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.Nulli Secundus -
'Second to None'
by Terence Cardwell
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Chapter
Thirteen- The Boxer
The time had passed quickly and already it was February
1912. There was so much to learn. Every day was full of
exercises, running, marching, rifle shooting,
manoeuvres, and the one Jack enjoyed most in his free
time, boxing. All these were moulding him into a tough,
determined soldier. ‘Never let the left hand know what
the right hand is doing,’ was one of his sayings and he
certainly lived up to it.
‘A quiet but determined soldier who never gives up, no
matter what the cost. A fine soldier who can be relied
upon,’ the colonel of the regiment had written on his
service record. Now he was going to need all that
determination and toughness to face the week ahead. His
first major boxing match was scheduled for a week from
Sunday, and Jack had one week to come up to peak fitness
and performance.
He spent most of his free time in the gym, assisted and
supported by his close friends Jim Pike, Bob Suthers and
George Cartland. He would train in the gym on the balls
and weights, and spar with George and Bob without being
too aggressive. He saved the stronger aggression for his
sparring partner Joe Muir, a boxer in his own right. He
came in twice a week when Jack was in training, to push
Jack to his limit, trying to upset him and force him to
lose his temper. As the gym sergeant once said, ‘Once a
boxer loses his temper, he is halfway to loosing the
fight, because he stops using his head and starts using
his muscle. That’s when you’ve got him, and then you
outbox him.’
The sergeant training Jack was Sergeant Instructor
Mellows, a tall man of fifty years with greying hair and
a fit body, firm muscles, making him look much younger
and fitter than a man of his years.
He twisted the ends of his peppery moustache as he
watched Jack sparring with his partner. He knew he had
something special in Jack, and in spite of Jack’s youth,
he passionately wanted him to win the Heavyweight Boxing
Championship of the British Army for the Coldstream
Guards. He believed if he taught Jack to be cunning
enough and quick enough, he might be able to win the
title.
He knew Jack had been successful in a number of boxing
matches at home in Sheffield. But this was the
heavyweights. Here, some of the blows from his opponents
could put him in hospital for a long time. The trick was
to stay close, or well away, to avoid allowing his
opponents a full swing.
Jack danced around the canvas, forward, sideways and
backwards, and most of the time his sparring partner was
trying to jab at him. Not enough to do serious injury,
only enough to irritate and annoy.
Jack finished the bout with Joe, throwing his arm around
Joe’s shoulder. Both were covered in perspiration but
neither man was breathing heavily after the strenuous
bout.
‘Come on, we’ll have a beer,’ Jack smiled at Joe. ‘You
nearly got me with your little tricks. I reckon I might
have done my block if I’d continued.’
‘I’ll have to remember that next time.’ Joe patted Jack
on the shoulder.
The evening finally arrived, and the great Albert Hall
was filled to capacity with soldiers of various
regiments. Some were in civilian clothes, others wore
their regimental uniforms. All were seated on metal
chairs around the boxing ring, in the centre of the
hall. A number of women were seated next to their
husbands or boyfriends and they were often more
boisterous than the men, shouting words of encouragement
to their favourite boxer.
The front rows were occupied by the upper ranks of the
various regiments. The best front seats were occupied by
colonels, majors, captains and two or three generals,
some with their wives.
Tonight was the Heavyweight Boxing Championship of the
British Army, and the title was currently being defended
by a corporal in the King’s Own Yorkshire Rifles
Regiment, Corporal Henry Clifford. He had held the title
for two years and had no intention of losing it this
year, especially to some young whippersnapper who was
still wet behind the ears.
Although Jack was doubtful if he could win tonight, he
was determined to give it all he had and spent weeks
training and preparing for it. ‘No one has ever
succeeded at anything by not trying,’ Joseph used to
tell Jack and Thomas. ‘Even if you don’t succeed you can
be proud of the fact that you at least tried— and maybe
surprise yourself in the bargain.’
The last round of the preliminary bouts was won by a
boxer from the Royal Hussars on points. His opponent was
unable to deliver any telling blows and both moved
around, waiting for an opportunity that never came.
The bell rang to indicate the end of the round and the
match. The boxers patted each other on the shoulder and
returned to their corners. After a short discussion with
the judges the referee walked to the centre of the ring
and announced the winner.
The mood amongst the audience was one of almost boredom,
some even talking among themselves whilst the fight was
in progress. The previous opponents had done little to
cause any excitement with the crowd, but now as the
fight finished there was a noticeable change in the mood
of the crowd.
The main bout was greeted with great anticipation. There
was loud shouting and cheering from some sections of the
crowd as Corporal Henry Clifford entered the hall,
walking down the aisle to the boxing ring, jumping
through the ropes and waving to the cheering crowd.
Jack entered the hall followed by Sergeant Mellow, Bob
and George. Jim was already at ringside looking after
their equipment.
A loud roar went up as the crowd saw Jack and his
entourage. His fellow Coldstream Guards shouted even
louder than the other Guards regiments, cheering him on
and shouting encouragement.
Jack arrived ringside, shrugged off his robe and walked
to the middle of the ring. He turned around and waved to
the crowd in a shy and restrained fashion as the referee
introduced them both, then returned to his stool in the
corner. His boxing shorts were dark blue with a bright
red stripe on either side— the colours of the Coldstream
Guards
He sat down and studied his opponent, a big man by any
standard, standing six feet two inches tall. His body
was void of any fat and his shoulders were mounds of
solid muscle. His dark hair showed signs of grey at the
temples, suggesting he was somewhat older than his
years. He was studying Jack and had a blank look on his
face, giving nothing away.
The referee called them to the centre of the ring and
read the salient points of the Queensbury rules. Then
the boxers returned to their corners after touching
their gloves together.
The bell rang. Jack stood and moved slowly to the centre
of the ring. Clifford rushed towards him, fists ready.
He swung a left. Jack avoided it, moving away. He
watched Clifford carefully, gauging his moves, throwing
an occasional jab but watching. Watching, measuring. Let
the big man think he’s weak. Let him think there’s
nothing to be wary of.
Clifford grinned as Jack retreated. He swung suddenly at
Jacks head, a wild left-right combination that left his
own head unguarded.
Jack struck. A punch to the side of the head, a hook to
the chin.
Clifford stumbled backwards, surprise on his face.
Jack realised he had made a mistake. Before Clifford had
thought him inept, but now he knew Jack had more skill
than he first believed. The element of surprise was
gone.
The bell rang and the boxers returned to their seats.
‘Well, you didn’t last very long, did you,’ Sergeant
Mellows said to him. ‘The idea was to let him believe
you weren’t that good. Now he’ll be wary.’
‘Sorry, Sarge. I couldn’t resist the temptation,’ Jack
replied, swilling his mouth.
‘You have to win with your brains, not your muscles. Now
just take it easy and let him come to you, dance him
around for a few rounds. He’s getting on a bit, you
might wear him down.’ Sergeant Mellows patted him on the
back as he got up for the bell.
Clifford spent the next five rounds chasing after Jack
as Jack danced around, dodging blows that would lay him
out if they connected.
By round seven Jack was getting the measure of Clifford,
finding his weaknesses, and decided to make a move. He
moved in closer, jabbing at the side of Clifford’s head.
It was obvious Clifford was getting upset with the
continual thumping.
He sized Jack up then moved in with a left feint
followed by a right hook to Jack’s head. It made a solid
impact and Clifford knew he had done damage.
The impact had more effect than Clifford knew. Jack’s
vision blurred and the crowd’s noise faded away. He
could see Clifford coming in swinging, so he danced
backwards, trying to regain his composure. The bell
sounded and Jack felt someone pulling him to the corner
chair. He sat down, thankful the bell had allowed him to
clear his head.
‘You can’t afford too many like that,’ Sergeant Mellows
said. ‘I think it’s time to make our move, Jack, can you
do it?’
Jack nodded and jumped up at the sound of the bell for
round eight. Clifford came rushing for him. He kept his
fists up as he slowed a couple of swings to his head,
and jabbed every chance he got at the side of Clifford’s
head.
‘Piss off,’ he heard Clifford hiss at him and knew he
was upsetting him.
Clifford swung with a savage right. Jack ducked as
Clifford tried to follow with a left, and Jack followed
through with an upward left to Clifford’s stomach,
hitting it full force. Clifford gasped as Jack finished
with a right to his rib cage.
The crowd was shouting, some for Clifford, but most
shouting encouragement to Jack. They were on their feet,
shouting at the top of their voices.
‘Go Jack go.’
Jack danced around Clifford, waiting for another
opportunity, but Clifford had closed up, nursing his
wounds and rebuilding his strength. Jack’s punches had
slowed him down and Clifford knew he had to rethink the
fight. He spent the rest of the round trying to avoid
the continual jabbing from Jack.
Round nine, and Clifford came out feeling much recovered
after a wipe down and drink, but still felt the pain
where Jack had hit him.
Jack could see Clifford was angry and waited for him to
come to him, watching his eyes and seeing the anger and
hatred there.
Clifford moved forward, bringing his right fist around
again, followed by his left. Jack deflected them and
ducked, ready to make the same move to Clifford’s ribs.
This time Clifford was ready for him and ducked almost
at the same time, following through with a left feint.
This put his right fist below Jack, who realised too
late that Clifford had outfoxed him. He was
straightening up as Clifford brought his right fist up
with all his force, connecting on the side of Jack’s
face. Jack felt the impact as it hit his cheekbone and
nose. He heard the crack of the bone in his nose as it
flattened against his face, and pain shot up behind his
eyes, intense pain that once again blurred his vision.
He felt dizzy. Clifford was moving in again.
He danced backward slowly trying to give the impression
that he was not hurt. Clifford was not fooled and could
see the slight stagger in Jack’s steps as he moved back
to the ropes. Blood trickled down from Jack’s nose, and
Clifford knew Jack’s nose was broken and he would be in
a lot of pain.
He moved in for the kill as Jack came off the ropes, and
met him with a flurry of blows that Jack managed to
deflect except for two punches that seemed to come from
nowhere, hitting him hard on the side of the head. He
found himself falling to his knees.
Jack stayed down as the referee counted above him,
trying to clear his head, then he heard his father’s
voice.
‘Second’s not good enough Jack. You can do it lad, I’m
with you. Fight smart, remember— fight smart.’
Another sound penetrated his mind. It was the crowd.
They were yelling something.
‘What was it?’ Jack couldn’t understand what they were
shouting. Then as it cleared he heard the Coldstream
motto, over and over.
‘Second to none.’
‘Second to none.’
‘Second to none.’
The crowd kept chanting as one loud voice and Jack felt
the fire growing in him, giving him strength. He looked
up and saw the referee counting. ‘… seven, eight…’ Jack
stood at the count of nine.
The referee moved away. Clifford moved in with a grin on
his face, about to finish Jack off.
Using every ounce of will Jack started dancing as if
nothing was wrong, but his legs felt like jelly and his
arms seemed to lack strength. Clifford moved in swinging
and Jack danced away as the bell rang for the end of
round nine.
The water on Jack’s face felt wonderful as it washed the
perspiration away and cooled his face. He knew this was
the last round, win or lose. He took a deep drink of the
water, feeling it soothe his insides and feeling his
strength return.
‘I thought you were a gonner that time,’ George said
from his right.
‘I’m buggered if I know how you kept going,’ Bob added.
‘He really bloody hurt you.’
Jack looked at them and gave a weak smile but said
nothing.
‘He’s broken your nose, you must be in a lot of pain.
I’d better stop the fight,’ Sergeant Mellows said.
‘No. We can’t do that,’ Jack responded
‘Well, you’ve got one last chance,’ Sergeant Mellows
said, wiping the blood from his face. ‘Don’t waste it.
Keep away from him till you can build up your strength.’
The bell rang and Jack stood up, in no hurry to rush to
the middle.
Then the chanting started again.
‘Second to none.’
‘Second to none.’
‘Second to none.’
George and Bob turned at the sound, and waving their
arms up and down, urged the crowd to higher volume and
enthusiasm.
‘Second to none,’ Jack muttered to himself and felt the
pride of the regiment carrying him forward. The old
strength returned and he saw nothing but his opponent.
His mind centred on that one target, calculating and
planning.
‘Get him angry, upset him, irritate him, and be smart.’
He heard the words in his head.
Clifford came bouncing forward with a grin on his face,
full of confidence and ready for the knockout.
The pain from Jack’s broken nose was intense but he
forced it to the back of his mind, forcing himself to
stay focused on his target.
Clifford moved in with swings that passed wide as Jack
ducked. He responded with a left-right jab to his face,
and then danced back.
Jack moved in again, jabbing repeatedly then dancing
away, whilst Clifford swung punches, some hitting, but
mostly on Jack’s arms, which he used to deflect the
blows.
Then it finally happened. Clifford lost his temper,
cursing Jack for his irritating punches, and came in
swinging wildly. Jack watched the swings. As he got the
momentum of them he turned left, then right, moving with
the swings.
‘Now Jack, now.’ He heard his father voice. ‘Follow
him.’
Jack went right, then left, and as Clifford’s right
passed through he brought his left fist around with all
his strength. If it missed he was gone and the fight
would be lost. Clifford was no longer watching and
Jack’s fist hit him hard under his right chin, lifting
him up and backwards.
Jack was now leaning to his right and corrected himself.
He swung up and back to his left. His right fist had
never felt so heavy as it swung up and around,
increasing in intensity till it hit the left side of
Clifford’s head like a sledge hammer. The impact shot up
Jack’s arm, travelling up to his shoulder. The pain made
him flinch.
He knew from the pain that he would not be able to hit
with any strength again.
Clifford stood with an amazed, stunned look on his face.
His arms fell slowly to his sides. He tried to raise his
left arm, but his legs gave way and he dropped to his
knees.
The referee moved in and counted as the crowd broke into
a tumultuous roar. If Clifford got up and continued
boxing Jack was lost. He watched as the referee counted.
It seemed to take forever.
‘Seven …
‘Eight…
‘Nine…
‘Ten.’
The referee grabbed Jack’s arm, limply hanging by his
side, and raised it.
‘The new British Army Heavyweight Boxing Champion—
Private Jack Cardwell of the Second Battalion Coldstream
Guards.’
The cheering was deafening from the crowd. Jack raised
his left arm and walked slowly around the ring. The
blood still trickled from his nose, making him look even
more a hard fought winner. He was joined by his
assistants in the middle of the ring. Sergeant Mellows
was ecstatic, wrapping his arms around Jack in a hug,
patting him on the shoulder and kissing his cheek. Jack
had never seen the sergeant show any emotion of any kind
except anger. This show of joy caught him completely by
surprise. He wondered when was the last time Mellows had
hugged a soldier. ‘Probably never has, and never will
again,’ he thought, smiling through sore cheeks and
lips. Bob, George and Jim were shaking his gloved hands
and taking turns to pat him on the back.
‘You’re bloody marvellous, Jack,’ Sergeant Mellows kept
saying. ‘We’ve done it; we’ve won the bloody title.’ His
eyes were wide with excitement.
‘Absolutely,’ agreed George. ‘I’ve never seen a fight
like it, a real battle.’
Henry Clifford had recovered and returned to his seat.
Catching Jack’s eye, he stood up and walked towards him.
The people in the ring went quiet, moving aside to let
him through, expecting a punch-up in the middle of the
ring.
Henry walked up to Jack and took Jack’s left hand in
both of his and shook it.
‘You fought bloody well young fella. I couldn’t have
been beaten by a better man. Well done.’
Jack looked him in the eye. ‘You nearly had me you know.
I thought I had no chance, you’re the best.’
‘Thanks Jack, but you won it fair and square, now you’re
the best.’ Henry patted him on the shoulder and added,
‘Maybe it is time I retired; leave it to you young
fellas.’
He walked back to his corner, giving the crowd a final
wave, before climbing through the ropes and leaving the
hall.
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