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It's May 17th, 1974 in the center of Dublin, the capital of the Republic of Ireland.

With a newspaper tucked under his arm,

20-year-old student John Molloy steps off the busy sidewalk

and hurries past a woman pushing a scroller.

It's just after five o'clock in the afternoon,

and the shops and offices of Dublin are emptying out into the streets.

A strike by a local bus driver's union adds to the sense of chaos on the crowded sidewalks.

There are no buses operating today, and many city workers are trying to find unfamiliar roots

home on foot. John weaves through the crowd until he reaches the doorway of a pub and ducks inside.

At the bar, John orders half a pint of ale shandy and settles himself on a stool and unfolds his

newspaper. He reads, for a few minutes, happy to escape the hectic streets for the quiet gloom of

the pub. But that quiet and the front wall of the pub is shattered. John is thrown to the ground

by the force of an enormous bomb blast. He blacks out for a few moments, and when he comes to,

he's helped to his feet by another customer. They're both caked and dusted,

lean on each other as they stumble over the debris of the ruined pub.

The two men pick their way through the rubble to the street. John can only stand and stare and

shock at what they find. Fires consume the shattered remains of parked cars. There's glass everywhere.

On the ground, the dead lie still, while the wounded moan in pain and grasp for limbs that

have been blown away by the explosion. In the distance John can hear emergency services racing

...