Amazing scenes at the Cup final
Wembley Stadium stands like a grey fortress at the top of a slight hill, marked from afar by its twin towers. It was approached today by a wide avenue from the main road leading through the ragged beginnings of the huge exhibition buildings. At the top of the hill the crowd had first to pass through a long line of turnstiles, and then were confronted with the enormous outer wall of the stadium, pierced at intervals by the iron gates leading to the terraces on the slope reserved for standing places. There were also flights of steps here and there giving access to the raised terrace outside, from which ticket-holders were to reach their seats on the stands.
Thousands of football fans head to the stadium in Wembley ahead of kick-off. Photo: Alamy
From twelve o’clock there was a steady pour through the turnstiles, but everything worked smoothly. I entered at 1.35 and found no difficulty in climbing up to my place in the press gallery at the top of the stand on the north side, above the Royal Box. But even at that time I saw that the outer terrace was thronged with a great crowd of men, who seemed to be rushing to and fro trying various entrances. Some were certainly ticket-holders; others had paid to stand, and were simply bent on getting in somewhere.
The West Ham fans set off for the stadium in full spirits. Photo: Corbis
A Bolton Wanderers supporter leaves central London on his way to the stadium. Photo: Topical Press
One noticed that there were few officials about to give directions, and the policeman at the doors were unfamiliar with the new stadium. Looking down from the press gallery there seemed at 1.45pm to be no more room for anybody. It was the most stupendous crowd I have ever seen, for the simple reason that no other building exists which can accommodate 125,000 people. (In the event it housed many more than that.) It was a solid slope of pink faces arranged in a wide ellipse surrounding an oval of exquisite green turf. Until after two o’clock there was no reason to expect anything but the most impressive match on record. People were seen still pressing in through the openings in the outer wall, but they seemed to be miraculously finding room somehow. The journalists sharpened their pencils and prepared to record the match.
‘They’re storming the stadium’
Then at 2.20 or thereabouts there was seen a curious bulging in the crowd at the far corner by the western goal. It suddenly ran forward and planked itself down plumb on the touchline. This movement was copied by the people crushed behind the opposite goal, and it was at once obvious that the sacred grass was in danger of submersion. We knew that the gates had been closed at two o’clock and efforts were being made to prevent any more people being brought to Wembley.
Next came the panic-stricken shout along the gallery “They’re storming the stadium,” usually with the addition “They’ll be no play today.” I watched for a time the steady encroachment of the crowd upon the green, and then made my way to a high terrace running along the top of the stadium which gives a good view of the approaches. It was now 2.35, and the King was due to arrive in a few minutes. First one saw that the whole of the very wide approach road up the hill was solidly black with people heading to the stadium, and the road beyond seemed blocked with buses and cars.
Immediately beneath the wall, where the pressure was greatest, the crowd seemed in the motion moving along the wall, as if seeking someplace to break in. The outer circle of barriers where the turnstiles were–about twenty yards from the stadium entrances–had ceased to be a barrier. Men were leaping over the turnstiles on all direction, and at one place the barrier itself had seemed to have been broken down.
The chaotic scene at Wembley, taken from the air. Photo: Ullstein Bild
As far as one could see from above the the main body of men who rushed the stadium did so by climbing over the surrounding wall at the two ends where the structure is considerably lower than at the sides. Here the sloping terraces are supported by iron girders some 20ft high. Young men in caps could be seen climbing these girders, getting over the top wall, and jumping into the already packed crowd within. They were doing this steadily, like ants following a leader. I was told this went on for an hour. At one place long planks had been commandeered and leant against the wall where it was lowest, and a constant stream of men were running up the planks and dropping into the stadium to the danger, and often the injury, of those packed inside. In these ways several thousands of men must have forced their way into the stadium.
The great majority of invaders got in by rushing and breaking down the iron gates leading to the terraces for standing spectators. I was told that at least two of these gates were smashed in by the sheer impact of the crowd which acted like a powerful battering ram. The police and commissionaires at these gates could do nothing. When one of the gates had been broken down the authorities threw some of the others open, so terrified were they by the menacing thrust of the crowd. It was by now dangerous to be anywhere near these gates, and unfortunate ticket holders trying to get in were caught in the melée and sometimes badly hurt. I should say that most of the injuries were incurred in the scrambles outside.
Barriers stormed and hundreds injured
One was especially sorry for the women who were caught in the crowd here. The ambulance workers stuck to their jobs heroically, but it was difficult to get a clear space even to lift injured people on the stretchers, much more to get them safely away to dressing stations.
King George V watches on in astonishment as the mayhem unfolds. Photo: PA
The temper of the crowd was fierce at being shut out. There seemed to be a feeling they had been tricked by the officials. The cutting edge to the wedge, so to speak was composed of strong young men from the North–though the London East End was much in evidence–who were resolved to get in one way or another. In all this turmoil the arrival of the King outside went largely unnoticed.
This grim besetting of the stadium went on until well after three o’clock. By that time the fierce element had got inside and the mass of the excluded–20,000 at a modest guess–had made their minds up to go away. By half-time the stadium grounds were deserted. Returning inside while the storming was going on it was seen to be resulting in the irruption from time to time of a solid phalanx of of men in caps. It thrust itself down by its mass through the solid spread of spectators, pushing the lower tiers forward and submerging the seated people. With this terrible weight at their backs the spectators at the edge of the field could not help themselves; they had to go forward across the grass.
The crowd surges on to the pitch and engulfs the goalmouth. Photo: Topical Press
The police struggle to remove spectators from the already overcrowded pitch. Photo: Popperfoto
The heroes of the day
The efforts to clear the field fell into three chapters. First the foot police, completely overwhelmed and taken by surprise, rallied, pierced into the press, and noble but futile attempts to sweep it away. They pushed, entreated, cajoled, but could do no more than Mrs Partington with the Atlantic. They were lost in the loosely-knit crowd that stood about everywhere, and even absurdly surrounded the Guards’ Band, listening to the music. This band, with true British phlegm, went on playing as if nothing had happened, their circle keeping clear the one visible bit of grass.
Policeman George Scorey on his white horse ‘Billie’ famously parting the crowd (above). Photo: PA
The West Ham United and Bolton Wanderers players watch on in bewilderment as police struggle to clear the playing surface. Photo: Topical Press
The heroes of the second chapter were the mounted police. They were all too few. The crowd on the slope shouted with delight when they saw the beautiful horses insinuating themselves into the mob on the grass. There were a dozen of them, led by a master spirit of a policeman on a white horse. The mounted men gathered in the middle, and gradually cleared a space by gently pushing their horses sideways against the people. The space grew until a broad band of green showed, but their work was constantly undone by fresh inflows of wandering folk.
Some time after this the two teams came on the ground with the idea that people would respect them as the true heroes of the day. But the white of Bolton and red and chocolate of West Ham only made a coloured line in the black of the crowd. A big policeman with vigorous swimming movements got them through to be presented to the King.
Bolton centre half Jimmy Seddon appeals against a foul as the colossal Wembley crowd watches on. Photo: Mirrorpix/Getty Images
In the third chapter the crowd took to managing itself. All round the foremost linked hands and pressed back. This did it. The crowd cleared itself off with this method leaving the police to turn up the edges. Having got back to the touchline, the first ranks squatted down there and became immovable. In some strange way the overboiling of people crushed itself together on the cinder track. The two teams have been filling in the time by playing little matches on their own. At last there was enough room , though it is doubtful whether the line was clear all round. It was a weird, mad scene, but except for the people seen stretched out in the care of the ambulance workers, it was on the whole enjoyed as a sensation. It caused more excitement than of tears, and the leading clown of the comedy was the bewildered crowd itself. The whistle blew, and everything was forgotten in the rigour of the game.
Bolton Wanderers celebrates with the trophy outside the stadium after the match. The Lancashire side prevailed 2-0 over West Ham, thanks to goals from David Jack and Jack Smith. Photo: Topical Press
See the Manchester Guardian’s 1923 FA Cup final match report here
