The Brick Foxhole

by Richard Brooks

  Max fascinated Keeley. He saw in the boy another Jeff. There were many things about both men that were similar. To begin with, they were both misfits. They didn’t belong in the service. They didn’t belong in a war. They were introverts, unsure of their own abilities, uncertain as to how the crowd would accept them. Keeley thought that Monty was right in at least one respect. Max was frightened. But he was wrong at the same time. Because, Keeley mused, Max was not afraid of Whitey. It was something else. He didn’t know what it was. He was glad of one thing, however. He was glad that Jeff was present, that he would see this fight.

  The referee was standing between the fighters talking confidentially to them. Whitey nodded his head and kept hitting one fist into the other softly. Max listened to the words and did not hear them. He felt the sweat start out on the sides of his nose. He was an inch taller than Whitey but he appeared even taller.

  “Now remember,” the referee said quietly and imperatively, “we want a good clean fight. The general’s out there and he doesn’t like any stalling. Get in there and fight. Both of you are supposed to be good or you wouldn’t be here. Don’t coddle each other. Give the folks a real fight. You know the rules. Come out fighting.”

  Max went to his corner. His handler drew away the towel and Max turned to face the center of the ring. His arms hung down at his sides. He breathed in deeply several times and smelled the crowd and the leather on his fists. The rubber mouthpiece filled his mouth and he bit hard on it. Across the ring he could see Whitey genuflecting before the ringpost. Whitey was kneeling and crossing himself. Whitey’s feet were doing a quick little dance. Whitey’s fists pounded each other and the muscles on his shoulders moved under the bronzed skin like a bagful of small snakes. The handler was running his fingers over the back of Whitey’s neck. It was almost a caress. The handler was whispering words and Whitey was nodding. Whitey had turned and was staring unseeing at his opponent, his small eyes bright with anticipation.

  Jeff scarcely heard the bell, so intent was he upon the movements of Max. He watched the two figures approach each other somewhere near Max’s center of the ring. Whitey’s walk was springy, a gliding shuffle, with the knees inclined slightly toward one another and the chin buried in the left shoulder. Max came forward and he was too straight, Jeff thought. He was not acting the way boxers usually acted.

  They circled for a moment and Jeff wondered who would strike the first blow. Then it came. Max had pawed with his left at Whitey’s bobbing head. The glove had no more than started when Whitey’s counterblow came. It was a sharp, short left hook to the side of Max’s head, followed immediately by a hard right to the ribs. The color fled from Max’s face and a red splotch appeared on his side. Another right to the same place brought the crowd to its feet. It was a heavy blow and it smacked into the night like a wet slap. The red splotch grew deeper in color. Max backed away and Whitey kept him within the range of his short arms.

  Jeff looked toward Monty but saw no expression except that of nervous tension. Monty’s jawbones were working furiously, keeping pace, it seemed, with the beat of Jeff’s heart. When he glanced back at the ring, Max was in a neutral corner waiting for the short hammer-blows of Whitey. Max tried to dodge but Whitey’s left hand caught him on the nose. Almost at once Max responded with his left, and it poked Whitey’s unprotected face. The blow was not a hard one but its surprise caught Whitey off balance. Max was out in the center of the ring, again waiting.

  Don’t let him catch you that way again, Max, thought Jeff. He’ll kill you. Just keep away from him. I don’t know what you’re doing up there anyway. Why, Max? Why did you want to do it? Are you really different inside than you look? Do you want to fight? No. You can’t want to. You hate it. You hate it as much as I do. Be careful, Max. Put up your hands. Keep your hands up! Clinch. Make him clinch. Hold his hands. Don’t stand there that way. Hit him back. He’s easy to hit. Hit him, Max. Now, for God’s sake, stay there. Let them count ten. Let them count ten million. But don’t get up. Don’t get up, please. Max, you’re a fool. You’re crazy. What are you trying to prove? Damn you, you’re like the rest of these heroes. Go on. Get up. Get up and take a beating. Max! ! ! Don’t let him hit you in the eye again. He’ll blind you. Quit! There’s no disgrace. There isn’t anybody here who would take that much. Quit. Quit. Stop it. Let them throw in the towel. You’re no fighter, Max. You can always tell them that. You don’t have to tell them. They can see it. What good will all this do? Sure, I know. You’re enjoying it. You want him to hurt you. You like it. Go on, then. Bleed. Let him knock that eye right out of your head. Let him blind you forever. No, Max. Don’t let him. Please stop. There’s no use trying to hit him, Max. There’s no use. There’s no use to anything.

  “Kill him, Whitey. Kill him,” came from the crowd.

  “Now. Now’s the time. Nail him.”

  “Again Whitey, again.”

  “Look out, kid. Look out for that right.”

  “Knock him out. Put him away.”

  “Oh you Whitey.…”

  The crowd had found its voice. It was screaming hysterically for the finish. The bull was staggering in the arena. The matador was poised for the final thrust. The roar was deafening. Then suddenly the matador lowered his hands and turned away from the victim. For a moment the crowd was stunned. Then it realized it had not heard the bell ring. The round had ended.

  Max moved two steps back and sat down wearily on the small stool. Whitey waited regally as his handler was late with the stool. Whitey’s body was glistening with sweat. His breath came heavily from the exertion of punching. Except for his weariness, he was the same as when he had entered the ring. The handler sponged away the sweat. He held a bottle of water to Whitey’s lips and Whitey disobeyed orders and drank long. Then he spit a little of the water into a funnel attached to a tube. The handler pulled out the waistband of Whitey’s trunks. But it was entirely unnecessary. Whitey was strong and he had received only a few light taps. Again the handler’s weaving fingers roved over Whitey’s neck, then they rubbed his legs. Whitey let his gaze wander over to Max’s corner.

  Max was sitting stiffly on the stool. His legs were bunched under him instead of being stretched out to relax them. The handler had sponged away the blood from Max’s face. He whispered a question and Max shook his head. No. He had not had enough. He would be all right. He obeyed orders and only rinsed his mouth. The water felt good and he wanted to swallow it. But he spat it out into the funnel. The back of his mouth was parched and the breath whistled in his throat. Blood started to trickle down the left side of his face again and the handler stopped it for the moment by slapping a piece of adhesive tape across the cut. The handler’s fingers felt like hot rivets on Max’s body, but he didn’t say anything. Better to save breath. He would need it.

  The bell clanged. The crowd took up the chant. It had been cheated last round. One knockdown for the count of four. And then when a kayo had seemed certain, the bell had cheated them. But Whitey would not let them be cheated again.

  All right now, kid, Keeley thought.

  Keeley was unconsciously trying to inject his thoughts into Max’s head. He was fighting the fight from his wooden chair among the crowd.

  Just keep circling to your right. That’ll keep you on his left. Easy does it, now. Easy. Look out for that old one. He’ll suck you in with his left and then cross with the right. Stay on his left. Keep moving that way. He’s strictly a counterpuncher. Let him carry the fight to you. He won’t know what to do. Never mind what the crowd says. They expect him to do the hitting. Let him. That’s it. That’s the way. No, no. Not in the corner. I told you to look out for that sucker’s feint. The hell with the adhesive tape. All right, now, Max, listen to me. Move those legs. I know they feel heavy but move them. You’ve got to keep moving. You never thought a man boxed with his legs, did you? You never thought much about boxing in the first place, eh? What are you up there for, Max? Shall I tell you? Shall I tell you why you stand up there taking a beating?
It’s all over your face, Max. You think we don’t know, but we do. We can see it in the way your lips smile even though they bleed, in the way your eyes look. You’re proving you’re as good as the rest of them. They’ve told you you’re not a good soldier, Max. They’ve told you you’re a quitter, haven’t they? And you’re going to show them differently. You think you’ll make them forget you’re a Jew, Max. But they’ll only remember it all the more. They’ll never forget Max Brock who took this beating tonight. Stick out this round, Max. Stick it out. You’ll hear a change in their tone then. Wait and see. I know this mob. They’re the same mob the world over. Whether they wear uniforms or not, they’re a mob. Take them out of the platoon and they’re a mob. You’ll learn that soon, Max. Get up, Max. Get up. Don’t wait for nine. They’ll think you’re resting. A Jew is not allowed to rest when he’s on the rack. It’s good boxing sense for a man to take the count of nine. But not for a Jew. Come, Max. Up. Up. That’s it. Up and at him. He’s beginning to wonder already why you don’t stay down, why that right-hand punch doesn’t put you out. Yes, Max. The butcher is beginning to wonder about his cleaver. It isn’t sharp enough. You’ve put a thought in his head boy. You’ve succeeded where all others have failed. You think they’ll be proud of you. You think this crowd will cheer you. You’re wrong. They’ll hate you all the more. They’ll hate you because you’ll make them ashamed of themselves. They want to see your soul knocked out. They’ve seen enough of that pink body of yours. Don’t let him knock out your soul, Max. You’re better than the whole pack of us. But you can’t be the same as the rest of us just by taking a beating. Because by taking it you’re already different. Get up, Max. Get up. Just this once more. The round is almost over. Never mind the eye. Keep that glove away from your eye. Grab hold of the ropes. Anything. But just get up. Now, Max! Now! You’ve got to! Now! Aaaaaah. That’s it. He doesn’t know what to do now. Look at him. Look at Whitey. He’s beginning to doubt himself. He’s looking to the crowd. He’s trying to explain something he doesn’t understand. He’ll begin to miss with that right, now, Max. He’ll be impatient. He’ll hurry. He won’t hurt you so much any more. Sit down, Max. Sit down. You’ve got a minute now. Only two more rounds, Max. Only two more.

  “Nice goin’ Whitey, nice goin’,” said the handler as he tilted the bottle to the gladiator’s lips. “Next round we take him. Next round.”

  Whitey thought about it, thought about the bloodied, swollen face bobbing before him. The mashed steak with the eyes, nose, and mouth in it. One of the eyes beyond recognition, now. His own arms were tired. Very tired. They were tired of throwing punches. His muscles ached and his arms seemed far too heavy already. And he was a little ashamed. He wondered what the crowd thought.

  The crowd had grown silent. It was wishing the fight would end. A clean, fast knockout is exciting. A slow bloody slaughter is tiresome. It was wondering how long Max would last. He had lasted far too long already. He shouldn’t have gotten up from the first knockdown. But after the second and third knockdowns, it was becoming disgraceful. If only Max had the power left in him to strike back. If only he could lash out and destroy this stupid matador who was clumsily missing the a bull. The crowd was beginning to hate Whitey because he couldn’t deliver the coup de grâce. But it hated Max even more because it had been wrong about him.

  Max’s handler sensed the change in the crowd. He realized now that Max was going to finish the fight. He began to feel important. He knew the crowd well enough to know it was watching his man. He stretched out Max’s legs and worked them slowly, smoothly. His fingers could feel the nerves in the legs jumping. The legs quivered under his fingers. Then they relaxed. He murmured a stream of nothingness up at Max.

  “He’s fading, Max. He’s fading. We’ve got him licked. Hit him a couple of times and he’ll fold. You’re doing great, boy, great. Just stay with him. Stay with him. Great, boy, great. Just stay with him.”

  The bell rang for the third round and the handler lifted Max under the arms and gave him momentum toward the center of the ring. Whitey came out more slowly now. His walk was no longer a prance. Suddenly he was cautious.

  Dirty sheeny sonofabitch, thought Monty.

  Monty’s teeth ached from watching the fight. He was stabbing Max with his hatred.

  Fall over dead, you. Fall over. Lay down. Quit.… What’re you trying to do? Be a hero? You’re no hero. We know what you are. You’re just a Jewboy. If you were fighting any kind of a real fighter, he’d kill you.… There you go again. Got to hit him back, don’t you? Got to show the world you want to bleed. “Hit me. Hit me.” Is that what you’re saying? Yah, I know you. I know what’s eatin’ you. “Hit me.” Trying to show us we’re no good. Show us we’re trying to persecute you. Show the whole world you’re too good to fight. Too delicate. Fighting is for bums. Is that it? Then why don’t you learn? Get wise, Jew. You’re the bum.… Yah, the niggers are better’n the Jews. At least they can fight. And they can hate. You can’t even hate. All you can say is, “Love me. Love me.” Christ! You’re all the same. Love you? Who wants to love you? Better love a nigger than a Jew. Kill a nigger and no feelings. Kill a Jew and he cries on you. He looks at you. He don’t hate you back. He can’t fight. And you can’t fight. So quit. Lay down.… Now stay down this time. Let him count ten. What’s it to you? Stay down there, damn you.… Now kill him, Whitey! Kill him! Hit him so he won’t get up. That’s the way. Get that other eye so he can’t look at you. Again! Again! How do you like it, Maxie? You’re no better’n anybody else. You can be knocked out. Knock him out, Whitey!… Ah-h-h, you stupid bum, Whitey. You dumb ox. Any decent fighter would’ve knocked him out. You shoulda known better’n to fight somebody who can’t fight.… Why do you keep it up, Jew? You think I’ll be sorry for you. You think I’ll say it’s a great fight. That you’ve got guts. You’re crazy. Just a crazy Jew. Always plotting. Plotting. Got a plan. All Jews got a plan. Dirty up the place with your sheeny blood. Down, now. Down.… This time stay there. I’ll say you’re smart if you don’t get up. Quit, damn you. Don’t ring that bell! Don’t ring it! Let him lay there. He can’t come out again. He’s going quit. He’ll quit. Quit, Maxie. Quit.… Ah-h-h, the cheats!

  Jeff got up to leave but Keeley held his arm and he sat down gain. He tried to form a connection between this fight and his relations with Mary. The early evening seemed far away. He knew there was no link between Mary and himself and this slaughter, yet he felt there was something that tied them together. He felt somehow that he and Max were one and the same person. He enjoyed the thought that he was sharing the suffering of Max. It made his own predicament seem more important. The one thing his morbidity had lacked was the shedding of blood. It seemed to Jeff that nothing mattered any more unless it was spiced with battle.

  Max was more confident now. He felt that he could easily last out the final round of the bout. The wet sponge felt good as it touched his swollen face.

  Across the ring, Whitey was hoping a doctor would stop the fight. He didn’t want to hit Max any more. He was beginning to dread the sound of his glove pounding on Max’s face and body. He was trying to reason the fight out. He heard the bell and moved sluggishly toward Max. He touched hands with Max to indicate the final round and felt the light flick of Max’s glove on his cheek.

  I wish he’d hit me hard, thought Whitey. Hit me hard, kid. Hit me hard someplace. Make me mad. You shoulda been knocked out a long time ago. I can’t understand it. I know I’m not real good, but you oughta been knocked out a long time ago. I wonder if I could take this kind of punchin’? I wonder if I could stick around this long? Who’m I kiddin’? That’s why I never win the Golden Gloves. That’s why. When you meet a guy can take you, there’s no sense gettin’ beat up. They walk around on their heels, most guys. That’s what happens when you take a beatin’. But this kid—what’s the matter he don’t fall over? Ain’t natural. Maybe he don’t like me. Maybe he hates me. I never even know him. Except I see him around the gym. Officer candidate. Maybe he’s t
ryin’ to show me up. Maybe he figures an officer candidate, he don’t fall over for a corporal. Maybe I should oughta be mad at him for that. Maybe I don’t hit him in the right place. Gotta knock him out. Disgrace. A shame. A shame for a fighter like me not to knock out this bum. They say he’s a Jew. Never fight a Jew before. Maybe they got some kinda trick. Maybe.… Nah. Ain’t any good Jew fighters. Look at the records. The champs is Sharkey, Mickey Walker, Braddock, Tunney, Dempsey. Dempsey! He’d hit him here. Like so. You see, Dempsey, he don’t go down. You never fight a guy like this, Dempsey. Everybody in the gym they tell me tomorra I’m a bum. No good. Why I get in this fight game anyway. You can’t win. I don’t even know this guy. He don’t like me. He just wants me to hit him. Maybe break my hand on him. Yeah. That’s what he wants. He wants I should break my hand on him. Maybe after this they ship me out. But there’s alway boxin’. Everywhere. Seen pictures in the movies. Fights. Always fights. Maybe out there I don’t find any more guys like this. Maybe.… What’s the matter, kid? Why’s he holdin’ his head like that? I don’t even hit him that time. I don’t even lay a glove on him. What’s the matter, kid? Anyhow, I’m glad for you, kid. You’re okay, kid. I’ll carry you back to your corner, kid. I’m glad it’s over. I don’t like this fight. I don’t like it. Got to remember to pat you on the shoulder. You ought to be glad it’s over, kid. It ain’t a shame to be knocked out. I been knocked out, kid. It happens to everybody. Sure.

  “Good fight, kid,” Whitey said to Max’s unconscious form. “Better luck next time.”

  Whitey pranced back to his corner. The handler threw the robe around Whitey’s shoulders and Whitey danced a few tens to show the judges he was still fresh. The crowd noise pleased him. There was applause. Not as much as he had expected, but applause nevertheless. He had knocked out Max Brock. Who was Max Brock? But then what did it matter? Another knockout. The referee was raising his arm. He wondered again why Max had suddenly fallen over? He hadn’t struck him a blow at that moment. Maybe he had a delayed punch? Maybe his punch was like a delayed fuse. Maybe it took a little time to catch up with some guys.