Standing at the Scratch Line (11 page)

“You got it wrong,” King answered. “I do want somethin’, but there ain’t nothin’ I want more than bein’ my own man.” King stood up and made his way out of the tent. Big Ed and Professor followed him out. “Ask Professor why he chose to go back to the front. He say he ain’t a man of violence.”

It was brisk and cold. The brightness of the stars were dimmed somewhat by the bright perimeter lights around the encampment. The three men stood in front of several long rows of tents, many of which were lit by the glow of kerosene lamps, and heard the sounds of men laughing and talking as well as the clanking of engines and machinery.

Rubbing his hands for warmth, Big Ed asked Professor, “Why did you choose to go back to the front? It sure don’t seem smart.”

“Because I’m fed up with all this prejudice and I can’t seem to escape it as long as I’m around American whites! This bullshit with the brakes is just another part of an unrelenting saga of whites needing to keep us down in the midst of fighting a war. You’d think that they would want to concentrate on their enemies.”

Professor waved his hand beyond the camp, indicating the German lines. “The war is much clearer to me when I’m out there, especially if I’m going to be fighting alongside the French. The enemy is clearer. The enemy is always the Germans.

“I came here to fight for my country and show that my people are worthy of being treated as first-class citizens. Yet I see for every victory we win, it’s being discounted or attributed to someone else. It’s driving me crazy. For all the blood that has been spilt, not a damn thing has been proven. The Three hundred Fifty-first will be wiped off the record books as if it never existed! All those colored men who died will never get credit for their courage and sacrifice!”

“That’s the problem with all them rules and morals and shit you got, Professor; the world don’t care ’bout that,” King said, bending down to touch his toes. The cot had made him slightly stiff. “The world don’t care about that. It gon’ do what it has always done. The strong take all and the hell with the meek. You tryin’ to hold on to them rules while the world’s going crazy is like a mouse tryin’ to cross a meadow durin’ a cattle stampede. The whole world’s shakin’ around you. It don’t matter how fast you run or how good you do whatever you doin’, if you don’t find a hole soon, and a deep one, it’s your butt.”

“Ain’t you got no rules, LT?” Big Ed asked.

“I just got two rules: be courageous and don’t take no shit!”

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 A T U R D A Y,  
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 A R C H   1 6,  1 9 1 8
   

Sergeant Bull Robinson was one of the top knuckle fighters in camp. Not as tall as King, he had tremendously long, powerful arms and fists as big as hams. He was a bully with a vicious streak. When King and Professor stumbled into Bull pummeling a soldier from the 369th behind the mess hall, they put an end to the fight and Bull’s bad intentions. After a minor scuffle, it was decided that King and Bull would fight over the scratch line in the warehouse behind the armory on Saturday.

The word of the fight spread through the camp. Most everyone had seen Bull Robinson in action, but only a few had witnessed King. The cardplayers and gamblers had seen King dispatch a few poor losers, but none of those were on par with Bull. Still the cold-blooded efficiency of King’s actions prior to the MPs’ arrival was often brought up in discussion. There were those who thought it was only Bull’s agility that saved him from getting his throat cut and had King followed up on his advantage, there might not be a need for another fight.

Beyond the dispute of which man would win, it was King’s words that captured everyone’s interest. “I didn’t come to play. I came to kill.” The Negro barbers even turned it into a joke while they were cutting hair. One would say in a high voice, “You got a knife!” His companion would respond in a low voice, “So what? I told you, I didn’t come to play.”

The soldiers of the 369th had no knowledge of King other than that he was battle-tested, but many knew Willis Broadwater, the man who had been beaten by Bull Robinson before King and Professor interceded. Willis was one of the premier drummers in the regimental band and good friends with Sergeant Jim Europe, the regimental bandleader who shared the tent with Big Ed. Tempers were running hot; there were many voices raised in support of vengeance. All the next day, there were rumblings that the 369th would march on the Sixth Infantry Transport Division, but cooler heads prevailed. It was decided that any vengeance be planned after the impending fight, if it was necessary. Sergeant Europe held several meetings in Big Ed’s tent with other regimental sergeants from the 369th and they decided to make sure that the fight would be well attended by their soldiers.

At three o’clock on the day of the fight, Big Ed showed up at King and Professor’s tent with a newly oiled and cleaned Lewis machine gun wrapped up in a blanket. “Just in case,” was all he said.

The warehouse where the fight was designated to take place was a large, high-ceilinged room made out of corrugated tin and was set on a cement foundation. Seats were arranged by stacking crates in rising steps against the four walls. The ring was a rectangle of bare, unpolished cement. The fight was scheduled to start at six. At five o’clock King walked in with Big Ed and the remaining four members of his squad. The place was jam-packed with soldiers. There were at least four hundred soldiers seated, shoulder to shoulder, on the crates around the fighting area. A silence fell over the crowd as King entered. It was the silence of anticipation as all heads turned and watched. It was eerie because an unsupervised group of enlisted men are always roisterous and noisy and yet in the whole vast, echoing tin box, there was only the sound of King and his friends walking to the far edge of the ring where there a table and three chairs were set up. It was several seconds before conversation began anew. Professor surreptitiously directed squad members to various positions throughout the warehouse. Big Ed took up position at the table as one of King’s seconds.

At five-thirty Bull Robinson appeared with his entourage. There was no cheering or noise for his arrival either. In the silence there was an expectation that was electric. The psyche of four hundred men licked its collective lips. There was muted discussion among Bull’s party and a person was chosen to approach the scratch line, which had been drawn bisecting the fighting area. Professor went to meet Bull’s emissary. Another brief discussion ensued and Professor walked back to the table to talk with King and Big Ed.

“What do they want?” Big Ed asked.

“They want us to announce that there are no rules, no rounds will be called, that the scratch line will only be used at the beginning of the fight, and that we have requested ‘to the death.’ ”

“Fine with me,” agreed King.

As Professor approached the scratch line, Bull’s second called out, “This is hand-to-hand, kicking permitted. No weapons allowed. Each fighter will step to the scratch line and let himself be checked by his opponent’s second.”

Professor called in the same manner, “There are no rules. If a man is down the fight continues. No rounds will be called. To the death, unless stopped by seconds. A towel thrown into the ring will serve as surrender.”

King stepped to the line bare-chested; all he had taken off was his shirt. He had filled out considerably since joining the army and he now possessed the muscular bulk to go with his six-foot-two-inch height. He didn’t wear special clothes. He wore his regular army fatigues and GI boots. King had a slight smile on his face as he was patted down. Bull Robinson, on the other hand, was the height of fashion. He wore a red silk robe and had real boxing shoes on his feet. When he doffed his robe, underneath he wore red-and-black fighting tights. The sweat was pouring off of the dark brown skin of his face. He had been warming up before he came into the warehouse. Bull raised arms to the crowd and then shadowboxed until he was directly opposite King. Bull pointed at King and shouted, “I’m gon’ get you! I’m gon’ get you!” while Professor patted him down.

“Seconds out” was called and the fight began. It started with a feeling-out session. The two men circled each other. Bull took several arcing swings, but King easily eluded them. King was taller than his opponent by a good four inches, but there was no reach advantage due to Bull’s long arms. King stepped in as a feint and Bull responded with an awkward kick that was telegraphed before it arrived.

King saw something shiny on the tip of Bull’s shoe as it missed him. Bull had nails sewn into his shoes. It made King laugh out loud. It was humorous, as if the nails would make the difference. King was confident in himself. He wanted to get close to the man, feel his flesh in his hands. He didn’t want to waste energy with punches unless he could cripple or hurt. He was searching for openings and patterns between Bull’s hands, seeking a spot to repeatedly attack. King sidestepped a clubbing overhand right and lunged, striking to put out an eye with one of his outstretched fingers. Bull ducked his head at the last moment and spun away. King laughed again.

There was a slight cut just below Bull’s eyebrow and a trickle of blood ran down his face. Bull beat his chest with his fists and yelled, “Come on! Let’s fight!” He started forward, swinging forcefully, hoping to connect. King dodged his first few swings easily. He blocked another overhand right, but Bull saw King’s right shoulder move backward as if to throw a punch and swung his own left hook swiftly before King could react. It landed almost flush on the side of King’s head and Bull saw him stagger. Unable to contain himself, Bull attacked with both hands swinging, but was only able to land glancing blows on King’s shoulders and arms. Bull drew back his fist, ready to put all his force into the next punch, when King lowered his head and charged into his chest. The force of the charge hit Bull in his sternum, lifting him off his feet and knocking him backward to land heavily on the cement. He rolled to his feet but he was hurting. The cement had delivered its own strike.

King laughed again. This time it was from deep within him. He had felt the numbing force of Bull’s attack, but he had also seen a weakness, one that would lead quickly to death. He moved in on Bull, trying to lure him into throwing the clubbing overhand right. King had seen that Bull was almost off balance when he finished throwing that punch. He was vulnerable from an attack from his right. Bull was wary now and he refused to be drawn into an attack. King shifted from side to side trying to press his opponent, but Bull backed away.

Finally, King walked back to the center of the scratch line and said loudly, “If you want to fight, come to the scratch line. Otherwise take your cowardly ass home!”

Bull was incensed. “Let’s fight, sucker!” Bull came forward swinging, thinking that King was now planning to fight his fight. He did not live long enough to discover his mistake. As soon as Bull threw his overhand right, King lunged under it and attacked from the side, grabbing Bull’s throat in a vicelike grip with his right hand. Bull, attempting to escape the hold on his neck, moved backward, thrashing his arms. King was ready and leg-swept him, causing him to fall backward toward the cement. Pulling Bull’s head back with his left hand, King forced Bull’s head and shoulders to fall across his knee, breaking Bull’s neck with a loud snap in the process. Bull’s body jerked spastically, but he was dead in seconds.

King pushed the lifeless body off of him, stood up, then went to stand at the scratch line. After several seconds, he returned to the table and put on his shirt. He had barely broken a sweat. There was silence again. This time it was a stunned and shocked silence.

A voice called out, “That weren’t no boxin’! That weren’t no fair fight!” It was one of Bull’s seconds. His entourage had moved out to surround the body. Another man in the group pointed at King and shouted, “He’s a murderer! We should arrest his ass!”

King picked up the bundle of blankets in which the Lewis was wrapped and placed it on the table. He unwrapped the gun casually without the slightest hint of urgency. When he picked it up and swung it in the direction of Bull’s people, a deeper silence fell upon the crowd. Everyone waited for what the next few seconds would bring.