The two RUC men murdered this week by the IRA were shot dead outside a doctors' surgery. "I felt I had to put my thoughts on to paper . . . these feelings were written at the first opportunity," Dr Fred MacSorley (pictured here) said in a note accompanying this article he sent to The Irish Times.

              The surgery is strangely quiet now as I sit at my desk at the end of a long day.I am tired. I close my eyes and at once I see the bodies of two young policemen lying crumpled on the pavement outside my surgery door.
              Their blood flows as one thick stream. I have my oxygen cylinder, intravenous lines, fluids and defibrillator - they lie unopened in the boot of my car. They are not needed.
              I feel so helpless, despite myself and my three colleagues being at these men's sides within a minute of hearing shots. I am acutely aware that they are no longer of this world.
              I must do something to somehow ease this situation and, illogical as it seems, I feel the need to protect these poor men from further insult and injury.
              I hear myself shout for blankets and, seconds later, a local shopkeeper emerges from the fast-growing crowd, his arms full and outstretched.
              As my colleagues and I cover the bodies at our feet, I am curiously relieved to see that the blankets are clean and new - it would seem almost wrong to use anything else. I feel at least these men have been afforded some small degree of privacy and respect having suffered such a brutal and very public killing.
              I can hear sobbing now, a woman beside me crying, "they must be alive, they were talking to each other in the sunshine only seconds ago."
              I take her arm and try to explain that they died instantly and without suffering and there was nothing she could do - but it makes little impact, her distress is too intense.
              I feel helpless again. I hear sirens now and things are happening fast. Police rush in from all directions.
              I notice one young female officer. She clearly recognises not only a dead colleague but a close friend. I can feel her pain as she struggles to continue to do her professional duties.
              Four paramedics run up to us and I see the inevitable despair evolving on their faces as I explain the reality of the situation - we are all suffering now.
              I turn away, look back at my surgery, and see my professional colleagues standing as bewildered as I.
              Our reception staff, though deeply upset, are trying to cope with a distressed local family and answer the phone at the same time. I feel very proud of them. A patient stands crying at our front door. My nurse tries unsuccessfully to hold back her own tears.
              It has been a long day and I am tired. I will go to bed early but  I know that what I will see and feel when I finally close my eyes will be insignificant compared to what these families and all such families over the years will suffer tonight and for many years to come.