The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer Page 8

  Angie and I would still see one another at house parties. I loved bumping into her but realised that at some stage I had to let her know how I felt. Finally, my enlistment papers came through and I knew I would be leaving Glasgow in January 1983.

  At the end of 1982 my friends decided we should all go to the Penthouse discotheque on Christmas Eve as a farewell occasion. The night turned out to be even better than I could have hoped when Angie turned up. We found ourselves together and sat talking the entire night about life and the past. And I plucked up the courage to tell her how I felt about her. When it was time to go, we said our goodbyes, but before she left she gave me her work telephone number and told me to keep in touch while I was away at basic training. That was one order I was always going to obey.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Royal Scots (The Royal Regiment) is Scotland’s infantry regiment. Its soldiers have proudly honoured the regimental motto Nemo me impune lacessit, meaning nobody touches me with impunity, on dozens of battlefields from Western Europe to the Far East. The oldest regiment in the British Army, it was raised in 1633 when 1,200 Scots were recruited under a Royal Warrant from King Charles I. Seventeen years later, it won its first battle honour at Tangier. Since then soldiers from the regiment have appeared in almost every campaign fought by the British Army, acting with courage and skill at Malplaquet, Inkerman, Mons, Ypres, the Somme, Menin Road and Gallipoli, to name but a few, up to the start of the Second World War, when it was part of the British Expeditionary Force. Twenty of its men were massacred by Nazis in a murderous and cowardly incident at Le Paradis in May 1940. The war saw the regiment in Italy, France and the Rhineland, and it also took part in the Burma campaign. It featured, too, in the 1991 Gulf War. Now, it was about to recruit a delinquent from the deprived streets of the east end of Glasgow.

  The start of any new career remains memorable for many varied reasons in the mind of any young man or woman. So, as he waited for his train on the morning of Monday, 10 January 1983, Alex Shannon had more reason than most to be nervous. The warrants for his arrest for not paying his fines were still in force; it needed only a policeman who knew his face and who was aware of their existence to recognise him and a tap on the shoulder would end ambitions he had harboured for years. The army was aware neither of the warrants nor of the past convictions of the young recruit, otherwise the door to his entry would have been shut in his face. Since he had left St Ninian’s little more than a year before the interviews, it was assumed he was telling the truth. Further, as he was joining the infantry, background checks tended to be less rigorous.

  * * *

  I thought the day would never come, but then I was given my train ticket to get from Glasgow Queen Street to Aberdeen. I noticed there were a lot of young boys on the same train as it headed north and guessed they were travelling for the same reason as me, but I didn’t bother speaking to anybody else. The ultimate destination was the camp at the Bridge of Don, and when the train pulled into Aberdeen and we all piled out, there was this big, tall corporal, at least six feet six inches tall, dressed in combats and wearing glasses, shouting in a broad Glaswegian accent, ‘All those for the army training establishment at the Bridge of Don follow me, follow me.’ He led us in the direction of the waiting buses. The other guys were mostly dressed in suits, wearing ties, carrying bags and suitcases. I had on a jumper and a pair of jeans and was holding a plastic Co-op bag. Inside was a towel, a bar of soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a pair of socks and a pair of underpants. That was all I had. Even worse, I had no money and had had hardly anything to eat for the previous few days, as I was too scared to leave my dad’s house in case the police were watching and arrested me. When we arrived at the side of the buses, the others were all lined up, standing with the gear beside them, waiting for instructions.

  As I stood there next to them, the corporal stopped me, looked down and asked, ‘Where are your bags?’ When I told him that was all I had, he looked staggered. ‘You were supposed to bring a big bag or a case with spare clothes, underwear, coat hangers, shoe polish and that kind of stuff,’ he told me. ‘Well, I’ve got none of those,’ I said. He then turned to one of his colleagues who was helping to organise the buses and said, ‘Fucking hell, we’ve got a real one here.’

  The platoon sergeant came marching up and was asking people where they had come from and what they had brought with them. When he reached me, he had a quiet word with the corporal. There was a kind of laugh and chuckle between the two of them and then the sergeant said, ‘And what have you got?’ I repeated what I’d told the corporal. He looked at me and said, ‘Well, we’ve got a right one here. Straight off the streets of Glasgow.’

  I had been conscious on the journey there that because I was joining what was basically an east coast regiment there would probably not be a lot of Glaswegians with me.

  ‘Look, we’ll need to get him sorted. Get him some stuff,’ the sergeant told the corporal.

  Because I didn’t have money, he asked the other trainees if they would help buy me coat hangers and polish, and all the guys chipped in to help. They weren’t ordered to hand over money, but as soon as they were asked, they offered it.

  Our destination was the Gordon Barracks, which would house us for a year while we trained as junior soldiers. When we arrived, I was in my element. I had never been that far north in Scotland before, while I think the majority of the other trainees hadn’t been away from home for any length of time. I fitted in right away because, to me, it was just like going to another children’s home, especially as it was filled with guys – and I had spent enough time in homes to be able to handle the sort of regime I met at the barracks. Not once was I homesick, though sadly some of the others found, for a variety of reasons, that they couldn’t handle the life. I think my section started off with a dozen men, but by the time we completed our training it was down to five or six. The platoon I was in had begun with something like 48 recruits and when it came to Passing Out there were just 18 remaining. It seemed that almost every week somebody left because of injury or illness, or simply because they missed their mothers. It was a shame when the others dropped away, but it didn’t bother me. I loved it. I felt comfortable and safe. I knew the police wouldn’t look for me at the barracks and so the fear of being arrested began to evaporate, but it could never disappear. I knew there would have to be a day of reckoning.

  I occasionally thought about jail. I knew that, had I been sent there, as had some of my friends, I would almost certainly have met up with guys I had known in the children’s homes. Just as the barracks was another sort of home, so was prison. Guys left children’s homes with no prospects and nowhere to go and just drifted into crime. They ended up in approved schools, borstals or the young offenders’ units, along with others from the same background. It was like a merry-go-round, except you only got off when a prison officer allowed you to. It happened a lot then, and it is still happening now. Lonely backgrounds, maybe a history of abuse, children’s homes, young offenders, prison, and on it goes. You get out of prison, enter a hostel, commit a crime, sometimes because you have no money or maybe because you just want to be back in the environment you know, then you are back in and the whole process begins all over again.

  Just as I was settling into life in the army, a cloud appeared on the horizon. In March 1983, when I had appeared before Glasgow District Court for the mobbing and rioting incident, my sentence had been deferred after I said I was joining the army. Now, I had to go back to court to show that I had kept my word. The arrest warrants had been discharged.

  During my second month at the Gordon Barracks, I had been allowed a short leave and had gone home. I wanted to see Angie – I was missing her. One day as I was travelling in a taxi it was stopped by a policeman who recognised me. He opened the door, stuck his head inside and said, ‘Alex! Your fines! Go in and pay them. I know you have money now.’ Then he wished me well. I had army wages, so I did just that.

  He was ex-forces, and I thought back t
o the beating I was given by the CID people. There were good cops and bad cops.

  Paying off the fine meant I could go about freely, but as the court appearance neared my worries increased. Then the citation arrived, ordering me to show up. There was nothing for it but to tell the sergeant major. He went mental and informed me that I would be automatically discharged on the grounds of Defect in Enlistment for not owning up to having been in trouble with the law. During the interviews before joining up, I was asked whether I had a criminal record. I knew I should have come clean, but was desperate to enlist so had made out I had never been in trouble, had never been lifted by the police. Now, it was all going pear-shaped. There was no way I could have sneaked off to court in Glasgow without anybody knowing, so my career looked to be heading for a sudden end. It was a terrible blow.

  I went before the officer commanding (OC), who told me another officer would accompany me to court. He advised me to totally come clean about my past. It would have been silly to try to hide anything because the probability was that my record was going to be read out in court anyway. And so I gave a full account. After a while I was summoned back by the OC and told that because I had made a full admission I was going to be given a second chance. I was allowed to stay on provided the court hearing went OK.

  An officer from the Black Watch spoke on my behalf during the hearing in April 1983, saying I was fitting into training well, I had knuckled down and there was a future for me. As a result, I was admonished. I knew I had been lucky and was told, ‘Had it not been for your doing well in the army, you were facing a custodial sentence.’

  I returned to the Gordon Barracks knowing I now had nothing to hide. The OC was informed of the outcome and I was given another severe warning, but told I could soldier on. As I marched out of his office, I knew that had I not been forced to go to court, frankly I wouldn’t have said anything.

  Back in training, I worked harder than ever. I knew I had to remain on my very best behaviour. Throughout my life, when something like that has happened, when I’ve had a close shave, I have always learned from it and moved on. It was a hard year, trying to keep my nose clean. Every time I went down to Glasgow on leave, I had to tell myself to stay out of trouble. And every time I was home, something seemed to happen, but whether by good luck or just coincidence I managed to keep out of it.

  By the time summer came around, we were entitled to six weeks’ leave, which coincided with the school holidays. I went off to rejoin all my mates and see Angie. It was a very enjoyable time. We used to go out drinking and enjoying ourselves, and because I had a few hundred pounds’ pay in my pocket I could afford to get rigged out with the best gear. Yet despite the fun and freedom, I missed the soldiering and used to pine to get back to it. It is just how I lived, plus I was conscious that while I was in the barracks I had less chance of getting into trouble.

  I knew I had to keep my guard up while I was training. I was among guys who were fully developed physically, while I was still this tiny wee thing. But while I might have been the smallest, I think I terrified the rest of them. In such situations, there develops a pecking order and you have to decide on your place and then fit into it. You need to let others know you are not going to be messed about, either physically or mentally. I was really sharp mentally and found I could reduce the biggest of the other guys to tears. I wasn’t a bully, because I don’t like bullies, but I made sure everyone knew they had to stay away from me and couldn’t mess me about.

  During my leaves, I’d meet up with Pawny and William Lobban, who told me they had been doing some turns together. They kept to themselves one particular turn they had in mind, which involved screwing the Balmore bar in Saracen Street, Glasgow. They had come up with a pretty remarkable idea for getting in. Next to the bar were some shops, including one in which you could play the puggies, the slot machines. It was a popular gathering place for young people, but Pawny and Gibby needed to be alone so they arranged to stay in the shop throughout the weekend. Their plan was to get under the floor of this shop, then cut through the basements of the intervening shops until they reached the cellar of the Balmore bar. Having done so, they would smash their way in. They promised a third party, who was helping, a share of anything they managed to steal and went ahead.

  The raid itself was a spectacular success, with everything going precisely as they had hoped. They emptied the cellar of its entire stock of beer, spirits and cigarettes and carried it back to a nearby house where most of it was hidden in the crawl space beneath the floorboards. Naturally, the police were called in and began looking for likely culprits. As a matter of routine, they concentrated their enquiries on locals with criminal records for stealing or with reputations for thieving. There was also a suspicion that someone may have tipped off the police who was behind the raid. As a result, they began looking for Pawny and Gibby, and they called at the house to which the stock had been taken. The suspects weren’t there, but, even so, the police made a cursory search for signs of stolen property. Fortunately, they did not lift the floorboards, so the haul remained in place, gradually being distributed to customers and friends; however, another man who had helped with the robbery eventually caved in to police pressure, confessed and implicated Pawny and Gibby, who were arrested.

  I was at the Gordon Barracks when all this took place and I heard what had happened during a phone call home. On my next leave, I was told the full story and called at the house, where I was presented with a couple of dusty bottles of rum. I put these in my bag, thinking they might come in handy some time, and took them back with me to Bridge of Don.

  Pawny and Gibby, meanwhile, were charged and when they appeared in court were both sentenced to borstal training at Glenochil in Clackmannanshire, Pawny for a year and Gibby for two. The third party was older and got 18 months’ imprisonment, which was harsh considering he had never been in trouble before.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I remember one particular exercise during my training which involved taking part in a survival course on Ben Macdui, the second highest mountain in Britain after Ben Nevis, and the highest in the Cairngorms. It is said to be haunted by the big, grey man of Ben Macdui. One evening, as we were lying about, trying to fight off the cold, I said I had something to warm everybody up. I reached into my Bergen and produced the two bottles of rum. I was asked where they had come from and simply told them a friend had advised me to carry them with me for occasions just like this. The rum came in very useful and I silently murmured thanks to Pawny.

  I had been promoted to junior corporal and was just four weeks away from completing basic training and Passing Out in December 1983. Then I would be a fully fledged infantryman and would formally join the regiment. This would be a big moment and one to be very proud of. However, one of my problems remained my inability to curb my emotions. Everyone knew I had a quick temper, and as some had found to their cost in the boxing ring, I was not someone to be messed about. But true to my word, I was never a bully.

  During another training exercise, the sergeant tasked me to move ammunition boxes from one place to another. It was a menial task, but I was a junior NCO, in a position of authority with about eight other junior soldiers under my command. This was the first time I’d been experiencing leadership. Off we went, and about halfway through the job I gave an instruction to a guy from Dumfries who was slightly bigger than me to pick up some boxes. He came back with a bit of an attitude and told me to fuck off. Without thinking, I gave him a Glasgow kiss – a head butt – catching him squarely on the mouth, causing his front two teeth to rip through his upper lip. Blood spattered everywhere.

  I told him to wait while I fetched medical help and found the platoon sergeant to tell him what I had done. He listened, then all hell broke loose. I was convinced by his angry reaction that my life and career in the army were over. Luckily for me, the victim was a good guy and not the sort to grass on a colleague. By the time we reached him, he had been cleaned up and was waiting to go to hospital. He gave a very
different version of what had happened to the platoon sergeant. ‘I tripped over one of the ammunition boxes, and fell and banged my face. My teeth went through my lip,’ he said. When he was asked if I had been responsible, he said it had been nothing to do with me; it was a complete accident. The platoon sergeant was an old hand who knew the man was covering up for me but had to accept his version. It meant he could do nothing against me officially, but all the same I was taken before the OC, who told me in detail that the army would not accept any form of bullying or harassment by any rank or individual. He made it plain I should count myself lucky because had it not been for the soldier blaming himself and putting the incident down as an accident I would have been stripped of my uniform and found myself back in Glasgow within 24 hours. ‘You are on your last legs,’ he told me as I left his office.

  So, I was on my final warning. I knew I had to be extra careful now, almost walking on eggshells until I Passed Out. Controlling aggression was difficult for me, but somehow I managed to do so.