Source A: PC David Wilson wrote an account of his experiences in the 2011 London Riots on the 12 th August.

It was published as a newspaper article.

London’s Burning
I can still remember our van entering the outskirts of London and the smell of smoke in the air. I’ll be honest,
I felt a tingle of excitement mixed with a hint of fear; I’d seen the news and I knew I was heading into more of
a war than a bit of civil disorder.
As we entered Tottenham, I saw bright, sparking- orange flames and thick black smoke curling seductively into
5 the sky. The roads glistened as if they were covered in ice, but it was countless fragments of broken bottles
that had been used like weapons. Every street was illuminated by the crackling skeleton of a burning car and
the shadows danced crazily and anarchically off the house fronts of people’s homes. Two protective metal
shutters on a shop’s windows had been somehow peeled back, making the empty interiors look like dark,
empty eye sockets.
10 There were packs of hooded and masked figures prowling around our convoy. Too close. Too confident. I
thought we’d stop to deal with what were obviously rioters; I was surprised by how relieved I felt when we
didn’t. Suddenly, I found myself flinching from the window as my vision was filled with flames and there was
a loud smashing sound. A petrol bomb had been thrown at the van and had smashed on the wire mesh which
protected the glass. Then everything just went to hell. Our van and those in front and behind us were
15 suddenly being hit from all directions by bricks, bottles, petrol bombs and pretty much anything our attackers
could find. I dropped the visor on my helmet and gripped my baton for comfort—thoughts of burning petrol
covering my face were hard to avoid, but I had to do my job. As we entered London I had been excited, but
that had suddenly been replaced by cold fear and apprehension. This was real and I was involved.
After a long twenty minutes, we pulled up behind a line of police who were blocking the street—they weren’t
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properly equipped like we were and a number of them were injured, but still on duty. Why hadn’t they been
sent to hospital? What was I getting into? Were we so outnumbered that injured officers were still on duty?
I glanced at my mate, Chris—his eyes looked wild…probably much like mine. Would I be able to do my job
when they attacked or would I be too frightened to function?
“Out! Out! Form up on me!” The Sergeant flung open the back door of the van and we encouraged our bulky,
25 armoured forms out of the van and into the night. My already edgy senses were overwhelmed. My eyes
stung as the air, heavy with smoke and residue of tear gas, crept behind my visor…but the noise, it was
disturbing and intimidating! There was a howling, screaming din that seemed to crackle all around me and it
took a while before I managed to separate the sounds into things I could recognise: sirens, alarms, rioters
shouting, police shouting, buildings burning and crackling, but most overwhelmingly, glass smashing.
30 The police officers who were there when we arrived left and we took their place in the road. We were thirty
riot police in two lines of fifteen blocking the road. We were thirty riot police staring through clear visors and
then through clear shields, listening to glass shattering and smashing. I looked into the dark street ahead and
waited, my thoughts returning to the petrol bomb hitting the van’s meshed window.
At first, a few lone hooded lurkers appeared from around the corner--they shouted abuse (just like in
35 training), then the mob appeared. To me, they didn’t look like people or even individuals—they seemed like a
single chaotic mass. They…it, moved forward shouting and chanting. Then the missiles came.
A mixture of glinting, burning and looming, murderous objects were launched at us! I lifted my shield, just
like in training.
Glossary:
Overwhelming: overpower/too much Residue: the remains of something
 Source B
Henry, the narrator, was a 12 year old boy who lived in London in the 1800s. As a child, he kept a diary of his
activities. This is an entry relating his experiences one day in the winter.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
London at War
Wednesday, 24th January. What a wonderful day; I was victorious! London’s dirty streets have been pure
white for three days now after a blessed downfall of snow. As a result of the inconvenience to travel, the
schools throughout London have been closed. Oh, the joy! Having been granted unforeseen free time and
freedom, my friends and I have declared war upon our rivals and enemies at Tanner Street School. Our
5 weapons are snowballs and our aim is…was to steal the name plaque off the school’s front door.
My friends and I agreed upon a plan: they were to make a frontal assault and I was to launch a sneak attack!
Cautiously, I made my way through a backstreet to the east of the school. My heart hammered with fear as,
at any moment, I expected a pair of Tanner’s toughest boys to appear around the corner. I knew only too well
what a well- formed snowball felt like when squarely landed in the face. These chaps didn’t play by the rules
10 and I knew they weren’t above burying a few pebbles in their weapons for added sting. My good friend
5
William, had been the victim of such a weapon only yesterday and I remember the sick feeling I experienced
when his very life-blood spread out in a glistening scarlet pool in front of him. If such a thing were to happen
to me I felt sure I would vomit.
After surviving nerve-rending horrors of crossing two backstreet junctions without anywhere to hide, I was
15 within sight of my goal: Tanner Street School. I felt victory within my grasp and then a white, icy, pebble-
5
loaded snowball cannoned past my head—I had been discovered! I could have experienced that cruel sting
on my poor ear—I know I would have wept in front of the enemy. Oh, the shame if I had! Then I heard their
shouts before I saw their cruel, snarling faces. I ran for all I was worth.
As terrified as I was, I did not give up on my goal and I headed for the school. Another spiteful snowball was
20 launched, striking me in the centre of the back. The air gushed out of my lungs and I staggered forward,
5
gasping in pain. A black bruise would mark my courage for all to see; I smiled despite the pain. Then I
considered the horror of capture. A scrubbing: face down in a sharp icy pile of snow! I knew that would
unbearable agony—I ran with renewed vigour!
Briefly, my terror gave my legs speed, allowed me to lose my pursuers and actually take the plaque from its
25 hanger. I was behind the backs of the Tanner Street army as they fought a chaotic and snowy battle with my
5
comrades, who could no doubt see me. My prize in hand, I ran through the battle itself and… suddenly I was
falling forwards as a snowball that felt like a stone slammed into the back of my head, filling my vision with
stars. Oh, dear God, I was going to die! But no! I must brave the pain and do my duty.
Manfully, I charged through the deadly storm with little care my personal safety. I suffered many stinging
30 wounds and even a bloody scratch on my cheek, but I won the day and delivered the plaque to our leader. I
was victorious!
Glossary:
nerve-rending: ripping your nerves/very worrying
Manfully: in a manly/brave way Vigour: energy, effort