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say, it took a long time for him to live that one down.
    So far this tour we've done more damage to ourselves than the I.R.A. has. The strain of constant tension, restricted movement and exhaustion is beginning to show. Tempers become shorter, sporadic fights break out. Roll on R. and R.
    The hours crawl past, dragging up to midnight when I will finally get to sleep. Crashed out on my bunk, not even bothering to take my boots off. Heavy eyelids droop over bloodshot eyes. Have another cigarette. Get up and walk around a bit. Pick up radio and take a trip up to the O.P.s again.
    It's a dark night in Belfast. The quiet streets are framed by the slits of the O.P. Surrealistic shadows stretching down pavements, marching past battered doorways, peeking into private misery. What's going on behind the curtained windows? Screwing in number 56? Making bombs in number 57? Planning a raid on a post office in number 58?
    On a couple of streets children still play, in the dirt of the gutter. Pushed out by parents screwing in the only bedroom. The lonely cry of a baby. The raised voices of a couple arguing. The drunken singing of a depressed community.
    Fuck them all, I'm going to bed!

 
     
     

    0700 hrs. June 1973 .
    In the talk
    Between
    Us
    There is no
    Communication.
     
    THEY'VE BEEN BULLSHITTI NG us again with crap about how we're winning the war. The new C.O. is running around like a chicken with his head cut off, and I'm standing here on the street doing the interminable census.
    "Get to know your local community." Bullshit.
    Hearts and minds, comes the never-ending cry from the politicians. Get a fucking rifle in your hand and get out here, comes the never-ending reply from the toms on the streets. The Battalion before us did the same thing, as the one before them, as the one before them, etc., etc. Where does all this information go to? Or is it just stored to keep a tally on how great a work rate each Battalion achieves?
    "Make friends with your local U.V.F. gunman. " Well why not, at least then we'll know what the hell he's up to.
    The Shankill. Big, sprawling, vicious. A high percentage of unemployment and crime. The whole area being under the un official protection of the U.D. A. and run by gangsters. A community just as suppressed by fear as the Catholics in the Ardoyne. The methods used to control them just the same as the I.R.A. use. Kneecappings, beatings and in some instances, torture and death.
    Census patrols. The chance for tea and biscuits if you get to the right part of the area; and for some the chance of a quick screw with some randy Irish housewife kinky for a bit of Para dick complete with flak jacket and boots on. Me? I never touch ' em mate!
    Random musings on a street corner whilst waiting for Paul to finish chatting to the reticent woman in number 13. We take it in turns to chat at the doorstep, otherwise the constant repetition of questions can drive you just a little crazy.
    "Excuse me, madam, would you mind answering a few questions. We are taking a census and want to check the names of everyone in the house."
    "Youse always round, youse fucking Army bastards." Just another way of saying "Well, we have been done before you know." It doesn't matter what you think about it, lady, you're going to answer the questions anyway.
    In one house, a timid woman with a couple of snotty-nosed brats cries silently into a handkerchief. Her husband is serving time in Long Kesh for arms offences. You would feel pity if there wasn't a doubt about her tears and innocence. Under the cushions on the settee, filthy nappies linger still with the shit in them and the whole house reeks of stale piss. She's talking about nothing in particular, just on and on in an endless stream of self-pity. We sit and listen politely, waiting for a suitable opportunity to escape. Hearts and minds. Be nice, encourage the talk, something might slip out. The tea served out of dirty, cracked mugs tastes like dishwater and there have been instances