BERT Tyldesley followed the fortunes of Bolton​ Wanderers through eight decades and kept a diary of his time in the terraces. With the kind permission of his family, we bring you his reflections on that journal, entitled: 75 Years a Wandering.

The Bolton News:

AFTER the closure of the league following the declaration of war, football was resumed at Burnden Park on October 28, 1939, when 2,000 spectators watched the Wanderers beat Carlisle United 4-1.

More of less a full programme of football was played in the Northern Section of the Football League and War Cup North – the latter won by Bolton in a two-legged final against Manchester United in May 1945, the first game of which was won with a single goal by a young man named Nat Lofthouse before a draw at Maine Road.

The All-England final was played at Stamford Bridge before 40,000 people with Wanderers winning 2-1 thanks to goals from George Hunt and another newcomer, Lol Hamlett.

With so many of the Wanderers going immediately off to war, the team comprised of one or two old faithfuls supplemented by regulars at home on leave, professionals stationed in the area, and lads under military age.

One such, young Walter Sidebottom, who had appeared in one league game before the War and was to figure prominently in the first year or two of war-time football, was to join Harry Goslin as an ultimate victim of the war when his ship was torpedoed. A year or so later Harry captained the 53rd RA (Bolton Artillery), comprising of many Wanderers, against the champions of Persia and Iraq – “a team of hard-bitten Poles”. By the end of that year Harry was fatally wounded in action and died in Italy on December 18, 1943.

On the lighter side it was nice to see that George Eastham and his brother played in Wanderers’ war-time teams, as did Bill Shankly, later the legendary manager of Liverpool.

It was also good to see the first appearance of Matt Gillies, Danny Murphy, Malcolm Barrass and Lol Hamlett, who would all greet us after the war. And not to mention our very own legend, that product of Charles Foweraker’s foresight, the one and only Nat Lofthouse, the Lion of Vienna, Burnden Park, Reebok and all steps to paradise.

Nat scored 30 goals in 33 games for England. I recall Henry Rose, the star reporter of the (then) all-powerful Daily Express stating before the famous game against Austria that “If Lofthouse is a centre-forward, I’ll eat my hat!” I also remember a photo in the paper a few days later of said reporter eating said hat.

In the spring of 1945 I was in Baragwanath Hospital on the outskirts of Johannesburg in South Africa (then a military hospital), recovering so far as is possible from tuberculosis in both lungs, contracted in India. Being abroad, I saw nothing and heard very little of them until they re-entered my consciousness 10 days after the formal ratification of Germany’s defeat in Berlin.

As reported, Wanderers beat Manchester United to lift the War Cup North, then became champions of England by beating Chelsea. And I became aware of the fact via the BBC World Service and the local press, notably the Johannesburg Star.

I returned to England that autumn and am fairly certain the first game I was against Middlesbrough, a 2-1 win with goals from Ray Westwood and Albert Geldard.

The following March and after their disposal of Middlesbrough in the FA Cup fifth round, Wanderers were drawn against Stoke City in a two-legged sixth round tie. With Stanley Matthews still representing his hometown club it was no surprise that more than 50,000 gathered to see the first leg, won with two goals from Westwood.

Anticipation built in Bolton for the return leg. Matthews may have been facing Wanderers at Burnden but all seemed right with the world. Alas, what we had to savour that day was something none of us had anticipated or even dreamed about.

Along with my brother-in-law, John Statter, I had been on the Manchester Road terrace, adjacent to the Railway Embankment, from about 1.30pm to 2pm. There, just 20-30 yards from the scene of mayhem, we stood in comparative comfort with room to pour out a mid-match coffee.

Accustomed as we were in the pre-war days to people being passed overhead and carried down to the track and tunnel, we accepted that fateful day as par for the course the stream of stretchers passing in front of us. Oh, we weren’t blind, we could see people were spilling on to the pitch and wandering around like lost sheep; but so far as my part the crowd was reasonably contained, just as they were around me, as the match was delayed temporarily.

These people were a nuisance. The sooner they were cleared off the pitch, the better, and when the match resumed it did so to grunts, if not purrs of approval, from those around me.

After our journey down to Walkden on the tram, during which nothing was mentioned aside from the delay to the commencement of the game, I continued the journey on the number 12 bus to Roe Green. Imagine our surprise when a crowd of people, in small anxious-looking groups, greeted our arrival.

It was then, and only then, John, myself and others who had been to the match learned that two or three hours before 33 people had been killed when we were moaning about the interruption to the game. Before us, standing at the bus stop, were fathers and mothers, sisters and sweethearts, waiting to see if their loved ones had returned from the chaos reported on the wireless.

Within the next week or two a relief fund totalling £40,000 – not bad in those days – was set up and an enquiry launched by Moewlyn Hughes KC.

But there were no flowers at Burnden. Not then, not ever. Four days later – and I was there – 5,162 spectators witnessed Wanderers draw 0-0 with Bradford Park Avenue.

In years to come there would have been banks of flowers and tributes but on that day there was an area tattily cordoned off with rope, behind which 33 people had died less than 100 hours before.