by Jack Tunney
The Nazi dropped his hands, opening up his jaw. Planting his feet, O'Toole unleashed a fearsome uppercut. The sound was sickening as the blow shattered Wolfgar's jaw. The big man's eyes rolled back in his head, freezing momentarily before gravity asserted itself. The giant crashed to the canvas like a felled tree.
The prisoners in the crowd screamed out in disbelief. They began chanting his name.
“O'Toole, O'Toole, O'Toole.”
Krieger screamed an obscenity, slapping his riding crop back and forth, from one arm of his throne to the next, like a petulant child.
The referee stared at Wolfgar's inert form, wondering what to do.
“Well, aren't you going to count?” O'Toole asked.
The referee didn't know what to do. He looked around to Krieger. All he could see was the anger in Kommandant's eyes. He turned back to Wolfgar. The giant hadn't moved. He was not getting up anytime soon.
The referee walked over to the giant, trying to delay the inevitable. Then he slowly began to count. While he counted, O'Toole walked over to his corner. Jones was waiting, with a huge grin.
“What'd I tell yer?” Jones chirped.
“You told me. Take my gloves off,” the O'Toole said, holding out his hands, with the palms up, so Jones could get to the laces.
They were hard to untie due to the amount of blood on the gloves. If he had a knife, he would have cut them off, but the prisoners were not about to be given knives. Jones fumbled as best as he could with the knot.
“Eight... Nine... Ten.”
The fight had been over for two minutes, but it was now official. O'Toole had won.
To suggest Krieger was embarrassed and furious was an understatement. He smacked his riding crop across the arm of his throne once again. The loud crack rang across the camp, silencing the noise. Slowly he got to his feet. His jaw was clenched and he was flexing the crop to the breaking point between both hands.
“Have the prisoners marched back to their quarters,” he snapped.
The guards surged forward to begin herding the prisoners away from the ring.
O'Toole lifted the bottom rope to step down from the ring and join the other prisoners, but Krieger had other ideas.
“No, not you, Mr. O'Toole. Stay where you are. You have defied me for the last time,” the Kommandant said.
O'Toole stood frozen at the edge, wondering what the duplicitous Nazi was up to.
Signaling three guards, Krieger called them to his side.
“I order you to shoot the American,” Krieger spat.
The guards hesitated.
“Schießen Sie ihn!” Krieger yelled. Shoot him.
The guards raised their rifles, but by then it was too late. O'Toole leaped from the ring, knocking down the nearest guard with a crunching blow to the jaw. As O'Toole crashed to the ground, he rolled and snatched up the soldier's rifle. O'Toole hadn't fired a shot in anger in nine years, but he felt no qualms about it under the current circumstances. At point blank range, O'Toole fired, taking out a second guard.
“Stop him, you idiots! Stop him!” Krieger yelled, his voice at breaking point.
The third guard tried to draw a bead, but the fast moving American was too close and already upon him. The guard reeled back, dropping his weapon as he was struck in the face with the butt of the rifle. O'Toole scooped up a second weapon and slung it over his shoulder and turned to face Krieger.
However, the wily Nazi, had already scampered.
From behind him, a voice called.
“Boyo. I'd be happy to take that rifle of yer’s, if yer have a mind to part with it.”
O'Toole turned and found Jones moving up behind him. The American unslung the rifle and threw it to Jones, who caught it cleanly and then cocked it in one smooth movement.
“Let's get out of this place,” O'Toole growled.
“I'm with you,” Jones responded. “Let's burn it tae the ground!”
FORTY-THREE
The ground at O'Toole's feet exploded as the guards in the towers became aware of the situation and opened fire. O'Toole turned, dropped to one knee, and took aim at one of the shooters up on high. He squeezed the trigger and the Sez So guard toppled from the tower, plummeting to the ground below.
Jones had taken cover beside the ring and was shooting at the guards herding the other prisoners back to the barracks. As he opened fire, the guards broke away from the group and took cover. Jones hit one guard as he fled. Sean Calvin was the first of the prisoners to realize what was happening. He ran across to the fallen Sez So, picked up the man's weapon, and entered the fray, firing at the fleeing guards.
O'Toole turned his attention and sights on the guard in the tower to his left. He fired, but missed, the bullet splintering the wooden support beam. The guard returned fire. O'Toole lurched forward, as bullets rained down on his position.
Taking cover beside Jones near the apron of the ring, O'Toole took aim again and fired. This time his aim was true. The guard dropped his rifle and slumped forward, hanging over the edge of the tower.
O'Toole cracked open the rifle and checked his ammunition. He had three shots left, and there were two guards left in the other towers. Once they were out of the way, it would be easier to take the fight to the Sez Sos.
O'Toole spun around and lined up the guard positioned in the third tower. A shot plowed into the boxing ring's sideboard, near O'Toole's head, but the boxer couldn't allow himself to be distracted. He drew a bead on the man in the tower and squeezed the trigger. Another clean kill. The guard was thrown backwards to somersault from his perch.
Jones fired a few more shots at the Sez Sos, who were now scattering across the camp, taking cover where they could. Jones lined up another guard and fired, but the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. He was out of ammunition.
“I'm out,” he yelled as another bullet struck the sideboard of the ring.
O'Toole fired once again, this time at the guard in the fourth tower. The guard fell.
“I have one shot left,” O'Toole confessed.
“Then make it count, boyo,” Jones said.
Two Sez So guards charged at them, firing wildly as they approached. O'Toole lowered his head, took aim, and fired. One of the guards was thrown back with the impact from the bullet. The other charged forward, anger and hatred in his eyes.
As he closed in, he brought his rifle to bear and took aim.
There was a shot.
But it wasn't from the Sez So guard, whose eyes rolled back into his head. He staggered forward one step, then collapsed in a heap. Standing directly behind him was Sean Calvin with a smoking rifle.
“It looked like you guys could use some help,” he said with a grin.
Both O'Toole and Jones rushed to the dead soldiers and collected their weapons.
“Good timing,” O'Toole said to Calvin as he joined them.
“I couldn't let you two have all the fun,” Calvin quipped.
“Are you ready to take some guards out?” Jones asked.
“Sure am,” Calvin replied.
“Good, then come with us,” Jones said.
With Jones leading the way, the three men charged out. They ran toward the Sez So guards positioned near the other prisoners, shooting as they went.
Jones opened fire on two guards who were cowering near the corner of the first barracks. They jumped back behind the wall as bullets peppered their location.
Following hard on Jones' heels, O'Toole fired at a guard near the mess hall. The first shot missed. The second found its target. The guard slumped to the ground, firing a shot into the air as he fell.
Calvin swung around in a wide arc, his rifle pressed hard against his shoulder. One of the guards Jones had lined up in his first sweep decided to try his luck and poke his head out again. It was a mistake. Calvin's aim was true, and the guard dropped dead.
The other prisoners finally cottoned on to what was happening. Unarmed, risking life and limb, they rushed at the remaining guards. With sheer weight of nu
mbers, they overpowered the Nazis.
Eventually, Jones had the time to assemble his soldiers and arm them with weapons from the fallen Sez Sos. Then he approached O'Toole.
“That was tae easy,” Jones opined.
“It seemed that way, but if I know Krieger, he'll have something planned,” O'Toole replied.
“Then what now?”
“I'm going after him,” O'Toole growled.
“My men are ready,” Jones said. “Lead the way, and we'll take him down together.”
O'Toole nodded and ran off in the direction of the Kommandant's quarters. Jones and his men followed behind cautiously. As they approached, it was no surprise when a barrage of shots rang out from the window of the building. Krieger had locked himself in with guards. He also had other men outside in support.
A Sez So guard leaned out of the door and opened fire. The guard had an automatic weapon and the trail of bullets chewed up the ground in front of O'Toole. The American leaped for cover at the last second, but came up firing. His bullet hit the guard in the chest, sending him flying back into Krieger's office. The door shut behind him, sealing the building once again.
O'Toole turned as he heard the sound of combat boots on gravel heading in his direction from behind.
The first wave of Sez Sos rounded the corner of the mess hut. When they saw O'Toole, they opened fire. The boxer didn't flinch as bullets whizzed around his head. He raised his rifle and pulled the trigger calmly, shooting into the mass of soldiers as they moved out from the cover of the building. Some didn't know what hit them as they were cut down in an instant.
Jones and his men did the same, opening up on the guards. The Sez Sos fell like tenpins. But this was only half of the remaining Sez So force. Another band of guards burst from the gap between the buildings on the opposite side of the marshaling area. These men were all armed with automatic weapons, and a storm of gunfire rained down on the rebellious prisoners. The prisoners had been suckered in by a band of decoys, and were now caught in a deadly crossfire.
However, regardless of the odds, O'Toole relentlessly kept up the onslaught. He knew winning this battle was the only way out of Hell Camp XXI. A bullet whistled by his ear, and then a second later, hot lead cut a trail across his left cheek. He paid it no mind and continued killing Sez Sos.
His brazenness forced a retreat, and the soldiers sought cover behind the hut again. O'Toole was thankful as it gave him an opportunity to reload. He pulled out the spent magazine and inserted a full clip. Another ten shots. He took aim, firing into the endless bank of Sez So guards gathered at the corner of the building. They ducked for cover as wood splintered with every shot. After five seconds of concentrated fire, the magazine was empty. O'Toole reloaded again.
During the respite, a guard moved out fractionally to fire. O'Toole took the opportunity and squeezed the trigger. The guard spun like a ballet dancer, firing wildly into the air, as he collapsed dead. The boxer kept firing until his gun clicked empty.
Jones wasn't in a position to help. As he battled it out, a bullet creased his thigh, blood issuing freely from the wound. He kept yelling orders to his men, as the gunfire increased. He watched with dread, as men went down. It looked liked the rebellion would now be quashed in seconds.
But then time stood still, or at least it was how it seemed to O'Toole. Suddenly, the doors of the Sez So motor pool exploded, splintering apart. One of the troop carrier trucks burst from the smoldering maw. Behind the wheel was Donal McGee, and beside him in the cab was Sid O'Brien and Owen Green.
Riding shotgun on the running board was Sean Calvin. Somehow, he had got his hands on a twenty-caliber machine gun and was laying down wave after wave of hot lead.
The Sez So line broke, scattering in all directions.
As McGee heaved at the wheel, the truck swerved sharply, almost rocking up onto two wheels. The vehicle turned, swatting three Sez So soldiers like they were flies.
The truck ground to a halt beside O'Toole.
“Are you ready to end this?” McGee asked through the window.
“Sure am,” O'Toole growled.
“Then climb aboard, soldier. We're about to pay a house call on Kommandant Krieger.”
O'Toole leaped up onto the other runner and was handed a snub-nosed machine gun. He nodded his appreciation and slung the strap over his shoulder and released the safety.
“Let's go,” O'Toole yelled.
Without hesitation, McGee jammed the truck into gear and mashed his foot down on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, picking up speed by the second.
The guards positioned in Krieger's quarters fired wildly at the oncoming truck as it raced toward the building. The windscreen shattered, and the Americans in the cab ducked, but McGee kept his foot down hard on the gas pedal.
O'Toole held on tight as the truck crashed through the wall of Krieger’s office. The weatherboards splintered like matchsticks and glass shattered upon impact. The truck ground to a halt in a cloud of dust and smoke. O'Toole leaped clear and began shooting the Sez So guards who were completely disorientated. He killed three of them before they even had a chance to think.
Calvin gunned down a fourth. The fifth, dropped his weapon and threw his hands into the air, surrendering. The Americans let him go. The startled and confused guard ran through the broken wall, out into the compound.
But where was Krieger?
FORTY-FOUR
Krieger's office was a shambles. The truck had pushed the office desk back hard against the wall until it had snapped. The statue had lost its head and was lying on its side. The painting of the Fuhrer had been dislodged from its position on the wall.
O'Toole put his foot through the painting and then clambered over the fractured desk to the rear wall. There was something unusual about the wall. It wasn't running perpendicular to the other walls. This maybe wasn't so strange, as a five ton truck had just rammed through one wall, but what was strange was the four-inch opening at one end. O'Toole stuck his fingers into the gap and grasped the wall, pulling back. The wall began to move, turning on a central hinge. He dragged it around until there was just enough room for him to squeeze through.
O'Toole knew he must have looked a sight as he pushed through the gap into Krieger's secret living quarters. He was still kitted out in his boxing shorts and boots, his body covered in dust, blood and sweat. His appearance was in stark contrast to the room he found himself in. It was a picture of opulence.
Before him was sunken lounge area that would have put the finest homes to shame. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, lighting up the stark white room. The floor was polished Italian marble. Transparent chiffon drapes billowed from the ceiling, giving the room an airy feel.
The furniture was all hand crafted, with decorative motifs carved into the mahogany woodwork. On one wall was a display of vintage military weapons. There were swords, spears, knives, and muskets. On the opposite wall was a large oil portrait. It was of Krieger. O'Toole noted it was twice the size of the picture of Hitler that had hung in the outer office. Krieger was certainly self-obsessed.
“Drop the gun,” Kreiger said to his left.
Disappointed he had allowed himself to be distracted, O'Toole turned his head. The Nazi was holding a Luger on him. The American dropped his weapon. It clattered noisily on the marble floor.
“Now move away from the door,” Krieger added, waving the barrel of the gun.
O'Toole moved down a step to the sunken lounge area, past an ornately carved chaise lounge. The Nazi followed slowly after him.
“I should have killed all the Americans the day you arrived,” Krieger snarled.
“Why didn't you?”
“It would have been too easy. I wanted to break you. I wanted to see you grovel.”
“Why?”
“Have you ever heard of Ulrich Krieger?”
“No.”
“And you never will. He was my younger brother. He wasn't a soldier. He was a schoolboy. But he died in the wa
r. He was killed by the Americans when they bombed Düsseldorf.”
“So this is about revenge?”
“It's more than revenge,” Krieger snapped. “It's about my birthright.”
“You're deluded.”
“And you, Mr. O'Toole, your luck has run out.”
Krieger raised his arm to shoot, but O'Toole lunged forward to knock the Nazi back. The German fired, the bullet flying high and wide. O'Toole grabbed Kreiger’s gun hand and smacked it into the wooden arm of a Queen Anne lounge.
The Luger flew away, striking the floor with such force the charge detonated in the breech and a bullet flattened against a wall. The room thundered with the reverberation from the shot.
Krieger pushed O'Toole back. He threw a right cross that tagged the American right on the jaw. O'Toole reeled back, stunned by the bare-knuckle blow. He shouldn't have been so surprised. The boxing ring in the camp showcased Krieger's fondness for the sport. Therefore a man like Krieger should be expected to know how to box.
Krieger came in fast, unleashing a wild flurry of punches. O'Toole held his tired arms up to ward off the blows. When the Nazi lunged to the right, O'Toole went to follow him. However, Krieger stopped and threw a crisp straight right. O'Toole was caught in no man's land and the punch again caught him smack on the jaw.
O'Toole staggered back, shaking his head.
Slowly, O'Toole got his wits about him and advanced on Krieger. He pumped out two quick left jabs, following them up with a hard straight right. Then, while Krieger was still recovering, O'Toole threw a wild uppercut into Krieger's stomach, taking the wind out of the Nazi's sails. Krieger slumped over, sucking air hard.
O'Toole did not let up. Blow after blow thundered down. Krieger threw a wild haymaker in a futile attempt at attack. The Nazi's swing was wild and wide. O'Toole ducked under it and moved in, throwing a hard right into Krieger's breadbasket.
The German buckled and slumped to his knees, dropping his arms. O'Toole stepped up and threw a crunching uppercut, which caught Krieger on the point of the jaw. The force of the blow threw the Nazi back, landing him in the center of a glass topped coffee table. The glass shattered under his weight, and Krieger fell through onto the hard marble floor.
