The Train Robbery

Part 2

The following day, Billy met me at the bottom of my close and accompanied me on a short tram trip to the Dandie Dinmont, a somewhat posher pub than my usual haunts. The lounge was more akin to how I imagined a west end sitting room than a drinking howff. Every available inch was tastefully decorated with various pictures and objects pertaining to the life and works of Sir Walter Scott, from a painting of Jeannie Deans to a life-size china Dandie Dinmont dog, frowning down from a shelf. The chairs were well upholstered and the tables were of well-polished mahogany. Captain Adams was waiting there for us, elegantly dressed, lounging on a chair, smoking a cigarette, contemplating a large gin and tonic. While I assaulted a pint of disappointing beer, he asked me what types of vans I had driven. Back then, each manufacturer, of course, had their own approach to providing power to the wheels. Even to starting the engine. A driver had to laboriously learn the controls for each type of van. When he heard I had been driving a Ford for the bakery, he seemed satisfied. He told me to be outside the door of the Dandie Dinmont at 8p.m. on the night of the robbery. A suitable van would arrive for me to drive, driven by one of our colleagues. There would be an exchange of passwords. The driver would say "Maryhill". I was to reply "Vimy Ridge". I would then take the van and pick up the Captain at the Drovers' Inn, a well-known pub on the outskirts of town at 9pm. The business concluded, the Captain left the pub, after buying Billy and me another over-priced pint.

"What a gentleman!" Billy observed, wiping the foam from the thin moustache he was growing. Anyone that bought Billy a drink had his eternal affection. Billy and I didn't discuss the robbery; we just caught up on old times. Despite his prosperous appearance, arising, I discovered, from a considerable advance from Captain Adams, Billy had been through some hard times. Unemployment, His employer who had promised to keep his job for him had closed down over the war. Heart break. The girl who had promised to wait hadn't waited more than a couple of months. His life since the war had followed the trail of poverty, hunger, petty crime, alcohol, depression. A familiar tale among old soldiers. I could tell this robbery was his big chance. As it was for all of us. A new dawn.

On the night of the robbery, I was, as instructed, waiting nervously outside the Dandie Dinmont. I managed to resist the temptation of a wee half to calm my nerves. I thought I might need my wits about me if things went wrong. Rum might help to boost my courage, but it would not be good for sensible decision making. On the stroke of 8, a van arrived, a Ford, bearing the name of a Stirling furniture firm. A man wearing a bunnet low over his face leaned out. "Maryhill?"

"Vimy Ridge."

"Thank goodness. It's all yours, mate." He left the van and disappeared into a side street.

The van was of a type familiar to me and I drove carefully out through the city streets to the outskirts and the Drovers Inn where Captain Adams was waiting, leaning on a lamppost, smoking the inevitable cigarette. As he climbed in the van, he flicked open his watch. "Good time," he announced, snapping his watch shut. As near a compliment as officers are permitted. He almost smiled.

It took us about an hour to drive to the site. The roads were quiet and I drove cautiously. I didn't want to arouse any suspicion. In any case, there was an old dresser and other bits and bobs of furniture in the back if we did get stopped. It had been in the van when it was stolen. I had made up a tale about trying to find Gartcoyne farm if we were stopped. The farm was a few miles north of our route so the excuse might have worked. Fortunately, we weren't stopped.

We reached the selected robbery site and parked the van on a scruffy piece of grass lying between the road and the railway line. We were the first to arrive. After a brief stroll around to stretch our legs, we sat in the cab, smoking, waiting for the others. The night grew dark. As time went past, my natural pessimism took control. What could go wrong? It had all seemed so simple in the warmth of the room in Sloan's with a bottle of beer in my hand. What if... and then again....

The Captain seemed unbothered. He was whistling softly a tune I remembered pipers playing during the war. "The Green Hills of Tyrol." I had no idea where Tyrol was, but it was a comforting tune. I suppose officers have to conceal their nerves. God knows what would have happened if they had been seen to panic when we were under attack.

The others arrived. Two large automobiles pulled up and four men clambered out of each, including Mr King. They paused and pulled a couple of rifles out of the vehicles. Familiar old friends – Lee Enfield 303, bolt action. I'd know them a mile off. I remembered long hours spent drilling with them, cleaning them and eventually trying to kill with them. Weighed a ton and kicked like a mule. Those allocated the rifles took great delight in gazing down the barrels and sliding the bolts in and out – no doubt reviving memories of other days. The guns seemed well-maintained. I could feel the pre-action atmosphere. At least this time we wouldn't be facing barbed wire or machine guns. Captain Adams handed out bullets to those with the rifles. "Be careful. Only a couple of shots. Hit nothing important – and don't hit anyone either. Verisimilitude is what we want – not blood." The men nodded obediently. They looked nervous. There was a silence, broken only by the noises of the night. Trees in the wind, birds, bats – all alien to a city boy like me.

Mr King appeared beside me. "Got the rifles and bullets from a source in Belfast. They have a glut there." He gave one of his fake smiles. I knew he had never faced an enemy with a rifle or carried one through mud. But I just smiled. There were some lengths of rope as well. "To tie up the crew. Leave one loose enough for one to escape and free the others. Lends credence to their story." I had to admit, Mr King had it all figured out.

In the distance, a train blew its whistle in the clear night air. "Right, lads, it's time." Captain Adams took control, the natural officer, "Everyone into position." My position was beside the van, but I was able to see what was happening. The semaphore signal had clunked to halt. That part was accomplished. Mr King pointed at it and smiled. A few minutes later, I could hear the train approaching, coming around the bend. The rails started to hum. Soon the train was grinding to a halt beside us with a screeching of wheels and an explosion of steam. The allocated team ran to the locomotive and tied up the driver and fireman. The rest went to the guard's van. A human chain formed, transferring the sacks of money from the guard's van to my vehicle where I supervised the packing. All went smoothly. Then I heard four or five shots. The rifles were returned to the automobiles. The men all looked more cheerful and relaxed now it was over. Captain Adams joined me at the van. "All done! Right, chaps. Well done to you all. Mr King's automobile to the farm, the others, safe journey home to Glasgow. We will be in touch with some money for you all next week."

The men piled into the automobiles laughing and joking and the automobiles drove off.

I had memorised the directions to the farm from a map and so was ready. I started the engine.

Captain Adams raised himself into the passenger seat of the van. "Right, let's go." Once we were on the road, he, in a flat tone, announced, "Change of plan. Head south rather than west."

I turned to ask why, and found myself eye to eye with a Webley Service revolver. Inaccurate over a distance, but at two inches, accurate enough. They had a reputation for jamming, but it wasn't worth the risk. I needed time to think. "Where are we going?"