The hate their fathers bear 15,000 expected

FROM A SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT
THEY chanted their way down Shankill Road, their chubby faces glistening with excitement. "Restore law and order," they shouted in shrill,
unbroken voices. "Bring back
the B-Specials."
It was a mild and sunny afternoon when 300 Protestant schoolboys took to the streets to back their parents' protest against continuing violence in Northern Ireland.
They paraded behind the red and white Hag of Ulster and sang Protestant songs as they marched.
"Jail the rebels," they chanted.
Fond smiles warmed the faces of passers-by as the schoolboys walked in Indian file through the Protestant streets on their way to the city hall. "Good lads," shouted a shopkeeper from his doorway, his blue-grey apron billowing in the breeze. "We're all together in this."
The boys, in their black school blazers, dark trousers and scarves flying behind them, rounded Smithfield Corner, on the fringe of the Catholic Falls Road area.
INDIGNATION At the corner stood ten-yearold Tommy O'Hare. Reside him was his brother Tim, three years younger.
All the freckles under Tommy's mop of tousled red hair seemed to jump with indignation.
"I'd like to bash the lot of you," he shouted.
"Fenian ... Fenian ... Fenian rebel," chanted the Protestant boys.
Momentarily at a loss for words, Tommy stuck out his tongue. "You and your old Queen," he said, retreating up the Falls.
"After him," shouted one of the marchers. "No," cried a second. "That's where the I.R.A. live."
Tim held his ground for a moment. "I'd like to bash you, too," he said, before scurrying after Tommy.
As Tommy and his brother ran out of sight, an elderly man in a frayed topcoat looked after them, and then looked at the marchers disappearing into into Royal Avenue.
"There," he said, to no one in particular, "there is the real tragedy of Ulster—young fellows growing in our image." He bunched his shoulders and wandered away, muttering to himself.