Cutting Edge Training

"One should include a course of familiarization with pain...You have to practice hurting.  There is no question about it...You have to practice being hazed.  You have to learn to take a bunch of junk and accept it with a sense of humor."

--Admiral James Stockbridge
Medal of Honor recipient
POW in Viet Nam for 7.5 years

Pain.  Pain lets us know something is "wrong," so we'll stop and not be injured any further, allowing us to take care of the injury and heal.  Pain isn't real.  When you think that your foot "hurts," it is, in reality, simply your brain interpreting nervous impulses sent by reception centers in your foot as pain.  But pain "feels" real. So real, that most most people will do anything--ANYTHING--to avoid pain.  Many, or perhaps even most of our population will go so far to avoid pain that they will never do anything more physical than walk to there car.  This, however, ensures that they will be in constant, low-level chronic pain for their entire life--have you ever known an out-of-shape, overweight person who was not in pain?

You are in the warrior profession.  Cop or military, yours is a world of violence within the law against those who employ violence beyond all rules.  The context of police and military fights may be different, but the reality is that, at its core, each is a profession that lawfully delivers violence against other humans.

Pain.  Where there is violence, there is pain.  Often, pain is experienced by all combatants, although the losers suffer far more—unless they die quickly.

Every professional is prepared for his (or her) particular profession by passing through basic training.  For the police, it is the academy.  For the military, it is Boot Camp.  Once out of basic training, advanced training continues for the duration of his or her professional career.

Notice that I said, “Every professional is prepared.”  That top-down approach--Command requiring you to pass a program of instruction--means that you are simply within the lowest common denominator of your profession upon graduation:  somewhere between below average to almost average.  From this point on, you must prepare yourself for your profession if you are going to be able to survive all but the lowest levels of violence directed at you.

If you are targeted by a predator or the enemy, the violence inflicted upon you will create pain.  Now most of us in this warrior class have heard of great warriors who fought through tremendous pain to accomplish their mission, to save their buddies, their partners, or their teammates, to save those who could not protect themselves—and some came back alive.  The Medal of Honor.  The Medal of Valor.  These are the highest awards possible to those who overcome all odds.  There are few in warrior profession who do not have a belief that he or she will be able to fight through the overwhelming pain and do what is required if called upon to do so, even at the cost of their lives.

Pain. 

• Can you prepare for it?  I believe you can.
• Is it possible to avoid pain in training and then master it while injured during combat to overcome the odds and save your life and the lives of others?  I think anything is possible of a human being, and that miracles happen.  I also think this is unlikely.  Avoiding pain is natural, and when this natural inclination becomes the habit, that habit becomes a barrier that may become bigger than the pain itself.  As is said, a man does not rise to the occasion, but sinks to his lowest level of consistent training.  If you train to avoid pain, then your training may stop you from dealing with pain in order to save your life.
• Or is pain about your attitude in life and in training, something you steel yourself against by testing how far you can go, and each time going a bit farther than you thought you could?  I believe an acceptance that you are finite, that your life may be done at any moment and you won't live forever is one of the keys to dealing with pain.  I believe you temper your mind to tolerate that which others cannot.  It permits you to remain effective even though your body’s nerves are screaming at you.  By convincing yourself that it is “only pain.”
  

 I just finished teaching a “Tactical Duty Knife” class to a diverse group of deputies, police officers, and corrections officers.  This was a typical class of police officers where a few worked intensely, most worked hard, and a few worked enough to get by.

One aspect of this class is learning where and how to use the knife.  We do this by employing a Benchmade “Trainer” training knife (these are the only training knives we’ve ever found that were safer to use than any other brand).  Typically, I ask one student if it is OK if I use the knife on him to demonstrate.  With his permission, I put the tip of the blade on one of his high-value targets, then shove and dig it in at the intensity I would use if this were a real situation and I was employing my knife in a deadly force response to save my life.  And as always happens, the student immediately melts away because it hurts.  Sometimes they squeal.  Almost always they make some noise indicating distress.  There it is again.  Pain.

As I don’t believe that rank has its privileges, only greater responsibilities, I also don’t believe that it is right for an instructor to inflict pain without that student reciprocating on the instructor.  So I invite and permit the student to use the training knife on me in the same way.  Often they are a bit tentative as they begin to push.  They know it hurts because they just experienced pain.  When I stand there and tell them to push and to dig with the knife, they increase the pressure.  It hurts but I work hard at reflecting no emotion or pain on my face.  When I tell them that they need to really push and to dig with that knife, they generally shove it hard into me.  It hurts, and still I reflect no emotion or pain.  Sometimes I am forced to urge them to work the blade harder and more vigorously.  And only after I believe that I can’t stand it anymore, I give them another second to push and to dig with that dull steel blade before I move away from the knife to stop the pain—and work to never let them see how much it hurt.  I do this because I’m their trainer and they need to see someone role-model the proper training attitude.  Sometimes that need to be their role-model sucks, but every trainer is a volunteer, not a victim.  It is my responsibility as their trainer to give them every opportunity to survive and prevail, and the first lesson in surviving combat is having an attitude that permits me to prevail no matter the cost.

Then I work with a different student to demo the next target.  And he or she reciprocates with me.  After the students do this back to me, I begin to hear people on the floor saying things like, “Doesn’t he have any nerves?” and “I guess he doesn’t feel pain.”  I sometimes want to scream at them, “Of course it hurts a lot!”  Instead, I say, “It’s only pain.  I need to learn to manage it so that it does not manage me.”  I say this because I need to hear it as much as they do.  It is a lesson that every warrior must learn—“I manage the pain and quit only when I want to, not because pain forces me to.”

Pain.  I know I can only take as much as I decide to take.  Eventually it is no longer worth it and I give up.  I know I am not a “tough guy” who can take pain indefinitely.  Maybe there are no “tough guys” in the real world.  Maybe they can be found only in comic books, novels, and movies.  I have read first-hand accounts of our POWs in North Korean and Vietnamese prison camps who “broke” under torture.  I realize that I am no different than any of those men, and fear that I may not have been able to handle what the best of them did.  Each and every man who wrote about his torture stated that he held out as long as he could until they were no longer capable of resisting the pain.  Could I have done as well under such terrible conditions and such terrific intensity?  I don't know, but I keep pushing myself to my limits...and then just a bit further.

Pain.  Something a warrior must understand, be familiar with, and know intimately.  At some time, whether in training, in a fight, or in combat, a warrior will inevitably be injured at some point—not a bump or a scrape, but a serious injury.  It will hurt to rehab that injury or wound.  But if he doesn’t carefullly push through the pain, with reason and dedication, he’ll never be functional again.  I know that over the years, pain, while not a friend, has and remains a constant companion of mine in this life.  I never look forward to it, but I don’t fear it as I once did.  It just is. It's just pain.

By working through pain intelligently during training, where it is safe to experiment with your limits, you begin growing your capacity for pain, to function while in pain, to fight better and longer while hurt.  You will learn where you can accept more pain, and where it is smart to avoid it.  There are instructors out there that train full-contact on students all the time.  Their hype is that they create tougher fighters.  The reality is that effective, efficient combatives  injures others severely (kind of by definition, right?), and only a few of the top dogs can survive in that environment for any length of time.  Sure they're "tough," but they also have a God-given physical attributes, skills, and talents that the rest of us mere mortals were not favored with.  Intelligent training protects the student from serious injury while presenting an opportunity to learn the skills, tactics, and lessons needed in their profession at arms...and from pain.

In your chosen profession of violence, I believe that our students are taught so often that they are the ones in a force event or in combat that will hurt and kill the other guy that the reverse becomes unreal—that you might be the one who is injured but is required to remain combat effective and in the fight, even though a body part might not work, or its it’s hard to breathe, or you are bleeding badly.  The reality of conflict is that few in a fight—and especially in combat—are immune from some type of injury during their battle.  Learning that pain is something that can be decided about, at least for a time, is an incredible training gift.  And something every warrior needs.

Pain.  It's a decision.  It's a capacity that can be increased by training.  Learning to go just a little longer than you think you can stand teaches you about the toughness necessary to prevail in a fight.  I watch how the students in the police and military knife classes, and all of our classes actually, accept or avoid pain.  In this last class, like all classes, I saw a few consicously pushing their limits to pain--and a couple of them I would never have guessed initially that they would understand the need, and also was surprised by how others I thought would be tougher avoided pain at all costs.

I see those who push themselves as different from the others.  Knowing that man or woman is a warrior, I can trust to watch my back.  Because I know that no matter the cost to them, they will keep fighting beyond the pain, through the blood, and will risk as much for me as I will for them.

Every SEAL team member I have ever met and/or trained has said to me that he is "stupid."  After hearing this dozens of times, I finally asked why every SEAL I ever met said that.  A former Chief who'd spent 18 years in the teams looked at me and said plainly, "Smart people wouldn't go through what we we did to get on the teams and stay there.  They quit.  Only someone who's stupid enough not to quit can be a SEAL." Stupid enough to take the pain and deprivation that training puts a man through to create the toughest possible warfighter.  The BUD/S Naval Special Warfare Instructors know that the pain they inflict on the SEAL team recruits will cause them to grow, to go beyond what they believe to be their limits, and to create a warrior who will never quit.

By accepting pain and moving beyond its limitations, you are freed from the constraints of "normal" people.  Where a normal, rational person would quit because of pain and be killed, you keep fighting and win, saving your life or someone else's, and accomplish the mission.  It's just pain.  A warrior doesn't seek it...only accepts that it is, and does what he or she has to do in spite of it. 

1.  Officers are shot at, beaten, stabbed, and sometimes killed while doing their duty.
2.  Officers respond to a call for service when dispatched, having little idea of who or what is involved.
3.  Nobody can change Rule Number One.

Another hero was shot down on Halloween, 2009.  This time a complete ambush.  Timothy Brenton, Seattle PD Officer, husband, father of two youngsters, son, and friend.  Field Training Officer.  Great cop.  I never met him, but I’ve met thousands like him.  Honest, hard-working, courageous, concerned, and funny, of course.  Three dimensional living, breathing people who put on the uniform and walk into the unknown every shift, risking their lives to protect people they don’t know.  I was at his memorial yesterday, among several thousand cops from all over the country, including a large contingent of red-coated Mounties, and another thousand concerned citizens who wanted to share their outrage and grief with the family and to share their support of law enforcement.

This, I believe, is my 38th police funeral.  Sitting there, we all were waiting for the service to begin, waiting for the family that was in so much pain and shock, waiting for the ancient ceremonies and rituals for this last farewell to a fallen warrior, the forced stoicism, and the inevitable choking back of tears.  I reflected back to the five officers who I know attended my classes and who have been murdered in the line of duty. 

As a trainer of police for the last 28 years, I have been honored to have trained over 24,000 officers from all 50 states, several US territories, and 14 foreign countries.  Like most trainers who have done this job for any period of time, more officers than I can remember have called to thank me for the training I shared with them, saying that I “saved” their life.  These calls are always humbling, but the reality is that these officers saved their own lives by making good decisions early enough to make a difference.  The other side of that is the quality of the training each officer receives is a real factor in their survival. 

Being a police and military trainer has always been a sacred responsibility.  Even before my first police funeral, I knew that being a Trainer of warriors carried with it the weight of each student’s life.  Teaching officers defensive tactics, firearms, building entry and search, officer safety tactics and field response, any of the myriad courses I’ve taught carried with it the realization that what I taught matters to people’s lives.  I believe that, as a trainer, I am called upon to provide the best training that I can devise, find, or borrow in pursuit of keeping these men and women, heroes all, alive on the street.

Hero.  That word was used a lot yesterday.  Rightly so.  “A person who exhibits extraordinary bravery, firmness, fortitude, or greatness of soul, in any course of action;  a person admired and venerated for his or her achievements and noble qualities.”  While uncomfortable with being described so, officers who act with integrity, with honor, and understand their role as warriors and servants are heroes.  How can I, or any of us who are the trainers of warrior-servants, give anything less than these heroes are called to do?  

The first time an officer I had taught was murdered, I almost quit the profession of training.  I foolishly believed that training could solve every problem, and if the training I presented was of high enough quality, then no one would ever be hurt.  Officer James O’Brien.  He was pursuing an active shooter (well before Sgt. Jeff Martin, San Jose, CA, PD, and I coined that phrase over a decade ago) who had just murdered several people in a government office.  Jim parked his police car a couple of blocks away from the suspect’s location, got low, and peeked between the driver’s A-post and side spotlight.  He took a .300 Winchester Magnum round in the face, having penetrated the spotlight, killing him instantly.  He did everything right:  given the suspect’s known weaponry, he maintained extreme distance, he got small, used his vehicle properly as cover, and attempted to maintain observation of the suspect while directing backup officers to a safe approach.

When I heard that he had been murdered, I remembered Jim—out of the officers in a class long before, I remembered his face,  I had had lunch with him during the week of training.  For the two years following his murder, I searched my soul for something I had missed, feeling I had somehow let him down in the training.  Even though I only trained those methods and concepts that I believed in, I scoured my training doctrines and lesson plans for any garbage that wasn’t practical or effective.  I examined everything for anything that was based on my “being special” as an instructor and didn't serve the officers I was training.  I laid awake at night, going over and over what I taught compared to Jim’s response in this call.  A close friend of mine, a retired sergeant from Los Angeles County SO, Randy Johnson, said something that should have been obvious, but evidently wasn't to me for so long.  “Sometimes we do everything right and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.  Sometimes it’s just up to God.”  It was then that I realized that training couldn’t solve every problem, and that if I did my job perfectly, cops are still going to die.  That’s the nature of the job.  All that I can do is provide the best training I know how to help them minimize the chance of that happening.

Let no officer's ghost ever say my training failed him or her.

So I continue to scour the classes we teach, revising every class each time we teach it as we learn more, discover different ways to problem-solve, and figure out how to better present it so that it is easier for them to learn and, most importantly, remember when our cops are hurt, tired, and scared.  We teach them to be warrior-servants:  uphold the Constitution, follow the laws and their policies, and to help those who need them.  And we teach them to be warriors within the law:  fierce, dominating, and ultimately effective.  If we teach them to do the best job possible, then it is up to that officer and his or her decisions in the field to stay safe.  And sometimes no matter what they do or don't do, it is up to God.

I have known several officers personally who have been murdered.  I've trained five.  Of the five officers I have taught who have been murdered, only one of them made a series of terrible mistakes and seemed to be unaware of the dangers he might have been able to see.  Sadly, he and his family paid a terrible price.  Another murdered officer was intentionally T-boned by a fleeing suspect, having no chance to change an unforeseeable outcome—I remember him like it was yesterday.  The two remaining officers fought like lions after being wounded, but succumbed to their wounds.  Anne Jackson was one of these two officers--she was constantly smiling and laughed a lot--a nice woman who worked hard during training.  She was the last one of the officers attending my classes murdered…so far.

So far.  There is nothing I can do in training that will change Rule Number One.  But I will continue to provide the best training I know how, searching and revising and changing the curriculum so that it gives the officers I serve, we serve, the best information possible to do this job safely and to increase their chances of coming home.

The very first funeral I attended for a fallen warrior had the following poem read aloud in his honor.  It was written by George Hahn, a retired LAPD Officer.  It is entitled, “The Monument.”

I never dreamed it would be me,
My name for all eternity,
Recorded here at this hallowed place,
Alas, my name, no more my face.

“In the line of duty,” I hear them say;
My family now the price will pay;
My folded flag stained with their tears;
We only had those few short years. 

The badge no longer on my chest, 
I sleep now in eternal rest. 
My sword I pass to those behind, 
And pray they keep this thought in mind. 

I never dreamed it would be me,
And with heavy heart and bended knee; 
I ask for all here from the past, 
Dear God, let my name be last.  

So at Officer Brenton’s memorial, the Ceremonial Commander, the honor guard, the color guard, and the flag-bearers all did their job with scrupulous dignity and attention to detail befitting the honor this hero and his family deserved.  The politicians gave their self-serving speeches.  The eulogies were given by his friends and family, their pain apparent to all.  Two buglers played "Taps," the mournful notes lingering in the echoes.  The pipers played “Amazing Grace,” forcing us all to catch our breath against the sobs, with the last piper walking off into the distance, and breaking all of our hearts all over again.  The last radio call was played, and Officer Brenton’s call sign and badge was retired, the silence between the dispatcher’s calling him over and over ripping through us all.  Tough men and women failed to hold back their tears.

Rest in peace, Officer Tim Brenton.  God bless your family.  I promise you, sir, that we will not bury a cop attending our training because the training is substandard or presented for anyone’s benefit other than our students.  We will continue to ruthlessly critique our training material to ensure that we give the best chance to every officer who honors us by permitting us to share our knowledge and skills.

And we know that you will not be the last hero we bury, because we know nobody can change Rule Number One.