The Exchange

By Patrick Phair

About the Book
The American Bund, a thriving pro-German, pro-Nazi organization in the decades leading up to the Second World War is determined to create an Aryan-first society subjugating people of color, trade unions, Communists, and Jews. When America declares war on Germany, the American Bund as a visible organization disappears, but the loyal Bund members do not.
The Exchange highlights the friendship between two college students–James O’Malley, an Irishman, and Ulysses Higgins, a black man determined to make his way in the world–who are harassed and threatened by the local Bund and decide to make a change.
With timelines alternating between World War II and a modern-day college student learning about his family history, The Exchange explores exactly what it means to be a soldier, and more importantly, what it means to be human.
About the Author
Patrick Phair is a retired English teacher, city council member, and school board member. He is married to Mary Phair and is the parent of five children and ten grandchildren.
This is Phair's second book. Two Flags for Marco was published in 2021. Phair has also published poems, plays, and many articles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889258919

Book preview

Prologue

Los Angeles, California

Present Day

Owen scooped two teaspoons of English Breakfast tea into the bottom of a round wire filter and let it steep for four minutes, then slipped a saucer under the large porcelain cup. When it was ready, he handed it to a beautiful, dark eyed coed. He watched as she carried a blueberry scone and her tea to a booth without spilling. She sat, swiveled her head, and nodded at him with a playful smile across her sexy face. Young women in southern California were so much more alluring than Great Falls, Montana.

Rick Lee, his fifty-year-old boss, giggled. "Stop staring, Mr. Wonderful. Just because she smiled your way doesn’t mean she’s in love with you." He held a spatula in one hand and a pitcher of pancake batter in the other.

You told me to pay attention to the customers, Owen shot back.

Rick pointed his batter encrusted spatula at the tables. Attention yes, drooling, no. So, go ahead and wash down the tables but don’t scare her with the loud drumming of your heart when you get close to her.

Owen worked the early morning shift at Second Cup Coffee three days a week. His parents agreed to pay for the first year of college, but now he needed to pay his own tuition and room and board. The coffeeshop was only a block off the UCLA campus, so after he punched out, he could jog to class and make his nine o’clock class. A second semester sophomore, he was still not sure of a major, but found himself leaning toward History, especially American History.

Owen slipped on a clean apron picked up a washcloth and headed to the table in the farthest booth. When he arrived at the pretty coed sipping her cup, he threw his washcloth over one shoulder. How’s the tea?

She closed the paperback. Wonderful, she said.

Not too strong?

No.

Okay, then. He was about to leave when he recognized the paperback. "Two Flags for Marco. How do you like it?"

Fine.

I read it in high school.

She looked at the cover and then back up into his eyes. I like the character Daniel, he reminds me of my brother. He’s a person with autism too and gets picked on a lot.

Owen pulled the washcloth from his shoulder. Maybe we could talk about the book sometime. I mean… when I’m not working. I like… I mean…. I drink tea, too. His tongue felt heavy as the blood rushed to his cheeks.

She raised her eyebrows slightly. Maybe.

Alright. There was a long silence. I have to get back to work.

Okay, she said and smiled.

He turned and sauntered back to his safe spot behind the counter.

Took a while… said Rick glancing over at the pretty young tea drinker, to clean the spots off that table.

Just being thorough.

Uh, huh. Rick smiled again. Hope you treat every customer that way.

Of course. Especially those drinking tea.

Really? Now it’s all about tea drinkers. What if she asks you to make a London Fog?

I got it down. Made two my last shift, and no one complained…

Rick interrupted. You mean no one died.

Right, no one died.

So? You’re a competent barista who knows his teas. Not just a cool guy behind my counter, Rick said with feigned sincerity.

My mom thinks I’m cool.

A requirement for all moms.

Yeah, okay.

Suddenly Rick held up his pointer finger. Speaking of parents, your dad called earlier… slipped my mind… sorry ‘bout that. He flipped two pancakes at once.

My dad called here? Any message?

Nope. Said he tried reaching you but couldn’t. You should contact him when you get a minute.

Crap! I forgot to put my phone on the charger last night.

Rick looked up from the griddle, shook his black stringy locks, waving his spatula like a baton. Land lines are still worth the cost, kid. They never fail. He threw a handful of blueberries into the pitcher.

Land lines are relics, bones of dinosaurs, dismissed Owen.

Maybe, Rick admitted. But I can hear better on mine than one of those Chinese knock-offs. He piled several pancakes on a serving plate. Anyway, since we’re not real busy at the moment, take five, use the phone in the back, and give your ol’ man a call. It was a command, not a suggestion.

Yeah, thanks, Owen said and trotted off to the storage room. He picked up the rotary phone and dialed. Hey Dad, my boss told me you called.

Right. Thanks for calling back so soon. How are things?

Fine. Going okay.

Good to hear. What’s up?

Here’s the reason. Your mom is not feeling all that well since her cataract surgery yesterday….

She okay?

Fine. Fine. The drugs they gave her made her stomach upset and she seems to be running a little temp.

But she’s good overall?

She is. Her doctor said everything went well, and in a few days her symptoms should go away, and she’ll be fit as a fiddle. But I’m reluctant to leave her right now and she has to wear an eye patch so she can’t drive for a while.

Ohhh… if I lived closer, I could help drive her around. Owen’s voice held a tinge of guilt.

Things are fine here in the Falls, really. You concentrate on being the best student you can be.

You sound like a bumper sticker, Dad.

Do I? Anyway, we’ll be okay. Not planning to leave the house for a few days.

That’s good.

Good, yes, but a problem. I… well… both your mother and I have a favor to ask.

Okay.

We were planning to fly to Milwaukee this coming weekend. I think I told you about it last Christmas. My grandfather, your great grandfather, James O’Malley, is being inducted into the Milwaukee Hall of Fame on Friday and…

Owen interrupted. Didn’t he die years ago?

He did, 2003, but the city is opening a new Hall of Fame Room to honor some of its outstanding residents present and past. Here’s the favor… I was hoping you could go to the ceremony in your parents’ place. Your mom and I will send you all the money you need for plane fare and a hotel. It would only be an overnight stay, in and out.

After a long pause Owen said, That’s in three days, Dad. I’m supposed to work here at Second Cup this Saturday, not to mention I hardly knew my great-grandfather.

It would mean the world to me, and your mother, too. You’d be the only living relative at the shindig. After a pause he repeated, It would mean a lot to me.

What would I have to do? Assuming I showed up, that is.

Nothing, really. Just receive the award on behalf of the family. No speeches or anything. You’d just be a guest. I can email all the info.

After another lengthy pause Owen replied, I’ll have to check with my boss.

I understand. He sounded like a pretty good guy.

And I have a class on Thursday morning I can’t miss. It’s Sociology and my professor’s a hard ass. I gotta finish a genealogy project by semester’s end I haven’t even started. I couldn’t possibly leave until late Thursday or Friday morning.

That would work. Maybe the trip could help kill two birds, I mean if your sociology project is about family history and all.

Yeah, maybe. Owen O’Malley met his great-grandfather only once, when he was a young child, a meeting he could barely recall. His father insisted the two shook hands and chatted for several minutes. Owen had no memory of the dialog, only that his great-grandfather had enough wrinkles and liver spots to make his head resemble an apple core left out on a kitchen counter overnight.

Appreciate it, Owen. Your mom sends her best.

Yeah, okay.

When he returned to the counter Rick asked, Everything okay?

Owen answered with a gloomy face. Yeah, I guess. He told Rick about his dad’s great grandfather. "I have to fly to Milwaukee. My folks want me to stand in for them at the ceremony, that is, if you let me off on Saturday.

Sounds like an important deal. I can handle it. Milwaukee, huh? Not the end of the world. Rick’s face lit up. They make great bratwurst and beer there, I’m told. Bring me a growler and a dozen brats with cheese and we’ll call it even.

Part I

---

1

Northside Neighborhood

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

1937

The November air was clear and the stars were as blue as a scene in a Monet painting, temperature hovering near freezing. A shadowy figure walked noiselessly down the alley his eyes focused on the backside of a small, one-story bungalow. Daniel Levine was an ordinary looking young man, so ordinary you could walk past him and not recall one distinguishing feature. His clothing was drab, his face was bland, his height average, and he moved like a trained movie extra avoiding attention. In the dim alley, he was a man carrying out the garbage or returning from work. He was a neighbor about to shovel snow. He was a dog walker, delivery man, or tenant entering his apartment. He was able to disappear behind a telephone pole, or wooden fence, or into a back door without another thought. Levine used his gift of anonymity to gather information, to follow and keep track of those who may be a threat to him or his friends.

This night he counted nineteen young boisterous men enter the house. They passed through the alley and into the back door in groups of two or three, several wearing black coats and black boots. When an old flatbed truck with only one headlight pulled up to the bungalow, two attendees rolled off a quarter barrel of beer and lugged it up the steps to a rousing ovation from those inside.

A moment later, Daniel propped himself below the bungalow’s kitchen window and listened. The window, cracked slightly, allowed voices to stream out. The air in the house was heavy with cigarette smoke and sweaty bodies and testosterone.

A few minutes after seven, the cacophony of sounds ebbed. Daniel edged up and peered over the sill. The young men in the living room turned toward the kitchen doorway. The leader of the group inched forward wearing military-style pants, a sleeveless white shirt, and boots that were part leather and part canvas. His stomach was flat as a board and arms flashed several blue veins from wrist to elbow. He had a tattoo of a swastika on his left upper arm and thick black letters AB on the other. He pinched his glowing cigarette between his thumb and middle finger letting the sparks flutter to the hardwood floor.

Drain your glasses, boys, and listen up! His voice was high and imperious. The whispers in the room dropped and all eyes focused on the man in the doorway. I call the Joliet University chapter of the American Bund to order! He held up a stein as beer sloshed over the rim and dribbled to the floor. To the JUAB!

There was a round of applause, glasses clinking, and beer gulping. Before we get on with the business meeting, we want to welcome a new member, someone who shares our great German heritage.

Someone in the crowd hollered. To proud Germans! And the entire room raised their arms in salute and joined in one loud voice. To proud Germans! And drank more beer.

Alright, alright, settle down! screeched the leader. We’re all excited, I get the message. Let me finish so we can get on with tonight’s agenda…

Which is to drink the rest of the beer! someone shouted. More laughter, more drinking.

The leader pointed at a handsome young man in the crowd. Come on up here, Mel Ostray. When he had the floor again, the leader put his arm around Mel’s shoulders and continued but in a slower, serious tone. Mel Ostray, you’ve chosen to join our brotherhood. Welcome, and I’m going to let you lead us in the opening pledge. Go ahead, Melvin, you got the floor.

Mel pulled a piece of paper from his back pants pocket and read: We, the Joliet University AB Chapter, were formed to carry out five pillars. He ticked them off by holding up a finger for each and the crowd joined in unison. "One, live up to our Aryan duty to keep Joliet University as racially clean as possible. Two, encourage the expansion of German language courses taught at JU. Three, support German youth at Camp Hindenburg in Cedarburg, Wisconsin. Four, give aid to German immigrants who want to become naturalized citizens. And Five, help root out the Jewish-Communist plot to overthrow America. When he raised his arm forming a salute the room erupted again. Proud Germans!"

The leader lowered his arm and stared at the intense faces that were flushed and blue-eyed. Brothers! he shouted, we are bound by blood and we will do our best to make our German leaders both in America and Germany proud of us. Do your duty and support Mel Ostray as he now wears one of our club medallions. Hess pinned a shiny object on the collar of Mel’s shirt. Mel, we want what you want, and the JUAB will help all of us to get there. The leader turned to the crowd and flashed a toothy smile. Let’s drink to the new member!

For the next half hour, small groups of backslapping members split off to discuss tactics to cleanse, eradicate, drain, or intimidate Jews, Negroes, Communist sympathizers, or persons who dared to stand in the way of the five pillars.

The window was still open, the frost inching toward the center like a spider web when Daniel Levine blew the fetid smell from his nostrils. He heard enough and quietly slipped down the alley and disappeared into the night.

2

Present Day

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

The Wall of Honor was created to recognize individuals who were instrumental in contributing to the prosperity and development of the city of Milwaukee. Biographies of inductees were displayed in a newly remodeled top floor room of the City Hall Building. Photos and plaques highlighting each person’s life were permanently affixed to a wooden track circling the room. James O’Malley, 1918-2006, was the forty-first honoree of the elite group.

With COVID conditions and travel restrictions and the fact that Owen’s great-grandfather died nearly twenty years earlier, the induction ceremony was poorly attended. It was a small crowd that seemed even smaller in the spacious room.

The mayor gave a short pro forma speech, followed by several city dignitaries and guests including a representative of the Wisconsin Professional Civil Engineering Association. Afterwards, a large photo of James O’Malley resting on a metal easel was unveiled. Cheese platters were circulated, beer was free, and guests who wanted their picture taken with the Mayor waited in line. Owen, somewhat bored by the whole thing, stood off to the side.

As a teenager, Owen listened to family stories of great-grandfather James O’Malley’s college career, his life as the City of Milwaukee’s Civil Engineer for nearly fifty years, and his beautiful wife, Lara. But, like most teens, he listened with only one ear.

When he was five, Owen and his parents moved to Montana. His dad visited his grandfather James as often as he could, but family trips to the homestead in Milwaukee were few and far between. If it weren’t for his father’s persistence Owen wouldn’t have taken the time to fly halfway across the country to attend this dedication in honor of a man he barely knew.

The sun neared the western horizon when the ceremony concluded and few dignitaries remained. The Public Relations Director, adorned in a charcoal three-piece suit with gold silk tie and matching pocket handkerchief, appeared from a side door and presented Owen with a framed copy, though smaller version, of the photo of James O’Malley being mounted on the wall. Thank you for coming, he said. Please accept this picture and share it with your family as a token of gratitude from the city of Milwaukee.

Owen thanked him and retreated to the far side of the room. He had to admit James O’Malley was a handsome man back in the day, with bright eyes, wide smile, and dark wavy hair parted in an Ivy League style. He held the photo at arm’s length. He cocked his head and squinted at some sort of medal pinned to his great grandfather’s shirt. He reached out with his finger to touch it.

Know what that is?

Owen flinched and pulled his hand back. He turned quickly to find an ancient African American woman in a wheelchair pointing at James O’Malley’s photo. She couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds and wore a navy blue dress with a string of tiny faux pearls dangling from her thin neck. Her gray hair was thick and tightly curled.

I’m sorry? Owen stammered.

Know what that medal is? the woman repeated. Her voice was surprisingly strong.

Owen turned back to the photo and admitted, No idea. I didn’t even notice it until just now.

You a relative of the inductee? she asked with a tight smile.

Yeah, I am. James O’Malley was my great-grandfather.

She rolled her chair a few inches closer to the picture in Owen’s hand. She lifted her thin arm and pointed with a skinny finger, her skin hanging like soft wax. That medal was the highest commendation given by the United States Army Reserve-Milwaukee Branch… back during the War. Didn’t give many out. Only a few. My late husband Ulysses, friend of your great-grandfather, got one, too. They don’t give that medal out anymore. Guess they don’t think there any brave men left, she said with a touch of cynicism.

Owen bent his head closer to the photo, the medal seemed to stand out a bit more. None of the speakers mentioned it. The medal I mean?

Should have, she muttered.

What’d he do to get it?

Long story. The brown skin on her cheeks was scored with inky black blotches.

World War Two?

That’s right. Long before your time. Together they stared at the photo in silence. She broke the reverie by asking, Your parents live nearby?

Nah, my parents live in Montana, Owen answered. They would’ve come but my mom just had eye surgery and Dad didn’t want to leave her. I think they’re planning a trip to Wisconsin next summer.

Grandparents?

No. They both passed away a few years ago.

You the only relative here, then?

Owen shrugged. ’Fraid so. I’m an only child and was an only grandchild. Guess I’m the family ambassador.

Guess so, she echoed.

Not a very good one, Owen admitted. I didn’t really know my great-grandfather. My parents paid for my airfare.

She looked squarely at Owen with his light blue-gray eyes and close-cropped beard. He was tall, over six feet, thin but athletic. You ever climb into the ring?

The ring? James asked.

Boxing. You ever climb into a boxing ring? You have long arms and a welter weight body.

Owen held back a laugh, smiled and said, I’ve never boxed. I’ve watched it on ESPN once in a while, but never boxed myself.

The woman nodded at the photo. Your great-grandfather was a good fighter. Learned from his Irish roots, I ‘spect. That’s how my husband and James met… in the ring. Hittin’ each other.

Owen squinted at the photo and let his tongue wet his lips. James O’Malley was a boxer? I thought he worked as an engineer.

The woman snorted. Oh, my gracious! He didn’t make a living as a boxer. She shook her head. No sir, he was smart alright, went to Joliet University right here in town. Graduated, too. Boxing was something every young man at the time was ‘spected to learn. James knew how to punch and could take a punch, too. That’s important in a boxer. Gotta be able to handle what you dish out. How ‘bout you? You in school?

I’m a sophomore at UCLA… that’s a college in California.

I know where UCLA is! Her voice bordered on disdain.

Owen held up one hand, palm open. Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. An embarrassed pink color flooded his cheeks.

It’s okay. Most young people think old people like me aren’t very smart. I admit I ain’t as sharp as I used to be. Comes with being nearly a hundred years old. Your great-grandfather was a few years older, same as my husband Ulysses.

Owen fumbled for a proper response. That’s quite… old.

I’m a dinosaur, you can say it. But my memory is still good, maybe better when it comes to things that happened decades ago. Funny, isn’t it. My supper last night is a lost thought, but I can tell you all about sittin’ around a table with my husband, James O’Malley, and friends at Dino’s Tavern on a Saturday night in the late 30’s.

I forget stuff too, sometimes. This elderly woman was intriguing in many ways, Owen thought. Not only did she know his great-grandfather and took the time to come to this gathering, despite the COVID threat, but she knew about his medal. She also claimed he was a boxer and they hung out back in the day. What else did she know?

Tell me again why you come all the way from the California to be here? she asked. It isn’t even spring break time.

Mostly ’cuz my parents insisted, me being the family rep and all… his answer suggesting a bit of guilt, and partly for school.

How come school?

I have a funky professor who assigned us students to do a semester project on family history. I thought I’d learn something about the O’Malley side while I’m here. I sifted through some stuff on the internet… his voice trailed off with disappointment.

Not very exciting? Denise inquired.

Not really.

You’re here looking for answers?

I thought I might check the local newspaper office, see what they might have. Or the public library. I’m not staying very long.

What class is your assignment for?

Sociology. My professor’s kinda weird.

Careful what you say, my husband taught Sociology, first high school, then college.

The color in Owen’s cheeks turned a darker red. My prof is interesting though, backtracking as best he could. He really knows his stuff and makes me think.

Now you’re talkin’. Sociology your major?

"No. I’m officially classified as undeclared. I think I’m more interested in history."

Seems to me history and sociology are joined at the hip. She pulled a little white hanky from the sleeve of her dress and coughed into it. After she returned it, she added, Your great-grandfather was involved in a lot of history. He knew how to keep secrets, had interesting friends, a few enemies, had wild adventures… we all did back then.

Owen took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Wish I knew more about those adventures.

Some good, some not so good.

It could help with my class assignment.

Learning about James O’Malley might open your eyes to a lot of things. She bobbed her head at him and pulled her woolen shawl tight around her bony shoulders.

Do you know how he earned that Army medal?

I do.

Owen turned back to the photo and peered at the medal. He waited for an explanation. When he looked around the woman was rolling away, her hands moving steadily up and down on the rubber wheels. Owen jogged to get in front of her, the wheelchair coming to an abrupt halt. Excuse me again, ma’am. But could you tell me….

You’re in my way.

I know… but…

What’s your name exactly?

Owen. Owen O’Malley.

You’re an O’Malley, alright. Determined, like James. Surprised you didn’t learn how to box.

Me too, I guess. Sorry.

Don’t apologize. My name is Denise, Denise Higgins. I was a close friend of your great-grandfather’s, like I said, ’cuz of my husband. That what you wanna know?

Owen shoved his hands into the pockets of his black trousers. I don’t know what I want, I guess. I’m kinda curious, that’s all. I’d like to learn more than what I read in his obituary.

Denise let her chin drop. She pulled hard on her faux pearls. My husband and me, James’s wife Lara, Jason and Rachael, we were like a family when we were all students.

Here in Milwaukee?

Yes.

Is that when he earned the medal…and your husband?

Denise turned her head up like a tiny bird peering over the edge of the nest. Do you drink coffee, Mr. Owen O’Malley?

Yeah. I work at a coffee shop back in LA. Make a mean latte.

Well, I hate coffee.

Oh.

But I drink hot tea at least three times a day, keeps my blood full of life.

I even know how to make a London Fog.

She pursed her lip. If you have the time, I can tell you a few things about James O’Malley, back when we were all young, before the War, and during it, too. Things nobody knows about. Now he’s gone, I guess he won’t mind. She looked into Owen’s eyes; they were clear and bright.

I’d appreciate whatever you can remember, he implored.

Might be more than you bargained for. Might make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Think you can handle that?

My flight to California doesn’t leave until late tomorrow, Owen answered confidently.

Well then, not a minute to lose, Denise said. Push me to Lunar Light, it’s a shop just around the corner on Wells.

That a coffee shop?

Best in the city. I’m sure you can get a latte, whatever that is. They have a great black tea called ‘Moon Over Madagascar.’ Ever heard of it?

Nope.

Steeped just the way I like it.

Owen flashed a smile from one ear to the next. Allow me. He took the handles of the wheelchair. I’ll follow your directions. The two headed for the exit.

Course, I have to put lots of honey in my tea, Denise said over her shoulder, a wry smile forming on her lips.

3

Joliet University Campus

Milwaukee, 1937

To emulate the stamina and courage of the early French explorer Louis Joliet, (Joliet University’s namesake) the school’s first president, an Englishman named Addison Appleton, required all students to take at least one class in physical exercise. Across town the larger and more prestigious Marquette University gained high marks in academics, but woe be the Joliet student who was not as physically fit as his west-side rival.

To attend the exercise class meant walking across campus and along the Lake Michigan escarpment to an old, adjacent, armory building. Senior student James O’Malley stopped to scan the mighty Lake Michigan horizon thinking about those early French explorers, paddling through the region four hundred years earlier. Like the first president, he was fascinated by Joliet’s endurance and accomplishments.

Hey, O’Malley! Stop dreaming and keep moving, fellow senior, Mel Ostray, shouted from across the lapis walkway. I’ll beat you to class.

James waved dismissively at Mel. It’s about the only thing you can beat me at, punctuality, he shouted back.

Joliet University was the first university in the country to create a Physical Education Department and confer degrees for future phy-ed teachers. Hired as its initial instructor, was Captain Abel Poklasny, a former U.S. Army officer and veteran of combat action in France during The Great War.

Poklasny could rival any military drill instructor and his looks complemented the harsh attitude. His face seemed to be put together wrong, the ears were small, nose too large, eyes set wide and near his forehead and held together by a pointed chin. The receding hairline was black as a truck tire and the skin on his arms rivaled the scales on a fish.

Gear up, men, Poklasny bellowed as the students came through the gymnasium doors. Today’s sloppy snow prevents us from going outdoors so drop your socks and gird your cocks, you’re going into the boxing ring! Hot damn!

A few students smiled at the thought of boxing but most groaned, and a few let the blood in their face drain to their feet. Weigh-ins and rudimentary boxing lessons had been covered in the first weeks of the semester. Since then, bouts in the ring became common on Fridays when the weather dictated.

James and Mel emerged from the locker room to hear the Captain address his student pugilists. Put on your fighting faces, boys, it should be fun! Then he circulated handing out a sheet of paper with the daily matchups. Pairings were usually decided according to weight. James tipped the scale at 152 pounds, landing him in the welterweight division and had yet to be defeated, scoring two knockouts and five decisions on points.

James understood the art of boxing. His grandfather, Kevin Pug O’Malley, was a well-known amateur fighter back in Galway, Ireland, with scores of fights under his belt. According to old photos, his shoulders were broad, and his chest so thick he seemed to be wearing a life preserver under his shirt.

Most of Pug’s bouts were staged in makeshift rings outside a pub, or in the countryside in a sheep shearing pen. Some fights were even held as a money-making event sponsored by the largest Catholic parish in Galway, the parish awarded twenty percent of the total purse. When he looked in the mirror, James could see some of the same dark features as his Irish grandfather. Both had eyebrows, beards, and thick curly hair black as raven wings, and deep-set eyes.

Looking at the Captain’s match-up sheet, James found his name, but no opponent listed. Perhaps he was just going to spar.

Before any student set foot in the ring, the Captain demanded work on the punching bags. Four-foot canvas bags that looked like inverted torpedoes and stuffed with material as hard as gravel swung from silver chains. I want to hear those gloves whacking that canvas! Poklasny shouted. "The harder you punch the canvas bag the less likely your head will hit the canvas floor! Got it?"

As the punching intensified and the noise echoing off the cinder block walls grew louder, so did the Captain’s voice. Pound it! Box like you mean it! Again! Again! That’s it. Knock that other son of a bitch down!

While punching, James could envision the Captain in France standing near the top of a trench wearing an infantry jacket and wool hat, waiting for the whistle to go over the top. He loved to