Needs more...

I finished another pass on the actual Battle for Bogside, that happened from 12-15 August, 1969 in Derry. I keep feeling like I need to add more, but what I've written is being resistant.  Here's a snippet of what I have:

I looked down at Waterloo...what I could see past the side tower block. I heard distant shouting echo up through the courtyard. Cries of anger. Cries of pain. Cries of laughter. From up here, it was like a living photo of some lost city in some lost civilization, found once again and illustrated with drifts of smoke that whispered by. Some came off the burning vehicles; some from the now ruined buildings; some from petrol bombs being thrown and gas being shot at us, still; some from God only knows where.

I was the only one on the walkways. I caught bits of movement atop the tower to my left. Caught hands whipping stones and petrol bombs over the side and down at the RUC, even though they were hardly about. It was too unreal for me. The space we'd been fighting so hard to preserve for ourselves suddenly looked tiny and meaningless, almost empty. I had not a clue as to how we could keep it.

Yes, we'd heard snippets of how tight the RUC was stretched by fighting in other towns. Word was people had been burned out of house and home in Belfast, by Protestant mobs in a sort of pogrom. That was how one broadcaster put it, but I'd need to look it up; I had no real understanding of the word...

No...no, Aidan had told me it was what was done to Jews in Russia, forcing them to leave their homes for new places. Yes, I remembered, now. And here, it was clear to me that one good push by fresh constables and we would be done the same, lose that little toehold we'd kept in our own city.

I wandered along the walkway. The elevators weren't working, of course. Part of the fight against us to lower our will. Electricity was occasional, at best. But it was only seven flights down...or eight. I couldn't remember, just then. I was too tired. Too unfocused to even think about it.

When I reached the group I was part of, I heard the stories of counterattack had changed. Westminster was sending troops. Sending the bloody army! Soon verified by radio reports. None of us liked the sound of that. Not a one. We didn’t trust they were coming to keep the peace. Too many of us knew how the British had been when dealing with the Irish, far too often in the last four-hundred years. But did we have strength enough left to fight them? No one wished to say the obvious aloud.

Then suddenly I noticed...there was nothing but silence.

Complete stillness.

Too much so.

I started to cough, nervous for the first time.

The smoke cleared, in full, and I could see all the way to Waterloo Place. From down here the street looked like a country gravel road, there were so many rocks and stones across it. But the barricades were holding. Stores that had been ablaze were now carcasses, still smoking. The air stank from the gas and lorries and busses destroyed by flames, some with still-burning tires. Why hadn't I understood much of the smoke I'd seen from above was due to them?

Or had I? My mind was fuzzy, at best.

I couldn’t speak, my throat was so caught by the foul air. I found even the thought of food made my stomach quiver in refusal. My fingers were torn and bloody, and I realized I’d not changed clothes since the beginning, so my trousers were rags and my shirt and parka were ruined. I was bloody exhausted, having caught only bits of sleep and a bite of cheese and bread here and there, between battles. And a sup of milk? Perhaps. I thought for a moment maybe, just maybe, I should go home and wash and get in clean clothes.

But I dared not leave. It was like the calm before a storm, this sudden terrifying silence. Not a word from the constables. No curses from the Prods. Not even calls from lads on our side. Not a whisper.

We were down on the number of bottles and petrol to be used. There were still rocks a-plenty and our own homemade cudgels and bats. We had a fine number of slingshots made from wood scrap. But the truth was, we were close to the end, and a fair portion of the silence was from our side of people not sure what would come next.

That was determined late in the day. First, were the rumbles of lorries approaching. Then came marching feet.

We held ready. Waiting. Fearing this might be the end.

Finally...we saw the Army striding in, proud and sure...and in formation.

Then they stopped and calmly pulled out wire barricades between us and the constables. And stayed there.

Stayed there!

Facing the RUC!

Keeping us apart! They were bloody keeping us apart!

I couldn’t believe it. Some around me began to howl for joy. Some wept from relief. I couldn’t move. I just stood where I was and stared at them for I don’t know how long, letting it settle slowly into my brain that I could finally take a good long wash, have a decent sleep...and finally get around to working on Mrs. O'Connor's wall clock. I'd promised it to her for yesterday.

I wandered through all of those thoughts until I let myself understand and accept...that by all the saints are holy, we had won. The army really had made itself a barrier between us and them. They were holding our right to Derry as fact. They would keep the Proddies from our homes and families, and hold back the worst of their threats. They had come to protect us! 

We. Had. Beaten. The. Fucking. Loyalists.

We had fucking won!