Invictus

This is my entry for a competition the rules of which are: The story must start with the last line of a poem. Write a poem not more that 30 lines or a prose piece not more than 400 words. I chose the prose.  
 
‘I am the captain of my soul? What’s this shit?  
‘You asked for help.’  
‘I meant money mate, spare change. Poetry’s no damn use to me’ said the homeless ex marine. ‘You’re ex forces aren’t you pal?’  
 ‘Yes ‘  
‘Not short of a quid* are you?’  
‘No.’  
‘Then why won’t you help?’  
‘I just did’ said the man ‘I was you once, it helped me.’  
The homeless man looked bewildered ‘Bollocks.’  
‘Suit yourself’ the man turned to leave.  
‘Hang on mate how did it help?’  
‘You really want to know?’  
‘Yeah, I reckon.’  
‘It stopped me buying alcohol.'
‘But I need it mate.’  
‘Bullshit! Booze only perpetuates your situation.’ The man sighed ‘what mob were you in?’  
‘I was a Royal Marine corporal. Three tours of Afghan mate, it fucked me head up.’  
The man nodded knowingly ‘yeah, the Falklands war did that for me.’ He paused ‘You really want help? Be here this time tomorrow.’  
‘What do I do in the meantime’ the beggar wheedled.  
‘You stop whining and start shining corporal’ the man left.  
 
Peter McGee re-read the poem then screwed it up throwing it away angrily. Load of crap he thought. That bugger’s either a bible basher or a shirt lifter. I am the master of my fate? I am the Captain of my soul? Utter shite he told himself yet the words struck home.  
 
McGee slept poorly that night the man’s granite-hard face kept appearing before him. “If you really want help be here this time tomorrow.”  Well, we’ll see gobshite.  
 
Ex-Para Sergeant Ronald Timperly was prompt. ‘Well?’  
‘I've had enough of this shit life mate. What do I do?’  
Timperly smiled ‘Get off your arse and come with me.’ A month later Peter McGee had his own place,psychiatric help and a job but most importantly a friend and mentor.  
 
Twelve years later, now a prosperous businessman, McGee attended Ronald Timperly’s funeral. He was surprised how many ex military types were there. The preacher gave him an envelope. ‘There’s 248 of you’ he imparted ‘Open this and read it aloud at the end please.’  
 
McGee knew Ronald had helped others but was stunned to see just how many.  
 
As the coffin left they all recited the poem. By the time they got to the last lines tears were flowing freely.  “I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”  
 
* Quid, British slang for the pound. (£)  
 
 
This story was inspired by Invictus by William Earnest Henley  
 
“Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.  
 
In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.  
 
Beyond this place of wrath and tears  
Looms but the horror of the shade,  
And yet the menace of the years  
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.  
 
It matters not how strait the gate,  
How charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul.”