I'm back! For a few anyhoo!
1964. Camp Hanson, Okinawa.
Block, retreat, strike, step to side, strike, block, step... NO! NO! NO! Do not step over foot! Slide foot over!
I would practice this karate move at the Shorin-ryu Dojo at Camp Hanson, Okinawa- set up by Mr. Eizo Shimabukuro, One of the Karate-do Masters. Okinawa was where karate was born, and the home of The 9th Marine Regiment of the 3rd Marine Division.
This was before we would leave the “Rock” for VIETNAM. I was sent to this Marine Base dojo to keep my young ass out of trouble. Okinawa, 10 cent beers at the Marine EM Club and 2 dollar women in the Ville. This was my heaven, but I had screwed it up. At the dojo, I would learn Discipline and Control, and it was free.
What I wanted to learn was how to “kick ass”. I was gonna change my 150# body into a weapon, lookout World!' “What matter you?” I had a Mr. Miyagi twenty years before there was a “Karate Kid”.
“When are you gonna teach me to kick ass?”
“I teach you how not to get ass kicked! Then you no need to “KICK ASS”. Practice now!”
“How long I asked?”
“Thousand time!”
“Then what?”
“Ten thousand time!”
A few months later, I had mastered that move and a bunch more.
“When do I get a belt?”
“What you need belt for? Hold up trousers? Ha-Ha-Ha! Months and ten thousand block, retreat, strike, slide foot. Now you Kick Ass by not get Ass Kicked!”
My teacher said it would be my last lesson at the dojo. I had been at the dojo for nearly a year. The whole 3rd Marine Division was on “Mount Out'' all packed up. Rifle, helmet, and combat packs ready to go to War in Vietnam.
Sitting on and around the 6 By Convoy, we were designated the 9th Marine Expeditionary Brigade. We would be the first Combat Marines to make landings by sea and air. Anyhoo, I watched a “Skosh Cab'' come slowly down the street. Nearing our truck the cab stopped, out stepped a uniformed Okinawan policeman. I recognized my karate teacher from the dojo, asking for me. The Gunny frowned and pointed me out. As he neared, I got to my feet and bowed…
“No No No!,” he exclaimed. “I come to see you off and wish you well. I have been thinking of you and I made offering for you. I was born in the last War here on Ryuku.”
We shook hands and bowed to each other. As my karate teacher turned to leave, I got a lump in my throat.
“Do-Arigato. Almost forget”, looking at me he reached into his uniform, pulling out a bag. He handed it to me. Seeing the questioning look on my face, he laughingly said, “This belt will keep trousers from falling off!”
I was now a Brown Belt.
Laughing. “You keep practice, practice always make better!”
I had kept the practice up, working with a Marine 1st Degree Black Belt. Karate had become full contact by now.
March 1965. 6000 of us would make the Beach and airfield landings at Danang RVN. We were off to the greatest adventure any of us would ever experience. Tragically over 58,000 would be killed, changing the rest of us forever!!
1967. I would return to Camp Hanson. The Karate-Do was now in Kin Village. I was on my way back to Vietnam. At the Dojo I would practice everyday. After a week, I was allowed to test, showing all I had learned along with speed and agility. I was awarded my first Black Belt! Karate had become my savior!
South Minneapolis, 1970. I had shut the Harley's engine off, coasting down my alley off Franklin Ave. I came upon three dudes wailin' on a helpless Indian guy. Need a hand? I offered as I put the bike on the kickstand. Naw, we got it covered, one of the three responded. “I DIDN'T MEAN YOU ASSHOLE!” He turned and swung on me, my
“thousand time” training took over. It was automatic! Block, retreat, strike, step to side, kick! With two of the attackers down and out, the third put up his hands. I don't want none of that! He ran down the alley! Helping the young Ojibway to his feet, “DAMN, where you learn to Kick Ass like that, man?” Okinawa, I said smiling! FFO, all that practice at the Dojo had paid off!Kick Ass and Take Names. Semper Fi!...
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