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saw.
        It wasn't a question of just going up and lifting it. It had to be done carefully, because there was always a possibility that it might be a come-on or it could be a booby trap.
        One had been put up on the Newry road leading out of Crossmagien by the church, right on the edge of town, at the start of the cuds. It was a typical rural scene of undulating fields and hedgerows. The road was lined by telephone poles, from one of which hung a tricolor.
        There were four patrols out from my platoon. On the net the commander said, "When we get the changeover, one patrol will take down the tricolor and we'll carry on patrolling."
        My patrol was getting ready to go out. The weather was cold and damp.
        All the concrete was wet, and there were unwanted puddles everywhere. We were wearing nylon flak jackets on which each bloke had written his blood group. I had a civilian duvet jacket underneath my combat jacket.
        There was a quick five-minute briefing in one of the garden sheds by the multiple commander.
        "You take the center of the town; you take the left; you take the right.
        The other patrol will stay out and take down the tricolor.
        Once that's done, they'll come back in and we'll carry on our patrol."
        It was no big deal; it was just another tricolor to be taken down.
        We got by the main gate, and four at a time the patrols would come forward into the loading bay and load their weapons. The guard commander would then get on the radio to Baruki and tell them that the patrols were ready. Their job was to cover us as we were coming out.
        Patrol by patrol we bomb-burst out. It would be just another routine patrol, three hours in the town, back for four, then go out again for another three hours.
        We were going to be the center patrol, around the town square, the nearest patrol to the one that was going to take down the tricolor.
        Nicky Smith, being search-trained, was told that he was going to go and take it down. The plan was that once we had come out on the ground, we would provide an outer cordon for his patrol, just be milling around the area.
        They called for one of the cans that were on the opposite side of town.
        The plan was for Nicky to climb up on the mesh, have a quick look at the flag, and, if it was all right, bring it down. It was no problem. He'd done it scores of times before, and it was in broad daylight.
        The traffic was stopped either side in VCPS; we were manning the VCP that was stopping people coming out of the town along the Newry road. We checked driving licenses and number plates and asked them where they were going and where they had just been. I was stuck in a doorway, covering the two blokes who were running the VCP. I was "ballooning"-hunching down, then standing up, making sure I didn't present a static target.
        After a minute or two I would walk into another doorway or get between two cars. It was important to keep moving.
        I wasn't paying much attention to Nicky Smith and the search team.
        All I was concerned about was that the sooner it was finished, the sooner the can would be free, and then maybe we could get a quick cup of tea out of the Norwegian.
        The can drove up to the base of the telephone pole.
        The gunner was manning the Browning to give cover because the location was exposed, right at the edge of town; it could be a come-on.
        The driver had the armor plate that protected his face down so that he could see what was going on.
        Nicky climbed on top, had a good look, and gave a tug. There was a fearsome explosion.
        As an eighteen-year-old squaddy I'd never heard the quick, sharp, piercing bang of high explosives. There was a moment of disbelief. I thought, Nab, can't be. I didn't know what to do and was looking around for some direction. Reggie had been checking a car; he had the boot open and was