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Fair enough, thinks I, and have a look at this guy. He's only one of the most influential blokes in
the area, isn't he. Well,
this will certainly keep the pot boiling for a little longer. There is certainly enough yelling and screaming going on out here, with cries of: "Why don't you do this in the Ardoyne instead of picking on poor innocent people?"

"We like to share it around. Don't want you all to feel you're missing something," replies a tom.

Images of a political rally. Switch off the sounds and watch the mouths work, the fists shake, the eyes piercing like the sniper's bullet, knowing that all these people would, at this moment, gladly see you die. Not in the unreality of a news bulletin, but in the flesh, now.

Sullen-faced youths on the periphery watching, gauging the feelings, counting down the time to positive action. The old game of "He knows that I know that he knows that I know." Chess with the lives of young teenage soldiers, fodder to sop the appetite of a thousand frustrated souls.

It's taken two hours to lift all the males from the club up to Castlereagh and we are just tidying up, searching the premises and generally making a nuisance of ourselves. Well, one thing is for sure, it's going to take them a long time to get this back together. Their bar stock liberally spread all over the floor, wiped off the shelves by a "careless" baton or rifle. Doors hanging off their hinges, tables and chairs broken, mirrors smashed, and the toms enjoying every moment of it.

Outside, the crowd gradually drifting away, muttering like a giant animal. The R.U.C. constables, who arrived late, are away in the background, not wanting any part of the proceedings. Most of them are Prots. anyway, so don't want the local community to have any reason to be upset with them. None of the lads in our Company will have much to do with them, knowing the extent of their pay and overtime, plus the suspicion of graft from the Prot. areas to turn a blind eye on certain occasions and to keep them informed as to what the Army are going to hit next. There is also the feeling that we are here running their war, getting killed to protect them from it. Going into areas that they just do not pene
trate. Memories of taking an R.U.
C. constable
into the Ardoyne for the first
time in four years. Memories of the look on his face, the smell of fear, the suspicion of damp at the crutch. All this and an eight-man patrol just to guard him. It's your war– get on with it.

The search finished, the team get into their Pig and drive slowly away up the road towards the Crumlin. The rest of us start to pack up, taking care because it is at this stage that you become most vulnerable to attack. Everything going smoothly. just a minor disturbance with some kids flinging bottles, quickly taken care of, and a semblance of peace returns to the area, floating on an undercurrent of increasing tension and hate.

Back in Leopold Street and everyone is taking the piss out of Hookey trying to break the door down. For us, it has worked off some of the feeling of impotence, drained, to some extent, the level of anger and violence that had been building up over the previous few months. There's nothing like a good fight to ease the savage in us all. But the light-headed euphoria of the moment is short-lived and the exhaustion of the past months catches up, creeping up the back of your neck to sock you between the eyes. It's flake-out in the Ops. Room chair again until the O.C. tips me out telling me that there's work to be done and no room for skivers. Get back on the street because there may be trouble after the raid.

Cheers, thanks very much.

Back out into the night, the armoured car moving slowly with the section on foot. Between the rows of vehicles lining the street, lit occasionally by the pale yellow glow of a street light, the rumbling sound echoing off the graffiti-covered walls.

FUCK THE POPE, screams one. U.D.A. RULE SHANKILL, another informs us, PAR
A
S OUT, says one more, mirroring one in the Ardoyne.

Shadows hurry into alleys to vanish amid the wreckage of derelict houses, pounding hearts, hoping they have escaped notice.

Midnight on the Shankill, with occasional cars taking avoiding action at the sight of a patrol; those not quick enough are collared for a car search, to bear the brunt of accusing stares, sarcastic comments, in silence.

We caught them this time, before they managed to have any defence ready, so the area is quiet with no reaction. Midnight on the Shankill, with the darkness lending a false sense of security to the patrol moving from street corner to street corner, tired eyes searching the blackness, tired minds beginning to switch off after twenty-four hours straight without sleep. If the opposition knew just how switched off we were at this moment, they would be round in an instant throwing everything they have. However, we have something far more valuable than a flak jacket or rifle. Our reputation. The myth that surrounds the "Paras", the image of supermen in smocks and denims. A load of rubbish, of course, we are just as vulnerable as everyone else, it's just that we don't seem to have the hang-ups about using force of the most vicious kind whenever possible. You can't train people to the ultimate in death-dealing and expect them to sit and do nothing. Memories of Bloody Sunday and the cheers that followed and the myths and awe that grew up around some of the toms who claimed to have shot four or five apiece, and the eager ears listening to tales of the gunmen falling, of piling bodies into the back of Pigs, some still warm, but not for much longer. Remembering the anger and horror as we pulled bodies out of the remains of the Parachute Brigade Officers Mess after the bomb went off. A leg here, a hand there, part of a head, blood-covered clothes up in the trees.

Midnight on the Shankill, mind on the fact that I've missed a telephone call home, and perhaps I'll do it when I get back. Get my wife out of bed
just to have someone to talk to. To feel again before suppressing all emotion once again.

Mother, if you could only see me now!

Mind snapped back to the present with the distant thump and vibration of another car bomb in the city centre. They really have had a pasting so far th
is year. The centre of the city
being slowly reduced to rubble by the people who have to live in the place. Go ahead, destroy it all, then there won't be anything left for us to have to patrol around, to watch, to live in fear of. Go ahead, and if you need any help give us a shout, we'll help you bury the place.

Midnight on the Shankill, with toms kneeling and lying in corners, crouched into doorways, S.L.R.s pulled into the shoulder, barrels pointing in the direction of sight, minds going through the number of possible sniper positions; the number of possible positions for a booby trap. If you really did as the book says and think of every permutation you'd soon go stark, staring mad with the fear of the number of possibilities there are. Be selective and stay sane. Trust in the second sense you have acquired since you've been here. Trust in your built-in survival kit, the gut feeling. Trust your men and hope that they trust you. Trust in whatever else is there, and hope that the remainder of the tour goes past quickly. But above all trust in yourself and your ability to do the job! If you don't, put on a front and make sure it's convincing.

Midnight on the Shankill and you are the only people in the world, and to everyone else you cease to exist, become part of the obscene graffiti, a mobile sculpture in the museum of what is Belfast.

For days now, my platoon has been hounding the locals without mercy, making sure that in every second of every day they are well aware of our presence.

We circle the clubs constantly, frisking the sentries until they eventually grow tired and retire inside. Stand for long moments staring up at the
U.D.A
. H.Q., which we are not allowed to touch but would dearly love to. At night, we're getting really good at digging out all the flotsam and jetsam and assembling them on the street in long rows with hands against the wall, legs spread, waiting for long minutes whilst I carry out lengthy P. Checks and detailed questions, just waiting for someone to say something out of place to provide the excuse for a bit of physical intimidation.

"You Prots. have had it far
too easy. We're going to change
that.
"

"Youse making a mistake, sir."

"Really. What mistake is that?"

"The boys is not going to take it lying down."

"Is that a threat?"

"No sir, just a friendly warning."

"Just try it, sunshine. Just fucking try it."

The friendly communication of two total strangers. Tonight we really are having fun, with about fifty guys lining the walls of the Shankill Road, their kidneys taking a Pounding from batons whenever the mistake of making a protest is made. I'm walking slowly along the line asking questions, any that don't reply are taken quickly round the corner and the muffled thud and grunts can be heard clearly by the others still with their fingers on the wall. The message soon gets through and all sorts of useless information comes spilling out of their mouths. Mostly of no value but now and again a confirmation of a face or a name. At this stage though, we really are not interested in any Intelligence sources, we want some action. We want to know where all the heavies are, where the arms caches are, not the fact that Sean O'Faherty has been robbing post offices for the past month.

"I don't know of any arms in the Shankill, sir, honest."

"How come we've turned up the biggest haul in any area for years right in this street then?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know anything about that sir."

"Sure you don't."

It goes on for an age and the more people that come down the street, the more we have adorning the walls. After an hour and a half of questioning, the ranks are thinning, and most People walking the streets have been warned off by those we have released and are taking detours down back alleys and side streets. However, we have another patrol circling the area who are busy picking up those that escape our net.

The women are being subjected to abuse, and the men to a little physical contact. It's beginn
ing to get a little out of hand
so I call it off and move the patrol off to let feelings cool a little. We want them to have a go at us, not have loads of court cases for grievous bodily harm charges, and have to go through the routine of not guilty, my lord, and hope that we get the right judge.

The rest of the area is quiet as we move slowly back to Leopold Street, the odd person stopped and searched, the odd youth given a going over. At night, we come into our own, having brought patrolling to a fine art. We feel safe, unchallengeable, masters of the shadows. Quiet, creeping around the maze of dwellings and somewhere out there a pair of eyes behind a gunsight waiting for the right opportunity to fire one round. See one soldier die and then escape. But not tonight, Paddy. Not tomorrow, Paddy. Because we've trained carefully Paddy. . .

. . . It's turning into a typical Brecon night exercise. The wind has got up and the rain has
given way to snow. Driving snow, that blasts into your
face, numbing nose and ears, stinging cheekbones. The last volley dies away and there is just the sound of the wind howling over the exposed night firing range.

"Wa
tch and shoot. Watch and shoot.
" I
feel
for the trip-wire cables and hope I've got the right one. There's a loud bang off to my right as the section commander fires a Very pistol. The cartridge hisses up into the night sky, illuminating the range for a brief moment. Three targets appear over on the extreme right flank and the gun crew engage. In a matter of seconds the light fizzles out and the darkness descends once again. Behind me, the O.C. gives me a nudge and I pull one of the cables. There is a popping noise in front and then a brilliant white light from the trip flare. All the targets are illuminated, glowing eerily in the snow-filled dark of the Welsh night. The noise from the entire section firing is ear-splitting and continues until the light finally dies. Total darkness descends once more.

"Section commanders check weapons all cleared." There is a pause whilst we listen to the sound of rifles being cocked and checked. The occasional curse from one of the N. C
. O.s at some idiot who got the
drill wrong. Once cleared they file off the range and back to the comparative comfort of the hut.

On exercises like these I always feel a spare part. The Recruit Wing staff take over completely and run the range, usually with a superior attitude that belies their ineptitude. At times like these I would cheerfully stick one on these guys and take the consequences. They just make me want to throw up. Thinking all this whilst the
O.C
. belittles the N.C.O.s and the platoon. He's standing there in the dark in the snow rabbiting on like an author of modern military tactics and leadership.

"Have you quite finished?
" I ask. I'm angry. Really angry. And I don't need a lecture on how to handle my platoon from this juvenile.

"I have to make a report for the depot," he says, smugly.

"Piss on your report," says I and walk off. I really can't take any more crap. As far as I'm concerned, the lads worked very well under the most difficult circumstances. John, my platoon sgt. falls into step beside me.

"Don't worry about it, boss. I've heard it all before. Most of the time it's just a load of bullshit. There's hot tea inside.