LCpl. Johnson, Private Wilkinson, and Private Malone, walked down the empty street. It had been raining and the ground was sodden with water. 'FUCK THE SLA' was painted on the wall in big white letters. Johnson looked at it, frowned, and shook his head.
'Bastards,' he said 'Bloody bastards the lot of them.'
'You're not wrong there.' Malone said.
'Fuck off you royalist scum.' A voice said from a nearby second floor window, followed by a pint glass.
The glass smashed on Wilkinson's shoulder and he stumbled forwards 'Son of a bitch' he said holding onto the wound.
The glass was followed by a table leg from another window, 'Fuck you lot.' The other voice said 'You oppressive bastards.' A brick came at the group from in front of them, it missed and landed a few feet ahead.
Malone and Wilkinson aimed their SLRs at the windows above in a hope to intimidate the aggressors. A red Ford Capri pulled up at the end of the road with the passenger window down. Johnson saw the familiar look of a rifle muzzle and he signalled his men to head for cover. Bang. A bullet caught Malone in the shin and he went down, half in cover behind a Ford Escort, his legs sticking out. Wilkinson pulled him fully behind the car.
'Shit, shit, shit' Malone said 'my fucking leg.'
'Don't worry mate, you'll be fine.' Wilkinson said 'I've got ya.'
Johnson raised his rifle over the top of the discarded rubbish bin and popped off a shot, it hit the passenger door of the Capri and spooked the shooter. The driver reversed and sped off around the corner.
'I think they're gone,' Johnson said 'everything alright over there?'
'Just a flesh wound.' Wilkinson said.
'A fucking flesh wound?' Malone said.
'You'll be fine mate.' Wilkinson said.