Bloody Sunday

There aren’t any bagpipes a’ skirlin’ to lift my feet higher, and I’m not wearin’ a kilt – but I hold my head higher to think of them.

There’s no deep thrumming of the drums to steady my heart, and no rat-a-tat-tat to heighten my senses, but I hold my head higher to think of them.

I think of my mother, and hope she is safe and warm on this chilly night. I like to think that I do this for her, but I’m unsure. Yet, I do think of her and hold my head higher.

I remember my sisters, and their long hair. That of it self mists my eyes, and makes me hold my head higher.

I remember the tales my old Grand-dad used to tell me of some great ancestor or the other (I surely can’t remember their names) and the deeds they’d done, or battles they’d won. Yes, I hold my head up higher.

I think of the story of Bloody Sunday, and the deaths of fourteen of our brave countrymen. What went through their minds in their final second of life? Odd that this is a sunday as well. Perhaps, as they died, they held their heads higher.

I make myself ready, clearing up my sleeping area, along with my mind. Dawn isn’t far off, and with its early light I know men will die. Men will bleed and die. Blood as red and rich as mine will no doubt flow, maybe even mingled with mine. No matter, I’ll hold my head higher.

The Captain came by a short while ago, noticing, he said, how calm I seemed. He almost seemed sad, although I don’t know why. Perhaps he has a touch of the gift, and knows what I do not. Never-the-less, I held my head higher.

If John were here, we’d stand together, side by side, brothers. But, that cannot be. He was a man, that John. I never thanked him for the jacket he gave to me. I wear it now, and hold my head higher.

I’m suited and ready as the sky begins to grow lighter, and my weapon feels good in my hands. I hope it well sees its use today. I sight the hill before me, choosing the place where I’ll go over it. We’ll be charging soon and I hold my head up higher.

The Lieutenant is giving the signal, and the men slowly rise, moving forward with determined looks, their eyes steady and somber in the faint light of early dawn. To see them, you’d think we had a fair chance in this. Yet, to see them, I hold my head higher. These are men.

Devil take the odds. I top the hill with the ancient battle cry, the sun at my back, my eyes seeing the enemy spread before us, and I shout the louder.

The sounds of warfare everywhere, outnumbered seven to one, we charge on. They’re a brave lot to face us, numbers not counting. We’re not green troops.

Give ‘em what-for, boys. They’d better run. An Irishman’s going to war.