"General Knowledge, Private Information"

[Spock]

As I mentioned in the "Cheers" thread-I might copy and paste in digestible chunks a George MacDonald Fraser short story called "General Knowledge, Private Information" based on his time as an officer in a Highland Regiment in North Africa and England after the war.

Fraser calls himself "Dand McNeill" in these stories and they are centered around "Private McAuslan"-the dirtiest and dumbest soldier in the British army.

"General Knowledge, Private Information" is about a trivia contest during that time and it is probably the only trivia contest where the military police (the redcaps) had to be called in before the contest.

I decided to post Part 1 in the following post for your trivia enjoyment. I think some might get a kick out of this.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"--Part 1

>>>"All my life I have been plagued by a marvellous memory for totally useless information. Probably no other human being now alive could tell you (or would want to, for that matter), all in one breath, that the woman in whose coal cellar Guy Fawkes hid his explosives was called Mrs Bright, that Casanova, Charlemagne, and Hans Andersen were all born on 2 April, and that Schopenhauer couldn’t abide carters cracking whips beneath his bedroom window. And add, for good measure, the names of the Oxford batsmen who succumbed to Cobden’s devastating hat-trick in the University match of 1870.

You get no marks for knowing these things, as people were always telling me at school. Other children knew the subjunctive of moneo, and exactly where to drop the perpendicular in Pythagoras, how to dissect an adverbial clause (I didn’t even know what an adverb was, and don’t push me even now), and how to do volumetric analysis. They absorbed these matters without difficulty, and poured them out on to paper at examinations, while I sat pathetically, having scrawled my name, and the number‘ 1’ in the margin, wondering if the examiners would allow me anything for knowing that the ice-cream Chico Marx sold in A Day at the Races was ‘tutsi-fruitsi’, and that there was an eighteenth-century buccaneer who became Archbishop of York, that the names of the Bounty’s quartermasters were Norton and Lenkletter, or that Martin Luther suffered from piles.

It wasn’t even respectable general knowledge, and heaven knows I tried to forget it, along with the identities of the playing cards in Wild Bill Hickok’s hand when he was shot, the colours of all the football teams in the old Third Division (Northern Section), and the phrase for ‘Do you surrender?’ in the language which Tarzan spoke to the apes. But it still won’t go away. And an exhaustive knowledge of utter rubbish is not a social asset (ask anyone who has been trapped next to me at a party) or of more than limited use in keeping up with a television quiz show. Mr Paxman’s alert, glittering-eyed young men, bristling with education, jab at their buzzers and rattle out streams of information on Sumerian architecture and Gregorian music and the love poetry of John Donne while I am heaving about in my armchair with my mouth full, knocking over tea-cups and babbling frantically: ‘Wait, wait! – King’s. Evil! No, no, dammit – the other thing that Shelley’s nurse died of – didn’t she? – No, wait – Dr Johnson – or Lazarus – or, or what’s his name? – in that play – not bloody Molière! – hang on, it’s coming! The . . . the other one – with the drunk grandee who thinks he’s somebody’s father . .

And by then they are on to Hindemith or equestrian statues at Sinigaglia. It is no consolation to be able to sit growling jealously that there isn’t one of them who could say who it was that Captain Kidd hit over the head with a bucket, or what it was that Claude Rains dropped into a wastepaper basket in the film Casablanca – and then memory of a different kind takes hold, and I am back in the tense and smoky atmosphere of the Uaddan Canteen, sweating heavily on the platform with the other contestants, and not a murmur from the Jocks and Fusiliers packed breathlessly waiting in the body of the hall, with a two-pound box of Turkish Delight and the credit of the regiment to play for, as the question-master adjusts his spectacles, fixes me with a malevolent smile, and asks:

‘What were the names of the five seventeenth-century statesmen whose initials made up the word “Cabal”?’

There are no such general knowledge quizzes nowadays-and no such sublimely-inspired authorities as Private McAuslan, savant, sage, universal man, and philosopher extraordinary. For reviewing his long, unsoldierly, and generally insanitary career, I’d say that that was McAuslan’s big moment, when he rose above his unseemly self and stood forth whole, a bag of chips in his hand and the divine fire of revelation in his mind.

If you doubt this, I can only tell you that I was there and saw it happen. But to explain it properly, and obtain a true perspective, I have to go back a few days earlier to the battalion concert which, along with the Colonel’s liver, was the origin of the whole thing.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 238). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information" --Part 2

>>>If you have attended a battalion concert in an overseas garrison you will know that they are, theatrically speaking, unique – and not merely because nothing works, including the curtain. The whole production is ill-conceived and badly underrehearsed to begin with, half the cast have to be press-ganged into appearance, the standard of performance would shame a kindergarten pantomime, the piano is untuned, the lighting intermittent, C Company’s tenor (who thinks he is Scotland’s answer to Gigli) butchers his way through ‘Ave Maria’ and ‘Because God made thee mine’ to demented applause from the sentimental soldiery, one of the storemen does conjuring tricks with a pullthrough and pieces of four-by-two cleaning cloth, the idiot Lieutenant MacNeill, shuffling and crimson with embarrassment, does his supposedly comic monologue and dies standing up, the Adjutant, who is prompting in the wings, loses his script and puts the entire stage-crew under close arrest in a voice shrill with hysteria while the audience roars ‘Encore’, and everybody on the safe side of the footlights loves it. Except the Colonel.

This is because he is stuck in the middle of the front row, surrounded by all the visiting brass and their wives, and knowing that the climax to the whole terrible show, which his soldiery are waiting for like knitting-women impatient for the tumbril, will be the moment when the battalion funny-man comes on and does the court-jester bit. Our own local comedian was an evil and disreputable Glasgow keelie called McCann, the scruff of A Company, and generally regarded as that unit’s answer to Private McAuslan. He came bauchling confidently on, his wits honed by years of abusing referees, policemen and tram conductors, conductors, convulsed the hoi-polloi with his grating catch-phrase (‘Hullaw rerr, fellas, see’s a knife, Ah wantae cut up a side street’), and set the tone by winking at the Colonel and addressing him affably as ‘china’.

Thereafter, with delicately edged allusion and innuendo, he took the mickey out of his commanding officer in a performance judged with such a niceness that it stopped just a shaved inch short of outright insubordination. It really was masterly, in its way, and would have won plaudits from Will Kemp and Archie Armstrong, who would have expected to go to the Tower, if not the block, for it. And the Colonel, pipe clenched in his teeth, took it with an eager, attentive smile that promised penalties unmentionable for Private McCann if ever he was damnfool enough to get himself wheeled into the orderly room on a charge.

The last act of the evening, after McCann had bounced off to tumultuous applause (with the Colonel clapping grimly and regularly) was a complete anti-climax. It was a general knowledge test among teams from the six companies, devised by the Padre, and it laid the expected theatrical egg, with the mob streaming away to the canteen before it was finished. But the Colonel sat it out, and was heard to say in the mess afterwards that it had been the only decent event on the programme. Presumably anything looked good to him after McCann.

‘The rest of it,’ he observed to the Fusilier Colonel, who had been an interested (and, during McCann’s turn, an inwardly delighted) guest, ‘was just bloody awful. Of a piece with all modern entertainment, of course. Haven’t had a decent film, even, since Snow White. At least these general knowledge quizzes serve some useful purpose – anything does that imparts information to the men. God knows most of ’em could do with some education, considering the drivel that’s served up to them as entertainment.’ And he had the crust to scowl at me – which, considering he had dragooned me into the show in the first place (‘A good officer ought to take part in all his men’s activities; give ‘em your monologue’), was pretty cool, I thought.

The Fusilier Colonel said he doubted if the general knowledge competition we had heard that night was very educational; it had consisted, he pointed out, of questions mostly about sport.

‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said our Colonel. ‘Shows a healthy outlook. Have another gin.’

‘Thanks,’ said the Fusilier Colonel. ‘What I meant was, to be really useful a general knowledge quiz ought to be more broadly based, don’t you think? I mean – football and racing are all very well, but general knowledge should take in, well, art, politics, literature, that sort of thing.’ He took a sip of his gin and added: ‘Perhaps your Jocks aren’t interested, though.’

That, as they say, did it. But for McCann, and the fact that our Colonel’s liver must have been undergoing one of its periodic spells of mutinous behaviour, he’d probably just have grunted agreement. As it was, he stopped short in the act of refuelling his pipe and asked the Fusilier Colonel what the devil he meant. The Fusilier Colonel said, nothing, really, but general knowledge quizzes ought to be about general knowledge. They’d had one in his battalion, and he’d been astonished at how much his chaps – quite ordinary chaps, he’d always thought – knew about all sorts of things.

Our Colonel did a brief, thoughtful quiver, looked across the mess with that chin-up, faraway stare that his older comrades associated with the Singapore siege, and said, was that so, indeed. He finished filling his pipe, and you could see him wondering whether the Fusilier Colonel had somehow managed to enlist the entire Fellowship of All Souls in his battalion. Then he looked round, and if ever a man was taking inventory of his own unit’s intellectual powers, he was doing it then. There was the Padre, with an M.A. (Aberdeen), and the M.O. with presumably some scientific knowledge – pretty well versed in fishing, anyway – and then his eye fell on me, and I knew what he was thinking. A few days before he’d heard me – out of that fund of my trivia – explaining to the Adjutant, who was wrestling futilely with a crossword, that the term ‘derrick’ derived from the name of an Elizabethan hangman. Eureka, he was thinking.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 241). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

FTR-While I own thousands of books-the only ones that I purposely collect are various editions and iterations of the Private McAuslan stories.

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 3

>>>"‘Tell you what,’ he said to the Fusilier Colonel. ‘How’d you like to have one of these quiz competitions – between our battalions? Just for interest, eh?’

‘All right,’ said the Fusilier Colonel. ‘A level fiver?’

‘Done,’ said our Colonel, promptly, and in that fine spirit of philosophic inquirers bent on the propagation of knowledge for its own sake they proceeded to hammer out the rules, conditions and penalties under which the contest would be conducted. It took them three double whiskies and about half a pint of gin, and the wheeling and dealing would have terrified Tammany Hall. But finally they agreed that the two teams, four men strong, should be drawn from all ranks of the respective battalions, that the questions should be devised independently by the area education officer, that the local Roman Catholic padre should act as umpire (our Colonel teetered apprehensively over that, and presumably concluded that the Old Religion was marginally closer to our cause – Jacobites, Glasgow Irish, and all that – than to the Fusiliers’), and that the contest should be held in a week’s time on neutral ground, namely the Uaddan Canteen. And when, with expressions of mutual good will, the Fusilier Colonel and his party had left, our Colonel called for another stiff one, mopped his balding brow, refilled his pipe, and took the operation in hand. He formed the Padre and myself into an O-Group, with the Adjutant co-opted as an adviser, told the rest of the mess to shut up or go to bed, announced: ‘Now, this is the form,’ and paced to and fro like Napoleon before Wagram, plotting his strategy. Dividing his discourse under the usual subheadings – object, information, personnel, communications, supply, and transport – he laid it all on the line.

‘These Fusiliers,’ he said, smoking thoughtfully. ‘Probably quite brainy. Never can tell, of course, but they put up a dam’ fine show at Anzio, and Colonel Fenwick is nobody’s fool. Don’t be discouraged by the fact that they’ve had one or two of their chaps through Staff College – the kind of idiot who can write p.s.c. after his name these days is, to my mind, quite unfit for brain-work of any kind and usually has to be excused boots.’ The Colonel had not been to Staff College. ‘However, we can’t afford to take ’em lightly. Their recruiting area is the north-east of England, which I grant you is much like the Australian outback with coal-mines added, but we can’t count too much on that. There’s a university thereabouts – which reminds me, Michael, we’ll have to check on where this area education officer hails from. The chap who’s setting the questions. Fenwick proposed him – bigod, I’ll bet he’s a Geordie – ’

‘He’s a Cornishman,’ said the Adjutant. ‘Pen-pal, or some such name.’

‘Thank God for that,’ said the Colonel. ‘You’re sure? Right, then, we come to our own team. You, Padre, and you, young Dand, will select as your team-mates the two most informed, alert and intelligent men in the battalion. Officers or other ranks, I don’t care which – but understand, I want a team who can answer the questions put to them clearly, fully, and accurately, and in a soldier-like manner. No dam’ shuffling and scratching heads. When a question’s asked – crack! straight in with the answer, like that.’

‘Provided we know the answer,’ said the Padre, and the Colonel looked at him like a dyspeptic vulture.

‘This battalion,’ he said flatly, ‘knows all the answers. Understand ? What’s the shortest book in the Bible?’

‘Third John,’ said the Padre automatically.

‘There you are, you see,’ said the Colonel, shrugging in the grand manner. ‘It’s just a matter of alertness and concentration. And – training.’ He wagged his pipe impressively. ‘Some form of training is absolutely essential, to ensure that you and the rest of the team are at a highly-tuned pitch on the night of the contest. The questions are to fall under the headings of general knowledge; art and literature and music and what-not; politics; and sport. I suppose,’ he went on reflectively, ‘that you could read a bit . . . but don’t for God’s sake go swotting feverishly and upsetting yourselves. Some chaps at Wellington used to, I remember – absolutely hopeless on the day. I,’ he added firmly, ‘never swotted. Just stayed off alcohol for twenty-four hours in advance, went for a walk, had a bath and a good sleep, a light breakfast . . . well, here I am. So just keep your digestions regular, no late hours, and perhaps brush up a bit with . . . well, with some of those general knowledge questions in the Sunday Post. I don’t doubt the education officer will draw heavily on those. Anyway, they’ll get you into the feel of the thing. Apart from that – any suggestions?’

The Adjutant said he had a copy of Whitaker’s Almanack in the office, if that was any use.

‘Excellent,’ said the Colonel. ‘That’s the sort of practical approach we need. Very good, Michael. No doubt there’s some valuable stuff in the battalion library, too.’ (I knew of nothing, personally, unless one hoped to study social criminology through the medium of No Orchids for Miss Blandish or Slay-ride for Cutie.)

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (pp. 243-244). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 4 "The Clydeside Communist and Forbes Join the Team"

>> ‘And that,’ said the Colonel, ordering up four more big ones, ‘is that. It’s just a question of preparation, and we’ll have this thing nicely wrapped up. I’ve every confidence, as usual – ’ he gave us his aquiline beam ‘ – and I feel sure that you have, too. We’ll show the Fusiliers where the brain-power lies.’

The trouble with the Colonel, you see, was that he’d been spoiled by success. Whether it was taking and holding a position in war, or thrashing all opposition at football, or looking better than anyone else on ceremonial parades, or even a question of the battalion’s children topping the prize-list at the garrison school, he expected no less than total triumph. And perhaps because he so trustingly expected it, he usually got it – and a trifle over. It was a subtle kind of blackmail, in a way, and that crafty old soldier knew just how to operate it. Leadership they call it.

I’ve seen it manifest itself in most curious ways, as when the seven-year-old daughter of Sergeant Allison was taking a ballet examination in Edinburgh – and there, just before it began, was the Colonel, in tweeds and walking-stick, just looking in, you understand, to see that all was in order, gallantly chatting up the young instructresses in their leotards, playing the genial old buffer and missing nothing, and then giving the small and tremulous Miss Allison a wink and a growling whisper before stalking off to his car. The fact was, the man was as nervous as her parents, because she was part of his regimental family. ‘He’ll be there at the Last Judgement,’ the M.O. once said, ‘cadging a light off St Peter so that he can whisper “This is one of my Jocks coming in, by the way . . .”’

It followed that the quiz against the Fusiliers assumed an importance that it certainly didn’t deserve, and I actually found myself wondering if I ought to try to read right through the Britannica beforehand. Fortunately common sense reasserted itself, and I concentrated instead on selecting the remaining two members of the team – the Padre insisted that was my affair; he was going to be too busy praying.

Actually, it wasn’t difficult. The Padre and I had agreed that in the quiz he would deal with questions on what, in a moment of pure Celtic pessimism, he irritably described as ‘the infernal culture’ – that is, literature, music and the arts – while I would look after the general knowledge. So we needed a political expert and a sporting one. The political expert was easy, I said: it could only be Sergeant McCaw, Clydeside Communist and walking encyclopedia on the history of capitalist oppression and the emergence of the Working Man.

The Padre was horrified. ‘Ye daren’t risk it! The man’s a Bolshevik, and he’s cost me more members than Sunday opening. He’ll use the occasion for spouting red propaganda – man, Dandy, the Colonel’ll go berserk!’

‘He’s about the only man in this battalion whose knowledge of Parliament goes beyond the label of an H.P. sauce bottle,’ I said. ‘It would be criminal not to pick him – he can even tell you what the Corn Laws were.’

‘Is that right?’ said the Padre, metaphorically pulling his shawl round his shoulders. ‘I fear the worst. Stop you till he starts calling Churchill a fascist bully gorged on the blood of the masses. What about sport?'

‘Forbes,’ I said. ‘From my platoon. He’s the man.’

‘Yon? He’s chust a troglodyte.’

‘Granted,’ I said, ‘but if you knew your Reasons Annexed as well as he knows his league tables, you’d be Moderator by now.’ And in the face of his doubts I summoned Private Forbes – small, dark, and sinful, and the neatest inside forward you ever saw.

‘Forbes,’ I said. ‘Who holds the record for goals scored in a first-class match?’

He didn’t even blink. ‘Petrie, Arbroath, got thirteen against Aberdeen Bon-Accord in 1889. He wis playin’ ootside right, an’ – ’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Who got most in a league game?’

‘Joe Payne, o’ Chelsea, got ten when he was playin’ fur – ’

‘What’s the highest individual score in first-class cricket?’

‘Bradman, the Australian, he got 452 in a State game – ’

‘How many Britons have held the world heavyweight title?’

‘None.’ He took a breath. ‘Bob – Fitzsimmons – wis – English – but – he – was – namerrican – citizen – when – he – beat – Corbett – an’ – Toamy – Burns – wis – a – Canadian – but – that – disnae – count – an’ – ’

‘Fall out, Forbes, and thank you,’ I said, and looked at the Padre, who was sitting slightly stunned. ‘Well?’

He sighed. ‘When you consider the power of the human brain, ye feel small,’ he began, and I could see that we were going to be off shortly on another fine philosophic Hebridean flight.

So I left him, and went to find Sergeant McCaw and confirm his selection.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 246). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 5-The Jocks (slang for Scottish soldiers) and McAuslan take an interest in the trivia contest.


>>>The next week was just ridiculous. You’d have thought the Jocks wouldn’t even be interested in such an arcane and contemptible business as an inter-regimental general knowledge competition, but they treated it like the World Cup. Scotsmen, of course, if they feel that national prestige is in any way at stake, tend to go out of their minds; tell them there was to be a knitting bee against England and they would be on the touch-line shouting ‘Purl, Wullie! See’s the chain-stitch, but!’ And as is the case with British regiments anywhere, they and the Fusiliers detested each other heartily. That, and the subtle influence which I’m sure the Colonel percolated through the unit by some magic of his own, was enough to make the quiz the burning topic of the hour.

I first realised this when, during a ten-minute halt on a short route march, Private Fletcher of the lantern visage and inventive mind mentioned the quiz to me, and observed artlessly, as he borrowed a light: ‘Would be a’ right if ye knew what the questions wis goin’ tae be, wouldnit?’ Once upon a time I’d have thought this just a silly remark, but I knew my Fletcher by now.

‘It would,’ I said. ‘But if somebody was to bust into the education officer’s premises at night, and start rifling his papers, that wouldn’t be all right. Know what I mean?’

‘Whit ye take me fur?’ He was all hurt surprise. ‘Ah wis just mentionin’. Passin’ the time.’ He paused. ‘They say the odds is five tae two against us.’

‘You mean there’s a book being made? And we’re not favourites?'

‘No kiddin’, sur. The word’s got roond. See the Padre? He’s a wandered man, that; he disnae know what time it is. Ye cannae depend on him.’

‘He’s an intelleck-shul, but,’ observed Daft Bob Brown.

‘Intellectual yer granny. Hear him the ither Sunday? On aboot the Guid Samaritan, an’ the Levite passin’ by on the ither side, an’ whit a helluva shame it wis, tae leave some poor sowel lyin’ in the road? Well seen the Padre hasnae been doon Cumberland Street lately. Ah’d dam’ soon pass by on the ither side. Becos if Ah didnae, Ah ken fine whit I’d get — half a dozen Billy Boys fleein’ oot a close tae banjo me.’

This naturally led to a theological discussion in which I bore no part; I’d been lured into debate on the fundamentals with my platoon before. Nor was I surprised that they held a poor opinion of the Padre’s intellect — he did have a tendency to wander off into a kind of metaphysical trance in the pulpit. Skye man, of course. But I was intrigued to find that they were interesting themselves in the quiz; even Private McAuslan.

‘Whit’s an intelleck-shul?’ he inquired.

‘A clever b—’, explained Fletcher, which is not such a bad definition, when you come to think of it. ‘Don’t you worry, dozey,’ he went on. ‘It disnae affect you. An intellectual’s a fella that can think.’

‘Ah can think,’ said McAuslan, aggrieved, and the platoon took him up on it, naturally.

‘What wi’?’

‘Your brains are in your bum, kid.’

‘Hey, sir, why don’t ye hiv McAuslan in yer quiz team?’

‘Aye, he’s the wee boy wi’ the brains.’ ‘Professor McAuslan, N.B.G., Y.M.C.A. and bar.’

‘Right — fall in!’ I said, for McAuslan’s expression had turned from persecuted to murderous. He shuffled into the ranks, informing Fletcher raucously that he could think, him, he wisnae so bluidy dumb, and Fletcher wis awfy clever, wasn’t he, etc., etc.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 248). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 6-Trivia Fever Builds

>>>>But I hadn’t realised quite how gripped they were by quiz fever until I became aware, midway through the week, that I was being taken care of, solicitously, like a heavy-weight in training. I was conscious, in my leisure moments, of being watched; outside my window I heard my orderly say: ‘It’s a’ right; he’s readin’ a book,’ and on two other occasions he asked pointedly if he could get me anything from the library — a thing he’d never done before. My platoon behaved like Little Lord Fauntleroys, obviously determined to do nothing to disturb the equilibrium of the Great Brain; the Padre complained that he could get no work done for Jocks coming into his office to ask if he was all right, and could they get him anything. Sergeant McCaw, whose feeling for the proletariat did not prevent his being an oppressively efficient martinet with his own platoon, and consequently unpopular, reported that he had actually been brought tea in the morning; he was suspicious, and plainly apprehensive that the jacquerie were about to rise.

It reached a peak on the Thursday, when I was playing in a company football match, and was brought down by one of the opposition. Before I could move he was helping me up — ‘awfy sorry, sir, ye a’right? It was an accident, honest.’ And this from a half-back whose normal conduct on the field was that of a maddened clog-dancer.

By the Saturday afternoon I was convinced that if this kind of consideration didn’t stop soon, I would go out of my mind. The Padre was feeling it, too — I found him in the mess, muttering nervously, dunking egg-sandwiches in his tea and trying to eat them with a cigarette in his mouth. I believe if I had said anything nice to him or asked him who wrote The Tenant of Wildfell Hall he would have burst into tears. The Colonel stalked in, full of fight, shot anxious glances at us, and decided that for once breezy encouragement would be out of place. The Adjutant said hopefully that he’d heard there was a touch of dysentery going round the Fusilier barracks, but on the other hand, he’d also heard that they had a full set of The Children’s Encyclopedia, so there wasn’t much in it, either way, really. You could feel the tension building up as we sat, munching scones; I was getting into a nervous state, and showed it by quoting to the Padre, ‘I would it were bedtime, Hal, and all well,’ and he started like a convulsed impala and cried: ‘Henry the Fourth, Part One! Or is it Part Two? No — Part One! — I think . . . Oh, dear, dear!’ and sank back, rubbing his brow.

It was a relief finally to get to the Uaddan Canteen, already filled with a light fog of smoke from the troops who packed the big concert hall. The rival factions of supporters had arranged themselves on either side of the centre aisle, so that on one hand the sea of khaki was dotted with the cockades on the caps which the Fusiliers had folded and thrust through their epaulettes, and on the other by dark green tartan shoulder flashes. There were even redcaps at the back of the hall; I found myself wondering whether there had ever been a general knowledge contest in history where they had called in the police even before the start.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (pp. 249-250). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"--Part 7 --The Contest Begins

>>>In the centre of the front row sat the area commander, a portly, jovial brigadier with his complexion well seasoned by sun and booze, and on either side of him the Colonels, talking across him with a smiling jocularity you could have sliced bread on. Officers of both regiments, plus a few of the usual commissioned strays, made up the first two rows, and immediately behind them on the Highland side I saw the serried ranks of Twelve Platoon, with Private McAuslan to the fore eating chips from a huge, steaming bag with cannibal-like gusto. You could almost smell them on the platform.

All this I observed through a crack in the curtains at the back of the stage, where we and our opponents were briefly assembled, smiling uneasily at each other until we were given the word to file out on to the platform. We came out to a reception reminiscent of a Nuremberg rally which has got out of hand; the Fusiliers thundered their boots on the floor, while stern Caledonia on the other side got up and roared abuse across the aisle, sparing a decibel or two for the encouragement of their team. ‘There’s the wee boys!’ I recognised the cry of Private Fletcher, while McAuslan signified his support by standing on his chair and clapping his hands rhythmically above his head — unfortunately he was still holding his supper in one hand, not that he minded; if you’re McAuslan, a few chips in your hair is nothing.

We took our places, each side ranged on hard chairs behind two long Naafi tables on either side of the stage, and the question-master, a horn-rimmed young man with a long neck and the blue Education Corps flash on his shoulder, assembled his papers importantly at a little table in between. He was joined by Father Tuohy, the Roman Catholic chaplain, known locally as the Jovial Monk, who mitted the crowd to sustained applause, told a couple of quick stories, exchanged gags with the groundlings, and generally set the scene. (If ever the Palladium needs a compere at the last minute, they can simply engage the nearest military priest; I don’t know why, but there never was an R.C. padre yet who couldn’t charm the toughest audience into submission.)

Tuohy then explained the rules. There would be individual questions to each man in turn, on his particular subject. If he answered correctly, he got one point and could opt for a second slightly harder question, worth two points, and if again successful, attempt a third still harder question, worth three. If he failed at any stage he kept the points he had, but the question which had stumped him went to the opposition, who scored double if they got it right. At any turn, a contestant could ask for a ten-point question, which would be a real stinker, split into five parts, with two points for each, but unless he got at least four of the parts right, he scored nothing at all. It sounded fairly tricky, with pitfalls waiting for the ambitious.

While he talked, I glanced at our opponents — three officers, one of them a stout, shrewd-looking major, and a bespectacled warrant officer who looked like a Ph.D. and probably was. I glanced along at my companions: Forbes, looking villainous and confident, was sitting up straight with his elbows squared on the board; McCaw, beside him, showed signs of strain on his sallow, tight-skinned face; next to me the Padre was humming the Mingulay boat song between his teeth, his Adam’s apple giving periodic leaps, while he gazed up at the big moths fluttering round the lights. It was sweating hot.

‘Right,’ said Father Tuohy, smiling round genially. ‘All set?’ I could glimpse the sea of faces in the hall out of the corner of my eye; I wished I hadn’t eaten so many scones, for I was feeling decidedly ill — why? For a mere quiz? Yes, for a mere quiz. There was a muscle fluttering in my knee, and I wanted a drink, but I knew if I picked up the tumbler in front of me I’d drop it in sheer nervousness. Right — I’d play it safe, dead safe; no rash scrambling after points; nice and easy, by ear.

‘First general knowledge question to the Fusiliers,’ said the question-master; he had a rather shrill Home Counties voice. ‘What is a triptych?’

Well, thank God he hadn’t asked me. ‘Screens’ flashed across my mind, but I didn’t know, really. Private Fletcher evidently did, though, for in the pause following the question a grating Scottish voice from the body of the hall observed audibly: ‘That’s a right Catholic question, yon!’

Father Tuohy snorted with amusement, and composed himself while the Fusilier major answered — I don’t know what he said, but it earned him a point, and he asked for a second question.

‘With whom or what,’ said the question-master, ‘was Europa indiscreet —not necessarily on the firing-range?’ He smirked, lop-sidedly; ah-ha, I thought, we’ve got an intellectual joker here.

‘A bull,’ said the major, and looked across at me. I knew what he was thinking; the questions, for an army quiz, were middling tough; if he flunked on the third, would I be able to answer it and net six points? Wisely, at that stage of the game, he passed, and the question-master turned to me, his glasses a-gleam. Easy, easy, I thought, just sit and listen — and then some dreadful automatic devil inside me seized on my tongue and made me say, in a nonchalant croak:

‘I’d like a ten-pointer, please.’

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 252). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 8-Explanation-"Darkie' is the name that Dand's (Fraser's) men use as his nickname

>>>"The Padre actually gave a muted scream and shuddered away from me, the question-master sat up straight, there was a stir on the platform, a gasp from the hall, and then a bay of triumph from Twelve Platoon: ‘Darkie’s the wee boy! Get tore in!’ Just for a moment, amidst the horrifying realisation of what I’d done, I felt proud – and then I wanted to be sick. My fiend had prompted me to put on a show, for reasons of pure bravado ; if I managed to lift ten points it would be a tremendous psychological start. And if I failed? From the tail of my eye I could see the Colonel; he was clicking his lighter nervously.

‘For ten points then,’ said the question-master, rummaging out another sheaf of papers. ‘I’m going to give you the names of five famous horses, both real and legendary. For two points each, tell me the names of their owners.’ He paused impressively, impressively, and apart from the subterranean squelching in my throat, there wasn’t a sound. ‘Ronald. Pegasus. Bucephalus. Black Auster. And – ’ he gave me what looked like a gloating grin ‘ – Incitatus.’

Silence in the hall, and then from somewhere in Twelve Platoon a voice said in horrified awe: ‘Bluidy hell!’ The Colonel’s lighter clattered on the floor, I felt about two thousand eyes riveted on my sweating face – and relief was flooding over me like a huge wave. Take it easy, I was saying to myself; don’t let your tongue betray you. By a most gorgeous fluke, you’re in business. I took a deep breath, tried to keep my voice from shaking, and said:

‘In the same order . . . ahm . . . yes . . . the owners . . . er, would be.’ I paused, determined to get it right. ‘The Seventh Earl of Cardigan, Bellerophon, Alexander the Great, Titus Herminius – in Macaulay’s “Lays” – and the Roman Emperor Caligula.’

Forgive me for describing it, but in a life that has had its share of pursed lips, censorious glares, and downright abuse and condemnation, there haven’t been many moments like that one. It rocked the hall, although I say it myself. The question-master, torn between admiration and resentment at seeing one of his prize questions hammered into the long grass, stuttered, and said: ‘Right! Ten points – yes, ten points!’, the front two rows applauded briskly, the Fusilier major shaded his face with his hand and said something to the man next him, and Twelve Platoon threw up their sweaty nightcaps with abandon. (‘Gi’ the ba’ tae Darkie! Aw-haw-hey! Whaur’s yer triptyches noo?’ etc.) I lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

In my relief, I’m afraid I paid little attention to the other questions of that round – I know the Padre stopped at two, having identified the opening words of Treasure Island and the closing sentence of Finnegans Wake (trust the Army Education Corps to give James Joyce a good airing), and McCaw picked up useful yardage over Lloyd George and the peerage. It was Forbes who really stole the show – either in emulation or out of sheer confidence he demanded a ten-pointer and was asked what sports he would expect to see at The Valley, Maple Leaf Gardens, Hurlingham, Hileah and – this was a vicious one – Delphi. He just cleared his throat, said ‘Way-ull’, and then trotted them out:

‘Fitba’ – aye, soccer’ (this with disdain for the effete term), ‘ice hockey, ra polo, racin’, in America, an’ athletics – the Greeks in the auld days.’

I applauded as hard as any one – frankly, while I knew Forbes was an authority, he’d shaken me with his fifth answer. I should have realised that the Topical Times and Book of Sporting Facts researchers cast their nets wide. (The Colonel was equally astonished, I imagine, over Hurlingham; you could see him thinking it was time Forbes was made a corporal.)

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 254). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"- Part 9

>>>We finished the first round leading 26 – 15, and then the contest developed into a long, gruelling duel. I don’t remember all that much of it accurately, but some memories and impressions remain. I know the Padre, after a nervous start, ran amuck through the Augustan writers and various artists of the Renaissance, with a particularly fine flourish over an equestrian statue of Gattemalatta, by Donatello, which had the Jocks chanting: ‘See the Padre, he’s the kid!’ Sergeant McCaw started no fires by attempting ten-point questions, but he was as solid as a rock on such diverse matters as the Jewish Disabilities Bill, the General Strike (I could hear the Padre mumbling snatches of prayer during this answer and trying not to catch the Colonel’s eye), and the results of celebrated by-elections. He seldom failed to answer all three of his questions. Forbes was brilliant, but occasionally erratic; he shot for too many ten-pointers and came adrift as often as not, on one occasion even forgetting himself so far as to engage in a heated debate with Father Tuohy on whether gladiatorial games were or were not sport. (‘Hoo the hell’s a fella expected tae know whit a Roman boxin’-glove’s called in Latin?’) Nor, it was clear, would he have included the Emperor Commodus in his list of Great Heavyweights. I did reasonably well, but never equalled my opening effort. I tried one more ten-pointer, and crashed heavily over the Powers involved in the Pragmatic Sanction (really, I ask you), but scored a mild tactical success over the question-master by insisting that the victorious commander against the Armada was Effingham, not Drake. Father Tuohy backed me up (affecting not to hear the cry of ‘Your side got beat, onywye, padre’ from some unidentified student of Elizabethan history in the audience), but the question-master hated me from that moment on.

We came to the half-way stage with a comfortable lead, and our Colonel produced a cigar from his sporran and sat back. He was anticipating, and not wisely, for in the second half we began to come adrift. The Fusiliers were finding their stride; two of them were only average, but the bespectacled genius of a warrant officer and the rotund major were really good. The major twice snapped up three-point questions on which I had failed (how was I to know the names of all the Valkyries), and on his own account displayed a knowledge of classical music and Impressionist painting which was almost indecent. I scrambled one ten-pointer by identifying five of the occupants of the stagecoach in the film of that name, and got a life-saving eight points from another ten-pointer by naming four of the Nine Worthies (God bless my MacDonald granny for keeping Dr Brewer’s Reader’s Handbook where my infant hands could get at it), but for the rest I was content to sit on my first two questions most of the time and take no chances. Forbes did well, with some fine work on baseball and the dimensions of football pitches, and McCaw continued his sound, stone-walling game, surviving one particularly blistering attack concerned with Gladstone’s Midlothian campaign, and for good measure quoting ‘Keep your eye on Paisley’, to the delight of the St Mirren supporters present.

The Padre was erratic. He pasted the Lake Poets all round the wicket, and caused some stir among the betting fraternity at the back of the hall by bagging two ten-pointers in succession (five trickily obscure quotations from modern poets, and a tour de force in which he identified five of the plays possibly attributable to Shakespeare outside the recognised canon. I can still hear that lilting Island voice saying slowly, ‘Aye, and then there wass The Two Noble Kins-men, aye . . .’). But he shocked the home support by confusing George Eliot with George Sand, and actually attributed an Aytoun quotation to Burns; it began to look as though he was over-trained, or in need of the trainer’s sponge. And so we came to the final round, with a bare seven-point lead, and Father Tuohy announced that the last eight questions would decide the fate of the two-pound boxes of Turkish Delight which were the winners’ prizes – to say nothing of the regimental honour and the Colonels’ fivers.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 256). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 10

>>>We were proceeding in reverse order in this half of the contest, so that the sporting questions came first, and general knowledge last. I wondered if I dare caution Forbes not to try for a ten-pointer, decided not to, and sat trembling while he did just that. I needn’t have worried: it was a football question, and he rattled off the names of forgotten Cup-winning teams without difficulty. And then his opposite number tried his first ten-pointer of the night, licking his lips and shredding a cigarette in his fingers, and as he identified obscure terms from croquet, backgammon, sailing, golf, and real tennis the Fusiliers’ boot-stamping rose to a crescendo. We were still holding on to our seven-point margin.

McCaw looked awful. Normally pallid, he now appeared to have been distempered grey, but he folded his arms, gulped, went for three questions, got the first two, and then stumbled horribly over the third: ‘In American politics, what are the symbols of the two main parties?’ He got the donkey, and then dried up. God forgive me, I toyed with the idea of doing elephant imitations, but my sporting instinct and a well-grounded fear that my trumpeting would not go undetected kept me silent. Still, he had got three points: our lead stood at ten. His opposite number blew up on his first question, and we came to the Padre’s turn. His hands clamped on his knees below the table, he put up his head, sniffed apprehensively, tried to smile pleasantly at the question-master, and asked for the first of his three questions in a plaintive neigh.

‘What,’ said the question-master, ‘are the books of the Pentateuch?’

It was, for the Padre, the easiest question he had had all night. They might as well have asked him his name. I relaxed momentarily – this was one certain point in the bag – and then to my utter horror heard him begin to babble out the books – of the Apocrypha.

We can all do it, of course – the sudden blank spot, the ridiculous confusion of names, the too-hasty reply. ‘Wrong,’ squeaked the question-master, and the Padre for once swore, and slapped his head, and cried ‘No, no, no!’ softly to himself in sheer anguish. And we sat, feeling the chill rising, as the bespectacled warrant officer snapped up the Padre’s question, got two points for it, conferred briefly with the stout major, and elected for the regulation three questions, which he answered perfectly for a total of another six. Our lead had been cut to a mere two points.

It was nasty. I looked across at the stout major, and he grinned at me, drumming his fingers on the table. I grinned back, sweating. The dilemma was – should I go for the regulation three questions, which at best might give me a total of six points? If I got the six, then his only hope would be a ten-point question; if I stumbled on any of my questions, he could have a shot at them for bonus points, and with his own questions still to come he could probably win the match. Again, he might fail one of his questions, and I would have a chance at it . . .

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (pp. 257-258). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 11

>>>Or should I try for ten? If I did, and got it, that was the game in the bag; if I came a cropper, he had only three points to make on his own questions for victory. I looked along at my companions; the Padre was sunk in gloom, but Forbes suddenly spread his ten fingers at me, scowling fiercely. McCaw nodded.

‘Ten-pointer, please,’ I said, and the Jocks chanted encouragement, while the stout major smiled and nodded and called softly: ‘Good luck.’

And then it came, in all its horror. ‘What were the names of the five seventeenth-century statesmen whose initials made up the word “Cabal”?’

‘Ca-what?’ said a voice in the audience, and was loudly shushed.

I didn’t know. That I was sure of. For a dreadful moment I found myself thinking of cabalistic signs – the zodiac – and I hate to think what I looked like as I stared dumbly at the question-master. A cornered baboon, probably. Think, you fool, I found myself muttering – and out of nowhere came one gleam of certain light – whatever the C in Cabal stood for, I knew it wasn’t Clarendon.

That, you’ll agree, was a big help – but at least it was a start. Charles II – Dutch Wars – broom at the mast – de Ruyter climbing a steeple in childhood – 1066 and All That – ‘They’d never assassinate me, James, to put you on the throne’ – Restoration drama – dirty jokes in The Provoked Wife – oh, God, why hadn’t I paid attention in history classes? – oranges, Nell Gwynn, Chelsea Hospital, licentious libertines – Buckingham! It must be! Nervously, I ventured: ‘Buckingham?’

The question-master nodded. ‘One right.’

And four to go – but three would get me a total of eight points, even if I didn’t get the last name. I went for the two A’s – Ask-something – no, Ash! Ashley! I gulped it out, and he nodded. The other A was as far away as ever, but a worm of memory was stirring – one of them was a Scotsman – Laurieston ? Something like that, though. And then it came.

‘Lauderdale?’

‘Right. Two more.’

I was buffaloed. I caught the major’s eye; he was no longer smiling. One more would do – just one, and I was safe.

‘I’ll have to count you out, I’m afraid,’ said the question-master, and he began to intone ‘Five-four-three – ’, and the Fusiliers took it up, to be shushed angrily by their Colonel. The temptation to shout ‘Clarendon! And to hell with it!’ was overpowering – Cla – Cl-something – oh, lord –

‘Clifford!’ I shrieked, all restraint gone, and the question-master snapped his fingers.

‘Right. Four out of five gets you eight points. Bad luck with the fifth – it’s Arlington.’

I should have got that. It’s the name of a private baths in the West End of Glasgow – if you can’t remember that sort of thing, what can you remember?

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 259). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 12

>>>Now it was for the Fusilier major. We were ten points up – he could just tie the match if he went for the big one, which of course he did, smiling in a rather frozen way, I thought.

‘Good luck,’ I said, but he didn’t need it. He identified the five Great Lakes without a tremor (pretty easy, I thought, after my abomination, but that’s the quiz business for you). And as the audience roared in frustration, Father Tuohy scratched his head and said, well, that was it. The match was drawn.

And then the babble broke out in the hall, with sundry crying for a tie-breaker to be played. Father Tuohy looked at the question-master, who spread his hands and looked at the top brass in the front row, and they looked at each other. The mob was beginning to chant ‘extra time!’, and Father Tuohy said, well, he didn’t know; the only people who were in no doubt were the seven other contestants and me. We were all busy shaking hands in relief and getting ready to pile for the exit and something long and cold. And then the brigadier, rot him, got up and addressed the question-master as the noise subsided.

‘There seems to be a feeling that we ought to try to – ah – fight it out to a decision,’ he said. ‘Can’t you set a few more questions to each side?’

The question-master, stout fellow, said his questions were exhausted, including the ten-pointers. They had been carefully balanced, he explained earnestly, and he wouldn’t like to think up questions on the spur of the moment – not fair to either side, sir, really . . .

This didn’t satisfy the audience. They began to chant and stamp in rhythm, and the brigadier smiled indulgently and asked the Colonels what did they think? Both of them obviously wanted only to let well alone, with honours even, rather than risk last-minute defeat, but they didn’t dare say so, and sat pretending genial indifference in an uneasy way. We stood uncertainly on the platform, and then the brigadier, with the air of a happy Solomon – my heart sank at the satisfied glitter in his eye – said, well, since there was apparently a general desire to see a decision one way or another, he had an idea which he thought might meet with universal approval.

I’ve nothing against brigadiers, as a class, but they do seem to feel a sense of obligation to sort out the lower orders’ problems for them. High military rank does this to people, of course, and they tend to wade in, flat-footed, and interfere under the impression that they are being helpful. Also, this brigadier was obviously bursting to cut the Gordian knot and win the plaudits of all. So we on the platform resumed our seats miserably, and he seized the back of a chair and unveiled his brain-child.

‘What I’d like to propose,’ he said, meaning ‘What I intend to dictate’ – ‘is that we should settle this absolutely splendid contest with one final question. It so happens that, listening to the perfectly splendid answers that we’ve heard – and I would like to take this opportunity of congratulating both teams on an admirable performance – a jolly good show, in fact – and I know their commanding officers must be delighted that they have so many . . . ah . . . clever . . . ah . . . knowledgeable, and . . . ah, yes, cultured intellects . . . in their battalions . . .’

The Fusilier major caught my eye, raising his brows wearily, and the Padre muttered ‘Get on with it, get on with it’, while the brigadier navigated back to square one.

‘As I was saying, listening to this . . . ah, display of talent, I couldn’t help remembering a quiz question of which I heard many years ago, which always struck me as very ingenious and interesting, and I’m sure you’ll all agree when you hear it.’

I’d have been willing to lay odds against that, but the polite soldiery gave him a mild ovation, and on he went.

‘My proposal is that I set this question to both sides, and whichever can answer it should be declared the winner. All right?’

Of course it was all right; he was the brigadier. Ivan the Terrible might as well have asked the serfs if it was all right.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 261). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 13

>>>‘Well, here it is then,’ went on this high-ranking buffoon, beaming at his own ingenuity. ‘It’s a sporting question – ’ my heart leaped as I saw Forbes sit forward expectantly ’ – but I have to confess it is a trick question.’ He smiled impressively, keeping us waiting. ‘Now, here it is – and if anyone can answer it, I’m sure you’ll agree his side deserves to win.’ There wasn’t a sound in the hall as he went on, slowly and deliberately:

‘In a game of association football, how is it possible for a player to score three successive goals – ’ he paused, and added the punch-line ‘ – without any other player touching the ball in between.’

He smiled contentedly around at the stricken quiet which greeted this, said ‘Now’, and waited. Immediately there was a babble of voices asking him to repeat it, and while he did I glanced along at Forbes. He was frowning in disbelief, as well he might, for the thing was patently impossible. I know the rules of football as well as the next man, and it just isn’t on – when a goal is scored, the other side have to kick off, which involves another player . . . I thought feverishly. Unless someone put through his own goal, and then took the kick-off – but even then, he had to pass to someone – you can’t score direct from a kick-off . . . It was beyond me, and I glanced apprehensively across at the Fusiliers. But they were plainly baffled, too.

‘Well, now, come along.’ The brigadier was grinning with pure restrained triumph. ‘Surely we have some football enthusiasts. . .’

‘Ye cannae do it.’ This was Forbes, outraged at what he accounted a heretical question. ‘Ye’re no’ on.’ In the heat of the moment, he forgot all respect respect due to rank, glaring at the brigadier, and the brigadier let it pass, contentedly, and said:

‘I will concede that it is highly unlikely. I doubt if it has ever happened in a game, or ever will. But under the rules it is theoretically possible. So.’

It was one of those questions, like the 155 break at snooker – it never happens, but it could. Thunderous consultation was taking place in the audience, with what appeared to be a fight breaking out in Twelve Platoon – and then Forbes was claiming attention again, shaking his black-avised head in furious disbelief.

‘It isnae in the rules of fitba’,’ he pronounced. ‘It’s impossible. Ye cannae . . .’

‘Is that a confession of defeat from your side?’ asked the brigadier, with silken cunning, and I hurriedly said ‘No, no!’ and gestured Forbes to sit down. He did, glowering, and I looked anxiously again at the Fusiliers, but the stout major was shrugging his shoulders.

‘Come along, come along.’ The brigadier was enjoying himself thoroughly, confounding the rabble at their own game. And as the platform sat in stale-mated silence, he looked round. ‘Let’s throw it open to the supporters of both sides, shall we? Anyone – from either battalion? You can win it for your side. All right?’

They sat, glowering at him in baffled silence – all except in Twelve Platoon’s seats, where some huge upheaval was going on. To my astonishment I saw McAuslan, apparently trying to wrestle free from Fletcher, mouthing inaudibly, raising a grimy hand in the press.

‘No one?’ the brigadier was saying genially. ‘Well, now, that’s – what? You wanted to say something?’

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 263). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 14

>>>McAuslan was struggling up, ignoring Fletcher’s fierce command of ‘Siddoon, ye bluidy pudden! Whaddy you know?’ He lurched past Fletcher into the aisle, his face contorted, and said in a gravelled whisper:

‘Please, sur. Ah think . . . Ah think Ah know the answer, but.’

From that moment the evening took on a dream-like quality as far as I was concerned. There he was, Darwin’s discovery, in his usual disreputable condition, buttons undone, hair awry, shoe-laces trailing, and – I tried not to look – his bag of chips still clutched in one hand. Suddenly he must have realised where he was and what he was doing, for he paled beneath his grime – he was out there in the open, with everyone looking, facing Authority, and this was a situation which McAuslan normally avoided as the blindworm shuns the day. The Colonel had slewed round in his seat, and was staring at him as one on whom the doom has come – well, no one likes to see McAuslan step forth as a representative of his command – and the brigadier blinked in disbelief and started back, before recovering and exclaiming: ‘Excellent! Good show! Let’s hear it!’

McAuslan closed his eyes and swayed, mouthing a little, as was his wont. I could only guess that a sudden blinding belief that he, McAuslan, was for once possessed of knowledge denied to lesser men had got him up on his feet, but he was visibly regretting it now. I had a momentary vision of him transformed, with golden curls around his battered brow, and satin small-clothes in place of his unspeakable khakis, standing on a little stool and being asked: ‘When did you last see your father?’ And then reality returned, and the brigadier was saying kindly:

‘Come forward a little, and speak up, so everyone can hear.’ McAuslan did an obedient forward shamble, and then the brigadier noticed the bag of chips, McAuslan noticed him noticing, and for a fearful moment I thought he was going to proffer the greasy mess and invite the brigadier to help himself. Instead, he hurriedly stuffed the bag inside his shirt, wiped his hands almost audibly on his thighs, and croaked:

‘Weel, it’s like this, see.’ And we waited, breathless, for the Word.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 264). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 15

>>>‘A fella – he’s a centre-forward,’ said McAuslan, and stopped, terrified. But he rallied, and went on, in a raucous whisper: ‘He pits the ba’ through his own goal. That’s one, right?’ The brigadier nodded. ‘Well, then, this same fella picks up the ba’ and kicks off, frae the centre. But he disnae pass, see. No’ fear. He belts the ba’ doon the park, and chases after it, and a dirty big full-back ca’s the pins frae him – ’

‘Tackles him foully,’ our Colonel put in hurriedly, out of ashen lips. The brigadier, intent on McAuslan’s disquisition, nodded acknowledgement of the translation.

‘So,’ McAuslan gestured dramatically. ‘Penalty! Oor boy grabs the ba’ – naebody else has touched it, mind, since he kicked aff – pits it on the spot, an’ lams it in. Two, right?’

‘That’s right!’ exclaimed the brigadier. He seemed quite excited. ‘And then?’

‘Aye, weel, then.’ McAuslan glanced round uneasily, realised yet again that all eyes were on him, swallowed horribly, scrabbled at his perspiring brow, and ploughed gamely on. ‘Soon as the goal’s scored – the ref. whistles for hauf-time. An’ when they come oot fur the second hauf, it’s oor boy’s

turn tae kick aff, see, ‘cos the ither side kicked aff at the start o’ the game. So – he does the same thing again – batters it doon the park, gets the hems pit oan him again by the dirty big full-back –

‘The same full-back fouls him yet again,’ translated the Colonel, his head bowed.

‘That full-back wants sortin’ oot,’ said someone. ‘Jist an animal.’

‘ – and there’s anither penalty,’ McAuslan gasped on, his eyes now closed, ’an’ oor boy shouts, “Ma ba”, and takes it again and belts it – ’

‘You’ve got it!’ cried the brigadier. ‘First-rate! Well done!’ For a moment he looked as though he might grasp McAuslan’s hand, but thought better of it. ‘Do you know, you’re the only person I’ve ever heard answer that question, since it was first told to me, oh, thirty-five years ago, at Eton. Where did you hear it?’

McAuslan confessed that it hadn’t been at Eton, but inna boozer onna Paurly Road in Gleska; he had heard it affa fella. The brigadier was astonished. Meanwhile, around them, the audience were demanding that the answer be repeated, while those who had understood it were vociferous in complaint that it was a daft question, it couldn’t happen – not in a real game.

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 265). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

"General Knowledge, Private Information"-Part 16

>>>‘I told you,’ said the brigadier knowingly, ‘that it was most unlikely. A hypothetical question, purely hypothetical, which our . . . ah . . . colleague here has answered most satisfactorily.’

The assembly bayed their disapproval of this – you cannot take liberties with football where British soldiers are concerned, and they felt the brigadier’s question was facetious, if not downright ridiculous. (Which it was, if you ask me.) There were those insubordinate enough to suggest, from the back of the hall, that it was the kind of question that would have appealed only to a brigadier or a McAuslan. But the brigadier’s serenity was not to be disturbed; he awarded the laurel wreath, so to speak, to McAuslan, who was now quite overcome at his own temerity, and was shuffling uneasily like a baited bear in the presence of mastiffs. The brigadier then congratulated our Colonel, who was looking as though the House of Usher had fallen on him, and led the applause. There wasn’t much, actually, as the mob was streaming for the exits in disgust.

On the platform I scooped up one of the boxes of Turkish Delight, and gave it to Forbes to pass on to McAuslan – after all, he had succeeded where the cream of two battalions’ brains had failed, and presumably earned the Colonel a fiver. Forbes sniffed.

‘Dam’ funny fitba’ matches they must hiv at Eton, right enough,’ was all he said, but I know he presented the prize to its rightful owner, for I chanced by Twelve Platoon’s barrack-room later that night, just to make sure the lights were out, and heard things. I had been marvelling at the fact that McAuslan’s memory, which normally couldn’t hold much beyond his own name, had somehow retained the answer to a catch-question overheard in a public house. Of all the useless, irrelevant information – and then I thought of my own vast store of mental dross, and humbly put the matter out of my mind.

At which point, appropriately, there floated out of the darkened barrack-room window a familiar voice:

‘See, Fletcher, Ah’m no sae dumb. No’ me. Who answered the man’s hypodermical question, hey? Wisnae you, oh no, an’ wisnae Forbes, or Darkie – ’

‘Ach, sharrup braggin’, McAuslan. It’s aboot the only thing you ever kent in yer life – an’ a dam’ silly question, too. Here, gie’s a bit o’ yer Turkish Delight, ye gannet.’ ‘Fat chance,’ observed Private McAuslan, munching with audible contentment. ‘Youse hivnae got the brains tae know tae pit it in yer mooth. Youse arenae intelleck-shull.’

And every time I watch the keen young brain-workers on television effortlessly fielding questions on French literature and microbiology and Etruscan art, I think to myself, yes, all very well, but let’s hear you tell us how a footballer can score three goals in a match without anyone else touching the ball in between . . .

Fraser, George MacDonald. The Complete McAuslan (p. 267). Skyhorse. Kindle Edition.

[Spock]

Comments on the end of the story

I hope that some of you stuck around until the end and enjoyed this short story about a trivia contest on a British Army base in North Africa (Libya)-circa 1946. I have long thought that the trivia contest story deserves a wider audience-especially in the trivia world.

If anyone wants more of McAuslan and George MacDonald Fraser (GMF)-while GMF is best known for Flashman-I don't recommend those.

Instead I recommend that you start with his short WW2 memoir of the war in Burma-As GMF is a "light" writer-it is a quick read.

Then move to the McAuslan stories in "The Complete McAuslan." The trivia contest is not the only time McAuslan saves the day.

Note-these were originally published as 3 collections and in the first one he says it was straight fiction-but in later life he said they were basically true-with some composite characters and such.

I have both of these books basically memorized.

I really enjoyed posting this story and for S and G-I might post another one in the future-I have been turning the options around in my head.

[Bob78164]

Spock,

I know that we often disagree about things and I also know that your heart is in the right place on this. Nevertheless, I’d urge you to rethink posting the entire story. It’s still very much under copyright and in my opinion, authors (or in this case their estates) should be paid for their work. I’m guessing a number of other Bored members probably feel the same way, including but not limited to our published authors.

I would urge you to trim what you’ve posted to a sample of the story. If it matters, by the way, you’ve inspired me to purchase The Complete McAuslan. —Bob

[Vandal]

I agree with Bob#s. This goes well beyond fair use.

I would not want my work presented in such a manner without permission.

[Spock]

I agree with Bob#s. This goes well beyond fair use.

I would not want my work presented in such a manner without permission.

Not a lawyer, but I am going to disagree. I would love to have my work (if any existed) used in such a manner. It was one story out of maybe 25 in one of GMF's lesser known works. He is well-known for the Flashman stories and his WW2 memoir. I have searched many times on the internet to find other fans of the Private McAuslan stories and I have really only been able to find one prominent one. We are a rare breed.

TANSTAAFL from here was a big Flashman and "Quartered Safe" guy-but I could not get him to expand to this or even to some other GMF works.

If I were the copyright holder-I would be flattered to see the story of the trivia contest posted to a trivia-birthed board and have the hope that sales for the collection might expand because of it. They certainly will not be hurt.

I can guarantee that nobody who finds the story here and thus learns of the "Private McAuslan" stories and maybe even GMF for the first time would have bought the collection without seeing the thread Who knows-maybe one or 2 people will be moved to buy the collection that had never heard of it (him) before.

But-Point Taken-I won't post anymore stories from the collection.