War Games

Continued from the previous page

as slowly and clearly as I possibly could, “if we wanted to get the feel of a war situation, we’d probably have to go to some place nasty like El Salvador or Lebanon, right?”

We had been wandering around for half an hour now,

ostensibly on a mad dash for the enemy’s flag. Tactics in the Survival Game are rudi- mentary at best and most games tend to devolve into running firefights after about ten minutes of maneuvering. Our team’s agreed upon plan was to send most of our

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NEXT CORNEK .

people on a frontal assault of the enemies’ defences leaving a small defence force at our flag, while an elite commando force snuck around behind them and stole their flag.

Mad Dog and I agreed to join the commando force largely because it offered the best opportunity to slip off and do what we were there to do. Blast away at anything that moved.

At Mad Dog’s nervous

Wfl’fl/

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insistence we left the scene of our ambush in search of new prey. Racing silently through the forest, we listened for the telltale sounds of unwary enemies ripe to be pounced upon by seasoned veterans like ourselves. Already we had nailed four of the suckers betWeen us and we were feeling very fine, very sharp.

Our first intimation of

trouble was the terrifying

pop of a pistol and the slap of a paint bullet against a tree six inches away from my head. We threw ourselves into a small hollow in a rather nnelegant and panicked sWan dive. \

“Shit,” I sworeas enemy pistols sounded around us, “where the hell are they?” It sounded like about fifty angry Viet Cong out there zeroing in on our woefully shallow cubbyhole.

Mad Dog began swearing furiously as paint bullets whizzed over our heads. “If you’d stopped screaming ‘Die Commie Pig-dog’ every time you hit someone, this wouldn’t have happened,” he snarled at me between expletives.

“Shut up,” I replied, “I’m trying to think.” Actually I was trying not to wet my

genuine Israeli combat pants. It was impossible to tell where the buggers were shooting from or how many there were.

This was rapidly becoming an extremely unpleasant ex- perience. Being the focus of attention for ten 0r twenty armed and vicious maniacs was a good excuse to go into a panic striken frenzy of terror.

“Hey,” I said as casually as I could to Mad Dog, “why

“Only a gamel?” I screamed, wiping the froth from the corners of my mouth, “Don’tyou realize

what we‘re doing here?”

myself to the wrath of th‘os lunatics out there, but wh tell him that? ,

“Besides,” I added “you’ll only have to sho your eyes up'there. “They’ never hit a target that small.’ Fortunately the medicine h done an adequate job 0 twisting Mad Dog’s alread marginal brain, for after few minutes of cajoling, h agreed to take a look.

don’t you stick up your head and try and see where they are?” This seemed like a good plan to me, but Mad Dog apparently didn’t agree. “Have you lost your alleged mind?” he asked. “Listen, don’t worry. I’ll cover you,” I replied, trying to sound sincere. I actually had no intention of exposing

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“I like the taste ofa cold beer on a hot day, but I certainly don’t think you have to get the gang together with a couple of cases of beer just to celebrate

KING.

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the fact you’ve had a bit of exercise.”

jOHN wooo OLYMPIC SILVER MEDALLIST

Health Santé et Canada Canada

and Welfare Bien-étre social

~ “A: :31:

I heard was a loud “gish" and when I looked over a Mad Dog he had slipped bac down into our foxhole with white paint covering most ol his head.

This called for quick thinking. Faced with the pro-

’ spect of staying in the foxhole

with' a very upset partner. dealing with the enemies outside seemed downright

inviting. I scrambled out of

cover and began sprinting in whatever direction looked promising.

I was hit almost imme diately. Three high-velocin paint bullets struck my'left leg, right armpit, and left, hand respectively. They hurt. I hit the ground, covering my head with both arms and wailing “Komerad” as loudly and as often as I could. I had no desire to add any more welts to my collection.

The camouflaged enemy that bounded out of the undergrowth didn’t look particularly dangerous. but there’s no sense taking chances so I kep on whim. pering pitifully. “Help (gasp)

wounded (wheeze) Geneva Convention ...” I

groaned. “Pretty good shot eh?” my assassin remarked

smugly. He noticed my con— dition of .total personality breakdown and asked what

was wrong. i

“I’m hit (gurgle) medic need medic...”

“Hey, calm' down man,” he said with what passed for a placating grin, “It’s only a game. ”