Patrick O'Connell's funeral became a spark that ignited the Northern Irish.
There was no priest, no prayers, only a silent crowd and the magma in their chests about to erupt.
In the photograph, a slightly shy-smiling youth was printed on coarse cardboard, held high like a battle flag.
As the funeral ended, the crowd did not disperse; instead, like iron filings drawn to a magnet, they became a heavy and angry torrent, rushing towards the British Army's temporary checkpoint that took Patrick's life.
"Murderer!"
"Get out of Ireland!"
"Avenge Patrick!"
Rocks rained down on the checkpoint's riot shields and armored vehicles like a storm.
The first Molotov cocktail streaked across the gloomy sky, whistling as it accurately hit the side of a "Saxon" armored personnel carrier.
"Boom!" Flames soared, thick smoke billowed, and the metal screeched under the high temperatures.
The soldiers hurriedly retreated, someone got splattered by the incendiary agent, screaming in pain.
