Harry’s First Game of Soccer

by D. Edward Bradley

Harry and the Captain spent much of Sunday exploring the grounds and buildings of Markham College, and on Monday morning they were faced with their first full day of classes. Since arriving they had been almost inseparable, but today this was not to be. In one period, they took different subjects.

I suppose it will do us both good, Harry thought as he walked back from a geography class for lunch. In a place like this you can’t get too dependent on one person. I should diversify my circle of friends.

The corridor was quite crowded and noisy as Harry made his way to the study and pushed the door open. He caught his breath when he saw a lanky character with straight brown hair looking out of the window. He seemed bewildered. This fellow had to be the third occupant of their tiny room. Too bad he was so tall—he wasn’t thin enough to make up for it. There would be a tight squeeze when all three were in the place at the same time.

Harry greeted the new occupant. “You must be Wetherby. At least I hope you are.”

“So do I,” came the reply. “You’re right. Peter Wetherby. Now let me see, you look as if you must be—let me think…Bul—no, Lockwood.”

Harry laughed. “Good try. But you had a fifty-fifty chance of being right.” This conversation seemed inordinately stupid, but at least they had introduced themselves.

“Welcome, Wetherby Wet. I’m afraid we’ve already chosen a name for you.”

“I thought I’d heard the last of that at my prep school,” commented Wetherby dryly. “Never mind. What do I call you? Locky? Cocky?”

“Woody.”

“And Bulman is—”

“The Captain.”

“Of what? The study?”

“No. He’s just a bit ugly, like Bligh of The Bounty.”

“Oh, I see. Good flick, wasn’t it?”

“Tell me, Wetherby Wet, where do you live?”

“Just outside Oxford, actually. Both my parents teach there.”

“That’s pretty close. You could almost go home at weekends.”

They chatted for a while until the Captain returned and was introduced. Then the lunch bell rang and they went to the dining hall.

“Who rings the bell?” asked Wetherby Wet as they collected plates of sandwiches and found seats well away from the older boys.

“I think it must be some kind of duty fag,” said the Captain.

“What’s a fag?”

“ Wow! You are green, aren’t you?” answered Harry. “A fag is a servant, a slave. Everyone here is a fag for his first two years. After that you become just a plain inferior, then, when you’re the oldest of that bunch, you become the Senior Inferior. Finally, assuming you’re still alive, you get to be a prefect.”

“As a matter of fact, there’s more,” the Captain added. “Pansy told me. It’s not good.” He stuffed his mouth and grinned at the same time, deliberately keeping the others in suspense.

“Get on with it,” Harry growled.

The Captain continued to munch. Eventually, after about a minute, he relented. “In a fortnight’s time, all new boys are assigned to fag for individual prefects. This lasts for three terms. After that, next year’s new boys take over, and we’ll be general fags.” The Captain stood. “Anyone want an apple? That’s all there is for second course.”

He collected their fruit and looked at Harry. “Who do you suppose Parnaby’ll get for a fag?”

“Tough luck on whoever it is,” said Harry. Then he suddenly had a sinking feeling in his stomach. “I think I’ll eat this later.” He pocketed the apple.

Harry knew. He had no doubt whatsoever that he was destined to fag for that big slob. Pansy had told the Captain that the prefects could choose any of the new boys. Now Harry understood Parnaby’s sickly grin when he had passed him in the corridor before lunch.

On the afternoons of Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, there were sporting or other outdoor activities for everyone in the school. These were organized in each house by a prefect, the boys remaining in their dining halls after lunch for a so-called sports meeting.

It was announced on the following Wednesday that Hutchison’s would field two teams that afternoon—juniors and seniors—both playing practice games against School House. Harry was selected for left back and the long-legged Wetherby Wet for left wing. Beastly Barnett would be in goal. Harry didn’t know any of the others.

Beastly caught up with Harry and Wetherby Wet on the way to the playing fields. They were laid out on a large flat area at the base of the slope where the buildings of Markham College were scattered.

“Which pitch are we on?” asked Harry as they made their way down a gravel path.

“Does it matter?” said Beastly.

“Of course it does, idiot. In case you hadn’t noticed, the sun’s shining, and at this time of year it will be low in the sky before the end of the game.”

“You see, Beastly,” added Wetherby Wet, “we want to play the whole game in the shade, or at least have the sun behind us during the second half.”

“In that case, the pitch at the west end by the trees is the best.” Beastly hitched up his shorts.

“Amazing intelligence this boy has,” retorted Wetherby Wet.

“So you do know where we play?” asked Harry.

“I’ll tell you if you wait a sec while I tighten my belt.” Beastly dropped his football boots on the path. “I asked the prefect at the sports meeting. He said the West Field.”

“Super.” Harry pointed at Beastly’s belt. “What’s that for?”

“To hold up my shorts, stupid. The elastic’s gone.”

“I think we’d better hurry,” said Wetherby Wet.

The School House team was warming up when they arrived at the designated field, but only half of the Hutchison’s contingent was present. The referee was a young man by the name of Wilkins, who taught French and was new at the school. He had excelled in football at Eton. As a child he had lost two fingers, and this, together with mild asthma, kept him out of the armed forces. Because of late arrivals, the game was delayed for almost twenty minutes.

Harry had heard that School House had won the previous year’s football tournament, so he rather expected to be overworked at left back. However, he underestimated his own forwards, particularly Wetherby Wet who was a very good winger with his high speed and fancy leg work. The score was one all with only a few minutes left to play, and while Wetherby Wet was setting up a corner, Harry looked round at the other football fields. They were all deserted since his game had been so late starting.

Harry heard the bomber before he saw it. As he was turning to watch his friend’s corner kick, he detected the faint, yet familiar drone of its engine. Then he spotted it—flying low over the science building, almost half a mile away. The marauder was a Heinkel. No one else had noticed it, because at that moment Wetherby Wet’s ball sailed toward the School House goal in a perfect curve, precipitating a wild scuffle at close quarters.

Harry sprinted down the field at top speed to alert Mr. Wilkins, waving his arms to get the referee’s attention.

Mr. Wilkins turned and scowled. “You, whatever your name is, what—”

“Sir, look.” Harry pointed upwards, panting from his exertion. “It’s a Heinkel.”

Mr. Wilkins glanced skyward for a second, then blasted on his whistle and yelled, “To the trees, everyone! Run for it!”

Harry, still winded, paused for a moment and watched the plane with a couple of other boys. It was approaching slowly at a height of about 2,000 feet. How could an enemy aircraft be flying overhead when there had been no air raid warning?

“I told you to take cover!” yelled the French master.

Harry’s eyes widened with horror when he saw bright flashes at the Plexiglas nose of the Heinkel as the forward machine-gun opened up. He turned and sprinted toward the trees. Unable to look back he gritted his teeth, anticipating that at any moment the tracer fire would sear into his flesh. To his left, Mr. Wilkins was slowly overtaking him about twenty feet away. The firing ceased for two or three seconds, then the gunner opened up again. This time he was more accurate. Harry heard staccato cracks from the shock waves of bullets kicking up spouts of earth between himself and Mr. Wilkins as they raced for cover. When they reached the trees, they saw that all the remaining players had either thrown themselves flat on the carpet of last year’s beech leaves, or were taking shelter behind the larger tree trunks. Some were broad enough to conceal several boys.

A moment later Harry heard the stutter of a machine-gun yet again, this time much louder. It was the belly gunner firing from almost overhead. But he was unable to see his targets and the rounds went wide, though a few cracked and ricocheted harmlessly among the overhanging branches. The long burst was suddenly cut short by a series of loud bangs as the antiaircraft battery just across the road opened up. In a moment, the Heinkel was out of range and all firing ceased.

Harry was shaking as Mr. Wilkins emerged from behind a tree at the edge of the woods and blew his whistle.

“Remain where you are until I tell you otherwise,” he yelled.

Harry had thrown himself to the ground, using a large fallen branch as cover. He was facing the football pitch when he cautiously looked over the top of it. To his horror he saw a body lying near the School House goal. He jumped to his feet. “Sir! Mr. Wilkins, sir! Someone’s been hit!”

He forgot his fear, and without waiting for permission ran over to the prostrate form of the School House goalie. A premonition of impending disaster assaulted his mind as he approached the body. A quick glance seemed to justify his apprehension. The boy lay flat on his face. Blood soaked the grass beside his left thigh, and there was an ugly rip in his shorts. Mr. Wilkins arrived out of breath, accompanied by several other boys who gathered around, wide-eyed and speechless.

“It seems pretty bad,” he said. “Everyone stand back, please.”

The French master took a closer look, then glanced round at the onlookers. He spotted Wetherby Wet. “You, with the long legs, run to your house as fast as you can, and get help. Phone for an ambulance and find Matron. Go!”

Harry’s study mate instantly took off up the path toward Hutchison’s at high speed.

“Sir,” said Harry. “We have to stop the bleeding, and he can’t breathe with his face in the dirt.”

Mr. Wilkins frowned for a moment. “Let me deal with this, unless you have special training.”

“I was in the Scouts, sir.”

“Very well. Find something for a tourniquet while I turn his head.”

Harry hoped that Mr. Wilkins knew what he was doing. He looked at the boy again, wondering if he was still alive. There was a nasty hole halfway down his thigh with blood pulsing out; the tourniquet was urgent. Wondering what to use, he suddenly remembered Beastly’s belt.

Turning to face the trees where Beastly had remained with the rest of the boys, he shouted at the top of his voice, “Beastly Barnett! Mr. Wilkins needs your belt! Hurry up, man!”

Mr. Wilkins looked at Harry. “Find something to tighten it.”

“No problem, sir. Back in a sec.”

On his way to the woods in search of a suitable branch, Harry passed Beastly going in the opposite direction. By the time he got back to Mr. Wilkins, Beastly’s belt was in position round the goalie’s thigh and its owner was holding up his drooping shorts.

Mr. Wilkins’ only first aid training had been a short course provided to all the school staff, but it was not as thorough as Harry’s. The French master regarded him carefully. “You seem to know your job. Remember what you were taught and try to stop the bleeding.”

Fighting back the threat of nausea, Harry twisted the belt with the branch until the blood ceased to flow.

Meanwhile, Mr. Wilkins had borrowed someone’s sweater and fashioned it into a pillow for the boy’s head. “He’s still breathing, and I can’t see any other wounds.” The French master looked worried. “It’s high time that ambulance arrived.”

Unnoticed by everyone, the gray-haired, hook-nosed Matron from Hutchison’s—nobody knew her real name—had arrived on her bicycle. There was a large first aid box resting in a basket on the handlebars. “Move away, please! Let me through!”

Harry remained, still holding the branch to keep the tourniquet tight, but Mr. Wilkins stepped aside.

Matron bent over the patient. “You may now send the boys back to their houses, Mr…”

“Wilkins. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll leave the rest to you.”

Matron knelt down and turned to Harry. “Very good work. You’ll have to hold the branch until the ambulance arrives. Ease off the pressure now and again as I tell you.”

“Yes, Matron.” Harry had forgotten that detail.

Matron opened up the first aid box. “I’m going to clean and dress the wound.”

They were interrupted by the clanging bell of the ambulance as it turned onto the playing fields from a driveway at the far end. As soon as it came to a halt, two uniformed women jumped out of the back and finished Matron’s work. They took a proper tourniquet kit from their vehicle, applied it, then lifted the still unconscious goalie onto a stretcher. Harry looked on, awestricken at the crew’s efficiency. Little more than three minutes after its arrival the ambulance was speeding on its way to the nearest hospital, its light flashing and the clang of its bell echoing through the dusk.

Matron turned to Harry. “Thank you,” she said, mounting her bicycle. “You may now return to the house.”

With everyone else gone, Harry found himself walking back alone. Beastly’s bloodstained belt lay forgotten by the goal post.

The whole house, indeed the entire school, knew exactly what had happened by the time the tea bell rang. Harry was still feeling shaken, but some admiring looks from a few members of Hutchison’s junior team helped his appetite.

“I suppose it could have been worse,” the Captain commented as he finished his boiled fish. “But you ought to have heard the Heinkel sooner, Woody.”

Harry spluttered.

“Just kidding,” the Captain continued. “A good job well done, I say. You’ve put our study on the map.”

Homework was compulsory for everyone, and two hours were set aside each evening for the boys to work in the dining room after the remnants of high tea had been removed. When that was over Harry thought he had heard the last of the incident, but this was not to be. About five minutes before the ten o’clock bell sounded, none other than the Head of House, a prefect by the name of Walker, opened the study door.

“Mr. Hutchison wants you, Lockwood. Jump to it!”

For the second time in a week, Harry knocked on the door of Mr. Hutchison’s office and was waved to a chair.

The Housemaster stood behind his desk, hands in pockets. “I called you in to tell you that Walton, the boy you helped, is recovering in hospital and will get well in time. The Headmaster telephoned a few minutes ago with the news. The doctor said that the bullet missed the bone, and that your quick thinking may have averted a fatal loss of blood.

“Mr. Wilkins also phoned and told me what you did, and Matron voiced her approval as well. As you can guess, the latter is no small compliment. She asked me to tell you that should you experience any er…adverse psychological reaction, you should report to her. You did well, Lockwood. Let’s hope your academic work is as good as your first aid.”

“Do you know why there was no air raid warning, sir?”

“Something to do with the weather, I believe. It seems that London was covered with low cloud and fog, but we were in the clear. The bomber was able to fly under our radar without being seen, but by the sound of it he got lost. It was a most unusual and unfortunate situation. There’s the ten o’clock bell. You’d better get some rest.”

Harry tossed and turned that night. Sleep, when it came, was marred by a recurring dream in which he lay motionless and immobilized as machine-gun bullets ripped into his body—but unlike Walton, he remained conscious.