He racked his brains then for what might have offended his father, but truth to tell it didn’t take much racking.
They had been brought back again into quite a pleasant district and it was so far from the lines that even the infantry could not be heard and only the airplanes speeding along overhead, which was a gay enough sight in itself, kept the war close.
Even writing his last letter he had had a funny feeling in his water that he was getting at things he shouldn’t be trying to get at in the company of his father, as it were, but since, as a child and a boy and a young man, he had always been quite open and at ease with him, and praised and nurtured well enough by him, he had thought he might follow his mind as always and speak it. But all the same he had had an inkling of the little rat of unease creeping about, a few words too far that might unsettle an old-fashioned mind like his father’s. And now he was a long long way off and he feared it would be too tricky to put it all right by mere letters, especially as he wasn’t quite sure what had caused offence, though he had a fair idea. But Maud would never have written if it wasn’t a serious matter, because Maud wrote only for births, deaths and marriages, which were what she considered letters were for, being absolutely against gossip and mere news.
Nevertheless, the distance between the site of war and the site of home was a long one and widening. Not the ordinary pragmatic miles between, but some other, more mysterious measure of distance. Icons could be cold things in an army bed, no matter how bright, no matter how burnished. So it was in dreams that his father weighed most heavily; in dreams lay Gretta.
The great spectacle of those days was not a battle but a fight. Not a fight belonging to a battle as such, because now the foul winter was coming in with fearsome frosts and the locking of the land. They pitied the battalions still up the line, with all of the winter ahead to freeze their bones in and try to keep their feet from turning black with frostbite. Boys, with poor food at home and only in those times a few months of hurried training, could freeze in a few hours of that, like poor folk found in the yards of tenements when the temper of the weather snapped in Dublin and brought down a great cloth of murderous snow. So it was along the lines, Willie feared and knew, with French, Irish, English and German alike suffering in the raw ditches of that world.
The fight in question was the closing bout of the great inter-regimental boxing match and, as fate would have it, two Irish lads were posted to face each other, one a Belfast man called William Beatty and the other a tall, bleak-faced hero called Miko Cuddy. The fact that the first was in the 36th and the second in the 16th was strongly noted, and before Guillemont and Guinchy it was billed as a clash of enemies, but after the battles, since some battalions of the Northerners had taken part, this seemed less true, and it was billed as the ‘Battle of the Micks’. But the clash of divisions still gave the proceedings a certain tasty salting. Even God, said Father Buckley, could make up an Irish story like the best of them.
The fight was held in the divisional hall, a decent, big building where Father Buckley was wont to say his masses, and lectures were given in the arts of foot hygiene and the driving in of the bayonet to kill or to wound, distances, how to know where you were in an attack and read the map references correctly, and all such things important but always less interesting than a boxing match.
The hall could boast of four great gasoliers that had been attached to the beams of the ceiling, and that cast down four tents of murky light. The carpenters were drawn from the battalions and a beautiful arena was constructed, with panelled sides and even some Gothic detailing on the uprights, which strictly was not necessary. But everyone felt the passion and rightness and the poetry of the contest. There was nothing about it that anyone objected to. It was, in Father Buckley’s odd term, ‘unobjectionable’. By which he meant it wasn’t an engagement in the field of death and therefore no one would get killed by machine-gun or shrapnel bomb, and an hour or two of good excitement would be had by the men watching and well deserved. Father Buckley had buried so many men after Guinchy and heard so many death-bed confessions and spoken the rites of the dead to so many that every minute and a half his whole body went into a strange tremble, like a chilly dog, so slight it would not be noticed only that a man might see the soutane minutely wavering. He was a warm man now who could not get warm. About three dozen men had had to be packed off to London on the trains because with them the trembling was ten times more afflicting. Willie had seen lads sitting on the ground and their arms flailing and their heads shooting here and there out of control, and sane as saints but for that, rendering them useless to war and probably to themselves but that they might be cured.
Willie Dunne himself was deep in the pleasure of the times. He was longing to see the fighters come out and he was longing to see them tear into each other with that vicious elegance. , Never in his life had he seen a boxing bout, never in his life had he thought of such matters. And now he, in the days leading up to it, was as anxious and oddly happy as the rest, and edgy, and talking with Christy Moran about it, and O‘Hara. Beyond these impulses swung the heavy and bloodied blades of terror, but within, for the moment ... O’Hara himself unwisely opened a little book on the outcome, but because the odds were so short for both men he quickly closed it again, because he saw that he would lose a fortune in the fractions.
Everyone went to the fight because a fight without death — in all likelihood, though indeed it was a bare-knuckle contest — seemed to a man’s mind like a bird singing in a verdant wood.
They came in after their grub in great noisy droves and filled the hall speckled with its curious light. Because of the position of the gasoliers, there was little enough light on the ring itself — why a square yoke like that was called a ring was a mystery to Willie Dunne. He sat down with his own platoon, or the remnant of it, on small wooden chairs with metal backs, that creaked under their arses but held. There were fifty rows of chairs encircling, or perhaps en-squaring, the ring. They tried to leave a little ditch of a gap by which the combatants themselves could enter. The sergeant-majors of the companies did their best, but they knew the nature of the evening. The line officers were content to sit among their men, as they had grown accustomed to doing in the trenches. But the staff officers had a section to themselves right up against the ring, and they sat down there in all their braided glory, having elected to wear their evening dress uniforms. These were creatures rarely seen who nevertheless designed and planned the battles, if did not fight the actual buggering things (said Christy Moran, without evident bitterness).
The gathered faces were plundered by the gaslights, like an audience at a strange theatre where only males were allowed to enter. A person might have suspected a risque show was about to start, but of course it wasn’t so. The rickety doors opened at the top of the hall and the two warriors emerged together, or at least at a discreet distance of a few feet, and came down towards the ring. Whatever Ulstermen were in among the Southerners roared in a mighty bellowing, because William Beatty walked down first, and when Miko Cuddy came stepping grimly along, up went the cheers and caterwauls of the Southerners.
The boxers were both big men but Beatty was a giant.
‘Holy mother of Jesus,’ said O‘Hara, ’that’s never a man, that’s a bullock.‘
Willie Dunne laughed joyously.
‘That’s a fucking bullock,’ said O‘Hara. ’I swear to the good Jesus.‘
‘Poor Cuddy’s a midget beside that fella,’ said Joe Kielty, ‘and I stood beside Miko Cuddy in Westport one time, and all I could see was his waistcoat buttons.’
‘Westport, Joe, did you see him in Westport?’ said Willie Dunne.
‘Didn’t he fight his whole way along the western seaboard three or four time,’ said Joe Kielty, the gentlest man along that seaboard. ‘He’s from Crossmolina.’
‘Three or four times?’ said Willie Dunne.
‘Ah, yes, Willie, ah yes, Willie,’ said Joe Kielty.
But the boxers were very polite, a
nd as the referee examined their hands for possible shards of tin or glass, and saw that the bandages over their knuckles were tight and clean, and were not soaked in oil or vinegar, one to wipe on their own face after the bell, or the other to give a wound a bit of a sparkle all unbeknownst, as the referee saw to these essential but tedious matters, the two boxers stood opposite each other without hostility, ‘in the best Irish tradition’, as Father Buckley pointed out to no one in particular, and when all was ready they shook hands — at least, they knocked knuckles against knuckles in a friendly fashion. Then someone rang a bell. It seemed to Willie that it was the colonel himself, who only some days ago had ridden down to them on his fine black horse and praised their actions at Guinchy, who must have banged the bell, because the noise came from just behind that regal person. Then there was a slight pause and every man in the hall erupted into a wild cheer, and then they fell into the deepest dark silence, and suddenly the four lamps were heard guttering in the smoky air. The pause went on, it seemed to Willie, for a whole minute, and then William Beatty gave a little frisky dance, and lunged forward wonderfully, and gave poor Miko Cuddy such a blow to the head that Willie was sure it would have to fall off, if such a thing were possible. His ear took that blow and he must have heard music all right. Then William Beatty, as if in an ecstasy of good manners and glory, stood back on his heels, and let down his arms, and shook them, as if they might be hurting him a little, and Miko Cuddy leaned and flung such an uppercut at his chin that the hundreds of assembled men gasped as with one breath. No human person could take such a blow and not see blooming stars.
William Beatty stepped back three or four steps, as if indeed he might be counting the galaxies with his eyes open, but then he stepped forward again to Cuddy, and the two circled each other on light feet, and began an exchange of murderous blows, every one to the head if they could. And Willie Dunne could not only hear the odd thud of fist against cheekbone, which had a noise all its own, and sounded excruciatingly sore, but see the sweat break from the men’s heads in little fountains, and all under the weird gloom of the hall. Then some invisible person rang the bell and the two fighters slumped away from each other and staggered over a little to their corners, where regimental sergeant-majors from both divisions were dressed in khaki vests and trousers and had bowls of water for their charges and, from what everyone could hear, very severe advice.
But the crowd was deeply pleased. It was evenly matched and, what was more, there was a measure of quite good-natured banter between the different sectors of the audience. Certain political names were mentioned, and other political names were thrown back. The recent trouble in Dublin was indeed mentioned in the tones of Derry and Belfast. And the likely allegiances, religion and backgrounds of both sides were referred to, but not in a way to cause the ultimate difficulty of a furore beyond the furore in the ring, which was curious to Father Buckley, and well noted. For in his heart Father Buckley was a Redmondite — not so much John Redmond, who was the actual leader of the Irish Party, but his brother Willie, who was just a Member of Parliament, and who was with the division at the front and indeed an ‘old man’ like the priest. Father Buckley was reading just yesterday a speech of Willie Redmond in the House of Commons, where he had expressed the pious hope again that the fact of Nationalist and Unionist Irish soldiers fighting side by side might some day foment a greater understanding of each other and bring Ireland in spite of the recent rebellion to a place of balance, peace and mutual nationhood ... Now the bell went again and it seemed Miko Cuddy was in a fever to finish the fight, no doubt at the prompting of his seconds — the very same name as the men in an old-fashioned duel, Father Buckley noted — who had probably measured the big Ulsterman with mental measuring tape and had fearfully taken in the long reach and the thick muscle of the arms. So Miko Cuddy came forth like a veritable whirligig, like a windmill on the flat white plain of the ring, whirling, whirling his arms, and before he could do much damage, William Beatty came at him like a ballet dancer, side-stepping and jigging and bouncing and finessing every punch, like a man inspired by the very poetry and possibility of movement, and curled in another punch to the very same ear he had caught in the first moment of the fight, and Willie Dunne swore afterwards that he seemed to feel that very punch himself on his own ear, and O’Hara did point out that in his excitement he had indeed landed a gentle box there, but only a shadow of the real thing.
Miko Cuddy stood there a few moments staring at William Beatty. He didn’t seem to be thinking very deep thoughts. His ear had swelled between bells, and now with the new blow it was as large as an orange, a very flat, raw blood-orange. William Beatty’s chin was profusely bleeding, so maybe one of those whirling punches had caught him after all; it was difficult to say in the gloom. But Miko Cuddy regarded William Beatty. Father Buckley doubted he was thinking of the peace-making words of any Willie Redmond, or thinking of anything much. There was going to be a great deal of throbbing pain in that head shortly, but not just yet, because Miko Cuddy’s legs folded under him and he went down to the canvas — strictly speaking, the side of armament boxes fixed end to end with devious under-screwing - in a flounder of sweat and blood, and a little divvying up of dust.
The referee was a Nigerian from the African Labour Corps who nevertheless had been a licensed referee in civil life. He was an elegant man in a beautiful set of referee’s clothing, quite American and impressive, and his features were set in an unsmiling and philosophical grimace. He slowly began his count on Miko Cuddy. The Southerners in the hall at first sat back in dismay and heard the murderous numerals climb to six, to seven. Then they got to their feet like an audience offering an ovation to some great musician and they bellowed and screamed at Miko Cuddy to rise again, and by the love of God and the grace of things in general, he did. He came up in his well-nigh stupor like a god rising from the ground of an old story, and he raised his fists again and simultaneously the hearts of his supporters. And William Beatty, though he shook his head, sending the blood through the strange air, rested on the flat of his boxing boots — strictly speaking, a better class of trench boot — and seemed to await illumination. Then the bell rang again, like a sea-bell rescuing a wandering ship, and Miko Cuddy gratefully sought his corner and lurched down onto his mercifully stoutly constructed stool.
Now there was a different pandemonium in the hall. Perhaps now there was an element of accusation, and over in the corner was a brief mêlée of soldiers, broken up quickly by some watchful NCOs. Pungent remarks were made. ‘Rebel cunts’ was one, and ’Ulster bollockses’ another. But generally it was only excitement, and a sort of horror-struck happiness.
The bell was struck again and Miko Cuddy lost no time this time in going over to the centre of the ring and swinging a punch at William Beatty. Perhaps he intended it to land somewhere on a welcoming jaw, perhaps he merely hoped to hit something, anything, on the Ulsterman to even up the account of pain. But he went back as he swung on a little pool of his own blood just as treacherous as grease and laid himself out on the floor. William Beatty leaned over and helped him up. An extraordinary shout went up in the hall; no one had ever seen such a weird and even foolish spectacle. William Beatty stood back for two seconds, then lunged forward, and received a blow to his own chin from Cuddy, which sent a thin umbrella of blood out into the air of the ringside, and it fell in a diaphanous curtain across the gathered staff officers, making them stir in their chairs. But they barely flinched all the same, for it wasn’t the blood of their own death as such, and to give them their due, they were as enthusiastic as the rest to pursue the fight with their eyes.
There were four more rounds then of traded blows and each man had the measure of the other. Admiration rose up in the watchers and no one could be entirely partisan now. It was a fight of equals, and these equals were drifting slowly into that haze of weariness and living intent, where ebbs of energy were being called on to throw heavy, costly punches, and make feints and darts on legs as tired as Irish historie
s themselves. Smoke, sweat, blood and dim lights mingled, and the faces of the gathered hundreds were open with shouting and desire, and the fists continued to find face and breast and shoulder. Blood gathered on the torsos of the boxers; it welled up under the skin in dark black patches like frostbite itself that the soldiers had seen for themselves out in the trenches. The blood fell out of noses, it dripped from broken ears, splashed down from small wounds and gashes and made a bib of blood on Miko Cuddy’s chest. And all the way through was that odd crunching noise, as if the very bones themselves were being mulched. A miracle that tomorrow, Willie thought, these men would surely be walking about with swollen and bruised faces, and one of them no doubt smiling and talking about the fight. Or would they be buried six feet under in the Flanders earth? By God, they might well be if this went on much longer.
Now they were trading blows like very reluctant traders. At what wattage their brains were working, Willie couldn’t guess. He was sitting now quite still in his seat, following the general urge of the crowd. No one was shouting now, an odd peace had descended. It was as if this spectacle of fighting had calmed those soldiers, put some introspective spell over them, as the two big Irishmen struggled to continue the fight. And when at last Miko Cuddy against all the odds caught poor William Beatty a glancing blow but nevertheless of a cudgel-like ferocity, on the left temple of his broken head, down went the giant foe, and yet up came the voices of the crowd, almost in a tuneful roar, like a choir, an awful, simple and beautiful note of deep-throated approbation, and Miko Cuddy of Crossmolina, County Mayo, was the hero of hundreds for a day.
Another night, the officers got up for the grateful men a performance of ‘The Rising of the Moon’, an Irish play for an Irish regiment. One of the line officers played the Policeman, and Major Stokes the Rebel — he was standing in more or less for poor Captain Sheridan. The major’s Irish accent was brutal. It was strange to see his florid face heaving through the lines. But, even though many were the King’s men — all of them were, to some degree, seeing as they were sitting there in his uniforms — still and all, everyone wanted the Rebel to go free, and felt duly relieved at the end when he did. Maybe true enough the play was set a hundred years ago. But still and all.