Hock Hochheim's November 2006 Blog

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27 November 2006: True Knife Fights

From "Into the Kill Zone," True Stories of Deadly Force" by David Klinger

"...saw him just standing there, staring in our direction, with a gym bag hanging from his left shoulder. I yelled for him to leave the area. Then Dennis did. Then we both yelled some more. But the man didn't budge. He just stood there, staring at us.

We didn't know who he was or why he was standing there. Maybe he didn't speak English, I thought, so he couldn't understand what we wanted him to do. Maybe he couldn't hear what we were saying over the din of the police helicopter orbiting overhead. Or maybe he was deaf. All we knew for sure was that whoever he was, he was in grave danger, standing in the open directly across the street from a house that contained a man who had already tried to kill one citizen. Because the man was in danger, Dennis told me he was going to run across the street, get the guy out of there, then come back to join me. He holstered his weapon and took off.

I refocused my attention on the house, fully expecting the gunman to start shooting at Dennis, and getting ready to shoot back. Then, suddenly, about fifteen seconds after Dennis left my side, I heard an angry voice scream over the racket of the orbiting helicopter, "Get your fucking hands off me! Don't tell me what to do!" I immediately peeled my eyes from the house and looked over my right shoulder. There, across the street, stood Dennis and the as-yet-unidentified citizen, no more than two feet apart, facing each other on the sidewalk. Dennis faced west, the citizen east. Their lips were moving, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. A few seconds later, the man turned away and took a couple of steps west down the sidewalk. I thought Dennis had convinced him to get out of harm's way.

But I was wrong. With Dennis trailing a step behind, the man reached across his chest with his right hand, pulled a large butcher's knife from the bag slung over his left shoulder, and in one fluid motion pivoted back to his right, brought his left hand up to form a two-handed grip on the handle of the knife, and furiously plunged the blade into Dennis's chest.

I simply could not believe what I had seen and neither could Dennis. He stared at his assailant as the man released his left hand from his right, drew the knife back to chest level, and for a split second stared back at Dennis. As I began to get up from my crouch to run to my partner's aid, the man attacked again.

This time, he drew the knife over his head, and like Anthony Perkins in the shower scene in Psycho, he brought it down with blinding speed. As the knife flashed toward him, Dennis stepped back and threw his hands in front of his face, desperately trying to fend off the blow. Somehow he succeeded and took another step back. The assailant took another step toward him, again drew the knife above his own head, and took another hack at Dennis. Dennis somehow managed to block the blow and retreated another step. The madman continued to press his attack as I moved away from the cover of the Cadillac. He hacked at Dennis again and again. And again and again, Dennis threw his hands up to parry the blows as he back pedaled down the sidewalk. Then Dennis tripped and fell flat on his back on the grass strip separating the sidewalk from the street, and the madman immediately moved in to finish him off.

He leaped on top of Dennis, landing with his knees astride my partner's hips, drew the knife above his head with both hands, and brought it crashing down toward Dennis's throat. Miraculously, Dennis managed to reach up and grab both of his attacker's wrists as the blade plunged toward him, stopping it just short of its mark. When I got to my partner's side a moment later, he was locked in a life-or­death struggle, still lying on his back, the assailant still straddling him on his knees, and the knife flickering between them, inches from Dennis's throat.

I immediately dropped to one knee and grabbed the assailant's left wrist with all my might, intending to twist his arm behind him, push him onto his back, and together with Dennis wrest the knife from him. But it didn't work. More quickly and easily than I ever could have imagined was possible, he jerked his arms away from me and effortlessly broke my desperate grip while maintaining his own on the knife. I then heard Dennis shout, "Shoot him!" So I did. Still close enough to reach out and touch him, I picked a spot on the left side of the mad­man's chest, brought my gun up, and pulled the trigger. As the sound of the gunshot passed into the night, the assailant-in a voice indicating that he realized the jig was up, said, "Oh, shit!"

Dennis pushed his arms up, and I reached back in with my left hand and grabbed the madman's right wrist. With Dennis pushing and me pulling, we forced the assailant onto his side, and then to his back. As we did this, the attacker released his left hand from the knife, but he still held it firmly in his right. To increase my leverage, I dropped to my right knee and slammed the attacker's wrist to the turf with my left hand, then pinned it to the ground with my left foot. The assailant continued to fight us, but with my firm grip and full body weight on his wrist, we had the knife under control.

A few seconds later, four of the officers who had been on the east side of the perimeter came charging down the sidewalk toward us. Together, the six of us forced the knife out of the still struggling assailant's right hand, rolled him onto his stomach, and handcuffed him behind his back. Aware of the danger posed by the gunman in the house across the street, two of the other officers grabbed the suspect and quickly dragged him out of the line of fire to a spot behind a car that was parked on the lawn of the house in front of which the shoot­ing went down. Dennis and I, along with a sergeant who had rushed to the scene moments after we cuffed the suspect, ran up onto the porch of the house in front of which the suspect lay, crouched down behind its rock-and-mortar railing, and again trained our guns on the house across the street.

Two paramedics appeared and began to work on the man I had just shot, who was now lying no more than twenty feet from me. For the next few minutes, I focused on the house across the street, still expecting the gunman inside to shoot, but intermittently glanced down at the medical drama that was being played out on the grass nearby. It was during the last of these peeks that I saw the urine flow, and I knew that I had just killed a man.

At some point while we were on the porch, I realized that Dennis wasn't bleeding at all. This struck me as odd, inasmuch as I'd seen the blade of a large knife slam into his chest and had watched helplessly as the assailant pressed his follow-up attack while I was running across the street. But Dennis was was wearing body armor under his uniform shirt that night, and it saved his life. The blade had torn most of the way through the vest on the initial thrust, but the last few layers of Kevlar stopped it just short of its mark. That Dennis had suffered no cuts as he retreated from his attacker could be chalked up only to Providence, because it was truly amazing that his hands and arms had not been slashed to ribbons."

 

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24 November 2006: Thanksgiving Notes Continue...

My father was a grunt attached to General Patton during World War II. One Thanksgiving, his group was ordered to sit in guard positions in foxholes on the front of some tenacious battlefield in Europe. He told me that he and the men complained that they would miss a special, erected, mess tent, Thanksgiving dinner. He recalled there was a tremendous effort to bring thousands of turkeys to the front that year.

So they were taken by a short truck ride to the front, rotated with a shift of guards and dropped into the frozen foxholes. 12 hours later, when the next shift arrived they heard the shocking news. Hundreds of soldiers were sick, presumably by the turkeys.

My dad said by the next day, hundreds of soldiers had died. The turkeys turned bad in transit. He felt lucky again to be alive. He said sheer luck more than training, seemed to keep he and others alive. He said that,

"being in the wrong place at the wrong time,"

...was the single most important, life or death issue to him; he having crawled up the beach at D-Day, or seen a friend inches from him shot in the head, or watched nearby foxholes and trenches explode by a random hand grenade or mortar.

Obviously, fortune favors the prepared and we must train incessantly, but we cannot forget the luck factor, the elusive, uncontrollable evasiveness that psychologists tell us is the most frightening aspect of battlefield and crime victimology.

(oh, I got the time to do a second draft on the prior entry, so you might reread it? Sorry for all the rough edges on these things. On write on impulse and am not without distraction.)

 

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23 November 2006: Radical Thanksgivings

What I am about to say here is kind of whispered and understood in the police and military community which sheds some understanding into who we are and what we do...and what we REALLY think. As a cop working in the "land of porcelain toilets" (codename that "homeland"), I never missed a blink having to work on a holiday. Of course after an 8-hour shift I returned to the "fam." But, I have also done my time overseas and know many, many who have and who still are now. Every Thanksgiving I am usually working in Europe. I can tell you with some certainty that many other cops and military are not missing blinks working on the holidays either. If I had a choice of sitting around and watching Uncle Pete burp up yam gas or sitting on a robbery stake-out? I, and many others would take the stake-out. Call us cold-hearted or sick if you wish, but that is just the way it is. Understanding the inner workings of this is an important training and staffing issue.

It is not uncommon that on a holiday, no matter your country, those at home pray for, and voice regrets about, and even sob for, troops overseas as they are "away from home," and "away from their loved ones," and "missing Thanksgiving," etc. Suffering great heartache. Suffering with great sacrifice. The usual litany. It creates an image that our soldiers, sailors and Marines are off whimpering in a corner on Christmas Day or Thanksgiving afternoon. But, many times these home front viewpoints are projecting (to use the psychological terms) their emotions and perceptions on the troops. Secret hard cold fact is? Many are glad to be gone, or simply don't care they are gone. Actually, honestly, I was. I didn't care, and I know many who felt and feel the same.

Now if you have a church-going, shoe salesmen with a big family doing a reluctant hitch in the National Guard and he is overseas on a short tour, he may be tortured with homesickness. Then again? maybe not? I know these guys too. For many troops, certainly special forces types, you might be surprised that many are not sobbing on a stump somewhere.

And..they won't be too quick to admit that in public, huh? When they commit to speaking or writing, they are not naturally open as I am being right here. They say and act the expected, acceptable and proper way. From the non-fiction book, Jawbreaker: the Attack on Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda by CIA Gary Berntsen, Gary was one of the first agents into Afghanistan with Green Berets. Here he telephones his wife - (remember the last line of the quote)

"How are the kids?"

"They're fine. Alexis is traveling here for Christmas. If you can get back by then it would be great."

"I have no idea on timing. I'm taking this one day at a time."

"I know. I'm not putting pressure. But please be careful. Please!"

 

After years in the Agency, I had developed the ability to compartmentalize things. I missed my family terribly, but could push the loneliness aside and concentrate solely on the mission. Laser- like focus is what made me good at what I did. Rebecca remained calm as we continued, as though she was talking to her husband at work down at the mill in some small town in America. It was great hearing her voice. Even though I loved her and missed her, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Thank God there are people like this huh? But generally speaking, can you read deep between such lines? What would anyone say in a book that would be read by family members too, or normal people with typical, civilized perceptions? I do not mean to say that Gary himself here has a between the lines message, rather what I mean to suggest is that many times, soldiers voice what is expected, but actually feel more like...I am exactly where I want to be.

Or, even more specifically, they may complain and not be stationed exactly where they want to be stationed, but that doesn't mean they are in a corner somewhere sobbing about missing Thanksgiving. Not everyone wrestles so much with compartmentalizing normal feelings. I didn't. Others don't.

Plus, in these days of quick media and international CNNs and BBCs, the enemy easily spies on us and the homelands. If they can embolden dove politicians and weaken hawk politicians in any way, they will for their cause (note the recent tempo of Iraq bombings). Our enemies must view our forces as chained-up, raging huns ready to decapitate them in a barbarous second, rather than simpy momma's boys, or henpecked husbands, crying instead for their fluffy, lounge chair and a big, fat pie. Nor is it good that the enemy is aware of politicians working day and night to remove the troops from the frontline, ensuring their victory. Momentum in combat may not be just "turning the tide", rather it can be like a tsunami.

Of course, there is sacrifice and suffering of a kind. But, the fact that many like, prefer or seek out, long-flung and dangerous assignments is not a bad thing at all. This does not make them any less special. Not at all. We need people on the front who hold this view. Here's the unsociable, dirty, little, unspoken truth. What makes many troops and certainly special forces so special, is not that they suffer and sob through the holidays on the front lines, what actually makes many of them special is...they just don't care that much.

 

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22 November 2006: The Liberal Dungeon

People like Cindy Sheehan (where was she this last USA election? Kidnapped by James Carvelle and held in dungeon next to Michael Moore?) are the heros of Al-Qadea. Cindy said that our involvement in World War Two was wrong. She is an utter dunce in her grasp on world politics.A key to their recent USA election success was a moderate presentation and approach. The Moderates won, but as a result, the old, wacked-out, ultra-liberals by way of seniority, suddenly become committee powerheads. The moderate Democrats won the battle on the frontlline.

 

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21 November 2006: Leaking Adrenaline Dump

I have noted lately that yet another new misconception about adrenaline is leaking its away across the psyche of fighting, military and police training lectures and writing. When, what and how is an adrenaine...dump? For one example just this month, in a very popular enforcement and "enforcement/wannabe/ voyeur" magazine, an established police trainer listed how adrenaline courses through the body. He continues on to state:

 

"...this adrenaline dump causes a deterioration of fine and complex motor skills

muscle movements."

 

Clearly this expert, as are a few, are cavalierly saying the dump is when the body first sends the chemicals out. But, when is the adrenaline dump? During or..after? In the thrilling days of yesteryear, everyone in police and military work was in total agreement that the dump was officially after the event and after the adrenaline dissolved away and your body lost this rush. Despite the negative adrenaline, laundry list that nay-sayers always supply, the rush is a high. The loss is a low. The loss may affect your stomach, may gives you chills, the shakes, may make you feel faint, etc. It may. Key word being - may.

 

I knew after a fight, I would sometimes experience this dump. I can recall a few times when I could not even handwrite a police report from the dump. I had to stop, get a grip, take some deep breaths, and then resume. Sometimes, I would feel nothing at all. Frankly? I would feel relaxed and great! I know this breaks the nay-sayers "adrenaline-always-bad-and-does-bad-things" rules, but plenty of people function quite well and feel great after the dump. But, the official dump was always AFTER.

I guess in a loose, semantic sense, I guess you could say that the body "dumps" its adrenaline at the first sign of danger and that is some kind of dump too? So now we can have two dumps? Or, do we just have trainers and writers accidentally mixing information and terms?

So, what's it gonna' be? One dump? Two dumps now? If we don't get together on the same page we will loose definition and solution. Or is this just the result of sloppy "cut and paste" editing by authors? Regurgitating the incomplete works and mistakes of prior authors.

 

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20 November 2006: The Tuffy Choke that Failed

Winter, 1978 (or thereabouts) Texas

 

“We got a fugitive on the loose out here,” a detective yelled into his radio, “ we need all available units to the Green Tree apartments!”

The investigator relayed a description of this man in between trying to catch his breath. There were several state and federal warrants on the suspect and our detectives and some Feds had gotten close to their man, but not close enough. Somehow, in a series of events I was not privy too, the thug had slipped the dragnet.

As a patrolman working in the general area, the dispatcher sent me and several other units to the scene, where I would experience my first…choke failure.

 

In Army basic training they taught us strangles, not chokes, because we were killing people. In the rear strangle, when you hook your hand into the bend of your arm, this was called “interlocking.” So, what many, would call a rear choke, was named an interlocking, rear strangle. In the Military Police academy, all chokes were just called chokes, as I assume, even decades away, the term strangle was a bit too strong for law enforcement.

 

The Texas Police academy followed up with more choke training as back then, chokes were commonplace. Only in the late 1980s did they became taboo and too dangerous for most agencies to sanction. A rear few died, as folks will did in an all physical measures, causing the ban. But there was a time when, if someone resisted they were choked out as a very common tactic.

 

In one of these two police academies, for the certification process, we ourselves were supposed to be choked out by our partners - or at least almost nearly so - to be officially experienced enough to pass the session. This was done under the very close observation of an academy instructor. It was only much later in martial training that I was completely choked out several times in martial arts classes. It is really not too bad. But, even the near experience of being choked is important. It really helped me, especially when I was jumped in South Korea once because the squeeze was not a new and totally shocking experience to me. Been there, done that and “oh yeah, he is choking me.” Familiarity breeds survival.

 

So I moved into professional life with a working knowledge of the ubiquitous choke and through the years of military and civilian police work I had at the point of a Winter, 1978 squeezed the temporary life out of a just a handful of rowdy folks. The choke never failed me before, until this cold day.

 

There were reports of sightings as this fugitive dashed through the neighborhood apartment complexes. I parked my squad in the general direction of his last angle of escape and jogged about the area. I heard a scuffle and a shout in an alley between two complexes. I looked. I saw the back of our bad guy. One of our uniformed officers was standing before the man and they were fighting with each other, No real blows thrown that I could see, but rather wild arm flaying, and pushing. Our man was really trying to grab the suspect.

 

I charged down the alley and jumped on his back, wrapped an arm around his neck and interlocked it with my other arm. I am not sure, but it was quite likely I growled, “good night, mother fucker.” (While I might appear dapper and intellectual in my old age? I was once a big, dumb-ass kid.) But, his sleep was not coming. I squeezed and squeezed and this fugitive wrestled and spun around and resisted. The other officer, whom I wished would just load up and belt this joker in the snoot, continued to plead and cautiously try to subdue the man, like a vegetarian, veterinary trying to submit a fawn for a delicate surgery. Me? Wrong safari show! I just wanted to stuff this joker's head on a trophy wall and go have lunch.

 

The officer took a second to shout our location into his radio. I was tossed around by this guy who did everything he could to get me off his back but jump in the air and land on his back, on top of me (which I have had a horse do to me, but not a person yet.) Troops were very nearby and about five officers and agents descended from every direction. They grabbed his arms and I "un-interlocked" my interlock. The first officer handcuffed him. The suspect was no worse for wear after my 40 second to one-minute choke attempt. I looked him over. He had a jacket with a collar. But his neck was rather naked. And of course, I had on my police, tuffy jacket...aha! The tuffy jacket!

 

Not to confuse a tuffy jacket with a flight jacket. A flight jacket is much softer than the cheap, department issue tuffy. A cheap, short tuffy jacket has a life of its own. Zip it up and set it down on the floor and it will stand up by itself. It has all the comfort and flexibility of a bulletproof vest with sleeves. It was warm mind you, because its hazardous material surface (Man! Who know what those plastic, fire resistant jackets were made of back then?) it was impervious to wind. Sit in a squad car with one zipped up to the collar and it will swallow you up to your nose. I tell you this because the arms are the same. They didn't bend at the elbow, they cracked. I realized that the jacket's arm was stuffed in such a manner that I just could not get a good edge on the choke. It diffused the focus, and while it may have worked…eventually…. it wasn't working in regulation time. Thank goodness for the cavalry.

 

And it was here, despite all kinds of formal police and martial arts training, I first learned that clothing makes a difference. You do have to go out on safari and see the elephant, to learn the deep truths. Clothing might make the man? But it might not make the choke.

 

(Practical, tactical chokes and neck restraints are taught in Unarmed 6, and stick chokes are taught in SDMS 6. Both levels are included in Training Mission Six: http://www.hockscqc.com/shop/product101.html)

 

 

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17 November 2006: Prepare to be Confused!? More Red Meat in Condition White than Thought.

Some of you remember the old isolation/meditation tanks? Like a coffin half-filled with body temperature water? You climbed in. You watched educational videos in almost a hypnotic state. All agreed this environment was optimum for learning. You were locked into Condition White.

 

Condition White? Colonel Jeff Cooper is the creator of the combat readiness color code series, the Color Code of Mental Awareness. From White (very calm) to red (in full alert). But the police training pioneer Chuck Remsburg has more to tell on this tale of the colored tape. He, sports, medicine and psychology experts all agree that the very best learning actually occurs...in condition white. The calm condition accepts and processes information best. "You don't actually improve while doing the repetitions, but later when you are resting your brain." Remsberg, et al advise. The calm brain is the most learning brain.

 

Think about the training capability of the meditation tank. Also, think of turning off your computer and then turning it on and how the files regroup and re-organize through this process. What do these steps mean for martial instructors?

Confusion, distractions and stress actually slow learning down. Somewhere in a properly designed module, there must be time for calm, condition-white training in both the beginning and in the end. Certainly, all seasoned and veteran instructors know that a major learning phase in teaching must be conducted in a "clear and calm" environment, one without distraction or a least minimized distraction. Confusion, distractions and stress actually hamper learning.

Many martial students, (many young ones are antsy) really want to get to the scrapping part fast and have a great workout. But the perfect module includes both environments of calm and action.. We do the best we can with what we have. We certainly do not have meditation tanks available in classes and seminars! We do the best we can. Sometimes I am offered a choice to teach outdoors or indoors, and I opt to get the group inside a closed, quiet room with a minimum of distractions in as close as condition white as possible. Then, when we do the combat scenario part of the process, we can "add the color progression" of stress. We can go everywhere we need to maximize the crisis rehearsal.

What does this mandatory white/calm phase mean to the "learn to fight by fighting only" theory? Quickly, let me make a very understandable parallel - "learn to play football by only playing football." In this play-only manner, people will absolutely learn to play the game of football. Didn't we all learn this way? But, only the players who were pre-disposed to athleticism excelled. The world is full of these backyard and park athletes, but in the big picture few excel enough to play in the pros or just play any better at all without specialized coaching on the sidelines.

Good, mediocre or bad, we all hit a ceiling of natural ability. Think about your life in the park playground and ball fields, or street corners and parking lots. Think of elementary school and high school gym classes. Who excelled? Who was the last to be picked for a team? Wasn't that about the same year after year? Learn to play by playing only is really quite limited. For the instructor, this ceiling and this practice is unacceptable.

"The best fighters are the best athletes anyway and excel in whatever they do.

BUT! They often seem to excel by fighting the inferior athletes in their own environment."

In the truest sense of the "learn to fight by fighting" phrase, people who completely follow this rule, quite possibly are missing something. I say quite possibly, because in their actual practice? Most are drilling anyway. If you examine most of these "fight-only" groups, you would most likely see that they train a lot like everyone else should anyway, using drills and skill set development, but just use that cool marketing phrase to catch the eye of well.. young and new people.

The best fighters are the best athletes anyway and excel in whatever they do. BUT! They often seem to excel by fighting the inferior athletes in their own environment, their leauge.Back on the football parallel, each level of football from city parks to high school, to college, to the pros are ear marked by the higher levels of skill. This skill is created largely by off-the-filed development in fitness and isolated skill drills, drills, drills and more drills. The higher you go, the harder you have to drill to compete. If you told a high school player, "learn to play football by playing," only, his ceiling would be rather low. He would be a busted-up punk in his first college practice session.

In the same way, "learn to fight by fighting" only, is a motto, if taken literally is an incomplete and misleading doctrine. All people hit a natural ceiling and for some, if not most, this motto produces a very low ceiling, a bent-over or low-crawl, passageway. At some point, some expert has to pull Johnny off the field, fix his mistakes and develop his attributes, usually with drills that isolate the proper steps of play.

You as an instructor cannot supply isolation tanks, or hypnotize everyone in weekly classes and seminars, but you must be aware of this issue and your system must be designed to address, educate and face the scientific fact that people need some calm, non-fight, white-phase training to maximize the training experience.

 

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15 November 2006: One in the Top Ten Crazy-Brave Moments I've Seen

One of the bravest things I have ever seen right before my very eyes wasn't in the military or wasn't performed in the act of battling criminals. This particular act of incredible courage was performed by one officer, Glenn Bilyeu at the police gasoline pumps on a Texas city compound. I worked very closely with Glenn Bilyeu for several years back in the 1970s. Glenn was a fastidious do-gooder and the senior officer who really did take responsibility for the shift seriously. This night it almost rendered him into a ball of fire. We had to keep this Bilyeu heroism secret for decades. Decades! Until now...

Not many citizens know that before the end of a patrol shift, just about every patrol car in the country, perhaps the world, has to go to a particular place to get gas. Most agencies drive to a city, county or state compound to refill their fuel. This way the next shift takes over with a full tank of gas. When I worked patrol in the US Army not only did we fill er' up, but we were expected to hose er' down. Unless the temp hit freezing, we grabbed a hose at the "Mike Poppa" - the motor pool - and did a quick clean off of the car.

At first, these chores were a personal affront to my immature, ignorant, self back then. Starting in the military police at Fort Sill garrison patrol, I perceived myself as an armed and elite agent of the law and thought for sure, subservient, attendees would flock to my squad car and service it like a NASCAR pit stop. Not so. In my next assignment in South Korea, 90% of it was foot patrol, half of that in the woods and rice paddies. When we used a jeep we actually did have such caretakers, Koreans with their palms out, to either drive us around most of the time, or spit-shine the jeeps. To you young-uns' out there? These were not the Humvees of today. These jeeps were right out of a old War World Two movie. I have had a misadventure or two in these jeeps but those are the fodder for other stories.

By the time I went to work in Texas, the Hochheim "elite-ness" had been kicked and spit off of me and I no longer was this delusional about my totum pole status. I was about at ground level of said pole, bout' where the dog lifts his leg to you-know-what. I learned to whistle gladly as I pumped my own gas, and hummed contently as I took the squad through the car wash whenever it was needed.

These petrol fill-ups are usually within one hour of the shift's end. And, on evening shift and certainly midnight shift when the world was blissfully in Stage-Three-Sleep, these fill-ups are often congregations of squad cars getting gas at the same time. This invariably leads to gossip sessions, comedy corners, bullshit speeches and many crazy shenanigans like stun gun duels, baton fights and If the compounds are remote enough? Trick shooting and target contests, Many sergeants just joined us in this sessions, but some anal retentive patrol sergeants would watch these gas pump meetings from afar with binoculars and charge officers with wasting precious, city time. I mean, come on! What harm could a little 6 am, on-duty, trick shooting contest bring? Even with shotguns! Hey, come on! We replaced the ammo, Lieutenant!

Generally speaking the Texican colloquialism for such horse-play at the pumps was "grab-assing." We learned this institutionalized nomenclature from the periodic and official warnings in squad meetings...

"This grab-assing at the pumps has got to quit."

"No more grab-ass at the pumps."

"We are setting up surveillance at the pumps to put an end to this grab-assing."

"This is the end of this grab-assing."

"If we catch you grab-assing at the pumps, we'll..."

But, a scientific combination of three or more of us congregating there at any time meant the potential for...grab-ass. This is a universal cop truth, by the way.

One midnight shift, at about 5:50 am several us wound up getting gas at the city pound at the same time. Glenn Bilyeu was there, and two other officers. One name I forget. One, I will change his name to Ron Bapkins because he just retired from another agency and this damn fool move is about the only, really super dumb-ass thing he has ever done. (Well then again, I have seen some of the women he's chased...but I digress.)

I pulled up to the pumps and hummed happily as I started pumping gas. Bilyeu was pumping his gas at the next row with this other officer nearby. Bapkins was behind me in line and leaned against the trunk of his car. Bapkins was holding a book of matches. He was striking them for…fun…and tossing them on the ground between us.

Yes…gas pumps…gas being pumped…lit matches. Yes. Yes, I know what you are thinking. But remember, we are not ourselves. We had entered into the bleak and twisted twilight zone of pump station, grab-ass.

I started to complain to him. He taunted me. “Wha? Chicken? CHICKEN?” Bapkins grinned, possessed by the evil specter, and he started tossing lit matches closer and closer to me.

“Are you nuts, are you…” I yelled at him, but it was too late. A tossed match came too close. Too close! For some reason as it flickered through the air the entire rear side and trunk of my car sort of…blew up before me. The air actually became a rolling ball of flame before my eyes.

I jumped back and thank goodness, releasing the gas pump handle shuts the gas flow off, but not before I shot some gas over the back of the car. I know a potential, freaken' fireball when I see one! The gas cap WAS OPEN! The rear of my prowl car seemed to be on fire. The fire dancing around the gas cap. The car blows up. One pump station blows up. Three other pump stations blow up. I could see that in one primal, instinctive second the whole outfit would explode in something out of spy movie.

Ape man brain said "Fire! Run! Run! Foolish primate!" I took off at a dead run.

Bapkins took off at a dead run.

Officer Unknown took off at a dead run

Bileyu charged in, at a dead run! (he obviously had an evolved brain beyond ours, I guess?)

My keys were in the ignition. Bilyeu jumped into my drivers seat of this flaming car. He started the car and stomped the gas pedal. The engine roared. Over my shoulder, I saw Glenn, driver's door held open for quick escape (perhaps the blast would throw him clear?), roar my fiery car across the compound parking lot some forty or fifty feet. He jammed the car in park and dove out of the car, hit the pavement, rolled and ran for his life. He somehow drove my flaming car away from the gas pumps!

As we paced and mumbled like nervous chimps from a safe distance, the flames that licked the back of my car slowly...extinguished. We were amazed.

"Fire gone!" one of us mumbled. Indeed, the fire went out.

We jogged to the car like a grunting pack of monkeys, thinking the rear quarters and trunk would be charred. It was indeed black, but Bapkins got an emergency blanket from his trunk and wiped the deck lid. The black came off! Wiped right off and the pure police white remained shined though. Oh, oh but to return to this pure, police state again! Especially poor arsonist Bapkins! Whose fault doth lie upon his window break! He'll have his Shake-speared but good! And with the scientifically proven, Grab-Ass equation of three or more officers? Alas! We too shall roll with this tide as once again, we are proven to be little more than mischievous monkeys stuffed into polyester blue, playing with matches and staring curiously down the barrels of our guns, tempting fate itself on a daily basis.

But can monkeys accidentally type an encyclopedia? Glenn wanted us all to avoid these slings and arrows. He told me to get to a car wash fast, as dawn was breaking, and see what I could clean off before we were summoned in for day shift relief. Perhaps...just perhaps we did not need to report this mishap to the supervisors! This would save us from the indignation of reporting to the police chief's office next morning and having him…yell at us…and wag his finger at us…and…and suffer the psychological damage of this horrifying experience! Save us from the walk down the day shift admin, that hall of shame gauntlet and have everyone sneer and whisper and cluck their tongues at us and, and...oh the horrors! The charge against us? "Grab-assing" at the pumps! After so many warnings.

We raced to the car wash and plunked in quarters. Glenn took control of the wash wand as the severity of the clean-up was not to be left to a mere patrolman such as myself. To much was at stake. This job required a senior officer, clearly the Tarzan of the group. And I'll be damned if the black soot didn't come right off the squad car! It was as good as new. Pristine again!

Car and souls again washed clean, at 6:50 am we turned in our squads to the next shift and no one was the wiser that Bapkins set my car caught on fire by tossing lit matches at me while I was pumping gas, and that Glenn Bilyeu had performed one of the most heroic, selfless acts I had ever seen. And it had to be held top secret. Until now. For you see, the Grab-Ass statute of limitations is about 30 years. Even if none of us work there anymore. The regime in charge itself must have either passed away or at least be in an assisted living facilities before the event can be revealed. Their power! You don't understand their power! We kept this Bilyeu heroism secret for decades!. But now you know. The world knows.

Glenn told us the next day or so that he discretely talked to some buddies at the Fire Department. The FD experts said they guessed only some of the gas was affected and mostly gas fumes were actually on fire. The fumes would produce this soot that we wiped off. But, great balls of fire were great balls of fire and the the potential was great.

Tarzan told us he knew he had to prevent the pumps from blowing up. Me? Me, Bapkins and Officer Unknown were busy dashing for our primal lives. I think back of seeing Glenn blasting away, trying to outrace the flames waving on the trunk, and then diving from the car...and I think it was quite….crazy brave.

Now, Kiko! Pass me a banana. Which end does this gun shoot out of again...?

 

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13 November 2006: The Tonfa as a Police Baton

A quick few moments here on this somewhat controversial subject of slick sticks (no handles) PR-24s and related Tonfas...

Police training with the PR-24 is also problematic because the police are not taught to use a stick or tonfa at its full and violent capacity. True value of a stick -with-a-side-handle (and a regular "slick" stick) is actually hidden from the police. A good tonfa guy can improve PR 24 police training, as all police, stick training is lame and incomplete. But wait! Why stop there? A good, stick guy will improve that all even still - by sawing off the damn handle.

Recently I was told of a police PR-24 instructor that openly declared he could hold a PR-24 in his hand in this manner...

- hand on the side handle, and...
- stick along the forearm, sort of a like the classical block position, and...
- strike downward as though he was firing a hammer fist and strike

He said that in this grip, this hammer fist motion with this grip was the hardest velocity possible with a stick, even harder than a conventional grip and swing...

This is ABSURD. The velocity of a conventional one-hand/one-end, stick swing, far, FAR exceeds the speed and power than at the striking point of the handgrip like a hammer fist. Of course, you could ignore the handle and swing the PR-24 from one end and have the same amazing striking power-BUT then the handle is superfluous (not used - for you folks in Rio Linda). You may as well have a slick stick with no handle. This instructor is an uneducated dufus really, regurgitating something he learned in his PR-24 class (and probably with PR-24s and classes to sell) The other officers with any sense of math or with experience in baseball in the large class stood aghast at his proclamation.

I think next he will ask the baseball league to swap in baseball bats for large tonfas and let the hitters swing the tonfa at pitches? Wonder how many hits will go beyond bunts?

There are unofficial "whispers" in the hallway of PR-24 baton training where police learn the real survival tips of using the handle baton grip to maximize strike power. But why work harder and master secret tips? When the slick-stick already does it first and easier? These tips will still never match the sheer, simple power of a conventional stick swing.

It does not surprise me that slick-stick people and tonfa people criticize the PR-24 police training. But folks need to take one step back even more to make a criticism on the side handle? For every one reason someone (usually a classical tonfa guy) gives to have a handle, I'll offer up 5 or more not to have the handle.

Most handle-proponents, maybe almost ALL of them, have zero experience in grappling and ground fighting with a stick. Certainly they lack ground fighting experience. While these ranges LOOM in reality possibilities, classical people seem to NEVER experiment with these grappling and ground problems, opting instead for their classical stand-up doctrines. (oh yes, you see the occasional grappling pull down with the handle, but not the officer/karateka must turn the weapon upside- down in a split-second to get this pull, then revert it to finish?)

You get down on the ground and fight with PR-24 or Tonfa and that handle really gets in the way. So to with grappling. Almost all, if not all, Police riot squads and SWAT teams - have long abandoned the side-handle batons because they cannot safely take CQC action, positions and stances with that side-handle pointing out somewhere and nailing the other person or themselves, hooking on their gear, etc.

Another quick point on this "versus" subject. In the older days of the Dog Brothers, they would get some classical black belt guys with tonfas show up to their park fights, tonfa versus the slick stick. The tonfa guys were quickly obliterated by the slick stick swingers. Obliterated! A common problem with tonfa fighters was their muscle memory to spin the stick by the handle and block strikes with the forearm style block. Then try to spin the stick to strike. In full speed , hardcore battle, this spin is impossible to execute successfully and cannot compete with slick stick striking and blocking. We've tried this many times in my classes. Try this yourself in sparring, but make sure you have someone with tonfa experience, otherwise you will be confronted with the typical argument that-

"Well, that person doesn't know how to properly use the tonfa!"

...and your experiment will be in vain. The Tonfa guys get busy swinging that thing around on its handle, often pre-occupied with trying to use the forearm block against a strike,then whipping it around to hit, working all the extra Tonfa tricks - meanwhile the head-bangers?...are just banging away! Also, go 3 out of 5, or 8 out of 10 rounds. Let the experiment develop. Today, someone showing up in the park with a tonfa, and trying to fight a stick fighter with a tonfa? This immediately considered suicide and just not done.

Oh, I already know the counter-arguments - "ohhh, If only Hock had been to the PR-24 classes" or "ohhh, if only Hock had trained with Grandmaster Chen, he would realize..." But, I have been to the police PR 24 classes. Also, I've been jacking around with Tonfa in years of Karate classes."

In summary, The PR-24's design comes from the tonfa. the Tonfa was originally an agricultural tool, used accidentally and desperately, in a violent era as a nearby, handy weapon. It is an accidental, best, handy weapon. This does not endorse it as a superior, selected weapon. It is shame to see this millstone tool somehow become a primary weapon in some agencies because it does seem to look cool and practical.

On the classical Tonfa today, people caught up in classical martial arts just hate to give up aspects of it for practicality. They try to force-feed old, outdated stuff into a modern applications. A pistol is better than blunderbuss and a smart fellow has just got to throw the blunderbuss away. Or you are a museum collector hang it on the wall.. Don't show up in Iraq with a blunderbuss. Hang it on the wall and let it go, or realize its a hobby-piece and be happy to play with it for exercise and fun. Keep your machine gun handy on the table-top.

To a moderately and advanced trained stick fighter, the side handle is more of a nuisance than a help, especially compared to a slick-stick. A slick-stick is way more versatile and easier to manipulate, strike, switch grips, grapple and ground fight with, than a stick with a handle. The handle...just gets in the way.

 

 

 

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12 November 2006: My Last Karate Class

Fast forward about 26 years from my first karate class to my last karate class. About 6 years ago I lived in northern Georgia, very near Chattanooga, TN. I was a spry guy in my late 40s and game for about any training. Martial artists that scoured the internet or read the martial arts, knife, gun and police magazines knew where I was, and I received a number of hellos from these friendly folks. I am a gym rat and joined one asap. Inside the gym was a karate school with one of these friendly folks that recognized me and he was a really nice chap. We talked quite a bit and he invited me to one of his karate classes.

So one night I went. I wore a blank, white t-shirt, Gi pants and no belt. I felt it ostentatious to wear my old Kempo outfit and black belt. The guy introduced me to everyone. The class was one hour, After an EXTENSIVE stretching and exercise warm up which took about 20 minutes, we hit the meat of the class.

In summary, and it took until the end of the class to see the "beef." The lesson plan of the class was, we covered a left straight punch, a right hook punch and a round kick. Three techniques. The next 20 or so minutes consisted of even more exercises and even more stretches that directly suit those three techniques. I particularly recall the leg stretches that involve the round kick. It would be hard to tell when the warm-up and work-out portion of the class ended and the technique part began without knowing the lesson plan.

They loaned me a pair of extra boxing gloves and next we hit and kicked focus pads and shields, working only those three things.

Next, we sparred with a partner, doing only those three things. As specific as the attack training was, there really was no defensive moves taught to counter them. We just naturally covered and ducked versus the punches. We turned away from the kick. The last 15 or so minutes were even more cool-down stretching. I was sweating and burned out. I learned that this was a sampling of a regular class routine. Heavy warm-up. Three or so moves and warm-down. Everyone said good-bye and I left.

If that was really what I wanted to do, I would have been real happy with the session. Generally speaking, I had a real good time. Fine people. This school was part of that worldwide trend to turn karate, the karate I knew, into ring, kick-boxing. To me, real karate is not kick boxing. Kick-boxing-like (emphasize the word "like") training is a small part of the true study of karate-Do. Karate was never meant to be done in boxing gloves in a boxing ring, full time! Kick boxing is an entertaining off-shoot and a fun side-step from the art of karate. To me there has always been a disconnect from techniques used in sparring and techniques used in real, hard core survival karate! Radical differences.

And that was my last official Karate class as a student. That will probably be my last. I really like the art of karate, but I don't want to do it anymore. As for this modern karate, If I really wanted to kick box, I'd just do Thai again.

 

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10 November 2006: Counting

“Not everything that can be counted counts and not everything that counts can be counted.”

-Albert Einstein

 

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9 November 2006: My First Karate Lesson

Fueled by David Carradine in TV's Kung Fu and the movie Billy Jack, in 1972 I sought out a karate school in the Dallas/Ft Worth Metroplex in Texas. I found a charter, 1st generation Ed Parker Kenpo Karate School in Irving, TX, owned by Parker Black Belt Keith See.

Looking back, there were just not many karate schools, certainly not at all like today's proliferation. Not many at all. And, there were no kids, just adults. In Parker Kenpo tradition, you purchase half-hour private lessons for several months on a belt-level to belt-level contract, meeting usually twice a week and attending a Saturday group class. You purchased a Kenpo loose leaf, the famous patch and uniform. Can't remember if we had to buy other arm patches. Seems like we did, but I can't remember. And of course, the white belt.

On Saturday afternoons after this class, many stuck around for impromptu fighting with neighborhood schools. For a while our toughest opponents and best friends were two Kajukenbo schools. But we would fight area Tae Kwon Do and other karate systems. I stuck around long enough to get a couple belts and then enlisted in the Army.

The first guy I ever sparred with is someone you may have heard of. Rick Fowler. He was a brown belt at the time. Fowler advertised in Black Belt magazine for many years, and may still be in there, and that is why his name may be familiar.

But my first half hour lesson and many to follow were with a great guy, but…I can't remember his name! (Sorry bubba!) It was dedicated mostly to establishing the history and foundation of the horse stance and how so much work would be practiced from this stance. I got the lecture and the position. He taught me to throw a right and left punch from the hip.

Then he circled me and started pushing me at different angles, reminding me of the strength of the stance.

“Feel solid?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

Then he proceeded to round kick me behind my knees. I fell back, ass, back and head landing on the mats. I laid there.

“Nothing is perfect,” he declared.

That was my Zen-like, very first half-hour, karate lesson. It ended with my knocked on my back.

 

 

 

 

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6 November 2006: Tactical Nomenclature!

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Its that time again to plllllaaaaaay our annual game of....Name that Tactical Nomenclature! The first person to properly list or completely list all of the tactical pieces on this officer wins the coveted Famous Amos metal cookie sprinkled with carbon dust.

Hurry now, offer ends at Armageddon. Send your list to www.Never_Ending_Tactical_Shit.com

Coming soon from NeverEndingTacticalShit - the electric bugger picker! Why use your real finger when the new Collapsible, Extention Nasal Probe Extractor will do the work for you! Let hydraulics do the nasal mining for you!

 

 

 

 

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4 November 2006: MMA

In case you have been hibernating for three years or so, mixed martial arts is really on the move. Based on some information I collected from a few martial arts industry journals, MMA is the fastest growing sport in the world. The UFC is a power brand name, in the same way that Kleenex is tissue. Pride is in the running for second place, but news from Japan reports financial woes and Forbes reports have connected Pride admin with the Japanese Mafia. Industry analysts are touting the new California based Strikeforce Fighting Championship as a challenger. Follow the money and other leagues will start popping up in hot pursuit of this MMA dollar.

 

The Spike TV weekly reality show The Ultimate Fighter is in its fourth season and in nation of 300 million people, an average of 2-million viewers have watched each season. The show and the UFC fights play better in the coveted 18-34 age male group market share, more so than baseball, the NBA and NHL playoffs. Only 775,000 people watched Tito Ortiz beat Ken Shamrock, but the fight grossed $29 million via Pay-For-View.

 

This sport movement will go outside my sphere of business and practical, tactical, hand, stick, knife and gun training courses, as it will with other established systems. I have been around successfully for ten years of fads and movements. But, one would assume that if you have a martial school, one course to offer so as to attract that adult male demographic is this style of MMA. One way to do this is hook up with Jim McCann and get established credentials, as he is top notch, no-nonsense and offers achievable rank progressions.

 

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3 November 2006: Touching the Shoulder

Is it just me, an old dinosaur, that can't stand this new trend of trainers that just have to touch and/or rest a "comforting" hand on your shoulder while you are shooting or running through a training scenario?

 

"Back up Jack! Let me do this deal. I don't need you so freaken close!"

 

What does one accomplish with this comforting hand? The illusion of guidance? Of safety? If I stumble, I stumble and your little comfort hand isn't going to hold me up, or stop an accidental discharge. It just makes the trainers look like...they "care"...and they are...you know...the trainers "training."

 

"Hey, Back up and get cha' hand off a me!

And take a look at the photo here. The officer is about to be stuck by a bear of a two-fisted man and the officer is brainwashed into striking with the happy, insurance company tactic of hitting the thigh nerve. Two big, red-fists are gonna' bludgeon, bludgeon, bludgeon that poor mistrained officer. And Mr. Safety-Hand-Man offers no safe alternatives, just superficial, feel-good comfort and shallow appearances.

 

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2 November 2006: Words of Murray Wisdom

A true police training pioneer and co-inventer of Simunitions, veteran Ken Murray has a few worthy quotes form the recent Law officer magazine. While it seems to apply to police, it actually applies to all training programs, and especially to these "newer" ones, where commonly defined tactics and scenarios seem to take a back seat, or even no seat, to scenario asses-and-elbows, freestyle mess.

 

"Back to the question at hand: How to begin an RBT program? The answer, to my mind, is to begin by I teaching the basics. Whether or not you currently use

some sort of use-of-force model, the simple fact remains that there are really only four things you can do during an encounter with a bad guy: talk, fight, shoot or leave.

 

Of course, there are various levels and tools/techniques available within those realms, but those four pretty much sum things up. Most of the problems occur when any of the techniques used within those realms is either used inappropriately or poorly implemented, so I contend a lot more needs to be done at the basic level.

 

Advanced techniques are merely the basics done smoothly and swiftly. Too many trainers want to jump into the flashier aspects of RBT -the scenario stuff. Half-assed scenario training is actually very easy, and it can be a big ego rush for the training staff.

 

The formula: Take some hapless officer, mix in ore or two egomaniacs as role players without any substantive scripting, sea­son with some training munitions that will welt and mark the officer, and voila, instant instructor credibility! You get to

sit back and comment on all the stuff your officer did poorly. You can dissect their encounter to the degree the FBI did with the Zapruder film.

 

>The good news: A number of your students will be awed by your perceptive abilities, magnified by the lens of their own ineptitude. You'll really feel as though you're genuinely helping them by point­ing out their inadequacies.

 

>The bad news: Their brain records their experience as a catastrophic failure, and during critical future similar situations, the mere knowledge of their shortcomings will not be the governing or decisive factor - they might literally be condemned to repeating their past failure.

 

Programming success or recording failure-the choice is yours. Choose well.

Until next time, train hard and train safe. "

Ken Murray

(when you hear the words and phrases of many of newer reality-based, self defense instructors and courses? Many have just ripped off Ken Murray and tweeked his writing, words, outlines and training methods! YES! Ken Murray is major innovator we all owe a lot to. To the new kids on the block? No, there is no Santa Claus. Yes, there are such things as tactics and defined scenarios. )

 

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1 November 2006 It's Alive! Even if it's Dead! Its alive!

Years ago, when liberal Democrat John F. Kerry first started forming a plan for his first Presidential run, he mandated that all references to him henceforth, would be as John Fitzgerald Kerry, in the subtle memory of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Focus groups just found this a bit too much and he dropped the reference. The "F." now remains just an F. But I think it stands for Frankenstein. And the monster came alive again in the last 36 hours.

 

In the last USA Presidential election there were more than some 100 million eligible voters. Less than half voted, so we do not know whom, if any, they would have voted for. But for the ones that did vote, more than half did not vote for John F. Kerry. Many of the Democrats truly favored other democratic presidential candidates. Now, four years later, at best he currently represents only a very tiny, tiny state. Not even everyone in this tiny state like him for voted for him.

 

I know I don't like him. He is one of the few people who I simply detest on sight. I know it is unhealthy. Is it because he has a more liberal voting record than that cartoon character, Ted Kennedy himself? That helps.

But, me aside and in summary, if you do the numbers? Not a lot of people, Democrat or Republican actually like John Kerry. Kerry is much like the disliked step child in the family you still have to set a place-setting for at Democratic dinner table.

Well, the other day Kerry made the statement -"You know, education, if you make the most of it, you study hard, you do your homework and you make an effort to be smart, you can do well. If you don't, you get stuck in Iraq."

It sounded to me like a slur to President Bush, but worse, also to the US military. Kerry swears it was a bad, botched joke on Bush (who is a Harvard grad by the way). But much of the country is still mad or disappointed at Kerry at his words. Why does this schtick, stick like bad glue to this morbid stepchild?

One reason is, Kerry ain't statistically popular, as stated above, even amongst his own. Secretly some Dems feared another Kerry attempt at the White House and want this Frankenstein out of the way. With this remark now he is gone. The villagers carrying torches from both parties has chased the monster into the hills. He will lumber back again and again. Apology or not, he is Indignant, unforgiving, arrogant. Unpopular.

Reason Two - for me and many, Kerry's whole demeanor and message was and is anti-military. I am old enough to remember him in the Vietnam era. I don't care if he won the Congressional Medal of Honor (he didn't) in Vietnam. He, like so many liberals view the military two ways, as perpetrators or victims (two terms thought of by writer Mike Barone). To liberals, soldiers are criminals who rape, pillage and destroy "like Genghis Khan" ...for the wrong political party; or are victims forced to risk and lose their lives...for the wrong political party. Military personnel are either perpetrators or victims.

Reason Three - he was against the volunteer army, assumong that only racial minorities and the poor would join, further expressing a lack of faith in the system and in our people.

Look, I am as mad as a snake at the Bush admin for many reasons. It is time for change. Hell, I'll vote for Kinky Freidman at this point. And, I know it is immature and childish to resort to name calling. I know this. But it is not without the lack of sound criticism that I call John F. Kerry a morbid, arrogant, self-important Frankenstein monster who should remain in the castle dungeon of unpopular losers (strapped to the table next to Al Gore-the unwrapped Mummy.)

 

 

 

 

 

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