by Jack Tunney
The room had red textured wallpaper and ornate golden light fittings. On the wall directly behind Krieger, in a broad gold frame, was a picture of the Fuhrer. On another wall were two crossed ceremonial swords. In the corner was a nude marble statue. Krieger clearly enjoyed little touches of luxury.
“Sit down,” Krieger said casually, gesturing with his riding crop,to the chair in front of his desk.
O'Toole eased himself into the chair. His joints were still sore from his confinement. The Sez So guards who had escorted him remained in the room. They stood alertly behind his chair.
“You are an extraordinary man, O'Toole,” Krieger stated. “I never expected to see Crator beaten. I take it you were a boxer in America?”
“A long time ago.”
“But, I assume a very good one.”
“I had a couple of good fights.”
“I can imagine.” Krieger grinned, placing the crop on the desk and reaching over to a fruit bowl and retrieving an apple. With a hand gesture, Krieger indicated O'Toole could take a piece of fruit as well. O'Toole declined the offer. Even though he was ravenously hungry, he didn't want to accept anything from Krieger. He did not want to be in his debt.
“You proved one doesn't forget the skills,” Krieger continued.
“I didn't prove anything. I just stopped your monster from killing Patrick Reilly.”
Krieger let the comment slide. He bit into the apple.
“Speaking of which, Patrick needs to be taken to a hospital,” O'Toole added forcefully.
“Reilly was punished for attempting to escape. He knew the consequences,” Krieger replied.
“That wasn't punishment. That was an execution.”
“I didn't bring you in here to debate the discipline policy of this camp,” Krieger snapped.
“Then why did you bring me here?”
“I want you to fight again.”
“No!”
“What do you mean, 'no? You don't have a choice.”
“I think I do.”
“I will force you into the ring at gunpoint if I have to.”
“But I won’t fight!” O'Toole said defiantly.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Krieger was losing his temper with the American. But then in a moment of clarity, he realized he had been going about this all wrong. O'Toole was not a man who could be bullied into fighting. But he did have a weakness. He had showed it on the day of the fight with Crator, and he had showed it again only moments before. O'Toole was concerned about Patrick Reilly.
He knew how to get O'Toole into the ring.
“You fought for Reilly before. Perhaps you'll fight for him again?” Krieger said calmly, staring into the American's eyes, to gauge the reaction.
“What do you mean?”
“I'll make you a deal. If you agree to fight, I'll arrange for Reilly to be shipped to the nearest hospital for treatment straight away.”
“Straight away?”
“Right this second. Yes or no?”
O'Toole sighed, shaking his head. He didn't have a choice. “I'll fight, damn you,” he said angrily.
Krieger smiled.
“Good. I'll give you five days to get ready. Now excuse me, I have a patient transfer to arrange.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
O’Toole could not be sure if Krieger had kept his word. However, Patrick had been spirited away five nights ago. The boxer just hoped it was to a hospital where he received the care he needed. Knowing for sure, would have made this situation a bit more palatable.
Fight day had come, and although O'Toole may have been a prisoner of the Sezanda Socialist Army, Krieger let it be known where his allegiances truly lie. It wasn't with the puppet Sez So army. Around the ring, row upon row of Nazi flags had been hung.
O’Toole felt uncomfortable as he made his way through the sea of swastikas to the roped off square battlefield. He had fought Nazis in the war, and he had hoped their evil was gone forever. However, at this moment, it didn't appear to be the case.
The prisoners cheered as he passed by, making his way to the ring. Calvin, as always, was rather vociferous. O’Toole was silent, keeping his mind focused on the task at hand. He knew whoever Krieger threw into the ring with him would not be a pushover. He was only certain it would not be Crator.
It would be someone much worse.
THIRTY-NINE
After Williams' death, command of the British soldiers had fallen to Staff Sergeant Thomas Jones. Jones was an astute man and knew that Krieger had to humiliate O'Toole to regain control of the camp. He was not going to let that happen.
As O'Toole moved past them, Jones called, “Gentlemen, on three... one... two... three...”
The Royal Welch Fusiliers did not have a large repertoire of songs, but Jones had the men sing one he thought was appropriate, which he had learned from some American G.I.s during the war.
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye may find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
With his wild harp slung along behind him;
The voices echoed through the compound, rousing the spirits of the prisoners assembled.
Land of Song, the lays of the warrior bard,
May some day sound for thee,
But his harp belongs to the brave and free
And shall never sound in slavery.
Jones watched O'Toole as he walked by. The fighter seemed to step taller as the song rang out. Now all he needed was a little luck in the ring. Then Jones realized he may be able to help with that too. He knew a bit about fighting. He had been doing it all his adult life, and although he couldn't climb in the ring and lend a hand, he could share his knowledge.
FORTY
A chill went up O'Toole's spine as he heard the Welsh choir. The song was one he knew well. The Minstrel Boy. Turning to the Welsh compliment, he nodded his thanks for their support. He needed it.
Reaching the apron, O'Toole lifted the bottom rope, slipped under, and moved to the corner. He waited for his opponent.
The Kommandant appeared from his quarters, with his usual entourage of armed soldiers. He made his way to the ring slowly, as if he were deliberately savoring the moment.
Two guards held up the bottom rope for Krieger to climb into the ring. The prison guards cheered. The guards had never been so demonstrative before, O'Toole noted. They must be under orders.
Krieger smiled and held his hands up to quell the noise.
“Thank you, men,” he said cheerfully. “Today is a very special day. First, let me explain this is not a punishment session. All of you have witnessed Mr. O'Toole's fighting skills. He has kindly agreed to put his skills on display again. Haven't you, Mr. O'Toole?”
“Yes,” O'Toole answered reluctantly.
“This bout will be a test of skills between two warriors,” Krieger continued. “And fittingly, it will be fought under Marquis of Queensberry rules. I have acquired an impartial referee and the fight is scheduled for fifteen three-minute rounds. Is that okay with you, Mr. O'Toole?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. All that leaves is for me to introduce your opponent...” Kreiger turned dramatically, sweeping his arm out to draw attention to where he was pointing. “Wolfgar!”
The Sez So guards were the first to see Krieger's chosen one, starting to cheer his name as he passed by them.
“Wolfgar! Wolfgar! Wolfgar!”
If the prisoners thought Crator was so big there was no way Krieger could find a man larger or stronger, they were wrong. The neo-Nazi wunderkind Krieger had seconded for the fight looked like he had been carved from a mountain.
Wolfgar was seven-foot-two tall and appeared to be five-foot across. His shoulders were impossibly broad, tapering to a chest and abdomen rippling with muscles. Wolfgar’s skin was pale white and flawless except for a swastika tattoo on his right bicep. His jaw was square and firm. His blond hair was cropped high and tight, in strict military fashion. He could have b
een considered the archetypal example of Aryan perfection.
O’Toole stared at the behemoth as he climbed into the ring.
Krieger climbed out of the ring and walked to his throne. The elaborate chair had been placed ringside under several large umbrellas.
A man dressed in a black and white referee shirt climbed into the ring. O'Toole recognized him as one of the prison guards, immediately doubting the man's impartiality.
At ringside, Krieger had even gone to the trouble of getting a proper bell to signal the start and the end of each round. Beside it stood another guard. The American realized he was not going to get help from anyone. The outcome would be decided solely on the desire in his heart and the power of his fists.
The bell rang to start round one. Wolfgar didn't move fast. Instead he walked out slowly to the center of the ring. O'Toole met him there, firing out two quick left jabs.
The blows landed cleanly, as Wolfgar hadn't raised his gloves in defense, but they had little effect on the big Nazi. O'Toole pumped out another left followed by a straight right. They were good solid shots, but once again, the Nazi's head barely moved. Furthermore, O'Toole could swear Wolfgar smiled at him. The man was strong, that was for sure.
Then Wolfgar threw his first punches. For a big guy, he moved quick. He whipped out three left jabs, following them up with a crunching right cross. O'Toole reeled back under the onslaught.
Then a left hook to the body caught O'Toole on the right side, just above his hip bone. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer. O'Toole backed off, writhing in pain. Wolfgar didn't let up, just kept moving forward, throwing a flurry of punches.
O'Toole found himself against the ropes, his gloves raised to protect his head, as the giant went to work. Blow after blow rained down on him. Each punch sent a shudder of pain through his body.
He had to find the strength to fight his way out or risk being pummeled to death where he stood. As Wolfgar wound up for a big roundhouse right, O'Toole threw a left jab and then bobbed low as the Nazi's punch whistled overhead.
O'Toole followed his jab up with two swift uppercuts, tagging the Nazi on the jaw.
The punches got Wolfgar’s attention. His eyes flared with anger and he wound up for another roundhouse. O'Toole ducked under, sidestepping, moving off the ropes. Wolfgar turned to chase him only to run into a perfectly timed left hook. The Nazi staggered back into the ropes.
O'Toole took a moment to catch his breath. Unfortunately the moment also allowed Wolfgar to regain his composure. The giant moved off the ropes cautiously and adopted a boxing stance. Obviously, O'Toole had gained the big man's respect and was not being treated lightly anymore.
Both men met in the middle of the ring. Wolfgar fired out a body shot with his left. O'Toole, involuntarily lowered his right arm to protect his midriff, but this opened him up for a head shot. Wolfgar took the opportunity to throw a crunching left hook.
O'Toole felt the snap as the blow connected with his nose. He knew it was broken. Warm blood ran down over his lips and chin. He backed off, but Wolfgar pursued him, working the body, then the head. Each blow found its mark and O'Toole found himself against the ropes again, his arms raised in a hopeless effort to defend himself.
The bell sounded. Somehow, O'Toole survived the first round. But it seemed like the longest three minutes since recorded time, and once again he questioned the integrity of Krieger's timekeeper.
O'Toole staggered back to his corner, surprised to see a stool and a man waiting there for him. It was Jones.
“What are you doing?” O'Toole asked.
“Isn't it obvious,” Jones said. “Sit down, boyo. I am gonna be yer corner man.”
O'Toole didn't know what to make of the squat fellow before him.
“Sit down,” Jones repeated. “Let's have a look at that nose.”
O'Toole sat, and the Welshman went to work clearing the blood from O'Toole's face with a damp cloth. It was more of a mop up job, as he didn't have the tools to staunch the blood flow.
“Now watch out for this guy's left,” Jones said. “He ain't a 'Southy,' but his left hook has got some power behind it.”
O'Toole nodded as the bell rang to start the second round.
The boxers met in the middle of the ring. The Nazi was the first to attack, pushing out a succession of left jabs. O'Toole took them on his gloves, then angled to the left. Wolfgar's feet didn't move. He simply twisted his body to chase O'Toole, throwing a straight right. But O'Toole was out of range and Wolfgar had opened himself up.
O'Toole took the initiative, throwing a straight right that tagged the big German flush on the jaw. The American followed up with two lighting quick jabs that almost had Wolfgar falling over his feet.
The big Nazi straightened up and roared in anger. With both gloves, he pushed O'Toole in the chest, sending the American flying like a rag-doll into the ropes. Wolfgar took two giant strides and he was on O’Toole again, winding up for the left hook.
O'Toole ducked under the crunching blow, coming up fast on the inside, jabbing once and then following with two uppercuts.
Before the giant could counter, O'Toole again ducked under one of Wolfgar's flailing arms and danced to the center of the ring. Wolfgar turned quickly and chased his opponent, leading with a right. O'Toole sidestepped and jabbed, the punch landing cleanly on the Nazi's jaw.
O'Toole could swear he saw steam coming from Wolfgar's nostrils as the big man snorted and charged. Like a front-end-loader, he scooped O'Toole up and thrust him into the corner. As O'Toole hit the iron corner post the air was knocked from his lungs. He hung there slumped over the ropes. The giant went to work with a couple of hard body shots. First a right then a left to the midriff.
O'Toole struggled for breath. His time spent in the hotbox had taken its toll on his stamina. The week leading up to the fight had not been enough time for him to return to full strength.
As another blow crunched into his side, O'Toole collapsed to his knees in pain. Wolfgar tried to knee him in the head. The American grabbed the leg and hung on tight. Wolfgar tried to shake him free by banging down on O’Toole’s head as the referee finally stepped in. O'Toole released his grip as the referee began to count.
By the count of five, O'Toole was back on his feet breathing heavily. Wolfgar was about to move in again when the bell rang. O'Toole returned to his corner and found Jones looking at his watch.
“Not bad, boyo,” he said with a wry smile. “That round went four minutes and seven seconds. Yer can be sure it would have gone another five seconds if yer hadn't got up. They's out tae get yer, that's fer sure.”
O'Toole sat down and the Welshman went to work cleaning him up as best as he could.
FORTY-ONE
The third, fourth, and fifth were grueling rounds. Krieger's Aryan man mountain pounded ceaselessly on O'Toole's body. His face was swollen and his arms heavy, but O’Toole wasn't going to give up. If Krieger wanted this fight so badly, he was going to give him one he'd never forget.
The sixth round started slower than the previous rounds as the opponents sized each other up in the middle of the ring. As usual, Wolfgar attacked first. O'Toole blocked three sharp jabs and then ducked under a right cross, slipping away, moving back to the center of the ring.
The stone chiseled expression on Wolgar's face never changed. It was one of pure hatred and anger. The Nazi charged forward. O'Toole planted his feet, waiting. He ducked another right cross before going to work on Wolgar's midriff with a couple of solid body shots.
When the giant lowered his arms to protect his middle, O'Toole went upstairs – unleashing three lighting quick uppercuts. The second one was a beauty, clipping Wolfgar smack on the chin. Unfortunately, the third, which could have been the clincher if it had landed cleanly, was only a glancing blow as the Nazi's head was already rolling back.
O'Toole went to chase his opponent, but the bell rang. He returned to his corner and found Jones looking at his watch again.
The soldier looked
up with a big grin on his bulldog face.
“Yer must be getting tae them, boyo. That round only went two-minutes twenty. They were worried.”
Jones held a tin cup of water to O'Toole's lips. Taking a small mouthful, O’Toole rinsed his mouth before spitting a bloody stream over the edge of the apron.
“Now listen,” Jones said quietly. “Yer been payin' any attention tae this guy at the start of each round?”
“Why?”
“He starts the same every round. He's so strong, he has probably never had tae change his fight plan. But he always starts with three jabs then follows with a right. The thing is, he doesn't use his feet tae set himself fer the right. Yer saw it in the second round when yer angled away. He just twisted after yer, leaving himself open. But make sure yer crowd that left of his. If yer hang out there, he'll cream yer with it. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Put him down!”
FORTY-TWO
As the bell rang to start the seventh, O'Toole moved to the center of the ring watching the big Nazi carefully. Wolfgar moved more slowly, having not fully recovered from the punishment he received at the end of the last round. He eased forward warily.
Then he did it. He pumped out three quick jabs.
O'Toole, angled back to the left as he had before. The giant twisted and overextended himself as he went to throw a hard right cross. O'Toole was out of reach, but a microsecond after the blow whistled by, he closed on the Nazi and threw his own hard right. It crashed into Wolfgar's cheekbone, splitting the flesh.
While the Nazi was still off balance, O'Toole unloaded another right. Blood sprayed out over the ring. Then he threw two sharp shots to the big man's body, forcing the air from Wolfgar’s lungs.
