THE BIG LITTLE MAN

         Spring, 1944. April showers seemed endless at Fort Ivins in North Carolina. Our fatigues were still soaked and boots caked with sandy clay from the day’s training exercises that were called off early, giving platoons a break to rest and clean up before evening chow. For weeks the Army had been focused on converting hordes of undisciplined boys into obedient and dependable soldiers— Privates Reginald “Reggie” Brooks and my best friend, Jonathan “JJ” Jackson among them. I changed into dry clothes and laid back in my bunk to reflect on how far we’ve come since first arriving at boot camp.

         One way or another, I mused, it’s amazing how the Army seems to have an efficient way of sorting and training new recruits. It seems like only yesterday we were among the thousands shipping in from every point of the compass. The mix included everyone from rugged plowboys to namby-pambies, from collegiate types to illiterates. Aside from staunch patriotism in answer to America’s call to arms, about the only common thread was that most were flat broke and grew up feeling the belt-tightening of The Depression.

         Regardless of education or social status, many embraced the military as their best bet for becoming more than the kids we really were. Despite the raging global war that brought us here, the Army was also a chance for a future, an opportunity to learn skills and fulfill dreams of adventure and travel to parts of the U.S. and the world we had only heard about.

         The Army welcomed all and wasted no time stripping new arrivals of individualism with the objective of converting us into regimented soldiers— conditioned to think, react, and function like programmed robots while depending on one another for survival.

         Within days, platoons were outfitted with uniforms, basic gear, and weapons, with each unit assigned to quarters under Commanding Officers who were quick to declare house rules. My twelve-man squad was part of 3rd Platoon, B Company led by First Lieutenant Giuseppe Dante Canonie, better known as G.D. by us and the brass as a fair but no-nonsense CO no one dared mess with.

         “You candy-asses are my property, now,” G.D. asserted. “My personal slaves... never to challenge but sworn to obey my every command or you’ll wish you were assigned to a bunk in hell. Are we clear on that, ladies?”

         “Yes, sir! We snapped the conditioned response in unison, a refrain that would become an automatic reply for months to come.

         The system worked, and as time wore on, most trainees morphed into a cohesive group of promising military combatants— each developing a personal sense of confidence and maturity while marching to the beat of a collective heart. Morale was high and group camaraderie flourished. The more we worked together, the more we became united, bound by a strong sense of intra-Company pride.

         Rivalries sprouted like weeds, and though competitions were encouraged to enliven field maneuvers or team sports, inter-Company boxing exhibitions ranked among the main events for crowning a Unit with lofty prestige, especially among Division Commanders.

         One night, a blend of Glenn Miller’s swing and cross-barracks bickering not only helped bind the knots of our closely-knit unit, but unveiled a surprising talent no one ever saw coming.

         Each thirty-six-man platoon was assigned to a barracks built over crawl spaces that were thinly boarded and covered by some type of chintzy construction material. Buildings were aligned in rows like farrowing sheds on a hog farm. All new arrivals tend to mix and match until banding together into closer personal relationships while learning to live with the quirks of others. Even so, every outfit expects to have its jerk or two, but I got lucky with no such pain-in-the-ass in my squad. We did, however, gain a nearly illiterate, Rufus “Woofie” Hayes, an easy-going yokel from the hills of eastern Kentucky who made friends with everyone, but chose to make me one of his closest buddies.

         At six-foot-six, his frame bulged with massive muscles toned from a childhood of hefting tons of quarry stone when laboring beside his father to help put food on the table. Our initial meeting was a fluke, but timely when JJ and I happened upon a three-card monte scam during a layover while waiting for train connections on the way to Ft. Ivins.

         "I cain’t thank you fellas enough,” Rufus explained, immensely grateful we came along when we did that saved him from becoming a victim. “We don’t have nothin’ back t’home cept’n a bunch o’ hungry kids and chickens... and Momma had worked so dang hard t’save up that goin’ away money, too. I don’t have much schoolin’ like you two fellas, but I got good eyes and figured I could win me some money to pay her back.”

         Ever since, Woof has looked up to me as his best friend and mentor, and to protect his personal secret from embarrassment, I agreed to teach him how to read and write whenever we found private time alone.

         From opening weeks of training, our unit became increasingly fed up with the barracks next door. The constant squabbling and dealing with their persistent gripes about our taste in music or accusations of being too noisy at night was getting tedious. Matters escalated to the point where one of their bible-thumpers hollered a tempting proposition across the space between buildings.

         “Come now, wayward brothers. Y’all need to cut with the cussin’ and carryin’ on and settle things as gentlemen, like it says here in the Bible.”

         “Ah, go blow it out yer barrack’s bag!” we yelled back. “Swing is king! Like it or lump it!”

         We figured some preacher’s kid thought he could mediate some sort of amiable resolution, but soon learned the wannabe reverend had a specific chapter of Samuel, Book 1 in mind.

         Next door blazoned a 6’-3” Goliath of medium build by the name of Shiloh Bragg who hated northern Yankees, Jews, blacks, micks, spics— just about anybody who didn’t chaw ‘t’bacca’ or worship Johnny Reb’s Bars and Stars.

         Shiloh boasted of being named after the Civil War battle in which his great-grandfather was the leading Confederate General opposite Grant’s Union forces. He may have been a pompous, self-proclaimed scion of wealth and influence blustering how important and rugged he was within his outfit, but in our eyes he was nothing but an arrogant bully beating his own drum of how apt he was at pounding the b’Jesus out of a bunch of local farmers in some jerkwater village of Louisiana. Moments later, someone in Bragg’s platoon proposed a challenge.

         “Y’all got five days to pick somebody to square off against Shiloh at the gym’s ring. Three rounds, six o’clock Friday. Four cases of beer to the winner unless y’all are a bunch of chicken-livers and wanna call it quits right now.”

         Our platoon’s normally passive, but crafty “Benny” Shapiro had enough and tossed a baited hook back at them. “Well, in keeping with the top tunes of the day, boy’s, we’re ‘In The Mood,’ referring to Glenn Miller’s big band hit this year. “That is if you’re so sure you wanna treat us to beer and listen to Swing! And fair warning,” he added, “we got us a former golden-glover in the outfit, ya know.”

         This time, they bit. “Bring ‘im on, pilgrim. We heard about your pal. Golden gloves or not, he’s a has-been amateur that ain’t even close to being a heavyweight like Bragg.”

         Benny was a soft-spoken yet savvy Jewish kid from the ghettos of Rahway, New Jersey. Soon after arriving at Fort Ivins, and though liked and respected by all, he was best friends with Marco D’Simone, a tough ex-reform school kid who grew up in nearby south Newark— “where both sides of the tracks were wrong,” he’d joke.

         Benny didn’t lie. He said we had an experienced fighter in the outfit, and even though scuttlebutt suggested Marco was good with his dukes, we had no intention of sending him into the ring. Marco understood, though he implied he could easily handle Bragg if need be, but gladly went along with the squad’s intended plan.

         For starters as a psychological ploy, we sent the pint-sized Bryce Macintyre over to negotiate terms. Our Little Mackie was a good-looking fella with sandy hair, a mischievous wit, and a permanent natural grin that could charm a dog off a meat wagon. The oldest of eight from a small cattle farm in northern Indiana, Bryce was about the size of a jockey who barely made Army height and weight minimums. But what he lacked in stature, the scrappy little bugger more than made up for in heart. Adopted by the entire squad as our official mascot, the little rascal returned about ten minutes later with two thumbs up.

         “I told those yahoos to put up or shut up after bumping ‘em to six cases of beer and two bottles of whiskey. No draw, no rematch, no excuses or cancel— either win or forfeit. Both units are to have the booze in G.D.’s room by tomorrow afternoon, or no bet.”

         Satisfied with the terms, and giddy with over-confidence their ‘Goliath’ was about to repeat biblical history, all eyes thence fell upon our ‘David’.

         “What?” Woofie smirked. “Shoot, I seen that Shiloh fella pickin’ on little fellas and barkin’ orders around like he was a General hisself. But he ain’t nuthin’ but a dern blowhard. Maybe built up a little muscle tossin’ hay bales around, but got legs like broom sticks. I don’t know nuthin’ ‘bout boxin’, boys, but I’ll be an egg-suckin’ coonhound if I cain’t whup that pig-slopper one handed.”

         Benny raised his hands to quell the scattered laughter. “Don’t worry about the knowhow, Woofie. Even if he is a threat, we don’t make it public knowledge, but Marco ain’t no slob. He’s the real deal, boys; trust me on that.” Shapiro put his hand on Marco’s shoulder. “He’ll teach you all you need to know, right, Marco?”

         “Yeah, sure. We’re all in it together, ain’t we?”

         Marco huddled us closer and laid out plans. “First thing we do is meet at the barracks tomorrow afternoon. There’s not gonna be any gym work yet, Woof. First, I’m gonna teach you technique. Like how to deliver a powerful one-two combo— then we go to the gym and show you off. With what I have in mind, that two-bit Bragg will tuck his tail ‘tween his legs and the beer will be ours before the weekend. Where’s our little Irish leprechaun hiding?”

         “Over here, Marco.” Mac popped his head around JJ’s shoulder. “And I’m Scottish, not Irish you twit.”

         “Yeah, yeah… whatever you say,” Marco said, matching Little Mackie’s funky grin. “Same soup, different veggie is all. Ok, listen up. That Shiloh character loves to pick on little guys, right? So day after tomorrow, you get him riled and curious enough to follow us after we’ve left for the gym. I’ll do the rest. Can you handle it?”

         “Piece ‘o cake, Marco.”

         The next day, everyone in the platoon was eager to pitch in. Two guys collected for the booze and delivered our ante from the PX. Per D’Simone’s directive, JJ had a friend in motor pool that for a cumulative carton of donated Camels, he got his buddy to torch a pair of steel hitch-pins to fit Woofie’s hands. Benny and I were to serve as back-up coaches.

         I truly enjoyed working with D’Simone and liked his style. He had a certain quiet class and self-confidence I admire in people. Watching him move, there was no doubt he was an athlete. Between Marco’s boxing savvy and my linebacker weight and instincts, we spent the afternoon teaching Woofie how to time his weight and balance for maximum one-two impact. Marco had brought some of his gear to Ivins, and using a padded target mitt, he showed Woofie how to align arm bones with the wrist and knuckles for making ram-rod hits.

         Marco smiled. “He’s not as quick as I’d like to see, Reggie, but still capable enough with fairly decent balance. But what’s really amazing is his incredible power. It’s downright scary— exactly what we want. You watch, this is gonna be fun.”

         Marco and Benny made a superb team coaching Woofie— focused and methodical. D’Simone’s speed and power-packed combos exemplified precision machinery, erasing any doubt of him ever being in a ring before.

         Second day, the same routine as everyone in the barracks hovered around Marco, only this time gloating over the promise of beer as we watched him tape Woofie’s hands around the heavy hitch-pins. Hoots and whistles applauded the final touch as Marco stretched a pair of striking mitts over Woofie’s massive fists.

         “Christ almighty!” Mac winced. “Look at the size of this guy— and those clubs. I know Bragg’s a half-wit goon who deserves to have his ass kicked, but you ain’t gonna let Woofie hit the bastard with those pins in his fists, are ya? He’ll kill him, Marco. We don’t need beer that bad.”

         “Relax, Mac. There ain’t gonna be a fight, leastwise not with Woofie here if Bragg insists on doin’ battle. I’ve seen bullshit guys like this many times before. You watch, he’ll fade like a popcorn fart when he gets a peek at King Kong about to stave in his ribcage. Just do as I say. Go over there and distract those bums long enough for us to hustle Woofie off to the gym. And be sure to give us time to set up, say about a half hour after we leave.”

         Lt. Canonie approached from his office as we threw a large rain slicker over Woofie’s shoulders.

         “As you were, boys. What’s going on over here? You got a dice game goin’ on, or something?”

         “No, sir,” we parted, making room.

         “What’s this I hear about a boxing match? Lt. Berriman sent a few of his boys over who just filled up my room with beer and a whiskey.”

         We explained how they started things, and how we intended to end it.

         Lt. Canonie smirked. “Thought so. I bet Berriman a bottle of Old Crow myself.” Canonie glanced at Woofie. “So, those whiny little brats think their tough guy is up against D’Simone, huh? Humph. Either way, I’d still bet. But you boys had better tell ‘em to bring a priest if they go through with it.” Lt. Canonie again eyed Woofie’s heavily-muscled build attached to giant fists beneath the overcoat, shook his head in awe and went back to his room.

         A dozen of us encircled Woofie as one of us served as lookout, and when the coast was clear, we whisked Woofie out and escorted him to the gym.

         Little Mac stayed behind to execute his role as planned until about forty-five minutes later when he entered the gym wearing only a sleeveless under-shirt, shorts, and D’Simone’s sixteen-ounce sparring gloves. We laughed at the comedic sight. The gloves seemed big enough for Little Mac to hide under.

         “What the hell are you doin’ with those? You look ridiculous.”

         “Maybe so, DiSimone, but you said to get the sons-o’-bitches down here, so I hung these around my neck and told ‘em I was on my way to help you work the kinks out… that you wanted someone small enough to make you look good. But first, heh heh,” Mac snickered, “I begged Bragg to let me out of my whiskey bet. The stupid oaf swallowed my bullshit like a raw oyster. ‘No dice, twirp; the bet stands,’ he said. So I told him to go to hell and that he’d better not show up cuz you was rusty and didn’t want anyone to see you tryin’ to hit me; that I was quicker ‘n a blue-ass fly and would embarrass you.” Mac winked. “Give ‘em a few minutes, Marco; they’ll be here.”

         “Unbelievable.” Marco rustled Little Mac’s hair. “What a pistol; you should be in Congress with the gift of gab you have,” a comment that evoked more laughter with several approving nods.

         D’Simone turned to Woofie and ordered him to begin running in place, pumping his knees high until breaking a good sweat before moving him to the gym’s heavy bag. Marco then asked for a series of easy combos like he’d been taught. Though only half force, the stretched leather mitts reinforced with hidden steel pins amplified the impact of each wallop. Curious GI’s already at the gym gathered about, watching in awe as the giant newcomer punished the bag.

         “Mac’s right. They’re coming in now,” Benny said, who had been keeping an eye on the door.

         Marco asked Woofie to turn up the steam. My head throbbed as I and another heavyset Corporal did our best to shoulder the bag, trying to keep it steady and from breaking the heavy turnbuckles holding it to the rigging.

         Marco acted like he didn’t see them and let a few more thunderous jaw-breaking blows resonate before he thankfully put a halt to the pounding. Marco turned to challenge their presence.

         “What are you lowlifes doing here? You stooping to spying now?”

         Shiloh sauntered closer, followed by a dozen of his mates. Their eyes were fixed on Woofie’s sweaty biceps, glistening like mini V-8s behind a pair of battering rams.

         “Who’s that guy? I thought I was fightin’ you, the so-called golden glover boy,” Shiloh said, looking down at the shorter Marco.

         “You thought wrong, bozo. You said to pick somebody, so we did. Benny only said we had a fighter in the group— and make no mistake, Bragg, we do. Only I’m his trainer, not that he really needs it since his last fight,” Marco lied.

         Little Mac couldn’t resist needling Shiloh. “Cheer up Bragg. Since you love Jesus so much, you’ll get to meet him in person come Friday. And since you and me still have our whiskey bet, I’ll be sure n’ share it by placing half of it on your grave— but after I pass it through me kidneys first.”

         Bragg shot menacing looks at a couple mates to ‘shut it’ when caught chuckling at Mac’s impish retort. “That wasn’t me spoutin’ Bible crap,” Shiloh snarled. “It was our idiot, Lossen. He’s the preacher fool with the big mouth, you harebrained little runt.”

         “Oh really? I think not from what I’ve been hearing.”

         “Shut your twisted face, you cocky little snot-rag. Why I otta shove that scotch up your scrawny butt after I smack you good ‘n silly,” and raised a hand to cuff little Mac.

         Woofie bumped Marco aside and stepped to within inches of Shiloh’s face. “Touch one hair on his head and you’d better send one of yer pals to fetch a medic, cuz I’m fixin’ to pound yer guts up ‘n out yer eyeballs.”

         We’d never seen the gentle giant react like this before, and it was no idle threat. Both platoons knew Woofie meant every word as a tense silence engulfed the space around us.

         Shiloh’s face went chalk white. Likely for the first time in his life, he stood looking up at a formidable, and more than able adversary who outweighed him by about eighty pounds. The Kentucky gorilla’s wicked hammer-blows were still fresh in Bragg’s mind as Marco let Woofie’s words sink in before gently nudging Woofie aside.

         “You’ll only kill him, Woof, and he knows it.” Marco made his point with a fervid, ominous tone. “I can see it in his eyes. Besides, he’s bare knuckled— like me. So how about it, Bragg? You said you expected me, the has-been. Why wait ‘til Friday? Whad’ya say you ‘n me get this over with right here and now? It’s about time you found out what it’s like to fight a pro instead of some flunky from that swamp you call home.”

         Marco read Shiloh’s face. “Yeah, you heard me right, Bragg— a pro. Golden glove days were history over a year ago. I’ll hit you forty times and open your face up for crow meat before you know where the first one came from. So how about it tough guy? The ring’s empty. Care to step into my parlor?”

         Shiloh’s eyes darted from Marco to the ring and back. Marco stood steadfast, his eyes fixed and narrowed like a big cat about to pounce on prey. Judging from his posture, I sensed Marco was prepared to react at the slightest hint of a threatening move by Bragg.

         Tension among the two groups thickened, primed to explode into a cross-platoon brawl as we edged closer, each of us eying which of Shiloh’s sidekicks we’d likely grab first. But Little Mac defused the standoff when he wedged between Marco and Shiloh, bouncing on his toes while aping the famed profile of the ‘Boston Strongboy,’ John L. Sullivan.

         “Boom, boom, boom,” Mac huffed while rolling the big gloves at Shiloh’s crotch as if it were a speed bag. “And while Marco’s beatin’ your brains out up there, I’ll be down here doing a number on your balls.”

         I burst into laughter as both camps pointed and roared at the little nutcase, like a boney stick-figure shadow boxing, shuffling his feet to and fro, bobbing and weaving while flashing jabs at Shiloh’s groin. Bragg flinched and stepped back from natural reaction, likely more grateful for the safer distance from the pair of dangerous pugilists than any damage Mac could inflict.

         Shiloh stood alone— silent, meek, and humiliated until finding his tongue if only to sneer at his backers. “This whole thing is a set up. Why should I chance a beatin’ for the likes of you bums over booze? That’s right! Looks like y’all are out some beer, fellas, cuz the fight’s off. And if any of you guys don’t like it, tough shit. Mama didn’t raise no fool, and anyone who says I’m yellah had better say it out of reach, or wish they had.”

         Shiloh only glanced at Woofie, but gave the pro a lingering final measure. Their eyes met as he correctly read D’Simone’s implied warning for the last time. Shiloh turned, bulled past his crew and stormed from the gym, slamming the door in the face of his stunned cronies on the way out.

         Mac laughed. “Did he say… chance a beating? How about a sure thing. And talk about chances, what chance do you fellas reckon I’ll have at collecting my scotch?”

         “Pretty dang good I’d say if you tell ‘im Woofie loves the stuff,” JJ quipped.

         After the rest of Shiloh’s flustered bunk mates filed out, we watched Woofie have fun beating the life out of a nerveless heavy bag. More GIs circled around, many cringing at each ferocious boomer. Woofie had put on a thunderous exhibition of brute power, but it was our little leprechaun who provided the uproarious finale after goading Marco into an amazing display of speed and timing on the gym’s speed bag.

         Mac was in awe, and still wearing Marco’s heavy sparring gloves, insisted on having a go. He soon learned it wasn’t as easy as Marco made it look. Mac’s poor timing failed to keep the bag in motion for more than a single swat. Frustrated, he let loose a haymaker that nearly missed the bouncing bobble entirely. But the glancing blow carried his momentum forward just as the bag’s sharp rebound hit him square in the face, snapping his head back in reaction.

         “Umph!” Aside from the sting, Little Mac hammed it up, reeled and staggered before falling flat on his back. Marco counted him out and held the bag up in triumph.

         “Ladies and gentlemen,” Marco bellowed. “At one minute thirty-eight seconds of the first round, Speedo Baggi defeats challenger Rocky Macarooni by a knockout, and is still the undisputed Leather-weight Champion of the World.”

         The entire gym resounded with hoots and whistles, but erupted into guffaws when Benny, mocking a deep-throated drill Sargent, began barking formation commands. Eight guys scurried into a two-man column a few inches apart and stood at attention like pall bearers. Four of us hoisted a lifeless Mac atop their shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest.

         “Le-ft, le-ft— le-ft, raht, le-ft.” Benny marked cadence, the eight stepping in place until the rest of us fell in behind as honor guard. “For-ward, harch!”

         Amidst grins and suppressed snickers, every soldier in the gym came to attention and held formal military salute. Another GI caught up in the tomfoolery triggered the ringside bell at solemn intervals until our column left the gym. Woofie, the odd man out, brought up the rear, his slicker flowing like a Napoleonic cloak as our procession marched out the gym and back to the barracks for collecting our spoils.

         We decided to wait until Friday to launch our victorious sing-along before parsing out the beer, saving the swan song for a few minutes before lights out. At about five ‘til 21:00, we serenaded the losers across the way with our own version of “Good Night Ladies.” However we may have deemed the catty rendition a fitting aria, it sparked a retaliatory epilogue that brought an abrupt end to the bickering for good.

         At about 02:00, several of our rivals snuck over and with helmets in hand, lined along the length of our barracks. On cue, they slammed each helmet against our building’s thin siding timed in rapid sequence from one end to the other. A second volley of wallops followed, sounding like a heavy machine gun was strafing the barracks. More than half our platoon was already up and ready to teach them a new lights-out lullaby, but Canonie beat us to the punch.

         Nobody messes with Lt. G.D. Canonie when his collar stiffens. Still in his skivvies, he was out the door and bounded their barracks steps before most of the perps had reached their bunks, determined to have a serious chinwag with his apathetic counterpart. He assured Lt. Berriman, and both platoons, that we’d all be singing soprano if either group insisted on furthering the pissing match another minute. Since arriving at Ft. Ivins, it was the first time both barracks remained hospitable.

         From then on, it also helped that both units were kept too busy for anything more than carrying out regimental exercises, showering, or taking meals. About a week after the feud had officially ended, a Major Moore paid Lt. Canonie a surprise visit after evening chow.

         “Ten-hut!”

         “At ease, gentlemen.” Major Moore and Lt. Canonie approached my end of the barracks and stopped at Woofie who was busy rolling laundered socks into pairs atop his bunk.

         “So, you’re the Private Rufus T. Hayes I’ve been hearing about, eh?” Major Moore glanced within his file folder for effect. “Lots of stories circulating about you, Hayes— like how you killed two guys in the ring awhile back. But I don’t see anything in here about that, so what’s the scoop?”

         Woofie nervously smirked. “Shoot, sir. I ain’t never been in no dang ring, and I ain’t never kilt nuthin’ I ain’t et before. But prob’ly woulda come close if that Bragg fella had swatted Mac like he was gonna. That’s prob’ly what you heard, sir. Bunch o’ henhouse jaw-jackin’.”

         “I see. So you’re saying it’s all hype and gossip? You didn’t falsify any papers to get into the Army, did you? Because if you did, that would be a serious offense, Hayes.”

         “No, sir. I wouldn’t do nuthin’ like that. All I did was beat hell outta that old bag and make a lotta noise like I was told. Tell him like it was, boss.” Woofie glanced at me, his eyes pleading for support.

         “No need, Hayes, I believe you. It does explain a few things, but the truth is, I came over here hoping to find me a good heavyweight after hearing how ‘King Kong’ shook the dust from the rafters. Given your size, maybe I could still use you, despite what it says in here about your limited—”

         “Ah, excuse me, sir.” I interrupted. “I’m Private Reginald Brooks, Woofie’s— I mean Private Hayes’s best friend, sir. He’s confided in me about his personal life, and uh, with no disrespect meant, but maybe some things would best be left confidential. Don’t you think so— sir?” My subtle expression alluded to the Major’s folder.

         “Hmm.” The Major’s eyes narrowed. “Your name again, soldier?”

         “Reginald Brooks, sir. If he gives me permission, perhaps I can shed some light on what happened in the gym, and likely a lot more about certain things in your file, but in private, sir.”

         The Major turned to Woofie. “Is that so, Hayes? You can’t speak for yourself?”

         “Um, no sir. I mean yes, sir,” Woofie stammered. “I mean he’s the boss, sir. There ain’t nuthin’ he don’t know about me, but I cain’t talk as good as him.”

         I saw the confusion and sensitive fear welling in Woofie’s eyes as Major Moore paused and glanced at another page.

         “I see,” Moore nodded and closed his folder. “You got chutzpah, Brooks, and I like that in a soldier. Perhaps my excitement of finding a big heavyweight muddled my thinking. Very well then, Brooks, Canonie’s office.”

         I found Major Moore to be a first-rate officer who was not only receptive, but savvy and easy to talk to. After about a half hour spent with me, he followed me out and immediately approached Woofie. Smiling, he reached for Woofie’s hand and shook it with genuine encouragement.

         ”Brooks filled in many blanks, Hayes. And for what it’s worth, he also said how he’s really proud of you and respects your efforts. And so do I, so keep up the good work and stick with it, soldier. Ok, and which of you are D’Simone and Shapiro?”

         “Over here, sir.” Marco shot me a quizzical look from the other side of the room as he and Shapiro came forward.

         “Private Brooks said if I was looking for a fighter that you’d be my boy. He seems quite impressed with you, D’Simone— thinks you really know your stuff. Says you won a golden gloves tournament once. Is that so?”

         “Private Brooks is not correct, sir.”

         My heart nearly stopped. Aside from handling Woofie’s secret, I buoyed the Major’s hopes of landing what I believed to be a talented prospect and still managed to keep him and Shapiro together. Hell of time to make a liar out of me, D’Simone.

         Marco grinned when glancing at me, knowing damned well he had pushed my panic buttons. “Actually, it was eleven, sir,” Marco corrected. “Two Inter-City, a Metro, and eight City, State, and Mid-Atlantic Regional titles between New York and New Jersey.”

         “Eleven? Jesus! Are you a prize fighter?”

         “Technically, not yet, sir. Those were amateur championships. Big ones, perhaps the best in the country I’m told, but I was about to turn pro when duty called.”

         “Hell of a string, D’Simone, even among pros. What’s your overall record like?”

         “Forty-seven wins, thirty-eight by knockout with only one loss, and that was to Ray Robinson for the Inter-City Golden Gloves title in 1940.”

         “You mean, the Ray Robinson— like in Sugar Ray?”

         “Yes, sir. I was only eighteen, yet still floored him in the second round, but they gave him the split decision.”

         “Are you serious? Eleven titles? Forty-seven wins? And up against the best in the biz like Sugar-Ray with a split decision? Holy shit.”

         “Well, he was my toughest bout, sir— lightning fast.”

         “I know who and what he is, D’Simone. Ring Magazine named him Fighter of the Year two years ago. And I also know that Tony Zale’s in the Navy, and about Graziano’s big problem with the Army last year. It’s not my first day in Dodge, son.”

         “Sorry, sir, didn’t know.” Marco blushed, and still a trifle hesitant, he humbly continued. “Uh, then if you follow the fight game, sir, you might have seen an item back in December about a newcomer turning pro from Jersey, the one about ‘The Iceman’ by chance?”

         “The Iceman… Iceman,” Major Moore reflected, trying to link the name to a recent article. “Yeah, I do seem to recall seeing something about a new kid on the block; ‘The Iceman Cometh’ story. In fact, I think I still have December’s copy in my office. He’s the one everyone’s been waiting for. A byline said the kid hits so hard, he lays ‘em out stiff, ‘ice cold for the morgue,’ they said. Sure, I remember now. Ring Mag said he’s the most exciting prospect to come along since Jake LaMotta.” The Major paused and looked expectantly at Marco. “Nah, don’t tell me—”

         “Um, yes sir. That’d be me.” Marco’s modesty allowed his cheeks to grow a shade more pink. “I would have turned pro then, but my country came first. I’ll be twenty-two in December and figured the pros can wait. So, I joined the Army and here I am, sir— 3rd platoon, B Company.”

         I had sensed Marco was good, but after hearing all that, I couldn’t help but think just how close Bragg had come to meeting his maker. The two of them stood a foot apart— a twitch, a feint, a single wrong word from Bragg and he’d have been hamburger.

         Moore stroked his chin, barely disguising exuberance while eyeing Marco’s highly developed and tapered frame top to bottom. “How much you weigh, son?”

         “One-sixty-five, but I can make middleweight in a couple days if that’s your question.”

         “I see. And uh, what about this guy, Shapiro, who’s he? Private Brooks said you and he were a team, so where does he fit in?”

         Marco placed his hand on Benny’s shoulder. “This is Shapiro, sir. In or out of the Army, he’s my trainer and corner man. I’ve never had better and won’t fight without him, period. We’re always together, sort of like a good mortar team— he loads, I explode.”

         “Ha, ha. A guy with grit and wit. Well, I suppose it does make sense. Brooks did say you were a straight shooter. Okay, done.”

         Pleased with how things were going, I smiled approvingly at Marco. He could have asked for a blue-eyed blonde and a staff car and got ‘em both, I mused.

         “I’d love to have a good middleweight, but never figured I’d find anyone even close to your caliber. Given your big-league stats, you could end up top banana in the entire Army. Maybe whip a few smartasses in upper weight brackets along the way. Might even get us a cross-service match with Zale— wow, wouldn’t that be a hell of a story for Stars and Stripes.

         “I’d be one happy clam at high tide if you’d consider joining my roster, soldier. I promise you’ll have everything you need and every opportunity to shine. I take damn good care of my fighters, especially those who make me pie-eyed giddy with results if you get my drift, DiSimone. I know you’re probably settled in here, but what do you say? There’s no pressure at all, but think you’d be interested in new quarters?”

         “Well, I do appreciate the option…” Marco paused, glancing at the rest of us, “and I really like this outfit— a lot, sir. They’re a good bunch, but if like you said, I can still be in B Company with my buddies close by, I don’t see why not, sir. Shapiro too?”

         “Wouldn’t want it any other way. If he’s that good, maybe he can help develop a few of my other prospects. How about it, Shapiro, you up for the task?”

         “Depends on what clay I have to work with, sir. But if you give me the tools and the authority I need to keep them fit and focused, then I promise I’ll do my best to turn them into masters of mayhem.”

         “Ha, ha! I like it; masters of mayhem. You two are somethin’ else. Great attitude, boys. Looks like my trip over here is turning out a mile better than I expected, G.D.” Major Moore looked at Lt. Canonie. “I believe we have a few items to chat about, lieutenant. Any chance you have a taste of bourbon in that foxhole you call a room?”

         “As a matter of fact, got a fresh supply in last week, courtesy of Lt. Berriman. And ah, might even have us a bonus to boot, Major.” Canonie eyeballed JJ standing next to me. “Private Jackson?”

         “Yes, sir.”

         “If memory serves me right, the Major enjoys a good cigar with his whiskey. Would you be willing to sell me a couple of your fine Cubans?”

         “No, sir. They’re not for sale— but on the house for you, sir.”

         “Is that so? Well, much obliged then, Pvt. Jackson. What’d I tell ya, Terry? Do I have me a good group o’ ground-pounders here, or what?”

         “The best, Canonie, the best. Lead the way, lieutenant.”

         Lt. Canonie winked at me and JJ as he guided Major Moore to his office. While they sipped bourbons during the course of horse trading, the guys pounced on me, eager to learn what I had said to Moore. I told them that in essence, the Major agreed with me… that it was true Woofie could knock over a half-track, but unless opponents were chained in place, Woofie was not his man.

         “That’s where you and Benny came in, Marco. I told Moore what I’d seen and heard, and after watching you work with Woofie and that speed bag, I knew you were no novice. I’d always figured you were good, but have to admit, you floored me when learning you were world class. And as for teaming up with Shapiro, I told the Major it was a must; that he couldn’t find a more effective pair. Moore said he trusted my judgment and it felt good hearing that from brass, so do us proud.”

         “Count on it, Reggie. I got a good taste of what life would be like in the joint after doing a stint in juvie since I was twelve. I’ve kept my nose clean ever since and don’t intend to ever look back. Thanks for the vote of confidence; you’re my kind of paisan, Brooks. We’ll stay in touch.”

         “I figured as much. No doubt you’ll be missed, but it’s for the best. From what Moore was saying, it sounds like you two are in for some nice perks. So what the hell, run with it and leave the ‘ground-pounding’ to the rest of us rookies.”

         “Reggie is right, Iceman,” JJ added. “Grab the brass ring while youse can. We’ll take care o’ them Nazi’s. You just give the Stars and Stripes plenty to write about, capisce?”

         Shapiro shook my hand. “Thanks for keeping us together, Reggie. That was class.”

         “Hey, glad to help,” I said, brushing it off. “This way, you can keep Marco sharp and on his game. After discharge, he can slip right into the pros and stay legit, and not end up taking cheap dives for some bent-nose wiseguy cashing rigged bets in Jersey City.”

         Michael Muskegon, or ‘Muskie’, as he was anointed by the squad, interrupted. “Enough about those two palookas, what I wanna know is what you had to say about Woofie. What’s he hiding, anyway? Did he really kill somebody? Are we gonna lose him, too?”

         Muskie was not a total reject, a nice enough guy but more of a naïve nuisance at times from Pennsylvania’s coal country who means well, but tends to try too hard at fitting in at times.

         “You really wanna know why I insisted we speak in private, Mike? Okay, I’ll tell ya. You see, Woofie didn’t kill two guys, it was eight. And all of ‘em for just nosing into his personal business. Can you imagine if word got out we had a killing machine in the outfit, a real maniac who snaps like a summer twig when somebody annoys him? Who knows, Muskie, might even be you who’ll trip his trigger next. Never can tell with psychos, y’know.”

         As if rehearsing a skit, Woofie’s timing was perfect when tapping Muskie on the shoulder from behind. “Say, junior, what was it you wanted t’know about me, anyway?” Woofie gnarled his lip and feigned a nervous tic in his neck for effect which evoked more than one source of snickering.

         “Nuthin’, Woof.” Muskie blushed. “I gotcha’s. Don’t mind me, fellas. I guess I can be a moron at times like the boss says. Sorry, fellas, it won’t happen again.”

         G.D. yelled from his doorway. “Lights out in five minutes! Anyone not in their bunk when I drop the switch gets latrine duty!”

         The chatter abruptly stopped as everyone scurried like attic mice when the cat walked in.

         A couple days later, we gave D’Simone and Shapiro a quiet sendoff to cushy part-time clerical posts, but full-time training at Major Moore’s HQ. We killed a couple cases of beer and polished off the last of Mac’s scotch sent courtesy of the honorable ones who refused to be tainted by Bragg’s welshing on a bet.

         More changes soon affected the outfit. Shifting troops was common during training. As GI’s demonstrated or developed specific aptitudes, CO’s often traded notes as well as personnel to improve efficiency as well as help balance talents within Units, whether for manning specialized equipment and other tasks ranging from Army Air Corps crews to zither players. If one could do it, the Army had a need for it.

         On the flip side, Lt. Canonie finagled a shrewd trade from Major Moore in return for D’Simone and Shapiro. Within days, we learned we’d struck pay-dirt with the arrival of Sergeant Jason Healey, one of Moore’s key administrators who was to become our new squad leader.

         An inch taller and slightly heavier build than JJ, Jason was a class act respected by GIs and officers alike from several Units within B Company. Like G.D., he too hailed from central Kentucky’s bluegrass, the eldest son of a prominent thoroughbred breeder who defied his parents’ pleas and left Princeton to enlist in the Army.

         “I had to serve, Reggie,” Jason explained. “It’s my duty, before the war ends,” he stressed. “I’m not a spoiled blueblood, and certainly not afraid of combat despite what some callous slobs may think. I even fudged a little about my education, so I’d be treated like any other Joe. But oh boy,” he chuckled. “Did I ever catch it from the folks. They pitched a fearsome fit, but came around in the end after giving my word I’d finish my degree, and get my Masters as soon as I return.”

         Though Jason exemplified wealth and polished upbringing, he was as unpretentious and fun-loving as anyone I’d ever met. He also happened to be blessed with a divine tenor’s voice equal to the finest of virtuosos, the perfect topping for our musically flavored group.

         Escalated training regimens wore us out at about the same pace as did Shiloh’s welcome within his outfit. He grew increasingly sullen until finally boiling over one afternoon when he set upon a 5’-8” whipping boy from another unit that proved to be a painful mistake.

         Bragg’s ‘piece of shit Irish mick’ turned out to be a draftee out of a nefarious Chicago street gang who had a sadistic streak a mile long. While on break from routine maneuvers, push came to shove and without warning, he planted a heavy boot into Shiloh’s groin followed by a rifle butt across the face that broke Shiloh’s nose and cheek bone. Though felled by cheap shots, the beating should have ended there but the alley rat lit upon a down and disabled Bragg, viciously punching and kicking him, cracking two ribs before anyone could pull the schizo off.

         Shiloh’s face was swollen and covered in blood from a badly broken nose and deep lacerations on his cheek and brow. The semi-conscious Bragg could barely breathe by the time help arrived.

         Despite Bragg’s unsavory reputation, three platoon mates hatched a retaliatory plan, ‘field justice’ as we Army grunts called it in private. One of them approached me and JJ, claiming to have heard a rumor about our Burma Road, a secret pathway through a wooded area that connects our corner of Ft. Ivins to a civilian area on the edge of town. JJ had learned of the passage from an injured GI he had helped carry his barrack’s bag when shipping out. After lights out on a few occasions, JJ and I would sneak out for a clandestine rendezvous with a couple of coeds at a girl's dormitory about a block from trail’s end.

         Since we had no intention of using it again anyway, we agreed to share its location. Without a need to wait until lights out or when they’d return, many, including Lt. Berriman, were prepared to serve as alibis in support of those who volunteered to carry out sentencing by confirming they were in the barracks all night. All they had to do was stay clear of MPs. That was the risk. Failing that, they were on their own.

         They began by setting up a little spy network for keeping tabs on Bragg’s attacker and waited until he was given an overnight pass. The trio found him at a dive bar on the edge of town about a quarter mile from the girl’s campus. The strategy was to assess immediate surroundings and determine how best to execute before separating into position while the others casually milled about outside until the sadistic lowlife emerged.

         Like bees from a ruptured hive, they quickly closed in and shoved the cruel son-of-bitch into a corner of a side alley and delivered a severe beating of their own. An official inquiry ensued but failed to produce any meaningful leads or witnesses.

         Although a few in Bragg’s outfit were questioned, all offered similar responses: ‘We were all in the barracks that night,’ or, ‘maybe the dude got drunk and pissed off a couple tough rednecks in town.’

         After weighing what facts and sketchy testimony they managed to gather, the Army was forced to conclude the case closed by sending the draftee to Leavenworth for 2nd degree assault, and discharge papers to Shiloh citing an ‘inability to adapt as fit for soldiering,’ a common verdict cited for culling immature, mentally unstable, or anyone consistently troublesome as the official decree for expelling recruits from the service.

         I was never a fan of Shiloh Bragg by any stretch, but in some ways, felt sorry for the delusional lout who arrived at Ft. Ivins with more baggage than just his civvies. He was a disturbed time bomb, likely raised by a dysfunctional family desperately clinging to a fading Civil War heritage. His head was eventually filled by a litany of deep-south elitist pride, and driven by a perpetual need to prove his preeminence, Shiloh Bragg had metamorphosed into a domineering, contemptible misfit.

         In their eyes, he was to be their champion, the heir apparent destined to become a distinguished military officer who would not only help change the course of the war by exemplifying Grand Pappy’s military exploits, but would preserve their Confederate legacy as well.

         My guess is, Shiloh came to believe in and relish the prospect that his portrait would one day be hanging alongside the General’s. But it was not to be. Within months of enlisting, he trudged home a broken and disgraced Private— an official Army reject that will remain a permanent blight on the family name.

         A pity, Private ‘big man’ Bragg. By picking on so many little guys, you became one.



W.C. 7948