Stories

Fighting

I remember my first real fight.  I lost.  It happened in my front yard in Wahouma when a much bigger boy began picking on me.  I stood my ground but didn't want to fight.  He did.  What I remember most about the fight was him sitting on my chest, hitting me in the mouth, as one of the dads in the neighborhood came over to see what was going on.  He asked if I was alright but let the fight play out.  It was the best thing he could have done.

I never lost another real fight. 

I took gym class boxing seriously and excelled, winning all my bouts.  In fights, I always tried to walk away.  When faced with reality, I learned to strike first, strike hard, and continue until the other guy was down.

Sometimes, my willingness to fight stopped fights before they happened.

In my Sophomore year, the kid sitting behind me in Geometry thumped my ear on a cold morning.  I told him, Never do that again.  He did, of course, and I was on him before he could leave his desk.  I bloodied him.  We both went to Mr. Bancroft's office.  He was the one who got paddled.  Turning the other cheek and then standing up for myself was acceptable to Mr. Bancroft.

In my Junior year, I got word through the grapevine that one of our football players and I were fighting after school.  I arrived behind the gym and moved to the center of the crowd, set down my books, removed my jacket, stepped up to this gigantic guy, and said, "I hear we're fighting."  The guy said, "Not you.  Donnie Neal."

I was relieved; I was pretty sure I couldn't beat him. 

My willingness, however, had two immediate and long-lasting results - he and I became friends, and no one messed with me after that.

In the Army, there was always some idiot who wanted to fight.

My first was in Basic training.  A kid in the platoon didn't want to do the jobs proscribed to him by his squad leader.  His squad leader brought the problem to me, the Platoon Guide.  When I approached the kid, he hit me in the face.  I slugged him, just under his chin, knocking him over a bed.  The platoon had to pull me off of him as I bashed his head on the floor.  Brought in front of the First Sergeant by my Drill Sergeant, I explained what happened.  I said, "Maybe I shouldn't have hit him," The First Sergeant said, "Yes, you should have.  Dismissed." 

I had no more problems with the kid or anyone else in the platoon.

During Infantry training, I arrived and checked into my new unit a day early.  My Drill told me to go upstairs and choose a bunk on the right side.  I chose a top bunk.  As the rest of the platoon arrived, a very large black guy told me I was on his bunk.  I told him I'd fight him for it and the winner could have it.  He smiled and said, "You and me, we gonna be friends."  I gave him the top bunk.  Francis and I did become friends.

When I arrived at the 82nd and reported to my first unit, my First sergeant told me to put my gear in a specific room in the barracks.  Since I was married and living off-post, I only needed a wall locker. I knocked on the room door; a guy opened it.  A blast of marijuana smoke hit me in the face.  "What the Fuck do You Want, Cherry" he bellowed?  I told him the First Sergeant had assigned me a wall locker in his room and that I was putting my gear in it.  He slammed the door in my face.  I knocked again.  He came to the door and told me that if I knocked on his door again, he'd kick my ass.  Challenge Accepted.  I hit him, drug him out in the hall, and shoved him up against the wall.  I continued to punch him until he sank to the floor.  Then I picked out the best locker in the room, dumped all his shit on the floor, put my gear in, and locked it.  I told him if he touched my locker, I'd beat him again.

After that, instead of being called Cherry, the company greeted me with his name, "Hey Neely!  John THOMAS!"  When we began purging the druggies out of the Army in the late '70s, John Thomas was one of the first to go.

After I became a Specialist, I was the Fireguard when a guy returned from Leavenworth to get out of the Army.  He had killed a family while drunk driving.  Of course, when he arrived, he acted like he was a bad-ass Ex-Con.  That first night, he decided he was going to give me a rash of shit.  He shoved me, so I beat him up and down the hallway while second and third platoons cheered me on.  This was the one fight in my life that I enjoyed.

Then there were the fun fights, at which I was highly unsuccessful. 

Top Alexander always took boxing gloves when we deployed.  If we had a break after an exercise, we boxed, and Top always paired me with Steve Fiscus.  Steve was a natural athlete; I could never lay a glove on him.  He won every time.

My 2IC and buddy in 1st Section Scouts, Brett Niles, and I decided we'd have a slapping contest at a range.  He went first.  His slap spun me around and brought tears to my eyes.  I returned the favor.  We quit.

Mitch Pigg and I played a game we called "Not Tonight, Kato." Like Kato and Clouseau in the Pink Panther movies, when we spotted the other coming around a building or down a hallway, we would hide and ambush each other.  The wrestling match usually ended with Mitch tying me into a pretzel.  The boy was strong.

Now, I'm older and wiser.  I have found that if, in the middle of the night, you get rushed by a drugged-up naked Asian guy, if you hit him upside his head with a Smith and Wesson M&P .40 and then explain that if he comes at you again, that you will kill him, it takes the fight right out of him.  True Story!