The Red Coats Are Coming

The strains of ". . . we'll conquer old Eli's men . . ." blasted across the Yale campus. It was loud; it was discordant; it was three in the morning; but it was the red-coated Harvard band. Windows in college after college flew up. Paper and profanity flew out. Yalies in pajamas, Yalies in shorts poured into the streets, rubbing eyes and yawning.

"Why, you guys aren't even human, waking us up like this," growled one sleepy-mouthed Bulldog.

But the parade continued. Past the swank Hotel Taft, past a slumbering business district, and back to the Harkness Common where the bandsmen stopped, and, as if to offer some consolation, blared out the Yale medley. A tuba player had trouble keeping the beat; he was laughing too hard. Finally, the band about-faced and sprinted back to the busses. The musicians all boarded, but the busses didn't move. Someone pointed out a window.

"Geez--a regular dragnet," someone shouted, as a dozen burly New Haven policemen lumbered purposefully up the street. A trumpet bugled "dum-da-da-dum." The ever-increasing crowd of Yalies roared. "We want 'em arrested!" shouted a fellow in blue shorts. "We want 'em arrested!" chanted the mob. The bandsmen jeered back, taking up the melody of "To Hell with Yale," but by now the police had arrived and boarded the busses. They ordered the caravan to a nearby police precinct. The uninhibited enthusiasm of the bandsmen dulled only little. "What do they want, their pictures in Life?" asked a drummer in the back of the third bus.

When the busses pulled to a stop in front of the station, patrolmen immediately barred the doors. The band manager was taken into custody.

A police lieutenant stamped inside each bus. "Wipe that smile off your face," he barked. "You guys are in real trouble. What are you laughing for? Just because you guys go to Harvard and have a lot of money is no reason for you to take advantage of us. I'd just as soon book you all in a minute. Some of us went to school, too."

He backed off the bus, and on came a disheveled-looking off-duty cop. "I wanna help yoush fellowsh," he stammered. "Dose guys is bashtids. I oughta know." He staggered off.

The busses waited. "Do you think I oughta hide my bursar's card in my shoe?" worried one bandsman. Finally, the band manager returned. "We need $250 bail. Give us what you can spare, so we can get out of here," he said. There was a simultaneous movement toward wallets. "Here's twenty, is that enough?" "I can lend five."

The manager went off to the station with the bail. The lieutenant returned to the busses. "This isn't going to happen again," he warned. "Or else you're all going to be locked up and you'll miss your crumby game." The manager and the representative band members returned to the busses. The worried drivers resumed their places. The motors churned, and the busses finally drove away. It was now 4:30.

"This is the first time the Yale job has ever been done right," a baritone player remarked. "It sure as hell was worth it."

"It sure as hell was," said the drummer in the back.