July, 2010
SFC HEADQUARTERS DOCTRINE
"Read by Thousands Round' the World!"
29 July 2010: Promoter Jim McCann's New League
Fighters, fans and witnesses, contact Jim at jpmbujutsu@aol.com for all information. Tickets on sale now.
Adios Amigos...
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23 July 2010: Check Out...Death Valley Magazine
Hey, check this out for your reading pleasure...
http://www.deathvalleymag.com/
Adios Amigos...
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19 July 2010: Snap Shooting - a Form of a Long Gun “Quick Draw”
In this modern day and age of prolific paint ball gaming, it is hard to find the classic definition of old-school, snap-shooting anywhere. The paintball version has overcome the internet searches with it's version that does not exactly follow suit with what I was taught in the Army decades ago. Basically snap shooting was sudden, desperate, unsighted, emergency fire from no cover or cover positions. L et me quickly explain two terms I will use here. Sighted fire means using the sights on the weapon for aiming. Unsighted fire is not using the sights on the weapon, but rather doing your best to point the weapon at the enemy in a split-second emergency. Gun range, paper target shooters who insist you must always use your sights, all the time, have obviously never been in such a split-second emergency.
Lots of older instructors used the term snap shooting for such emergencies. This meant bringing the barrel up (or down) to the enemy and shooting instantly to send explosions and bullets down range until a better position or sighted fire could be managed. Other than passed-down verbal lore, I had to go further back to old military manuals as well as the more popular, original Rex Applegate’s Kill or Get Killed book to find some official military, source material on the subject. In this book, Applegate also called snap shooting instinctive shooting and my goal here is not to open up the tired, sighted-versus-point shooting debate. My goal is to document this information as well as to instruct students, via a recent, true police shooting that follows here shortly, how important is it for all police, the military and citizens to be able to recognize the tactics and dangerousness of an opponent who snap shoots at you. You might not like to shoot the snap way and always use your sights? But your enemy might not.
The long gun could often be carried low in the arms and sling-less. It could also be the classic shoulder-borne carry with a sling as the photos below display, as in barrel-up/barrel-down, or as in the case of the horizontal nature of the commando carry - barrel horizontal. The weapon could be clipped by its stock via a lanyard to the shoulder of a military, tactical vest, and therefore also be carried with the barrel down or mostly down.
These are two classic military, long gun weapon carries. Over the shoulder barrel-up (or barrel down), and the old-school Commando Carry. In the Commando Carry, the weapon is already horizontal and can be fired quickly right from this hip height.
In the case of a sudden ambush for example, the slung or unslung weapon barrel is brought up. The bearer could snap shoot from three elevations. The hip height. The biceps height. The shoulder height. Once the enemy has been engaged, the shooter can attempt sighted fire.
In the case of the biceps height, the stock could be right on the muscle, or between the arm and torso, as Colonel Rex Applegate as photographed above.
Recognizing Hip Fire - Case in Point
In the year 2000 a Texas police officer, who shall remain nameless in deference to the family, conducted a traffic stop which was recorded by his dash board camera. The stopped car was quite a distance from the police car in a roadside, country setting right beside a busy, interstate highway. The driver of the stopped vehicle, an elderly, gaunt man in a cowboy hat emerged from his car with a rifle held at hip length. The trooper exited his squad car and demanded the armed man drop his weapon several times in a strong, command voice.
The low barrel of the rifle was aimed at the officer from the first second he emerged from his car. The man ignored these commands and from this hip height, fired several times while slowly marching forward toward the camera. One early round hit the officer right in the throat. The wounded officer crawled onto the front seat of his car. The man reached into the police car, grabbed the mike and told the dispatcher that “the officer had been shot” and to send help. At this point, one might assume he would ambush all other responding officers?
Other officers arrived as this man, his weapon hip-high, wandered in amongst the all these cars. The arriving officers also yelled for him to drop the rifle. It would not be unusual for an armed Texan to see a police shooting and go to the aid of an officer. No doubt these responding officers had to consider this possibility when approaching. It became apparent that the man was not just a witness and was acting irrationally. I am not even sure of the responders knew that the wounded officer was prone on the front seat of the car? At one point the man raised the rifle to near biceps high and all the officers voices and poses intensified. He lowered the rifle. They eventually cornered the old man and arrested him way back at his own car. Meanwhile the wounded officer died in his squad car.
I watched this unpublished film in 2010 while attending a police use of force class with many other veteran officers. It was gruesome as the mike of the video-cam caught of every gasping, wet breath of the wounded officer. The surviving officer's wife later toured the state in police functions reviewing the case. She suggested that the old man looked enough like the officer's grandfather that this caused him to pause and not shoot in the beginning of the encounter.
Maybe that contributed. As I watched ALL the officers on the scene, it was apparent to me that none of them, first or last, thought that the low, hip-line, low-arm carry was an immediate, imminent threat! In their mind's eye, this was not a shoot moment. In their mind's eye only a biceps or shoulder height long gun was a shoot moment. This was even more evident when the shooter raised his weapon higher. They all intensified with every inch the long gun climbed.
I often say when I teach interactive, gun training sessions that I really don't care how you shoot. That is for you to select from your training and experience. I do worry about how the bad guy shoots! It is important for all our people to know and physically recognize how the bad guys will carry, pull, and shoot weapons. This is best done with simulated ammunition and staged, combat scenarios designed to identify problems and develop skills. We spend time in and around shooting qualifications, training and schools and we define how shooters shot. We capture the proper “look.” The look and moves become ingrained in our brain. Then a city gang thug busts a cap at us, or a hillbilly cranks a radical round off. It wasn't proper! Not right! But it still kills. You might not like the idea of snap shooting or instinct or point shooting, You might even belittle it. But if so, you are thinking very one-dimensionally or shallowly. You'd best recognize that the enemy can shoot and kill you from any snap shot position, whether you think them unsophisticated and so poorly trained.
Shoulder height armed suspect. Is this height your only "shoot Moment? Think again!
Adios Amigos...
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13 July 2010: THE GREAT TRAIN...STOPPERY (a Texas tale from late 1980)
Ever stop a train? Well I have...
"...64, this man says his car is stuck on the railroad tracks behind the Lands Inn motel," the dispatcher said. "We have a wrecker is in route."
"10-4," I replied, glad to hear the tow truck was on its way to save time.
Saving time was important on a Saturday night, almost Sunday morning, circa 1980 or so, and we were too busy for me to be on a call like this for too long. The guy was probably drunk and lost control of his car? Dreading the thick paperwork of a potential DWI, in a few moments I was driving through the motel parking lot to the field behind it, where the some railroad tracks ran. Our squad cars have spot-lights mounted by the driver's door just above the side mirror, with a handle extending inside the car, so that we can aim the beam. I spotlighted the tracks. Low and behold, there sat a cream-colored car. On, and/or inside the tracks!
After driving as close as I could, I got out and saw a thin fellow in ridiculous plaid red pants and a short sleeved shirt. He was near 30 with short blond hair. As he approached me, I could tell that he wasn't drunk and my curiosity was instantly aroused.
"How did this car get stuck?" I asked, getting out of the squad car. I crunched up the gravel incline to the sedan. and saw - follow me now - the front right wheel was outside the far track. Back right wheel inside the tracks. Front left wheel inside the near track. Back left wheel outside the track. Get it? in short, all fucked up.
"You're gonna' think I'm stupid," he said nervously, "but, I got my car stuck on those tracks. Ya' see, that's a company car, a brand new K-car and I heard they had the same wheelbase as a railroad track and, and ..."
"You wanted to see..." I said. The K-Car. Chrysler's salvation.
"Yeah, to see if I could ride the tracks."
"Uh huh. Ride them tracks. " I said with a wince. This was no normal dude. "You've tried ...?" I waved my hand towards the K-car.
"Oh yes, yes, tried and tried to get out. I just can't get over the rail ... you probably think I'm stupid. I let some of the air out of tires to hug the rails better. I heard that's the way to do it."
I smiled.
"Listen, there isn't a train coming is there? I mean, they would fire me if this car was wrecked like this." he said, following me back to my squad car.
"Well, we are trying to call the railroad station now. A wrecker is on the way." I told him.
"I just hope a train doesn't come!" he shouted. As I got back in my squad car I wondered how many times a day a train did come through? Four? Five? Surely the odds are with us.
"Dispatcher," I said on the radio, "are we getting through on the train phone call?"
"Be advised," she replied, "the Lieutenant is on the phone now."
I knew that would be a complicated process, calling night personnel, identifying track routes, calling the train radio office, then calling the train itself. In the meantime, I ran computer checks on ol' "Casey Jones" there, this salesman who dreamed of a night run down the railroad tracks in his K-car/train. He was "clear" of any wants, warrants and priors, and Chrysler's unexpected answer to a locomotive was indeed registered to a business way the hell up in the People's Republic of Massachusetts.
In the distance, Casey was churning circles in the stones around the track, his car stuck to the rails like one of Pauline's Perils. Since Pauline was a machine this time, only a mechanical hero could come to the rescue--the wrecker. I recalled a time several years ago when Joe Waddell and I were dispatched to a body lying on some railroad tracks near there. When we arrived, we found a drunk stretched across the rails. He said he wanted to die and was waiting for a train. We hauled him off to jail and he wrestled with us every inch. At least the drunk had a good reason for being on the tracks - suicide! What about ol' Casey? I finally saw the wrecker's headlights drive up the track's access road and Casey was overjoyed.
"Here it is! Here it comes!" he yelled.
The truck's diesel engine rumbled into an idle and the driver lit up the area like a Christmas tree. He climbed down from the rig and put gloves on. I recognized the man. It was Arty from Bomar's junk yard. Casey and Arty exchanged words and I can only imagine the conversation. A lot like mine. Arty walked back to the wrecker and started working his way into some kind of a position to hook up the car. It was a narrow journey. Getting into position was tricky as the track was on elevated ground.
Arty to the rescue! I started writing my general report on this when suddenly, an ominous roar disturbed our peace. Ohhh no. I looked up. The wrecker stopped. Casey froze. Casey's worst nightmare had come true. A single, glaring light appeared around a turn of the tracks off in the distance. A train was a comen' as Johnny Cash would say. It was rollen' round the bed. And it wasn't just coming, and I mean it was bearing down on us like a non-stop express line to Alaska and here we are in Texas! The wrecker wisely gunned away from the tracks spitten' gravel all over Casey and the tracks, despite Casey's frantic pleas and stumbling chase.
He stopped and ran to his K-car. What the what? Apparently, Casey had read the story about the two old women who had carried a huge piano down a burning flight of stairs, all thanks to a rush of emergency adrenalin. He raced to the back of the car, bent down, grabbed the bumper with two hands, and hoping that nature's rules of physics and gravity might momentarily turn its back, and with a huge groan, he tried to pick up the end of his car. Alas, if he were expecting to turn into the Incredible Hulk, he was only stricken with a mild case of Bill Bixby.
The car rose only an inch off its shocks. Casey whimpered in desperation. "OHHH God!" Onward roared the giant, black, auto demolisher. I likes Arty's idea and pulled a safe distance from the tracks, but not too far. I flipped on the red lights and aimed my spotlight beam in the direction of the engine.
Casey ran to my car window, "Have you contacted the train yet?"
"I'm trying to now, stay out of my beam!" I said, twisting the handle on my spotlight at the direction of the train. A new, deeper sense of futility must have filled Casey as he stared at the light. He ran to the wrecker, now parked on the other side of the tracks with its emergency lights on. Casey begged the driver to rescue his car. No chance. Onward barreled the one-eyed Chrysler Cruncher!
I got out of my car and crossed over the tracks to speak to Arty.
"Hey Arty, can you turn and aim your front end to the train and turn on all your lights? "
"Hell yeah, " he said. Forward and back and forward and back. He was facing the south and out his red lights on, his spotlights and bright takedown light atop his cab. I got back in my car, telling Casey to get in with me.
"But..."
"There's nothing you can do out there!" I was worried he would wander into the pending collision.
The train came on. Then it screamed, it roared, it wailed into the night's flatlands around us, then suddenly an ear-piercing, screech tore at our senses, followed by the bashing sounds of hundreds of boxcars. It reminded me of being on the Army artillery range back at Sill. That train had discovered we were there, but was it too late? With all the weight, speed and force of a run from Ft. Worth, it did everything it could to slow down. I envisioned every loose crate, every free object, engineer's toupee - everything and each person thrown violently forward. Still onward it came, slowing only in sparking fractions, sliding closer and closer.
200 feet, 150 feet, 140 feet, Casey was in babbling shock, 80 feet, 60.
I was hypnotized, absorbed by this colossal struggle of brakes and momentum. 50 feet, 40, would the Chrysler be destroyed? Would mighty metal hit cheap K plastic? Would there be a dramatic explosion? Wow! Casey's face fell into his hands. I shook my head, but I couldn't look away.
30 feet, 20 ... a sense of control appeared, a calm, the iron horse's reins were pulled back, 19, 18, a blast of smoke, 17, 16, rolled to a stop hiss ... like a harnessed bull, it rested....only 10 feet or so from the car. Railroad men and engineers poured off the train, each with their own individual style of outrage and anger. Flashlights shook violently in the dark as they approached. The teenager in me was just a little disappointed. Who wouldn't want to see a massive crash and explosion (honestly, aren't you a tad disappointed?) But the adult professional in me had averted a small disaster.
Casey got out and ran to the men. I hoped a punch wouldn't be thrown! I'd have to arrest someone and so far I was only looking at a one-page general report reading something like this -
"Car stuck on tracks. License number. Driver's name and address." Engineer's name. Train stopped. Car removed by wrecker Arty."
But no punches were thrown. There was only cussing. The cross-over road was covered by the train, but Arty had enough skill to back his wrecker up on the even more narrow far side and hook the car up.
The wrecker hooked the car up and yanked it free. As I backed away, I could hear ol' Casey Jones explaining to the crew, "Well, you're gonna' think I'm stupid but..."
Well Case, wherever you are, I never had the chance to tell you this but - yes, I think you were very stupid.
Adios Amigos...
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9 July 2010: The SFC "Stable"
See all these bad boys!
Click Here!
Adios Amigos...
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4 July 2010: Find the Cost of Freedom
Its Independence Day. It's a day to think about those who go as well as those who stay behind.
Some words from Crosby, Still, Nash and Young...
"Daylight again, following me to bed
I think about a hundred years ago, how my fathers bled
Hear the past a callin', from Armageddon's side
When everyone's talkin' and no one is listenin', how can we decide?
Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down
Find the cost of freedom, buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you, lay your body down
(Find the cost of freedom buried in the ground) "
You all have a fruitful and retrospective 4th of July weekend. It's the least we can do.
Adios Amigos
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1 July 2010: Kill All Chefs, by Buffalo Nickels (if you are easily offended, or weak at heart? Do not read this. In fact, I am telling you NOT to read this! - Hock )
Death by food. Aren't you just sick to death of all the chefs on television? And the freaken' Food Channel? A whole channel for food. They might have their own channel to wallow in, but still weird cooks and chefs are on every single news show! Every dawn as I shit, shower and shave, I watch these morning news shows on a portable TV that is balanced precariously on the scattered debris atop my bathroom counter.
Every morning, they always show a chef segment at the end of each news show. Some idiot up at dawn making crepes named Chef Gay Testicles. Chef Won Tong. Chef Cajun Lou Al Craw Daddy. Grandmaster Potato Rapper. Every race, every creed, every mole style has a chef. They all really cook the same shit, but they talk and dress funny. One uses peanuts, the other cashews. How about that obnoxious bastard who travels the world eating raw food and bugs. I called that survival school, dipshit. One of those morning dufus hosts always stands around while some idiot fries baloney a different way. They try to look very interested at the baloney. Then some Bryant Gumballs asks, "Now, how much pepper goes on that again, Gregaro?" Like he really fucking cares! The host has to pretend that he is really interested in yet another recipe. Day after day after day. Bet the host doesn't even cook. And who at home actually writes down those recipes, anyway? Who writes that fast? Who really gives a fuck? Who? Do you know anyone? Name one person who scribbles down the fried balcony recipe! My definition of hell is being a host on a TV talk show and interviewing morons every day, and than wrapping up each day with a fat slob who cooks weird steaks with creme-colored poop on it. What rung of hell is that?
They even have a food channel where these ethnic clowns parade through 24 hours ... COOKING! They even gave Emeril the Yankee cook a TV sitcom! I'll tell ya' where that ended up. Boom! Bam! In the toilet like all the pretty colored, meals he cooks. FLUSH!
There's a guy that cooks on these shows that's so fat... so fat he can't even stand up. He rolls around on a custom made stool with wheels that he hides with his layers of thick fat draping his ass like a cholesterol curtain. His head looks like a melted watermelon. But his mouth sure works when its time to taste that food... 
"Oooh, dats so yummy!" he says. All his other bodily functions have ceased, but Cajun Al's tongue still works just fine! "OOOH! Dats yummy!" I'll bet Al's taste buds look like suckers on an octopus. Al's devil tongue be loven' it some yummy, spicy food!
Smart Bombs and Charity - Big Cajun Al rolls himself right down to the supermarket on his stool, but many in the world have no such place to roll, or any way to get there. For example, we have been dropping food into Afghanistan. Or more accurately stated, we've been dropping food ONTO Afghanistan. Or, should I decide to be even more specific? Right onto some Afghanis' heads. My buddies on active duty told me some food packages have landed right smack dab on some Afghanis. Killing them. Now that's precision bombing. One minute the Afghan praises Ali and asks for his help, the next minute he gets squished by a crate of USA approved food with a big yellow smiley face painted on the side. Puts a whole new twist on doing God's work, doesn't it. That is a real BAM, Mr. Emeril. Greetings from the U.S. Government. We're here to help!" POW! Zesty Food- There also seems to be a tragic lack of communication in the U.S. military between the people making the cluster bombs and strewing them all over the Afghani landscape and the people packaging the food and dropping it to help local citizens. It seems both war departments inadvertently decided the same cheerful packaging for their products. Imagine Mr. Afghanis' confusion. Could be peanut butter. Could be explosives. Oops! Bite into the wrong one, baby .... Wheeee, now, that's one cookie that has a real kick to it! "Oooh, dats spicy!"
Poop Soup - Not only does our packaging create some serious confusion for the locals, but it also seems we drop the wrong food for their tastes. Our guys on the ground eventually had a chance to rub elbow sores with some Afghan people. They were not exactly thrilled with our idea of cuisine. We drop-shipped them spaghetti and meatballs. They opened the package and scratched their lice-ridden heads and stroked their flea-infested beards
"What dis?" They thought the spaghetti was lamb's brains, the meatball was poop and the pasta was tomato paste. One Outta' three! Brains and poop in sauce, how thoughtful of those kind Americans. The peanut butter we chuted in didn't cut the mustard either. It was used for plaster, soap and even spread on rashes, which are three things even George Washington Carver hadn't thought of. The rashes did not clear up. But the improvised ointment did attract some nice edible flies.
The Buffalo Nickels Diet Plans - With such an obsession for food in the U.S., is it any wonder we're all fat? Kids are fat. Everyone's fat. Disgusting. The overwhelming problem spurred me to create a new and clever two-part diet program. It's called NOT EATING. I now own the patent. Yes, The Buffalo-Nickels' Not-Eating Diet. You couple my Not-Eating Diet with its second phase, the Get-Off- Your-Ass-Phase, and you will loose weight.
"I have a disease!" whiney fatsos like to cry. 'Tm going to sue McDonalds and all vending machine companies for making products that make people like me fat." "Ohhh, Mr Obama, tax fatty food. Do away with fatty food!"
 Well, Mr. Obama, I don't want to pay my tax dollars to fat fucks who smoke a pack of cigarettes a day, all for your freaking Euro-Candian, healthcare plot. Mr. Fatso doesn't have a disease, and I can prove it. Let's say you had cancer and were imprisoned in Nazi Auschwitz. You would still have cancer and die whether you were in a prison camp, or sitting on a beach in the Bahamas. If you were rescued from the prison camp, you'd still have cancer. That's a disease, my friend! But, if you were fat and were imprisoned in Nazi Auschwitz, you would lose a lot of weight and come out skinny when rescued three years later. Anybody want to argue with that? Don't eat! Lose weight! If Cajun Lou Al Craw Daddy spent three years in a Nazi prison camp, Lou Al would come out skinny. How is that a disease?
You don't have a constitutional right to have health care. You do have a constitutional right to be a fat fuck. I have a constitutional right to wave bye- bye. Bye-bye.
(We warned you! Sadly, even more Buffalo Nickel's observations can be found here: (The Buff). Please, we beg you. Do not look.)
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The Historian Thucydides records King Leonidas saying this...
"A nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors, will have its thinking done by cowards and its fighting done by fools."
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