bayonet. This prohibition was adopted because the resulting triangular wound was very difficult for a surgeon or field doctor to suture. The intent of the triangle-shaped blade was to create a wound that remained open as long as possible. If the wound site became infected, the injured soldier would not only be incapacitated but would eventually die from that contagion.
These are two examples of rules of combat. Unlike sport, there is no clock in war and combat is about battles of dominance, submission, and attrition. In the simplest terms, victory is ensured by breaking more of the other combatant’s things (e.g., buildings, roads, infrastructure, and equipment) and killing more of their people than they kill of yours so that they will eventually give up. Media and political pressure play an important role.
Drunkles, Druggles, Dysfunctional Relatives, and Whacked-Out Friends
It was my turn to watch the door. Everyone at the party had left their keys on a pegboard and I wasn’t supposed to give them back unless the person was sober enough to drive. About midnight Ron staggered up to me and demanded his keys. He was hammered, so I told him no, something along the lines of, “You’ve got to sober up first, man.”
Well, he wasn’t having any of that. He lunged for the keys. I got there first, grabbed them off the board, and twisted away from him. I told him no again, but he kept coming. He was bigger than me, and a serious asshole when drunk, but he was my fraternity brother and I wasn’t about to let him kill himself or someone else driving home. Unfortunately, the other guys just thought it was funny. They were no help. Until he grabbed me by the throat and tried choking me.
I drove my knee into his stomach. It wasn’t much of a blow but it did force him back. As he lunged again I pivoted and hit him in the base of the jaw as hard as I could. Much to my surprise he crumbled to the ground. It was the first time I’d ever knocked anyone out. Thankfully, the next morning he didn’t remember who’d hit him…
A couple months later it got worse. Our frat was one of the only ones in the U-District with a parking lot. Space being at a premium, that land was worth more than our house and everything in it combined. There was enough room on the street to accommodate most who lived in the area—but not nearly enough for townies, party guests, and the like so guys from nearby houses kept parking on our property. Despite the warnings, tow trucks, and even a few fistfights, they’d been doing it all semester. Then a couple guys from the fraternity across the street keyed a few of our vehicles in retaliation.
That didn’t go over very well. Within minutes, some seventy of us were brawling in the street, Ron leading the charge.
Being somewhat smarter, or at least more sober than most, I chose not to participate. I was watching the ruckus from the front yard when Ron stumbled past, nose gushing blood, and disappeared into the house. Thinking he was hurt more seriously than a busted nose to have left the fight like that, I turned and followed him in, but I couldn’t find him on the main floor. As I passed the stairs leading to our rooms above, I spotted him heading back down, murder in his eyes and a rifle in his hands. Holy shit! I didn’t even know he had a gun, let alone would be stupid enough to bring one to a fistfight!
I bolted to the front, grabbed three other guys who had also been watching the scrap in the street, and blocked the door. We tried to talk some sense into him but Ron was too enraged to listen. He kept right on moving, shoving his way past us. We undoubtedly underestimated the true danger we faced. I know that I certainly did, but there was no way in hell I was about to let him out that door. I dove for his knees, striking with my shoulder and wrapping him up like I’d learned to tackle playing football. It didn’t work (did I mention that Ron was a hell of a lot bigger and stronger than me?). After a slight hesitation, probably all of a half second but it seemed a couple decades longer at the time, the other guys jumped in as well.
The four of us managed to wrestle him to the ground, wrench the rifle out of his hands, and sit on him until he calmed down. And, thankfully, the gun didn’t discharge during the altercation. If we had not intervened, I’m certain that Ron would have killed someone over scratched paint.
Drunkle is an important concept when choosing the right way to respond to any given situation, so it merits a bit more detail. Drunkles do not necessarily have to be your intoxicated, socially awkward uncle, or even your relative. They can be your loudmouthed buddy trying to pick a fight he’s about to lose or drag you unwillingly into, your best friend coming off a bad drug trip (which would make him a druggle technically), your teenage son throwing things and breaking furniture in a hormonal rage, your suicidal sister with a bottle of champagne and a handful of sleeping pills, or even your idiot fraternity brother with a gun.
These are all situations where you know the other guy (or gal) needs some type of adult “spanking,” which is both warranted and necessary, and you’re the one who has to mete out that punishment, or “time out” or whatever you want to call it. The key is that you are neither participating in a sports competition nor engaging in combat to defend your life or that of a loved one, but rather you are squarely in that shadow region that lies in the middle of those two extremes. Characteristics of a drunkle situation include:
• You are related to, or friends with, the drunkle.
• You feel it is appropriate to intervene in order to stop the drunkle from doing something stupid, harmful, or violent.
• You would prefer that the drunkle not to be arrested for his actions, hence unwilling to simply stand by and let someone with authority intervene (or there’s no time for that).
• Because of your relationship with the drunkle, you believe that it is unlikely that he would press charges against you once sobered up (assuming you are able to control him without breaking him).
• You don’t mind so much if the drunkle is hurt (pain) by what you must do, but you strive to avoid causing any serious or lasting injury (damage).
Sometimes resolution is as simple as a light touch on the drunkle’s shoulder (or a swift kick to his shin) to warn him against whatever he is about to do. Other times dragging him away from the problem and giving a stern lecture can be effective. Oftentimes, however, these situations require forcefully putting the drunkle on the ground and holding him there for a while. That’s one of the best ways to contain a bad situation without injuring anyone. When it works.
You do need a certain level of skill and sobriety to pull it off. The bad news is that such actions can be physically dangerous for both of you (not to mention your relationship). Your edge in skill and sobriety makes you responsible (ethically at least) both for the technique you choose to put him on the ground as well for the results of his landing there. If you do it right, you can usually get away with it. Physically. If you’re lucky he may even thank you for what you did the next day too (but don’t count on that).
There is one other potential piece of good news as well. There’s no guarantee, of course, but law enforcement officers tend to be pretty understanding of these situations too. It won’t look good when they first see you sitting on the drunkle, but oftentimes they will cut you some slack once they learn what took place. If you are sober, didn’t actually hit the drunkle (or at least did not draw blood), and are able to explain the situation articulately, you are likely to avoid being arrested (or at least being prosecuted).
As mentioned previously, this isn’t sport, but it isn’t combat either. It’s that wide gap in between where much social violence occurs. You don’t want or need to kill the other guy or put him in the hospital. In fact, you probably don’t even want to bust him up (well maybe you want to, but prudence
