At Thiepval

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Private Thomas O’Callaghan of the Royal Irish Rifles, who was killed in action on 9th September 1916 on the Somme at Ginchy, and of his twin brother Private Patrick O’Callaghan who served with the Royal Iniskilling Fusiliers until November 1917. 

Thomas has no grave and is recorded among the missing at Thiepval. Patrick was invalided out of the army, suffering a 50% disability caused by ‘neurasthenia and dementia’ directly attributable to his war service. In the 1920s, his disability allowance was increased to 100%, and he died unmarried in 1947.


Listen to: At Thiepval

My name’s here, O’Callaghan, T., carved deep
In timeless Portland stone, ‘lest you forget’.
For years, I've looked across those bloodied fields, 
And wished you’d come and stand with me.

The guns are silent now; only mourners trudge
Past the serried lines of missing men.
Stand by my side and let the autumn breeze
Be my voice in our storied sepulchral hall.

Near Ginchy on the ninth, a fine September day,
We, young Irish boys, waited to advance  
Beneath a blasting barrage of wayward shells, 
I felt my brother's love as I was torn apart.

My brother saw my death that autumn day, 
For as twins, our bonds of birth were strong.
He fought for twelve more months 'til he succumbed,  
Leaving France as broken, scarred and torn as me.

My blasted shell had ripped his mind and soul, 
I cried, ‘live, brother, live, and take my share
Of this life, of laughter, of love's embrace,
Let peace and solace banish your despair!’

For years, I watched his weary, haunted gait,
His mind as barbed and twisted as German wire,
The guns within his mind denied him sleep.
What man as that would have a wife and wains?

It took him thirty years to die of wounds, 
Of ‘neurasthenia and dementia’,  
His pitiful, endless suffering denied him life,
Save the lowly labour of the workhouse.

My brother lies unmourned in some churchyard grave,
And yet his sacrifice was as great as mine,
His suffering greater by ten thousandfold,
No poppies bloom where my twin Patrick lies.

I implore you go and find him now, and grieve, 
Salute his soldier's forfeit as you have mine,
Honour that blessed Irish boy who died for you,
And pray your own n'er leave their homely fireside.
Location: Thiepval, France

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