by Jack Tunney
TWENTY-SEVEN
From the crowd, O'Toole watched with disgust. He had been around the fight game in one way or another most of his life and he had never witnessed such a one-sided match-up.
“He's toying with him,” O'Toole yelled, seething with anger. Something had to be done.
But the punishment hadn't even begun. Crator moved in and unleashed a brutal flurry of punches. By the third punch, Patrick was falling. He dropped to his knees, but Crator simply clubbed him about the head. After another two punches, Patrick was slumped completely on the canvas.
He was down and out, but Crator kept punching. Down on one knee, he leaned over Patrick's inert form and kept pounding away.
“Stop it. Stop it,” O'Toole demanded, pushing through the crowd and rushing towards Krieger.
Two guards grabbed O'Toole, holding him roughly by the arms. O'Toole broke free of one of them, only to be smashed in the legs with a rifle butt. He toppled and fell, collapsing in the mud. Krieger looked down from his throne at the muddy American and stifled a laugh.
“Mr. O'Toole, one of the rules here is a fight can not stop until it is over,” Krieger said, banging the riding crop against his leg. “As you can plainly see, Mr. Reilly has fight left in him.”
Krieger's guards laughed at the suggestion Patrick was still in fighting condition. The truth was Patrick was curled up in a fetal position in the center of the ring, his elbows raised in a futile attempt to ward of the repetitive blows.
“There are only two ways Mr. Reilly can exit the ring,” Krieger continued, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. O'Toole wished he was close enough to wipe the smirk of his face. “One is to be carried out. And the other is ... if you replace him.”
The guards laughed again. They figured nobody would be stupid enough to take the place of a dying man in the center of the ring.
“What was that?” O'Toole asked, from his position kneeling in the mud.
“You heard me. If you care to step into the ring, you can take Mr. Reilly's spot, and your friend will be saved – for the moment, at least.”
Without hesitation, O'Toole said, “I'll do it!”
Krieger smiled.
“Crator. Stop!” he ordered, then blew his whistle sharply.
The large man stopped pounding on Patrick.
“I have a new prisoner for you to beat on. Take a break,” Krieger said.
The giant guard climbed out the ring, leaving his mangled victim behind. McGee and Calvin crawled into the ring and carried Patrick out. O'Toole hoped it wasn't too late, and he would be okay.
Krieger waved his riding crop lackadaisically as if he was swatting a fly as he issued his instructions.
“Okay, O'Toole, go with these men and they will get you fitted out. I hope you put up a better show than your friend did.”
O'Toole followed two guards to the dressing hut to change into some fighting gear. He was given a set of trunks, some gloves and a pair of boots two sizes too large. He put on what they gave him and prepared for battle.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It had been five months since O'Toole fought professionally. The truth was, though, he was in better shape physically and mentally than he had been for his last bout in New York. Despite the rigors of his internment, O'Toole had flourished.
However, comparing this fight to a professional boxing match was madness. Sure he had boxing gloves, and sure it was taking place in a boxing ring, but that was where the comparison ended.
O'Toole climbed into the ring. Crator was already waiting. Exposing his sharpened, filed teeth, he grinned at O'Toole in anticipation. O'Toole ignored him.
Krieger was eager to start the fight, twirling his whistle between his fingers.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” he asked.
O'Toole nodded. Crator just grunted.
“Good.” Krieger blew his whistle and the fight began.
Crator rushed out from his corner and threw a wild right, followed up with a left uppercut. O'Toole ducked the right and backed off from the uppercut. In retaliation, he pumped two quick left jabs into the bigger man's face. Crator roared in anger. It was as if he had never been hurt before – and O'Toole quickly surmised maybe he hadn't.
Crator lunged at O'Toole with both gloves, pushing him in the chest and forcing him back on the ropes. Then the burly guard threw a flurry of wild haymakers with both left and right hands. His fists were like spinning helicopter blades. O'Toole ducked under the first two, blocked the third, caught the fourth on his gloves, and then slipped off the ropes, before circling back into the center of the ring.
Crator was confused. He spun his head searching, as if his opponent had just disappeared into thin air. As he turned back toward the center of the ring, O'Toole was waiting. He pushed out a sharp left jab, which he quickly followed up with a brutal right cross. He tagged the big man right on the point of the jaw. Crater staggered back, his legs wobbly.
TWENTY-NINE
Krieger could not believe what he was seeing. Nobody had been able to stand up to Crator in the past. The prisoners standing around the ring began to chant O'Toole's name, which infuriated Krieger more. He smacked his riding crop angrily against his thigh. The point of the discipline sessions had been to crush the prisoner's spirit and resolve – not to give them hope.
“O'Toole! O'Toole! O'Toole!” the prisoners chanted.
Crator may have been dazed, but he was not done. Rushing O'Toole again, Crator swung a big fist, catching O'Toole on the side of the head. The blow hurt O’Toole who backpedaled momentarily, giving the giant warrior encouragement to continue his advance.
O'Toole covered up as more heavy blows rained down upon him. Then Crator pushed both of his gloves under O'Toole's chin and, in a choke hold, lifted him off the canvas. O'Toole punched down as he struggled for breath.
Crator's grip held.
“Hold him,” Krieger growled in German. “Snap his neck.”
O'Toole arched his back and leaned back as far as he could. He swatted at Crator with what could be described as side-arm-uppercuts. The first of these desperation punches didn't work, but the second caught Crator on the bridge of the nose. The warrior dropped O'Toole, and staggered back as a torrent of blood rushed from his nostrils.
“O'Toole! O'Toole! O'Toole!”
Krieger cursed as O'Toole broke free.
The American then threw two heavy body shots into Crator's abdomen. Landing just under the ribs, the shots took their toll. The big man bowed forward, trying to catch his breath.
Next, O'Toole unloaded two wild uppercuts, knocking the big man's head back and sending him reeling into the ropes. For a moment, Crator swayed in the rigging. He tried to focus on O'Toole, but his legs were shaking. As he attempted to move forward, he lost the support of the ropes and toppled to his knees.
Krieger jumped to his feet screaming, “Nein, nein, nein!”
THIRTY
O'Toole didn't believe in hitting a man when he was down, but in this situation he seriously considered it. He knew if the situation was reversed, no quarter would be given. But instead, he walked up to Crator and gently pushed the man's chest with his glove.
It was all that was needed. The big man slumped to the canvas.
As Crator went down, the cheers from the prisoners were deafening.
“O'Toole! O'Toole! O'Toole!”
O'Toole looked over at Krieger. The Kommandant's face was red, his jaw was clenched, his knuckles white. O'Toole knew Krieger would make him pay ...
THIRTY-ONE
The Hot Box, Hell Camp XXI, Sezanda, 1 April 1954...
It was April Fool's Day, and O'Toole felt like King of the Fools. Before he’d entered the ring, he knew Krieger was not concerned with fair play. O'Toole may have won the fight fair and square, but it didn't make him immune from Krieger's wrath. For his display of defiance, he was thrown into a hot-box as punishment. But O'Toole felt it was worth it if his actions had saved Patrick's life.
The hot-box was a small corr
ugated iron cube, barely four-foot square. For three days, O'Toole sat on the dirt in his undershorts, his knees drawn up to his chest. There wasn't room inside to stand or stretch out. During the heat of the day, as the sun beat down on the iron structure, the temperature would soar to over 120 degrees Fahrenheit. O'Toole sweated like a pig, growing weaker every moment as hunger and dehydration took their toll.
Finally, the hinges squealed as the door to the hot-box was pried open. Dropping to his knees, Sean Calvin appeared in the doorway. O'Toole shuffled forward, shielding his eyes from the sunlight.
“I've brought you some food and water,” Calvin said, holding a stale slab of bread and a tin full of water.
O'Toole snatched the water, raising it to his lips and guzzling it down in seconds.
Then with a forced smile, he croaked, “Thanks.”
“You're welcome,” Calvin said as he handed over the bread.
O'Toole took the offering, tore off a small chunk, and began chewing.
Between mouthfuls, he asked, “How’s Patrick?”
“He's still in a bad way. It's touch and go. He urgently needs proper medical attention. McGee has been with him day and night.”
O'Toole hung his head. He had acted too late.
“It's not your fault, you know?” Calvin said.
O'Toole simply nodded.
“It's all part of Krieger's game,” Calvin added. “But you showed him. The place hasn't been the same since the fight. You're a hero.”
“I don't feel like one.”
Calvin explained that after O'Toole's show of defiance, the other prisoners were not the scared pack of sheep they had been before. They had seen Crator beaten, and Krieger humiliated. It gave them a sense of pride and worth. Throughout the camp, the prisoners were all more openly defiant toward their captors.
The threat of being beaten in the ring, which had instilled fear and discipline into the prisoners, had lost its potency. Krieger tried to instill the fear again by selecting three prisoners to be punished in the ring. They were beaten badly, but they didn't whimper or cower. Plus the prisoners watching the exhibition didn't look on with horror. Instead they backed and supported their comrades in the ring. Even in defeat, the beaten prisoners were cheered. The whole dynamic of the prison camp had been turned on its ear, and Krieger didn't like it.
A guard nudged Calvin in the shoulder with the tip of his rifle. The visit was over.
“Got to go. Hang in there,” Calvin said, standing. Then he leaned down and added, “I'll come back with more food when they let me.”
The door to the hot-box was slammed shut.
O'Toole was once again consigned to the darkness and heat.
THIRTY-TWO
After taking the food and water to O'Toole, Sean Calvin was determined to see Kommandant Krieger. He had requested to see him every day since the punishment session, but on each occasion, his request had been denied. But this did not dissuade him.
As he was marched away from the hot-box, Calvin tried again.
Turning to his heavy-set escort guard, he said, “I want to see the Kommandant.”
“That is not permitted,” the guard answered.
“What do you mean, not permitted?” Calvin asked angrily.
“The Kommandant does not see the prisoners.”
“What if I need to make a request?”
“You tell me, and I will ask the Kommandant,” the guard responded.
“Very well,” Calvin conceded out of frustration. “I want him to consider sending Patrick Reilly to a hospital for treatment. The young man needs urgent medical care.”
“I can not do this,” the guard said. “The man you speak of, tried to escape. His injuries are due to discipline in the ring. He gets no help.”
“But he'll die,” Calvin protested.
The guard shrugged. “If he dies, he dies!”
Calvin was furious.
Next, he marched to the prison sick bay to pass along the bad news. McGee was seated beside the bed Patrick Reilly was in.
The swelling on Patrick's face had gone down. However, his body was badly bruised. McGee suspected the young American may have fractured ribs and internal bleeding, but he was far from an expert. Even if he was, the primitive facilities offered in the camp made treatment almost impossible.
“How's he doing?” Calvin asked.
McGee looked up.
“He’s just gone back to sleep. He's in a bad way. Did you get to see Krieger?”
“No. The guard said Krieger wouldn't see me. Said he wont see any prisoner.”
McGee looked at the ground in disgust.
“How about O'Toole?” McGee asked.
“He's hanging in there, but I don't know for how long.”
McGee looked up, staring into Calvin's eyes. “I have a bad feeling we’re going to be digging two graves before the week is out,” he said earnestly.
THIRTY-THREE
The situation had been eating away at Krieger for days. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't release O'Toole back into the prison camp population, as it would only lead to more acts of insurrection from the prisoners. He couldn't kill him either. A martyr would only make the situation worse.
Krieger picked up his riding crop and tapped it on the desk as he thought. Surely there was some way to regain control. He had to find the means to humiliate O'Toole in front of the other prisoners.
If they saw him beaten, then they would realize resistance was futile. They would become obedient prisoners again, scared of their own shadows. But first, O'Toole had to be crushed.
Krieger summoned two guards to his office. They stood at attention, while Krieger outlined his wishes.
“Get O'Toole out of the hot-box. Give him water and get him cleaned up. Then bring him here,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” the guards responded obediently.
THIRTY-FOUR
O'Toole was fading in and out of consciousness, sitting with his head slumped forward in the hot-box. He had been allowed only one cup of water and two pieces of rotting fruit since Calvin's visit.
He barely noticed as the door to the hot-box was swung open. Two pairs of hands reached in and dragged him forward into the light. He stirred and partially opened his eyes, but immediately closed them, blinded by the glare.
One of the Sez So guards produced a canteen of water and held it to O'Toole's lips. Once the American realized what it was, he drank greedily. The water was cool, fresh, and tasted better than anything he had ever drunk.
After he’d had his fill of water, clad only in his undershorts, he was shunted forward into the marshaling area by the guards.
His mind was swimming as he led to the center of the compound.
What were they going to do to him now?
Was this the end?
A firing squad maybe. After six days in the hot-box, O'Toole almost welcomed death. A sweet release from hunger and dehydration.
But then he realized that if they were just going to kill him, they wouldn't have given him water. Krieger wanted him alive. For what purpose, O'Toole couldn't imagine.
But he would live.
For the moment, at least.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Hey, look! They've released O'Toole,” Calvin exclaimed with excitement.
McGee, Green and O'Brien, who were seated near him, all turned their heads quickly.
“Look at the state of the poor devil,” O'Brien murmured, watching his fellow countryman being dragged forward to the center of the compound. O'Toole looked like a shell of his former self. He walked with his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. His hair was matted and his body covered from head to toe in filth.
“Good Lord,” Calvin whispered, clearly shocked.
McGee didn't appear to hear. Instead he shouted, “Three cheers for Brendan O'Toole. Hip, hip...”
“Hoorah!” came the reply in unison.
There cheers were not just from the Americans. All the prisoners in the area shouted out with defi
ant pride.
“Hip, hip...”
“Hoorah!”
“Hip, hip...”
“Hoorah!”
Once the cheering stopped, Calvin asked, “What do you think they are going to do to him?”
“We can only hope Krieger wants him alive,” McGee answered.
THIRTY-SIX
O'Toole heard the cheers. He turned to look back at his comrades and forced a smile. Seconds later, he was stopped in the middle of the camp for all to see. Two other guards approached, each carrying two buckets of water. The guards at O'Toole's side moved away, forcing the prisoner to stand on his own two feet. O'Toole swayed on the balls of his feet for a second, but managed to keep his balance. He planted his feet and tried to stand up straight. Then the water came.
The water from the first bucket hit him and knocked him down. While he was on his knees, the remaining three buckets of water were unceremoniously poured over him, washing away six days of sweat and stink.
But it was only the beginning. Next, he was marched to the shower block to wash properly. He was allowed to shave and was given clean clothes to put on.
O'Toole almost felt human again. And now he was presentable, the guards indicated that Kommandant Krieger wanted to see him.
With a guard on either side, he was escorted through the camp.
When he was close enough to his American co-workers, he called out, “How's Patrick?”
“He'll be lucky to last out the week,” McGee yelled back in response.
O'Toole wanted to hear more, but was bustled forward by the guard and was quickly out of earshot.
The guards marched him into Krieger's office where the Nazi was waiting, already seated behind his desk. This was the first time O'Toole had been in the office and the décor surprised him. Rather than the middle of the jungle in Africa, they could have been in a hotel room in Berlin.