Fight Card: Barefoot Bones (Fight Card Series)

by Jack Tunney

  FIGHT CARD: BAREFOOT BONES

  ANOTHER TWO-FISTED FIGHT CARD STORY

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD

  CREATED BY PAUL BISHOP AND MEL ODOM

  OTHER FIGHT CARD TITLES

  FELONY FISTS / THE CUTMAN /SPLIT DECISION

  COUNTERPUNCH / HARD ROAD

  KING OF THE OUTBACK / A MOUTH FULL OF BLOOD

  TOMATO CAN COMEBACK / BLUFF CITY BRAWLER

  GOLDEN GATE GLOVES / IRISH DUKES

  THE KNOCKOUT / RUMBLE IN THE JUNGLE

  AGAINST THE ROPES / SWAMP WALLOPER

  THE LAST ROUND OF ARCHIE MANNIS

  GET HIT, HIT BACK / BROOKLYN BEATDOWN

  CAN’T MISS CONTENDER / BAREFOOT BONES

  FRONT PAGE PALOOKA / FIGHT RIVER

  MONSTER MAN

  FIGHT CARD MMA

  WELCOME TO THE OCTAGON / THE KALAMAZOO KID

  PUNCHING PARADISE

  FIGHT CARD ROMANCE

  LADIES NIGHT

  FIGHT CARD: BAREFOOT BONES

  e-Book Edition – First Published August 2013

  Copyright © 2013 Bobby Nash

  Cover by David Foster

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  FINAL ROUND

  Uijeongbu, Korea

  Summer, 1951

  When the bell rang, I came out swinging.

  That’s the way I learned how to fight, not for honor or for glory, but to win. I’ve been told that I’m a natural born fighter and there’s probably some truth to that. I learned how to fight when I was just a scrappy little kid from the backwoods of Georgia. In those days you fought more for survival than anything else. It wasn’t until I learned the fine art of boxing that I understood the world a little better. They didn’t call it the sweet science for nothing.

  The name on my dog tags will tell you that I’m James Mason, a corporal in the army of the United States of America, but almost everyone calls me Bones. To look at me, you wouldn’t think me much of a threat. Rail thin, short cropped hair with a permanent cowlick, freckles, and a dopey smile – that described me to a T. Definitely not a threat by all outward appearances. Over the years I’ve learned to use that to my advantage. I had always been thin – where I grew up they called me scrawny – but I could pack a lot of power behind a punch.

  And that’s just what I showed my opponent when the round began.

  No sooner had the bell rang than I was in the center of the ring, bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet with pent up energy. I landed the first blow with enough force to stagger him, but to his credit, my opponent, a sturdy brick of a man named Nudell, a sergeant from a neighboring camp, recovered quickly and popped back up in a shot, ready for more.

  I like that in a fighter.

  Nudell moved in quickly, bobbing back and forth as we danced a bit. I had him sized up the moment I met him. The Sarge was all muscle, but no skill. It didn’t take long for me to figure out this was his first time in the ring.

  Like so many muscle-bound guys I’ve met, he thought strength was all he needed to box. That was wrong thinking and far from the truth. Boxing was about strategy. Don’t get me wrong, I have no doubt he was strong and, if he connected one of those blows he might just take me down. The trick was, however, to make sure he didn’t get that one shot he needed to win the bout. Several different scenarios ran through my mind as I waited for him to make his move.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait long.

  Nudell telegraphed a punch I would have been able to dodge in my sleep, but instead I shifted and took the hit, or at least part of it, bending along with the impact to set up my counterattack. Three quick jabs to the midsection took some of the fight out of my counterpart. He staggered back and fell against the ropes, huffing and puffing from exertion.

  I assume the sergeant thought this was going to be an easy win. Based on the crap talk his unit buddies were spouting before we started, I guess they all thought the same thing.

  I had my buddy, Jimbo Mack place a bet for me with the guys from the visiting units. I had fifty bucks riding on this fight. I had leave coming up soon and the money these guys were going to lose to me would come in handy in Seoul.

  Drafted when hostilities broke out between North and South Korea, I had been living in Maryland, working a farm for a nice family there. They treated me like one of their own. I liked it there. I might even go back there after the war. Or maybe not. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.

  Once I’d arrived in Korea, I was assigned as support staff to the military base and mobile army hospital in Uijeongbu – a village I could barely pronounce, much less spell, when I got here a few months earlier.

  Now I just had trouble spelling it.

  In letters back to the few friends I had in the states, I simply referred to my new temporary home as Korea – and sometimes I called it Hell.

  Korea was miserably hot and humid. As a guy who grew up under the heat and humidity of Georgia summers, I knew heat. Or at least I thought I did. Those sweltering summers spent working Old Man Winters’ fields seemed like fall days compared to the summers in Korea.

  The temperature was already in the triple digits by the time Reveille was played each morning and you could almost swim in the humidity because it was so thick. Not even the sun going down did much to cool these temperatures. To make matters worse, our company clerk, Pinball Mitchell, had told us a notice from I-Corp had come through stating temperatures were expected to go even higher in the next few weeks. I was not looking forward to it.

  I waited, bouncing from one bare foot to the other while my opponent caught his breath. I could have ended it pretty quickly once the wind was knocked out of him, but I didn’t. Nudell’s buddies cheered him on from the side of the ring to get back into the fight just like the guys from my unit did for me to finish it. I hated to disappoint them, but I planned to drag this out as much as possible.

  The funny thing was, despite the sweat rolling off of me in waves and the oppressive heat beating down on us, I was never more at peace than inside the ring. It was the only place that felt like home to me anymore.

  My daily routine for the first few months since I’d arrived in country basically consisted of moving equipment, loading and unloading freight, digging latrines, and whatever else my C.O. told me to do.

  Then I was transferred here to the hospital camp where things changed a bit. I still did a lot of grunt work, but most of the time I was at the beck and call of the camp’s commanding officer. Whatever he needed me to do was what I did.

  That usually meant driving.

  As Colonel Thomas Kellan’s personal driver, I often got away from doing manual labor whenever my C.O. had to go into Seoul or visit another camp. It broke up the monotony of the daily routine and I was thankful for any break, especially while the powers that be were trying to get peace talks going.

  No one expected the cease fire to last, but without an influx of casualties to the hospital, or a constant need to run replacement munitions to the front lines, boredom had started to creep into the camp. And bored soldiers, so far from home with nothing constructive to keep them occupied, turned to other activities.

  Those activities often involved copious amounts of a
lcohol, impromptu poker games, tall tales, and off-color jokes, which sometimes led to words spoken in jest, but not taken that way. The extraordinary heat we were forced to endure had a bad habit of making normally levelheaded men overheat. Tempers flared easily in the sweltering heat of a Korean night and a joke meant as a friendly jibe could quickly turn into a thrown punch.

  Then chaos ensued.

  After the third bar brawl in the past two weeks, the C.O. and his counterparts from nearby camps got together and came up with a plan, a constructive way to entertain the rank and file while keeping them out of confinement.

  Boxing.

  Of course, I was overjoyed by the news.

  It had been far too long since I’d stepped into the old square circle, as my former coach liked to call it. When the call for volunteers went out, I was one of the first to sign up. This garnered a few laughs. I’m as capable a soldier as anyone, and although I get along with most of the people here and get my work done, I didn’t exactly look like a fighter to them. Most of them mistakenly think strength is all you need to win a boxing match.

  Appearances, I had been told, could be deceiving. Judging me by my thin, wiry frame, most men I’d faced off against tended to underestimate me. They did so at their peril. I might not be as muscle-bound as some of the jarheads I’ve met in the service, but I literally pack a lot of punch.

  To give the men another release outside of drinking and brawling, Colonel Kellan converted one of the storage tents into a makeshift gym, complete with a practice ring, a heavy bag, and a speed bag. You can bet your sweet fanny I took full advantage of the training time. I can’t tell you how much I missed the smell and feel of being in a gym. Even half a world away, that tent felt like home.

  Stepping into the newly constructed squared circle in the center of the camp, I was more alive than ever. When the bell rang, I came out fighting. It was the most fun I’d had since I got here. You couldn’t wipe the big ol’ smile off my face. It was the time of my life.

  By round three, my excitement hadn’t waned one bit. Sergeant Nudell had proven himself a worthy opponent in the ring. I would have stayed in the ring all day if I could, but unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. There were other guys waiting their turn. I could drag it out a little bit, but I didn’t want the spectators getting bored.

  I stepped in for the knockout punch.

  That’s when it happened.

  I heard the sound seconds before my brain registered what was making it.

  By the time I realized the tiny whistling sound was coming from ordinance aimed at our camp, it was too late to do much of anything. I barely had a chance to glance at the small dot falling toward us, growing larger by the second as it rocketed closer and closer to the camp.

  Men and women ran for cover, orders and warnings were shouted, and foxholes were found. For me, all of the people were moving in slow motion. I grabbed at Nudell’s arm with my gloved hands and pushed him toward the ropes. We had to get out of the ring, had to find cover.

  We didn’t move fast enough.

  The first explosion hit nearby, sending people, chairs, and clods of dirt and rock flying. Both me and Nudell were knocked off our feet by the shock wave. How we managed to stay in the ring is beyond me. Training kicked in and we both covered our heads to protect it from the dirt and rock thrown skyward from the newly formed crater that used to be the center of camp.

  The cease-fire had been broken and now chaos reigned.

  My ears were ringing. Nearby, my CO was shouting commands, pointing the men and women under his command to their designated areas, but I could barely make out the words over the deafening whistle in my ears. Infantry took positions with their weapons in preparation for a ground assault while others made a break for the heavy weapons, most notably the mortars so they could return fire. Under guard, the company clerk, Pinball, made a run for the office to call for air support.

  As I watched from the ring, everything moved in slow motion. It felt unreal, almost as if it were happening to someone else. The next whistling trill announced a second volley and this time I was ready.

  Watching as the mortar round bore down on our position, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would actually see the bullet that would eventually come for me. I must admit, I had never expected such a large bullet. Of course, I hadn’t expected to face certain death at the age of twenty either.

  Pushing Sergeant Nudell toward the opposite side of the ring, we vaulted over the ropes just as the round hit, ripping open the earth next to the boxing ring and flipping it end over end.

  And us along with it.

  I hit the ground hard, felt teeth rattle on impact, and tasted the familiar coppery twang of blood as I bit my tongue. There was no time to worry about that, though. I rolled just in time to see the ring come crashing down toward me and the sergeant. There was no time to get out of the way.

  In that moment, seconds before impact, time slowed and my life – my all too brief life – flashed before my eyes.

  Then there was only darkness.

  ROUND ONE

  TEN YEARS EARLIER

  Claytonville, Georgia

  Spring, 1941

  I hit the ground hard.

  I pushed myself up, wiped away mud and tears, hoping no one would see the latter. The metallic tang of blood intermingled with red clay mud stung my tongue, an unpleasant taste. All I wanted to do was shout and scream my rage at those responsible, but experience told me doing so would only make things worse.

  “Oh, look, I think ol’ Barefoot Bones is gonna cry,” a familiar voice said.

  I looked up, squinting against the blazing afternoon sun. Even though all I could see was a hazy silhouette looming over me, I knew the voice and the boy it belonged to all too well. Bobby Jackson never let a chance to torment me go by, no matter how wide a berth I tried to give the older boy.

  It was Bobby who started calling me Barefoot Bones because I was just a poor boy from the hills who couldn’t afford nice clothes, much less shoes. In the summer months especially, I went barefoot. My mama stored shoes away for the cold winter months, so I wouldn’t have to walk barefoot to school in the snow.

  Barefoot Bones. I hated that nickname.

  Bobby Jackson didn’t have my kind of troubles. His father, Henry Jackson, was one of the most successful men in town. If you believed what people said, he owned most of the Rabun County land Claytonville had been built upon, meaning he also owned the town.

  That success bred power and Mr. Jackson used it to his advantage in business. According to my ma, he thought owning the town meant owning the people in it.

  To Bobby, it meant, like his father, he could do whatever he wanted without any consequences for his actions – like beating up a scrawny younger kid every chance he got.

  That would be me, in case you were wondering.

  “Are you?” Bobby teased, spurring his friends to laughter. They were the same boys who watched his brutality day in and day out without speaking up, lest they end up on the receiving end of Bobby’s temper.

  “You gonna cry, you barefoot baby?” he taunted.

  “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” I asked, trying to keep the quiver out of my bloody lip and trying desperately to hold back tears. Crying would only make it worse. Taking a beating was bad enough. The last thing I needed was to give them an excuse to add crybaby to their list taunts.

  “Leave you alone?” Bobby asked, the corners of his mouth tugged upward in a mischievous grin. “Now, why would I do that, huh?”

  “I didn’t do nothing to you?”

  “Oh, no? Just you being here bothers me, Bones. Who gave you permission to come into my town, huh? Trash like you ‘an your mama should stay up in the hills where you belong.”

  I hated the boy’s cruelty, but I could take a punch. What I couldn’t stand – what I couldn’t abide – was anyone saying something bad about my mama. I tried to keep my temper in check, but Bobby knew just what buttons to push to get my goat u
p. Even though I knew exactly what he was doing, I couldn’t let it slide. Fueled by rage, I took my best shot. I lashed out with a wild punch and – with a satisfying snap seeming to fill the air – broke Bobby Jackson’s nose.

  Blood gushed from his wounded beak, spilling over his lips and down the front of the fancy clean shirt he’d spent the day bragging about. He told anyone who would listen how his daddy had brought the shirt back from a business trip to Atlanta and how it had cost almost a dollar – an exorbitant price for something my mamma would say was just going to get dirty.

  Bobby let out a scream unlike anything I had ever heard before, his hands clamping over his face in an attempt to staunch the blood flowing between his fingers.

  Now, I’m no fool. As much as I enjoyed the sight of Bobby Jackson cradling his bloody nose, I understood that there would be pay back. Bobby and his friends would want revenge. Even if they didn’t come after it today, when it did happen it would be anything but a fair fight. I listened to the little voice in the back of my brain mama told me was common sense. It shouted for me to run.

  So I ran.

  Bobby shouted something unintelligible, which I could only assume was something like, “Get him!” Whatever he said, his friends started running after me.

  I ran faster, made a beeline for the woods, and never looked back. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been running by the time I stopped to catch my breath, but my chest burned with each gulp of fresh air. I had a good lead on them, but I could still hear the older boys crashing around in the brush behind me.

  Surely, they wouldn’t follow me all the way back home, would they? And if so, what would they do to Mama? With no time to rest, I pushed deeper through the woods and up into the hills in hopes they wouldn’t be able to follow.