I hobbled back to the changing room to assess the damage but as soon as I took off my plimsoll I could see it wasn’t good news

But the next time I saw him cutting up and down the pool like a fish, I waited at the shallow end to try to identify him. Imagine my shock when he finished his final length, stood up to display muscles on top of more muscles, then pulled off his expensive-looking goggles. Surely it couldn’t be who I thought it was? Yes, there was no doubt at this close range.

It was Wullie Minto, the unassuming teacher of the Latin class.

I half expected him to announce what I had for homework! So my respect for him soared.

Underneath his graduate’s cloak, he had the kind of body all of us boys hoped to have by the age of 18 and most of us would never be able to swim a quarter as well as he could.

He showed his true colours the day Sinky Sinclair pushed his luck too far in Latin class and completely disrupted the lesson.

Sinky became so aggressive that Mr Minto had to drag him out of the door.

We listened in amazement to the sounds of a struggle outside on the landing then we were surprised when Mr Minto came back in, calmly closed the door behind him, picked up his text book from the floor and continued with “Right, for homework …”

At that instant, Sinky came crashing back in and made for Mr Minto with serious menace on his face.

We all knew how dangerous Sinky could be, many of us from painful experience, so we expected the worst.

Astonishingly, as Sinky reached him, the teacher performed some kind of lightning-fast fighting manoeuvre that left our bullying classmate on the floor with his arm twisted up his back and the teacher’s knee keeping him firmly face down.

Someone was sent for assistance and a much quieter Sinky was removed. We looked differently at Wullie Minto after that. We eventually found out that our Latin master had done loads of Commando training.

Reservations

I had one reservation about doing gym. I didn’t mind climbing the wall bars, of which there were many and I put up with the trial of pulling myself up to the top of one of the six thick, white ropes that hung from the ceiling.

I took on with relish vaulting the big box via the miniature trampoline and doing some kind of somersault, hopefully landing on my feet but alas, often on my backside.

These were all perfectly reasonable athletic things to do and, along with running around the gym and doing circuit training, I enjoyed my gym periods to the full.

But when the teacher announced the picking of sides for basketball, my heart always sank.

I loved almost all the sports and competed to the best of my limited ability in football, rugby, cricket, softball and volleyball but I just couldn’t get used to the rules and rhythm of bouncing a ball and throwing it up at a hoop with a net on it.

Therefore, because I wasn’t ever going to be any good at it, I basically didn’t like the sport and I was always being criticised for doing something wrong, which cost my team points.

Fated practice

So eventually I resolved to fix this and become a decent point scorer by practising at the hoop one lunchtime a week. This was not a good decision. One day when I was practising I, as usual, overshot with my attempt and the ball sailed past the hoop and down, to wedge itself between two stacked benches and the wall.

I walked round to retrieve the ball, stretched over to grab it and pulled it out from behind the heavy benches.

Except that I dislodged the top bench as I did so.

I leapt back to avoid the falling weight but it caught the big toe of my left foot.

Ouch! Really Ouch! Gritting my teeth, I hobbled back to the changing room to assess the damage but as soon as I took off my plimsoll I could see it wasn’t good news.

Blood was spreading out through my sock from my big toe and it wasn’t stopping.

Someone alerted Mr Chaplain, who came in and carefully eased off my sock.

Even he looked worried when we saw the toenail hanging half-off and blood pouring from the flesh behind it. I felt dizzy at the sight of so much of my own blood.

“Chappy” went to fetch a car and I was driven up to Dundee Royal Infirmary, where he had to leave me at accident and emergency.

I was very unhappy and a bit scared as I’d only ever been to hospital as a patient once before, to get stitches after I was knocked out by a swing during a game of parachutes.

The pain in my toe was excruciating and the blood was still oozing out as I was pushed along in a wheelchair to a treatment area.

As I waited there, a big, burly nurse came along, crouched down for a closer look and then just pulled my nail completely off my toe with one yank. You could have heard me back at school.

Before I’d even stopped screaming, she’d jabbed a hypodermic into my left thigh and then wandered off.

When I looked back down at my big toe, the nail had gone and now there was a long gash across the bit where it had been.

It was horrible to look at and it was bleeding profusely again.

I was momentarily distracted by a younger nurse who got me on to a trolley and told me they’d have to stitch that gash.

I suspected this was going to hurt and when the first nurse who’d taken off my toenail came back with a tray full of evil-looking implements, I knew my fate was sealed.

Agony

The first stitch caused total agony and I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.

I asked for some anaesthetic but the big nurse said to do that she’d have to stick the needle right in my toe where the gash was, so I’d probably be better without it. I agreed.

The younger nurse offered to hold my hand and I thought that was a very good idea but she was ordered to do no such thing by her colleague, because I was too grown up for that.

Oh really? The following three stitches were equally awful and I was completely overcome by the ordeal. I was repaired but traumatised. Once a bandage was applied, I was discharged and sent home.

(More tomorrow)

By George Burton