An excerpt from Souvenirs

Chapter 22

De Rode Duivels

An air of tension pervaded the Red Devils’ dressing room. All the players felt it. They had played well in the other matches against Holland, first at Arsenal football ground, then at Celtic Park, in Glasgow. The Devils had only led once in those two matches. At Arsenal, they had been lucky to salvage a one all draw, and they had led the orange horde three-two with a minute to play at Celtic, only to be heartbroken by an own goal in the last seconds. Today would be their last chance, and they all knew it.

Jacques didn’t expect to see Alex Milhado in the dressing room. As president of the organising committee, Milhado had always been mindful to give the appearance of being neutral. When he stood up on one of the benches and tapped his pencil on a locker to get attention, Jacques wondered what he’d have to say.

‘I have some interesting news,’ Milhado began. ‘Our matches have created a stir. We’ve been well supported by newspapers, of course. Radio London will be broadcasting this match, so family and friends in Belgium will be able to pick it up. It would be a pity if your names weren’t mentioned. I feel it is important, though, to seek your permission to do that.’ Players looked at each other. There were shrugs here and there, and a few nods. It wasn’t something they’d expected or had thought about.

‘Raise your hand if you give permission,’ Milhado said. First a couple of hands went up, then a few more, and in ones and twos, finally all hands were raised.

‘Fine, then. I’ll give them permission. Good luck, lads!’

It was only when they’d had a chance to think hard on it that some began to realise that their decision may have left their families back in Belgium at risk of reprisal.

‘It’s not like it’s an official part of any army. It’s just a football match,’ Justin Callier said. ‘That’s why I put my hand up.’

‘I think it’s safe enough,’ Willie Willems countered. ‘The Jerries won’t be listening to a football match.’

Jacques Schuermans wasn’t nearly so sure. He was thinking that Milhado should have given them more notice. His misgivings were only swept aside when they were overtaken by excitement as the players were called to the park.

P

Though the huge Wembley grandstands were by no means full, the roar of the crowd and the supporters’ flags put a chill up the spine of every player, Belgian and Dutch, as they ran onto the field. The Red Devils immediately headed for where the red and black flags were thickest, and the welcome there was deafening. Jacques Schuermans had hoped to see Grace Nicholls somewhere in the stands. He did see Mrs Featherstone, enthusiastically waving a Belgian flag in one hand and a Union Jack in the other, but he couldn’t catch her eye. There was a second roar behind them as the Dutch players in their orange strip took the field, and the commotion for the Dutch was matched by that of the Belgian supporters.

From the moment the referee’s whistle blew to start play, the Dutch went on the attack.

P

Generally, the sound of running feet on the streets of Kortenberg had come to be the harbinger of trouble for somebody, even on an otherwise uneventful Saturday afternoon. If it was followed by a heavy bashing on your front door, it generally meant that trouble was coming your way.

‘Mr Schuermans! Mr Schuermans!’ a boy’s voice called. His tone left no doubt about the urgency of the matter.

Eugene Schuermans glanced across at his wife. Anne Marie’s returning glance was a picture of trepidation.

‘I wonder who this could be,’ Eugene said, trying hard to give the appearance of calm. When he opened the front door, he was perplexed to find nobody there, and he stepped outside. The boy had moved away from the door. He had his nose pressed against their front window, and he began rapping on the glass with his knuckles.

‘Théo!’ Eugene exclaimed. ‘What in God’s name are you up to?’

‘It’s Jacques, Mr Schuermans! He’s on the radio!’

‘What do you mean, he’s on the radio?’

‘Radio London is broadcasting a football match between Belgium and Holland! Jacques is in it. He scored a goal, just a minute ago!’

Instantly, Eugene’s mild annoyance dissipated. ‘Come in! Come in!’ he said as he led the way into the house.

‘It’s Théo Beckers, Mama! He says Jacques is in a football match on the radio! He’s playing for Belgium! We have to listen!’

With fumbling fingers, Eugene twiddled the dials until he could hear the crackly voice of the excited commentators.

‘A wonderful centring pass from Kennens puts Landrieux away, and he takes it over the centre line. Elsacker comes out to meet him for Holland. A quick pass to Schuermans! He draws the defence and passes back to Landrieux, who takes it forward again and sends it back to Schuermans, who’s in behind the defence now! The fullback is caught out of position! Oh, what a strike! Jacques Schuermans has scored again, this time with a beautiful ball into the top left-hand corner of the goal! Belgium has evened the score.’

Suddenly, Anne Marie was on her feet, and in an instant, Eugene and Anne Marie Schuermans were dancing around the bemused boy.

P

Jacques Schuermans hammered his third goal home off a deft centring pass from Willie Willems to break the deadlock, and the Devils defence held out the frantic orange-shirted attack for three solid minutes. Belgium had won four to three. Scenes of joy erupted and Devils fans streamed onto the ground.

An elated Jacques Schuermans sought the face of Grace Nicholls in the crowd, but he couldn’t see her. Though he’d only half expected her to come, his disappointment left a sick feeling in his guts. He was last man down the race to the dressing room to join the team chant.

‘Jacques Schuermans!’ Coach Hebden called from the doorway some ten minutes later. ‘Visitors waiting outside!’

Jacques had just taken off one shoe and sock, and quickly removed the other. He thought it must be her, but instead there were two well-dressed men waiting in the corridor outside the dressing room. He looked from one to the other, wondering what their interest in him was. He’d never seen either man. Both were dressed in suits, one man considerably older than the other.

‘My name is Peter Wright,’ the older man began. ‘This gentleman is Gavin Wood. We both enjoyed your football. Three great goals! Congratulations! You have to be pleased with a win against your old rivals.’ Jacques hadn’t had time to think about their interest, but he began to think they could only be newspapermen after a story. He didn’t know many newspapermen, but neither man fitted the image he’d had in his mind.

‘It was a hard match,’ Jacques said. ‘They gave us a tough time at the start, but we turned that around before half-time. We were unlucky with the first shot. We could have had another. Their goalie only managed to get a fingertip on it.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Wright replied, neither taking notes as Jacques’ suspicions grew that his supposition was wrong. ‘We asked after you at your army headquarters and they told us you were playing here at Wembley. We decided that it was as good a place as any to deliver a letter.’

Jacques realised that they weren’t newsmen after all, and they didn’t look like postmen either, so he waited. Wright took a dog-eared envelope from the pocket of his jacket. He handed it across to Jacques without saying a word.

The simple address on the envelope was:

Monsieur Jacques Schuermans

C/O Free Belgian Army

Somewhere in England

Now Jacques really was wondering what it was all about. His confusion was evident as he glanced from one man to the other, trying to assure himself he wasn’t the victim of a practical joke of some kind. From the dressing room, the discordant sound of the players singing the team song again rang out.

‘The man who wrote this did the Allied cause a great service,’ Wright said. ‘And he asked only that we deliver his message to you. It was written in Kortenberg only nine days ago,’ Wright explained. ‘I can’t tell you much about what he did, but believe me, it was important, and performed at great risk to his life. So much so that we felt it important we deliver his letter personally. Perhaps you would like to open it now.’

For a couple of minutes, Wright and Wood waited as Jacques read the letter, entranced by the only news he’d had from home for more than three years. It was signed

Your brother in arms always,

François

When Jacques looked up at the two men, his eyes were brimming with tears.

‘That’s the first word I’ve heard from home since May 1940,’ he said. ‘Thank you so much.’

Wright shook his head. ‘Our pleasure. We would buy you dinner, but Monsieur Hebden has already told us that you will be on the team bus within the hour.’

At that moment, Coach Hebden arrived, holding a Brownie camera.

‘Stand over there, in front of the Wembley sign, and I’ll take a snap of you,’ he directed. They stood under the sign, and Peter Wright suggested that Jacques should be in the centre.

Hebden wound the film on and took his shot. ‘Don’t be long, Jacques,’ he said. ‘You don’t want the bus to leave without you.’ He turned away with a wave and retreated back into the dressing room.

‘We must let you go. You need to have a shower and join your friends,’ Peter Wright said. ‘If you ever need assistance, you are always free to phone the number on this card.’ He passed Jacques a business card. The two men shook his hand and took their leave, and only then, he glanced down at the card.

P W Wright

Senior Scientist

Government code and cipher school

Sherwood Drive, Bletchley

Milton Keynes, UK

P

A few ardent Devils supporters hung around the bus, not wanting the euphoria to end, as Jacques Schuermans, among the last to board, emerged from the gate. He was cheered, slapped on the back and congratulated as he made his way across the concourse. He saw Alf Nicholls before he saw Grace. Alf was sporting a red scarf and looking so pleased he might have won the match single-handedly himself. Grace was behind him, and the moment she saw Jacques she ran and hugged him as a beaming Alf looked on proprietorially.

‘You were wonderful, lad,’ Alf shouted, pumping his hand. ‘Bleedin’ wonderful. I haven’t seen better since Ted Drake played for the Gunners. Did I tell you about Teddy Drake?’

‘Oh, Da! Give it a break,’ Grace exclaimed.

‘Teddy were the best. Your Jacques isn’t too far behind, mind you!’

The impatient driver sounded the horn, and the last few players moved to board.

‘I have to go,’ Jacques said apologetically. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’ He saw Coach Hebden disembarking from the bus, pushing against the tide of late boarders.

‘I’ve got one last shot in the camera. Stand over there by the bus,’ Hebden said.

‘Got it!’ Hebden shouted over another blast from the horn. ‘All aboard!’

Jacques turned to Grace and barely managed a chaste kiss before he boarded the bus as it began to move. He would have liked to talk, but he felt a fierce, inexplicable joy that she’d come to see him play.