Free Hank Reinhardt's Book of Knives: A Practical and Illustrated Guide to Knife Fighting by Hank Reinhardt

PD .45 with him under the circumstances, of course, but back then pocket knives were allowed on commercial aircraft, and he had a little folding Puma in the pocket of his jeans. Having cleaned out his refrigerator before leaving on the long trip, Hank stopped at a grocery store on his drive home from the airport.
    As he made his way back to his car with his purchases, two young punks vectored in on him in the parking lot. Hank was a slim, older guy with grey hair and eyeglasses, and apparently fit their profile of a mugging victim . . . a classic example of what I’ve come to call “sudden and acute failure of the victim selection process.”
    They closed into rapid contact with him and one snarled, “Give it up, old man!”
    There was a soft “click” sound as the Puma’s blade sprang open in Hank’s right hand. His left had already grabbed the talker’s belt in an iron grip, pulling him in tight to Reinhardt, who brought the razor-sharp Puma into light contact with the mugger’s lower abdomen. Only then did the assailant see the confident, anticipatory grin on Hank Reinhardt’s face.
    The second suspect went ashen and backed away in slow motion, hands raised, an expression of confused horror on his face. The one Hank had grabbed squeaked plaintively, “No problem, old man!”
    In a voice somewhere between a growl and a purr, and without losing the grin, Hank replied. “No problem at all. Ah’m gonna gut ya lak a chicken.”
    The would-be mugger didn’t move anything but his bowels.
    After a moment, Reinhardt decided it wasn’t worth the paperwork, and shoved the reeking mugger away. He watched them both run . . . and then put his Puma back in his pocket, picked up his grocery bags, and went home.
    We lost Hank Reinhardt too soon, but thankfully, much of his legacy remains. I miss him still, and I am glad that so much of what he learned, rediscovered, and created, has been preserved for us who remain, and for the generations to follow.

RICHARD GARRISON
    I was still in high school when first I met Hank. It was at an early Society for Creative Anachronism event in Atlanta. I was just an observer, but nevertheless recognized Hank as someone of knowledge and I asked him about contemporary knife fighting. He asked if I had a knife and I did. I took it out, opened it and handed it over hilt first.
    Hank, in a flash, reversed the knife, grabbed my shirt, pulled me in and graphically showed that I could be a dead man at that point. “The first thing,” he said, “is never to give a perfectly good knife up.” That was one of my first, good practical lessons that followed me through my life. Others had, undoubtedly, have learned it earlier in their life than I. But, as slow as I am, I think I am a good learner.
    A few years later, I met Hank again in SF fandom. Besides science fiction, comics, the characters therein, we talked knives, swords, axes, guns . . . and, of course, ice tea. Like a good romance, one thing led to another and pretty soon we were shooting handguns and rifles, slashing at each other and learning about leverage and body mechanics.
    My parents did a good job with me, but Hank sort of gave this Yankee a gander at some things I didn’t pick up . . . as I wrote above, I am slow, but still a good learner.
    The foremost thing I learned was the art of deception. Other attributes are good, but deception is the force multiplier to speed, leverage, timing, and strength. He understood reaction and timing like few others. He also knew how to make a person with ill-will think he had the upper-hand . . . until it was too late.
    I also learned Hank’s version of being courteous to all you meet, but have a plan to kill them.
    And one of the more important lessons revolved around testosterone filled exhibitions. When you get into a friendly shooting or axe-throwing competition . . . and you win . . . shrug your shoulders like the champion you are and don’t try to duplicate the feat, as you can only become