The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer Read online

  ‘We’ve been out all day, it is raining non-stop, we haven’t been fed and we need to go over to the accommodation unit and get someone to take over,’ I told him.

  This clearly did not go down well.

  He pulled me over a table and smashed a couple of good uppercuts to my chin.

  Reeling, I thought, ‘I don’t believe the NCO is too keen on me.’ I headed back outside and continued painting until I was told to stop. When I returned to the accommodation section, I explained to my closest mates what had happened and we decided to try and do something that would get us into this man’s good books.

  One of my pals had noticed he had often been seen in the NAAFI admiring a particular Nikon camera and lens but had never bought it, so we came up with a plan to get it for him. Obviously, we had no intention of paying because the camera and lens were around £300.

  A few days later it was discovered that the camera and lens had disappeared from the NAAFI. Staff were frequently complaining that the locks to glass-fronted cabinets displaying merchandise were regularly being opened. The young soldier customers were a friendly bunch who would group around the assistants long enough for a drawer holding the keys to the locks to be slid open, the keys removed, cabinets opened and locked, and the keys replaced. It took only a minute or so. Nobody knew who the thief was and that night there was a knock on the door of the NCO. The caller told him, ‘Sir, I have something for you,’ and handed over the camera and lens. He was naturally suspicious, but in a jocular way asked whether it was stolen. He was assured it wasn’t and was told, ‘The lads had a whip round because we knew you would like it.’ He could not have known about the robbery from the store a few hours earlier. As far as he was concerned, we’d presented him with a gift because we liked him and after that he was brilliant with us. He knew we were just streetwise young guys trying to get on in life.

  But we also had hidden talents, especially me, and I became known as the person who could get things. It did not matter what it was or where it came from or how much it cost or what shop it was in, if I was asked then I would arrange to get it. I was a scrounger, and it reached the stage where I was so prolific in getting my hands on items that I was selling stuff to the other companies in Goose Green and Fox Bay.

  * * *

  Alex Shannon had discovered a problem when he arrived in the Falklands: he missed Angie and worried about her. Before leaving they had settled on a date for the marriage later that year – 14 September, her birthday. While he was away, she had been left to plan and make arrangements for the big day. She wrote, regularly at first, but then her letters suggested that what faint enthusiasm she had shown for marrying young was beginning to wane. Soldiers could telephone home from the Falklands, but few did because a call had to be made by BBC satellite link, which cost £7.50 per 90 seconds. When he wanted to speak to her, he had to call the shop, but sometimes she was unable to speak and at other times he had to wait for her to be brought to the telephone, all the time the cost rocketing. He was being paid £60 a fortnight as pocket money, with the rest of his army pay going directly into a savings account. He needed to speak with Angie to find out what her true feelings were, and he did not want a brief hurried few words with her. It was going to be expensive. When he was young, living in Glasgow, and had faced the problem of where to get cash, he had resolved it by stealing.

  In Glasgow, shops had at least been fairly securely locked at night, if they were not alarmed, that was. But Stanley was a thief’s paradise. Before the invasion, the town’s people had lived largely in the same trusting way as many rural communities did back home, even neighbourhoods in big city schemes where everyone knew everyone else and could leave doors unlocked without fear of being robbed as they slept or shopped. Shops such as the Philomel Store, to Stanley what Harrods was to London, despite being made out of corrugated iron, had had no reason to contemplate being the victim of a break-in prior to Argentine, then British forces’ arrival on the islands. Now, the back door of the Philomel, already almost literally falling off its hinges, was kicked in and the building rifled for expensive Barbour and Gore-tex clothing. The thief knew these would fetch good prices and be much in demand by those soldiers who had flown and sailed to the Falklands unaware of the harsh weather conditions that soaked and froze a man within minutes of his stepping into the outdoors. Now, as night fell, he would silently creep into the shop, pick up a basket and load it with whatever he could carry. Much later he would boast ‘I screwed every shop in Stanley.’

  The NAAFI was a favourite target. It was well secured, but there was no need to use force to steal. Security was lax, staff trusting. Watches costing £180 a time disappeared and were soon afterwards found on the wrists of soldiers who had paid £50 for them. There was never a shortage of customers, whether the items were Mars Bars or Barbour coats. The thief realised, however, that real profits were to be made from the sale of cigarettes.

  The NAAFI was supplied by boat and when supplies arrived the thief was always among the first to volunteer to help. From the boats, trucks would carry the goods to the store, where helpers would carry them up four flights of stairs, each item being checked as it arrived by staff. For some reason, the thief always seemed to wear bulky full combat gear and have his Bergen rucksack on his back. By the end of unloading, the bag was packed with cigarettes and sweets, with more cartons of cigarettes and drinks stuffed into his combat wear.

  After one unloading operation, an NCO came into the thief’s room in a state of panic. ‘Fucking hell! Somebody stole 20,000 fags. They’re going mental.’

  ‘I know,’ said his host. ‘It was me.’

  ‘What have you done with them?’ he was asked.

  ‘They’re in my Bergen.’

  ‘Well, just get rid of them. Take them away and bury them. Just get them out of the way.’

  The thief scrambled to find his accomplices and with Bergens packed to bursting point they passed curious groups waiting for the arrival of the Royal Military Police and officers from its Special Investigation Branch. The men headed in the direction of the main road and then towards the airfield, where, out of sight, they found trenches into which they tumbled. Drinking the beer and smoking furiously, they did their best to use up as much of their booty as possible. What remained was hidden and then the culprits returned, claiming they had been for a training run in full kit. A week later they returned, recovered their haul and sold it.

  It didn’t go unnoticed that Private Alex Shannon seemed to be able to afford to use the expensive telephone link whenever he pleased. Sometimes his calls went on for 20 minutes and he never had any trouble paying his bill. Curious squaddies wondered where his money came from. He was also regularly becoming embroiled in fights – he didn’t quickly forget the insults he had been forced to suffer when he had first joined the battalion, especially the cruel and unnecessary remarks about his brother. He had sworn there would be a payback time and, sure enough, once in the Falklands the offenders found themselves on the end of beatings. Rumours abounded, not only in Stanley, about Del Shannon, who was running around knocking men out. People whispered that if anything of value was not nailed down he would disappear with it. His reputation as someone not to mess with reached other areas such as Fox Bay and he was treated with wariness and suspicion. From time to time, the rumours would reach the ears of military police, who would turn up unannounced in the Coastel and search his room and belongings for signs of stolen property. They always left empty handed. An examination of the roof space, however, would have been more fruitful. Military policemen grumbled they were hunting a proverbial magpie and wondered how the soldier from Glasgow who had appeared penniless with his few belongings in a plastic bag to begin his training had managed to acquire such apparent wealth.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Everybody has heard of the Great Train Robbery. The Great Spud Rustling Scam never made it into the record books, but for sheer audacity and invention it deserves special mention. I was an occasional visitor t
o the Globe Tavern in Stanley and on my way back to the Coastel would often look in on the city’s only fish and chip shop. To my great disappointment, it was nearly always closed. I was puzzled as to why a chippy on an island surrounded by water and fish never seemed to be in business.

  One day when I was in the Globe with a group of mates, I asked one of the islanders why the chip shop appeared to be permanently shut. He said it was due to a shortage of potatoes. I was astonished to hear this. ‘There’s plenty of land, why not grow them?’ I asked.

  The islander began laughing and told me, ‘It’s obvious you’re no gardener. We’re just a massive peat bog here with a few mountains. The islands will support sheep, but you can’t grow potatoes in peat.’

  ‘Does the chippy ever open then?’ I asked him.

  ‘It does,’ he said, ‘but only for a few months at a time. The potatoes have to be shipped in and once they are used up, then the chippy shuts down again until the next cargo arrives.’

  His remark set me thinking and I remembered a very recent fatigue when we had sat outside the cookhouse for hour after hour peeling potatoes, fetching them from a huge mound made up of sacks of spuds. It must have been five feet high and one hundred and twenty metres long. I thought to myself, ‘Who is going to notice if a few sacks disappear?’

  While I had been having the conversation about growing potatoes, I realised the man who ran the fish and chip shop had walked in. I walked over, introduced myself and told him I hadn’t realised there was a potato supply problem. ‘I know where there are a lot of potatoes,’ I said.

  ‘You sure?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely. How much would you be willing to pay?’

  ‘These things are like gold dust to people here. Where would you get them?’

  ‘Oh, I can get them, don’t worry. And it would all be above board. Are you interested in buying?’

  ‘Sure, and so would a few others. I could give you a list of names.’

  ‘That’s great, but how much?’

  ‘How about £8 a sackful?’ suggested the man.

  ‘Done.’

  Within a few minutes, we had made a list of potential customers, together with the number of sacks each would need. I did a few quick mental sums and realised the deal was worth around £1,000.

  ‘Leave this with me, I’ll be in touch,’ I said.

  I knew I was on to a good thing, but humping more than 100 sacks of potatoes into the city would need help. So I roped in a few of my closest friends, explained the arrangement and what was in it for each of them.

  One of my friends asked how we were going to get them there. I had already thought this over. ‘We’ll need transport. We’ll ask one of the NCOs for the loan of a truck, but we’ll tell him why we want it.’ So I went to see the NCO, but as I was about to explain why I wanted the truck he stopped me.

  ‘I don’t want to know what you are up to, but if you are asking me whether you can borrow a truck to get to Stanley, you can have one. Do whatever you have to do, but just make sure when you’re finished it’s clean and back in place loaded up with fuel.’

  Then he told me where I could find a truck and the ignition keys.

  We went off to collect it and drove to the rear of the Coastel, close to the cookhouse and the huge stash of spuds. We had a look around just to make sure the mound wasn’t being guarded and, satisfied the coast was clear, carried the sacks to the truck. It was dirty, dusty work. We had humped about ten sacks onto the truck when I rounded the corner of the cookhouse and saw a bag of spuds dumped on the ground. I instinctively knew something was wrong and my worst fears were about to be confirmed.

  I peeped round the corner and could see the master chef holding my mate, Pete, by the throat, shaking him vigorously. We’d been rumbled. I wondered what had gone wrong. ‘Time for a quick exit,’ I thought, and ran all the way around the Coastel to our accommodation area. By the time I reached it, the master chef already had one of my mates, known as Rents, in front of the NCO who had agreed to let us borrow the lorry. The chef was telling him that somebody had asked the poor young boy to do this. ‘It’s not his fault. Let’s get the spuds put back and we’ll leave it at that. Nothing more will be said,’ I heard him say.

  He marched off and I heard the NCO bark the names of the others in our band. We immediately ran down the corridor of the Coastel, calling, ‘Yes sir,’ desperate to keep him happy.

  ‘Go and help Pete put the spuds back where the master chef wants them,’ he ordered, ‘and then come back and see me.’ Off we went, furious with ourselves for what had happened.

  We replaced the sacks on the mound and then returned to the NCO, who lined us up, tallest at one end, shortest at the other, and spent five minutes punching and kicking each one of us in turn. We had to stand there and take it, despite cut lips and swollen eyes. In those days, it was known as in-house discipline, and we accepted it without complaint because we had screwed up. When the beatings stopped, we got the usual pep talk, but this one was different in that he was more upset that we had not thought it through properly nor done enough reconnaissance. Had we done so, we would have known that the chefs were having a function in the cookhouse that night. The glass in the windows there was smoked, so it was possible to see out but not in. The result was that as we were marching past, humping sacks of potatoes, the astonished chefs were watching and wondering what we were up to. From that day, whenever any of us went into the cookhouse at meal times shouts would ring out: ‘Here come the spud rustlers.’ It was one more lesson learned – one we would not be allowed to forget for many years.

  * * *

  I had settled quickly into the Falklands routine, but more importantly I was also well accepted as a member of the platoon and ‘B’ Company. My reputation for acquiring goods had helped, but I was regarded as an excellent soldier and was looking at being put on the next promotion course. I’d been caught rustling and had settled old scores. Now, I was determined to do some serious soldiering without getting into any further trouble.

  One day I was ordered to carry out a cadre course at Fox Bay. On the voyage south, months earlier, we had been told the best of the best soldiers would be given the chance to take part in this. The idea was to form a really top-class reconnaissance platoon for service in Germany. I didn’t think much about this, as a necessary requirement for applicants was at least three years’ service and I was a new recruit. The new platoon would form a type of Special Forces unit, pounding hills and monitoring enemy positions and movements. It was the sort of work the SAS had done with such skill and efficiency before the British forces had landed on the Falklands to retake the islands.

  When I was told I was going on the course, I was filled with both pride and dread. I was proud to have been chosen to potentially be part of a very elite unit, but at the same time joining it would pretty certainly mean having to stay longer on the Falklands and delay even further my reunion with Angie and that filled me with dread. It was a difficult time and I was still young, but I went on the course, run by the best soldiers in the world, came through and found the experience valuable in the future.

  * * *

  Alex determined to keep his mind on his work, but emotionally his mind was in turmoil. He had always looked forward to reading Angie’s letters, but gradually they diminished and by late July when the tour was over and it was time to return to Scotland he opened a letter to read she had decided she no longer wanted to marry. He was shocked, as he knew she had been hard at work planning. There was nothing he could do but wait until their reunion. He had been looking forward to meeting up again with his friends and family, to dressing up and going around his old haunts in Glasgow, but Angie’s change of mind meant he had an extra reason for longing to be home.

  As the Ascension Islands drew near, he decided he would like to return home with a tan. The heat would also make a pleasant change from the cold and wet of the Falklands. He made the same mistake so many had before, and still do. After downing a few beers, he fe
ll asleep on deck under a blazing sun. When he awoke, his skin resembled the colour of a lobster. Medical staff had to put him in an ice bath to try to reduce his burning temperature.

  * * *

  The thief was anxious to get on board the SS Uganda for the return voyage to the Ascension Islands. Had the stolen clock hidden in the engine room been discovered? The answer was no, but crafty military police had guessed the culprit would have the stolen item with him and reckoned that by now his guard was probably down. The clock was hidden in the sausage-shaped bag holding most of his clothing. As the Uganda was about to dock at the Ascensions, he saw police searching everyone.

  ‘Hell, this is it,’ he thought and went to seek his bag, intending to ditch the clock into the sea. To his delight, he discovered the bags had already been taken off and loaded into helicopters. His gamble in deciding to retrieve the clock had paid off, but only just. Discovery would have meant ignominious discharge and possibly prison.

  Finally arriving back in Glasgow, having first returned the teddy bear to its happy owner, Alex was anxious to look his best when he called to see Angie. He went for a hair cut in the city centre. The pretty hairdresser took one look at his bright red complexion and asked him if he had been in a fire. He explained what had happened and she advised him to get a bottle of baby oil and rub it into the areas that had begun peeling. It worked a treat. He felt up to facing Angie and whatever bad news she might give him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Alex arrived back in Glasgow at a time when simmering tensions had boiled over into terrible violence. There had always been disputes over who had the right to operate ice-cream vans on lucrative routes through the various housing schemes. Verbal threats or a bout of fisticuffs were usually enough to sort out boundaries, but some routes could be extremely valuable and once money came into the equation nastiness turned to evil.