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of the action. Coy H.Q. are demanding a detailed report before we even know the full account, and the O.C. is round with the C.S.M. poking around and generally getting in the way. We've already checked the O.P. supports for any sign of damage and found none, so there's no need for a lengthy post-mortem. Tully gets torn off a strip or two for not getting the number of the car, but if he had got it he would not be around to tell us what happened anyway. You can't have it all ways.
    Life returns to the level of normality we have grown accustomed to with Paul explaining to Harvey, the six-foot white rabbit, that there was nothing to be afraid of and the O.C. looks a little worried. Tully's stutter has got a little worse, and so he's in for a whole pile more leg-pulling.
    It's patrol time again. From t his location we are required to carry out clearance patrols of the immediate area and up to the other O.P. at Fort Cross.
    Jimmy takes over the desk and we are out into the fresher air. Across the Crumlin and through into the Shankill. The comforting weight of the S.L.R. and the steady rhythm of swinging legs. The freedom of feeling the wind against your face after hours of being cooped up in the tense sewer of the O.P. We make our way along the now familiar streets, on up towards the other Fort. On our way, checking a derelict here, a person there; note the cars in the area for any changes; note the comings and goings from the houses of personalities that we are keeping a watch on. All of this is done in the casual way of experience. The street becomes a living animal. We know where to hide. We can feel the varying tensions, the vibrations given off by guilt complexes, the cunning, the hate and the pity. It's a tangible thing. Some days your skin crawls and the whole patrol seems very vulnerable; on other days, like today, we stroll around casually, even exchange pleasantries with the locals.
    Most of the houses on the peace line are all gutted. Only the old and the foolish live here. The sectarian violence of the late sixties has left a permanent physical scar across the city, with miles of corrugated tin separating communities who speak the same language, do the same jobs and live in the same square mile of city. We've given up moralising now and just get on with the job.
    "Hello 33 Bravo, this is 33 Lima, open back door, over." "33 Bravo, wilco, out."
    We approach the Fort via the back entrance, up through an alleyway between the derelicts. Constant and random patrols are vital to ensure that the area is kept clear at all times. The back door is open when we arrive, with one of the toms standing away to one side with S.M.G. at the ready. As soon as he sees who it is he relaxes and we step into the tiny back yard. I check the position of the intruder alarm and we walk through to the house. Hookey's full of good cheer, enjoying the status of 0. P. commander, and the easy chat flows around the foetid air of Fort Cross. It is the favourite of the two, primarily because of the tea an d cakes that are brought in by two old ladies every night at around eleven. However, with all the friendliness there is still the underlying feeling of distrust and everyone is always on their guard in case some information is let out. This can work to our advantage and if there is anything we think the opposition should know, we let it slip in the conversation.
    A short break and we're out through the front entrance for a tour around the graveyard of the Holy Cross church. During an exchange of gunfire one day in the handover week, the priest was seen to be putting pieces of material on the iron railings of the church grounds. We later figured the meaning of the different colours and found a simple code was being used to keep the Ardoyne population informed as to the position of troops on the ground. During that week, two Light Infantry soldiers had been killed and one seriously wounded, all within twenty metres of the church.
    We stalk through the