Hock Hochheim's 2006 Blog

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January 13, 14 Dallas, TX KNIFE!

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29 October 2006: Back.

I have been on an extended trip to Guam, Hawaii, Tennessee, London and Ireland. I have taught at an air force base, a Brazilian JuJitsu school, a Tae Kwon Do School, The Honolulu SWAT building, A Kung Fu school and the Northern Ireland Police Academy. How's that for diversity! Really! But these are the realizations of the Congress mission statement - bridging the gap between the military, the police, the martial artist and the aware citizen. Each group knows things about fighting the other doesn't. I and we learn from each.

As we get to end of the month, I always fear that some great thing will get written here and quickly lost, as folks go straight to the new month. So, I promise I will come out swinging, come out with both guns blazing on the 1st of November with action stories and facts, and have a few great guest authors lined up.

...and now? I am just a weeee bit tired, laddy! So...

Set your clocks back. Keep your primer dry. Keep your head on a swivel. Pop smoke when you can't do no more' ...all that stuff. See you in November!

 

 

 

 

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25 October 2006: The Empire Strikes Back

 

"The greatest, single achievement of the British Empire should strive for this century would be the complete and utter destruction of instant coffee. It is within their grasp. "

Soros PP. Chomski

 

 

 

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20 October 2006: More True Military Knife Fights

 

Thanks to contacts at the Army's Combat Studies Institute...by Matt Matthews, historian at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. This is his 27 July 2006 interview of Staff Sergeant David Bellavia on his experiences in Operation Phantom Fury in Iraq. The information has been deemed unclassified... We pick up the action a s SSG Belliavia is searching a building

"There’s an elbow of a wall I backed into not knowing where it was, tripping over shit. But the dude comes into the room just using the wall close to the stairwell, blind firing his weapon, doing nothing but making echoes that were just piercing to my ears. It was just horrible. I’m scanning and I see tracer rounds going lengthwise in the room. I have no idea what’s happening. I don’t know what’s happening because they’re just shooting from left to right and I’m just shooting controlled pairs. I get to my third door when the injured guy from across the kitchen comes blasting into the room. He’s shot and crawls back to the kitchen where we find him dead later on. I hear flip-flops coming down the stairs. The guy from the kitchen was noticeably bleeding and it’s like dark brown from my PEQ2A. I’ll tell you what, I don’t know if he couldn’t hold his weapon up or what the deal was, but it was quick. A guy from the stairs is making a sand paper noise with his sandals, he gives me a shoulder and I took the left part of his breast, just below it in the abdomen. He just crumpled and moaned. And then another AK47 came around the corner and I could hear him yelling like a female’s scream. I don’t really know what happened. That guy fell by the stairs. I could see him from the door for awhile.

As the rounds were coming against the wall, the closet opens up and literally I don’t see anything. As I move my head quickly, my NODs fall off my mount and are hanging by the tie down. The wardrobe doesn’t land on the door. You know how a door is only supposed to open so wide? If you take two doors in the middle and “Y” them out, if you stepped out of the closet you could probably snap the doors out. The wardrobe fell on the inside doors and so it rested like a miniature TV. The dude was shooting through the closet and a little piece of wood went through my shirt and nicked me above the elbow. As I was wondering whether that was a bullet – what does it feel like? – and assessing myself, I rolled into the corner of the room on my kneepads and the rounds were just hitting the top and there were pieces of crap going everywhere. He runs across the bed and the only reason I saw this was because the wood was on fire, the clothing was on fire and the foam from the Iraqi mattress completely comes apart. He falls on his ass with his back facing the door of the room. As he was running, he had his AK47 under his armpit shooting backwards – completely inaccurate but creative nonetheless. I thought that was kind of freaky. But he’s shooting backwards, he falls on his back into the door and I thought I hit him good. I hit him square and it was just the thunk of a fatal wound. He goes to his knees with his back on the thing, lifts his pelvis in the air and pulls himself to his knees, picks up and charges up the stairs. They’re screaming in broken English and I’m screaming in Arabic. They scream back and I saw the look on his face as he left. I’m like, “I got this dude. I straight up have this guy, I know it.” Then I ran up those stairs and I slipped a little bit. I don’t know if it was water or the fact that my boot was dusty, but whatever the case may be, I slipped, a round went off. I met them on the landing, exchanged fire. The guy goes into a room.

I was looking at him square in the eye and I can’t see anything. The smell in the upstairs – it was cool and dusty like something was going on and it’s giving off a burn. I’m completely panicked and I don’t know what the hell is happening. I take my frag, pull the pin, and I throw the frag into his head. I hit him in the face with it. I then turn over and try to affix my NODs so I can actually see. I change another magazine, leaving it on the ground, and I hear a scream. I wait by the stairs, hear a door open and see, from just the illumination from the fires outside, a guy jumping up and down, screaming and firing his weapon until it’s empty. He goes back into the little back room. Once I go back into that room, I can see from the fire from the foam mattress that I hit him in the head but the grenade traveled long, and the room is L-shaped. It rolled the other way and the grenade went off. I go in there and, to be honest with you, I’m smelling natural gas at that point. I’m swinging my rifle to whack him in the head. I make contact with him a couple times like Mark McGwire, baseball bat style. I hit him and he hit me with something metallic. I think it was part of a weapon. It completely cracked my tooth and, believe it or not, that pain caused my whole – when your NODs are on, and the new helmets especially are really light. When you put your NODs up or jolt your head, your whole helmet goes down over your eyes with those stupid new pads. So my NODs and my helmet were too heavy. I got hit on the side of the head, my NODs flew, my helmet was now in front of my face and I’m hitting him on top of his head with my barrel. I shot two rounds that went nowhere. I felt what was to my right, felt my arm hitting the dial of a propane tank, and I took my helmet and hit him on top of the head. He started screaming. When I hit him, he fell to the ground and I literally jumped on him to the point where I knew he was hurt when I put the left side of my body on his right arm. He completely quit. He didn’t want to fight anymore. I was covering his mouth, telling him to shut up. His breath was horrible, just stale, nasty breath. The moral of the story is that the dude bites my left hand near the thumb knuckle through my glove. I open up my SAPI plate and hit him with the inside of my vest. He’s screaming, there are people screaming downstairs and I have no composure at all. This is not a John Rambo moment. I’m really scared.

I stand up and he digs into my leg with his fingers. I’m looking for my Rex Applegate Gerber knife: not a multi-tool, just a serious blade. I go to reach for it and he puts his teeth – I don’t wear underwear and he bites me right in the genital region. I’m standing at this point almost straddling him, but it’s dark and I have no idea where he is or where my position is. I try to dig into his eyeballs, and I don’t know if it’s sweat or blood but my gloves are not giving me any traction or feeling. I literally cuff him with my hands and I’ve got the thing on my belt. My IBA is now down to my arms and it’s like I’m in a crucifix type of thing. My IBA is almost causing me to have little movement and panic. I stomp and kick at his left side and he quits. He gave up; he got limp; he fell back. He is screaming and in pain. I continued to choke and told him to, “Es tes lem.” I also told him in English, “I don’t want to fucking kill you! Just shut your fucking mouth!” And he was crying when I put all my weight on his chest. I finally find his face and my groin is very sore when I laid on top of him to restrain him. He was in agony, his mouth was open and he was spitting. I covered his mouth with my hand and punched down on his clavicle trying to break his collar bone. He screams when I uncover his mouth. I let go a little bit, he started screaming again and I cover him back up. I don’t know if he thought I was going to give him mercy, but in the struggle my Velcro knife case slid off my belt and was now on the ground next to his head. I hear someone yell down from above me in a panic. The man underneath me yells back. The more I put pressure on his left arm the more he goes limp. I flick my blade to the side and it snaps to the ready. I had never stabbed anyone before so I went down on him with a stabbing motion. I lost the grip on the knife and it went right across the base of my right pinkie finger for a cut.

As soon as I let it go, a hot wave hit me and it smelled like rust. I put one hand on his mouth and other under his chin and just started to push like I was giving him CPR. The stream only got powerful when I pushed down and it opened up. I fell over and was completely exhausted. I didn’t want to touch myself because I thought about AIDS or something. I was confused and scared to death. I didn’t have time, or perhaps I was afraid to do a quick inventory of my parts. I couldn’t see and I smelled natural gas. I walked outside, I’m screaming for Lawson and Fitts and I don’t hear anything. They’re yelling, “He’s alive, he’s alive!” downstairs..."

 

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17 October 2006: The Punishment Arm Break

As kids in the New York City Metro area, we use to see a guy in a raincoat and hat walking around a lot. He would use the pay telephone in "Mike's" corner store and one time we saw this guy pass Mike some cash. Word was the guy paid Mike a little "geetus" for the use of the phone. Of course, anyone can use a public phone but when you start giving them a bribe or extra money? Then you hook them into the enterprise and they can trust you better. Now you have something to lose.

One day my dad saw this guy and he said, "Son, you see that guy there? He takes gambling bets from people on the horses and sports. The guy behind him? Carries a baseball bat or a gun." There was no guy actually "standing" behind the bookie at the moment. My Dad was warning me that this was a serious network of folks.

My whispered family history disclosed that before World War II, my Dad was a bookie in in New York City. He and his best friend ran book and had a wild, carousing "zoot suit" life style. But his friend double-crossed the mob by skimming money and they killed him. My dad was loosely involved in this mess and he fled the city and ran upstate for awhile, then enlisted in the Army. Did four, full war years and was assigned as infantry in Patton's command. Hit the beach on the D-Day and invaded Germany. Salt of the Earth of the "Greatest Generation."

He gave up the bookie life. But my Uncle Essy? Nope. Uncle Essy worked for a major auto manufacturing plant in a New England State. Essy ran the book for the plant as well as worked on the assembly line. There were a thousand or two employees and many gambled. It was a great cash business. One weekends, he ran a hot dog stand in a park and ran book from the stand.

Strange sports things would happen and Uncle Essy would get in trouble. Lets say a lot of people bet on a loser. Essy collected their money. But Essy never officially turned in the money into his next in the gambling chain of command - betting the losers would lose and he could keep ALL the money. Once in awhile, the losers would win and Essy would have to come up with a fortune fast.

My Grandmother lived upstairs from me. I remember Essy showing up in the middle of the night sometimes, begging for money, for thousands to hold off the this pending doom. I remember he hid out at our house for about a week once. This, a guy with four kids, a wife, what would appear to be a normal life.

Of course, Essy had to collect money too. On a New Years Eve in the 1960s there was party in the basement of our house. Uncle Essy, drunk with a bourbon in one hand and a cigar in the other, explained to me, a mere teenager how to do do a "punishment arm break." It went something like this...

"Furst ya gotta' weaken the arm. Hit the arm muscle up here with a club," he pointed to his biceps," or hit it wit' ya' forearm. Dis weakens his strength in his arm that protects the arm. Den you break the arm back, Hold him face down. Use your knee against his elbow. Yank his wrist back with your two hands. Hard. Snap. Then? Always reach over to the other hand and break at least one finger. Two maybe. Den he has a big freggin' cast on his right arm, and a cast on his left hand. He can't even wipe his own ass! Dats punishment."

 

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14 October 2006: Two Headquarters

It is now official, the ol' SFC will now have two homes/headquarters due to some recent and unique business developments. One office back in Ft Worth, TX and the other one in the Nashville, TN area, where we shall also operate. Which one will I be at, at what time? I can't predict. But I will be running back and forth.

 

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11 October 2006: SWAT makes 25 Years

SWAT Magazine is celebrating 25 years! I recall its beginning, saw it almost dwindle off and then saw the resurrection by Denny Hanson and the newer editorial gang. SWAT started out as Survival Weapons and Tactics, not the commonly thought S for Special, and was owned for many years by the weird Larry Flynt. The revival/survival has as much to to with Denny and new management as it does with the Septemper 11 attacks as an emotional and scary backdrop. Also in this survival equation was this long-running low fever called Y2K - that all machines would either die at midnight or maybe conspire to matrix the universe.

When this Y2K pimple popped and in the last call for the 1990s and the year 2000, SWAT and Soldier of Fortune Magazine was hanging on the magazine-stand cliff by the shortest of short fingernails. SOF had a list of stores on their webpage where one could buy the SOF magazine. The list was not long and when such magazine web lists care to record "Randy Johnny's Super-8 Liquors and Smokes," 311 Jones St in Belfushia, MS. as a place to purchase the publication? This is a hint their dwindling magazine staff is REALLY brainstorming ways to increase sales.

Then the 9-11 attacks cut out the heart of the American gun control movement and within months, a militant air prevailed, re-animating Soldier of Fortune Magazine and in the wake, SWAT Magazine too. My old magazine Close Quarter Combat was rejected by the book rack industry because of the failing sales and pending doom of SWAT of SOF. But after 9-11, these same distributors started calling and asking us to be in their stores and supermarkets.

I also cannot help but remember that short rash of so-silly, martial arts magazines right after 9-11, where one previous month the MAs were barefoot in their traditional silk pajamas, the next month they were decked out in berets, boots and camo, but still posing in their absurd, impractical, illogical stances.

The SWAT anniversary issue is out now, with its latest version of its cover theme, that never-ending collection of what seems to be that same overweight guy in glasses holding a differing submachine gun each month. Inside this issue, they feature the perennial Louis Ayerback's and his Yavapai Shooting Academy. I got a kick out of seeing a photo of Louis holding a "toy" rifle (hey, so described by the article's author) so that he could better demonstrate tactics to the class. And yes, I could not help noting that, and recalling the smirks and whispers I got in 1996 - 1999 with my rubber band rifles and pistols trying to make the same training points in seminars. I guess now in 2006, these toys have evolved into being completely acceptable. God bless ol' Louis, who month-after -month, year-after-year-after-year writes the last column in each issue, turning a four-paragraph idea into a full page with witty expressions and colloquialisms. It is not easy being a staff writer.

I always take the time to read anything Bob Pilgrim writes and this issue there is a feature by the always-sharp, Bob Pilgrim called Hell on Wheels about Olive Security diving course, which includes high speed driving, car stops and paint ball shoot-outs. My idea of an adult Disney World. Shooting training with people shooting back! Then sadly, later in the issue is another article about a Canada-based protection shooting course, involving shuttling people in around...paper targets. More paper targets. Yawn. My idea of a child Disney world.. I know, I know, They have to run some of the course on paper, but all of it? NO!

I usually tear out at least one, maybe two SWAT articles each month to keep for research purposes, which these days is a pretty good endorsement. Anyway, congrats to the SWAT crew for surviving a whole 25 years from Jimmy Carter to George Bush, in a near impossible business. And I think they still do sell it and SOF down there at Randy John's in ol' Miss.

 

 

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8 October 2006: A Pinch in The Green Pickle

What I didn't tell you in the prior blog about the Barefoot Policeman, because it would be too distracting for the story is, that night we were in the infamous Green Pickle. The Green Pickle was a lime-ish green, Dodge Charger that had an engine in it, that would put ol' General Lee to shame. This bad boy was an environmentalist's stark, raving nightmare for guzzling gas, roaring, lung-rattling sound and black-fogging the air so bad it would suffocate a small animal or child. Al Gore would faint on the spot if he saw the Green Pickle go by! But ol' Bill Clinton would clap and yell "Yee-haw!" and when he saw the tv cameras on him? He'd scowl and shake his head. I know some of my older buddies are laughing now to think of the Pickle!

 

This was the worst color, baby-shit green you could imagine. WHY did they kept it? All our other squad cars were normal looking, for the day anyway, but our department maintained the older 60s relic, Pickle in amongst the black and white fleet because it ran well, was super fast and it was a favorite amongst a few of the middle level, admin, patrol supervisors.

On midnight shifts, who-some-ever drew the Pickle would often get on out interstate highways and for a sheer thrill, run that bastard at a 160 miles per hour until your veins popped, your cheeks flapped and you experienced free-fall. Who else can legally speed? And who else can manipulate a customized, time, space and light machine such as this? One night, an officer - who shall remain nameless - got carried away and did about 160 miles worth of driving up and down the interstates and main roads, at sound-barrier, breaking speeds, all in a manner of a few minutes we hear tell!

Near shift change, he noticed his speedometer readings while our squad cars were side-by-side on a parking lot.

"Jimmy Crack Corn!" he told me. "I've done a 160 miles last night!"

Now back then, mileage per shift, per car, was recorded. And if the patrol Captain was feeling cranky in the morning, hemorrhoids or whatever, he would check every shift car's mileage. A typical patrol night, minus an arrest and paperwork, would produce anywhere from 65 to 80 miles of driving? maybe 90? If you made some arrests. It could mean 12 miles as the car sat on the PD parking lot.

But 160 miles? That meant only one thing, brother! You were jerking off on the highways. And if you were in the Pickle and did 160? There was no question! You were suspect and you received a royal, ass-chewing. The Captain or Chief would display his cigar-stained teeth and growl like a Bengal Tiger. And, and, you had that frightening, finger-wagging in your face. And, you fell out of...favor! And if you admitted, ADMITTED you were Nascar-ing around in the Pickle? No telling what they would do. Best just to play dumb...

"Why...must be a sheer numerical mistake, Captn'?"

Let ya' eyes glaze over and jaw drop and offer no solution at all. Just...just a trick of the universe. An unexplainable anomoly.

But this particular officer was not so dumb. He went to high school with a mechanic that worked overnight at a 24-hour gas station (yes Martha, they once had this types of operations). He took the Pickle to the station's garage and at about 5:30 am, they lifted up the rear end of the green rocket ship and dropped the Pickle's tranny in reverse, and ran those miles back to down to about 80 on the odometer.

"Not too much now, Jerry!" he said. "I don't want them to think I didn't work at all!"

It became established in the blue underground that this station could do some emergency "run-backs" for ya'. Especially, if ya' got into a pinch with the Pickle! Next, you have to do something about all those busted, blood vessels on your face!

 

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6 October 2006: The Barefoot Policeman

Back in the 1970s I wanted to finish college, so I reluctantly requested a transfer into what was called the relief patrol shift. I say reluctantly because I enjoyed my time with my regular rotating patrol shift, lead by a Lt. Gene Green and Sgt. Eric Jackson. But, the relief shift had the same hours each week, was partially created for college attendees and was mathematically inserted inside the oddball 8-hour rotating shift openings.

 

But the relief shift math wasn't completely perfect. There were shifts and days each week that had no gaps and we of the relief outfit were just added to the manpower of the regular rotating shifts. (This making any sense?) Week after week, on certain nights, the regular, rotating shift sergeant would look at we reliefers and wonder what to do with us. We would often be assigned in the same cars as partners. Thus, for quite some time, on Thursday nights, I was partnered with Sal-the barefoot policeman.

 

Sal and I always had a blast every Thursday night, 3 pm to 11 pm shift. Sal was already a vet at the police department. Sal was a hysterical fellow. Great sense of humor. He was a little bit buck-tooth. A real country-boy. He was kind of shaped like John Wayne and would often wear his revolver way back on his belt near his back pocket, like the Duke. He would casually rest his hand on his gun handle like Wayne did, really stretching the leather holster through time. Eventually, it sort flapped around back there when he walked.

 

They say that Sal started out a very gung ho officer, but after being unfairly (his version) bumped on a sergeant's exam, his spirit was broken. Since, he just wandered through his 40-hour, workweek, barely getting by, irritating supervisors and citizens alike. He left our agency for a while and worked out of state, where one night Sal beat up a drunk driver and was fired. But, we hired him back.

 

“That somabitch kept reaching over and tearing up the DWI reports! I'd get half finished with them and he'd lean over and rip them up! You can't pull that shit back here in Texas!” Sal told me, “So I hit him. I mean, that's what we'd do here. Hell, those Montana pussies fired me.”

 

This was one tale rehashed on many a Thursday night as Sal and I patrolled. It was not uncommon for Sal to ride shotgun and let me drive. In fact, I cannot recall a time when Sal ever drove. Too much work I think. It was almost a weekly routine for him to buy a big, oversized bag of Carmel-covered popcorn. He'd open the bag and start eating. Sometimes Doritos, but usually the sticky, brown popcorn.

 

We would drive around and if we had a break in calls, eventually Sal would remove his cowboy boots. One at a time, to let his feet…breath. Often, next, off came his white socks. He would commence to pick his toenails, preen and massage his feet…and eat popcorn from the big bag. And yes, absent-mindedly, he would sometimes offer me some popcorn, which I would decline. He would sometimes produce silver nail clippers and with great intent, carve away on his dinosaur feet.

 

Meanwhile, I was still in my gung ho stage and would aggressively patrol. Sal would curse at every call and gripe every time I dared initiate some action. Especially once, early one evening shift, just before sunset at rush hour. I spotted a car bust a red light in a hurry. I accelerated after it and Sal started in with his usual gripes,

 

“What? Whatcha' doing, man?” he asked.

 

“They ran a red light.”

 

“So what? Oh, come on!”

 

This was work and he did not want to work and he wanted no part of it. I wanted to get into something. It wasn't the ticket I was after, but rather what kind of "shit I could into" as was the common phrase. I might not write him a ticket at all.

 

I had to blast the siren to let the driver know I was serious, as he seemed to ignore me at first. In the front seat next to him was a woman and another male at the passenger door seat. When the car finally pulled into a business parking lot on Dallas Drive, I got out and approached the driver's door. Sal, barefoot with his bag of popcorn on his lap, remained in squad car.

 

I collected the driver's license and returned to our squad car to run wants and warrants.

 

“What he say? Huh? What? What?” Sal was always over-curious and eagerly interested, even though he took no action.

 

“Oh, nothing much,” I told him. I started running the guy's name and DL on the NCIC. I sat in the driver's seat with the door open and one foot on the ground.

 

“61,” came the dispatcher

 

“Go ahead,” I said.

 

“The subject is wanted in Dallas for burglary.”

 

“Damn!” muttered Sal. Work.

 

After getting some of the details from the dispatcher, I walked up to the car and asked the guy to get out and talk to me. Which he did. I told him the bad news. And he started declaring that the system had made a big mistake, etc. I honestly cannot remember the guy's name and what he said. It's been about 30 years now. But, what happened next? I cannot forget.

 

When the driver complained loudly about the arrest warrant, the passenger door flung open and the other male passenger got out. Sal popped his squad car door behind me. The guy took a few steps toward me, and then he turned and ran like hell across the business parking lots.

 

I flinched to chase him, but what to do about my burglary suspect? I can't leave him here by his car, keys in the ignition! Just as the instant quandary hit me, here ran Sal…barefoot…right by me! In hotfoot pursuit.

 

“Gotdam! Yalittlemotherfuckinstupidshitsomabitch, I will shoot yer ass down, ya …” Sal emitted in one, long, cussing stream.

 

Did I tell you that Sal loved to play golf? Total addict. Daily. And he really wasn't in too bad a shape. He hotfooted across the A-1 Cleaners, Dallas Pawn Shop and the 7-11 parking lots after this kid. The lots were too full of customers for Sal to shoot at him, which he had a hankering to do at those chase times.

 

“That officer has no shoes,” the burglary suspect said calmly to me.

 

“The pay is a little low here,” I told him as I cuffed his hands.

 

Off in the distance, Sal had caught the kid by the 7-11 gas pumps. Shook him around a bit, then cuffed him. He marched the kid back with a hand on the scruff of his neck.

Of course many people stared in amazement at the barefoot policeman. He looked like the Hulk after being Bruce Banner-ized. "Don't make me angry. You won't like me if I'm angry"

 

This second kid had drugs in his pocket. LSD I think, but I am not sure on that. But that must be why he ran. Can't remember. But we arrested both of them. I searched the car and found nothing illegal. The girl had no record and I let her drive the car off. On the way to the jail, Sal put his socks and cowboy boots on. No one said a word about it.

 

The next Thursday night? We had a few laughs, patrolled around town, stopped at a Gas-N'-Go and Sal bought himself a big bag of Carmel popcorn. Two hours into the shift? He was happily munching away, picking at his bare feet.

 

And all things were right in heaven….

 

(PS…Sal eventually quit and became a golf club salesman. His current whereabouts are unknown, but where ever he is, I'll wager his feet are probably quite beautiful.)

 

 

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4 October 2006: Blogged Down by Blogs

Thinking about starting a blog on your webpage? USA Today reports that every single day, 150,000 new blogs are created. Two blogs per second. Since March 2004, the blogosphere has doubled. They are now more than 53 million blogs. 40% of those who started one, are still writing after 3 months. Then...they begin to disappear, especially after the bill comes in to renew a webpage for the next year.

To have a blog read regulary by more than your mother, you must have a serious niche into, and about something. And you have to be able to write. And you have to be appropriately creative.

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3 October 2006: Being Shot

I have a training imperative that includes, “fighting AFTER the knife stab, AFTER the punch and AFTER the gunshot. And, pursuant to that mission, there is a body of knowledge out there as a resource to help such preparation

As I have been collecting true, military knife fight encounters, I have also been collecting “I've been shot” stories through the years, in an effort to record commonalities and use them for educational purposes. A data base on surviving the gunshot? What did it feel like? What did it do to you? How did you react? Not a complete tactical review of the entire shoot-out, but rather just the personal trauma experience. I have hopes of organizing a book called…Being Shot, or similar theme, for academic purposes. The going is slow and in the meantime, as with the knife combat stories, I really feel the need to share the stories, else they sit on a shelf and do no one any good.

Here is one:

Vietnam combat in Ia Drang Valley, Circa 1965 from the great book We Were Soldiers Once…And Young by Lt. General Harold G. Moore

“Pvt. Clinton Poley says - When I got up something hit me real hard on the back of my neck, knocked my head forward and my helmet fell off in the foxhole. I thought a guy had snuck up behind me and hit me with the butt of a weapon, it was such a blow. Wasn't anybody there; it was a bullet from the side or rear. I put a bandage on it and the helmet helped me hold it on. I got up and looked again and there were four of them (NVA) holding carbines (shooting at us)”

Every few weeks I will add one of these "shot" stories, along with the true knife stories and everything else we try to cover.

 

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2 October, 2006: The Judge or Juror?

I use to think that our physical actions would be judged by the prescribed legal standard of the "reasonable and prudent" person. This has been manifested by the image of some kind of courtroom judge. But now I have lowered expectations. I still do have hope and believe in the American system of justice, but I have seen more than a few mishaps. I now worry that our actions will be reviewed by the "dumbest juror." If you have one or more dumb jurors? You and your case are in big trouble. Think O.J. Simpson- the largest collection of racist, crapshoot, dumb jurors collected in one susceptible, suggestive panel.)

As an odd aside to this point, last August a criminal defendant in Georgia, USA actually appealed his conviction on the basis of jury tampering. It seems the judge dared to yell at the jurors to "STAY AWAKE," as they were consistently nodding off. (MAN! have I seen a lot of sleeping jurors through the years. Deplorable.) These judicial wake-up calls "interfered with the natural state of jury members." I doubt the appeal will work if a reasonable and prudent person gets to decide.

 

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1 October, 2006: I Was Alone (or, the Bottom-Side of Hell)

I was alone. Alone for decades. Even though I was attached in spirit and by radio to hundreds of police officers, or thousands of soldiers, I really worked alone for decades.

I spent years alone, day and night in patrol squad cars and then working the streets as a detective. I have been alone in some bad neighborhoods that the local police would not send a solo officer into, been alone on robbery and murder calls. Alone in fights. Alone on surprise raids. I've been spit on, cursed, pushed, punched, kicked, tackled, shot at and stabbed at. Things just happen that way sometimes. Well, a lot of times.

As I travel the world teaching, I see police officers in a squad car in London or South Africa, on a beat in Melbourne, standing around a Canadian airport security checkpoint, or holding a machine gun in a village square in the Philippines, or holding an M-16 in a Korean village, or posted on a plaza holding down a riot in Spain. In a way I know them all. Every one. Everyone is connected by a mission in their heart, a radio on their hip, but still everyone...has to stand alone. Even in the most coordinated team movement, inside your head, you are alone, doing what you must do. Your part. Your share. Deciding. Calculating. Taken aim. Pulling. Punching. Alone.

The street survival textbooks mandate that you to never do anything dangerous alone. Textbooks. Sure. In a perfect, textbook world there's a basement full of backup officers at headquarters just awaiting your call for help. In real life, police basements are cold and empty. Your other squad is all to often busy, or even pinned down too. Your life may hang on that term “response time.” In some cities, rural counties and states - you can order and get a pizza delivered before you can get police help.

Annual statistics prove that about 1 to 10 percent of the people you arrest will fight you, and about 1 to 3 percent are bent to kill you. So many times in these life or death, mixed weapon fights, you are so alone. He is beating the uniform right off of you, smashing the cop right out of you. You become someone drowning, just struggling to breathe. To live. So flattened out and striped down, you are not even a cop anymore- just an animal. And only the rules of the jungle apply.

And, that's real alone-when its just you and him and he's spitting blood and hate, pounding your face. As your nose goes flat (smash) and each tooth cracks out of your mouth (bash), as he reaches for your pistol, you begin to wonder (crash), if you could even think, what tactics and techniques the best of the military would use, or the most, serious martial experts would try, to save your life. Unfortunately, you have probably been taught some timid, paranoid moves that are thinly disguised to keep your police agency (and now your military too) from being sued, or even just troubled. Their reputations and budgets are saved? You. You fall. Out there, all alone, out there in the jungle.

Who is in control of your life?

Your future? Your training?

Who helps you win, when you are all alone?

Alone on the bottom-side of hell?

 

 

 

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