Chapter 2
Shades drawn. Lights off.
"Corporal?"
The projector clattered to life. On the screen, a training film wobbled. Counted down. Green and white numbers and symbols.
Marching band music flares from the rinky-dink speaker.
Title comes up: The U.S. Army Wants YOU To Know YOUR Duty in Northern Ireland.
Martial music fades.
Onscreen, a bare office. Foreground: a metal desk. Posted on the wall is a map of Ireland. Like a cop with a question, the camera approaches the map, coming in tight on the country's name: EIRE.
The map of Ireland divides into two unequal parts. Eire is the name on the largest part, the part the Brits gave up, against every imperial instinct. The rest, smallest by far, is labeled Northern Ireland. Six counties shaded pink in the upper right of the island. The northeast. The only part the Brits still hold. With an iron lion's claw.
Onscreen, an officer comes into the frame. Earnest, white, muscular face. Trustworthy. The kind of face Hollywood loves. He perches on the desk's front edge. That's got to hurt over time someone in the room predicts.
"Why are we in Northern Ireland?" he says onscreen.
The scriptwriter knew what he was doing. Take your time with new information. Go in dribs and drabs. Get 20 million civilians to shoot in the right direction? That was harder than it looked. Take nothing for granted. Dribs and drabs.
The deep voice again flared: "Because that's where you are needed most right now. To help fight Nazi aggression in Europe. And for those of you with Irish roots, expect a warm welcome home."
Followed by almost a chuckle.