War games - with paint airguns

Whole Earth Review, Fall, 1987 by Rick Fields

I AM CROUCHED AT THE BASE of a pine in a wilderness area somewhere between Denver and Aspen, holding a pistol with the safety off, hardly daring to breathe, as I watch the woman I live with crawl through sagebrush and cactus, her pistol glinting in the noonday sun.

A twig cracks loudly in the trees to my right. I turn toward the sound, heart pounding, adrenalin roaring. There are other people in these woods, stalking me just as I am stalking them, and the ever-present possibility of ambush--made even more possible by the Army camouflage fatigues and green-and-black face paint we all wear--hones my attention needle sharp. The sky is a dazzling blue, the pines deep green, and the sounds of chirping birds and buzzing insects are crisp and clear.

The sudden crack of a pistol going off on the hill above us makes my friend rise just enough to see what's going on--and just enough to give me a clear shot. I have never shot anyone before, and it feels more than a little strange. But I take careful aim, and slowly and deliberately pull the trigger.

The sound is very loud and very real, and I can see immediately that I have scored a direct hit. She swings around in surprise, as if she has just been bitten by a very large mosquito, and a bright blood-red stain of paint spreads over her khaki shirt, just below her shoulder. "You're dead," I say, and she puts on a yellow nylon vest, and leaves the field. Twenty minutes later a whistle signals the end of the round, and we all gather back at the staging area. The air is full of war stories--of sneak attacks, tactical errors, defeats and victories, close escapes and near misses. I tell my friend about my moment of hesitation before firing, and wonder out loud if I should have pulled the trigger. "Well," she says, looking me straight in the eye, "if you hadn't gotten me first, I sure would have gotten you. Anyway"' she laughs, "you should see yourself. You look terrible."

That, no doubt, is true. My face is splattered with red paint from a shot that got me while I thought I was hidden behind a tree (I was, my arm wasn't), and I am caked with dust, sweat, and pine needles. But I feel--for reasons I cannot quite fathom--more alive than I have in a long time.

IT WAS a puzzling, even disturbing feeling. I had come of age during the Vietnam era, and like many of my friends had gone to a good deal of trouble to stay out of the war, and then to fight against it. And yet, here I was, wearing camouflage shirt and pants, with green and black warpaint smeared over my face, and shooting a gun--for an airgun is a gun--at another person, and enjoying it. Of course, it was not real, but it made me look closer at some of my most cherished and basic assumptions about myself. Perhaps I was not as "peaceful" as I had thought. If I could lose myself so thoroughly in a game, then what might happen in reality? I couldn't really say, but it was enough to know that a part of me that had been barely acknowledged had come into the open, like a bullet fired from a gun.

The game that I had been playing goes by many names--the War Game, the Survival Game, the Adventure Game, the Ultimate Game, Pursuit, Skirmish, Strategy, and--most innocently-Paintball. It is played with air guns powered by carbon dioxide which shoot paint pellets that explode on impact. The paint washes off. The game itself is based on that old Boy Scout and summer camp standby, Capture the Flag. If you are hit anywhere with a paintball, you're dead, and must leave the field until the next round. (A single round takes about an hour; most people play all day, with a break for lunch.) Points are scored for every kill, so if nobody captures the flag and returns it to their own territory, the game can still be won on points.

Being hit by a paintball can sting a little, and sometimes more than a little. It hurts just enough, in any case, so that players naturally do their best not to be hit. Sometimes there are bruises. Heavy plastic goggles must be worn at all times to protect the eyes, The Game, as I'll call it, is a realistic game, which is a large part of its appeal.

The Game was invented in 1981 by George Gaines, of "Pumping Iron" fame, and two of his friends, Hayes Noel, a stockbroker, and Bob Guernsey, a ski shop owner. Gaines and his friends franchised it as the National Survival Game, which now has a hundred or so fields in the United States, Canada, and Europe. An estimated 1 million people have probably played the Game at least once since its beginnings. Profits for successful fields can be as high as $1,000 a day.

This is just the tip of the iceberg, however. The Game has reached its most exotic and surrealistic form in the unfranchised fields of Southern California. There are at least fifty playing fields in the Los Angeles/San Diego area now.

Central headquarters for game field operators and aficionados in Los Angeles is McMurray & Son ("So. Calif.'s oldest Airgun Service Center"). McMurray & Son has been around since Tim McMurray's grandfather started it in 1933.