One for the Road Read online

  One for the Road

  Will Roberts

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  One for the Road

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Copyright Information ©

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Mayfair, LondonDecember 1949

  Suburbs of Cardiff, WalesDecember 1949

  Seoul, South KoreaNovember 1999

  Pusan, KoreaNovember 1950

  Seoul, South KoreaFebruary 1951

  Seoul, South KoreaMarch 1951

  The Battle for the Imjin River22nd April 1951

  The Battle for the Imjin RiverDay 2, 23rd April 1951

  29th Infantry Brigade HeadquartersSosa, 9th May 1951

  Changwon, York and CardiffFebruary 2000

  Changwon, South KoreaMarch 2000

  LondonDecember 1949

  Changwon, South KoreaMarch 2000

  York, EnglandFebruary 2000

  London and CardiffFebruary 2000

  Seoul and Changwon, South KoreaApril 2000

  London, EnglandJune 2000

  Prisoners of War

  Technical NotesSteelmaking

  The Military Cross

  The Korea Medal

  The United Nations Korea Medal

  Notes

  About the Author

  Will Roberts was born and raised in Newport, South Wales, and worked for twenty-two years at a small steel mill, making stainless steel and special steels. Upon the closure of this steel mill, Will was forced to look abroad for alternative employment and has spent the last twenty-five years travelling the world as a Steelmaking Consultant.

  Having always had a passion for reading, and particularly historical novels, in 2014 he decided to write a novel himself. At the time he was working in Greece, on the beautiful Pelion peninsular, the home of the mythical centaurs, so it was no surprise his first novel was about centaurs and ancient Greece: The Last Centaur was first published in 2016.

  Will Roberts is a proud and patriotic Welshman; consequently, his second publication was Massacre at Abergavenny Castle, from The Man of Gwent series. This comprises a selection of short stories depicting old, often forgotten, stories and events that took place in Wales and, in particular, the county of Gwent.

  Will also has a passion for sport, rugby particularly, and has, where possible, tried to include both rugby and steelmaking in his works.

  About the Book

  In 1949, Joe ‘Woodbine’ Watts mysteriously disappeared. Joe had been involved in a jewellery robbery in London and was being pursued by two groups of people – but why? He was only the getaway driver!

  Adam Evans, Joe’s nephew, was working in South Korea almost fifty years later and, by chance, discovered the fate of his uncle Joe.

  Dedication

  For my children, Aimee, Adam and Lauren; and my grandchildren, Alix, Cameron and Ffion.

  Copyright Information ©

  Will Roberts (2019)

  The right of Will Roberts to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781528966870 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

  25 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5LQ

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to James Stevens, whose help and advice has been invaluable.

  To my editor at Austin Macauley, Vinh Tran, and all those at Austin Macauley who have been involved in making this publication possible.

  Introduction

  I got the idea for this novel in 2016 when I had the pleasure of working with a team of engineers, mostly from Austria, on a project for a new steel mill near Busan, in South Korea.

  We would, on occasion, visit a local bar where we would drink the local beer, and invariably we would have ‘One for the Road’ (although more often than not it was more than one), a term that my Austrian friends were not previously familiar with.

  At the time I was reading a book about the Korean War: To the Last Round, by Andrew Salmon, so the two things seemed to come together in my mind.

  What struck me when I started to read To the Last Round was how little I actually knew about the Korean War. I knew that the Americans and the British, and of course, the Chinese had participated, but very little else.

  The heroic stand of The Gloucestershire Regiment on hill 235 should be recognised as one of the most outstanding rear-guard actions in British military history. The fact that they held the hill for three days, with little food or water and very little ammunition, is remarkable, to say the least.

  I had, in fact, worked for a short time with a veteran of The Korean War but not once had he spoken about his experience; I wondered just how harrowing it must have been.

  I must quote the Commanding officer of The 29th Brigade, Brigadier Tom Brodie; when asked about The Gloucestershire Regiment’s predicament on the hill on the second day, his reply perfectly encapsulates the British officer class and its penchant for understatement: “A bit sticky,” he said. In fact, what was left of the regiment had been completely cut off and was outnumbered by the Chinese, by around twenty to one.

  The Gloucester Regiment is actually the only British Army regiment permitted to wear two cap badges on their berets, one at the front and one on the rear. It is allowed to do this due to another, much earlier, heroic stand. This particular act of defiance occurred during the Napoleonic Wars, in Egypt, when on March 21st, 1801, during the Battle of Alexandria, the 28th North Gloucestershire Regiment, were defending a strategic position. French cavalry had broken through the British lines at their rear surrounding the 28th. While still heavily engaged to their front, the order was given ‘Rear Rank, 28th! Right about Face’, and standing thus in two ranks, back to back, the regiment successfully defended its position. For this action, the 28th was accorded the unique privilege of wearing the regimental badge both on the front and the back of its head-dress.

  For those who are not familiar with the phrase, ‘One for the Road’, it quite simply means a last drink before departing on a journey, be it a short walk or anything longer.

  The origin of the phrase, some suggest, was that prisoners who had been condemned to hang on London’s Tyburn Tree would have a last drink at one of the pubs on their way to their public execution. This idea, however, has no proven historical record and the phrase was not in common use until the middle of the twentieth century, being used as an informal request for a final drink, in British public houses, before the walk home.

  I hope you enjoy reading the book as much as I enjoyed researching and writing it.

  Mayfair, London

  December 1949

  It was hot inside the Jaguar and Joe had wound down the window – he must keep his wits about him, he thought. He looked at his watch for the tenth time in the last minute. “C’mon Jackie, where the fuck are you?” he mumbled to himself.

  He took another Woodbine from the packet he always kept either in his suit pocket or within arm’s reach and struck a Vesta to light the cigarette that always seemed to be hangin
g from his mouth, which was how he had got his nickname – Joe ‘Woodbine’ Watts. Immediately there was a strong smell of sulphur from the match. He exhaled the smoke through the open driver’s door window. Joe looked at his watch again. 01:18. “Come on Jackie. What the fuck’s taking you so long?” he mumbled to himself again.

  Jackie Gee was the best cat burglar in London.

  He had just climbed the drainpipe of an exclusive Mayfair flat and entered a rear bedroom window, to steal the jewels of one of London’s most well-known socialites.

  A week earlier, Lady Sonia Wingale and her husband, Sir Anthony Wingale, had been entertained at one of London’s more prestigious clubs – The Gargoyle, and Jackie Gee had been present.

  Where the lady in question had been rather loud, even effusive, Jackie Gee was the complete opposite. He had simply sat at the corner of the bar, sipping his double scotch on the rocks and observing the upper-class ladies dripping with gold and jewels. Nobody would remember Jacky Gee, but when the lady and gentleman left the premises, Jackie Gee was immediately on their tail.

  The wealthy couple were totally unaware of the nondescript old black Wolseley that had followed their taxi to their flat in Mount Street, just off Park Lane, and where Woodbine was now waiting for him.

  Joe and Jackie had been at school together; they were inseparable there but had lost contact with each other when they left school. Joe got work as an errand boy at one of the national newspapers, a job that he hated. Now they had met again, by chance, and picked up where they’d left off at school. Jackie needed a reliable driver and Joe had a car, though not the Jaguar Mark V he was driving now. That came later.

  After the first couple of jobs, Joe was able to quit his mundane job at the newspaper and bought the Jaguar, which was his pride and joy. He was able to work, between jobs with Jackie, as a personal chauffeur to some of London’s gangland bosses, as well as some of boxing’s big names, due to the contacts he had made when he was one of the most promising amateur boxers in England.

  This was probably the sixth or seventh job Joe had done for Jackie and Jackie paid well, five hundred quid in the hand and Woodbine was getting a reputation as one of the best ‘drivers’ in the London underworld.

  “C’mon, Jackie, c’mon,” Joe said, more loudly this time.

  Joe looked nervously in his rear-view mirror as a police car, with siren blaring, screamed south along Park Lane heading towards the River Thames.

  He looked at his watch again anxiously. 01:31. Joe was still hot, despite the window remaining down. “Another five minutes, Jackie, and then I’m outta ’ere. Five more minutes,” Joe muttered to himself.

  Suddenly the passenger door flew open and Jackie slumped into the passenger seat, throwing his canvas bag onto the floor in the footwell.

  “Hit it, Joe,” he whispered. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  Joe had left the ignition on the whole time he was waiting; now he quickly found first gear and eased his foot off the clutch. The big engine of the Jaguar purred softly as it pulled away from the kerb and headed east along Mount Street. Not too fast! He didn’t want to attract any attention and the Jaguar; mark V certainly did not look out of place in the streets of Mayfair.

  Joe subconsciously pushed his foot down on the accelerator as the sound of another police siren was heard, getting increasingly louder as it neared its intended destination, which was, he thought, Mount Street.

  Joe took a left into Davies Street and then a right into Grosvenor Street, where the traffic was heavy considering the time of day. Another police car passed them with headlights flashing and siren blaring, but heading in the opposite direction, as Joe headed towards Soho.

  “Take it easy, Joe. We’re clear now,” Jackie said.

  “Now let’s take a look at what we’ve got here, shall we, me old cocker?”

  He took the canvas bag from the footwell, opened it, slipped his hand in and withdrew a handful of jewellery including a diamond ring, a necklace with a huge ruby, a bracelet with numerous different jewels and a pearl necklace. A second handful and he pulled out a similar fortune in bracelets and necklaces.

  “Looks like a good night’s work there, Jackie,” Joe remarked as he glanced down at the shiny baubles Jackie was now shoving back in the canvas bag.

  “Aye, Woodbine, it’ll do for me. Around a hundred grand’s worth, I reckon. The only problem is, she fucking saw me,” Jackie answered.

  “What do you mean, Jackie? She fucking saw you!” Joe asked somewhat surprised, to say the least.

  “The lady was in the bathroom as I was stuffing my bag with her baubles from her fancy jewellery box. She caught me clean as a fucking whistle. Looked me straight in the eye, she did. ‘Take it all,’ she said, ‘just don’t hurt me,’ she said – as if I would,” Jackie said.

  Jackie and Joe were very much alike physically and facially. Both were around five feet ten inches, but Joe was much broader than Jackie, who was ‘wiry’.

  Joe had a well-toned body; he’d been a successful amateur boxer in his youth and could still be seen quite often in ‘Denny Young’s’ gym near the Elephant and Castle, where he would work out on the heavy bag and speedball.

  There was a difference in weight of around two stones, but facially they could easily be mistaken for brothers, and they often were. Both Joe and Jackie had thick dark hair, brushed back and slick with Brylcream.

  Jackie was married during the war and had a young daughter, but his whole family, including his parents, had been wiped out during the ‘Blitz’. Jackie was also at home during this particular air strike but, miraculously, had been pulled from the debris of his home the following day with barely a scratch.

  Joe, on the other hand, was not married and was seen very much as a lady’s man. His parents lived in south London; his father worked for one of the big tabloid newspapers on Fleet Street, and it was he who’d got Joe the job as an errand boy.

  Joe had a sister married to a Welsh soldier and they had moved to Wales at the end of the war. Joe had not seen his sister for several years, though he knew she had two beautiful daughters.

  Joe drove the car towards Soho, which was crawling with punters.

  “You want I drop you at your gaff, Jackie,” Joe asked.

  “Aye, Joe, but keep your eyes peeled, me old cocker, after all, that bird did eyeball me,” Jackie replied.

  “Right you are, Jackie,” Joe said.

  After several more minutes, Joe approached the street where Jackie lived and drove slowly along the narrow thoroughfare.

  There were cars parked on either side of the road. As they came closer to Jackie’s house,

  “Black Humber on the right, Jackie. Old bill, clear as day,” Joe whispered to Jackie.

  “Aye, Joe you could be right. Better scarper, pronto, me old cocker!” Jackie answered as he subconsciously slumped further down into the thick leather seats of the big car.

  Joe slowly eased his foot on the accelerator. Not too fast, he thought. Don’t want the copper to know he’d been eyeballed.

  As they drew alongside the Humber, Joe could see the man in the passenger seat who appeared to be speaking into a radio.

  “Looks like we’ve been rumbled, Jackie,” Joe whispered.

  “Take it easy, Joe! Maybe not,” Jackie answered.

  As they got to the end of the street, they thought they were in the clear. Joe took a right onto the main road. Jackie turned and looked through the rear window.

  “We’re okay, Joe. There’s nobody following,” Jackie confirmed.

  “Right, Jackie, I’m heading for the lock-up. Let’s get rid of the motor!” Joe stated.

  “Do it, Joe!” Jackie confirmed.

  Joe had a lock-up garage near the river, where he kept the Jag.

  They drove the short distance to the lock-up without incident, and Joe was glad to get the Jag locked up.

  “I don’t know about you, Jackie, but I could do with a drink!” Joe stated as he finished locking the door of the
lock-up.

  “Aye, Joe, I could that,” Jackie replied as he slung his bag over his shoulder.

  “Where will you kip, Jackie?” Joe asked, knowing he could not return to his house.

  “Been seeing a lady, down by Bethnal Green, Joe,” Jackie said. “I’ll kip there till things quieten down.”

  “Not Ellie Collins? Why, you dark horse, Jackie! You kept that quiet!” Joe said, somewhat surprised.

  “Well Joe, there’s not many in the East End who can compare to you when it comes to the ladies, and you know me, I like to keep my hands close to my chest,” Jackie replied with a big smile on his face.

  They arrived at The Buccaneer, a pub owned by one of the gangland bosses, Mitch Valentine. Though it was well past closing time, The Buccaneer had an off-hours drinking club in the basement.

  Joe and Jackie walked down the steps to the basement door. Joe tapped three times, and Joe and Jackie could hear the door being unlocked on the other side. The door opened slightly. As soon as the doorman saw Joe, the door opened further.

  “Hey Joe, hey Jackie,” the doorman, a huge man with short cropped hair and the physique of someone who spent the daylight hours in a gym, greeted them.

  “Hey, Tom,” they both replied.

  “What you two up to? Creeping around the back streets of London in the early hours of the morning?” Tom asked.

  “Not much, Tom, just fancied a nightcap, that’s all!” Jackie said.