As
we approach the centenary of the First World War, I am proud to unveil this
brief extract from the unpublished memoirs of my great grandfather, Algernon
Shedd. Prior to the War, he was a
gentleman farmer in the somewhat bleak Northern county of Daleshire. He led a long an eventful life, dying in 1965
at the age of 85. However, his greatest
claim to fame is that, for ten seasons prior to the War, he was the amateur
captain of Daleshire County Cricket Club, leading them to the County Championship
no less than seven times.
When
War broke out in 1914, almost all of that great team joined the so-called
Cricketing Pals Battalion of the Royal Daleshire Regiment. By Christmas 1916,
they were serving together in France under my great grandfather, by then Major
Shedd. I will let him tell the story of
what happened that Christmas in his own vivid words:
“Life in the trenches on the Somme was truly
hellish. The bone-numbing cold, the
degrading squalor and the all-pervading stench of unwashed bodies brought
irresistibly to mind the professionals’ dressing room at Derby. Rats the size of W.G. Grace’s ego lurked in
the latrines. Many was the time my
privates were badly bitten – as, indeed, was my sergeant-major.
Imagine the men’s collective delight when they received
parcels from the good old county club on Christmas day. How they appreciated the club’s generosity in
sending presents of second hand cricket kit, together with the promise that the
club would deduct the cost from the professionals’ wages in the first post-war
season, applying an interest rate of no more than 10 per cent per annum in the meantime.
It warmed my heart to know that the true spirit of Christmas lived on in the
old club back in Blighty.
The men wasted no time in putting the gifts to use. A Christmas ceasefire being in operation,
they began an impromptu cricket practice in No-Man’s-Land, which was only
halted when Slogger Robson belted a full toss from our medium-pacer, Lew Brush,
into the German trenches.
The plaintive cry of “Please can we have our ball back,
Fritz?” was greeted with a guttural “Come and get it, Tommy!” Only after much begging by Lew – as fly as a
bluebottle and an eloquent little pleader if ever there was one – was a deal
struck. We would play a match the
following day against the Germans, one innings a side, with the winner having
the right to keep the precious ball.
The Daleshire professionals in the platoon viewed the
match with a confidence previously reserved for matches against one of the
lesser southern counties such as Somerset.
This self-belief was tempered only by the knowledge that No-Man’s-Land, a
morass of mud and slimy bomb craters, was likely to prove the most
inappropriate venue ever for a serious cricket match. How could any of us possibly have envisaged
Old Trafford in 1956?
I am happy to report that the match was played in the
most sporting spirit. The Huns conceded
the toss to us after the sixth consecutive penny had plopped irrecoverably into
the thick mud. Our assessment was that
the pitch would be thoroughly untrustworthy and highly dangerous for the side
taking first use of it. So we chose to
bat, knowing that it would be even worse after tea.
We ran up – or, rather, squelched up – an impressive
total of 277. Fortunately, our Teutonic
adversaries applied the same technique to bowling that they used for lobbing
grenades full toss into our trenches. As
a result, the vagaries of the pitch seldom came into play. And in the field,
the butter-fingered Jerries had more drops than Santa Claus on Christmas Eve.
When the enemy began their reply, a December sun the
colour of a much-used jock-strap had partly dried the pitch. It was made for our mean left-arm spinner
Herb Patch. Pushing the ball through
with all the flight of a pregnant penguin, he reduced them to the brink of
defeat at 33-7 before the tragic incident occurred.
A hefty Hun swung wildly at a good length ball which
soared high off the edge towards the fine leg boundary. From my place at leg slip, I set off for the
catch, along with several of the other close fielders. Nearing the short boundary, I was just about
to make a dive for the ball when a loud cry of “Mine!” halted me so completely
in my tracks that I pulled both hamstrings.
I fell to the ground in a heap, probably left there by one of the
cavalry horses.
As the ball landed harmlessly and trickled over the
boundary, I realised that the cry had come not from one of my fellow fielders
claiming the catch but from a haughty, monocled German officer spectating on
the boundary. Such a partisan
intervention caused the Christmas spirit of goodwill to be temporarily
forgotten.
We were normally pretty tolerant of the enemy’s
excesses. It was expected that Zeppelin
crews would fly behind our lines to spy on us.
We accepted that if they spotted British Tommies in haystacks with
French peasant girls indulging in a little entente cordiale they would hover
overhead and attempt to pour water on them.
At least, we all fervently hoped it was water. It was one thing for the Hun to indulge in
gas attacks and aerial bombardments and to post secret snipers who would take
pot shots at honest Tommies’ todgers as they relieved themselves at the open
air latrine. All’s fair in love and
war. But to cheat so blatantly at
cricket was a clear breach of the Geneva Convention.
Whilst I lay writhing on the ground in agony, the whole
team advanced on the offending German, oblivious to his cries of protest. Before they reached him, the awful explosion
did its worst. As he wiped spattered
mud, blood and brains from his coat, the German’s only comment was: “Well, that
I did not warn them they cannot say. Deadly things, mines.”
So perished the flower of Daleshire cricket. And so I now pay my tribute to them before I
am gone and they are completely forgotten.
I may have been their leader on and off the cricket field but they were
my heroes and I am proud that they died heroic deaths playing the game they
loved. Who now remembers Shortarms
Stidworthy, stonewaller extraordinaire and renowned as the meanest man in
cricket? Who now recalls the consummate
ease with which he achieved the double in each of the last ten seasons before
the war? What an all-rounder! Every
year, he clocked up at least 100 rounds of drinks not paid for and 1000
cigarettes “borrowed” but never returned.
And what of Trumper Bullivant? He was named not after the legendary
Australian batting star but in recognition of his own special ability, in his
delivery stride, to startle batsmen with an unexpected anal eruption. Maybe his descendants still recall his
sterling deeds – Bullivants never forget – but to the world at large, it is as
though he had never trumpeted triumphantly across Edwardian cricket fields.
I could go on.
But my emotions prevent me from writing more. Suffice it to say that I have never forgiven
myself for heeding that call. Had I
continued to go for the catch, I should, of course, have perished but those
brave Daleshire lads would have survived.
How stupid, how foolish, how crassly naïve I was. Why did I not ignore that call? For when did
a Daleshire fielder ever call “Mine!” if there was a chance of someone else
taking a tricky catch?
I can hardly bear, in conclusion, to tell of the
ultimate tragedy. Yet I must do so. It was not just ten good Daleshire men and
true that were lost that day. The
Germans claimed the match by default.
And I never did get our ball back.”
