The Plaster Saints by David Roy
They belonged to the Queen and took their orders from Mrs. Thatcher.
It was their war. They were the modern ‘Tommy Atkins’.
Belfast, late 1980s.
It was a war of routines, of infrequent action and relentless patrolling. The battlefield was the streets of Belfast and the enemy lived in their midst, disguised as ordinary folk. Gone were the riots and the gun battles and in their place the soldiers pounded the roads, the alleys and the avenues to demonstrate that the rule of law held firm.
They worked in sections of eight... For this was a corporal's war.
The troops patrolled and their enemies planned. And every now and again a plan became an attack...
They belonged to the Queen and took their orders from Mrs. Thatcher.
It was their war. They were the modern ‘Tommy Atkins’.
Belfast, late 1980s.
It was a war of routines, of infrequent action and relentless patrolling. The battlefield was the streets of Belfast and the enemy lived in their midst, disguised as ordinary folk. Gone were the riots and the gun battles and in their place the soldiers pounded the roads, the alleys and the avenues to demonstrate that the rule of law held firm.
They worked in sections of eight... For this was a corporal's war.
The troops patrolled and their enemies planned. And every now and again a plan became an attack...
They belonged to the Queen and took their orders from Mrs. Thatcher.
It was their war. They were the modern ‘Tommy Atkins’.
Belfast, late 1980s.
It was a war of routines, of infrequent action and relentless patrolling. The battlefield was the streets of Belfast and the enemy lived in their midst, disguised as ordinary folk. Gone were the riots and the gun battles and in their place the soldiers pounded the roads, the alleys and the avenues to demonstrate that the rule of law held firm.
They worked in sections of eight... For this was a corporal's war.
The troops patrolled and their enemies planned. And every now and again a plan became an attack...
