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By Chris Wattie

Reprinted from the Charlatan by Canadian University Press

I could hear the enemy moving through the bush somewhere ahead of us. I signalled “Mad Dog” Hammond, my photographer and the best point man alive invthe Eastern Theatre, but he’s heard it too. Narrbwing my steely eyes with cruel determination, I huddled lower in the dense undergrowth to await my quarry. Mad Dog’s face showed that he was thinking the same think I was: let the Commie bastard make the ﬁrst move. We professional always think alike.

The cool barrel of my trusty pistol lay motionless against the line of . my iron jaw, ready to strike another blow for democracy and the American Way. With silent cat-like movements I rechecked my

cartridge and took off the safety. Now all we had to do was wait. Suddenly he was in sight. Slinking like the pinko subversive that he , was, our target crept out from behind a tree not twenty feet away from where we waited in ambush. ‘

; .

He untied his beady little eyes left: then right, seeming to stare right. at me. _I re- mained as motionless as a rock, though my trigger ﬁnger itched. with antici- pation. Any second n0w I’d' have one more enemy of free enterprise to add to my tally.

‘His .’ suspicious . KGB- inspiredmind satisfied, the

the National Survival Game.

The National Survival Game was devised a few years ago in (where else?) the

United States by someone

witha sense of fun even more warpedffthan my own. The idea is to givejaded North Arneriean thrill-seekers the feel of combat without messy blood and?! bodies cluttering

,enemxhesmtommacmss ..un.the landscape. , , thefopenygroundjpmyright, ' IThere are four game sites

of ' righteous death “I was about to unleash. My pistol leapt into action with a life all its own. I lined up the swine in my sights, drooling at the

thought of his socialist head .

exploding into a red mist.

“Die Commie pig-dog” I screamed in triumph as I squeezed off my shot: For a split second he- turned. in disbelieving horrOr as my round sped toward its target.

Splat! My bullet had horned in on its mark, thanks to my expert marksmanship. The enemy sank slowly to the ground as a wet sticky sub- stance began to spread from a point directly between his eyes.

Another agent of the Kremlin bites the dust, I thought with satisfaction. I felt no more remose than if I had squashed a fly. He was just another enemy of the American Way, and besides the paint I‘d shot him with would wear off in a day or two. That’s right. It. wasn’t V 1am in the ’60<.. or Angeria in the ’705. it was somewhere near Perth, Ontario on September 18. 1983 and Strike Force Charlatan was here to play

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inﬁntario; and a few. others acr‘bss Canada; Through some advertising but mostly by word of mouth, the game’s popularity has mush- roomed in its two-year existence here. Games hap- pened every day this summer in Perth, and we waited two weeks before getting Our chance to don fatigues, grab

"our gear, and test our skills.

Most of the men (there were threewomen), were in their late twenties, early thirties, and many have been here before. 7

The game site is about one square mile of bush (and swamp just outside Perth with boundaries marked off with bright orange tape. Each of the two l8-man teams has a ﬂag set on opposite ends of the playing area, and the object of the game is to cap- ture your opponents’ flag and bring it back to your own ﬂag area first.

To achieve this goal each of the combatants is given a carbon dioxide pistol and 30 bullets full of paint. What makes the whole thing worth- while is the prospect of nailing a member of the other team with a large dollop of

paint. If you’re hit by one of these little wonders you are ‘dead’ and get to sit out the rest of the war in the com- fort of your command post along with a commemorative

welt on the spot where your

were hit. ,

As I stood over my some- what bedazzled victim, Mad Dog Hammond moved up to

wine with his usual cat-like

swiftness. “Christ, Wattie, calm down,” {he muttered, uneasily scanning nearby trees for snipers, “It’s only a game.”

“Only a game!?” I screamed, wiping the froth from the corners of my mouth, “Don’t you realize what we’re doing here? Don’t you see the crucial point of this entire bizarre excursion?”

“Uh, have fun?” he asked, nervously backing away from the sight of khaki-clad, war- painted, screaming and heavily armed reporter. Mad Dog was obviously losing his

grip, something that happens

to the best of us under com- bat conditions. How could I make his alcohol befuddled brain understand that this was no game, this was war. ' Mad Dog and I had been drinking heavily since the ge- ginning of the game, a medical necessity considering the warped atmosphere sur- rounding this entire venture. What had begun as an in- nocent search for adventure on a boring Sunday after— noon ‘nad become something much more ominous. “Look,” I said, speaking

» Continued on the

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War games 4- 30 real they’re fun

“Die Commie pig-dog" I screamed in triumph as I squeezed off my shot

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