The Underworld Captain: From Gangland Goodfella To Army Officer

by Alexander Shannon

  While that one didn’t work out, another did. Whenever we were short of cash, we would simply go out and steal to fill our empty pockets. But we had to be careful. Not only did we have the police to contend with, but doing turns in someone else’s territory could spark off a lot of trouble.

  On this occasion, it was one of the wettest days I can ever remember. Rain was just pouring down and kept on coming. My jacket was far from waterproof, but the inconvenience of getting literally soaked to the skin was not going to stop us. Our target was a carpet shop. Climbing to the top of the premises, we carefully removed some of the slates and, discovering a layer of wood underneath, simply broke through it. It was a Sunday and we had made our entry in broad daylight, yet so far nobody appeared to have seen us because there were no shouts or warnings or the noise of police sirens. However, as we climbed into the shop itself, to our horror we saw customers peering in through the big glass shopfront windows. It was an eerie sensation, like our privacy had been invaded by strangers without the right to do so. Thankfully, they were only window shopping, looking at an array of brightly coloured rugs, doubtless wondering whether to come back the next day to check on prices. I recall thinking to myself, ‘They’d better take a good look, because they won’t be there in the morning.’ There wasn’t much we could do until the onset of darkness and so, cold and soaking, we wrapped ourselves in some rugs we found at the back of the shop and settled down to sleep. By the time we awoke, something like six hours later, it was dark. We felt refreshed and dry. Now it was just a case of finishing the job. Stuffing as many rugs as possible into black bags, we climbed out through the roof and started walking, taking care to keep an eye out for police patrols.

  Over the next few hours we walked through Bishopbriggs, up onto a railway line, confident no trains would be running, and headed in the direction of our Springburn home. Most gangs have a hiding place where they stash loot safely until it is needed and we were no exception. We used to leave our booty next to the Briggs Bar. Having done so, we headed for our beds. By this stage, it was around three in the morning, so after another sleep we returned next day on bicycles and ferried all the goods back to Galloway Street. For the next few days, we did a roaring trade in tenner-a-time rugs that sold like hot cakes. As word spread, we even offered a delivery service. Now and then we’d pass a police patrol and be given a look that said, ‘I wonder what that lot are up to now.’ Thankfully, nobody thought to stop us.

  With the money we were making, I was able to afford the best clothes and dress smartly. I had always been conscious of my appearance. I was brought up in a city of the haves and have-nots and looked on myself as one of the latter. There was a sense of feeling deprived and it acted as a spur that drove me not only to make a success of anything I did but also to make sure I was seen to be successful. Wearing smart clothes was one way of showing I was doing well. I may not have been from the most affluent areas of Glasgow, such as Bishopbriggs, but I could look as though I came from the same background as many of the well-off who lived there.

  I loved the fact that people knew my name. I had it stitched in white thread into my back pockets for everybody to see and insisted on having vivid white buttons, known as ‘cat’s eyes’ because they shone brightly in the dark, on my clothes. I was able to buy trousers specially made for me. You could steal off-the-peg clothes, but not made-to-measure.

  I was always able to wear smart shoes, because I stole those from Goldbergs, a famous chain of stores started in Glasgow at the beginning of the century. Goldbergs sold really first-rate gear. I know it sounds crazy, but even though I had enough money in my pocket to buy the shoes, something about the thrill of stealing them and getting away with it really appealed to me. I just got a buzz from doing it. And I wanted to look better than those who could actually afford to buy their clothes legally.

  I felt so good and proud that strangers seeing me in my designer gear and with money in my pockets would be under the impression I was from a rich family. In a sense, though, it was a false front, a way of countering what was a basic insecurity resulting from feeling unloved, of not being good-looking and being conscious of my red hair. I could hide my worries under smart clothes and seeming affluence, and appear to be someone who would put a bullet in you if you gave me a wrong look, but that hair would just not go away. Sometimes I felt I was a ginger-haired outcast from whom others wanted to shy away.

  My worst memory was when I was aged ten. My mum had saved up for a haircut for me at one of the best hairdressers in Glasgow, but I was turned away because my head was full of lice. I promised myself then that I would never again let anybody pay for anything for me. I determined to sort things out for myself, to be who I wanted to be and wear what I wanted. I believed then, and still do, that what you wear is a statement of your ego and, with the exception of the red hair, mine was massive.

  There is a saying that a Glaswegian will spend a pound to stop someone else making fifty pence. It’s all about jealousy. Being smartly dressed and having money in your pocket got you noticed, especially in a fairly run-down area like Springburn, which was, at that time, largely McGovern land, or so they liked to think – and few would challenge their right to run the area, or have the temerity to dispute their superiority.

  Initially, there hadn’t been any difficulty between us. In fact, they seemed quite happy with us coming into their territory and doing a bit of shoplifting or screwing shops, and even on odd occasions we’d do turns together. My mum would go to their ma’s house and have a drink because Mum frequented the same pubs as their parents. Sometimes we’d go to their home with Mum. Then obviously jealousy crept in. The fact is the more money you are earning, or the bigger reputation you are getting, the more somebody wants the money and the name for themselves.

  In the wonderful gangster movie Once Upon a Time in America there is a scene in which a gang of young tearaways are ordered by an older crew to hand over their profits from stealing, or at least a share of them. I found myself in that exact same scenario when, sporting my smart clothes and shiny new shoes, my pockets ringing with coins, I ventured down to the bottom part of Springburn and headed for the local fish and chip shop. There I came across Tommy McGovern and his team.

  Tommy congratulated me on our recent exploits in the earning game, but I had the feeling this was leading up to something and I was about to be proved correct. Calmly, Tommy went on to suggest I hand over some of my well-earned money to him and his mates. Now, I had a couple of pals with me, but I was well aware that they were not into the sort of dodgy dealings that were making me money. And they were scared of the McGoverns. I told Tommy where to go in language that was both colourful and anatomically imaginative, and he clearly didn’t appreciate my response. A brief scuffle ensued. I knew I was outnumbered and decided that the time had come for me to go, but there was no way I could run fast enough in my new shoes. So, pulling them off and clutching them tightly under my arms, I sprinted for safety. For the next few minutes, I was chased from one end of Springburn to the other in bare feet. Thankfully, my pursuers were no match for me.

  I knew Tommy had been trying to make a point – I was in his territory and nothing went down without either his say-so or compensation being paid to him. And while that might have been how it was in the gangster movies, in Glasgow it was another matter. If you wanted something, then you had to take it. If you made a play and didn’t get what you’d set out to achieve, then you either fought for it or lost face. Maybe it was because he had his team with him that he felt he had to take a stand, especially as I was effectively fighting single-handedly. Whatever Tommy’s motive, it didn’t come off for him, but I had the feeling there was pressure on him now to do something to show he was not prepared to let me get away with it.

  By this stage, my family had made a bit of a reputation for themselves. We were the Shannons of Galloway Street. The McGoverns were down at Memel, so they became the competition, to an extent.

  As a result of the stand-off, it b
ecame more difficult to do turns – indeed, anything – at the bottom end of Springburn; however, with our skills we managed to do a few of the shops down there, much to the annoyance of the McGoverns. Naturally, Tommy and his brothers, Steven and Tony, were not happy and I found myself constantly having to watch over my shoulder.

  Despite my lawbreaking exploits, my thoughts about the army kept recurring and an incident in 1977 probably really planted the idea of joining up most firmly in my mind. At the start of that year, the Queen scheduled a number of visits to cities across the UK as part of her Silver Jubilee celebrations. It would be a whistle-stop tour of the kingdom, starting in Glasgow in May. Along with some of my mates, I’d been down in the city centre shoplifting and decided to find out what all the fuss was about. As part of her look at Glasgow, the Queen visited the City Chambers in George Square. I was sitting right by the barriers that were holding the crowds back and was just inches away from her. I really didn’t appreciate the greatness of the occasion, or the fact I had been so close to her. To me, it was just the Queen.

  Once the Queen left and the crowds started to disperse, my mates and I had a wander about, fascinated by all the excitement, colour and noise. There were lots of police and soldiers around, chatting and joking with each other as if they were relieved that the royal visit had gone off peacefully. The soldiers had been parading, marching through the city centre streets and then standing to attention very smartly, guarding the monarch. Now they could relax, and my mates and I followed them to see what they would be doing next. They were friendly, enquiring what we had been up to and whether we’d seen the Queen. When we asked where they were going, they told us it was time for them to have a break. Earlier we had seen long lines of buses parked in the surrounding streets guarded by police and had wondered why they were there. Now, we had found the answer, as the soldiers began climbing inside.

  ‘Want a sandwich, wee man?’ one of the soldiers asked and when I nodded he waved me into his coach, where lots of his mates were opening up their packed lunches. I wasn’t really interested in getting food, I just wanted to see what the soldiers were like when they were off duty, what sort of things they did and talked about. Most of them just wanted a cigarette and when they saw me and my pals holding wee bags that we’d taken to go shoplifting started popping sandwiches, biscuits and apples inside. They were happy to let us have them and this was a real bonus. We would never have gone on the buses had we not been invited. After a few minutes, the soldiers told us it was time for them to go and we climbed down, our bags bulging with food. But for me what was even better than free food was that I’d been among these men, talked with them as though they were pals and had been treated with kindness. I had read about soldiers and had watched the army on television lots of times; now, I had seen soldiers at first hand. It was a great experience that left me feeling I’d been in the presence of heroes.

  It turned out to be a wonderful day, but things did not always go so smoothly. At home, Mum discovered Jim Corrigan had disappeared. Theirs had been a pretty unsettled relationship and maybe Jim wasn’t always on hand for Mum when she needed a comforting shoulder. Then one day he was there at home, the next he was gone. His decision to walk out didn’t affect us; we just carried on with our own lives, wondering if he would suddenly reappear, but we weren’t upset when there was no sign of him. If Mum was saddened that a relationship which had lasted about two years had suddenly ended, she didn’t let it show.

  In 1977, I was caught breaking into some shops. I had been picked up by the police in the past, when I was eight, but then I was judged too young to be criminally responsible and had got away with a severe ticking-off from a senior ranking officer, but the boys in blue had been watching me and others for a long time. They were sure we were up to no good, but, much to their annoyance, they’d never seemed able to catch us in the act. Now, it had finally happened and I found myself in front of a children’s hearing in October that year. I faced three charges of theft: attempted theft with intent, housebreaking and opening lock-fast places with intent. That meant I’d been caught doing three shops.

  It was a serious matter and I could have been sent off to an approved school. Instead, I was made the subject of a supervision order, which meant I had to be seen to be keeping my nose clean or I would be hauled back and given a more severe punishment.

  Two months later, I was in front of the children’s hearing on another attempted break-in. The break-in had been before my initial appearance, so all that happened was that I was placed under the same supervision order and told to behave or else.

  At the time, none of this really meant a lot to me. I’d got a legal ticking-off and had been told that if I did not re-offend, then nothing more would come of it. In fact, that wasn’t true. The repercussions of those fairly minor infringements, or at least the consequences of being caught, could have been devastating, resulting in what amounted to a life sentence. I will explain why in a later chapter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  By now, I was nearing the age of 12 and it was around this time that I became very close friends with a cousin of the McGoverns, John Storrie, who lived close by. A few years later, I found myself caught in a really awkward situation when John was involved in a fight with another of my best mates, who sadly died. The trouble had broken out between groups from Springburn and Possilpark during a concert by Scheme, a local Glasgow group, at the old Pavilion Theatre. But that was for the future.

  For now, I started to run around with John all the time, though he was not involved in any of the turns or fighting in which I was caught up. Due to our friendship, however, and despite the earlier run-in with Tommy, I would often end up down at the bottom half of Springburn with the McGovern brothers and John, all of us appearing to be the best of mates. At least that’s how it looked. But all was not what it seemed.

  One night, I was at a school disco in Albert primary with John when, out of the blue, about 20 members of the Memel Toi appeared, led by Tommy and Tony McGovern. At first I wasn’t worried, thinking we were all good pals and everything would be OK, but within minutes it became obvious from the way they were staring and glaring in my direction that they weren’t there for the dancing but instead for me. The odds were overwhelming, so I positioned myself at one of the exit doors and waited for it all to kick off. It did not take long.

  After a few minutes, when nothing had kicked off, I wondered whether I had read the situation wrongly and that the evening would turn into a quiet affair. So, thinking all was well, I went off to the tuck shop and bought a cup of tea. But then my original suspicions turned out to be correct because as I went to sit on my chair, Tommy booted it away from underneath me. His crowd broke into gales of laughter. They clearly thought it was funny. I did not. Despite being massively outnumbered, and to everyone’s surprise, especially Tommy’s, I threw the cup of tea in his face. This gave me just enough time to make a fast exit while being chased by the angry Memel Toi. They had advantage in numbers, but I was good at running and knew I only needed to make it halfway up the hill to cross the dividing line that separated their territory from ours and reach safety. Once there I could count on the rest of my family and a whole crowd of friends from Galloway Street coming out to back me up. It wasn’t just the McGoverns who were reluctant to enter the old end of Galloway Street where we stayed; even the police kept away, knowing there was only one way in and one way out. It was a virtual no-go area. If a police car showed up, it was bricked for the entire length of the street until it could escape. Tommy might have been more streetwise than the police, but there was no way he was going to risk a barrage of bricks and bottles.

  I escaped, but the tea-throwing incident had me on my heels for a short time and I was being threatened on a daily basis. A message was sent, warning me I was not to go near the bottom half of Springburn. It obviously came from Tommy and his crew. This would severely restrict my movements, so I knew something had to be done.

  One day, a couple of weeks later, I no
ticed a group of about 40 youths who had come from Memel Street right into Galloway Street to look for me. It showed how bold they were getting and how confident they were that their reputation would be enough to turn me into jelly. I happened to be standing with some of the older guys and thought the only way to resolve this was to walk straight into the middle of them all and put Tommy on the spot by inviting him to fight. It would be him and me, and we would both accept the outcome, no matter what it happened to be.

  This might sound brave, but the reality was that I had little alternative. My oldest brother, Jamie, was in jail, and Tam was away. Only Pawny and me were left. I thought to myself, do I want to run away for the rest of my life? The answer to that, of course, was no. So I thought, I have to just go in there, walk right into the middle of them all, up to Tommy and challenge him. Once I do that, all the guys with him will look at him and say, ‘Well, come on, he’s asking you. You are going to take him on, aren’t you?’ If I do that, then I put him on the spot in front of all his mates and he daren’t back down. I knew he wouldn’t want to be seen to lose face in front of the older guys I’d been talking to because they would spread word about what had happened.

  So, up I went to Tommy and said, ‘Tell you what, Tommy. I’ll take you on in a square-go and after that we shake hands and walk away.’ To his credit, Tommy agreed and a few seconds later we went at it. It was pretty brutal, but I gave him quite a good kicking. I recall as I was doing it, because they were in my area, shouting, ‘Young Springburn Peg’, while the rest of them from Memel just stood by watching. When it was over, the two of us had a few cuts and bruises, but Tommy just got up, brushed some blood off his cut lip, shook my hand and said, ‘That’s it. It won’t be mentioned again.’