Robert stopped the car in the road. Driving ahead of the march toward Derry City, he’d arrived at a small bridge over the River Faughan—Burntollet Bridge. A crowd blocked the other end of the bridge, police vans parked straight across, a line of police and civilians carrying long sticks. Above the bridge and lining a ridge, at least one hundred men stood behind a stunted hedgerow and watched him before taking action. The road leading onto the bridge was so narrow, it took many turns of the wheel and four frantic changes of gear to turn the Imp around. As he worked the wheel and gearbox, rocks pelted the top of the Imp, crashed and bounced around the little car.
The civil rights marchers from Belfast were nearing the bridge, he could hear them singing, but they were still out of sight. Bac
