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"Thanks.
" There's not much else I can say.

Inside the hut, the recruits are very subdued and it's not all exhaustion.

"Well done lads. I thought you managed pretty well under the circumstances. However this is what it's all about. The enemy won't pick nice sunny days to attack on. They'll come in the pitch black and in the worst weather, so you'd better
get used to it here and now.
" No chorus of groans. just a shuffling silence as they move around trying to keep warm. "When you pass out of the Depot most of you will be going straight to Northern Ireland. The weather makes no difference a
s to whether you patrol or not.
" Again silence. "If you don't learn here, you'll die." No reaction. Ah well, perhaps I'll do better in the morning . . .

Next morning and I'm sitting in the cookhouse, shovelling greasy bacon and eggs into my mouth, washing it down with a pint of hot, sweet strong tea, discussing platoon admin. with my Sergeant. Deciding ho
w to fit in a kit inspection in
between patrols so as not to disturb the sleep of the guys that have only just come in. It's just not possible in the cramped derelict conditions, with eight men to a room designed for two to sleep in —if you turn over, another guy falls out of bed. Still it has to be done to ensure that the rifles are in top condition at all times, after all we don't want a stoppage just at the wrong time, do we chaps?

"Lt. Clarke,
O.
C. wants you sir.
"

"
O.
K., be right there."

The O.C. is in the briefing room and has even got Clive down from the
O.P.s
to this O. Group. Interesting. Well, not really, he only wants to inform us that the Company will be moving into Flax Street Mill for the last few weeks of the tour. Leopold Street location is going to be pulled down, as being unsafe to live in. Well, well, the powers that be have finally decided that the soldiers should have at least equal comfort to the prisoners in Long Kesh. Even that is not right, because to do that the Mill would need to be rebuilt entirely. So, startling news over, we drift back to our greasy eggs and bacon and continue the discussion.

There is a buzz going round the Ops. Room and another call for me. It seems that some youths are getting a bit uptight on the Shankill Road and have commandeered a few buses and are setting up their own road block and generally getting out of hand. So it's out with the Pigs and Saracens to get the whole platoon loaded after a briefing, and off to the war. Baton guns are to the fore, wooden batons tucked into smocks and belts, snatch team ready. As we drive down, the jeers and yelled abuse from the locals get louder and as we swing onto the Shankill the crowd have congregated at the junction of roads on the worst area of the Shankill. It figures.

"
O.
K. driver, head straight into the crowd, don't stop until I say so. Hello 33B and 33C, this is 33 Lima, I'm going down the centre, I want you two on either side. We'll go straight into them and when you see me turn, do the same and out with the snatch squads. Over.
"

"33B Roger out."

"33C Roger out."

"Listen lads, when we get out, I want an isolated area in the middle of the crowd and we will work outwards from there. Stay in pairs and for Christ's sake, look out for your mucker, let's have nobody getting separated from the rest."

Shouted orders in the confusion of noise and smell of the Pig, tense muscles, a stomach doing strange things, breathing shallow and fast, must take a deep breath.

Bottles smash on the roof of the Pig, scattering glass all over the road. A roaring bang from the turret as one of the toms with a baton gun looses off into the crowd, the stench of cordite filling the inside of the Pig. As soon as the Pigs arrive people dive into doorways and run up side streets. Only the hardened remain behind and there must be a good five hundred of them collecting in the road.

The Pig drives straight into the middle, an opening forms as if by magic, those not quick enough are bowled over and thrown onto the pavements. The crowd scatters out to the side of the road.

Fragmented even more by the other two Pigs.

"Now!"

The driver throws the Pig sideways, nearly tipping over, and within moments toms are spilling out into the street, batons flailing and whooping with aggression. The noise is deafening, screams from the women, threatening yells from the men. Identify the ringleaders is the first task. Isolate the troublemakers and scatter the rest, then deal with the smaller groups. The initial charge has worked and we have a good position having opened the road and pressed the people back against the walls, but they are growing braver again as more
p
eople flood in from neighbouring streets, alleyways and spill out of the clubs, bringing crates of empty bottles to hurl.

"Fucking Army bastards."

"Pa
ra
s out, Paras out."

The same chants over and over again, a scream goes up as a snatch squad leaps into the crowd and drags a man out by his hair, batons beating at his kne
es and kidneys. They're doing a
good job diving into the seething mass and pulling out the ringleaders, slowly forcing back the turmoil, preventing any upsurge, killing it before it has a chance.

"They've killed him, they've killed him!" comes a shout from the other side of the street and I turn around to see Hookey throwing some guy into the back of a Saracen, bloody head and no hair. Hookey standing with something in his hand. Women screaming even louder now, convinced that the man has been scalped. He is dragged back out of the Saracen, and shown to the people. He hasn't been scalped at all but when he was grabbed by the hair it came off in Hookey's hand, it being a toupee. A loud laugh ripples through the crowd and eases the tense situation somewhat.

Another ten minutes and the situation in the centre of the street has melted down to manageable proportions. I look up the Shankill and see at the top what must be a whole Coy of the Gloster Regt., sitting at the Agnes Street junction. What the fuck are they doing there, I ask myself.

"O.K. you three, come with me, and you. Hookey, I'm just going to take a stroll up the street to clear it. You handle things from this end. Right lads, I want you spread right across the road, we are going to clear this fucking thing and get all these bastards out of it. Jones, you have the baton gun, if any cunt gets in the way, blast him. Let's go."

I don't quite know what I'm doing. Walking straight up the middle of the Shankill Road in broad daylight. It's a good three hundred yards up to where the Glosters are hiding behind their Pigs; there are a good seven or eight hundred people gathered around, maybe more, all looking for the opportunity to get a gunman in and zap us, and I'm taking four men slowly up the street with no cover in broad daylight. Jesus.

As we move along, we toss the bottles and crates to the side of the road, move the beer barrels over and yell at the people to get back in their houses, clubs, pubs or wherever they came from. Sometimes if you bluff your way, it works. This time it did, but no way am I ever going
to do that again! We arrive up
at the Glosters, and stand sneering at them. Crap-hats!

They are all dressed up in the gear. Macralon shields, tin hats with visors pulled down, barbed wire spread over the road, crouching down waiting to endure the hail of rocks and bottles, so that people watching the news at home can say "Look what our lads are having to put up with." If you want to deal with a situation like this, get in amongst them, mates. Beat a few heads together.

"Who is in charge of this fiasco?" I ask the nearest tom, who looks up at me as if in total agreement.

"Over there." Pointing to a weedy-looking chinless wonder hiding behind a Macralon-covered Landrover.

"How about getting this lot out of here?" says 1, trying to be as tough as possible, with the "I don't give a fuck if you are the C
.O
. " attitude. The guy doesn't say very much, just starts moving his men out. Right, now to get on with the business in hand.

Down at the centre of the riot, Hookey has everything more or less under control. The repeated charges by the snatch squads have split the crowd up, nobody wanting to get their head busted, cowed somewhat by the violence of the troops. Just what was intended. Short and sharp. Get in amongst them and sort it out quickly, remove the initiative from them and take over control. The immediate problem is solved and traffic is able to move again; however, the word must have gone out because everyone is skirting the area. Mobile crowds of youths have now started to roam around the back streets appearing as if by magic to hurl missiles at static patrols. It seems that they have been imported from outside the area especially for the occasion.

"Hello 33B, this is 33 Lima, send my Pig up, over."

"33B Roger, on its way. How's it going up there, boss? over.
"

"33 Lima no problem. I'm just going to take a scoot around the side streets and dig out the troublemakers, over."

"33B Roger. I'll stay here and send the other Pig to give you some assistance, over."

"33 Lima Roger out."

Good old Hookey, just the sort of Sergeant every young officer should have. Coy H.Q. have been on the radio fairly constantly since the little fracas started and so in between sorting things out on the ground, I also have to give a running commentary. Any moment now I expect to see the little figure of the C.O. rushing around and hope that he keeps his big nose out of it.

I've had time to think about myself whilst waiting, for the Pig to arrive and notice that my legs feel weak and wobbly and I seem to be out of breath all the while. The toms I have around me are looking a little pasty-faced waiting for something to happen. Itchy feet on a street corner, wanting the security of a crowd or armoured vehicle. Trigger fingers moving restlessly up and down the guard, eyes checking the safety catch, ears open for the crack of a round or rattle of a Thompson.

"Hello 33 Lima, this is 3 from 9, keep the Shankill open for the traffic, use two subunits to this end, over."

"33 Lima Roger out."

Well, that just leaves one section and one Pig to patrol the area and break up the roaming bands of rioting youths. Great.

"Hello 33 Lima, this is 33B, I got that and will keep 33C with me, out."

Here comes the Pig, clamber in and make sure the baton guns are in the best positions and move out. There's a crowd of youths just ahead as we swing round the corner, they turn and run when they see us.

"Get this fucking Pig moving." I yell into the driver's ear. "I'm trying, I'm. trying!" he yells back.

We've got to get close enough to be able to grab a few. Close enough so that the baton rounds will have maximum effect. That means less than ten metres away, closer if possible. The youths disappear round a corner and we pursue them, the Pig lurching round groaning under the weight of men and armour plate. As we straighten up we see that there must be about a hundred and fifty grouping in the road. In the Pig, there are eight of us crammed in.

"Straight into them, driver. Get those baton guns ready. I want a salvo as we go through on both sides."

The Pig ploughs into the living heap and the deafening crash of baton guns fill the air for all the world like the short burst of a machine-gun. Screech to a halt, pile out and leap into the fray, batons swinging. As I move forward I raise my rifle and cock it. The Irish that did not run at the initial charge grab their injured and bolt into houses, alleys, anything to get away from the possibility of getting shot.

"Back into the Pig, lads."

Down the next street following the retreating mob and whenever we get close enough, out and charge again. So this is what all the fitness training is about.

Baton rounds are getting a bit short but we seem to have taken the steam out of the riot, if we can just keep them moving and not let them have a chance to regroup then we've got it licked.

We are getting high on the violence now, the exhilaration of the chase, the feeling of uplift every time an Irishman goes down. We don't bother to take any prisoners, just zap them with the dick gun and trample over the prostrate forms. Let their own pick them up.

It's great for the first time in months, the shackles of restraint have fallen away and we're doing just what we want. It seems that the locals were not expecting the power of our reaction to the riot and are having to rethink their strategy.

"Hello 33 Lima, this is 3, return to this location, over."

"33 Lima Roger out."

We've been on the street three hours now. Three hours of minor battles, moving around following the mob, breaking it up to watch it form again, all the time protecting the remainder of the platoon who are keeping the Shankill open for traffic.

" Hello 33B, this is 33 Lima, acknowledge last from 3 and 33C to take over mobile cover, over.
"

"33B, Roger out."

Well, back to the Coy locati
on. Leave Hookey to it and find
out what is going on.

Turning into Leopold Street, I see a great deal of activity surrounding the other vehicles. Peter, 8 Platoon commander, is busy mustering his platoon, presumably to help us tie up the area. I'm wrong, he's going out to take over, with a D Coy mobile patrol to cover the area surrounding the place we have set up as a firm base on the Shankill. At least, that will allow us a little time to recoup some energy, get some food inside us and restock with baton rounds before going out again. Some of my platoon have been on the streets for eight hours straight with only a few hours off in the early morning before starting this and so far it looks as if it is going on for a long time. So no sleep for another night lads.