There are normally three bullets at a military funeral. They are used for the three shots that follow the burial to signal that the fallen hero has been laid to rest, and warring sides can resume hostilities.
But the Green Army doesn't do protocol. Besides, flying flags at half mast would have seemed like bad form for the legions of fans who followed Jack Charlton around the globe, draped in green, white and orange on such glorious campaigns.
The crowds on Walkinstown Roundabout, and those who lined the streets, to see the cortège pass through his hometown of Ashington, in Northumberland, were more Mardi Gras than funereal. They were there to say auf wiedersehen, au revoir, good luck and God bless. But most importantly, they were there to say thanks.
The day began with Niall Quinn reminding us of the early days on RTÉ, when the first match began in 1986. He was sitting alongside the gruff Geordie in the stadium when the band struck up. Quinner was up on the balls of his feet: shoulders back; his famous six-foot-four frame rigid as the flag polls at either end of the pitch.
Jack threw him a funny look: "This one ours?" he asked. 'Amhrán na bhFiann' had yet to hold a meaning for him.
His family yesterday took care to have both Union Jacks and Tricolours displayed to show the big place Ireland had played in his life.
It would be nearly impossible to give physical representation to the big place Jack Charlton played in Irish life.
A flat cap, and a pint on a varnished counter somewhere in the west of Ireland, far from excitement, elation and penalty shoot-outs might come close to a fitting shrine; especially if there was the prospect of some fly fishing.
If putting 'em under pressure was his stock in trade, he gave the rest of us the opportunity to let go and give it a lash. And it was the best of times.
Before the awkward Englishman took charge, the World Cup was a bit like a Fabergé egg, or a Mona Lisa.
Something to be admired from a distance, but not something with a beating heart that we could touch, feel and play with.
And no one ever thought we could bring one home with us.
But for a couple of unforgettable summers we dared to dream. And moments when we even went to Heaven. Almost.
When the team came home to Dublin and the open-topped bus made its way past the longest human snake ever seen in the capital, lost for words, Jack finally composed himself to ask: "Christ, imagine what it would have been like if we actually won something?"
But we did win. The memories of gold are in our individual national trophy cases.
We had the victory of friendship over adversity in a common tribe. In football, shared passions and immortal memories were melded into something imperishable in the forge of a former miner's warm heart. The ultimate triumph.