´óÏó´«Ã½

Football Crazy

In Africa in 1943, we Europeans of the 6th IB Workshops Company of the 22 East African Infantry Brigade about to go to Burma, played the African Askaris in our unit at football. They played in bare feet and the result was 23-0. They refused to accept defeat, complaining that we had boots, so we played them in pumps. The score was 12-0. Still not satisfied, they wanted us to play them in bare feet. No way! There were sharp thorns in the bush, so it was of some relief when the Officers stepped in to forbid further competition between whites and blacks. However, inter-Battalion matches between Europeans were OK. Thereafter, we Workshop wallahs, all NCOs, kicked lumps out of the mainly officer Battalions, to the delight of the African soldiers.

I remember one particular match, I think against the R.A.R. We had a short-tempered centre-half being fouled repeatedly by a tough Captain. He lost his cool, threatened the officer in bad language, and was placed on a charge by the referee, a bull-shitting Sergeant-Major. Luckily, a senior officer watching called him over and told him: ‘Never mind that * nonsense. Get on with the game.’ I, being captain, swapped over positions and warned said officer I would put my boot right through him if he came at me like that. Undeterred, he had a go at me so I ‘lifted’ him a few feet in the air, outside the penalty area, of course, to much applause from the Askaris. He was a really good sport, though, picked himself up and carried on. We won, of course. I met this fine officer later at the end of the war, way up the Mawchi Pass when he reminded me of the exact words I had used. I panicked, thinking of doing detention up in that terrible place - the area was rotten with scrub typhus. I do hope he is still alive and enjoying his grand-children as I do.

We continued to win, the final game being on Ramree Isle off the coast of Burma. The war in Europe was over, and my brother, who was in the 50th Division, 8th Army, had survived a terrible war. Our Adjutant had arranged a match against the West Africans and I was to pick a team at once. Some of our lads were a bit fragile, due to dysentery, lousy grub and other conditions, so I reluctantly chose an officer. He was 6 feet four and built like a brick outhouse. Being a rugby player, he protested but I told him it was just the same game, as long as he didn’t pick the ball up!

We went down to the bay where a pitch was marked out and a fair crowd waited. Unfortunately our opponents were black and we were not allowed to play them. A sailor offered to get us a team to play. He nipped up a ladder and signalled to a cruiser out in the bay. I was astonished to see a boat-load of hefty sailors coming ashore already getting changed. In no time, the game was on. Our officer gave the sailors a hard time: I saw a few limping! While I broke up many attacks, one of their supporters yelled ‘Dig a hole for the big bastard!’ — meaning me. It was a hell of a good game, which we won. Afterwards, they came back to our camp for a drink and swapped fags for India Rum. They wanted a return fixture in a week’s time, but we were flown into Rangoon and rushed up to Prome and the Sittang where the Japanese were trapped.
I often wondered just how good we were, seeing the West Africans win the Gold Medal at the Olympic Games, beating Brazil and Argentina on the way. I did watch our Africans playing the Ghurkas who hadn’t a clue — 5 foot nothing versus 6 foot plus — yelling with delight, charging in, never mind the ball! I tried to join in but they wouldn’t let me. No subs allowed in those days!

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Graham Brown of the ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Shropshire CSV Action Desk on behalf of Alexander Donaldson and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.