by Jack Tunney
The German's eyes rolled back in his head. He was done.
O'Toole turned and started for the gap in the wall where he had entered. As he looked up, Jones' head poked through. At first, Jones appeared to be smiling, but then his face switched to abject horror.
“Look out,” the Welshman yelled.
O'Toole ducked as Krieger lunged at him with a sword. The blade missed him by a fraction of an inch.
Krieger's face and arms were lacerated with cuts, blood running freely from the wounds. His eyes were crazed and full of hatred. He lunged at O'Toole again, trying to run him through.
O'Toole sidestepped at the last second, then reached out and grabbed the blade. Krieger began to pull and twist at the sword, dragging it away, but O'Toole kept his grip. All the while, the blade cut into his hand.
Krieger brought his second hand around on the handle and with both hands tried to pry the weapon free. O'Toole's bloody hand slipped, and with the release, Krieger was overbalanced. He fell backward onto the floor, the sword spilling from his hands, and clattering beside him.
O'Toole fell back in the opposite direction, landing heavily, smacking his head on the marble floor. He tried to sit up, but the world was spinning. Squinting he made out the blurred figure of Krieger, who was climbing to his feet. The Nazi reached down for the sword and picked it up, and advanced upon the American.
O'Toole knew he had to move, or die.
Krieger stood above him, with his sword raised.
Rolling to his side, O'Toole kicked Krieger's booted foot, throwing the Nazi's aim off at the last second. The blade came down swift and fast, sparking on the hard floor.
Krieger spun and raised the sword for another strike, but O'Toole had raised himself to his haunches, and sprung at his German adversary.
O'Toole's shoulder plowed into Krieger's stomach. Krieger dropped the sword as he was knocked back, tripping over his feet, falling to the floor. O'Toole collapsed beside him. From his prone position, Krieger elbowed O'Toole in the ribs, and then reached out for the sword once again.
O'Toole's whole body was wracked with pain. The elbow to the ribs felt like a sledgehammer blow. He could hardly move, and a red mist dulled his sight.
Kreiger now had the sword in hand, and had dragged himself to kneeling position. He was preparing for the final coup de grass.
On his back, O'Toole was helpless. With his hands he frantically reached out for a weapon. Anything to defend himself. His hand clasped a large shard of glass from the shattered coffee table. As Krieger held the sword to the heavens, O'Toole, summoning the last of his strength, sat up, and with both hands drove the shard through the German's heart.
His eyes wide and full of horror, Krieger froze, peering down at the glass dagger protruding from his chest.
Spitting blood, Krieger tried to speak, “You... you...”
He never finished. He toppled to the ground lifeless.
O'Toole was too exhausted to move. He sat there taking deep breaths, staring at the dead man. He was pleased he had killed him. Krieger had deserved to die.
FORTY-FIVE
Many of the Sez So soldiers were dead. The others had fled into the jungle when they saw the situation was hopeless. The battle was over. Krieger's world of hurt would soon be little more than a bad memory.
The Americans had survived. McGee and Green, both had minor injuries and would be fine. Calvin, despite some hair-brained and reckless heroics, came out with barely a scratch. And O'Brien was right as rain. They just hoped young Patrick Reilly had somehow made it through. O'Toole was a mess, but no one doubted his toughness. He would survive.
All the prisoners under the leadership of Staff Sergeant Thomas Jones, gathered what supplies they could, and set fire to whatever was left in Hell Camp XXI. They were happy to see it burn.
Armed to the teeth, the men climbed into the trucks, and drove through the front gates. They didn't know where they where they were, or where they were going, but it had to be better than the Hell Camp. And at least, they were free.
And Heaven help any man who tried to stop them from getting home.
EPILOGUE
Danny Reilly's Bar, Hell's Kitchen, New York, 30 October 1974...
A middle-aged man wearing a battered trilby hat pushed through the doors and entered the bar. The room was crowded. A small television was on above the bar showing a heavyweight championship title fight beamed via satellite from the African Republic of Zaire. The two combatants were Muhammad Ali and George Foreman, in a fight that had been dubbed “The Rumble in the Jungle.”
The middle-aged man in the trilby ignored the television. He had no interest in boxing anymore. He moved to the bar, removed his hat, and signaled the barman. The barman made his way down the length of the bar.
“What'll you have,” he asked.
“A sarsaparilla,” the man said.
“You sure you don't want something stronger?” the barman asked, almost incredulously.
“I don't drink,” the man responded, looking up into the eyes of the barman.
The barman stared back. Then a chill ran up his spine as he recognized the man standing before him.
He had aged. His hair had thinned out and turned gray and his face was jowly and heavier. The years had not been kind to him, but there was no doubting it was Brendan O'Toole.
Patrick Reilly was no longer the head-strong lad of twenty years ago. He inherited the bar when his father had died in 1969. And it suited him to the ground. He had never truly settled down since returning from Africa in 1955.
The country had messed him up. He had almost died in Hell Camp XXI, but miraculously he had been spirited to a Sez So hospital in Ragalla. His second piece of luck occurred when a UN sanctioned peacekeeping force stormed the hospital and overthrew the Sez So rebels.
Patrick had been flown to Cape Town to recover fully and then back to the States. The road to recovery had been hard on both his body and his mind. But the bar suited him. It felt comfortable. It felt like home.
“Brendan, is that you?” Patrick asked, his jaw agape, barely able to believe it. He had not seen O'Toole in twenty years. No one had. After the escape from the Hell Camp, O'Toole had all but disappeared off the face of the earth.
“It is you ...” Patrick reaffirmed.
O'Toole nodded. Patrick was almost fit to explode. He wanted to run around to the other side of the bar and hug his old friend.
“Glad to see you made it out,” O'Toole said. His voice was low and raspy. “I wasn't sure if they would keep their word and look after you.”
“Yeah, I made it. McGee told me what you did. I can't thank you enough.”
“No need. I owed you. I owed your family.”
“But still, the way I hear it...”
“Forget it,” O'Toole said, embarrassed as the events from his time in camp came flooding back. The Hell Camp in Sezanda was a memory he was keen to forget. He looked away, and stared at the television screen, looking for a way to change topic. “What's this thing everybody is watching?” he asked.
“It's the heavyweight championship. They're calling it the Rumble in the Jungle,” Patrick answered, surprised O'Toole was unaware of the event. After all, it had been one of the most talked about and hyped boxing matches of all time.
O'Toole nodded and stared at the men on the screen. It didn't look like much of a Rumble in the Jungle to him. It looked like any other fight – just two men slugging it out in a boxing ring.
But then he decided that was a good thing. No boxer, no matter how tough or strong, should have to go through what he went through. Boxing should be a sport, a test of skills, not a political statement. It should not be about color, creed, race, religion or any form of supremacy. That was the way he’d been taught by Father Tim all those years ago.
And nobody should ever die in the ring.
O'Toole polished off the remains of his drink.
“Well, Patrick, I've got to be going,” he said. “I am pleased to see you've sett
led and made something of yourself.”
He picked up his hat and turned to leave.
“Hey wait,” Patrick yelled. “What about you? Where have you been the last twenty years?”
“Here, there, everywhere,” O'Toole answered cryptically with a smile. “I spent a bit of time in the Philippines, in Manila.”
“Manila! What on earth did you do there?”
“That's a story for another day,” O'Toole answered, as he turned and walked out of the bar.
THE END
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FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS
Los Angeles 1954
Patrick “Felony” Flynn has been fighting all his life. Learning the “sweet science” from Father Tim the fighting priest at St. Vincent’s, the Chicago orphanage where Pat and his older brother Mickey were raised, Pat has battled his way around the world – first with the Navy and now with the Los Angeles Police Department.
Legendary LAPD chief William Parker is on a rampage to clean up both the department and the city. His elite crew of detectives known as The Hat Squad is his blunt instrument – dedicated, honest, and fearless. Promotion from patrol to detective is Pat’s goal, but he also yearns to be one of the elite.
And his fists are going to give him the chance.
Gangster Mickey Cohen runs LA’s rackets, and murderous heavyweight Solomon King is Cohen’s key to taking over the fight game. Chief Parker wants wants Patrick “Felony” Flynn to stop him – a tall order for middleweight ship’s champion with no professional record.
Leading with his chin, and with his partner, LA’s first black detective Tombstone Jones, covering his back, Patrick Flynn and his Felony Fists are about to fight for his future, the future of the department, and the future of Los Angeles.
http://tinyurl.com/bwob3qz
FIGHT CARD: THE CUTMAN
Havana, Cuba. 1954
Mickey Flynn is an ex-Korean War vet turned merchant marine. He was born in the ghettos of Chicago and raised in an orphanage with his younger brother, Patrick. He was one of several young men who received an education from the nuns at St. Vincent's.
But he was also taught the "sweet science" by Father Tim, a Golden Gloves boxer and retired police officer who only knew one way to bring a troubled boy to manhood. Father Tim worked with his young charges, taught them how to jab and punch and throw a hook that seemed to come out of nowhere. When the young men left St. Vincent's (Our Lady of the Glass Jaw), they were changed, fit and ready to take on the troubles the encountered around the world, no matter where they found them.
Now Mick's in Havana, working on WIDE BERTHA, his ship. After surviving a fierce storm at sea, the last thing Mick and the crew need to do is get crossways with the Italian organized crime flooding Havana, but it doesn't take much to put him in the cross hairs of a vengeful mob boss working for Lucky Luciano.
Unable to get free of bad luck and unfortunate circumstance, Mick ends up in the ring in an illegal boxing match fighting a human killing machine.
http://tinyurl.com/cjm3s45
FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION
Kansas City, 1954
Jimmy Wyler is a fighter punching his way straight to the middle. All he wants is to make enough dough to buy his girl, Lola, a ring. And maybe make the gang back at St. Vincent’s orphanage proud.
A slick mobster named Cardone has an offer for Jimmy – money, and lots of it – for a fix. Jimmy takes the fight. The ring is almost on Lola’s finger, until Jimmy collides with Whit – another mobster with another up-and-coming fighter.
Whit has an offer of his own. Same fight, different fix. Now Jimmy is caught between two warring factions of the Kansas City underworld. He can’t make a move without someone getting mad, getting even, or getting dead.
From sweat-soaked fight halls to darkened alleyways, the countdown has begun. With his girl and his manager in the crossfire, everything Jimmy ever learned about fancy footwork and keeping his defenses up may not be enough …
Fight night is approaching and nobody is going to be saved by the bell.
http://tinyurl.com/co4elvj
FIGHT CARD: COUNTERPUNCH
Milwaukee 1954
Danny Dugronski has been a fighter all his life.
As an orphan at St. Vincent's Asylum for Boys, he first learned the "sweet science" of boxing from Father Tim, the battling priest. Then the Marine Corps taught him far more lethal fighting tactics before shipping him off to do battle in the hell of the South Pacific.
Now, with World War II over, Danny "The Duke" has returned home and earned a respectable ranking as a regional heavyweight in the Milwaukee area. But his record, free of KO losses, is jeopardized by a mob front man who tries to push him into a series of rigged fights.
When Danny refuses, hard push comes to deadly shove, and he must call upon all his fighting skills to stand his ground. And when Danny comes out swinging, he’s determined to put the mob down for the count.
http://tinyurl.com/brmbwwm
FIGHT CARD: HARD ROAD
Atlantic City, 1957
Professional boxers Roberto Varga and Michael Boyle were once pals growing up at St. Vincent’s Asylum for Boys in Chicago. Under the guidance of Father Tim, the fighting priest, they learned values, respect, responsibility, and how to fight fair.
But those lessons didn’t stick with Boyle. Two years after leaving St. Vincent’s, Boyle and Varga face-off in the ring with Boyle pounding out a bloody, lopsided decision, Varga swore wasn’t on the up and up.
In the seven years since, their careers have taken different paths. Guided by unscrupulous manager Tommy Domino, Boyle is positioned for a title shot against Sugar Ray Robinson. Varga, however, has struggled in a career still haunted by the bloody loss to Boyle.
When the boxer scheduled to fight Boyle in Atlantic City breaks his hand two weeks before the fight, Domino scrambles for a replacement. He finds Varga toiling in a Philadelphia gym and offers him the rematch Varga has been waiting years to get. For Varga, it’s a chance to finally even the score, a chance to get the title shot he’s always dreamed about. But Boyle is not the only formidable foe aligned against Varga.
Redemption comes at a bloody price – a price perhaps too high for Varga to pay …
http://tinyurl.com/c77cmdk
FIGHT CARD: KING OF THE OUTBACK
Outback Australia, 1954
Two rival tent boxing troupes clash over a territorial dispute in the Outback town of Birdsville. In the sweltering heat, tensions simmer, tempers flare, and as things reach boiling point, a boxing tent is burned to the ground.
Fighting men know only one way to solve their disputes, and that’s in the ring. The solution, a show-down, smack-down, winner take all bout between the two rival outfits.
In the blue corner, representing ‘Walter Wheeler’s Boxing Sideshow’ is Tommy King, a young aboriginal boxer with a big heart and iron fists.
In the red corner, representing ‘Arnold Sanderson’s Boxing Show’, is ‘Jumpin’ Jack Douglas, a monstrous wrecking machine from the city – a man who’ll do anything to win.
The fight – brutal. In the world of Tent Boxing, in the harsh Australian Outback, weight divisions and rules don’t count for much. It’s a fight to decide, who is indeed, King of the Outback!
http://tinyurl.com/d9xrfq3
FIGHT CARD: A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD
(SEQUEL TO FIGHT CARD: SPLIT DECISION)
Chicago, 1955
A year after the pulse-pounding action of Split Decision, Jimmy Wyler is back in Chicago trying to put his life back together. Working a job washing dishes in a late night diner, Jimmy vows to never get into a boxing ring again.
But then, someone needs him. Leo, a teenaged boy who fights hard against the city every day, could use a
man like Jimmy. To help save him from his alcoholic father, and to save his only sister from a pimp bent on turning her out.
Jimmy must fight again. Fight for the ones who can?t fight for themselves. It will take him from fistfights in back alleys to no rules bouts with crowds screaming for blood and all the way back to the orphanage where he grew up. Along the way, blood will be spilled and knuckles will be bruised.
