With Menzies declaring his unavailability the night before, fourteen brave, perilous souls with varying levels of basic training travelled north, through raging cross-winds, unfathomable road puddles, uncharted roads and numerous pot-holes to play Leadenham, a team entrenched in the heartlands of MOD territory. Wandering, and possibly lost, it was left to me and but a shorthand note from Field Marshall Menzies to guide these high-potential recruits into battle at RAF Cranwell.

Communication between the lines went as follows:
1LT Shin, this is FM Menzies, over… We have fourteen players… six defenders, four mids and three forwards in a 4-4-2 diamond. SPC Richer is to start at the back, and move in to midfield, out.
As the radio transmission ended, I slammed the receiver down. ‘Dammit!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t they know what this means for us?! It’s suicide down the middle! We’ll run out of legs in no time! May the Lord have mercy on our souls…’ as I crumpled down and cried.

Visceral visions started to swirl around me: of Privates Walsh and Artaman running out of steam, gasping for air… Corporal Browne losing his head and commiting various war crimes… Sergeant Puddefoot’s biomechanical frame malfunctioning… SPC Richer, stuck in the mud in No Man’s Land. Normandy 2.0! But I snapped out of it. It is not our place to question, I firmly reminded myself. ‘Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori,’ I bitterly canted. Armed with this tactical information, I set the boys up as ordered: instantly met with understandable incredulity, the trusting boys nonetheless proceeded with the grand plan, for a good bunch of lads they were.

We played a hectic first half, with shots being fired from both sides in a blustery open field where calls to one another were drowned out by the howling wind in this very open and exposed theatre of war. Shelter was a commodity for civvies…we were operating in the heart of hostility. With Master Sergeant Gillingham in goal, we kept a clean sheet, as he threw himself at a couple of dangerous offensives. He saved our blushes on numerous occasions, and was notably commended by his peers with the highest honour available on the day – the Man of the Match award, which is the equivalent of a VC or so I’m led to believe.

By mid-way, we held a brief truce with the opposition. Collecting our thoughts, we changed our personnel to suit our strengths, with Second Lieutenant Patel offering to head into midfield. Agreeing to play a calmer game, historians would call this our El Alamein. The second half was mostly us, passing and moving, like a finely tuned, well-oiled machine. Our midfield woes had been sorted and we had several shots on goal. Our very own Brummy officer, 2LT Patel, won a skirmish following a Cpl Browne deflection, cannoning in a bouncing bomb. It was a well deserved first blood and there was desire in the air for more. Even the weather began to settle, with the clouds parting and the sun shining down upon us, suggesting that the heavens were on our side.

We had, in total, ten or more short corners, from which Cpl Browne converted his first, scoring in a style which paid homage to Sgt Chalk. Kind of like a Sgt Chalk Mk II. Those who know, know. Even L/Cpl Anns had a shot on goal, being saved on the line by an unsuspecting bystander. But you’ve probably heard about this effort, even before you’ve read this report, because it was all Anns could repeat after the game…like some haunting “What if” PTSD moment, triggered when anyone mentions short corners.

Our Argentine-Chilean contingent and our Zimbabwean Auxillary Forces along with our Scottish representative in the form of Sgts Rosenvaig, Mudzamiri and Gibson respectively, performed admirably in the line of duty, with individual efforts worthy of a mention.

Our third goal came once again from the Belfast Bombardier, Cpl Browne, as he rifled home a poacher’s goal in a crowded D, as we passed the ball around their defence in quick succession leaving them short at the last post. It capped off a second half performance which was deserving of victory.

Now, despite talk of war, the opposition played in a respectful manner, with both sides sticking to the Geneva Convention and the FIH rules honourably. This is despite Staff Sergeant Reeve attempting to aggravate their largest and most brutish looking player, which was quickly de-escalated by the quick thinking umpires. That surely would have been a battle with heavy losses. And now I leave you with this:

Far from home, there is a field where we endured. We stuck together, we fought together, and we won together. Now we are free (points up) together.