homepage Forums Air Combat & Civil Aviation Battle of Britain + Battle of Britain II Here's what happened (Continued)

Folks,
Oldgrognard:
Thank you for your visit and for your succinct and undoubtedly true statement. It is a throwaway age we live in today in so many respects. It is good for business. Perhaps it is also good we live so short a span lest we miss too many things others know nothing about.

Dux:

The sun had set hours ago and the fall chill was now settling upon the neighborhood outside the windows of our cozy living room. Old times sprang into my sleepy mind as I watched our two cats Brody and Kuro happily sparring with one another as they so often do. It was just play fighting of course.

Kuro, a Russian Blue, is much the larger and leaner of the two. Brody, an American short hair, is smaller, over weight and bound to be high in the running if there is ever to be a page in the Guinness Book of World Records for laziest feline.

The sparring is over soon and each repairs to his own warm corner of the carpet. A serious fight wouldn't have lasted as long. In fact, all Kuro has to do is wait a bit for Brody to get tired, disengage, then, watching his flanks, wander off for a good lie down. I've seen that more than once.

Having enjoyed a sun downer plus at least one additional libation by then (I was not counting), seeing the two cats pawing at one another brought to my mellowing mind something from the past that you may well also remember my friend. Or you may not depending entirely upon the inner workings of your own grog encumbered memory at the time you read this. Should you not read this then kindly resist the irresistible urge to comment upon it. If you do read and have somehow forgotten all about what I am about to relate I feel it my duty as a good mate to remind you of it all. Otherwise what are friends for, eh?

Do you recall the RAF Boxing Association trials just before they were ended due to the war? The Lord Burpingham RAF interstation, Regiment and Individual Class A-B-C Boxing Championships held at the RAF College, Fardenwell specifically?

We were all keen to participate.... well, that is to say depending on just how one defines the word "participate". No one but C51 was actually up for any of the physical part... the actual putting on of gloves and getting in the ring part. I certainly wasn't. The very thought of it made we want to lift a pint. Of course many other things did as well.

C51 was usually game for just about anything all the time. He never put too much thought into the possible ramifications of anything you put to him; he just plowed right ahead no matter what. Most of the time he actually made a success of it. You had to like the guy and worry a bit as well.

So it was that we planned to put him up to represent us in the boxing competition dependent for the most part on how his training went. The rest of us would be in training as well. Training for the serious boozeups and partying that lay ahead, especially when C51 undoubtedly won the title. Though most of the men could hold their own in any serious drinking match down at the old P&P, we knew we would be up against some world class guzzlers at Fardenwell. Nothing for it then but to practice, right?

All were therefore in favor of knocking off a few pints as soon as C51 tried on his boxing outfit. We eventually located and got the single pair of official squadron boxing shorts from their cobweb adorned cardboard box found under MG's bunk. A delighted MG discovered several lost socks and a half full jar of Dotty Ryder's "Sure Grip" bicycle saddle conditioner as well.

Someone went looking for C51 and found him under a table in the HWH Pilot's Lounge. No, he wasn't drunk, shame on you for suggesting that, he was just filling the cat's bowl with food having found that our man LeRoy had not yet done so. This was a dangerous thing not to do as our cat Kaliegh could become very cross if she went hungry. Kaliegh was an extraordinarily large and unpredictable cat. Kinda the Olga of the feline set. Several pilots and LeRoy as well had discovered this the hard way. I bring that up only because another cat figures somewhat prominently at the end of my story.

Keen to get a look at our champion in full competitive regalia, we urged C51 to strip down and don his boxing shorts. This he did at once and soon he stood there in the middle as the rest of us encircled him under a single un-shaded light. Striking a perfect Jack Dempseyish, pugilistic pose, C51, chin up, fists up, feet planted firmly beneath him was indeed a sight to see.

Unfortunately after a year with HWH Squadron C51 was no longer the strapping, iron fisted Canadian boy he once had been. Let us be merciful and just say the straps had loosened somewhat and the fists had turned a tad rusty. Stunned by the groans of a sudden and profound misery coming from the rest of us, the lad struck an even more aggressive pose. Even more groans and sighs greeted that.

I must say that keen as he was, out of uniform, standing there size x in those size xxx shorts our boy looked nothing like the Max Schmelling we had expected. C51's heart and demeanor were perhaps that of a snarling lion but his body was in reality more like a spitting pussycat. Hopes plummeted. All thoughts of a celebratory boozeup in Fardenwell seemed eternally dashed.

Standing there, looking more than a bit forlorn under that single incandescent light bulb, wiping one eye with one hand and holding up his boxing shorts with the other, we all thought our brave C51 took it on the chin with the best of them. Were we disappointed by his rather puny torso? Yes we were. Yet we were also very proud of him. He had more guts than the lot of us and we knew it.

At that moment when we were all at such a low emotional ebb old Fittop seemed to suddenly have been struck up the backside by a bolt of lightning. Running from the gloom to the center of the room and more or less unceremoniously dislodging the brave C51 from his honorary spot under the light in the process, Fittop shouted he had the solution to our problem! Now old Fittop was not any bigger than C51 even in flight gear so we all just waved at him in disgust, turned our backs and began heading out the door to the Prince & Polecat to cry in our beer.

"Stop!" shouted the man under the light. "I know someone who has boxed professionally and he is right here in this room!" That got our undivided and we all turned to look at the excited Fittop. All but one of us did that and that man was now making a mad dash for the door.

While it was technically true, Dux, that you had indeed fought professionally...you admitted you had been paid to fight... but just the once. OK. Had we looked into it as deeply as you employed us so to do we might well have agreed that receiving 30 shillings five pence for donning a mask and boxing the ears of a certain despised prefect at "Mr.Thrashwell's School for Naughty and Chronically Untidy Young Men" was hardly fighting professionally.

Fittop must take some responsibility for that though it was I who strongly urged everyone to adopt you as our new champion. Regrettably, that hurt my dear pal old C51 almost as much as it eventually hurt you.
To your credit and certainly to the financial credit required to get you thoroughly pissed down at the P&P we managed to swing you around so that you could see your duty to King and Country. That was about all you could see by that time and we had a right old time getting you back to your bed, some of it your being carried and some making your merry way on your knees.

The next morning to no one's great surprise (especially the guards we posted on your door and window) you seemed to have somehow forgotten the part where you had so earnestly vowed to represent us in the ring the night before. Perhaps it was the blinding hangover or maybe it was a more sober appraisal of your own abilities that caused you to so vociferously deny your pledge? What ever it might have been once we appealed to your undoubted sense of honor....

Oh crap, you know very well the truth is once we got Olga over there to point that honor out to you and assure you that while you had at least a chance to survive in the ring if you fought for us, you had no chance whatsoever to survive if you failed to do so and she found out about it.

She already had a twenty bet down at the P&P that you would fight you see. I understand that the odds were already running 100 to one against any possibility you would fight. Yup, if you fought Olga stood to win big. Indeed, there was a nasty rumor, never proven, that she had promised the local undertaker Ken I Diggit that when she won she would pay in cash for the funeral.

You remember Ken's business. Diggit & Diggit Funeral Parlor, Mechanical Ditch Digging, Pipe Laying and Cosmetics sales and Service. His place was just beyond the eastern runway. It was a marble edifice three stories tall, had two Olympic size swimming pools, a crematory, paddock and nine hole golf course. That was just the funeral home. You should have seen where he actually lived.

You started your training and we were to a man so proud of you especially the first time you passed the P&P at a full gallop and never even slowed down. Still concerned you might not fight in the end we had MG set about getting a preliminary bout arranged with a small time promoter in Studley Grange. This done we decided not to tell you until the night of the event.

MG had strict instructions that we were paying for the other boxer to take a dive in this preliminary match. It was all just to beef up your self confidence for the real RAF competition. The promoter was to be told to provide his best, most aggressive fighter but have him pull his punches and drop like a rock on the very first blow of the second round, provided of course we could actually get you back in the ring for the second round.

The night of the preliminary match found you confidently stepping into the ring, gloves tied, shoe laces tied, shorts pulled up rather too high I thought but you were the pro and you knew what you were doing. There was an impressive crowd gathered in Farmer Drubbin's largest barn where such events always took place. He always got the largest piece of the gate money. As you entered the ring wearing your white trunks there was a respectable murmur from the crowd and a mild applause rippled about that almost drowned out the cat calls and shouts of derision.

Once the local drinking community found out it was you who was likely to get the hell beat out of him Dux the crowd of advance ticket buyers increased ten fold and the betting heated up. Several buses arrived late from surrounding towns and there being no fire Marshall present the passengers had all been squeezed in somehow.

The atmosphere in that old barn was smokey, hot and noisy. Dux you were smiling confidently as I remember. Rather remarkably you hadn't even noticed that some idiot had swiped your water bottle and replaced it with a similar looking bottle filled with vodka. We know you didn't do it yourself because we searched you for just such a thing right before you bravely climbed into the ring. The most remarkable part... you were stone sober when you did it.

You sat there on your milking stool for several minutes with MG attending at your side with first aid, smelling salts, styptic powder, a thirsty towel and galvanized water bucket. The filthy rumor is not true that he also had a service revolver secreted in that bucket in case you had any second thoughts. Oh, I do wish we had thought of that minor detail but somehow we did not.

You were having a good time, glancing about, waving to acquaintances in the crowd, blowing kisses to several lovely local ladies who seemed to enjoy blood sports. Oh we never mentioned "blood sport" or even blood in your presence as far as I can remember. That would have not only been cruel but possibly also mind changing had someone slipped up in such a careless way. Had anyone done so it would likely have been they and not you getting in that ring and everyone knew it.

There was a sudden shout and the crowd let out a roar as your opponent in black trunks entered the barn and strode through the crowd. The screams heightened noticeably as he bowed his huge head and chest to step through the ropes and into the ring. I was watching you closely and I can personally vouch for you. Only one of those screams came out of your mouth Dux.

Faced with a hulk of a man well over 6 feet tall with a reach twice that of yours, arms as big as a gorilla's and legs the size of pilings, it is a wonder you didn't faint straight away. Several of the ladies did. We were fine. We knew the fight was fixed. You'd triumph if, and it was a BIG 'if' we could keep you in that ring.

I wish I had noticed the look of abject horror on MG's face at the time. Had I done so I might have wondered why he alone save you was so completely overwrought by the appearance of the veritable Goliath you were now destined to fight. He knew something we did not know. Something you could not know.

The fix was not in!!! MG had forgotten that minor detail when dealing with the promoter. He alone, again save you, knew you were about to die a sudden, shameful and very painful death within minutes if not seconds.

As the referee began to quiet the excited audience in order to introduce the main event,,just a few hay bales away Olga sat with one bloodshot eye on Dux who had wisely not let her down and the other was on her lap where she was counting her winnings. It was a tidy sum. She had now seen his powerful opponent and was very much impressed by his physique. Too bad Duxy Babee would not survive to help the two of them spend her lap full of cash.

As the ref made his announcements and recognized the local dignitaries a very sober Dux took his first swig out of the "water" bottle handed to him by MG. I watched as you did that Dux and your eyes noticeably brightened. You took another big slug and though an attentive if trembling MG offered you the bucket you spat nothing into it. Odd that thought I. Then the referee got my attention as he called the opponents to the center of the ring. The fun was about to begin.

I might try to guess what was going through your mind at that pregnant moment mate but then again I would likely fail. You probably knew more profanity than I did. You sprang to your feet and with only one wishful glance at the bottle in the bucket you walked the short but fateful distance to the appointed spot opposite your smiling opponent. He seemed to be imagining you stretched out and comatose upon the canvass already. Those who could see your face agree you may have been imagining much the same thing.

In the audience Ken Diggit was mentally measuring you and fretting over whether he had a very cheap box most of you would fit in. Then he remembered Olga's pledge to pay for everything and instantly calmed down. Just in front of Ken, about 4 bales away, Olga sat ogling Dux's beefy opponent. The ref was introducing him to the audience. Olga was thinking she had a few things she would like to introduce him to when the man looked down and smiled right at her. What was that glint in his mouth? A gold tooth?

Olga had always hated gold teeth. At least ever since Comrade Stalin had lent her to his cousin Uri for two fun filled weeks at his most private Dacha on the Black Sea. Uri had a whole mouth full of metal and after five minutes of fun with him she had developed a permanent gold tooth phobia. Olga shuddered. She could not abide this man. Ergo, Dux MUST survive.

The boxers returned to their corners and stood ready. Well, at least one of them seemed ready. Farmer Drubbins struck a large cow bell with a ball-peen hammer. The resultant sparks scared a big rat out from under one of the bales of hay. It climbed up into the ring and streaked across the canvass right toward the legs of your worthy opponent Dux with one of Farmer Drubbin's cats in hot pursuit.

At the sound of the bell the fighters had moved toward each other. Dux you were keeping you guard up and I noticed you had hitched up your shorts a good inch higher than before. Marquis of Queensbury rules. No hitting below the belt was allowed. Any higher and you might have choked to death.

Just as Dux began a wild swing with his right the terrified rat arrived between his opponent's legs. The startled man tripped and, trying to catch himself, he inadvertently leaned right into the oncoming blow. BAM! Totally unprepared for it and un-braced for the blow the big man went down hard. Not hard enough though for by the count of seven he was up and groggily advancing toward Dux.

Out in the audience the rat and cat were also putting on quite a show. Some of the ladies stood on hay bales and screamed bloody murder while others kicked at the rat until fed up, one little blond pulled out a pistol from her bag and promptly shot the rodent dead. Blowing the smoke from the barrel like a British Annie Oakley she repacked her pistol, rubbed her hands together as if she'd finished a good job and then she sat down. There was a brief applause.

Back in the ring Dux in white trunks and the other fellow in black were once again coming into striking range. I remember Dux had struck the first blow with a hard chin to the other bloke's glove. Another blow with his kidney to the man's left and Dux was noticeably staggering. Coming in for the easy kill the fellow in black prepared a death dealing right none of his previous opponents had ever recovered from.

Dux seemed helpless. He appeared dazed and disoriented. But was it just a rouse? The fix was in for the second round. What was going on? Our man's chin was forward, his guard was down. His right was slowly coming up. Too slowly it seemed to me. Then the screams from the ladies in the audience and the sudden pistol report startled the man in black and once again he lost his footing spinning around and falling with his jaw directly upon Dux's rising right. CLUNK! The sound of a determined man's hard right contacting another man's jaw full of heavy metal and then that jaw slamming shut with a great force had rung out. He was down for the count. Was anyone counting? I heard no counting. No one cared.

The audience was on its feet shouting. I was on my feet dancing about like a mad man. MG was pouring what he thought was a bottle of water on his head and climbing up on the ropes in pure relief and glee. All our squadron mates were dancing on the hay strewn floor or climbing into the ring. Of course you wouldn't remember that Dux. You would not because you my friend, completely unnoticed by us, were NOT standing up. No indeed. Just as your opponent, with eyes glazed and the match more or less fairly lost, hit the canvass so did you. You were both out cold.

At the end of the day only Olga was really a big winner. The man in the black trunks turned out to be an undocumented German alien and was promptly deported. It was a great loss to the promoter who might have protested the officially proclaimed tie were he not in hospital with a stroke.

Even farmer Drubbins with all his gate receipts was no winner. After the crowd melted away, the hungry cat, recently deceased rodent in its mouth, rushed out of the barn turning over a kerosene lantern and setting flame to the hay. The barn burned down and then smoldered for days. Back at HWH Hall we were all smoldering as well and we could find no one to blame. Dux did more than his best and nearly his all for nothing in return. C51 was blameless. MG took a deserved hit for a failing memory but the tie was not his fault.

In the final analysis we decided to blame old Fittop for part of the disaster since he had failed to check his facts regarding Dux's bona fides as a pro boxer. Truthfully, no one was to blame. Dux you were the hero. Olga through a grand boozeup in your honor which we all cheerfully attended. Soon we forgot all about Fardenwell and the RAF competition.

Like you Dux, when you fell upon the field of battle; we had had enough of boxing.