Atlanta shootings from experience: Much is being writ and spoke by a bunch of TV talking heads about the situation in Atlanta. No one will mention the fact that no woman could possibly handle a prisoner of that size because this would "demean" women, who we all know are equal to men in every respect. Here's what happened to me, a long time ago.

Me: 18 years old, 5'10" and 175 pounds; meaning I was in decent shape. He: 18 years old, 6'3" and 240 pounds. He is the second strongest guy I have ever met and one bad ass dude. He had been violent many times, culminating in a violent spree in an Asiatic port that ended up seriously injuring four natives and several Shore Patrol sailors before he was subdued, put in irons, and placed in a small boat for transportation to a ship anchored a mile out in the harbor where he was supposed to remain in the brig til brought to shore for trial.

Our commanding officer disliked me intensely. I was forging his name on overnight liberty passes for our entire squadron, and in my capacity as a supply guy who knew where every spare part in the Far East was located, sort of had him by the balls. He decided to send me out to the ship armed with a .45, get the bad guy, and bring him ashore to the brig there. I knew he hoped that at the very least I’d end up in the bay with my arms broken thereby solving all his discipline problems.

To continue, I get on the little boat to go out to the ship scared out of my fucking mind. I was hoping for rough seas so I wouldn’t have to go out but the seas were almost dead calm. It was a beautiful afternoon for my funeral. Our little boat literally skimmed the flat water as we traversed the mile to the ship in what seemed like two minutes flat. I was sweating, felt nauseous, and I was shaking. My brain was spinning seeking a method to get out of my suicide mission---I could fall into the sea, hit my head on something with enough force to cause profuse bleeding, or simply shit my pants in fear and claim incapacity. I was too scared to do any of those things. Defecting to Communist China crossed my mind as I climbed the laddar to the host ship.

Once aboard the prison ship I inquired as to the whereabouts of the ship’s brig. “What for?” was the reply from the Officer of the Deck. “To get the prisoner and bring him back to the base, sir” was my full vibrato soprano reply.

“Hell you don’t have to do that. He’s down on A deck in the mess hall playing poker with the crew.” And he directed me to the mess hall on "A" deck. My stomach developed that full feeling, like anything I swallowed would come right back up. This meant that my bad guy was uncuffed, unshackled, and unguarded. I tentatively approached the mess, fearing the worst should this bad guy decide he didn’t want to go ashore to the brig. I entered the mess deck and sure enough my bad guy was playing poker, and losing, with five members of the crew.

“You here for me Howie?” asked the bad guy---I had known him for six fearful months and heard of his feats of mayhem. After I mumbled assent he announced that he was going to play three more hands and then leave with me. Now, what the fuck was I to do? Pull out my gun and shoot him? I had no cuffs, was totally out manned in the physical match, and didn’t want to be there. So I sat down on a bench at a different table and told him OK. Thoughts of defecting to a whore house in Hong Kong flashed through my brain as I fearfully watched the game.

True to his word, after three hands he got up, picked up his “ditty bag”–the small bag containing shaving stuff, which I was afraid to search—and led me back on deck whereupon we both got back into the little boat to head into shore. I stationed myself on the second seat of the boat and he sat in the back facing me. This meant I was six feet away from him so I could supposedly pull my gun and shoot him down should he try to jump me. In matter of fact the son of a bitch was so big that it would take a granade to bring him down. He calmly told me that if it wasn’t for the fact that he liked me he could take my gun and shove it up my ass if he wanted to. He looked at me carefully and told me to stop shaking because he wasn't going to do anything.

I was his prisoner. He was not mine. I escorted him to the brig where my relief took over. I relate this story to you so you know what the deal is when a violent prisoner is alone with a physical inferior. Mr. Bad Guy was sent to the Tokyo Stockade for a long term, but believe it or not he straightened out his life, left the Navy, became a college grad with a dam good career, which is the reason I don’t mention his name right now. That and fear that he might find me.

I point out that once turned over to the Shore Patrol at the brig he was always "walked" with an unarmed large guy at his side and followed by an armed and ready to shoot other guy. He could not have caused trouble. Three are now dead in Atlanta because nobody thought a 51 year old grandmother who was 5'1" couldn't handle a bad guy.