Listen to the sound of marching feet

Listen to the sound of marching feet

Dom had been outside the Dew Drop Inn for an hour already, but the pub was closed and going to remain that way. There were thousands of them there now, where New Cross Road meets Lewisham High Street and the nerves that he’d experienced earlier were giving way to a celebratory confidence. When they had just been a few dozen - outnumbered by the cops and, potentially, by the Nazis who were planning to gather there, he’d had a real feeling of putting his personal safety on the line. But the crowd had swelled and by the time the news filtered through that the fascists had had to start their march from some side street, they were in a joyous mood, sure that victory would be swift and simple.

That wasn’t how it turned out. Victory came late in the afternoon, to chants of “We beat the fascists” but it was many hours of bricks and blood that beat down the National Front. An afternoon of chaotic images in Dom’s mind. His first riot, his initiation into that world of battle-adrenaline, where thoughts come with lightning clarity, but can barely be recalled after the event. Instead the mind has no time to create a narrative, but has only flashes of imagery - seen as though a strobe light, flashes through the darkness, bringing into temporary focus the odd picture here and there: the West Indian woman who put her stereo on the window sill and blasted out “Get Up Stand Up” and the crowd leapt forwards into the police lines. Seeing those lines leading away up the hill, hundreds, hundreds, then thousands of coppers.

He remembered an old guy, probably early sixties, going off into the most vitriolic diatribe at the cops for protecting the Nazis. ‘I fought in the fucking war for this country, not to hand it over to the same fascist fuckwits. I’d rather be standing side by side with a German soldier who was just a normal bloke like me than share the street with a bunch of Nazi arseholes like them. And you filthy fuckers standing here protecting them, beating brave young people who are doing what’s right, doing exactly what me and my mates did and died for nearly forty years back. You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves, you’re a fucking disgrace protecting those fascist cunts. Half of you are probably in the fucking National Front anyway. I wish I had a fucking gun now I tell you. I’d show you what we do with fucking fascists and fucking fascist sympathisers.’

Dom’s first sight of the Nazis attempting to march up Lewisham High Street, a few distant Union Jacks in a crowd of bodies and blue, then closer he came and saw them trying to look brave with their flags and prejudice, protected by phalanxes of police - and how a rain of bricks and concrete fell upon them, scattering them across the road as they ran blindly bleeding into the cops there to protect them. Dom had charged heedless into the Nazis and grabbed a flagpole off one of the bastards and just snapped it in two. Drunk on the buzz he held the two sticks aloft in the air and the crowd cheered loud and wild. The fascists didn’t even dare to look at him let alone defend themselves, they just tried to scatter like so much windblown rubbish on the streets.

The protestors had taken the road then and burnt the captured flags with the names of the local branches of the fascists scrawled upon them. The road itself was covered with debris, so much so that you had to be careful where you walked for fear of twisting an ankle. Then he’d been in a group that had broken through the police cordon and split off part of the Nazi march from not only the others, but also from the police. He could barely get near them as they were beaten before police had charged back into the crowd.

The cops had charged into them with horses but they’d been beaten back. The find of a builder’s yard filled with piles of recovered bricks had been a gift put to good use. Later he’d mixed with a bunch of rastas and a group of Millwall fans who’d shown up and fought off their frustration at a 6-1 home defeat by forming this unlikely alliance and taking it out on the cops.

He’d been teargassed - although the police would deny they had used it. It was nothing special. Some people suffered but he found the adrenalin washed it away. And late in the afternoon, he’d seen the police get out their fancy new riot shields. The year before, cops had been taken by surprise by the Notting Hill Carnival riot, and had had to run, holding dustbin lids to protect them from the flying masonry. Even this day they’d been fending of the flying masonry with them; probably half of Lewisham would be phoning up the filth and complaining about stolen bin lids for the week to come.

And then the cops had charged up their streets with their mounted unit and riot cops in sparkly new plastic, and they’d knocked over the old girl who’d been stood on the pavement and then Dom had understood why the march had been allowed to go ahead, even though everyone knew it would be a massive battle. There was nothing here about the democratic rights to demonstrate - this was an exercise and experiment in crowd control, and even the dozens of police injuries could be justified for the amount of intelligence that had been gathered.

For everyone was clear that there were many battles ahead. It would be a time of combat. The powers that be saw their country on the verge of revolution, as did many of the political left. The unannounced revolution would be fought on the streets - had already begun indeed, and the coming decade would see who had the will to victory, who was prepared to pay - and charge - the higher price.

So for those powers that be, the rationale was: if a few plod got hurt, well that was all the better for motivating the rank and file properly. And if a few of the footsoldiers of the far right got hurt - well, honestly, nobody had any interest in those Neaderthal throwbacks. As for those demonstrators, coming from all the dregs of society - well, they would have to be taught a lesson.

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