Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Grudge Fight by Frank Hardy

The fight took place some time ago in a small mining town in Australia. It was a grudge fight and a blood bath, A toe to toe, bare knuckled slug jest. Or, as the towns folk might refer to it, “a fair dinkum bit of stoush.”

“I’m as good as ever I was!” Darky said, tapping his chest.

He laughed, throwing his head back and thumping his empty beer pot on the counter — but there was something forced about that laugh; it didn’t come from the belly or the heart.

“Here, fill ’em up again!” he ordered the barman.

Darky and Ernie Lyle always dropped into the Royal Hotel on their way home. Lately, they’d been working at the open-cut coal mine on the outskirts of the town. They’d washed before leaving the mine but coal dust still persisted around their ears, eyes and finger nails and was caked on their eye lashes.

These two were mates now — at least Ernie would have claimed they were. Darky would express no view on that subject; he’d had a lot of mates in his time and acknowledged none of them. It wasn’t in Darky to call a man his mate; his feelings were buried deep somewhere so you just had to guess at them,

Their pots replenished, Ernie ventured to comment: “I’m not say-in’ you’re not as good as ever you were, Darky — but Younger’s as big as you are and, well, he’s younger. He’s only twenty two and you’re, well, you’re over forty, Darky.”

The expression, that clouded Darky’s face intimidated Ernie, who added with a hollow laugh: “He’s younger by name and younger by nature...”

“Listen, Ernie! Younger’s a bludger and a scab,” Darky said. “Yes, he’s a scab all right. The Trade Union fella from the city went out to the timber mill and Younger wouldn’t join. Anyhow, I got to fight him now. It’s been coming a long time and now it’s here.”

Darky drank his beer without taking the pot from his lips. Beer trickled down his chin into the hair on his chest. “Here, drink up, Ernie, we’ll have one for the road.”

“Not for me, Darky. Three’s enough for me. You’ve had six pots already — you generally only have three yerself.”

“Ah, that coal dust needs washin’ down... Have a pony to keep me company.”

“All right, I’ll have a pony.”

“Here, Dan, fill my pot, and a pony for Ernie.”

The drinks served, Ernie poured the beer from the small glass into his half-empty pot and gazed reflectively at the linoleum on the bar counter: “I still think you shouldn’t fight him, Darky. It’s what he wants. He’s beat every one in the town...”

“Every one in the town,” Darky interrupted, “except this Darky here!” He tapped his chest with his right forefinger, making a deep sound like a distant drum.

“Yeh,” Ernie persisted. “But that’s his ambition. He’s been itch-in’ to have a go at you for years — and he can fight, Darky. He beat the pro’ pug in Sharman’s troupe last year, you know that...”

At that moment Younger plunged through the old-fashioned swinging doors, scattering a group of drinkers, beer splashing their clothes. He stood arms stretched sideways holding the doors open, his feet placed wide apart.

The talk in the long bar ceased as if it had been coming through a radio speaker and been switched off. A hundred men in various stages of intoxication turned towards the door, beer glasses neglected in their hands and on the soggy counter top. The publican, Danny O’Connell, stood suspended, four empty glasses balanced in his left hand. His blonde wife sat on a high stool grasping the cash register in front of her, eyes wide with fear. The two employed barmen also ceased work and watched. A group of men playing hookey in a far corner of the bar ceased their sport. One of them stood, right arm outstretched with a rubber hook held between his thumb and forefinger as if posing for a camera.

Jimmy Younger went up to the bar and ordered his beer then turned to face Darky and stood with his right heel resting on the bar rail, his right elbow on the bar itself. His left fist clenched instinctively. The nostrils of his wide nose dilated. The small glass of beer stood on the bar at his elbow, golden bubbles rising in it. Younger blinked his eyes and shook his head once, as though he was a little the worse for alcohol.

Darky stood as if his legs, like steel bands under his grey trousers, were flexed to catapult him onto his opponent. It was a magnificent gesture, worthy of the occasion. But Darky’s inner feelings belied his manner. His heart seemed to be beating unevenly and his knees felt weak. Good as ever I was? These words formed a question mark to beat at his temples. Well, we’ll soon find out. Anyway, they won’t let us fight for long in here — and we can’t fight in the dark outside...

Suddenly, Darky dropped his hands to his sides and walked deliberately towards Younger. Drinkers moved aside to clear a path. He swaggered, his fists held wide apart from his thighs as if the great muscles at his armpits would not allow his arms to hang by his sides.

As Darky came within a few feet of Younger, a shrill scream, emanating from Mrs. O’Connell, ripped the air. She leapt from her stool by the till and ran from the bar yelling: “I’ll ring the police!”

Her husband followed her calling: “Don’t ring the police, Margo. It’s no use, anyway. They’re all at the Dillingley Carnival.” In the back of his mind were thoughts of several convictions against his licence for illegal betting and after hours trading, which had been chalked up in spite of largesse. He wanted to avoid calling the police.

O’Connell returned to the bar. Finding Darky standing beside Younger, he took up a position opposite them behind the counter.

Jimmy Younger did not move except to relax his muscles a little.

Darky threw a two shilling piece on the counter. “Give us a pot of beer,” he demanded in a husky voice.

O’Connell looked at the clock above the door. It showed three minutes past six o’clock, closing time; “Sorry, Darky,” he said, “the beers orf.”

Darky looked at the clock in his turn. “It’s only six o’clock,” he said, “Your clock’s always fast. Yer never stop serving till harf past six, as a rule.”

The argument over time and beer; the tension heightened by the very incongruousness of the debate; the menacing air of impending violence; the nervous onlookers at the same time repulsed and attracted by the scene.

Younger’s cronies gathered close round him. Quickly assessing the situation Ernie Lyle moved close behind Darky.

“Break it up, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said, hoarsely and without conviction.

The elements existed for an all in brawl. But it wasn’t the kind of fight that would start with a direct challenge. It would arise somehow out of the situation.

The more timorous souls amongst the drinkers took the opportunity to beat a retreat out onto the footpath.

“I’m thirsty!” Darky shouted foolishly, but he was findin confidence in the not unfamiliar air of impending fisticuffs. Good as ever I was! Younger has his right elbow on the counter. If he hits, he must throw a left lead. If I can slip it, I might end the fight in one punch — my only hope! His eyes met those of Younger. Each knew this moment had to come. Each welcomed yet feared it. Neither dared flinch from it now.

Acting on a strange impulse, Darky said: “This beer’ll do me!” He picked up Younger’s glass of beer and drank it down in one gulp. His fears and doubts were gone. His eyes didn’t leave Younger’s face. And his thoughts ran clear: if I can get him to lead, I might end it in one punch.

Before Younger could react, Darky replaced the glass on the counter. Intimidated mentally by Darky’s reputation and apparent confidence, Younger merely snorted and said: “Yer’ll buy me another beer!”

“Not me!” Darky replied quietly.

“Well, yer’ll give me fivepence.”

“I’ll give yer nothin’.”

Because it was a real life fight in the making, it was developing unlike a fight in a book or a film. But a fight it would be and those nearest the antagonists stepped away a little.

“Yer’ll give me fivepence, I said,” Younger repeated.

“I’ll give you nothin’!” Darky insisted. And he raised himself slightly into the balls of his feet as he found the words that would provoke Younger to punch. “I got no money to give a bludger and a scab.”

Quick as the eye could see, Younger propelled himself off the bar rail on his right heel and swung a slightly rounded left lead at Darky’s face. Darky slipped inside the punch but not quickly enough to avoid a stinging, glancing blow on the right ear. Younger was wide open to Darky’s right cross, a murderous punch in his heyday. Darky threw it now with all his strength. But his reflexes were too slow and Younger managed to take the blow on his upraised left wrist.

Younger closed on Darky wrestling with him until they fell to the floor locked together, Darky on top. Younger’s cronies clamoured, pulling Darky off violently. A crowd milled round separating the fighters, Kevin, Ernie, one of the barmen, Younger’s cronies and a few of those good souls who always take the thankless task of trying to stop a bar brawl.

O’Connell roared: “All out! The bar’s closed!”

The crowd, now that violence had broken out, needed no third bidding. Soon, only Darky and Younger, their closest cronies and the hotel staff remained. The biggest of the two barmen ran from Darky to Younger shouting: “Break it up, for crissake! If yer want to fight, get outside!”

“Come on, Darky,” Ernie Lyle said and Darky allowed himself to be led out. As he passed, Younger tried to drag himself clear of restraining hands.

In the street, the crowd gathered in three groups.

Darky, surrounded by half a dozen cronies stood near the corner of the street. “I’ll have him any time he likes,” he was saying, but his hands were trembling a little from the tension.

Younger stood near the side door of the hotel. His drinking companions gathered round him offering encouragement. The color had drained from Younger’s face but Darky’s relative ineffectiveness in the encounter had given him confidence. He snorted and pranced about savoring the promise of violence and bloodshed.

He was saying: “I can do him, if there’s somewhere to fight.”

The third group was the largest; those hundred or so men from the bar who determined to be onlookers and not combatants in any fighting that would ensue. These gathered on the roadside at a safe distance.

Soon small clusters of people, including women and children, began to gather at vantage points on the opposite footpath of the side street, and on the corner where it intersected with the Main Street.

“You can fight under the street light there near the dunny,” one of Younger’s cronies suggested. Falling in love with the idea, he shouted for all to hear: “They can fight under the street light. Just like the ring in the Melbourne Stadium.”

He pointed to where a street light shed its strong beams near a tree at the entrance to the back yard and lavatories of the Royal Hotel, forming a half circle of bright light on the edge of the roadway. He ran and stood in the centre of the lighted spot “Come on,” he yelled. “Ring out and give ’em a fair go!”

Ring out and give them a fair go! The traditional announcement of an Australian grudge fight. At least on this occasion the antagonists seemed evenly matched, so far as size was concerned.

Younger walked purposefully into the light and proceeded to peel off his shirt and singlet.

Ernie Lyle shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

Darky stepped across the gutter and stood in the glow at the edge of the circle of light. Some of the most involved spectators came forward and formed an uneven half circle. Others moved closer but not too close.

The man who had discovered the “stadium” apparently felt this automatically made him referee, for he stood in the centre of the light with the exaggerated ceremony of the semi-drunk. He was stockily built. He wore a hat with a wide brim, and an ill fitting dark blue suit. His coat was unbuttoned and he struck a stance with his hands on his hips, his coat flapping behind him.

“Gents!” he called out. “Ladies and gents. There’s a question of a bit of stoush and I’m here to see its fair dinkum bit of stoush. I want yer to ring out and give ’em a fair go.” Espying the publican, Danny O’Connell, hovering with his wife at the window of the hotel kitchen clearly visible in the light behind them, the referee added: “And I don’t want no one sendin’ over to Dillingley for the coppers, neither.” Signalling Darky and Younger to come closer he lowered his voice and told them: “There’ll be no kickin’; there’ll be no wrestlin’; and there’ll be no bell, no rounds, and no ten counts; the fight ends when one of you turns it up.”

With those words he stepped back and the fighters shaped up.

Younger’s skin was burned dark brown from long days in the sun. His muscles rippled and bulged where the light picked them up; muscles made strong as steel from wielding the axe. Stripped to the waist, he had the torso of a powerful athlete.

Darky had not removed his shirt or singlet. By comparison to Younger, he seemed awkward and subdued, but there was a quiet air of power about him.

Younger was the taller by a good three inches and his reach was the longer; but Darky was the heavier man, perhaps a stone heavier. Younger was twenty two years of age; Darky forty five.

Darky had moved onto the rise of the roadside near the outer fringe of the light obliging Jimmy Younger to stand on slightly lower ground. Darky took up a flat-footed stance, legs wide apart, his fists low in front of his chest. He weaved a little and moved his fists forward and back like short pistons to the roll of his body in the unorthodox Jack Dempsey manner. He was essentially a counter-puncher. He’d made his reputation as unbeatable on only a few fights. He’d never struck the first blow in his life, and now he waited for his opponent to lead.

Jimmy Younger carried his right fist under his chin, his left cocked forward in an orthodox stance. He’d hung around a gymnasium or two and had done some fighting in and out of the roped square.

Younger jogged about, feinting and weaving, while Darky waited, alert and ready to throw the counter punch.

The crowd had moved closer, in awed silence except for the scraping feet.

Younger led with his left but it was a tentative thrust and Darky weaved back outside it. Younger threw a hard left lead. Darky slipped inside it and crashed a short right hand under the heart; then he closed with Younger, claiming his arms, throwing his weight against him. Before the self-appointed referee could intervene, Darky pushed Younger clear and again waited for him to lead.

Sap his strength then go for an early knockout, Darky kept telling himself. The calm of battle had descended on him, but he knew he must win quickly or be cut to pieces in ignominious defeat.

Ruffled, Younger came in again throwing his left hand wildly. Darky ducked; the blow slewed off the top of his head; he threw a savage right uppercut sending Younger down on his heels and hands. Younger fell near the wide trunk of the elm tree near the light post. Darky crowded in leaving Younger little room to rise. Younger managed to scramble to his feet and hang on, throwing short rights to Darky’s head in the clinch. He was fighting mad, stung but rendered confident by the fact he had taken Darky’s right to the jaw and come back clear-headed and strong. As the boxers scuffled and punched at close quarters, a murmur rising to a near roar came from the crowd. They expressed excitement, awe, near horror all mixed up.

Darky pushed Younger off and again took up his stance. He was beginning to pant already. I couldn’t have landed that one square on his jaw, he tired to reassure himself. I’ll try one more, then go downstairs.

Younger came in and poked out another left lead. Darky moved his head aside evasively, but before he could throw his right fist, Younger came up with his right and their punches jumbled, neither landing cleanly.

A man’s gettin’ slow, Darky admitted to himself, as he smothered close, pinioning Younger’s arms. The referee ordered a break and again they shaped up to each other. Younger was growing more confident. Again he threw a left lead and again he nullified Darky’s counter blow and they clinched.

Darky noticed that his strength was ebbing a little though he hadn’t taken a heavy blow; yet Younger seemed as strong as at the beginning. I’ll try to bore in under him, Darky schemed.

Throwing aside the discretion of the left lead, Younger rushed in throwing round arm blows with both hands. Darky ducked low and shot a short right to the body. Younger grunted and smothered up. Darky ripped a left uppercut which caught Younger on the nose and set it bleeding. Sensing he had this time hurt Younger, Darky made to follow up his advantage, but Younger stopped him in his tracks with a savage right cross. The punch cut Darky’s left eyebrow deeply, sending blood pouring onto his shirt front. Younger piled in punching wildly but Darky succeeded in clinching with him and pushing him away.

Younger came in again. Darky failed to evade a left hand punch and it struck his nose setting it bleeding from both nostrils.

The crowd circling the fighters swayed to the rhythm of the battle. A female voice screamed: “Finish him orf, Jimmy boy!”

Younger reigned blows on Darky. Darky clinched, desperately seeking respite. He leaned in on Younger, pushed him off. He threw a desperate right cross which landed flush on Younger’s jaw, steadying him. Darky levelled another right, then a left. Younger retaliated, They stood toe to toe, slugging it out.

“Take it easy, Darky,” Ernie Lyle yelled. “You won’t beat him that way.”

Darky got the worst of the latest encounter and clung on, wrestling Younger back against the tree until the referee came between them, vainly trying to pull Darky away. The referee grabbed Darky’s right arm, tugging at it. With Darky thus handicapped, Younger sent a left hook to the jaw. Darky staggered back. Younger followed him, raining blows. Darky crouched low, desperately trying to land an effective punch to the body. A grunt from Younger indicated he had succeeded. But Younger kept attacking like a ferocious animal; his strength seemed to have no limit. He punched Darky at will aiming his blows at the cut eye. The blood streaming from Darky’s eye and nose had dyed the front of his shirt and trousers red, and spattered over Younger. Younger’s own nose had stopped bleeding but his face was red and barked from the effect of Darky’s punches.

The thud of bone against bone; the crunch of flesh against flesh.

The feeling in the crowd had changed to horror and revulsion; only those few who loved violence for its own sake and Younger’s cronies held any affinity with the battle now.

Darky slumped to the ground as much from exhaustion as the effect of Younger’s punches. Younger stood above him, breathing heavily through the nose, sensing victory.

Darky sat on the roadside wiping the blood from his eye with the back of his hand. His nose bleeding had ceased but he looked a sorry sight, his eyes puffed, his face bruised and swollen, his chest heaving, his clothes red with blood.

“Barley, a minute,” he gasped to the referee. “I want to take me shoes off. I keep slippin’!”

He began to untie his shoe laces. Younger weaved above him impatiently.

Ernie Lyle stepped between them. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Darky,” he pleaded.

“Don’t be bloody silly. I’m just gettin’ warmed up,” Darky replied.

Get me wind back and I’ll get the old one two in yet, he was thinking; anyway, he’s got to knock me cold to win it.

In his stockinged feet, Darky arose slowly.

One of Younger’s cronies said: “Take him, Jimmy. He’s had it.”

Younger rushed in for the kill but Darky closed with him, pinioning his arms.

Darky felt some of his strength coming back. If I can coast for a while, I might win it yet.

He kept pushing Younger off, trying to relax and rest in the midst of the bloody fray. No one in the crowd gave Darky any chance now; Younger’s supporters hoped for a quick end to the slaughter; the rest watched Darky’s desperate courage with a mixture of admiration, pity and horror.

Younger was giving Darky no respite. Victory was within his grasp. He bored in punching wildly. Darky kept parrying and clinching. He pushed Younger away and staggered back, his arms at his sides, a picture of abject exhaustion.

It was an old trick and Younger fell for it. He rushed in for the kill. Darky came suddenly to life and raised his fists, halting Younger in his tracks with a left to the face, then a savage right cross and another left as Younger went down. This time Younger was dazed and his right eye began to swell.

The crowd gasped in unbelief.

Younger raised himself on an elbow, shaking his head. Darky stood above him panting like a grampus. He’d hardly the strength left to punch if his opponent regained his feet. Hurt and dazed, Younger climbed to his feet slowly, edging away from Darky as he did so. He seemed to realize that Darky was near the end of his tether.

Now Younger sought respite to regain his youthful strength. As Darky moved in punching without much power, Younger clinched. The referee made no attempt to part them. Younger leant on Darky while the older man wasted his waning strength trying to free his fists to punch.

“Break, yer bastard!” Darky grunted but Younger clung onto him, his strength returning, his head clearing with every second.

“Break ’em!” Ernie Lyle yelled, but the referee paid no heed.

When at last Younger released his grip, his vigor had obviously returned and he began picking Darky off with well placed punches. He was more calm and purposeful than before faced, as he was, by a tired man.

Each man’s knuckles were skinned. Younger’s right eye was closed, his face skinned in places, his body bruised. Darky’s right eyebrow still bled profusely, adding to a puffy black bag under his left eye to impair his vision. His right nostril was split, his face bruised and swelled up, his shirt and trousers red-fronted. He was desperately tired out, to add to his discomfort, his feet were bleeding.

Darky managed to keep his guard up and ward off some blows but he was being ruthlessly punished.

It has been said that youth will triumph over age in physical combat and now the crowd was witnessing a dreadful example of this truism.

Sensing his waning strength Darky seemed to become demented.

He rushed at Younger punching wildly to the head. He set Younger’s nose bleeding again, but the main result of his effort was to so enrage his opponent as to invite the most ruthless reprisals. Younger went over to the offensive again thumping blow after blow to Darky’s undefended face. He backed Darky towards the tree.

Thump! Thump! Thump! Bone on flesh! And Darky against the tree now, his hands by his side. His heart seemed to have swelled up fit to burst and his legs would not hold his body erect. Only the support of the tree kept him on his feet.

Still Younger punched mercilessly.

A woman with a baby in her arms screamed from the edge of the crowd. “Stop him, someone! In the name of the Mother of God, stop him!”

“Stop it, for crissake,” Ernie Lyle said.

Darky could no longer sec his tormentor.

Darky’s face was swollen beyond recognition, a mass of battered, bleeding flesh like a raw steak.

Younger kept punching Darky’s face, sandwiching his head between the pounding fists and the trunk of the tree.

Slowly Darky slid down the tree trunk. Younger rained punches on him until he lay inert against the base of the tree. A dreadful gasp ran through the crowd, like a sigh of relief after torture.

With his fists still upraised Younger stood above Darky and half turned to the crowd.

“Look at him!” he shouted with exultant savagery. “There’s yer famous Darky! He’s stood over the town for twenty years — and look at him now.”

People moved closer, craning with horror to see the sight of a man battered to pulp.

Darky’s bloody body stirred. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. Now he could just make out the figure of Younger.

“Look at him. Look at him now!” Younger continued.

Mobilizing some reserve of courage from deep in his soul, Darky began to rise to his feet.

Younger, himself near to exhaustion, still stood half turned away, haranguing the crowd. “Now we know whose boss. Mister Darky won’t do any more standing over in this town...”

“Look out, Jimmy!” one of Younger’s supporters called — but too late.

Darky had reached his feet and, catapulting himself off the tree trunk, he sank his left fist low into Younger’s groin. Younger doubled up in pain and Darky brought a right upper cut to the jaw, then a left, then another right.

Younger slumped down. The whites of his eyes were showing before he hit the ground. His head crashed onto the edge of the metal road. He lay stiff, unconscious.

Darky swayed above him for a moment then collapsed across his opponent’s feet. With a tremendous effort of will, Darky rose on hands and knees then stood up uncertainly. He turned and staggered through the awestruck spectators. Reaching the gutter he groped for his shoes. Ernie Lyle rushed across, found the shoes and handed them to Darky. Darky sat on the edge of the footpath and put on his shoes.

Younger still lay inert, two of his cronies were trying to bring him round.

Without waiting to lace his shoes, Darky stood up. He placed a bloody left arm around Ernie Lyle’s shoulders and they hobbled away.

At the point where the glow of the street light faded into the black night, Darky turned to the crowd. His left hand was still round his friend. He made a savage grimace driving his tongue against a tooth loosened by Younger’s punches. The tooth fell from its socket.

The silent crowd watched open-mouthed, transfixed.

Presently, Darky spat the tooth from his mouth with a splutter of blood. He tapped his chest with his right fore-finger. From somewhere in the battered flesh of his face, his voice came: “Listen! Some of these young fellas are goin’ ter learn it the hard way — but I’m as good as ever I was!”