by Peter Corris
Meredith was standing, casting a giant shadow on the canvas. He swayed like a huge tree.
‘It’ll be all right’, Thomas said carefully. ‘You were right, there’s cover there. It’ll be cushy.’
‘No’, Meredith said fiercely. ‘I’ve got a feeling.’ He collapsed on to his bunk and Thomas could see the sweat standing put on his red face. He tore at his neck to loosen his collar, and fought for breath. What he said was unintelligible.
‘It’ll be all right,’ Thomas said again. But Meredith was asleep.
But three weeks later it was not all right. Thomas crouched down behind a sand hill fifty yards back from the water. His shoulder was numb, but the morphine was starting to wear thin and little stabs of pain got through. The wound was deep and ragged, and he’d screamed when the medical orderly had applied the field dressing. Cec Meredith was beside him with an identical wound. They’d been in file, moving along the road when the mortar shells fell. They thumped and burst on the road, and a steel fragment passed through the shoulders of Meredith and Thomas, and killed the man behind them.
They fell out; the platoon marched on, and Thomas and Meredith leaned their backs against an olive tree while they waited for the medic. The tree was sparsely leaved, with an oily smell to it; Thomas disliked it, he thought it was an excuse for a tree. The medic came and Meredith gritted his teeth when the dressing went on. The medic told them what to do and they nodded. When he had gone Meredith reached back with his good arm and pulled out a flask. They drank the raw Greek brandy like water, and hummed as they headed back towards the road that would take them to the beach and evacuation.
But it had been a long wait on the beach. Thomas craned his head up over the sand and looked out to sea; the light was fading and the division between the sky and the water was blurring.
‘Soon,’ he said.
Meredith moaned. ‘Bloody better be. You feel it yet?’
‘No.’
‘You lying black bastard, you can feel it.’
‘I’m not as much of a piss-pot as you, I’m still drunk from the brandy.’
‘Bullshit. Christ, I could do with a schooner now.’
‘Soon, Cec’
‘How d’you reckon our arms’ll be, Charlie?’
Thomas suddenly felt cold, and the stabs of pain blended into one long thrust. A one-armed Aborigine, he thought. What could be more useless? ‘They’ll be all right’, he said. ‘Went through didn’t it?’
‘Your left jab’ll be fucked.’
‘Wasn’t that good anyway.’ He felt drowsy, as if his strength was slipping away. Along with the pain there was a warm, sweet feeling that he distrusted. Meredith’s usually red skin was paper white, framed by dark, caked blood. Thomas wondered how the blood looked on his own face. Wouldn’t show, he thought. So many advantages to a brown skin, suntan, white teeth … He realised that he was wandering and struggled to pull himself together. What had Meredith said? Left jab …
‘Did you ever see Carroll, Cec? That was a jab. And fast? Bloody wonder that man.’
‘Not a welter, though’, Meredith said.
‘Well, they say that. I don’t know. I knew a bloke who knew him, and he reckoned he made the weight fair dinkum by drying out, and then he’d eat and he’d be eleven stone for the fight.’
‘He looked it’, Meredith said. ‘Saw him in the second go against Henneberry. Christ, he out-boxed him, out-fought him, everything …’
‘There’s the boats, Cec’, Thomas said quietly.
The wide, shallow-bottomed boats came in close; the light dimmed as a cloud passed across the setting sun and the boats bumped on to the sand. All along the dunes men stood up and crossed the beach; they limped and shuffled and clung to each other. The boats crews helped the men in, apologising when the jolting made them groan and swear. Blood flowed and reddened the shallow water; blood streaked the sides of the boats.
Thomas accepted a cigarette from the boatman, took a puff and passed it to Meredith, who drew on it greedily.
‘Bad, mate?’ the boatman asked.
Meredith smiled around the cigarette. ‘No, mate, not too bad.’
Then the cloud cleared, the light strengthened and the planes came. The boats, turned broadside to the beach and strung out like beads, were impossible to miss. The planes came low and opened up methodically along the line. The bullets hit like hail, thunking into the boats and bodies and hissing and spitting into the water. The treacherous light faded; the planes flew off after three passes.
The men were swearing and shouting and Thomas heard weeping in a high, girlish keen off to his left. Orders were barked and the worst hit boats were cleared. The boatman crouched beside Thomas lifted his head.
‘Anyone hit?’
Meredith sat at the back of the boat: the cigarette still burned in his mouth, his jaw jutted but there was a dark, pulpy hole the size of a cricket ball at the base of his throat.
‘My mate’, Thomas said.
2
IAN ‘Blue’ Parker was drunk. There was a roaring in his head and he squinted out of wet, burning eyes. The negro rushed at him and Parker lurched out of his way; he brought his knee up and felt it sink into the man’s groin. The negro stopped suddenly and his eyes swung up wildly. Parker gathered his strength and crashed his right fist against the dark, sweaty temple. The negro collapsed on to the stones.
Parker’s chest heaved as he watched the black sergeant’s two friends check him over.
‘You’re a dirty fighter, Aussie’, one of them said.
Parker’s eyes were glazed and he was having difficulty keeping upright. ‘He picked me’, he muttered. ‘Fuckin’ Yank.’
‘He was Golden Gloves, this guy’, one of the Americans said. He was a squat, black man, with folds of fat on the back of his neck. He looked up at Parker as if he was weighing him, ounce by ounce.
‘What’s that mean?’ Parker was frightened by his own fury and lack of control. He wanted to talk to prove to himself that he was human.
‘Boxing’, the negro said. ‘This baby got to the Golden Gloves final in New York. Light-heavy. He’s a hell of a fighter.’
‘He was a push-over’, Parker said although he knew it wasn’t true. The American had hurt him and only his drunken rage had carried him through.
‘Drunk, white boy’, the sergeant slurred from where he lay. ‘Too drunk; fight you again any day.’
The other American was a white man, tall and lean with an experienced but smooth face. He took out a packet of Camel cigarettes and shook one out towards Parker. Parker took it and the American flicked his lighter.
‘Say man, why don’t we have us a little boxin’ match?’
‘Why?’ Parker said.
‘Why, we could get a few bets down, and have a little fun. I got twenty pounds says Gordon here can knock you out.’
A small group of Australian soldiers had gathered in the lane beside the hotel. They still held their glasses and they looked down contentedly at the American on the ground.
‘Take him up, Blue’, one said. ‘You coulda killed that darkie.’
The beer was still fuddling Parker’s brain as they made an arrangement for him to fight Sergeant Gordon Green over ten rounds at Murphy’s gymnasium in ten day’s time.
Next day, sober, Parker took stock. He had a bruise on his face like a birthmark and his ribs felt as if they’d been bent and straightened out again. That nigger could thump, he thought. He could only remember the action dimly, but he thought he might have used his knee at one point; with both of them sober and the Queensberry rules operating the outcome was uncertain at best.
Parker had fought in Sharman’s tent and had had a few preliminary fights at Leichhardt stadium; he knew what a rough, mediocre semi-professional knew. The words ‘Golden Gloves’ came back to him. He had to find out what sort of contest that was; it sounded ominous, classy.
The problem was that the only man he could think of who might know was Charlie Thomas. He hadn’t spoken to
Thomas since their fight in Egypt, but he’d seen him fighting in the Greek gullies and weeping over Cec Meredith’s body on the evacuation ship. Parker had had dysentery, a stubborn case, and he had opportunities to watch Thomas in hospital and after. The Aborigine exercised remorselessly to build strength back into his shoulder. He also read—newspapers, books, magazines. A non-reader, Parker was impressed.
Life in the barracks in Brisbane was boring and the men struggled to find ways to divert themselves in off-duty hours. Two days after he’d agreed to fight the American, Parker hit on a way to break the ice with Thomas. He could no more have walked straight up to him than he could have written him a letter. So he recruited Ted Bennett, and they went over to where Thomas’s unit was housed to arrange a competition shoot. Parker had a reputation as a good shot; so, when Jack Bradford responded to the challenge, he made the proviso that he would only be in it if he could get Charlie Thomas to shoot with him. Thomas agreed.
The four men drew targets and ammunition and tramped across the muddy barracks yard to the rifle range. They marked up the targets and shot. Parker and Bennett won although Thomas had the highest individual score. The competition eased the tension in Parker and produced an atmosphere he could handle.
‘Shoulder doesn’t bother you shooting, then?’ he asked Thomas.
‘Not much, not at targets anyway.’
Parker nodded, he’d been under fire and knew the difference. ‘Coming for a beer?’
After the first round, Parker felt comfortable enough to broach his problem. ‘You know anything about boxing in America?’
‘Not much. It’s where the best men are.’
Thomas bought his round and Parker put the question direct. ‘What’s the Golden Gloves, Charlie?’
‘Amateur tournament in the States.’
Parker looked relieved. ‘Amateur eh?’
‘Well, that’s what they call it. A lot in it are pros with changed names. The ones who win usually turn pro straight away.’
‘Do they do any good?’
‘Christ, yes.’ Thomas sipped his beer. ‘A couple of them are world champs now. Louis won the Golden Gloves, I think’. He drank, and looked at Parker’s worried face. ‘What’s your interest, Blue? You have to be a Yank to go in the Gloves.’
The other two shooters had drifted away, so Parker told Thomas about his arrangement. He kept drinking after Thomas had stopped and was slurring his words when he finished.
‘Big trouble is this, Charlie; some of the blocks have put money on me. Plenty. You know those fuckin’ Yanks, money to burn. I don’t mind taking a belting, but I don’t like the idea of my mates gettin’ done by the Yanks.’
Thomas nodded. ‘You say he got to the final? That means he’s got to be good. Light-heavy you reckon? What d’you weigh, Blue?’
‘ ‘Bout thirteen stone’, Parker said. ‘But some of it’s beer fat.’ He took a grip on a roll of flesh at his waist.
‘That’d come off if you knocked off the grog. Smoke a bit too, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, what’re you saying?’
‘Well, you’re a tough bastard, Blue, and I suppose you’re not a complete donkey when it comes to fighting. If you do some training you’ll stand a chance; that is, if this Yank’s not a real Joe Louis.’
Parker rubbed his jaw. ‘I don’t reckon he’s that. Training, I never did any. How d’you go about it?’
For the next seven days Parker followed the punishing routine drawn up by Thomas. He stopped drinking and smoking and went to bed early. During the day, when duties allowed, he ran in heavy boots around the streets and parks of the city. Thomas took him to Stone’s gym, where they sparred and worked on the bags. Thomas, fitter and evasive, out-boxed Parker at first, but then the big man caught on to his style and did better. Thomas’s left was now only a range-finder and a defensive weapon; the shoulder injury had robbed it of power. Parker improved; he boxed a few rounds with a ranked heavyweight and held his own.
Two days before the fight, he threw aside the medicine ball he’d been using in sit-ups. ‘I gotta have a drink tonight, Charlie. I’m going crazy.’
‘I wouldn’t, Blue’, Thomas said.
‘Why not? I feel good, I can beat him.’
Thomas beckoned to a small man who lounged near the gym door. He strolled over.
‘Blue Parker, Mouse Callahan. Tell Blue what you told me, Mousey.’
The man took the cigarette butt out of the corner of his mouth, pinched it out into a matchbox, and spoke in a high, reedy voice. ‘ ‘Bout the Yank? I seen him at Murphy’s. No one there’ll spar with ’im. Too bloody good.’
‘Fit?’ Thomas asked.
Callahan looked at the lines of fat on Parker’s stomach. ‘Fit’, he said.
‘Mouse tells me he’s got a weakness, though.’ Thomas retrieved the medicine ball.
‘Yeah?’ Parker said. ‘What would that be?’
Thomas threw the ball to him. ‘Tell you on the night.’
Parker swore. ‘I hope you’re getting ready to point the fuckin’ bone, Charlie.’
It was November and steamy; moisture rose off the hot Brisbane footpaths in short, curling wisps and tempers were frayed. The military police had got wind of the boxing match within hours of its arrangement and, at a high level meeting, the authorities had considered prohibiting it. Relations between the Australian and American servicemen were not good—Parker and Green were not the only ones to have fought in a laneway—but the brass decided that the fight might clear the air. Besides, some of them wanted to see it.
In the morning Thomas coaxed a nervous Parkerthrough a light breakfast and went off to the city to meet Green’s representatives. The tall American with the smooth manner was waiting outside Murphy’s gym. He introduced himself as Peter Abraham, offered his Camels to Thomas, and lit them up.
‘As I see it, the big question’s the referee’, he said.
‘That’s right. Our rules’re a bit different, I hear, about hitting in clinches and that.’
‘I got just the man’, Abraham said.
Inside the gym he introduced Thomas to a dark, stocky thirtyish man wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Signals Corps.
‘Charlie Thomas, Paul Brusso. Paul’s a Canadian, Charlie; spent a bit of time in England.’
‘Brusso?’ Thomas said. ‘Any relation to Tommy Burns?’
‘Nephew’, Brusso said. They shook hands.
‘Paul’s done some refereeing and seen some fights in England’, Abraham said. ‘I thought he might be sort of neutral, you know? Being Canadian and all.’
‘I don’t know’, Thomas said slowly. ‘His uncle lost his world title here.’
‘That’s right’, Brusso drawled. ‘But it was a nigger took it off him, remember.’
Abrahams smiled, and Thomas looked away impatiently. He was aware of the irony of his situation, representing a white man to representatives of a black man. A fair deal, he thought, that’s what I’m here for—to get Blue a fair shake. They got down to terms: a ten-round bout, three-minute rounds with one minute between them. Brusso was to be the sole judge and scorekeeper. Abraham said he had boxed in college, and he and Thomas mimed a few moves to establish ground rules on holding and hitting, claiming, kidney punches and hitting on the break. Thomas was satisfied that Brusso could oversee a clean fight.
‘What’ll your man weigh, Chas?’ Abraham asked.
‘What’ll yours?’
‘ ‘Bout one eighty-five.’
Thomas did the calculation—thirteen stone three pounds. ‘Christ’, he said. ‘I thought he was a light-heavy.’
‘He’s grown’, Abraham said.
Thomas thought that he might conceal this fact from Blue Parker.
There was a cloudburst at six p.m., and the gutters were overflowing when Thomas arrived at the gym by taxi. Parker stepped into calf-deep water, and swore. A big crowd of soldiers and civilians was milling about outside the gym.
‘Here’s Blue’, a red-headed la
nce corporal yelled. ‘Three cheers for Blue. Do ’im, mate.’
The crowd booed and cheered raggedly, and opened for Thomas and Parker to go through. The gym was crowded with men in uniform, sitting and standing. The air was humid and thick with smoke.
‘Shit’, Parker said. ‘I’ve seen smaller crowds at Leichhardt.’
‘Don’t go getting stage fright’, Thomas murmured. ‘Ninety per cent of them know bugger-all about it.’
American and Australian MPs were controlling the crowd, and a sergeant with a slow Queensland drawl helped Thomas and his man through to the dressing room.
‘How long’ve they been here?’ Thomas asked.
‘Over an hour’, the MP said. ‘We herded ’em in, roughly equal, Yanks and Aussies. No bloody civilians. Should I put a quid on Parker?’
‘Yeah, get on him’, Thomas said.
Green was already stripped and ready in the partitioned-off area at the back of the gym. His dark skin shone under the shabby light, but Thomas was relieved to see that he was carrying some weight around his waist and neck. He looked to be about six foot two, an inch taller than Parker, who gave him the briefest of glances before stripping. Parker cranked his arms over, flicked out a few punches and dropped over loosely to touch his toes. Green did a little side-to-side dance step.
‘Hey, Yank’, Parker said suddenly.
Green looked up.
‘Been in this war yet, Yank?’ Parker growled.
Green scowled and attended to a boot lace.
‘That’s what I thought’, Parker said in a loud whisper.
The noise level in the gym was mounting, with shouts and foot stamping. Abraham stuck his crew-cut head around the corner of the partition.
‘C’mon, you guys!’
There was no aisle to the ring and Parker, Thomas, Green and the chunky negro who’d been in the laneway had to side-step and bulldoze their way through the crowd. Through the smoke Thomas could see Paul Brusso in the ring, holding two pairs of boxing gloves.
Green wore a white dressing gown, and had a towel draped over his head. Parker wore an army pullover, football shorts and sandshoes. Green’s smart boxing boots rose almost to the skirts of his dressing gown.
