---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108-page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/paperback book “Open Your Eyes” cc&d, v325 (the September 2022 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Unable To Escape It the cc&d September-December 2022 magazine issues collection book		get the 422-page September-December 2022 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Where Eagles Go to Die

R. L. Peterson

    It’s Fight Night at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego. The recruits stand and scream as the heavyweight moves in to knock me into next week. It’s Smoker Night and this the Last Man Standing Go Around - two Marines hell bent on ruining each other for life – a bout where I’ve bobbed and weaved and slipped jabs and ducked haymakers to stay alive but haven’t hit the Big Boy one good blow.
    This is my fourth fandango of the night. I’m one tired-assed Marine. If I survive the next two minutes of this round, there’s still two more rounds - six long minutes - an eternity in the ring- before I unlace my gloves, if I’m not on a stretcher, hospital bound. Maybe, just maybe, I can land a punch or two, not just duck and run all night.
    I block Goon’s right, slip a left and dance away from a long right. He fires a left that glances off my forehead. I act like I’m hurt and slip to the dusty canvas. Ten sweet seconds to get myself together. Ten magical ticks to cool burning lungs, rest tired legs, drain hot lead from my arms.
    The referee’s hot cigarette breath is on my face. “One!”
    Nine short seconds left to rest in the sawdust. If I stay down, I’ll march back to the barracks with my platoon, a loser, like ten other idiot Marines who thought they were tough. Is that what I want? Would that make Amy proud?
    I know Stan would say, “Find a weakness and exploit it.”
    Before we touched gloves for this little docey doe, the ring announcer intoned, “In the Red Corner, Olympic boxing team member and Fifth Marine Regiment’s undefeated champion, with nineteen knock outs in twenty-two bouts, Sebastian T. Calvert.” He stretches Calvert’s name out for at least thirty seconds.
    Me? Five seconds, max. “In the Blue Corner, Marine Private, Art Carr. Platoon 163.” No mention of my twelve Gold Glove wins, or that I’ve knocked out all 3 of my opponents tonight. At a Smoker, any Marine who thinks he’s got the goods can climb in the ring. Most walk away with a black eye, or bloody nose, much wiser about the vagaries of life. Some are carried out on a stretcher. I hope I’m not one of them. It truly is Calvert or me.
    The Ref sings, “Three.”
    Seven precious seconds before Sebastian T. Calvert and I duke it up again. Calvert has weaknesses. He drops his left as he throws his right. He jerks his head back instead of blocking shots aimed for his chin, habits Stan taught me to exploit. I would, but Calvert’s six four, a good two twenty, with a pulverizing right. I’m five eight, one fifty-five. I’ve been on my horse all night, throwing maybe thirty ineffective blows, When the Ref raises Calvert’s hand at the end of this little tete-a-tete, a Navy corpsman will give me a quick ‘look see’, and tomorrow every a-hole in Foxtrot Company will want a piece of the guy who almost won the Smoker. Fist fights aren’t my game.
    The referee’s sweat drips on my arm. “Six!” Then, “Seven!”
    He’s eager to hit the Enlisted Men’s Club for a cold one or five and tell everyone who’ll listen he’s never seen so many sorry-assed Marines as he saw tonight.
    I jump to my feet. “C’mon Big Boy, Let’s see what ya got.”

* * *

    My first opponent was with a redhead from Platoon 162. He threw fists and elbows like a machine gun – deadly, but off target. Stan taught me to stay away from guys like that. “When they’ve tired themselves out, move in with a left, right, left combo. That’ll send them nighty, night. There’s no mercy in boxing.”
    After this fight, its wait over an hour for my next go-around, a six foot, one eighty-five Black Marine who comes to center ring like he’s been there before. He opens with a good left, his guard low. I circle right. He fires a left and starts a right.
    Before they land, he’s on his butt, looking up. Surprised, embarrassed, and mad, he jumps up. “A telegraphed punch is an invitation to a knock out,“ Stan would often say.
    “Never get mad,” is another of his gems. “It tightens your muscles and constricts your vision.”
    The Marine in front of me didn’t get the memo. His eyes ablaze, face red, he flings punch after punch. I bounce away, but a wild right slams into my cheek, too high up to cause damage, but a good punch. I remember Stan’s caution, “Everyone in the ring has knock out potential.”
    To piss my Black friend off even more, I slap him with an open glove. He lowers his head and charges. I step to my right and fire a left hook, followed by a second left to his temple. He straightens up. A right to his chin puts him down for good. Boxing’s a violent sport.
    Then it’s wait, wait for the next bout, my energy level running low. I slowly munch the Mars bar I smuggled in, savoring the sugar, sip lots of water and wait. Finally, I look across the ring at a tall Black, his torso covered with tats. Weightlifter’s Journal would love his abs. He looks fast as he shadow boxes to loosen up.
    His first punch, a right, zings into my eye. Damn. My eye will swell and go blue later. That I don’t need.
    A left splits my lip. The taste of blood reminds me this is a serious fighter. No more messing around, Carr. I feed him three straight lefts. Stan always reminded me, “You live off you’re left.” A right cross. Left hook. Another right. All land solid. My man drops to one knee but stands at eight.
    Kill the body and the head dies, too. A hard right to his heart, a solar plexus left, a right to his ribs, a left to his gut. Down again. Up at nine.
    The ref wipes his gloves. “Fuck yes, I know my name. Ray Hebert. Let’s fight.”
    A left, right combo backs Hebert into the corner. The bell sounds.
    The sixty second rest seems like a short ten. Ray comes out fast. We clinch. He throws two weak body shots. He’s tired. Scared. I fire a right over his heart, and a left to his belly. He goes down but struggles to his feet at seven.
    A right and a left. He eats sawdust. Again. I say, “Stay down, Marine.”
    “Shut yer mouth,” the Ref yells, “I’m in charge here.”
    He waves his finger at the ring-side judges. “One-point deduction for Blue Corner. Poor sportsmanship.”
    I ignore this and move in. I want to end this little waltz before I get hurt. Forty-five seconds later, Ray, his arms probably burning, his heart pounding, his lungs burning, goes down from a left, right, left. He pulls himself up with the ropes. He wobbles toward me, then falls. He’s through.
    I‘m lucky I still stand. My arms and legs are lead. The Ref says, “If that Marine had trainin’, he’d whoop yer ass.” I nod in agreement.

* * *

    Back home one of my jobs was to deliver handbills door-to-door. Orphan boys like me take any job we can to put a nickel in the pocket and beans in the pot. That’s how I met Amy - five or six months before she started waitressing at the Home Town Diner,
    Her first night, She’d just taken orders at Table Twelve. “I’m your Pig Tail, girl. I water your customers. Get ‘em coffee. Fix what drinks you need. Clear your tables.”
    Amy graduated high school when I was in eighth grade, I find out later. She’s slender. Shoulder length brown hair. Light chocolate complexion. Grey eyes. Full red lips. Male customers will like her.
    “Where’d you get that eye?”
    I touch my swollen right eye. “Sears and Roebuck. Midweek special.”
    She doesn’t smile. “If you want to give ‘em, not get ‘em, talk to Grandpa Stan.” The old guy in the wheel chair? Her granddad? When I dropped off Kroger’s flyer last week, I thought he was asleep in his wheelchair. I tiptoe past.
    He waves a clipboard. “Making a sparring schedule. Closed my eyes to concentrate.” I’d heard some old guy had opened a gym for boxers in the West End. It’s him? What does an old man in a wheel chair know about boxing?
    Amy’s smile is white teeth and pink tongue. “Okay, Mr. Pig Tail. Two strawberry malts, a chocolate shake. Iced tea. Left to right. Table 12.”

* * *

    “If you want to learn to fight, this is not for you,” Stan says when I drop by his gym and ask to join. “I don’t work with hooligans. If however, you want to learn the Art of Self Defense, my gym is open 6 days a week, 9 to 9.”
    He eyes me. “Good shoulders. Good legs.” His brown hand snaps out. I duck away. “Good reflexes.”
    That started my two-year journey in the Gold Gloves. Daily five-mile runs. Shadow boxing by the hour. Squeezing a rubber ball a thousand times a day with each hand. A no sugar diet. No bread. A raw egg, fresh spinach, and protein powder drink mornings. Twice weekly sparring matches with fighters above my weight class. Every session keyed toward the Gold Gloves Tournament in March, where you fight two bouts a day over three weekends. If you win, that is.
    Stan’s wheelchair doesn’t slow him down. He’s everywhere. “Twist your fist when you land that left. You’ll do more damage.” To a guy in the ring, “Keep your legs moving. Especially after you’ve been hit. That’ll lift the fog,.”
    To me his advice was, “You have a good left. Keep it in their face. Hook the body, That’ll set ‘em up for your right.”
    After school, a week after I start with Stan, asshole Tuttle and Wagner decide they’ll beat up on me. Again. Their routine is for Tuttle to drop to his knees behind me. Wagner then gives me a shove. When I fall, Tuttle grabs me and Wagner pounds the prefabricated stuffing out of me. It worked last time. They’re confident it will work again.
    This time when Tuttle drops, I wheel, kick him in his stomach and swipe my foot under his elbow. He sprawls in the dirt. A foot to his nards. He grabs his crotch, moaning. I pivot and fire a hard right to Wagner’s nose. Blood spurts. His hands cover his face. I bust him in the gut. Twice. He goes down. I pull him to his feet and rain him with lefts and rights until he falls again.
    “Stop. I give.”
    From that day to this, I’ve had no trouble from these idiots.

* * *

    Now, Smoker Night at San Diego’s Recruit Depot, on my feet, I bounce up and down, my gloves high to signal I’m okay. Goon points a red glove at me. “You’re mine, Sucker.”
    Stan’s advice rings in my ear. “When you’ve been down, your first punch back on your feet may win the fight. Most fighter’s get excited when they knock someone down. They rush in for the kill, leaving themselves wide open. Use their eagerness to your advantage.”
    The marines roar. They want blood. The heavy rushes at me through dim lights and tobacco smoke, mayhem in his fists and murder in his heart. When he’s maybe five feet away, I pivot right and fire a looping left. He jerks his head back as usual. My follow up right slams into his Adam’s apple.
    Goon’s eyes go big. He grabs his throat, makes a gargling sound, and looks to the Ref. He’ll get no help there. Goon struggles to breathe. If you can’t be good, be lucky, Carr.
    I move in to harvest my luck. A hard right to Sebastian’s gut. Pivot left. A right over his heart. A left hook to his jaw. He gags, trying to catch his breath. Maybe for the first time ever he tastes fear. His eyes are big and round. He digs at his throat with thick boxing gloves.
    Sebastian probably thought he’d enjoy a night of easy fights, throw maybe fifty punches, build his record. Now, he can’t breathe, and a raw recruit fires jab after jab to his midsection. It’s been at least thirty seconds since he had a good breath. A lifetime in the ring.
    I tuck my chin and slam a right to his heart, bounce to my left and feed him two solid rights. No more bobbing and weaving. A hard right to Sebastian’s gut, a left to his heart, a right to his chin. A left-right combo to his solar plexus.
    The recruits are on their feet screaming. All that pent up anger at Drill Instructors, the lost sleep, the long hours on “The Grinder,” the demands for hospital-tight bunks, for crystal clean heads. They yell with joy as a recruit just like them beats the kapok out of a big guy who only seconds before ruled the night.
    Sebastian staggers, his lungs probably feel on fire. It’s been over a minute since he had life-giving air. He can’t swallow. He’s hurt and confused. I force myself to stay calm, then chop a left to his gut, an upper cut to his chin. Finally, like a beef carcass falling from a butcher’s hook, Sebastian sprawls to the canvas. He rolls over, spits out his mouth piece, clutches his throat and sobs.
    The Ref shoves me to a neutral corner. “You stupid Recruit. The Colonel’ll have yer ass.” He counts over Calvert, “. . . eight, nine, ten. Yer out.”
    He pulls me to center ring and raises my hand. “You’re in world of hurt, Marine. You knocked out the Colonel’s boy.”
    The base photographer’s camera flashes. An M.P. pushes past the Navy corpsman and grabs me. “Shower, Shit Head. Yer goin’ with me.”
    “My name is Private Art Carr, thank you.”
    “Yeah. After the Colonel greets ya, ya’ll wish it were Rocky Marciano. Now, move it!”

* * *

    When Colonel Wade comes in, I jump up and salute.
    “At ease, Marine.”
    Wade sits. “Where’d you learn to box?”
    “Missouri. Gold Gloves.’
    “Win anything?”
    “Twelve fights?”
    “No champions?
    “No, sir. Missed the last fights of the tournament. A snow storm closed our road.”
    “Who trained you?’
    “Stan McBride. A one-time top-ranked middleweight. He slipped and fell in his shower. Banged his head on the concrete floor. Paralyzed him from the waist down.”
    “He did a good job with you.” Wade leans forward. “We tried to train Sebastian to block head shots.” He sighs. “If not you, someone else would have made him pay.”
    He pushes a button from a row on his desk. “You’re his replacement on the boxing team. You might go the Olympics. Sgt. Wynegar will get you squared away.”
    “I’ve got two more weeks of boot camp, sir.”
    “Let me worry about that, Private First-Class Carr.” He must read the surprise on my face when he mentions my rank. “Yeah, you’re promoted. We can’t have slick sleeves fighting for fame and fortune.” His eyes lock on mine. “Anything else?”
    “Baseball’s my best sport.”
    “Life’s a series of compromises, Marine. You could be an Olympian now. What’s your complaint? ”
    A Marine sergeant comes in. Colonel Wade says, “See that PFC Carr gets chow. Move him into Room 11. If he complains about anything, throw him in the brig. Malingering. Insubordination. Whatever charge you decide.” He looks at me. “We clear?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    At the door, Colonel Wade turns. “It’ll take more than a fucking snowstorm to save your ass now, Marine.” He’s gone before I can salute.

* * *

    At home on leave, I drop by Stan’s gym to brag a little. Its empty except for Amy. She’s packing boxes.
    “What’s going on?’
    “Granddad had a stroke. He’s at a facility in St. Louis. He never should have started this gym. Too much work. Not enough reward.”
    I feel like I’ve taken a hard left to the midsection. “I didn’t know.”
    Stan not once complained. At my Gold Glove fights, before the first bell, he’d say, “Remember, you live off your fight. Ask yourself, ‘How bad do I want this?” His way of saying my success was up to me. He was just an onlooker.
    Amy looks fine in shorts, tee shirt and tennies. I hold her hand while I tell her about my fight with Goon. When I finish, she pumps her fist, her gray eyes so inviting. I learn in to kiss her. She slaps me hard.
    “Not so fast, White Boy. The guy who gets this gal has to put me first.” Her giggle is musical. “My man has to love me more than baseball games and boxing matches. You don’t qualify.”
    She taps my shoulder. “It’s great you made the Marine Boxing Team. Now make Grandpa even proud and fight your ass off.”

* * *

    My first day back at Championship Academy as the training facility is called, Sarge Helm eyes me over. “Need to beef up your legs and strengthen your neck so you can take a punch.”
    He’s a retired Marine, famous for training champions. “Get you down to 157-158. Welterweight size.”
    So it’s jump rope, thousands of sit ups daily, two twenty-minute sessions on the big bag, squat thrusts until my knees grow numb, five-mile runs. Sparring sessions then a medicine ball slammed into my gut til I puke.
    When I don’t see Sebastian T. Calvert, the heavyweight from the Smoker who gave me a hard fight, I ask Sarge. He says, “Eagles build their nests far from where they’re hatched. When they’re ready to die, they come home and die alone. Calvert’s egg hatched. He’s going pro.”
    He slaps my back. “Here’s a new exercise to strengthen your neck.”

* * *

    It’s fight night in the college gym. A crowd of maybe ten stands as a scratchy National Anthem plays on a record player. When “Home of the brave,” echoes, they plop into their seats, some to watch the fight, others to stare at the basketball and football jerseys and team championship banners hanging from the ceiling. When will their bout start? Who will they fight?
    The Ref calls, “Fighters front and center.” His next words are so fast all I hear is, “protect yourself at all times.” The college boy fighter and I touch gloves. I hustle back to my corner, breathing deep to slow my heart. I’m sweating already.
    Sarge Helm towels off my shoulders. “Okay, Carr. You’re ready. Make him eat your left. The fight’s yours if you want it bad enough..” He slaps my shoulder. “Semper fi.”
    The Ref lifts his hand, brings it down and yells, “Fight.”
    I dance out to meet my opponent. “Let’s see what you got, big guy.”

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...