advertisement McHugh: [the last of Jack's soldiers are about to go over the trench and take the enemy base] I am not fucking going anywhere! John Kipling: You are, we all are! McHugh: You抮e a murderer! You抮e a fucking murderer! John Kipling: I'm not a murderer McHugh, I抦 obeying orders. Rudyard Kipling: [after being informed of Jack抯 death] 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. Caroline Kipling: He must have been in such awful pain. Rudyard Kipling: If you talked to wounded soldiers they would tell you the pain only sets in later. So, he was lucky. I was done with quickly. Caroline Kipling: Don't tell me he was lucky! He wasn't lucky, or... or Brave, or happy! Jack was eighteen years and 1 day old! He died in the rain, he couldn't see a thing, he was alone! You can't persuade me that there's any glory in that! Caroline Kipling: [crying] I miss him. Rudyard Kipling: [bursts into tears] So do I. Caroline Kipling: 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. [last lines] Rudyard Kipling: Have you news of my boy Jack?/ Not this tide./ When d'you think that he'll come back?/ Not with this wind blowing, and this tide./ Has any one 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!