It was a fight. A circle of GIs five deep were yelling and whooping it up, clapping and waving their fists. It sounded like they were having fun, but I couldn’t tell if it was a fair fight or not. If it was, I’d probably leave the enlisted men to their own devices. If not, I should act the officer and break it up. Then I heard it, loud and clear.
“Give it to the nigger! Give it to ’im, Charlie!” I felt a moment of panic, knowing somehow that it had to be Tree in trouble. I pushed my way through the frenetic crowd, and as guys noticed my captain’s bars some faded away, suddenly needing to be somewhere else. Before I saw Tree, I saw Charlie. Charlie was huge, fists the size of hams and arms thick with muscle. He seemed to tower over Tree, but he had him by only a matter of inches in height. In terms of coiled power and weight, he had him beat six ways to Sunday.
Charlie moved like an ox. Tree danced around him, coming out of his shadow and trying to throw a punch but coming up short. He stumbled but regained his footing quickly, moving to the edge of the crowd. I didn’t dare call his name and distract him, leaving him open to a roundhouse punch from a freight train.
Tree didn’t look like he could last much longer. One eye was swollen shut, he was bleeding from his nose and a cut above the open eye, and he kept his left hand down, probably protecting a cracked rib. Aside from the vacant look in his eyes, which he’d probably been born with, Charlie didn’t have a mark on him. Another GI in the circle had a black eye, and his knuckles were scraped and bleeding. Charlie wasn’t Tree’s first opponent in this rigged fight.
I shoved a corporal standing next to me. I tapped my bars for emphasis.
“Ten-hut!” he shouted, and snapped to attention like a good soldier. Most of the men followed his example, and saluted. I returned the salute, noting that more GIs slithered away from the rear of the crowd. Tree kept silent, swaying in the stillness as blood dripped on the ground in front of him. He turned his good eye toward me, his fists still raised. He spat blood.
“What’s going on here?” I asked.
“Just a fight between friends, Captain,” a sergeant said as he stepped forward. He wore an MP’s white brassard.
“You’re an MP and you let this fight continue?”
“Well, the boys were riled up a bit, and the only way to calm things down, sir, was to let them blow off some steam with a fair fight. This here nigger started it, anyway.” He gestured to Tree with his thumb. I noticed another GI with a bloody nose behind him. I stepped forward and grabbed his hands. He flinched as I squeezed his swollen knuckles.
“You, Private,” I said to Charlie. “Why did you fight this man?”
“I do a lot of fighting, Captain.” Charlie’s voice came out in a low rumble.
“Yeah, but why him, today?”
“I dunno. Sarge just said to put him down, so I stepped in. He’s hard to hit, though.”
“This sergeant?” I said, pointing to the MP.
“Yeah, that’s Sarge.” Charlie probably knew there were other sergeants in the army, but to his dim lightbulb of a brain, there was only one Sarge. His.
“How did this start, Sergeant?” I said, restraining myself from clocking him one.
“Somebody said there was a colored boy drivin’ a jeep, and that it might be one of them who took that white girl. You know, the one that was found in the canal?” He shrugged, as if that was explanation enough for a beating.
“Yes, Sergeant. It was the Negro unit that found her, helping the police with their search.”
“Well, there you go,” he said, as if that confirmed all his prejudices. “So a few of the boys went up to ask him, and I guess he back-talked, which a few of the fellas didn’t take to. He sounded like one of them northern coloreds, you know? Acting better than he ought to. So I come along to be sure nothing got outta hand. Pulled ’em apart and made sure it was just one-on-one.”
“So you’re the ringmaster here, sending in three men to fight one?”
“Not at the same time, Captain. Now you ask that colored boy if he wants to complain about anything at all. Ask him if he didn’t agree to it, too. Go ahead, it’s a free country.”
I looked to Tree. He shook his head, signaling to leave things alone. He was right. If he filed a complaint there’d be a dozen witnesses swearing he started the whole thing, and he’d be the one in the slammer. He buckled at the knees and fell into Charlie, who grabbed his collar and held him up easily with one hand.
“You got an infirmary here?” I asked.
“For white men, sure,” the sergeant said.
“I’ll take him, Sarge,” Charlie said. “Wouldn’t want Sobel to find out we didn’t treat a man hurt after a fair fight.” Charlie looked like a dumb ox, but he knew how to handle his sergeant.
“Okay, okay,” the sergeant said. “Clear out, the bunch of ya, show’s over!” The crowd dispersed, except for a civilian who might have been the caretaker. He wore a cloth cap, Wellington boots, old corduroys, and three-day stubble. He looked thirty or so, but the grin on his face made it hard to tell. A cigarette was crammed into the corner of his mouth, and he puffed and blew smoke without removing it. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked away, throwing a last glance after us. He didn’t look like the sociable type.
“Who’s Sobel?” I asked as Charlie and I each took an arm and walked Tree to the infirmary.
“Captain Sobel, he’s in charge of the jump school,” Charlie said. “He goes by the book. Real strict.”
“Charlie, did you hit Tree? It looks like you could break him in half with one hand.”
“Tree? Is that what they call him?” Tree moaned at the mention of his name, and gripped my shoulder tighter.
“Yeah, because he’s so tall. You didn’t hit him, did you?”
“No, sir. Sarge wanted me to, but he’d already fought two guys and they got him good a few times. Didn’t seem right. Not sure I could have, the way he moved so fast.”
“Coupla … more minutes … you woulda,” Tree croaked.
“Maybe,” Charlie said. “Maybe not.”
Charlie stayed with us while a medic patched Tree up. Other than commenting on how much blood was pouring out of him, he didn’t mention color, so I figured the sergeant’s comment about “whites only” was all bluster.
“Be best if I put a coupla stitches in that cut above your eye,” the medic said. “You mind?”
“Not if you’re quick,” Tree managed to get out. “And if you’ve done it before.”
“First guy didn’t complain,” he said, cleaning the wound. “But then he was unconscious.” Tree gasped as the first stitch went through, and Charlie looked away. I had the feeling Charlie wasn’t the tough guy his size led you to believe. “Get those out in three days, and keep it clean. Ice would be the best thing for the swelling, but this is England, so good luck.”
“He going to be okay?” Charlie asked the medic.
“Yeah, Charlie. But he’s lucky you didn’t land one.”
“I don’t feel too lucky,” Tree said, gasping as the medic wound a bandage around his ribs.
“You might have a cracked rib, but it looks like a bruise to me. Take it easy for a while and you’ll be fine.” We left and returned to Tree’s jeep, Charlie supporting Tree by the arm.
“Sorry, Tree,” Charlie said. “I wish this all never happened.”
“Who started it, exactly?” I asked.
“Not sure,” Charlie said. “I think I heard Crowley talking to some of the guys about it. He said something about the colored fellow in the jeep being one of the gang that took the girl. We’d all heard about that.”
“Who’s Crowley?” Tree asked, easing himself into the jeep.
“The English guy. He works in the stable.”
“Was he at the fight?” I asked.