As I walked out of the cobbler’s that warm Friday evening, having left my work boots to be resoled, the peaceful summer air was broken very suddenly by a woman’s voice rising from the bottom of Molineux Street.

‘Jack! Jack Dudley! Get back here now! You’m needed at home!’ screamed the voice, but there was no-one in the street but its owner, myself and a mongrel terrier loosely affiliated with the local butcher. ‘Gonby!’ the voice cried out, stopping for breath before continuing, ‘if you’m goin’ the Fox tell Jack I want him.’

As Norris Ottley pulled my pint of Butler’s, I did as the voice had commanded. ‘Your Margaret’s after you, Jack,’ I said, lighting a Woodbine, ‘And her’s in a right state. What’s going on?’

‘Her’s been like that all day, Gonby,’ he replied, slipping his hand below his flat cap to wipe the sweat from his brow (he seemed to have arrived in something of a hurry), ‘I’ve never known nothin’ like it. Mind you,’ he went on, picking a flake of tobacco from his tongue, ‘Her Nelly has just died.’

‘Right,’ I nodded, pensively. At the table behind us, dominoes were being loudly shuffled. I paused. ‘You still on for tonight, though?’

‘Oh, ar.’

‘Let me speak to her.’

As I made my way outside she surprised me at the door. I blocked her passage. ‘It’s men only in the public bar,’ I reminded her. ‘Anyway, am you sure you want to be causing a scene in front of his pals?’

‘My sister’s passed away today, Gonby. He should be at home with his family.’

‘I’m sure he would be if he could…’

‘”If he could”?’ she repeated, as if in exasperation, ‘he’s right behind that door!’

‘You know how it is,’ I put my hand on her shoulder, empathetically (I hoped) but subtly steering her back home.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t. Not really.’ Her tone softened, ‘Please, Gonby: he’ll listen to you. I need him with me. Tell him not to go. I don’t want him to go.’

‘Sorry, duck,’ I replied, ‘The Wolves am the Wolves.’

She stared at me, at first expressionless, then with puzzlement, and then with apparent disbelief. Behind her a coach was approaching from the bottom of North Street, probably ours.

“Ta-ra a bit,” I told Margaret, as the driver sounded his horn and I waved in reply. ‘Sorry about your Nelly.’

::::

An expeditionary group from the King’s Arms in Blakenhall had left on the Thursday night and crossed the Pennines on donkeys…

Margaret’s distaste for the trip was understandable, and not just because of her bereavement; in the days before the M62, Leeds Road was a difficult place to get to. Our coach was only taking us as far as Ilam. From there we would be crossing the Peaks in a daring nocturnal balloon flight, aiming to land in Heaton Hall Farm, north-east of Huddersfield, around daybreak. An expeditionary group from the King’s Arms in Blakenhall had left on the Thursday night and crossed the Pennines on donkeys – this group would be at the farm to greet us with torches in case the late summer South wind brought us in ahead of schedule and we were forced to land in pitch darkness.

Leaving Staffordshire was always an emotional thing for me; I’d only ever crossed county boundaries to follow the Wolves and every time it happened I felt a strong jolt of pride: here we were, the most loyal and fearless pioneers, willing to take our chances with dangerous weather, foreign cuisine and unknown beer just to cheer on the boys in old gold. It was a sensation that never waned, as so many others seemed to do. But I don’t think I ever experienced quite the same thrill as I did on that balmy September night, as our ad-hoc squadron of some seventeen balloons took to the air, a variegated constellation of true-blooded supporters, singing the song that was always sung on such expeditions:

The south wind took us quite swiftly over the southern peaks, but by around three in the morning, I noticed that our pilot, Harold “Chimdy” Sweep was striking a rather grim pose in the intermittent gaslight. “What’s up, Chimdy?” I asked him, somewhere very vaguely north of Bakewell.

‘The wind ay up to much, Gonby,’ he replied, ‘Car see us mekkin’ it as far as Huddersfield. Oh, and put that fag out, will yer.’

I threw my cigarette down to the invisible valley below and reached for one of the plentiful milkbottles we used for peeing (the ale at the Old Dog had been a little stronger than anticipated). The thought of being stranded in still air while Wolves set about the Terriers miles away was not a welcome one and, as Chimdy explained to me, there wasn’t likely to be enough fuel to hang around indefinitely. ‘We’m goin’ in the right direction,’ he said, trying to overcome the pessimism, ‘that’s summat, I suppose.’

It was a tense few hours, but around five o’clock we were hovering above a group of lights that was probably Huddersfield. ‘Car know for sure till we land,’ said Chimdy. The Blakenhall boys’ torches were nowhere to be seen.

Some unintelligible shouting rose from below, no doubt the gasps of awe and wonder the Flying Squadron always provoked in unsuspecting locals.

Hovering, though, was all we did. The air was completely still, and the area wasn’t safe to land in. In order to save fuel, we needed to jettison some weight. Following the lead of another balloon, piloted by Georgie ‘Gosser’ Pembrose, we began throwing our milkbottles over the side. There was little traffic in those days, particularly on a Saturday, and when the omnibuses weren’t climbing the hilly roads you could hear the pissbottles smashing on the roofslates and tarmac beneath us. Some unintelligible shouting rose from below, no doubt the gasps of awe and wonder the Flying Squadron always provoked in unsuspecting locals.

We moved off eventually, Chimdy taking the lead in gambling with the gas in order to pick up some breezes from higher up. It was slow work, though, and by twenty to three it was clear we wouldn’t see any of the first half if we stuck to the original landing plan. As luck would have it, however, what wind there was carried us directly over Leeds Road; as the large Popular Side came into view above the roofs, crew members began to ‘pass it on’ between balloons – we were going to moor to a nearby lamppost and watch the game from the skies.

The plan was a risky one, for we really had no way of knowing if we had sufficient propane to last the hundred minutes. Were we to run out of fuel and crash onto the pitch, the referee would probably abandon the game, which would no doubt put some of the locals’ noses out of joint. Any consequent damage to the balloons would put our deposits in jeopardy, and nobody in the Flying Squadron could forfeit one and ninepence without consequences. But the first rule of the Flying Squadron was that we act as one, and the decision had been made, albeit without debate. Alfie Newham, a recently-demobbed ABS travelling in Gosser Pembrose’s crew, tossed out a rope from his craft and, with skill and daring, climbed down it onto a lamppost behind the cowshed terrace and secured the end with an expert bowline knot before scaling the rope to a rousing ovation. In turn, Chimdy threw his cord to Gosser, and we received a rope from Jack Dudley; thus, with seconds to go before kick-off, the entire Flying Squadron was connected in some fashion to the Pembrose craft. Exhilarated by his act of daring, Alfie shouted “Play up the Wolves”, and, with a roar from land and sky, the game was underway.

Exhilarated by his act of daring, Alfie shouted “Play up the Wolves”, and, with a roar from land and sky, the game was underway.

The game would prove an ill-matched contest, with Wolves running out 7-1 winners. For the second half, in an attempt to save on fuel, we lowered our craft closer to the pitch – affording us an excellent view of Wilshaw’s headed third goal and Broadbent’s second – a twenty-yard rocket into the top corner. However, the collective shadow we cast was enough to risk an abandonment for bad light, so we gained altitude for the last half hour. With fifteen minutes to go a disgruntled local untied our mooring rope from the lamp post on Leeds Road, and Alfie Newham was forced to make another daring manouevre downwards, this time with the additional complication of being pelted with stones by other early leavers. Their aim was generally poor, although he had to scale the rope with one hand after half a house brick hit him square on the wrist.

Our own craft was the first to run out of fuel, and Chimdy began an unplanned descent at exactly 4:38; the rest followed immediately – some by luck, others out of solidarity – and the entire squadron touched down on the Leeds Road pitch just seconds after the final whistle had blown. This caused a certain amount of confusion and even panic among the players disorientated under the envelopes, but it also afforded us the opportunity to give hearty handshakes to our victorious heroes before folding up the silk and heading to the Peacock for some well-earned refreshment.

All in all, an enjoyable away day, with a cracking two points to take home with us.