The expression on his face was pleasant enough, but I felt that he didn’t really expect a response. I didn’t give one. People like Baker don’t do things on a whim. It may have been true that he wanted me to watch his people perform. But I knew that Baker wanted to watch me. This wasn’t just an excursion on a Saturday afternoon. We were on our way to a contest, and I was the one being judged.
I sat back in the seat and relaxed. I’ve spent more than a decade with a teacher who could probably show Baker a thing or two. I’m used to being tested. It happens every time I walk into Yamashita’s
dojo
.
The high school was a big box. The brick was an ugly mustard yellow that told me it was built sometime in the early ’60s. The windows were covered with metal grilles. The halls were washed in fluorescent light and lined with metal lockers. It smelled like a school—the air had an aroma shaped by equal parts disinfectant, paper, and resentment. And the gym was full of people.
We walked in and made our way to the recruitment table, draped with a black and gold banner that simply proclaimed “A Force of One.” There were two sergeants there, wearing the same sort of distinctive blue uniform as Baker.
“I thought the Army wore green,” I offered. There hadn’t been much in the way of small talk up until now.
“The Army’s always had blue dress uniforms,” Baker stated, “as well as white and green ones. Class A’s were green, but command has decided to simplify things and they’re phasing the other out in favor of the blue version.”
A steady flow of kids fingered brochures tentatively while the soldiers went into their recruitment pitch. You could see parents hovering in the background, some apprehensive, others encouraging.
“How’s the fishing at something like this?” I asked the Colonel.
He smiled. “In the all-volunteer service, recruitment is always a challenge. But we offer young people something that they don’t seem to be able to find in civilian life . . . ” his voice took on a reflective tone for a moment. Then he snapped back to his usual crisp, efficiency. “We do fine, Dr. Burke.”
The two recruiters stiffened to attention when Baker approached. Baker waved them back to their conversations with the kids.
There was a spot at the bottom row center of the gym bleachers reserved for us. The four soldiers sitting there shot to attention when Baker approached. He went through the same wave routine and said, “As you were.” He didn’t introduce me and they didn’t ask who I was. But you could see them take a peek at me out of the corner of their eyes after I sat down.
The soldiers on the bench were young and fit looking, with broad chests and narrow waists. They were wearing the new camouflage trousers known as ARPAT, Army Combat Uniform Pattern, and boots. They had on black T-shirts whose V-neck and sleeves were piped in gold. Their heads were shaved and they looked like a pack of attack dogs. They seemed impassive enough, but I’d have bet inside they were quivering with eagerness.
I was sandwiched in between the Colonel and Hanrahan. I looked at the driver and nodded at the crowd in black shirts. “This the demo team, Sergeant?”
“Yes sir,” he replied. He was a very serious young man. He had hands the size of shovels, with big broad fingers. Is that why he was a driver? I looked at his tunic and saw that he had jump wings like Baker, another one with a helicopter in the middle, and a third that looked like a flaming torch. His uniform’s left sleeve had small patches at the shoulder. One said “Ranger,” another “Special Forces.” Hanrahan didn’t say much, but he obviously had many skills—sort of an Army renaissance man.
A fuzzy introduction boomed out of the PA system and I turned to watch the demonstration.
It had been organized by a group of Korean martial arts schools in the area. The Koreans have been tremendously successful in propagating their version of karate in the U.S. Part of the success is due to the no-nonsense nature of their arts. Part of it’s because they’re shrewd businessmen.
The Japanese
sensei
tend to look down on their Korean counterparts, and the feeling is mutual. There’s not much love lost between the two peoples. The Imperial Japanese government instituted a brutal colonization of Korea, and Korean resentment still smolders. The Koreans had been influenced by modern Japanese martial arts before the 1940s, but over the years had given them their own distinctive flavor. Part of it was driven by innovation, part by resentful nationalism.
In any event, Korean empty-hand systems were built on a foundation that was at least partially Japanese, although the Koreans work hard at denying it. They have tons of different systems—
tae
kwon do, kang duk kwon, mu duk kwon, tang soo do
—but when you watch them in action, it’s Korean karate. The stances differ a bit from the Japanese, there are minor stylistic variations, and they tend to use a lot more kicks. But it’s karate, one way or the other.
Athletically, it’s pretty impressive. All that kicking requires a tremendous amount of energy. The young men and women who performed that day were strong and supple, and possessed tremendous physical ability. Their uniforms were very similar to the traditional Japanese
gi
, although some had black piping along the collars and sleeve ends. Other participants had opted for a more sporty pullover top with similar piping.
They wore a rainbow of belt colors. Some had little stripes on the belt ends as well. The Koreans had learned that Americans loved the whole belt system, with its graphic representation of advancement. As a result, some schools had a seemingly endless series of belts or stripes that could be earned. The black belts tended to be embroidered with name and rank spelled out in gold thread. They wore patches and flags on their sleeves. Some outfits looked more like billboards than uniforms, which, in some ways I suppose, they were.
Yamashita doesn’t use belt colors for rank. You need black belts in a few systems just to get in the door of his training hall. The uniforms we wear are all the same: plain, deep blue, and utilitarian. My teacher isn’t interested in advertising, or in making you feel important. As far as he’s concerned, you earn respect through competence, and that’s something revealed through movement, not fashion.
Groups of students demonstrated the
kata-
like routines they called
hyung
. I recognized a few of them as being similar to the Japanese
Heian
series. A less charitable observer would have said they were copied, but I’m a font of tolerance. The movements were crisp and hard, the control at a very good level.
There was a lot of board breaking. The Korean styles are big for this. Twelve-inch squares of pine, an inch thick, were snapped in two in various ways: knife hand technique, back hand, lunge punch, front and side kicks, elbows. The crowd loved it. One of the junior instructors broke two different sets of boards held on both sides of him with a double flying side kick. I got tired just watching it.
There was a brief intermission, then the Army demonstration team was introduced to enthusiastic applause.
Hanrahan strode up to the microphone and gave a brief introduction.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, I’m Staff Sergeant Robert Hanrahan, part of the demonstration team for the United States Army’s Martial Arts Program. It’s a pleasure to be with you today and see so many of these fine athletes.” There was more polite applause.
“The Army Martial Arts Program is composed of techniques such as strikes, throws, and holds that are meant to assist the soldier to close with and defeat his enemy. More than that, it’s also a system designed to instill every aspect of the warrior spirit in each trooper.
“This close combat program was revamped in 1996 with the input of leading martial artists. It’s undergone continuing refinement and today includes combat-tested martial arts skills and close-combat training techniques that are combined with core Army values and leadership training.”
You could hear the crowd growing a bit restless with the explanations. They were an action-oriented group. If Hanrahan’s canned commentary got much longer, he’d lose them.
But this was obviously a well-practiced routine. While Hanrahan spoke, the demo squad was setting up floor mats behind him. They finished just as he wrapped up. “It’s our pleasure to be able to show you some of the more physical aspects of the art here today, part of the skills we’re proud to display as soldiers in the United States Army.”
Basically, it was a good, solid demonstration of effective self-defense. There were no frills. They were obviously a fit bunch, and they were pulling their blows, but they went through a series of attack and defense vignettes that showcased their ability to break out of choke holds, immobilize various strikes, and bludgeon an attacker into a helpless heap. They used their boots a lot and I didn’t blame them. The basics were a meld of judo and karate-like techniques combined with the more ruthless propensity for target areas typically banned in martial arts schools that worried about the cost of liability insurance.
I watched closely. After Micky and Art had told me about Baker, I took some time to try to find out what I could about what the Army was up to. There were some short video clips on a Web site, as well as text outlining the history of the system, but there’s no substitute for watching people who train in a particular style move for an extended period of time.
The soldiers finished their demonstration, put away the mats and then sat back down with us on the bleachers. They weren’t even winded.
Then the regular activities resumed and things wound their way down. For a finale, the local Korean headmaster set up a circle of hapless students. Some held boards, others bricks. Their teacher smashed his way through them all, a tough, wiry dynamo. Then, while the debris of shattered wood and brick still littered the floor, the headmaster was blindfolded and a student was placed in front of him with an apple set atop his head. The old teacher crouched down as if winding his muscles up, cocked his head briefly, then launched into the air, executing a spinning back-kick that smashed the apple off his student’s head to the wild applause of the crowd.
In the car, Baker asked me what I thought. I reflected for a minute, remembering the sight of the hapless student standing stock still, balancing the apple, and squinting in anticipation as his teacher launched himself into the air. “I think,” I told Baker, “that sometimes the measure of a really good teacher is what they can get their students to do for them.”
“You sound like you speak from experience, Dr. Burke,” he said. “But that wasn’t what I meant.”
“Yeah, I know,” I told him.
“So? Do you have any comments? About the troopers.”
I shrugged. “Seemed pretty solid stuff. But I’d probably need to see a greater variety of attack scenarios to really evaluate it.”
Baker nodded at that. “We routinely have various experts do that sort of thing for us . . . look for areas we can improve on.”
“How’s it worked out?” I asked.
Baker made a shaking motion with his hand. “Sometimes it works, sometimes . . . ” He looked up at the stolid driver in the seat in front of us. “Remember that last guy, Hanrahan?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Hanrahan asked.
“Sure,” the Colonel said.
“What a cluster-fuck,” he told me, looking briefly over his shoulder.
“I know that the Special Forces did an experiment with some aikido training a few years back,” I said. “It was like two groups of people speaking completely different languages.”
“Before my time,” Baker said. “But I read the book.”
“Me too,” I said. “It was good comic relief.”
Baker smiled. “I hear positive things about you, Burke, but I want to make sure you ‘get’ what we’re all about . . . ”
“Locate, close with, and destroy the enemy,” Hanrahan said. It was the kind of thing he didn’t say at high school recruiting events. The parents would swoon.
“What did you think of the tae kwon do today?” the colonel prompted.
I shrugged. “They sure can jump.”
“That’s it? You’re not impressed with their skill?” His eyes had an intentness about them that I hadn’t seen before. And, ever so faintly, I got the tingling sense of an energy field pushing against me.
I waved a hand. “I don’t know. They’re impressive athletes, but fighting? It’s so much smoke.” I thought about the time Yamashita had squared off against a student of
ninjutsu
. The guy could do handsprings across the room. Yamashita had told us ahead of time that such techniques were mostly designed to throw you off balance because they were unexpected. If, however, you weren’t flustered . . .
During the match, the
ninja
had tried to leap across the room. Yamashita simply waded in and caught him by the throat in mid-cartwheel.
“But didn’t you see that last technique?” Baker pressed. “The blindfold?” He sounded incredulous, but the eyes were still watchful. I noticed the subtle twitch of Hanrahan’s neck muscles and knew that he was listening carefully as well.
“Baker,” I said wearily, “it’s a good stunt. It takes a lot of practice. But in the long run, you know what?” I paused.
“What, Burke?”
“I don’t train to fight fruit. And I bet you don’t either.”
The Colonel sat back in the seat and smiled. “What do you think, Hanrahan?”
“He’ll do,” the sergeant said.
He’s not talkative even at the best of times. Yamashita has spent a lifetime following the path of an art that prizes efficiency: the slamming precision of a strike or the smooth, pivoting projection as you find and take hold of the fulcrum that’s present whenever two bodies meet in attack. So when I told him of Baker’s proposition he didn’t react. My teacher prizes timing as well as technique: he would comment when it suited him.
I was worried about his reaction. Yamashita seemed preoccupied lately. I was doing much of the instruction and, although he was present like a predator gliding around the edges of the class of straining trainees, he sometimes seemed focused on an interior reality the nature of which I could not fathom.