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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 
     
    
   
   
    
         
     
    
   
   
    
     J 
     
    
   
   
    
     t;  g; 
     
    
   
   
    
     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 
     
    
   
   
    
     next page  
     
    
   
   
    
     The Netted Gem, Thursday, November 3, 1983 
     
    
   
   
    
     .t-"d 
     
    
   
   
    
     War games 4- 30 real they’re fun 
     
    
   
   
    
     “Die Commie pig-dog" I screamed in triumph as I squeezed off my shot 
     
    
   
   
    
     . I)”, 
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
       
     
    
   
   
    
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     —— Page 7 -—