This is my Rifle and these are my Guns

I joined the Army in 1962, figuring it would give me time to decide what I wanted to do with my life while getting my military service out of the way. (The draft was in play at the time. If you were drafted, you only served two years versus the three years required of those who volunteered – four years if you joined the air force. But you had no choice as to the training you received or the job you did. This generally meant you became a fighter, a warm trigger finger with a rifle that they could point in whatever direction they decided, usually while others were trying to shoot you.) They sent me to nearby Fort Ord for Basic Training.

One of the first things I discovered was they wouldn’t let me practice karate while there. But they would let me box. Seems the various company commanders had a serious competition going to see who could win the most medals at the camp boxing championships.

I had never boxed before but volunteered when the call went out, thinking I’d at least get to work out on a body bag. And the Captain picked me to join his team, I think because of my prior martial arts training. On the way to the gym for our first workout, however, I discovered that everyone else had some boxing experience - high school and college teams, Golden Gloves, local Y teams, and so on.

As soon as we arrived, I went up to one of the heavy bags and began punching it. When I looked around, everyone was staring at me in amazement, including the trainers who were there to tape our hands. They had never seen anyone punch a bag barehanded before. And I had never seen fighters with such soft, lily white hands.

While working out, I threw a couple of kicks, just to get the kinks out, and our coach – the Captain himself – got worried I would reflexively kick someone while boxing. He repeatedly warned me, inferring I could possibly be court martialed if I did. Since it wouldn’t be a good idea to get this coach mad at me or I would be scrubbing commodes for the next 6 weeks, I made a strong mental note to keep my feet on the floor.

I don’t remember being nervous as we arrived for the Fort Ord Boxing Championships. I figured I’d be fighting someone around my own weight division. Plus, I had grown ten inches in height during my junior year in high school, although I hadn’t put on a lot of weight. I was 6’ tall and weighed only around 127 lbs – low body weight to keep my speed up and a long reach relative to others in my division. It was all good.

When the announcer introduced me and my opponent for my first match, he listed our records. Mine was 0 for 0. My opponent had a bunch, all wins, and was a Golden Glove champ from somewhere. That phrase “Golden Glove Champ” rang loudly in my ears. Now, I was nervous. I had never boxed before and here I was fighting a Golden Glove Champ.

I started out giving him far more respect than he probably deserved. But one of the lessons I had learned in a tough, no holds barred – or techniques controlled – dojo was it’s often better to pass up an opportunity than to go for one you should have passed on. In the former, you end up with your nose intact. In the latter, it acquires a hard left or right hand turn to it.

So I started out very cautiously, making sure to stay well out of his reach. With more experience and weight (and a “peek-a-boo” style of fighting, where his hands and arms completely covered his face), I didn’t know how good he was nor wanted him landing anything until I could safely find out. But I definitely knew a nice front kick to the stomach would have dropped those arms right down so I could have easily buried a glove into his face. But I waited, instead.

Every time he launched one of his strong, quick, looping roundhouse punches, I either slid back or slipped to the side, constantly thwarting his efforts to get close enough to connect. After a while, he got frustrated… and careless. He dropped his arms as he lunged at me and ran straight into a stiff jab to the face.

Blood flowed from his nostrils.

The referee stopped the match so the medic could stem the flow of blood. As he stuffed cotton and chemicals up his nose, my opponent stared daggers at me, letting me know he hadn’t learned anything from the exchange, basically telling me what he intended to do next and where to find his nose.

As soon as the match was restarted, he did exactly as he had indicated he would, repeating his last mistake and reaping the exact same result – another bloody nose. Now trailing badly in points, he had no options left but to keep attacking or I would have coasted to a win. But every time he lunged at me, I jabbed him again to keep him off.

Half way through the second round, my opponent quit.

I was dumbfounded. The concept of stopping during a fight was completely foreign to me. I had once seen a guy get almost beaten to death on the street after he tried to quit. I knew the potential cost and never allowed the thought of quitting to even enter my thinking during a fight. At Sensei Brown’s dojo and on the East San Jose streets, the winner decided when a fight was over, not the loser. The loser was there, as the Army said, for the duration.

I was allowed a brief rest, then had to fight again. This time, my opponent was a Golden Glove Champ from Hawaii. I was again nervous and started out very cautiously. I knew guys from Hawaii. They were all tough. And this was a Golden Glove Champ, the best of a group of tough people.

But my jab landed again and again, the benefit of my much longer reach and distance control, keeping him continually just out of his reach but inside mine. And I was finally able to launch a reverse punch, which put him on the mat and ended the fight.

So far, I hadn’t even been touched. Maybe I had found my calling, I thought. Visions of fighting on national TV, big pay checks, and so on started seeping into my young mind.

I was cocky as I entered my final match with, guess what, yet another Golden Glove Champ, this one from Chicago. Big deal, I thought. I’d already beaten two Golden Glove Champs.

The bell rang. I closed on him… and found myself sitting on the mat.

I was only down long enough for my butt to hit, then sprang back onto my feet – thanks to Sensei Brown’s training. But those visions of national TV grew very faint and that big paycheck shrunk to a fistful of one dollar bills.

The referee wiped off my gloves and restarted us. I hadn’t even seen the punch and couldn’t figure out where he had hit me as nothing hurt. As we jockeyed for position, I kept rubbing my chin and jawline with my glove, trying to figure out where he had hit me. (I never was able to identify exactly where his punch had landed but was far more careful after that and was never put down again.)

I also returned to fighting in the manner that had gotten me into the finals and ended up winning the medal and some very useful information.

The company commander took those of us who won to steak dinners at the Officers Club and introduced us the next day to the company at morning formation.

Then, the dream ended and everything got back to normal – scrubbing floors, marching, marching, and more marching.

After basic training, I was sent to the Presidio of San Francisco for advanced training, then assigned to a missile battalion at Travis Air Force Base. Our unit’s assignment was to protect Travis and Castle Air Force Bases and Central California from enemy plane or ICBM (intercontinental ballistic missile) attack. We were at the peak of the Cold War with the Soviets and Chinese.

While at Travis, I was able to train with an on-base Shotokan instructor. They also had a good judo club on base, which I trained with on occasion. The Strategic Air Command (SAC) based some of its B-52 bombers at Travis. The B-52 was our major security deterrent at the time. Atomic bomb laden B-52s were literally in the air 24 hours per day, 7 days per week, 52 weeks of the year, to discourage any attacks on American soil. The B-52 was a neat looking plane. Its wings bowed down when on the ground. But in the air, they bowed up, like a condor’s wings.

SAC was run by tough-as-steel General Curtis LeMay. At some point, he decided he wanted to make sure his people had the best possible preparation for all possibilities, including being shot down behind enemy lines. To better prepare them for this, he introduced Japanese martial arts training – karate, judo, and aikido – to his bomber pilots and crews. California Judoka Mel Bruno was selected to oversee the SAC martial arts program. Beginning in the 50s, he arranged for some of the top Japanese instructors to tour American air bases and train SAC pilots and crew. These instructors included Shotokan greats Funakoshi, Obata, Nakayama, and Nishiyama. Some airmen were sent to Japan for advanced training so they could come back and teach karate and judo to others. So there were always strong karate and judo programs on any base where SAC personnel were stationed.

In late October of 1962, we came under Red Alert, the military’s highest alert level. Everyone was immediately recalled and restricted to base. Civilians were escorted off and all base entrances secured.

All Army personnel were issued rifles and assigned guard duty at the missile sites. We quickly learned that the alert was prompted by President Kennedy’s confrontation with Soviet President Khrushchev over the placement of missiles in Cuba. Things were very tense for a while. But Khrushchev thankfully agreed to remove their missiles and the crisis was over.

During the lull, I married my wife, Diane, and moved her into an apartment in Fairfield, a mile outside the base front gate. We’re still together 48 years later.

Soon after we were married, I was on base, walking past the Day Room when something on the TV caught my eye. I heard the news that President Kennedy had been assassinated. I ran through headquarters, telling everyone the news. We all gathered around the TV, watching events as they unfolded in Dallas – the race to get the President to the hospital, the search for his killer, the capture of Lee Harvey Oswald, the confrontation between Dallas police and the Secret Service at the airport over removing Kennedy’s body, and the rest.

The nation was stunned.

The next few days were as strange as any I’ve experienced in my 67 years, except perhaps for the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers in New York.

Every TV channel ran only news about the assassination until they signed off at night. (TV channels would shut down around midnight each night. None broadcast all night as they do now. At around 7 the next morning, they would all start their broadcast days as they had ended them, with the playing of the National Anthem.) Every radio station broadcast nothing but somber, funeral type music. This went on for days, only ending after Kennedy was buried.

I received orders reassigning me to Korea for the last thirteen months of my service.

In my next post, I’ll talk about training in Korea and the Easter Bunny incident.

Thanks for taking the time to read my ramblings.