CHAPTER 13 – THE SUBWAY GANG

After I left the army, I was keen to enhance my new life out of uniform. With Rosemary deceased, it was important not only to re-establish a continuation of my child-centred single parenting, but I also needed to establish a career in education which supported my daughter, and I needed to create a safe home for Maxine because she was beginning to come to terms with the new life of having a father who was a mother as well.

My new position in a public school had been taken cautiously, and those years in Cheltenham created not only a safe and excellent education and a superb home for Maxine but also great stability for us both. I soon had my own house, and a good income and was able to realise my determination to stay as fit as I was when I was a soldier.

Life was good, but December 1973 was a cold and damp month. It was dismal to say the least, in so many ways!

One afternoon I decided to drive to London to do my Christmas shopping, leaving Maxine with a friend in Surbiton. I was full of enthusiasm for the gift I planned to buy for her Christmas present; a china doll. I had twenty pounds in my trouser pocket which was enough to buy the gift I had eyed in the shop window when last I visited Hamley’s, in Oxford Street.

My walk was more of a quick march than an amble, so excited was I, and after getting out of my car and parking on the outskirts of London, I walked towards the centre. It was dark and I passed an elderly couple who had climbed the rather steep stairway from the Underground up to the street where I was walking, who told me not to use the bypass.

“Find another way to get to where you are going my friend, because there is evil down there. A gang waiting to rob anyone who is unsuspecting. They let us pass because we are old and had nothing. A right load of yobs, what you might call Skinheads.”

I took the steps down towards the underpass and saw the group. Their ear-splitting noise was echoing in my ear.

There they stood, staggering, gathered, chatting, shouting, being silly at times, arguing, and playing around with beer bottles, walking on broken glass which littered their claimed space.

I walked on and took the route to the right side of the subway looking the group in the eyes as I passed them and said my usual polite words of greeting. “Hi guys”.

The group, numbering about half a dozen, were out for a fight. They stepped across to my side and blocked my way. I was aware that a couple of them were clutching bottles, and with signs of stupification, I guessed through drink and drugs, I put both hands up and asked them to let me pass.

“Turn out your pockets. Give us what you’ve got, and we’ll let you pass.

I’ve got a shivvy mate. I’ll cut you.” said one of them. That was a real threat that I was wise to ignore.

My mind centred on the many times I had had to deal with such violent groups as an MP, and I certainly didn’t want to do them any harm. They were just youngsters trying to be hard and were clearly out for trouble. That was definitely what they wanted. They were in their late ‘teens and seemed to be a gang of some sort, quite ugly, and seemingly lost. One of the gang stood out. He was evil looking, rather huge, and was clearly the ringleader.

I made my strategic plan in seconds.

The big chap stared me in the face from about twelve inches as his cohorts laughed, and one shouted.

“Give ‘im a smackin Ben. Teach him a lesson. Go on, show him who rules this space”.

Things began to get rather silly. I spoke to the loser who stood in front of me wielding a large brown bottle and asked him to let me pass. It was clear he wanted the money he assumed was in my pocket, so I offered him a one pound note which I carefully peeled from the small wad of money I was carrying in my trouser pocket to spend in Hamley’s.

“Turn out your pockets, a quid’s not enough”.

It was now time to take a step I didn’t want to take. I stood my ground and refused to give more. They all laughed.

One of the gang said, “You don’t know who you are dealing with mate. We are the Hendon mob. We eat people like you”.

That was it. I could either be smashed about by the gang and perhaps maimed, even threatened with a shivvy or a knife, or perhaps at worse a broken bottle could have been slashed across my face. I thought I would be stabbed as one of the gang pulled his knife. I had to think and act quickly, but I had been there before and removing a knife from someone was an easy task with my martial arts training.

My usual course of action was to talk myself through the situation, be humble and let them feel victorious, but be absolutely aware of every movement as my life was probably in danger. I didn’t want a confrontation with a gang wielding bottles, a knife, a shivvy and perhaps other weapons.

Talking did nothing to placate the mob. I had to get ready for action.

What happened next does not need to be written in graphic detail, but within a few seconds, after the big guy had tried to slash my face with the broken bottle and his friend brandished his knife in my face, I did what I do best.

I parried the attack, took the broken bottle out of his hand, dropped the knife bearer, took his knife away, and dealt with him. Only three of the gang stayed and the rest ran shouting as the big guy lay on the ground, amongst the broken glass.

The three lay in front of me, bleeding and clearly hurt. I had had no choice but to inflict some hard blows and defensive action on them, and in a time when there were no mobiles, I had to attend to their injuries hoping that someone would come down the subway and page an ambulance and the Police. They did!

Helping them up and giving them a brief chat about their behaviour and reminding them that I had not wanted to hurt them, they were clearly upset and very shocked; and the big chap was bleeding from his nose and mouth.

What happened next might seem ridiculous. In my time I had dealt with scores of such incidents, but here comes the surprise.

I could hear the sound of a bell and I saw a couple of heavy policemen running down the steps, with one blowing a whistle! They arrived on the scene and looking down into the darkness with their Police-issued dull torch, they saw three bodies groaning on the ground, so they wanted them to have been assaulted, I was sure. They quickly assumed I was the culprit as I was standing above the three toughies!

I had little time to speak my truth and quite aggressively, the two officers handcuffed me, as the three miscreants struggled to stand up and shouted that I had attacked them with force, while the rest of their ‘friends’ ran and summoned the Police.

What was I to do? Hope that things would sort themselves out. Argue? No, I asked the biggest cop to take out my wallet and find my identification card. When he saw that I was an ex-police officer, things began to take a different slant.

Cuffs removed and the three arrested, more Police arrived, and we were all taken to the local Police station where a summary investigation took place. I was released, praised and asked if I wanted to take action.

I was awarded a Bravery Award by The Queen, but that was not at all necessary. I was doing what I felt was necessary and was sorry for the injuries I inflicted.

I was allowed to send a message to them in their cells, which seemed to bring forth a change of attitude, and I was told they were on Police-watch for a year.

Was I the villain for defending myself before I was attacked? I think not, and I was pleased that when the inspector interviewed me, he told me that two of the gang who ran off had told the whole story, which exonerated me from any action. The gang were known to the Police.

Here comes the unexpected!

At that time in my life, I was offering trampoline lessons because my daughter was madly enthusiastic about bouncing. She loved to perform and when my school had bought a full-size trampoline, I was able to offer three evening sessions to a variety of ages, including older teenagers.

In June the following year, six youngsters stood in the doorway of the hall where I was teaching the children, and I instantly recognised the big guy, Ben, the tough guy who wanted to cut me with a bottle. What a coincidence that they should turn up.

I asked them what they wanted, and Ben said. “Not another beasting mate. I can’t go through that again.”

I taught three of them trampolining and they became regulars until the following Christmas and had taken the tube from Hendon to Kingston-on-Thames and walked to Surbiton for the trampoline sessions.

I think I learned a big lesson that there is good in everyone, but I think they learned a bigger one!

Such is life, and I was very glad of my martial arts training.