ranks.
Jack made his way home after the Usher Hall emptied and when he entered the flat he saw a light still burning in the kitchen. Both his parents sat grim faced – a copy of the Evening News open on the table. Above a large group photograph read the headline:
HEARTS ENLIST
His mother’s eyes were red and bloodshot. Tom Jordan just looked dead tired, almost defeated.
“I suppose you meant to tell us sometime,” he said and rose to put the kettle on the range.
8. The Silver Badge
Ross heard the familiar toot of the car horn outside. His mother would be waiting at the front gate to collect him.
“So what happened next?” he asked. “Did Jack go to war?”
“Sorry,” said Pat. “I’ll finish the story another time.”
Ross groaned and made her promise to tell him more next Saturday. Saying goodbye at the front door Pat handed him back the clean leather football boots without comment.
***
Sunday evening after dinner Ross lay on the floor of the sitting room watching TV with his sisters. During the adverts he turned to his father who sat in a chair reading The Times.
“Can you remember your grandfather?” Ross asked.
“Which one?” Frank Anderson replied without looking up from the newspaper.
“Pat’s dad – Jack.”
“No. He died the same year I was born.”
“And that was 1960?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he enlisted in the army during World War I?”
Frank sighed and lowered his newspaper. “Most men in his generation did.”
He then peered over his reading glasses. “Have you and Granny been making more forays up in that attic?”
“No,” said Ross.
“Good. Glad to hear it,” he replied and sank back behind his paper.
Ross grew bored and went upstairs to his room. He sat down at his desk and turned on the lamp. Jack Jordan gazed out as always from his spot on the wall by the Hearts calendar, but there was something different about him. The face in the photograph seemed somehow transformed, brought to life by Pat’s words. Behind those grey eyes now lay hopes and fears and ambitions before absent. Ross found it both curious and sad.
***
That next morning he awoke early with the idea already in his head. He reached under the bed for Jack’s chest and found the cardboard jewellery box containing the silver badge. Pulling a jumper over his pyjamas he quietly slipped out his bedroom door.
No one would be awake for another half-hour at least. Ross sneaked down the stairs and into the small room that served as his parents’ study. In the dim light he found the switch to the desktop computer. The monitor bathed the walls in a green glow.
Ross laid the box next to the computer and opened the internet browser to Google. In the prompt he typed the inscription from the badge: “For King and Empire – Services Rendered”.
The search returned dozens of hits. He clicked one near the top from the National Archives. Here he found both an image and description of the badge. The text said it dated from World War I, 1914–1918, and was called the Silver War Badge. It was given to “all military personnel discharged as a result of sickness or wounds contracted or received during the war”.
His great-grandfather had been a soldier in the First World War. And this medal meant he had been injured. Why hadn’t Pat mentioned this before?
He heard the bathroom door upstairs creak and the splash of water in the shower. Switching off the computer, he put the badge back into the box and tucked it under his jumper, unsure why he felt the need to hide his discovery. He had so many questions for Pat next Saturday.
***
Later that morning going to school, Ross again dreaded the grief he’d get over his performance at Saturday’s game, but nobody mentioned it all day. Not, at least, until he and Ying were heading back from the shop after school for badminton practice.
Walking down the broad avenue towards the front of Bruntsfield Primary he spotted Craig Muir and two other boys approaching in the opposite direction. It was too late to cross the road.
“Well, look here. It’s our star striker, Anderson,” Muir called. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to shake hands after the game on Saturday.”
The three older boys blocked the pavement with Muir in the centre.
“So why did you run off so quickly?” he asked.
“I had somewhere to go,” Ross replied.
“Home to cry in your pillow?”
The boys laughed. Ross grabbed Ying and tried to push past them.
“Hold on,” said Muir, catching his jacket. “I only wanted to congratulate you on that amazing missed goal.”
“Much appreciated,” Ross replied. “But we’re late.”
Muir looked down.
“I see you’re not still wearing the lace-up granny boots. What was that all about? Are they your lucky boots? Hate to break it to you pal – they don’t work.”
“Well, at least I managed to get past you,” said Ross.
Muir’s face darkened.
“I tripped.”
“No,” said Ross. “I tripped – in front of the goal, having left you behind.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” said Muir.
“Not unless you’re telling a lie.”
Ross never expected the punch – a swift jab to the nose. Pain exploded in a burst of red before his closed eyes. He bent over double and felt he might be sick.
Ying shouted and then there was another voice. A young woman had come out into the front garden of one of the flats.
“Stop that now or I’ll call the police.”
When Ross looked up again Muir and the other boys were already hurrying off up the pavement. He pulled his hand away from his nose and saw blood. The woman went into her flat and came back out with a wad of paper towels.
“Will you be okay?” she asked. “Can I call your parents?”
“No, thanks,” said Ross. “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t. When he and Ying got to the school gates Ross decided to skip practice that day.
“Think I’ll head home and get cleaned up,” he said.
“Can I chum you?” asked Ying.
“No. You go on in.”
“What if you meet them again?”
“I’ll run.”
But Ross managed to avoid Muir and his pals on the walk home. Reaching the front door he pulled out his key. All the windows were dark as both his sisters had after-school clubs and his parents wouldn’t be back from work for hours. Ross felt he couldn’t bear the silence.
***
Pat opened her door and peered out first in surprise and then shock.
“What happened to you?”
Blood had crusted around Ross’s nose and stained his white school shirt.
“Come in,” she said and gently pushed him down the hall into the kitchen.
Here Pat soaked a dishcloth with warm water and wiped the blood from his face. She insisted he remove the shirt for washing and found an old bathrobe for him to wear. Ross then told her what had happened with Muir.
“Will I call the high school?” she asked.
“No. It’ll just make things wor
se,” Ross replied.
“Okay. But you’ll have to tell your parents about it.”
“Why? Dad won’t care – at least not about me,” said Ross. “He’ll just go mental: ‘Nobody punches my kid!’”
Pat sighed.
“I know it might seem like that sometimes, but he cares more than you imagine. Trust me – I’ve been putting up with his bluster for the last thirty years. Maybe he could be a little less grumpy some of the time but sadly you can’t choose your father – or your son.”
And they both laughed.
Pat then placed a saucepan of milk on the gas ring and brought out a dish of digestive biscuits. But Ross wasn’t hungry.
“I went onto the computer and found out more about the silver badge in Jack’s box. Was he wounded in the war?”
“Yes,” Pat replied.
“Was it bad?”
She took a deep breath.
“Not as bad as some.”
“Could you maybe tell me more?” asked Ross. “Seeing as I’m here.”
Pat turned away to the stove and said, “I can tell you what I know.”
9. Come with us to France
A vast crowd blocked George Street that December morning. Jack stood in one of two long columns of men over 1,200 strong, all in heavy overcoats as it was bitterly cold. He carried with him a holdall with extra shirts and underwear and also a shaving kit he barely had need of. Dozens of police constables made futile attempts to keep the crush of family and well-wishers away from the men. Jack had long lost sight of his father.
Sir George McCrae surveyed the chaos from a tall chestnut horse. He was in full uniform with a holster and pistol at his belt. He kept check of the time with a pocket watch and at the stroke of noon signalled to his sergeant major. Two bands from the Royal Scots struck up Scotland the Brave and the battalion set off towards Charlotte Square with the men shuffling to the beat of the drums. As they marched back down the broad thoroughfare of Princes Street, a mob of young boys ran to keep pace with the pipers.
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