Leon Uris (39 page)

“You’re leaving with me now,” Chris snapped an order. “The way you’re going you’ll never make it back to camp.”

“I’ll leave when I am ready to leave and that is when I’ll leave.”

“God, you even speak like them when you’re up here.” Chris came to his feet. “You might phone Mother. She’s in London. I spoke to her and she rather pleaded for you to call her. I think enough is enough, as well. Call her.”

“Jesus,” Jeremy said, “what a fucking family…what a fucking country. Tell Mother, should the occasion arise, that I’ll contact her some day when I’ve finished my penance.”

Convoys of various sizes and shapes began to form into an enormous armada from Perth on down to Port Albany. Modern ships came in to replace old ones, the Japanese Navy escorted the Kiwi warriors from New Zealand, and contingent after contingent of Aussies arrived by rail.

As thousands upon thousands of recruits flooded in, it seemed there was a rumor for each soldier boy.

And variations thereof.

A camp town sprang up around the racetrack, along with sports and other recreation encouraged to alleviate boredom and the tension that always follows boredom. A string of new pubs was well attended. The Kiwis and Aussies faced off in mostly friendly competitions.

Kiwis had their go at boxing the Aussies’ pet kangaroos, and a fair few rugby matches kicked up clouds of dust on the grassless fields.

The best attended were the daily boxing matches, competitions to determine the champions of each weight class of the Expeditionary Force.

There was no doubt who was the heavyweight champion. Serjeant Baker, affectionately named Butcher Boy Baker, a tattooed giant weighing over seventeen stone and standing a bit over six feet and five inches. He had accrued every title through the Pacific and Asian commands to which his artillery unit was attached. There were no known or willing survivors to challenge him in this entire gathering.

Serjeant Baker and his entourage, therefore, put on daily challenge exhibitions, wagering on how long someone might last. His backers had to give enormous odds to find fresh fodder, but they were a greedy lot, and even laying fifteen to win one on their man, Baker never let them down.

At those odds there was a man or two a day willing to get into the ring to make his fortune, but they all met with uniform failure.

Rory and Johnny Tarbox were drawn inevitably to the
delicious odds the Baker followers were giving. Each day they huddled ringside to study the man, but generally his victim was dispatched before the Butcher Boy gave away very many of his secrets.

Rory and Johnny observed closely to see if foul means were employed. Chester was sent up to him to shake his hands when his gloves were off in the event they had been dipped in plaster. Johnny snatched one of his gloves, but it was not sliced or nicked nor did it contain any metal objects. Rory got a taste of his water, straight gin, but no enhancing drugs. They all watched Baker’s corner men to see if they were slipping pepper on his gloves or any other foreign substance to temporarily blind an opponent.

No, Butcher Baker had no need to fight too dirty.

He was slow and cumbersome, but no punch to his face fazed him. He’d stalk, corner, and wrap one arm around his opponent—then, good night, Clarinda. He could sink a destroyer with either hand. If, indeed, an opponent seemed troublesome, the Butcher Boy could become wicked and employ liberal use of elbows, forearms, head butts, low blows.

Neither Rory nor Johnny Tarbox even considered stepping in the ring with the big fellow until the Seventh New Zealand Light Horse Battalion was taken off the old coal burner that had brought them to Australia and transferred to a newly converted troopship, the
Wagga Wagga.
Rumor had it that they were not long for Port Albany.

Butcher Boy Baker was taking on three Kiwis on this day. After the first of them went out in the first round, the Serjeant Major and his cobber repaired to one of the pubs and left Chester to witness the rest.

Johnny was bemoaning the fact that they only got to stay in Melbourne for a quick visit. He had met his true love, it seemed, and would have pretty much jumped ship for one more night in paradise. After all these years, it was the real thing!

Chester wiggled his way to the bar.

“What happened?” Johnny asked.

“The three of them together lasted five rounds.”

“What a foul brute,” Johnny said.

“What were the odds?” Rory asked.

“Baker’s bookmaker had to give fourteen to make one.”

“Jaysus,” Rory moaned, “we’ll never live to see odds like that again.”

The three were silent in an otherwise very noisy room.

“How much money you got, Johnny?” Rory asked at last.

“I know what you’re thinking, Rory, and the answer is no.”

“I’m asking for other reasons,” Rory said.

“Maybe seven, eight quid.”

“Chester?”

A shrug was answer enough.

“Let’s see. I borrowed a hundred from Wally Ferguson,” Rory said, pulling his money out and counting it. “About thirty left. We’ve got thirty-eight quid between us and it won’t be much better after we get paid. The issue I am addressing is comfort. You served in the Royal Marines, Tarbox. What comforts did you enjoy?”

“You’ve got to be joking. They gave us steel wool to wipe our arses with.”

“What comforts have we had since we’ve been aboard ship?” Rory went on. “Slave ships had better ventilation and food. Slaves had a market value. We are expendable.”

“That’s enough,” Tarbox barked. “You’re trying to weave a spell on us.”

“I’m speaking of comfort. We’re going to land somewhere sometime. They’ve got to issue us our horses. We’ve got to train somewhere. The minute I leave the camp gate I want the kind of comfort a thousand quid or two can buy because the army isn’t going to give us comfort—however, Butcher Baker can supply it.”

“You’ll get your bloody comfort, fair enough. I’ve never seen a dead man who wasn’t comfortable.”

“We fan out, the three of us, and borrow as much as we can. Say, we put together a hundred quid and Baker’s
mates cover us with fifteen hundred quid. All we can lose is our hundred…but we stand to make FIFTEEN HUNDRED QUID.”

It was enough to cause a little transition in Johnny’s thinking. He recollected Rory in a few fights at the A&P’s in and out of the ring, often with blokes half again his size. Once, he had been foolish enough to get into the ring with Rory and didn’t last a round. Rory was a terror, all right, but this Butcher Baker ate terrors and monsters and alligators for breakfast. He had maybe three stone weight on Rory…at least over fifty pounds.

“A noble idea,” Johnny lamented, “but I’ll not let you do it.”

“Johnny, you and I have studied this fucker. He moves like an ox. He lifts his left heel and slides his left leg and pushes his jab only to keep you at bay until he can grab you. When he pushes that left jab out he is so off balance that, for an instant, his right hand is useless. Follow me, Chester?”

“Sure.”

“But somehow this awkward manure pile takes his opponents out with either hand,” Johnny reminded them.

“Chester, put your hands up,” Rory said, “let me show you the moves. Aye, that’s it. Now throw your left hand out and lean forward as you do it. That opens the whole left side of your body…right, Chester?”

“I suppose so, if you say so.”

“So what if you park a few left hooks to his body,” Johnny said.

“No, no,” Rory said earnestly. “He doesn’t like getting hit in the ribs. He goes berserk, like a mad rhino. He’s got to get rid of his man because he doesn’t like getting hit in the ribs.”

“In theory that’s magnificent,” Tarbox mocked.

“Know what I remember about being in the ring with you, Johnny?”

Tarbox began to pale.

“I remember that left hook you put in my belly. I can
still feel it. That’s why I was so desperate to stop you as fast as I could.”

“Oh no, I’m not getting in the ring with that sonofabitch,” Johnny said. “End of discussion.”

“I’m not asking you to get busted up, am I? I’m asking you to get about four or five of your dynamite left hooks to his side. Then I come in.”

“It is totally inappropriate for a warrant officer such as myself to be indulging in fisticuffs with enlisted personnel. I shouldn’t even be drinking beer with you.”

“You’re right,” Rory said, “I’ll speak no more except, well, maybe it just might have been a beautiful apartment in Paris overlooking the Champs de…you know, and the Arch of Triumph and all those big-titted French birds just sashaying up and down the old boulevard looking for their very own Johnny Tarbox, the big-spending handsome Kiwi Serjeant Major.”

The three of them managed to scratch up a hundred and seventeen pounds and Chester Goodwood was dispatched from the
Wagga Wagga
to the HMAS
Thunderhead
where Serjeant Baker held court. It was frightening to look at the Butcher Boy up close. Knowing the convoy would be off soon, this greedy lot agreed to the bouts, particularly when Chester assured them neither opponent weighed over fourteen stone.

Only one thing Chester asked for—a chaplain to referee and hold the bets.

Rory spent half the night in brotherly love, alternating images for Johnny of French birds and the open left side of Baker’s body. Punctuated with a bottle of gin, Johnny fell into a restless sleep, only partially terrorized.

It was a moody day as Rory and Chester and the Catholic chaplain led a semi-paralyzed Johnny Tarbox into the ring, where rules of engagement were gone over. Tarbox would go first and Landers second. A small matter
of the bets was discussed. Chester Goodwood put up a hundred and fifteen, which was covered by the Baker bunch’s sixteen hundred and fifty quid.

The mainly Aussie crowd was seething for Kiwi blood and gave their champion a most rousing hurrah.

“Time, lads,” the chaplain said.

There comes a moment to the life of every man when fear locks his every joint into an immovable frozen mass, or sees him go wild and frantic with fright, or the very same man comes to a golden acre on a golden plateau where an eternity of courage is condensed into a single fraction of a second with utter clarity.

Was it the thought of French breasts and nipples and white thighs above black stockings? Was it a life as a roustabout who had felt the whack of a mighty blow and survived? No one will ever really know, but as the referee called “Time, lads,” Johnny Tarbox was immaculately, divinely, focused on the left side of Butcher Boy Baker’s body whereon was tattooed a heart inside a map of Australia undersigned with the single word
Mother
.

Tarbox had transcended mortal fear and was some higher form of being, as if in a dream state. As Rory lad had predicted, when Serjeant Baker lifted his left heel to slide his foot forward in conjunction with a pawing jab, Mother-Heart-Australia opened up like the golden gates.

The din was so tremendous the whack went unheard. Johnny’s left arm vibrated as though it had been hit by an electric shock. The huge Aussie blinked, confused by the unseemly tactic, then reacted with a wild swing that Johnny was able to duck, giving him another clear view of Baker’s art work. The blow struck right around Perth.

Serjeant Baker, who had found himself in this situation every once in a while, collected himself and moved forward in a stalk. Knowing he had gained a measure of respect, Johnny’s terrible fear vanished and he put on a show of boxmanship by making himself elusive.

However, ButcherBaker knew the art of cutting down
the ring size for he spent half his time in there chasing and cornering his opponent. Feeling as if he had conquered Gibraltar now, Johnny leaned in with a head fake and damned if the Aussie didn’t go for it! AUSTRALIA!
POW!

“Don’t get reckless!” Rory screamed.

That is the last that Johnny Tarbox remembered until the blurred face of Rory came into focus. The smelling salts whizzed through Johnny’s head and brought him back to where he was.

“You did good,” Rory assured him.

“I never saw it coming. It was like a fourteen-inch artillery shell, but Jaysus, Rory, I heard him wince out loud the last time I hooked him.”

Butcher Boy remained standing in his corner favoring some pain in his side, perhaps only a cracked rib. His erstwhile second and manager came to the center of the ring.

“We’ll settle for fifty quid of theirs. My man is getting indigestion eating all these raw Kiwis. We’ll let the other kid live as a gesture of expeditionary unity.”

“Jaysus!” Rory screamed.

The announcer called for quiet through his loud hailer. “As an act of kindness and mercy, Serjeant Baker will allow the final boxer to be free of his commitment in that he is showing such terrible fear.”

Rory was in the ring and snatched the loud hailer.

“I demand to fight! Baker’s a liar!”

Baker gave a wave of disgust. As he started to climb through the ropes, Rory reached him, pushed him in the face, and walked around the ring with his hands raised in victory. When the confusion was settled, the match commenced.

Rory, the natural left-hander, came dancing out fighting right-handed. He’s fancy on his feet but he’s got nothing to hit me with, Baker preached to himself.

Fighting from this stance in the center of the ring, Rory showed very little. The big fellow’s arms were too long and he was just too high.

“Time.”

“How’s he breathing, Chester?”

“Not quite heavy enough.”

“Shyte. In order to corner me he has to throw that left jab.”

“Maybe he learned better,” Johnny said.

“Time.”

Suddenly, in the middle of the second round, Rory Landers switched from right-handed to left-handed, made a feint, and damned if the Aussie didn’t throw an instinctive jab. Rory ducked under it and slammed two fast right hands into Baker’s reddening ribs.