The year 1915 was one of rupture. Russia battered the Carpathians; Zeppelins cast shadows over Britain; the slaughter of Hartmannswillerkopf began; Ottomans strained at the Suez; and at Gallipoli, imperial ambition bled into the sea. The Great War had reached its full frenzy, tearing Europe’s fabric with a violence never before imagined. Even cricket — that supposed sanctuary of pastoral peace — was not spared: Wisden’s obituary section engulfed seventy-seven pages, including the monumental losses of W.G. Grace and Victor Trumper, giants of the crease felled by time rather than shellfire.
Amid the wreckage moved Harry Lee, the eldest of three
cricketing brothers from Marylebone. The son of a greengrocer and the owner of
an improbable dream, he had written — at fifteen — to the MCC asking for work
on ground-staff, hoping cricket might lift him above the soot of his father’s
trade. Hard labour, persistence, and a three-hour hundred against
Nottinghamshire rewarded him with a place in a star-studded Middlesex side.
And then the war marched down London’s streets.
Lee — initially indifferent, even reluctant — found his
resolve stirred by the spectacle of the Territorial Force. On September 1,
1914, he enlisted in the Kensingtons, and by the following spring was in
France, swept into trench warfare at Neuve Chapelle and Aubers Ridge. The
latter was a catastrophe: of 550 Kensington men, only fifty survived.
Lee was not among them — or so the world believed.
His family held a memorial service. His name found a place
among the dead. Yet the truth, as he later wrote with wry understatement — “I’m
glad to say this was premature.” Lee lay three days in no man’s land, his femur
shattered, consciousness drifting. German soldiers discovered him and shipped
him, like livestock, in a sealed cattle wagon toward captivity. Gangrene
stalked his body; hunger hollowed him; death remained interested.
But he refused.
By exaggerating the severity of his condition, Lee secured
repatriation. He returned to England in October 1915, adorned with medals yet
condemned by doctors to a post-cricket life: one leg was now shorter, weakened
beyond competitive use.
Medicine issued a verdict. Harry Lee issued a rebuttal.
Within two years he was once again taking wickets — four for
MCC against Eton, then fives against the Australian Imperial Forces. Middlesex
funded his treatment; he repaid them with runs and resilience. His career —
like his life — restarted by sheer force of will.
A Second Narrow Escape, A New Continent
In 1916, Lee accepted an invitation to coach in India under
Frank Tarrant’s patronage. Fate intervened cruelly — his mother died, and duty
kept him home another year. When he finally embarked, he changed ships at the
last minute. The vessel he was supposed to board, the Nyanza, was torpedoed,
killing forty-nine.
Once more, the bullet had missed.
India offered rejuvenation. Coaching royalty in Cooch Behar,
Lee reacquainted himself with the game’s lighter absurdities: “Whatever you do,
don’t get the Maharajah out for a duck,” he joked later. Matches against early
Indian greats such as the Palwankar brothers and a promising C.K. Nayudu tested
his skill; adventure tested his spirit.
The Builder of Middlesex
Returned to England, Lee became a cornerstone of Middlesex’s
post-war revival. From his squat, patient stance, he compiled 20,000+ runs, 400
wickets, and 180 catches — a rare, bruising all-round contribution.
He was not glamorous like Hendren nor elegant like Hearne,
but English cricket has always relied more on the durable than the dazzling.
His feats included:
1,518 runs & 52 wickets in the 1920 Championship
season
Three instances of carrying his bat
Three double-hundreds, including a 243 not out against
Nottinghamshire
Membership in the exclusive 10,000 runs / 300 wickets
club for Middlesex
Above all: he achieved these after having been officially
dead.
His brothers Jack and Frank joined him in first-class
cricket. In 1933, all three crossed 1,000 runs — the first time such familial
symmetry had occurred. On another day that season, cricket delivered dark
comedy: Harry, batting beautifully, was dismissed caught Frank, bowled Jack —
an act he later mocked as unfilial treachery.
A Late and Bittersweet Test Cap
By 1930, Lee’s career was winding down when injuries forced
England to summon him from South Africa, where he was coaching. He made his
sole Test appearance at Johannesburg, opening the batting with Bob Wyatt. His
scores — 18 and 1 — echoed another debutant’s humble beginning in Brisbane two
years earlier: Don Bradman. One enjoyed a second chance.
Lee did not.
Compounding the disappointment, a contractual dispute meant
he never received his official cap or blazer from MCC. A tour tie from Jack
Hobbs was the only token of his brief elevation.
Final Overs
After retirement, Lee officiated as an umpire, coached youth,
and wrote about the game. He became a familiar figure in the Mound Stand at
Lord’s, unshaken even during bomb threats — a man who had faced genuine peril
and knew the difference.
He died in 1980 at age ninety, the second-oldest surviving
English cricketer. His editor summed up his temperament with affection:
“If he had any spark of genius, it was for not keeping his
mouth shut at the proper time.”
Wisden, ever dry, appended:
“Today, that would be worth money.”
Legacy
Harry Lee’s life reads like the arc of a mythic hero:
declared dead, but refusing burial; condemned lame, yet writing centuries;
overlooked by selectors, but never overlooked by history.
He was not the most graceful, nor the most famous, nor the
most beloved.
He was simply — and perhaps more impressively —
indestructible.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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