Better Times Than These (13 page)

Like Sharkey, Crump eschewed the evening meal, but only because the food he was offered was so unappetizing; the thought of being hit in the gut never entered his mind. He was lying on his bunk talking to Spudhead and DiGeorgio about the fight when he lapsed into recollections of one of his favorite suppers.

“You guys’d think you was in heaven if you could of sat down to that ol’ leg of pork and mashed potatoes—real mashed potatoes with little pieces of hard potatoes in them—and gravy and good hot turnips and greens—and iced tea . . .”

“For crissake, Crump, you wannta fucking drive us all nuts with your mother’s cooking?” DiGeorgio said. “You’re gonna get in the ring with some big gorilla and all’s you can talk about is your mother’s goddamned cooking.”

“Everybody’s mother’s cooking is good, Crump. You better start worrying about that fight tonight,” Spudhead said.

“You don’t have to worry about that fight—I’ll take care of it all right—but damn, I sure wish I had a real dinner before,” Crump said. “How da they think you can eat the stuff they give you on this boat? It ain’t fit for dogs,” he said disgustedly.

“Christ, Crump, will you stop talking about food? You orta go out and punch that bag on deck or somethin’,” DiGeorgio said.

“You wanna Hershey Almond Bar?” Spudhead said, his voice almost in a whisper.

“What?
Whatd’jew say?” Crump sat up on the bed.

“He says you want a Hershey Almond Bar, for crissakes—you got one, Spudhead?” DiGeorgio asked, leaning closer.

“Sure I got one.”

“Bullshit—they been outta ’em for a week. They said we won’t be able to get any till Okinawa; said some cocksucker bought ’em all.”

“I got one. I got more than one,” Spudhead said.

“You lyin’, you bastard,” DiGeorgio said.

“In my bag—I got hundreds of ’em.”

“You lying bastard,” DiGeorgio said.

“I ain’t lying—I got ’em in my bag,” Spudhead said.

“Let’s see,” Crump said. “C’mon, let’s see.”

Spudhead sidled over to his bunk, reached beneath it and fiddled with the combination lock of his duffel bag. He reached down inside as though he were going to come out with precious jewels. Carefully drawing out the Hershey Almond Bar and sticking it up the sleeve of his fatigue blouse, he walked back and let it slide out onto the wool blanket just beside Crump’s thigh.

“Jesus—you really do,” DiGeorgio said. “You been saving it?”

“I told you, I got plenty of ’em—didn’t I?” Spudhead said.

Crump ripped open the wrapper and devoured the contents like a starved wolf. He even ate part of the paper when it wouldn’t come unstuck from the chocolate.

“Christ, Crump, you gonna choke yourself to death,” DiGeorgio said.

Spudhead returned to the duffel bag for more bars—one each for the three of them this time.

“Hey, thanks, Spudhead,” DiGeorgio said.

“Yeah, thanks, Spudhead,” said Crump, wolfing down the second bar as he had the first.

“I thought if you ate something it might help you tonight,” Spudhead said.

“It might help,” Crump said.

DiGeorgio ate half of his candy, folded the paper around the rest and stuck it into his blouse pocket.

“Just stop talking about your mother’s cooking, for crissakes,” he said.

The matches began after evening chow. It was impossible for more than a handful of people to see much of the fighting, because the makeshift ring was surrounded by such a crush of bodies the only thing a man in the back could see was the tops of the fighters’ heads and an occasional aerial blow. It resembled a barracks brawl more than a boxing match.

Brill had been waiting nearly half an hour for the fights to get under way. It amused him that these stupid bastards about to be thrown into a real war would willingly smash each other around for fun—but as long as they would, he was going to enjoy the spectacle. He particularly liked the prospect of seeing officers get the shit kicked out of them by enlisted men, since most of them had made it a point to be so snotty to him.

Standing beside him was Sergeant Groutman, with whom he had shot craps in Trunk’s cabin that night. Brill both liked Groutman and also feared him a little. Something about him reminded Brill of himself; yet Groutman, with his big, hulking frame, was more self-assured, and this made Brill uncomfortable. Groutman went out of his way to be friendly, but it seemed to Brill that he wished to manipulate him in some way. Groutman was very much excited over the prospect of the fights and craned forward over people’s shoulders, his eyes wild; grinning; yelling, though he didn’t seem to care who won.

The first fight was a total mismatch. If it proved anything, it was that people who have had some experience boxing can beat the hell out of people who haven’t, this revelation becoming apparent in less than a minute as a thick-necked soldier from Guam destroyed a taller Italian boy from New York in a welterweight bout. After a flurry of fists had pounded his head and body for a few seconds, and the Guamanian stepped back for a breather, the Italian signaled he wanted no more by raising a hand into the air. The second fight was a replay of the first, ending when one of the combatants signified he had no interest in continuing. Between bouts, there was gregarious talking and joking and sizing up of the fighters.

As the names and outfits of the fighters were announced, there would be loud cheering and encouragement from their respective units, but when the bout actually started the yelling became chaotic, as though the men had turned into a crazed mob raging for blood and vengeance. When the third fight ended with a blow delivered so hard the defeated man seemed as though he had been lifted with a kick, everyone felt he had gotten to see what he had come for. And yet amid all the hollering and yelling, there seemed to be a collective nervous tremor, as though the defeated fighter had somehow paid dues for all of them.

Crump and Sharkey fought bouts that were back to back, and Bravo Company nudged as close to the ring as they could. Crump drew a solidly built blond boy who looked as if he had arrived that very afternoon from a Southern California beach, surfboard and all. His honest deep-blue eyes blinked rhythmically as he relaxed against the corner ropes, looking away from the opposite corner where Crump was, into the sea of excited faces around him, but with an expression that suggested he might have preferred to look beyond the crowd, at the real sea instead.

Crump, on the other hand, looked steadfastly at his opponent while DiGeorgio massaged his long neck and bony back.

The brass Navy bell rang, and Crump started slowly toward the beautiful blond boy in an odd, contorted stance, as though he were trying to crouch and stand up at the same time. The blond soldier fought a bobbing and weaving game, and he hit Crump first with a fast combination of left jabs, ducking beneath Crump’s defenses. Crump kept pursuing him, and each time he got close the blond hit a couple of licks, then spun away. Crump hadn’t thrown a solid blow, and it was already the middle of the round. His nose was starting to bleed a little, and the blood was trickling down to his lower lip, coloring his mouth guard.

Kahn had drunk half a pint of Scotch in his cabin after chow, and was smoking a cigarette in the back of the crowd. He couldn’t see much of what was going on, except for Crump’s tall head encased in his own gloves, and Kahn thought it strange that Crump should carry his gloves so high. In front of him, Trunk was yelling with the rest.

“Attaboy, Crump, attaboy—kill the bastard. He can’t hurt you, Crump—he’s a pussy. Go after him, Crump.”

Trunk was proud of Crump for getting into the fights. Crump was one of those he never could really figure out, and this surprised him even more than the time Crump had won the mile run on Company field day. Trunk knew the boy was kind of dumb, but you never could tell about these big dumb farm boys. Trunk had first taken notice of Crump after a fifteen-mile forced march when Crump had been brought to him by Sergeant Groutman, the squad leader, who found him in barracks hobbling around in shower shoes with blisters that looked as if they had been branded into the skin with molten-hot quarters. How the hell Crump had ever gotten through that march—and never complained—Trunk never knew; but when they sent him off to sick call, Trunk had said to Groutman, “That shithead’s either awful dumb or awful tough,” and Groutman had laughed his crazy, snarling laugh and said, “Naw, the fucker’s just scared shitless to speak up.”

It was the middle of round two before Crump landed a blow to the blond boy. By this time he had been pummeled savagely, and the skin around his face was mottled with reddish-purple marks, as though he were the victim of an awful birthmark. The blond had delivered another vicious combination when Crump heaved out with a right cross that knocked the blond back a couple of steps and stood him up straight. He dropped his guard just a bit, and looked at Crump as if he were hurt: not physically hurt, exactly, but as if his feelings had been hurt because Crump had hit him so hard. His honest blue eyes began blinking rhythmically again, and he lay back in a kind of rocking motion with his knees slightly bent and his muscular tanned arms pressed close in to his sides. Crump bore in and let loose with a powerful left hook that the blond boy took on his glove before backing away, as though he now respected Crump more for the earlier punch.

Kahn was hollering for Crump with the rest. It was obvious everyone felt Crump had the upper hand now, that he had taken the blond boy’s best shots and remained unfazed, that it was only a matter of time. Kahn watched, fascinated. Crump—big, muscular, sinewy Crump; lean and mean Crump, the way the Army wanted them. Crump, pressing forward, taking the shots but holding on, the big punch, the killer blow—that was it.

Let the blond boy jab away, he wouldn’t last long; he was in a ring twenty feet square and there was no place to hide. And Crump was there, always coming at him, pressing, his big dumb face looking at him, the way the Seventh Cavalry would be, the way Bravo Company would be, pressing in on the gooks, the big punch, moving forward, mortars behind, big artillery behind that, pounding away, a line of Crumps charging in the way Patch had said, colors flying, moving forward, “Garryowen,” crush them with the power, the power that stemmed from the almighty righteousness, brushing aside gnatlike punches from blond beach boys or yellow-faced Communist zips.

SHIT! That was what all this was about; what they never really taught you, but you realized it on your own, without benefit of the “school solution”: that only America had the Crump-like boring-in stamina to see it through to the end . . . and he, Lieutenant Billy Kahn, and the Crumps and all the rest of them were going now to prove that point!

Kahn’s head was raised up now, craning to see what was going on in the ring, his heart beating faster at his revelations, and also from the half a pint of Scotch, and he was only faintly aware of the frantic screaming of the crowd.

The blond soldier was circling Crump like a rock ’n’ roll dancer, and Crump was standing bewildered in the center of the ring, his head guarded in the same funny way as before, the big gloves about his ears. The blond boy was hitting him at will, moving to his left, circling, lashing out against the side of the head, so that the right side of Crump’s face looked as if it had been horribly sunburned. Somehow the second round had passed without Kahn’s noticing it, and he wasn’t sure how far into the final round this was.

The referee, a sergeant from Third Battalion, was standing in a corner enjoying the spectacle. He had not stopped the fight because Crump was still on his feet and also because nobody had asked him to.

Occasionally, he cast a questioning look at Crump’s corner, where DiGeorgio was crouched frantically yelling at Crump to turn head on to the blond. But Crump, either because he could not hear or because he did not care at this point, simply continued, backing around half a step slower than the honest-eyed blond boy, taking a merciless beating on the right side of his face.

The blond, moving rhythmically, began circling in the opposite direction, hitting Crump whenever he felt like it, knocking him back against the ropes. The crowd was at the height of its passion. It was certain Crump was a goner.

DiGeorgio couldn’t stand it anymore. He suddenly leaped inside the ring, throwing himself between the blond and Crump, his hands high in the air with the sign of surrender, and it was over. The blond boy backed off astonished, still blinking, and the referee helped DiGeorgio and Spudhead get Crump from the ring. The crowd noise settled to a murmur.

Kahn felt let down. Not so much because of Crump, although he was sorry for him, but because his whiskey had failed him. There had been that fleeting moment when everything seemed to come into focus; but like Crump, it was gone now, and Kahn was simply a man alone in a crowd.

On top of part of the ship’s superstructure, behind the ring, sat gray-haired Major Dunn, his transoceanic radio beside him. Kahn considered going over and talking to him, but before he could make a decision, there was a loud roar from the crowd as Sharkey stepped into the ring, a green Army towel around his shoulders.

In the opposite corner, a tall, powerful-looking black soldier was making his way between the ropes, wearing nothing but his fatigue trousers, not even sneakers. Kahn hadn’t realized Sharkey was fighting next, and he suddenly felt uncomfortable that he hadn’t offered to second for him, although Donovan had. The black man was at least six inches taller than Sharkey, and he looked as if he could move.

Sharkey could have been chiseled from a sack of cement hardened in the rain. His squat body was so compact it looked as if it had been somehow jammed together from a previously respectable height into this badgerlike mass of muscle now unveiling itself from the towel.

Brill, who had been looking forward to this all night, was reminded of the running arguments he had had years ago over whether or not a lion could beat a tiger. This was going to be good, he thought. Brill suspected Sharkey was going to get the hell beat out of him, which was appealing because it would probably take some of the cockiness out of the sonofabitch. Even though Sharkey was one of the few officers in the company who took the time to talk to him, Brill sensed a kind of condescending attitude. There were times when he liked Sharkey and times when he didn’t, and this was one of the times he didn’t.