Passchendaele

- Everybody good? - Yeah.

Oh, Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!

Hey! Hey! Hey!

Keep your head down. Look at me. You're going to be okay.

Where's he from?

13th skirt.

I thought the Black Watch were up around Hill 60 or somewhere.

- What the hell's he doing here? - Must've lost his head.

Must've lost his head...

- They in there, Sarge? - Yeah, they would seem to be.

Who the hell would put a gun nest in a church?

Up round "Wipers" they put one in a bar. Think about that.

Alright, listen up.

Highway, you and Skinner, you work your way up that side.

Peters, you come with me.

We cover. We lead.

Everybody ready?

Okay...

Let's go.

Skinner! Drag him out of there!

Goddamnit! Stay here. Keep your head down.

No, please don't. No...

You're gonna be alright, Highway.

You're gonna be fine. Skinner, give me your dressing.

Stay down! Get your head down!

- This is kind of funny, eh? - For God's sake, Skinner!

You're gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you out of here.

Leave your rifle. Get in behind me.

- I'm going home. - What are you doing?

- Halt! - Get your hands up!

Wait! He isn't doing anything. He's just clearing his pack.

No, no! Wait!

Wait! Kamerad! Kamerad!

- I'm going home! - No!

Kamerad?

Let's go, double line!

Bombers over here, gunners on the flanks!

Hey, we got a live one here!

- Where's Highway? - He went that way.

It's alright now. You're alright now, Sergeant.

You're back home. You're safe.

You know, they have these birds of prey over there.

They call them kestrels,

and every time I look at you it's like I've got one banging around right in here.

You're a patient, Sergeant. It's a common feeling.

Not to me it isn't. I don't even know your first name.

- I'm not allowed to tell you that. - I know.

- You should go back to sleep. - I don't sleep.

Then how can you have these nightmares?

I don't know.

Good night, Sergeant.

Good night, Kestrel.

What?

I think I should take this opportunity to underscore the elusive relationship between desire and social order.

- You're crazy, aren't you? - Crazy for you.

David?

- David? - It's McKinnon.

Yeah...

Oh no... No... David.

It's okay.

David?

- Just breathe. - You in yet?

David?

Are you okay?

Let's go.

Hello there, Mr. Harper.

- Hello? - We're in here.

David?

- Mr. McKinnon. - Didn't show up for work this morning.

Third time this month. Sarah here tells me you had an attack...

of your asthma things.

- That's the truth, sir. I did. - But now you're alright?

I went down to the river. Sometimes the humidity helps.

Humidity. Good one. That's good.

I don't know how to put this, but this job...

I know it's just a local newspaper and I know it's not going to change the outcome of the war or anything,

but it's a good job, and your father...

Well, you both understand that I'm doing this for your father, don't you?

Well, I'll just see myself out.

I expect to see you in the morning.

- I can't keep lying for you. - I'm not asking you to.

- Were you with Cassie? - What if I was?

Friends don't get friends in trouble, David.

What would you know about friends? All you've got is me and you don't even like me.

Why do you talk like that?

If there's anyone that doesn't like you, it's you, not me.

Is that supposed to pass for insight?

By the way, her dad hates me too.

- Good evening. - Good evening, George.

- Still no news? - Still "missing in action."

It's not easy, I can tell you that much.

But I'm the Mayor, I can't be seen to falter,

and our son has a good head on his shoulders, so we remain hopeful.

- Are you crazy? - I'm here to talk to your father.

Oh, hello. This is your friend. David, isn't it?

- Yes, sir. I wonder if I could have a word with you. - By all means. Come on in.

- No, sir... I don't want to intrude. - Don't be silly. Come along.

Hello, everybody. I'd like to introduce you to David, uh...

- Good Lord, I've forgotten your last name. - It's Mann, sir.

- David Mann. - I'm very honored to meet you.

It appears that young David has conceived of a passion for my daughter.

Daddy, please!

A passion, is it? Well, then I'd be guessing you'd still be a student.

And you'd be wide of the mark.

- David here counts himself among the ranks of the working men. - I work for a newspaper.

But he's not a scribe. He sets type. He's a typesetter.

Phil...

But you must be 18 years old and you're not in uniform. Why is that?

It's a medical thing, sir. He's doing what he can.

Yes, well, he'll have to do better than that if he wants to earn the respect of your father.

That's what I intend to do, sir, and I'm open to suggestions.

For God's sake, son, we're at war. Use your imagination.

I'm sorry. I don't know, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say.

There's no formula here, Sergeant. We're just talking.

You, uh, want to tell me about your nightmares?

They consistently feature the image of a Canadian soldier and a cross.

Why is that, you imagine?

I don't sleep, so I don't really know how to answer that.

In 1915, in retreat outside Ypres,

German soldiers nailed a Canadian N.C.O. to a barn door.

You were there, were you not?

Yes sir, I did take part in that retreat, but...

if they had time to stop and nail a guy to a door, they're...

they're even better than I already know them to be.

- Are you saying it didn't happen? - I'm saying artillery throws soldiers

into positions you can't even imagine.

A man in a trench... he's gonna see what he needs to see.

- Michael, you are a decorated soldier-- - Yeah. Yeah, I am.

And I received that medal for sticking a 17-inch piece of steel into a boy's forehead.

As soon as you were well enough to walk, you went AWOL.

I went AWOL because I received a medal

for sticking a piece of steel into a boy's forehead!

- This is insubordinate! - Understand your situation here, Sergeant.

We are trying to determine your status of discharge.

Your physical wounds have, for the most part, healed.

Dr. Walker would like to give you a clean bill of health,

in which case you'd be sent back to the battlefield, stand trial for desertion

and more than likely be executed.

I'm going to end up back there one way or another.

- Michael, I'm trying to save your life. - I know that.

And I appreciate it, I do, but... this...

Go on.

The house... we grew up in...

it was at the bottom of this hill, and every time one of my brothers, uh...

- Died? - Yeah.

The telegraph guy, he'd bring the notification down the hill and my mother never got any other news.

After all, three of my younger brothers, one, two, three and me, AWOL...

And they don't say "Absent without leave."

They say "Missing in action", which to her meant I was dead.

So when that telegraph guy came down the fourth time...

it broke her heart.

She... she died of a broken heart.

Nurse Mann, would you please escort the sergeant back to the ward.

Major Nigel Bernard, Canadian Army Medical Corps,

re: patient T-331, Sergeant Michael Dunne.

Physically the patient nears repair.

Diagnosis remains however neurasthenia,

Dr. Walker's dissent noted.

In light of his service record, the recommendation is that the soldier be reassigned to the home front,

possibly in recruitment, in support of our ongoing effort.

I came to wish you luck.

It's not likely I'll see you again, is it?

I don't want to leave.

No...

that's not accurate. I don't want to leave you.

- I'm not what you think I am. - You don't know what I think you are.

You talk in your sleep.

I don't sleep. How can I talk?

- You don't even know my first name. - No, I don't. No.

And that's a hell of a thing, that is.

- Good-bye, Nurse Mann. - Bye.

- It's Sarah. - What?

Her name... is Sarah.

Thanks.

Rigor, Sergeant. Rigor is our shibboleth.

No slight intended to my immediate predecessor, but the sails on this ship are slack.

The home front is awash in saboteurs and provocateurs.

Odd those words sound French, what? Allies and all.

Be that as it may, our immediate concern is recruitment.

Minimum age 18.

Infantry, Service and Medical Corps: minimum height 5 foot 3 inches, chest 33 and one half inches.

Gunners-- Carmichael, remove this.

Ah, yes sir!

Capital asset, Carmichael.

Gunners: minimum height 5 foot 7 inches, chest 34 and one half inches,

give or take, you understand.

Preference given to unmarried men. The blind and the deaf are to be avoided,

and asthmatics are strictly ne touche pas, given the problems associated with gas.

And on that note, may I say, in confidence...

I have seen acts of depravity, Dunne.

Kroonstad. Human depravity.

But gas? Even the Boer would not sink so low.

We use gas, sir.

Of course we do. Cut from the same cloth, you and I.

A rarefying experience, combat.

Something Carmichael will never encounter. Blind as a bat, feet like a fried egg.

- Isn't that right, Carmichael? - More than right, sir.

You saw action in South Africa, sir?

I've studied your dossier, Sergeant.

But you can rest easy. I have my eye on you.