In the earlier story Muddling through, you learnt that My Friend Harry never did get transferred to the infantry. The complicated train of events leading to that military decision started in the Rochester Casino ten years earlier when another form of warfare was in progress - all-in wrestling.
This grotesque, hilarious and staged-managed ‘sport’, imported from America, took Britain by storm in the Thirties and even threatened to oust boxing from its dominance at Premierlands and The Ring, in London, and in arenas all over the country - including Rochester Casino. It certainly did what no boxing match ever did, and that was to rouse audiences into an absolute frenzy of excitement and even rage. To any dispassionate observer the whole spectacle was so obviously phoney that the pandemonium in the auditorium was incomprehensible - but it existed all right. Still does, as you will discover if you are unlucky enough inadvertently to tune your television set to one of the satellite channels featuring the World Wrestling Federation promotions in America.
As the boxing chap on Chatham Observer, My Friend Harry was considered the ideal stooge to cover the wrestling matches, too, which is why one would see him sitting next to Capt. Alf Craig on wrestling nights at the Casino. In a region rich in ‘characters’, Alf stood head and shoulders above most. A ranker Captain in the Royal Engineers, he had, since retirement, been Personnel Officer at Short Brothers’ seaplane factory on the banks of the Medway at Rochester.
A Regimental Sergeant Major before being commissioned in the field in the Great War, Alf. was a big, burly disciplinarian - just the sort of chap to be the timekeeper at all-in wrestling where there was often more action outside the ring than in. There was, for instance, the memorable night when The Hooded Terror was wrestling the Bermondsey Tiger. The ‘Terror’, who used a hood to cover his identity and was confidently thought to be if not the Archbishop of Canterbury’s natural son then the bastard child of a member of the Royal Family, was in dire straits because the ‘Tiger’ was twisting the hood from behind. In evident danger of strangulation, the ‘Terror’ had to submit and thus the decision went to the ‘Tiger’.
Infuriated at the injustice, the ‘Terror’ reached through the ropes, grabbed the microphone and, in tones suggesting an education at Harrow, if not Eton, made an impassioned plea to the audience for fair play. Alf. clambered into the ring, snatched the microphone from the tearful 'Terror’ and ended the matter with one bellowed sentence. “There’s nothing," bawled Alf., “in the bleedin' rules about ‘oods."
Alf’s ‘gimmick’ as timekeeper was to use for a gong a finned, air-cooled cylinder from the radial engine of an aircraft. This massive component was suspended from a sort of gallows standing on Alf’s table. For the ‘hammer’, Alf used a cast-iron connecting rod.
Well, came the night when Mad Maurice Byron was billed to take on Izzy van Dutz. Izzy weighed in at some 22-stone, give or take a ton, whereas the balding Maurice was a sylph by comparison. He was, however, a bundle of energy, racing about the ring, taunting the ponderous Izzy, fetching him the occasional elbow-chop and working the audience up to a rare old state. Then, catching Izzy off balance, he got one arm under his thigh and the other round the back of his neck and toppled him over the ropes - all carefully rehearsed in the gym the previous day, without question.
Trouble was, Izzy didn’t land on the floor, as doubtless planned, but on to Alf Craig’s table. That instantly collapsed and the massive aero cylinder was flung from its gallows. Where did it land? On My Friend Harry’s left big toe. That had him hopping about and howling in agony, but as the entire hall was a bedlam of noise and scuffles, his personal problem registered nil on the Casino’s Richter scale.
Eventually some sort of order was restored, a new table was found for Alf., his gong was re-suspended, Maurice and Izzy began again where they had left off - and Alf became aware of Harry’s anguish and suffering. In a flash he produced his hip-flask and invited Harry to have a good swig. He had two or three, looked in vain for sympathy from all around him because they could see the funny side, and put up with the pain for the rest of the evening. Being young and foolish and feckless, he limped about on his left foot, never sought medical advice, and, in time, the pain faded away and Harry forgot all about the occurrence.
Until, ten years or so later, an Army medical officer told him that the joint had been broken and had, over the years, ‘welded together’. The point was that Harry, and other Royal Armoured Corps officers, was due to be transferred to the infantry because fewer tank officers than budgeted had been killed in North Africa and there was a bit of a surplus.
“Obviously," said the M.O. to Harry, “a chap like you with a rigid toe is no use to the infantry."
“Oh, absolutely," agreed Harry, with an appropriate expression of regret.
Having regard to the subsequent mortality in infantry assaults upon Sicily, Italy and Normandy, Harry reckoned he was indebted to Mad Maurice Byron, Izzy van Dutz and Capt. Alf Craig for his life.