Gordon McShean

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Gordon currently resides in New Zealand, and this is an extract from an autobiography he is writing concerning an incident from his youth.

If you wish to email Gordon McShean then just click this line

In which the combined might of five Celtic warriors is used to overcome the guardians of weapons of war...

They contacted me at work with a cryptic message on the telephone, "Be outside yer close at nine o'clock the night. We'll pick ye up. Wear dark clothes and gloves. Don't carry identification." I guessed that the caller was Bill.

The rest of the day went slowly as I attempted to arrange small electrical appliances in their Clydesdale Supply Company display cases. I cycled home and found that tea time was a confusion. Everyone - except Mum - was going out somewhere and everyone wanted to eat at different times. The meal was nice enough. Simmering on the gas was a big pot of beef mince flavored by Bisto - with chopped carrots and onions in it. Even if the large pot of boiled potatoes got cold, they could be made palatable by pouring the hot mince over them.

Dad was going to a union meeting. Hazel was going to visit girlfriends up the street and Lesley was to attend the Girl Guides - she was already wearing her uniform. I was going to a nationalist meeting, I told them.

Mum looked puzzled and said, "It's a bit late for a meeting, nine o'clock, isn't it? Ah hope ye won't be too late coming home!" When I shrugged in response she added, "They shouldn't ask young fellows to be out so late, it's not right." 

I told Mum she shouldn't worry and went to the storage cupboard - which we called "the press" - to try to find my gloves and starter pistol. I found them easily enough, but -as expected - the gun was not in good shape. Cleaning and oiling the gun then loading it with blank cartridges - without alerting my mother - was difficult, but I did it. 

When I looked at the gloves I quickly concluded that the winter weight fabric would only obstruct my movement. They might also, I felt, draw unnecessary attention to me. I packed them in a jacket pocket - I wouldn't be guilty of disobeying orders. I also took four man-sized handkerchiefs for the purpose of covering my hands or removing fingerprints.

It didn't seem late when I went down the tenement stairs to the street to wait for the others. It was still daylight. The sun sets late in Scotland in early June. I hadn't waited for long when a light-colored Ford Cortina sedan pulled up and Bill signaled from the back seat for me to get in. I looked around to see if anyone was watching - as much to show off my means of transportation (since few had access to cars in these days) as to check for witnesses - but the street was deserted. I thought ruefully, everyone has gone off to meetings tonight.

I could see the Colonel in the driver's seat, with Campbell in the passenger seat beside him. Another man, Duncan, sat in the back with Bill. I'd met Duncan briefly at some nationalist meeting, but I knew almost nothing about him. He nodded a greeting to me as Bill pushed him along the seat to make room for me. Cameron put the car in gear and set off without anything being said.

"Nice car," I volunteered after a few minutes, trying to break the ice. 

"It's rented," Bill said.

"Aye, using a false name!" Duncan added, chuckling. 

Cameron and Campbell, in the front seats, seemed to be ignoring us. We drove on in silence.

"So, where are we headed?" I asked. I'd been watching the direction of the car to try to get an indication of our destination.

Cameron finally acknowledged that I was there. "We're going to Johnstone, do you know it? "

I knew that it was a town some distance out of Glasgow, near Paisley. "No, I don't go on that road when I cycle to Ayr at the weekends," I said. "It doesn't have a youth hostel, either, so I've never been there," I responded.

"Pity," Cameron replied. "I'm the only one with a knowledge of the lay of the land. I've spent quite a lot of time there in recent weeks. I've found out where the roads go, where there are quiet places you can park, and what traffic we can expect at this time of night."

"Have ye been going there tae neck with yer bird?" Duncan asked, chuckling.

Cameron didn't seem to have heard what Duncan had said - or chose not to respond. Bill said, "Cameron, he thinks ye've been going there winching with yer girlfriend."

When Cameron just snorted in response, Bill attempted to bring the conversation back to the job at hand and addressed the rest of us. "Ah went with Cameron tae Johnstone in his van the other night. We sat and watched the place for about an hour. The watchman goes tae bed just after ten o'clock, it seems. We're guessing that the watchman and his wife will be asleep by 10:30. They're an old couple - nae bother! It'll be easy, you'll see!"

Cameron seemed to be attentive to his driving, remaining silent for some minutes. Then he said with great deliberation, "Don't ever think anything is easy, okay? Especially if the safety of your mates depends on it. Thinking like that puts you off your guard. Things might not be the same tonight as when you checked the place out on another night."

Bill accepted the rebuff affably. "Ye're right. But ah hope it'll be easy!"

"Me too," Cameron said. I noticed that he was driving very carefully. We'd been able to travel faster as the roads passed through the quieter, more rural landscape. There were fewer houses or crossroads. Darkness had overtaken us.

"What is this caretaker guy watching over?" I asked. "Ye've still not told me what we are going to do."

Cameron allowed himself a chuckle as he answered. "Sorry, Gordon, I'd forgotten that we hadn't told you about the plan - the others got the news in bits and pieces - it's not a good way to provide information to a squad! " He paused while I waited in acute anticipation. "We are going to raid the Army Cadet Drill Hall at Johnstone," he said finally. "They've
got quite a collection of guns there." He looked round at me from the wheel. "How do you feel about that, Gordon?" 

I was aware of his eyes on me and did my best to appear calm. I thought about the silly starter pistol in my pocket and felt inadequate. I also thought about the many discussions I'd had - with myself and others - about limiting the potential for violence in the independence struggle. Scotland had lost too many good people in the past, fighting against the English. We needed to find a way to achieve independence with as few casualties as possible. If people were going to be hurt or killed in a fight against British authorities, we could be sure that they'd make our people suffer. I saw Cameron turn back to watch the road and heard him ask again, "What do you think?"

"Aye, isn't that something!" I said, playing for time. My mind was still agonizing over the rights and wrongs of escalating the struggle. This would certainly put the cat among the pigeons, I thought. I wasn't sure that I should be on this mission, in this car with these people. Had Robert Curran known what he was doing when he recommended me to the SRA organizers? I knew, however, that there wasn't much I could do about it now. I was part of the plot - up to my neck in it! "What will we do with the guns after the raid? Will we use any of them?" I asked.

Cameron had seriously taken on the role of commander and organizer now. Bill just sat beside me and listened. Cameron said casually, "We've got all that planned. We've arranged for a good place where they'll be well hidden. It's best if they disappear for a reasonable period of time, to make sure the authorities will think twice about our strength and what we might do. Isn't that right, Bill?"

Bill seemed glad to be included. "Aye, we've got a good, quiet place arranged where nobody is likely to stumble on them. It's a nice, dry place where they can be wrapped in plastic and covered up. Then, when the time comes and we need them, we can act."

We drove on in silence for a while. There wasn't a lot of traffic, but Cameron was extremely attentive to any vehicles which approached us from either direction. At one point a black sedan with a blue police lamp on its roof came up behind us. We could feel the tension in Cameron as it stayed close behind us for a few blocks. Then the police driver signaled to pass us. It sped up after it passed us and was soon vanishing in the distance.

Cameron gave no sign of how he felt, but Duncan breathed an audible sigh of relief, then chuckled again. His chuckle was becoming distinctive. "Thank God for that!" he spluttered.

"They couldn't have done anything to us if they'd stopped us," Bill said. "We're legal - just out for a drive."

"What about the bolt cutters and jimmies we're carrying?" Cameron asked. "I'd rather not be stopped, thank you. We don't want them noting down our license plate number or our physical descriptions, do we? We don't want them to be able to identify any of us."

"None of us has any identification," Duncan said.

Campbell joined the conversation, "Excepting Cameron! And his papers are fake!"

"Aye, you're right - and they are bloody good fakes!" Cameron said. I was beginning to think that he'd prefer it if we'd chattered less, but he realized the conversation allowed us to release tension as well as exchange information.

"What's the armory site like?" I asked. "Where d'ye think I should be as lookout?"

"I'll stop and give you all some information about the site and what I expect you to do before we start the operation," Cameron said. "But I can tell you now that the compound has chain link fences around it. I don't think we'll have to climb the fence. I reckon we can get through the gate by busting the padlock with a bolt cutter - Bill had a look and agreed with me on that. And we couldn't see any alarms. When some of the cadets left the place they didn't seem to set any alarms."

There was silence, except for the sound of the motor, as we digested Cameron's information. Then Bill said, "Gordon, we thought ye should hide near the gate in case something happened there and we looked likely tae be trapped in the compound. We'd be relying on ye tae warn us and create a diversion if anything like that happened."

"Yes, and if something happened down in the compound, we'd hope you'd be able to convince anyone that chased us to the gate that they should back off." it was Cameron, speaking quietly. I was surprised that he'd bring up the possibility that they might have to run. I was impressed.

He added, "Of course, we will expect you to think for yourself and take whatever action you think is necessary. Some small problem at the gate might make you decide to come down to the hall to warn us - that kind of action might keep us out of trouble, keep things from escalating. But - if the bobbies were to show up at the gate in force - we'd be relying on you to make a noisy distraction to draw them away - then do your best to disappear. Okay?"

I felt my heart thump more heavily as Cameron's graphic imaginings implicated me. What would I do if half a dozen cops chased me from the gate of the armory - in the dark? And what if they had dogs? 

The uselessness of my starter pistol had become more evident to me - it could only have a function in drawing the cops' attention - and who wanted that? Sure, it would be helpful if I could draw them all away from the scene of the raid - but surely experienced cops wouldn't all run after me and leave the others to escape? And what if the cops had guns and presumed mine was an operative weapon?

Another thought struck me - what if cops were after me, and Cameron and the boys got the guns from the armory and used them against the cops? It didn't bear thinking about. I tried to appear cool, calm and collected as I said, "Okay! Ah'll take a look around when ah get there and see if there is someplace I could disappear to."

All too soon I heard Cameron say, "Aha, we're nearly in Johnstone now!" He slowed the car and we watched the dark streets. It was surprising how few homes or businesses had lights on after ten o'clock. "Here is Dimity Street now," he muttered, slowing down to a crawl. "Keep your eyes open. I'll drive down once, then park somewhere so that we can discuss the lay of the land and how we'll approach the job."

The street was reasonably wide and well lit. Tall, yellow street lights stood in a lengthy row, giving the perception that the roadway went on forever, and that the blackness outside the lamps' range signified an abyss.

"The target is coming up on the left," Cameron said. "Take a good look. You'll need to know where you are going." He had put the car into second gear and was traveling slowly near the edge of the roadway.

We saw the chain link fence first, lit up in the headlights, and then the gate. A sign saying "G" COMPANY, ARMY CADET CORPS, RENFREW AND BUTE was affixed to the fence; it was barely readable in the light from the street lamp.

Behind the fence everything seemed black except for lights and sparks at some distance, seemingly higher than the shadowy land forms about us. Cameron said, "Good, the hall and the caretaker's place are in darkness and the railway yard is busy as usual." He kept the car moving forward as he spoke. He pursed his lips as the lights of a car were seen approaching from behind. 

"Car coming up," Bill observed. "Not much traffic. That's the first car ah've seen since we got intae Johnstone." The car whizzed by us, its driver apparently unconcerned about our presence on the road.

"Now," Cameron said, "I'll park the car somewhere and give you your orders, now that we know where we are going." He crashed the gears as he sped away from the site, giving us the first indication that he might be feeling some excitement.

A few minutes later, with the car concealed near bushes at a park, he started to issue instructions. "Bill, I'll park the car on the road just a few feet past the gate - that way it isn't obvious that the car is there for business at the cadet's compound - it'll mean a few extra steps from the gate when we bring the guns up the path." He waited until Bill nodded, then added, "You'll get out of the car with the tools and bust the padlock for us. We will wait in the car until we get your signal."

Bill acknowledged the order, "Ah'll wave tae ye when the padlock is off," he said.

"Don't be bloody stupid!" Cameron replied sharply. "We don't need anyone drawing attention to themselves. Just open the gate. That'll be our signal."

"Aye," Bill said in a subdued manner. I guessed that he'd recognized Cameron's aggressive manner masked some nervousness. "Then we all go down to the hall - except Gordon?"

Cameron agreed and said something about being short of manpower. "When we were planning to use the van to take the guns we had planned on having an extra lookout as well as a driver to stay at the wheel - so that we could load up more stuff and be surer of a quick getaway. But with the decision to use this rental car we've had to set tighter limits. We'll all go down to the hall - except Gordon - and you know what to do now, don't you Gordon?"

I nodded.

Now Cameron looked at Duncan. "You will stay outside the hall and keep watch around the buildings, as well as keeping an eye on Gordon at the gate. If you see lights in the caretaker's cottage, or detect something going on up at the gate, let us know."

He looked around at us. "The hall is to the right, down the path from the gate. The caretaker's cottage is to the left. Hopefully we won't have any trouble from them."

"What if we do?" I asked, beginning to recognize familiar anxiety signals in my own gut. 

"He's an old man. Silence him." I couldn't see Cameron's face - the car was very dark - as he responded. I wondered if he was serious. The others were silent.

My anxiety levels were increasing on a grand scale as the implications of Cameron's words sank in. I was horrified at the thought that we might have to assault on old man - probably a fellow Scot - to achieve a political goal. I wondered, too, what the response might be if the old lady were to come out and see us "silencing" her husband. What if she screamed?

"How would we silence him?" I asked quietly.

"Hit him over the head," Cameron said in a matter-of-fact voice. I still couldn't tell if he was serious. Then he added, "You could use your starter pistol."

I heard the others chuckle and knew I was being made fun of. I felt some resentment at that - but my anxiety lessened as I realized that silencing the old man might not prove necessary after all - and, if it did, that it didn't have to include a totally violent response.

Bill appeared to have been reading my mind. "We could tie them up and put gags in their mouths if it was needed," he said is a reassuring manner.

Campbell had a query at this point. "When we get tae the door of the hall, what then?"

Cameron said, "Duncan keeps an eye on the caretaker's place and around about, while you are back-up for Bill and me as we break in the door and find our way to the guns. You'll help us carry the guns to the car when we've broken into the cases."

Bill suddenly said in a firm manner, "You'll all be pleased to know that we've had inside information about where the guns are. We have tae break through two locked doors and intae a key cabinet. The keys from that cabinet will let us release the guns. It may take a wee while, but at least we know what tae expect."

There was silence again as this information was digested The implications of how the inside information had been obtained intrigued me. It suggested there was another dimension to the venture. Cameron and Bill might hope that the information about the hall and the methods used to keep the guns secure would make their jobs easier, but there were other concerns. What about the fact that some other person had been made party to our plans? How many others had been canvassed for information - how secure was this venture?

But after my initial feelings of concern, I found that I was experiencing increased confidence in the outcome. Cameron and Bill had gone to great lengths to plan this excursion, and they'd certainly seemed conscious of the need to ensure security. This was not some spur-of-the-moment opportunistic venture. A lot of thought and strategy had been brought to bear to bring us to this point. 

I even began to feel better about my own role in the mission. I'd had a suspicion that I'd been asked to take part simply because no one with better qualifications had been available. This viewpoint reflected, in part, my own view of my personal inadequacies: my youthful lack of experience, my unspoken uncertainty about my health - even my doubts about my ability to formulate political reasons to justify what we were doing. But now I could believe that the SRA organizers had chosen me - for my youth, my political convictions, and my ability to see in the dark!

I was suddenly convinced that this was a great romantic mission, an historic event which would mark the beginning of serious efforts to bring independence to Scotland. I couldn't wait to take up my duties as lookout at that gate. The authorities might well bring their best forces to oppose us! I'd warn my compatriots and we'd succeed regardless of the strength and the wiles of the evil opposition. The romances of Sir Walter Scott's novels seemed to be alive in my mind. We were unstoppable! 

But I was suddenly reminded that Cameron was not a nationalist - and that he was nothing if not a realist - when he dashed my enthusiastic commitment with his next cynical comments. "We'll be going now. I wish you all the best and thank you for taking this on. But - if anything happens - none of you know anything about the others. Make sure you leave no evidence: no fingerprints, no footprints and nothing left behind which might be connected with any of us, okay?"

"Aye," came the affirmative murmur from the ranks, heads nodding in the dark. Cameron started the engine and the car inched forward. The raid was in progress.

We drove back to Dimity Street at a reasonable speed and passed by the cadet compound on the other side of the road. Cameron observed, "The place is still dark - no sign of anything. The railway yard is still busy."

He traveled some distance past our target and made a u-turn. He drove us slowly back to the fence marking the beginning of the compound. "Gordon," he said, "I want you to get out first and be in place before Bill makes an attempt on the padlock of the gate. Be ready to jump. I won't stop!" 

He was traveling quite slowly as he said this, but we were almost at the gate by the time he had finished talking. I only had a moment to gather my thoughts and my courage, swing open the car door, and jump out. I wondered why he hadn't warned me about this previously - or had he just thought about it and decided on the spur of the moment? Whatever his reasons, I was not reassured in the circumstance. Bump! I hit the pavement and lost my footing, tumbling to the ground. 

I was shaken but not hurt. I rolled over on the ground to watch the car slowly gliding to a stop just past the gate, its lights now extinguished I picked myself up and hurried into the long grass by the side of the gate. As I knelt down I realized that I could not feel the familiar weight of the starter pistol in my jacket pocket. My heart beat faster as I guessed that it had either dropped out while I was in the car or it had fallen from my pocket when I fell. Everything was still. The street lamps stretched out in both directions along Dimity Street, sustaining the illusion that the roadway was the only reality in a field of intense darkness. And there - shining in the roadway where I'd fallen - I could see my gun!

Without further thought I shot out of the long grass and into the roadway, grabbed the gun and dashed back to my hiding place. I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding, but there was nothing else untoward to be concerned about. The weight of the gun was reassuring - I now held it compulsively in my hand, through the fabric of my jacket. My greatest concern was that some of the guys in the car had seen what happened - I would have lost some of their confidence in the circumstance. But I needn't have worried. The guys were lying low. Everything - excepting the railway yard on the rise above the cadet's compound - was still.

I looked down, through the chain link fence, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could discern the drill hall, with the caretaker's cottage off to the side. Above the buildings a dark barrier rose. The railway yard was perched on top of that, and lights, steam and sparks from active locomotives made the horizon look like some nightmare image of Hades transposed to heaven. SHH-SHH-SHH-SHH-Boom-Boom-CLANK! The sounds of shunting seemed to overwhelm the area totally.

I wondered why the fellows were still in the car parked just past the gate, then saw the lights of another vehicle approaching from the distance. I understood immediately that they would have no wish to be seen by anyone traveling past the site. I covered my face with my sleeve before the car got close enough to see me and snuggled into my lookout's position. The vehicle, a noisy pre-war sedan, sped past.

As the car's lights illuminated our car I watched to see if anyone could be seen through the windows. Nothing could be seen, and I smiled to myself as I thought of the men all ducking down inside the car to escape observation . At least they wouldn't be getting weeds up their noses as I was!

As the old car's tail lights vanished down Dimity Street I saw the near side door of the our car swing open. Bill tumbled out, carrying a bag which I guessed contained tools. He was wearing a balaclava and gloves. If I hadn't known it was Bill his appearance would have caused more alarm than when he had visited the Clydesdale shop, when he first asked me on to go on the mission. He looked like a refugee from a horror movie. 

When he reached the gate he crouched down, working with the padlock. "Are ye there, Gordon?" I heard him call quietly as he worked. "Are ye all right?" Despite the sounds almost being drowned out by the noise from the railway yard, I heard every syllable and was reassured.

"Aye, ah'm fine!" I said.

I saw the padlock drop away from the chain as he used the bolt cutter. He pushed the gate open, took a quick look back at the car, then started down the path toward the hall. The other three quickly got out of the car and followed after him without as much as a glance in my direction. They - like me - were clad in black. In moments they had disappeared into the darkness between the gate and the shadowy hall.

After that there wasn't much for me to do except to try to keep my legs from suffering cramp as I hunkered down in the weeds. In the next fifteen minutes I was occasionally, briefly able to see some dark figures moving around the door of the hall. When they seemed to disappear for good I guessed that meant they'd succeeded in gaining entry.

The shunting sounds had been intense during the whole time we'd been there and I guessed that even my starting pistol would have had little likelihood of being heard, had I decided to fire it. I'd been watching the road and the caretaker's cottage, supposing that Duncan might have been called from his watch duty to assist in getting the guns from the hall. I'd feared that a light might appear in the windows of the cottage and I might have to go down to the hall to alert the others. But as the minutes ticked by without any sign of disturbance at the cottage - and the railway noises increased in intensity - I realized that the men could probably have used dynamite to facilitate the break in without much likelihood of causing concern. How did people sleep in a place like that? I wondered if the old watchman and his wife wore ear plugs.

Since I'd started my watch there had only been a few vehicles traveling on Dimity Street, and there had been no foot traffic (I'd had fears that someone walking a dog might come by and find me). Now, however - just as I saw dark figures reappearing in the doorway of the hall - I heard the sound of a heavy diesel engine approaching and a clashing of gears. I could see it, a long way down the street, coming slowly, with only its parking lights on. 

The dark figures were approaching the gate from the path when the approaching vehicle's headlights came on, flooding the chain link fence with light. The dark shadows of my colleagues froze where they were. Then the headlights went out again, although the vehicle still approached at the same resolute pace.

I didn't know what to do. I had noticed that - when the headlights vanished - the still shadows of our men had vanished too. I guessed that they had taken the opportunity to drop to the ground or find cover.

The noise of the vehicle increased as it approached, competing with the sounds from the railway yard. As it closed on me I feared that its parking lights would be sufficient to betray me to whoever was watching from the cab. I felt as if I was a cowering rabbit, trapped in the long grass, paralyzed by the beams of light.

My worst fears were realized as the lights passed me and lit up the gate - which the men had pulled shut - and our parked car. I could now see that it was a large, white panel van without any lettering or other identifiable characteristics. My imagination told me that it was an undercover police vehicle, loaded with counter-insurgency officers, arriving just ahead of a fleet of police sedans with flashing blue lights.

As the van slowly crawled to a stop a few yards away I anticipated the worst. I turned in my weed-strewn nest, ready to make a run for it if the doors opened and the police burst forth. I cocked my starter pistol and got ready to race into the darkness, firing the gun, to create the diversion which we had discussed.

The sounds of the shunting locomotives were still imposing themselves upon everything, despite the rumble of the van's motor. Everything was still in the darkness between us and the hall - and then I heard another sound: music! 

The van's engine still rumbled, and its parking lights still illuminated the gate and our car, but the quality of the noise had changed. The other sound was - singing! Could the cops in the back of the van be singing My bonnie lies over the ocean? 

The sound of the singing became more pronounced as the curbside door slid open. No rush of battle-ready cops was evident. Bring back, oh bring back, bring back my bonnie tae me competed with the sounds of the railway yard. I allowed myself to relax a little.

Then I jumped, fully alert, as a dark figure appeared in the van's doorway. The figure stopped, however, hesitating, stumbling, bent over. The street lamp and a small light inside the van helped me to see the disheveled shape of a man, writhing - attempting to recover - then giving up and reaching his head outside the van in order to spew. 

The sounds of his distress were mercifully covered up by the singing from the back of the van and the shunting sounds from the railway yard. I'd never been so happy to see someone else's misery. I carefully uncocked the trigger of my pistol and waited for the episode to end.

It seemed ages before the drunken passenger turned back into the cab of the van and rolled the door shut. The singing had continued without let-up. When the van's gears crunched once again and it slowly pulled away - getting uncomfortably close to our car as it maneuvered away from the curb - I breathed a sigh of relief.

Bill was at my side in an instant, carrying a dark bundle covered by a blanket. "Are ye all right, Gordon?" he hissed. We were both watching the tail lights of the van slowly disappearing down Dimity Street.

"Ah thought it was the cops!" I said abruptly.

"Ye're no the only one. Have ye ever seen four men shite themselves at the same time?" He was turning to the car as he spoke.

Behind him came Campbell and Cameron, holding the handles of a heavy timber ammunition box. They didn't acknowledge my presence as they quietly carried their load toward the car. I watched as Bill deposited his load carefully on the ground and opened the boot of the Cortina. The others struggled to get the heavy box inside, then helped Bill to load his bundle on top. I saw the car's springs sink a little with the weight and wondered how well it would handle the load when all of us piled in.

Duncan was approaching from the hall, carrying a blanket-covered bundle, as the others turned to go back. "Bugger!" I heard Cameron say. "Someone was supposed to stay down there to keep an eye on things." Duncan gave his characteristic chuckle in reply, then went to the car with his load.

"Ah don't think we'll be able tae get many more rifles in the boot," I heard Bill say to Cameron.

"Then we'll put them in the back seat and the three of you can sit on them."

"Christ!" Bill exclaimed. He swung the blanket which he'd removed from the boot around his head and trotted away from the others toward the hall.

There were only a few more bundles brought from the hall after that. When everyone was at the gate and Cameron nodded to me, saying "Let's go!" I almost felt let down. I jumped up from my hiding place and started to kick the dirt around so that any footprints would be confused and obscured. My foot hit something hard. Reaching down I found it was my starter pistol - it had dropped out of my pocket again! I felt the blood rush to my face as I realized that it would have provided a substantial clue when the cops subsequently started their investigation - it had my fingerprints all over it! I quickly put it back in my pocket and said nothing to the others. They closed the compound gate. We all bundled into the car with a sense of relief.

The journey back to Glasgow was uncomfortable - with the three of us in the back seat having our feet on the stack of guns - but otherwise uneventful. It was nearing one o'clock in the morning and there was hardly any traffic on the roads. Our car's suspension was having trouble with the weight of the load, but it coped. We never saw a cop.

In Glasgow, Cameron brought the car to a stop just before crossing the Clyde. "We're taking the guns to a place out near Stirling," he said. "Gordon, you'd be best getting off here and walking home. Is that all right? Otherwise you'd be getting home at breakfast time."

I nodded and got out of the car, glad to stretch my cramped limbs. I watched as the car drove on to the Albert Bridge and disappeared. I had a long walk down Crown Street to Govanhill ahead of me, and it would give me plenty time to think about what we'd achieved and to speculate on what might happen next. But my first worry was what to say to my mother when I got home. I knew she'd be sitting up, waiting for me.
 

In which the young Celtic warrior takes his sister on a patriotic journey, unaware that the forces of oppression are close behind...

The newspapers were full of details of the raid during the next few days. There were suggestions that this might mark an escalation of the independence struggle in Scotland. Would the Scottish Republican Army become a terrorist militia to be reckoned with, now that it had formed the nucleus of an arsenal?

The newspapers let me know - for the first time - the precise number of guns we had obtained: 14 rifles and two Bren machine guns. I experienced some disappointment in the description of the ammunition we had purloined (considering the size and weight of the ammunition box we had taken): 50 rounds of ammunition and nearly 300 spent cartridge cases. There were 14 bandoliers too, however, which - I thought - might look effective strung across the shoulders of our boys as they went into action against the imperial forces - with three or four rounds of ammo each!

The newspapers said that police were following significant leads. I felt a little chill run down my spine at the thought that the police might knock our tenement door at any time. Would they ask where I was on the night of June 3? I hadn't thought to make up an alibi - and I wasn't certain that Mum would be able or willing to lie about the matter (she had been waiting up for me when I'd arrived home at 2am). Did Mum suspect that I might have been a participant in the raid? I didn't think so. She thought of me as much too good a boy to get involved with something like that. Anyway, who would have thought that a slightly built sixteen year old would have been chosen for an important Scottish Republican Army initiative? 

Lesley and I were due to cycle off on our trip around Scotland that very weekend. Preparations for the trip overshadowed everything else. I'd heard nothing from Bill Brown, Robert Curran or anyone else associated with the cause. I was relieved. My lack of attentiveness at work that week was commented on by George Henderson, who was kind enough to believe that it was caused by anticipation of the trip.

At the last minute, however, it appeared that the cycling holiday would have to be put off. My doctor had spoken to my mother about the latest result of tests concerning the size of my heart. Apparently my heart was enlarged because the aortic valve was allowing blood to leak back. Mum was very serious when she appealed to me to give up my trip. "He thinks ye should give up the idea of pedaling 500 miles. Imagine if ye were tae have a heart pain when ye were miles from anywhere - with only yer wee sister tae look after ye!" My mother's plea fell on deaf ears, however.

Even my wee sister supported me in my determination to cycle round my country. "We'll be fine, Mum, honest!"

My mother had a couple of other arguments to offer to dissuade me. "The weather hasn't been too good recently, and the forecast for the coming week isn't much better," she said. "Ye'd be better on a holiday where ye could shelter if necessary." 

"Oh, we're used to cycling in rain and wind!" I said, and Lesley supported me again by nodding in agreement with me.

Mum was insistent. "I told the doctor ye wouldn't listen! He was so concerned about ye that he offered the use of his holiday cottage on the side of the loch for a week - free of charge - if ye'd just give up this crazy idea."

That made me stop and think. Was my heart in such a serious condition that a doctor would offer his holiday home to me, a teenager he hardly knew, in order to keep me from exertion?

Lesley was as keen to cycle as I was. "We've booked all the youth hostels, Mum," she said. "We can't cancel them now!"

Dad now involved himself. "Of course ye can cancel arrangements - people do it all the time, when their plans change." He saw Lesley and I shake our heads in unison and realized that logic wasn't a weapon to be used in this circumstance. He shook his head despairingly. "Okay, don't tell yer Mum and me we didn't warn ye both!" He turned to Mum and offered more facts in consolation: "If they have trouble, they can always get on a train and come home."

And so the tour was saved. I wondered then - and have often wondered since - if the doctor's cottage might have provided a more memorable, relaxing holiday. But at the back of my mind I had another concern, more important than my health. I felt that - if the police were to start searching for me - they would be far less likely to find me cycling on the highways and byways of Scotland that if I was stuck in a loch-side cottage. 

That tour proved to be another formative event in my life. Coming so quickly on the heels of the Johnstone armory raid - and coincident with the new opinions of my doctors - the year 1953 was beginning to take on a significance which was almost scary.

Lesley and I left Glasgow on a sunny Saturday morning and pedaled to Loch Lomond without difficulty. We stayed at Rowardenan Youth Hostel (a substantial mansion with views of the loch) after stopping at the village of Luss. I knew this beautiful area was part of Clan Colquhoun country. It is steeped in history. We both reveled in the magnificence of our surroundings and in the company of other hostelers we met at Rowardenan. 

Next morning we cycled on to Glencoe. It was a gloomy morning, and the weather complimented our surroundings. The dark mountains felt oppressive, and I realized that history is not always something you want to be steeped in - nor, of course, mountain downpours! The weather had started to deteriorate badly as we approached that dark glen where the Campbells massacred the McDonalds after enjoying their hospitality. We spent a tense night there. Despite the comfort of the very pleasantly appointed hostel - and the prospect of having to travel on in increasingly nasty weather - we were pleased to put on our yellow cycle capes and follow the twisting mountain roads to find more pleasant highland areas.

We had consciously paced ourselves and taken things easy on these first two days. I had not felt any serious loss of strength or energy, nor any chest pain. But the warnings of my doctor and of our parents were still remembered by both of us. We dismounted and pushed our bikes up the steeper braes. I would sometimes count my pulse after serious exertion (quietly, without alerting Lesley), just to make sure that nothing untoward was happening in my chest. It would usually be banging away at 120 beats per minute, but it was never higher than that. I doubt that I would have known the significance of a higher rate anyway.

And so we pedaled more surely along the roads that the Romans had laid to pacify the Picts nearly 1,500 years earlier. We were grateful for the twentieth century road improvements which the Scottish inventor MacAdam had made possible, and we were confident in our abilities. But then Lesley's bicycle began to give us trouble. 

Her bike was a three-speed model, and the control of the gear would give way, causing it to drop into low gear. Despite a number of attempts to fix it during that trip we never got it right. My mount was a sturdy 10-speed with droop handle bars - I'd bought it second hand - it never gave me any trouble. But poor Lesley had to turn her pedals at an uncomfortable rate of speed to keep up with me. Perhaps her own travail helped to keep her from worrying about me. 

There was one thing certain - my own worries about being arrested by the police for my involvement in the Johnstone armory raid - a danger which Lesley new nothing about - were receding rapidly.. I hadn't seen a newspaper or listened to the radio since we'd left Glasgow, so I had no idea what might be going on with the police and their "enquiries."

Cycling along the road at the side of the Caledonian Canal, in the lands of the Grants and the Frazers, we came upon the stark ruin of Castle Urquhart on the edge of Loch Ness. We'd been watching the loch carefully in the hope that we might sight Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, but we'd had no luck. We dismounted from our bicycles at the castle with only an expectation of getting a better view of the loch, since the structure was so ruined - but we were enchanted by the building itself.

Prior to our visit there I'd felt a romantic rapture when I'd visited the ancient Pictish village sites in Orkney. This more recent ruin had a similar power to captivate me. I peered at the ancient turrets and tried to recapture some of the adventure they had seen.

The weather was improving, too. From the castle we were able to see range after range of mountains. We forgot about seeing Nessie (and I forgot the police). After that we cycled happily to the youth hostel a little way north of the castle. The spell of the highlands had entranced us.

But the routines of the trip had established themselves and we traveled toward Inverness with a bit less incredulity. We'd met many interesting people as we'd traveled - Scots and others, on bicycles, in the hostels and at the tourist sites - and now could take on new experiences and meet new people without being overwhelmed.

Inverness was a staid town anyway - with a tradition of having been the center from which the English had oppressed much of the highlands. We didn't give the town or its people a chance to challenge our prejudices. After a perfunctory look around the town we headed for Culloden Field. This was where the rebellion of 1745 was put down, when the clans were broken. The scene of my nation's humiliation - where the carnage had been so incredible - caused my soul to shrivel and my patriotism to hang heavy on my shoulders, like a physical weight, for some days. We traveled on to visit Balmoral and view the Royal Family residence. The sick feeling which had overwhelmed me at Culloden hung on me still, and could only feel bitterness, despite the beautiful setting. I must have been a worry to Lesley.

After Balmoral we were scheduled to visit relatives in Aberdeen. The roads to the coast were at first incredibly steep and twisting, but it was mainly downhill - and we looked forward to a break from the youth hostel routines and some home cooked meals.

In Aberdeen our cousins, the Duncans, made us welcome and showed us some of the Granite City. We'd been to Aberdeen before - seeing it from the docks. The Saint Ninian. Saint Magnus and Saint Rognvald, the ships we took from Lieth as we traveled to Kirkwall for our summer holidays in Orkney, had shown us the seamier side of the city. We'd watched sheep and calves being unloaded there, and had wondered what the city might look like. Having been traveling in steerage - sleeping in bunks which were ranged in threes and fours up the side of the hull - we never felt very good during that journey. Even the impromptu singing sessions that fellow passengers would often put on, or after watching the sea from the windswept bow, we would have a jaundiced view of the world until we were well away from the depressing confines of the boat. The docks appeared to be an extension of that dark world.

Now we were pleased to find that Aberdeen was a beautiful place. Even some of its tenements didn't look as bleak as those in Glasgow, being built from the natural granite which could be seen on outcroppings around the region - and being cleaned by the North Sea gales which regularly enveloped the city. 

The weather was beginning to glower at us, however, and the final week of the trip still had to be completed, so we had to say good-bye. Our route now followed the eastern coastline to Arbroath, a town with a great reputation for its fisheries. As a massive storm blew in our faces I reminded myself of the smoked haddock I would buy in Arbroath and devour in the dining hall of the youth hostel.

Lesley and I pedalled for 12 hours that day to cover 40 miles. Exhausted, we ate, then collapsed in the hostel lounge. Sightseeing would have to be delayed until we recovered and the weather improved. I looked at the map and saw that we were nearly back in the lowlands. We weren't far from Stirling, where Wallace and Bruce had fought to keep Scotland free - and where, during Victoria's reign, my Irish great grandfather had been in charge of the garrison butchery after retiring from service in the Irish Lancers. And we weren't far from Edinburgh, where most of our extended family resided. From either of these places we were only a day's cycling away from Glasgow and home. Suddenly we both felt that we couldn't get home soon enough!

The rest of the trip is a blur in my mind, perhaps because of what was to happen when we got back to the tenements in Glasgow. We pedalled through the city, happy in the thought that we had completed an arduous trip without serious mishap, looking forward to being home. At the tenement we took the panniers off our bikes and carried them upstairs, receiving an enthusiastic welcome from Boy, our border collie dog, and cheerful greetings from the rest of the family.

As I turned to go back downstairs to carry our bicycles up, Hazel said, "Gordon. I've got a message for you. A man called Frank Sherry visited a few days ago. He said I was to tell you that Bill Brown has been arrested. He said he'd be in touch again soon."

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