The air was cold and carried the damp, mineral smell of the River Foyle. Over 10,000 people had gathered, a river of bodies and banners flowing toward the Free Derry Corner. The march was against internment—imprisonment without trial. There was chanting, the shuffling of feet on wet ground, a collective breath visible in the grey light.
Then came the armored personnel carriers, the sudden deployment of the 1st Battalion, Parachute Regiment. Soldiers in berets moved with a tense, practiced urgency. The crowd’s mood shifted; the chant became a murmur, then shouts. The first cracks were sharp, unmistakable. They were not warning shots fired into the air. They were aimed, rapid, controlled bursts. The sound echoed off the low-rise flats of the Rossville Flats complex.
People dropped. Some fell where they stood. Others ran, stumbling, dragging the wounded. The pavement became a mosaic of abandoned shoes, blood, and prone figures. A priest waved a white handkerchief, moving through the gunfire to reach a dying boy. The smell of cordite, acrid and metallic, began to cut through the damp air. A man named Jackie Duddy, 17, was shot while running beside a priest; his last moments were captured in a photograph, a blur of motion and terror. For twenty-five minutes, the shooting continued in pockets. Then, a strange, ringing silence settled, broken only by screams and sobs. The soldiers stood at their positions. Thirteen lay dead or dying on the ground. The city held its breath, and then began to wail.