My Boy Jack Page #6

Right, Casey, Joyce, McHugh,

right flank.

Bowe, Flynn, with me.

Come on, boys.

Jack.

Go on.

Please.

He was in such pain, sir.

What did you do?

You didn't help him?

No, sir.

By all accounts he was very brave.

So few of us have the opportunity

to play our part properly.

But he did.

He achieved what he set out to achieve.

He must have been in such awful pain.

If you talk to wounded soldiers,

they'll tell you

the pain only sets in later.

So he was lucky.

It was done with quickly.

Don't tell me he was lucky.

He wasn't lucky or brave or happy.

Jack was 18 years and one day old.

He died in the rain,

he couldn't see a thing, he was alone.

You can't persuade me

there's any glory in that.

I believe there is.

I can't listen to this.

No.

- Let go of me.

Look, do you want me

to get down on my knees...

...and admit that I murdered my son?

I will if it satisfies you.

Please let go of me.

- Do you...

Do you think a single day passes

when I don't consider that possibility?

I think about it all the time.

All the time.

And what truly terrifies me

is that if I am to blame,

what have I sent him on to,

if anything at all?

How could I condemn my son to oblivion?

How could I do that to Jack?

But I miss him.

So do I.

I can feel his head on my chest.

I can feel his thick hair

under my fingers.

I can hear him laugh.

I can feel his heat against me.

We'll manage.

Oh, yes, we'll manage.

I don't doubt that.

I'll go find Bird.

Will you be all right?

Yes, thank you.

Bed.

He would have found a way...

...even if you'd tried to stop him.

He was where he wanted to be.

I know that.

I let him down.

Do you want a story?

Yes, please.

Well...

This, O best beloved,

is another story

of the high and far off times...

I didn't time you, I'm afraid.

- Of course not.

It was awful slow anyway.

I was stuck behind a herd of cattle

for half an hour.

Bugger all you can do about that.

Who would have a son?

Breaks your heart.

I was so sorry to hear your news, sir.

Thank you.

The fact that he was the youngest

made it worse.

How old was he?

- Thirteen.

He was lying on the floor

of his bedroom.

Do you mind me telling you this?

- Not at all.

Lying... Lying on his back.

He had just had a fit.

Dead.

But he was still warm.

And...

...that was a great relief.

I'd have hated to have...

I'd have hated to have found him cold.

Does that seem odd?

- No.

Have you news of my boy Jack?

Not this tide...

...when do you think that he'll come back?

Not with this wind blowing,

and this tide

Has anyone else had word of him?

Not this tide

For what is sunk will hardly swim

Not with this wind blowing,

and this tide

Oh, dear...

...what comfort can I find?

None this tide, nor any tide

Except he did not shame his kind

Not even with that wind blowing,

and that tide

Then hold your head up all the more

This tide, and every tide

Because he was the son you bore

And gave to that wind blowing

and that tide.

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