Albert Payne was twenty years old when the landing craft he was packed into along with his mates approached the Normandy beach, it was 6th June 1944.
During several preceding days of stormy weather tensions had been high among the men, gearing themselves up for action and then being told the mission had been delayed. It had been an unbearable period of waiting so there had been relief when they were told that today was the day, relief mingled with a fear that resided deep within a man’s guts.
During the days of waiting Albert had spent a lot of time remembering incidents from his short life. Singing Jerusalem, solo, in public at the age of thirteen had been scary, but he knew he was a good singer and felt confident in spite of the butterflies. There had been a letter of commendation from the Commissioner of the Toxteth Boy Scouts Association addressed to ‘Scout Payne’ which congratulated him on ‘the very nice way you sang.’ and ‘Keep it up, there are several more songs I want you to sing in the future.’ Albert now found himself wondering about ‘the future’ and how much of it there might be.
He also wondered about his football career. He was on the books of local club Tranmere Rovers and was doing well for them but without yet having played for the first team. His cousin, George, was with Tranmere too. George was a goalkeeper, Albert, a tenacious midfielder. They both hoped for careers in the game.
The worst of the stormy weather may have abated but the short trip across the English Channel had still been a rough one and the wind was blowing hard. When the front gate of the landing craft crashed open Albert was shocked to see how far from the beach they were and how very exposed they would be to German fire. There was no time to hesitate, the men ahead were leaping into the water and the men behind were pressing forward. Albert followed and, holding his rifle above his head, waded to the shore ahead. He saw men in front of him and on either side, fall. Now, it wasn’t just the wind that was cutting into them, German machine gun bullets were tearing into sea and flesh indiscriminately.
Reaching the beach, Albert stumbled a few yards and flung himself down behind a bank of shingle. He could almost pretend he was safe here. But staying was not an option. The Officers were urging them forward and men around him reluctantly raised themselves up. Albert did too but felt something smash into his shoulder, after a moment’s shock the pain followed almost immediately. He collapsed onto the shingle and noted dispassionately the blood soaking into his uniform, ‘should have kept your head down you daft bugger’ he thought as he lay bleeding. Fortunately, help was soon at hand and he found himself being half carried, half dragged back towards the sea.
If you discount the months of training, Albert’s active service could be measured in hours.
Once he had recovered, Albert was transferred to the Army Physical Training Corps where his background in football served him well. He was based in Hereford and, while there, he met a girl, Ethel, they married in 1947 and stayed together until she died in 2003.
Football? Albert did play for Tranmere Rovers. He got some good reviews, ‘Payne was the most successful of the two newcomers in the side … good in defence and attack.’ He didn’t shirk the physical side of the game, perhaps he should have done, as his career was hampered at least once by a fractured leg. Football in those post-War years was neither glamourous nor well paid and he retired from the game in 1953 having played only ten times for the first team (cousin George played 467).
Life after football included time spent as a lift operator at London’s Dorchester hotel, he also worked at the nearby Café de Paris in Piccadilly. He kept up with his singing, occasionally performing in dance halls around the city.
His last job before retiring was working for John Aspinall at the Claremont club in Berkeley Square (Aspinall made a fortune hosting private gaming parties and managed to stay, just, on the right side of the law). Albert regularly received generous tips from the club’s wealthy patrons, including one of £7,000 (as a footballer he would have earned no more than £15 a week). He retired in about 2000 but continued to do driving jobs. A regular assignment was to pick George Best up from the Chelsea Brasserie, a favourite watering hole of the Irish legend. In spite of their very different career paths, they swapped stories about their time in football. Albert drank orange juice, he was driving after all, George did not.
Albert died in London in 2008 after a long an interesting life.
Albert was the grandson of a Black man from Barbados (and almost certainly had enslaved forebears) and this earnt him a place representing Tranmere Rovers in Football’s Black Pioneers – The stories of the first Black players at each of the 92 League Clubs. You can find more about Albert here:
https://footballs-black-pioneers.com/tranmere-rovers-1946-47/
