by Geoff Wolak
He bounced off the rope to my right hook, giving it all I had, and he slammed back into the rope and he slid down it. I was shoved away by the ref and returned to my corner, not expecting my opponent to get back up.
‘Medics! Stretcher.’
They carried him out in a hurry, I was allowed down to hostile booing. I was through to the semi-finals.
Back at Brize Norton, everyone was expecting me to win for the RAF, but word reached Trevors that the RAF team was pissed off with me, since I had broken a few jaws; they were short of team members. Trevors suspected they would do something to get me off the team, but I was not that fussed if they did.
I told him, ‘If I win against the Army then ... a few fights a year, and so what. Fuck ‘em.’
‘You’ll fight civvy, that is allowed, and they’d sponsor you, but you can’t fight for a purse.’
‘No?’
‘Not allowed.’
I shrugged a shoulder. ‘See what happens. I don’t give a fuck either way.’
Despite my attitude, and their attitude towards me, I trained hard, as much for myself as for anyone else. I drove the Air Commodore a few days a week, I sometimes helped in the armoury, and I pulled two guard stints a week.
The semi-finals came around, and would be held in Wiltshire, so I would have another hostile crowd to deal with. I was up against their current No.2, the Navy not having many entrants this year, a few less men because of me. I would not be popular in the Navy boxing team either.
I drove down with Trevors and a few PTIs, a coach laid on and full – wondering if Trish would be along, into a modern gym hall and to the changing rooms, which were cold, a few familiar faces seen. An Army sergeant wished me well, he had travelled down to see me fight, and that was odd.
As I walked out I was photographed, and that was also a bit odd. Weighed in, IDs checked, I clambered into the ring and bounced on the balls of my feet, my opponent climbing in. He was tall and thin, taller than me, looked fit and wiry, but also looked a bit slow. His advantage was his reach.
Headgear checked, gloves checked, moved back. Ding!
I waited for the idiot ref to get out the way and moved in. Right glove down, lean right, move left a little, and he went for the simple jab. My left hand dropped to the floor, left leg out and bent, twisting left, around, and then twisting my shoulders with a grimace I hit in front of his ear with all my might, knocking him off his feet and away.
The landed with a thud, no movement, the crowd stunned as I walked back, Trevors smiling and shaking his head.
‘Medics! Stretcher!’
After they eased him out came ‘Knockout!’ and I clambered down.
‘That was three seconds,’ Trevors noted with a grin.
Back at Brize Norton everyone was expecting me to win the inter-services, the base alive with gossip, not least a betting pool on how many seconds my opponent would last.
But fame comes at a price, and I should have known. I got back one day from driving the Air Commodore to find my door kicked in, my stuff trashed. I was beyond livid, and I could have killed someone there and then. For ten minutes I simply stood and stared at the mess; someone had taken their time and torn up my books – page by page.
My metal cabinet was OK, my valuables in there. I notified the MPs, and they had a look, fingerprints taken, everyone in the block spoken to.
The base commander was furious, the Air Commodore more than just a bit furious, the MPs pushed hard, but there was little evidence. But they had taken a fingerprint from my locker, and matched it a man that had been on the base six months, and had never been in my room. He was charged, fined, and to be transferred off the base, but found in a pool of blood one evening when I was a long way off driving the Air Commodore.
My alibi was solid, and the man had no front teeth left, as well as a broken ankle and broken arm.
With little fuss I was issued new uniform and boots, nothing of value reached by the vandal, and I was very glad of my metal cabinet. My kettle had been smashed, my toaster, both replaced out of my own pocket.
But the incident had left me ready to quit and do something else, and I was back to staring out the window and thinking about the future.
The boxing finals loomed closer, and I was not sure if I could even be bothered to turn up. What was the point, I asked myself. The RAF team managers resented me, and I’d get a crap plastic medal around my neck. So what?
I was off my training a little, but it was a surprise meeting with Trish that lifted my spirits. I bumped into her in Oxford as I was buying books to replace those torn up.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
I shrugged, and sighed. ‘Think it’s time I fucked off somewhere else.’
‘I heard about your room.’
I looked away and took in the traffic. ‘Same old shit. Same thing happened after I nearly won the first London Marathon.’ I sighed. ‘Same old bollocks.’
‘We’ve been losing on quiz night, a group of amateur quiz experts now that it’s cash prize. Could do with a hand.’
I forced a weak smile. ‘Sure.’
The next night they cheered me up a little, and we beat the smartarse team. Trish was friendly, but she would never risk her career to be with me. That was just one more injustice in the world to piss me off during a cold dark winter.
The finals came around, and I was not ready, I could hardly be bothered to pack a bag. Trevors drove me to Colchester with the PTIs, but they could tell I was off. And there were two coaches of RAF supporters behind us.
‘Been thinking of buying myself out,’ I told them.
‘Pissed off?’
‘Been pissed off for years. Only time I’m not pissed off is with the aero-meds.’
‘Try that then,’ he suggested. ‘Life’s too short to stand still.’
‘I may go see them next week.’
‘Boxing medic,’ Trevors noted. ‘Got much training in this week?’
‘Fuck all,’ I told him. ‘Mind is not on it.’
‘Best focus in the ring, or your mind will be on the canvas.’
‘Might knock some sense into me.’
We found the place after a few wrong turns, IDs shown, told where to park, spectators walking to the gym hall. The Army top brass would be here, at least some of them, some RAF officers, the Air Commodore down with the flu.
I changed where shown, surprised to find many boxers changing. Trevors explained that there were other bouts, not just my final, and various weight categories would be held here today.
Many thin young lads stopped to stare at me, happy they were not boxing me, and I clocked my opponent, the man looking fit and strong, but not looking like me. He also looked wary of me, his team behaving oddly – like they wanted to say something but were holding back.
I shook it off and got ready, bouncing on the balls of my feet, rolling my shoulders, then wondered why I was bothering. I heaved a huge sigh, and I was tempted to walk out of there. If I won, how would I look the officers in the eye when I wanted to spit in their eyes?
The bout came around after twenty minutes, and I was led forwards, not an ounce of fear or trepidation. I had some anger, some loathing, some resentment, even some disillusionment, but I had no fear. I wanted this over, and to be gone. Next week was career choice time.
A bottle struck me a glancing blow, Trevors spinning to see who it was, the crowd jeering me.
As we moved through the crowd a soldier leant out. ‘Wanker.’
I slugged him cold, and he slipped into the crowd, few noticing, Trevors horrified. He shoved me on. I was now angry, and ready to kill, to kill anyone in my face.
The RAF team officer tried to give me a pep talk, but I just shot him an indignant look and walked on, Trevors now worried. Weighed in, IDs checked, I clambered up to jeering, my opponent being cheered as he entered the ring.
Headgear checked, gloves checked, warnings given, and we were moved back. Ding!
I let my hands drop and walked forwards l
ike a street fighter, my opponent puzzled, but concerned by the look in my eyes. He took a stance and got ready as I lifted my left glove, lazily lifting my right as I got to striking range. I kept my left glove down, and he went for a right jab, which I knocked away.
He composed himself again, but had taken a big step back, and I wanted him on the ropes. He went for a jab, which I blocked more like a Kung Fu fighter, my left wrist to his right glove, and I punched with that left hand as I leant in, light contact with his nose forcing him back further, and I followed him, suddenly right in his face, and he did not expect the same glove to jab again.
A second hit startled him just a few inches shy of the ropes, my left hook giving him ear ache, his head coming down a little, a defensive stance, my left uppercut hitting his gloves into his face, a second and third left putting him on the ropes, a heavy right to the ear again and he scraped the ropes, hard left upper cut hitting his gloves into his nose, monster right hook unopposed to his ear and his back scraped along the ropes left of me.
I lunged with a very big right hook to a gap, his chin hit. He went back rather than sideways, bounced off the rope, guard lowered, a monster left hook connecting and snapping his head back, straight onto the monster right taking him down, his head out the ring.
The ref jumped in, and called for a stretcher, the crowd jeering as I walked to my corner. My opponent, No.1 in the forces, was out cold. And I felt nothing, less than nothing, I wanted to be gone from here.
‘Knockout.’
I clambered down, not waiting for my arm to be raised, not giving a shit.
‘Good scrap,’ Trevors noted as he followed me. ‘Not quite boxing.’
The crowd jeered as we moved through them and to the changing rooms. Gloves off, I got dressed, Trevors saying little.
The RAF team officer stepped in. ‘Good effort,’ he forced out.
I lifted my head for a moment, and did not even respond to the officer as other boxers limbered up.
Trevors asked, ‘You waiting around for the award ceremony?’
‘Not unless you have gun to hold to my head.’ I stared at him.
‘Best we go then, with you in this mood.’
Walking out, a soldier said, ‘Crab wankers,’ and I demolished his nose, blood everywhere as I walked on.
‘Definitely need a change of scene,’ Trevors told me.
We got into the car and drove off in silence, the other PTIs left behind.
Nearing the base, he began, ‘There’s something I was waiting to tell you till after the bout.’
I glanced at him.
‘The MOD will be on your case next week.’
‘What the fuck for?’
‘Well, not your fault, but ... you broke a few jaws, quite a few, bad breaks, career ending. But ... one of the Navy lads, his spine in the neck is a bit fucked, he’s out the military and ... two of the Army lads are on ventilators. Brain damage, does happen, swelling after a knockout, something you told me you wanted to avoid.’
I shook my head. Stunned. ‘So ... so what does the MOD want with me? I broke no fucking law.’
‘I got a tip off from a mate in boxing, they’ll stop you fighting.’
‘Like I give a fuck. This was going to be the last bout anyhow.’ I stared ahead. ‘Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.’
‘Odd really, but they’re saying you’re too good to compete against the Army, even with headgear on.’ We drove on. ‘You’ve seen what the boxers are like, good amateurs. You have a hell of a punch, your train hard, they don’t.’
Back in my room, kit down, I knocked the kettle on, and with tea in hand I stared out the window, maybe for an hour. Needing to clear my head, I took a walk, around the perimeter track.
A jeep pulled up, an MP corporal I knew, as it started to rain. I hoped inside.
‘You won, I hear.’
I stared ahead at the rain hitting the windscreen. ‘Yeah, but thinking of quitting the RAF.’
‘Been thinking about that as long as I’ve known you. Why’d you stay in, just to spite them?’
‘Maybe. And the fucking MOD apparently want me to stop boxing.’
‘Why?’
‘I hurt a few servicemen.’
‘Nature of the sport, what’s their issue?’
‘Men on life support.’
‘Well, that’s not good, but not your fault.’
‘The fucking prick of an officer in charge of the RAF team was mad at me because I damaged some of his team competing to get into the fucking team.’
‘So he wanted you to win on points, eh. What a dickhead. You’ll buy your way out?’
‘That’s one option, or a transfer somewhere.’
‘And what’ll be different elsewhere?’
I glanced at him. ‘Aero-meds might be better, as well as being anonymous.’
‘You’ll never be anonymous, you attract trouble like I attract ladies.’
I turned my head. ‘You’re fucking terrible with the ladies.’
‘Exactly.’
After a weekend spent staring at the wall a great deal, I was summoned Monday morning by the base commander. He even sent an MP jeep for me.
In his office I found the Air Commodore waiting. I saluted. ‘Sir?’
‘Sit,’ the Group Captain told me. I sat. ‘You ... left the boxing without picking up the award, a bit of a stink, some unhappy senior officers who’d like to kick your arse. I spoke to Sergeant Trevors on Sunday, and I made some calls, and ... well, we’re concerned for you ... and your state of mind.’
‘Might be time I left, sir.’
They exchanged looks.
The Group Captain continued, ‘I understand some of it, and having your room turned over seems to have pushed you over the edge a bit. The attitude of the RAF boxing team towards you didn’t help. When you make a big effort you expect a pat on the back, not some shit for your efforts, and you’ve been sidelined here for many years now.
‘And, you may as well know the bad news now. The man you hit in the ring on the weekend has died, and the MOD has listed two others on ventilators, six others hurt to the point that they probably won’t be able to continue in the military, so ... if the MOD asks you to stop boxing it’s in the interests of the service.’
I looked past him, out the window, and I could see that man’s family at the graveside, and it made me sick. ‘I won’t be boxing with the RAF any more, sir.’
‘Wilco,’ the Air Commodore called. ‘I don’t want to lose my best man. Despite everything that has happened, you’re a credit to the RAF, and we benefit from you being here. You’re worth ten of that lot out there. I’d like to make you an offer. The aero-med have an exercise, this week, Kenya. It would be time away, clear your head, and when you get back we think about what you do next.
‘I’m asking as a friend, and my wife is terribly worried about what you’ll do. All you have to do is defer any decision for a few weeks, do the exercise, let the dust settle here. Then we’ll see about putting you in a squadron, or with the meds, or you can leave us if you’re still unhappy. You liked Cyprus, so we can put you there for a while. There are options.’
‘Kind of you, sir.’
‘You’ve looked after me well enough, least we can do. Will you do the exercise?’
‘It gets me away for a while.’ I gave it some thought. ‘If you think it’s best, sir, yes.’
‘I do.’
I packed my kit without mentioning it to anyone, and I drove out an hour later without saying goodbye, and I arrived at transit quarters in Lyneham, odd given that I was based just thirty miles away. I met the aero-meds that afternoon, all greeting me like family, talk of the exercise. We would be away long enough.
I got back three months later, and with a hell of a tan. I also had a new scar, a bullet wound. A young serviceman - facing being kicked out - had got drunk one night and somehow grabbed a rifle, eight men wounded – none killed thanks to some fast first aid from me despite my through and through wound. I was due an
award, another one.
But Kenya had been great, and I had loved it, doing real work, and I fostered a renewed spirit. I had also shagged a lady doctor without anyone finding out. So maybe I could see Trish after all, if she was still here, and if she was single, and if she actually liked me.
I reclaimed a cold room, my metal cabinet OK, books and QMAR notes still there. My kettle was cleaned out, toaster checked, and it did not explode after I got supplies from the NAAFI shop.
Monday morning and I reported to Fl Lt Peters.
‘Ah, you’re still alive.’ He took a moment. ‘The RAF were not impressed at you leaving that boxing match early, and they stripped you of the title, then got some shit for it, then gave it to you back and listed it, then stripped you of it again.’
I laughed. ‘I don’t care, sir.’
‘They kept quiet about the wounded servicemen, and you were spared – to now – an enquiry, because all deaths have an enquiry. The boxing people successfully argued that what happens in the ring stays in the ring.’
I nodded solemnly. ‘I won’t be boxing again, sir.’
‘You may not be aware that a second boxer, on a ventilator, had the machine switched off.’
‘Sir, I greatly regret that, but it’s the sport, and I’ve learnt to deal with it, and I’m no longer saddened by it.’
‘And your plans?’
‘That’s down to the RAF, and what they want me to do.’
‘Well I have no orders as far as you’re concerned, so ... it’s back to as you were before I guess.’
‘Perhaps, sir, I could assist the NCOs with weapons and NBC. That might fall under the heading of doing a proper day’s work.’
‘Nothing stopping you assisting, no. OK, I’ll look at that. In the meantime, armoury and Transport, see what senior officer needs a driver.’
‘I will do, sir.’
‘How was Kenya?’