West Brom vs Wolves 1983 | Sector 5 vs Subway Army

This Black country derby was voted one of the top 5 worse derbies in the country by renown author Paul Gatis. In their last encounter, a cup match in 2023, the referee had to stop the game for 20 minutes and take the players off the pitch. Some players had to climb into the family enclosure to get their family’s to safety. And the referee considered abandoning the match, but was told not to by local police who couldn’t guarantee the safety of the public should the match be abandoned. That’s how bad the fighting was. So it’s no surprise this hatred has been festering for decades. In this article, we rewind to November 1983 and a tense encounter at the Hawthorns. Let’s get on with the stories.

Section 5 Blue Gates Incident

West Brom Section 5 member Paul told us..“Albion v Wolves is a special occasion. A real Derby. None of your North London fancy pants up here. No Friendly Merseyside holding hands Kumbaya here that’s for sure. Actually, we hate the Villa more than Wolves, but it’s Wolves top match so we like to make it SPECIAL for them. One such occasion was early eighties, 82 or 83. Anyway, we played them at the Hawthorns and all met up at the Blue Gates pub in Smethwick. Some Clubhouse boys mixed with Section 5, it was a tight mob. We waited for their mob to arrive at Rolfe Street station, but they got off at the stop before that, Smethwick West, and then walked the few miles to the Blue Gates. This caught everyone by surprise, as our spotters were still waiting at Rolfe Street. The first we knew something was wrong was when all the windows in the pub were put through. There was probably 80 of us in there at the time. Once the dust had settled we ran out to confront them, but there were hundreds of them and they forced some of our younger lads to run. One of our main boys did some Wolves on his own, and when we saw him battering them we surged towards them. Just as we were starting to back them off, the Old Bill turned up and scattered everyone, finally escorting Wolves to the ground.”

“We were not happy bunny’s that’s for sure. We talked about revenge during the match, but it was a no go with a big police presence dividing the opposing fans. After the match we decided to go to Smethwick West train station via Galton Bridge to confront them. We were maybe 100 strong by now. As we got to the bridge, Wolves were waiting for us, looked about 50 of them, so we were very confident, too confident in fact. We stormed across the bridge, straight into them, but we ran straight into a trap. Wolves were all up the embankments and attacked us from all sides, hundreds of them, and their main mobs at the time, the Subway Army and Stourbridge Wolves. We were now well and truly fecked. We tried to run but there was nowhere to go, as hordes of Wolves descended on us, fists, kicks, bottles and bricks all headed our way.”

Like Custer’s Last Stand

“It was looking pretty bleak I can tell you. It was literally, like the Alamo or Custer’s Last Stand. Funnily enough, it was our old boy Bowie who saved the day. He was one of the Clubhouse top boys and was single handedly holding off hordes of Wolves. It galvanised us into action and we began a rearguard fight. It was pitch black and pouring with rain. Someone threw a car battery at me, luckily missing by a few inches. We stood and terrible beatings were handed out on both sides. I saw one Wolves fan had been stabbed during the melee and was led away by his Wolves mates. I have no idea what happened to him, but I don’t think it was too bad, or we would have heard about it in the news the next day. There was no winners, because just as I felt we were starting to gain the upper hand, the police turned up and scattered everyone.”

“Wolves claim to have won the day. How can they claim that when they had hundreds against our 100. Plus all their top boys were there, yet they couldn’t force us to run and the beatings metered out was fairly even. It’s all just bullshit, it really is. Their Subway army was creating all the news during the early eighties, but they didn’t impress us any. They had about 300 in our brawl, and couldn’t see off 100 Albion. Nuff said me thinks. I don’t think we played them again until about 89 cause they went down to Division 4 so after this event, so that’s why we rate Villa as our main rivals, plus it’s closer to us anyway. But I do hate Wolves as well, it’s in my blood I reckon. Villa, Wolves, Blues, in that order for me. Plus, they reckon they are in the Black Country, which they most definitely are not. Mugs!”

Wolves Subway Army member Lee told us..

“I remember that day clear as the Molineux floodlights on a winter night. Early eighties – 82 or 83 – back when the Wolverhampton Wanderers were dragging themselves through hard seasons but the Subway Army were making headlines every other week. Albion away at The Hawthorns. Proper derby. None of that polite clapping nonsense you see on telly. This was Black Country blood.

Wolves Subway Army On The Attack

They say they hate Villa more. Maybe they do. But when it comes to us, they sharpen their teeth. And we do the same. Word had gone round town all week – Section 5 were drinking in the Blue Gates in Smethwick. Rolfe Street station was the obvious drop-off, so we let that rumour breathe. Let their spotters waste their afternoon craning necks down the platform. We got off at Smethwick West instead. About two hundred of us, drifting off in small packs so we didn’t look like a single wave. Lads from the Subway Army, a few from Stourbridge, younger kids desperate to prove themselves. It was quiet as we made the walk, the kind of silence that hums. You could feel it in your chest – that mix of nerves and excitement. Derby day hatred isn’t loud at first. It simmers. The Blue Gates came into view, windows steamed up, Albion flags in the glass. You could hear them singing inside. Confident. Comfortable. Then the first brick went through.”

“Glass exploded inward. Another followed. Then bottles. The noise was unreal – screaming, shouting, splintering frames. We surged forward and the doors flew open as they piled out, maybe eighty of them at first. Some of their younger lads looked stunned, blinking through dust and broken glass. They tried to form up, but we’d hit them fast. I saw one Albion lad swing wild and get dropped by a right hook. Another tried to leg it and got clipped from behind. For a few minutes it was chaos – fists and boots, bodies crashing into parked cars. Then their numbers swelled. More of them pouring out side streets. They weren’t soft, I’ll give them that. One of their so-called top boys came charging in swinging like a man possessed, catching two of ours clean. Fair play – he had heart. But heart only carries you so far when you’re staring at a wall of Wolves. We were backing them toward the high street when the sirens started. Blue lights reflecting in the broken pub windows. The Old Bill piled in, batons out, shoving us back, forming lines. We melted away in different directions, laughing, shouting back over shoulders. First round to us.”

The Galton Bridhe Incident

“Inside the ground the police presence was heavy. Lines of uniforms between the ends, horses pacing the perimeter. You could see Section 5 across the divide, still fuming. Lots of pointing, lots of mouths going. But no way through. At half-time, word filtered along our end: after the match, Galton Bridge. They’d try something. Good. We were counting on it. When the final whistle went, we didn’t head straight for the station. We moved in waves again, cutting through side streets, linking up under the shadow of the bridge. It was starting to spit with rain, the sky already darkening. We’d set it perfectly. About fifty Albion came into view first, strutting across the bridge like they owned it. Behind them more shapes in the distance – maybe a hundred total. They saw the fifty of us on the path and started jeering. One of them shouted something about Division Four, laughing like he’d already won. They charged. That was the cue.”

“From the embankments either side, from behind the bridge supports, from the darkness along the towpath – Wolves poured in. Hundreds of us. Subway Army at the front, Stourbridge lads crashing in from the side. The sound when we hit them was like scaffolding collapsing. They hadn’t expected it. You could see it in their faces – that split second when confidence turns to panic. It went savage fast. No neat lines, no heroic speeches. Just fists, kicks, bottles flying through the rain. I slipped on wet gravel and nearly went down before hauling myself upright and driving forward again. Someone swung a plank of wood past my head. Another lad went tumbling down the slope, three Wolves on top of him. They tried to break back toward the bridge but we’d boxed them in. I saw one Albion lad take a brick to the shoulder and crumple. Another of ours caught a nasty cut above his eye, blood mixing with rainwater. And yeah, one of our boys got seriously hurt in that mess. I saw him being half-carried away by his mates, pale but conscious. Rumours fly in moments like that – knives, this, that – but in the dark you don’t know what’s what. All you know is the hatred in front of you.”

Sector 5 Get Scattered

“They talk about Alamo stands. About bravery. I’ll say this – they didn’t all run. Some of them dug in, swinging back hard. One older bloke with greying hair was holding off three of ours like a cornered dog. Respect where it’s due. But the balance was ours. We had numbers. We had the trap. And we had that edge – that fury you only feel against a local rival who thinks he’s your equal. The rain hammered down, turning the ground to sludge. Boots slipped. Bodies crashed. It felt endless. Then, like always, the sirens. Police vans screeching up, officers charging in from both ends. Shouts of “Move! Move!” Batons raised. We scattered into the night, vanishing along the canal paths and through back streets we knew better than any copper ever would. Later, in the pub back in Wolverhampton, the stories grew taller. Albion would say we needed hundreds to face their hundred. They’d claim a moral victory because they “stood firm.” That’s derby pride for you.”

“But we knew what happened under Galton Bridge that night. They walked into a storm thinking it was a shower. Section 5 can talk about numbers all they like. They can rate Villa above us. Doesn’t bother me. When it comes to Wolves, they still spit the words. That tells you everything. Albion v Wolves isn’t friendly. It isn’t polite. It’s history, territory, identity. It’s two towns separated by a handful of miles and decades of bitterness. And that night in the rain, on the embankments and under the bridge, the Subway Army showed them exactly what that hatred means.”

Aftermatch

We thank Paul and Lee for their recollections. It’s clear that Wolves had a massive firm out that day back in 1983. It’s less clear who got the upper hand. You decide. Thanks for visiting. Thanks for reading West Brom vs Wolves 1983. Please comment and share, as it really helps our site to grow and give you bigger better content. Did you see our previous article? Coventry vs Leicester 1984: The M69 Derby That Exploded Into Chaos

Until the next post, bye for now.