The Game of War

War is a concept somewhat familiar to my generation. Although my parents and parents of other twenty and thirty year olds like me may have survived World War II, thankfully many in my generation have no first hand experience of this three-letter word. Yet, we remain familiar with the scenes of war. Be it Hollywood movies, clips from CNN, newspaper photos or even Miss Saigon, the powerful images of battle have surely caught our attention. With the frequent bombarding of these images, I have developed an attitude of indifference to seeing troops of soldiers, guns and choppers on TV or the newspapers. They neither excite nor frighten me anymore. I distance myself and simply remain unaffected.

While many Manila residents may share my sentiment, there are a few guys and a handful of girls who are fascinated with war. They have a passion for guns, combat gear, boots, and the trappings of war. These are typical young urban professionals working as lawyers, doctors, and entrepreneurs from Monday to Friday. They have the usual entrapments of a typical Manila urbanite: trendy clothes, ’90s model vehicles, cell phones, and an Internet addiction. On Sundays, they go to war. Not the real world version of war where people die. It is a game of a make-believe war staged in a controlled environ with less harmful weapons and a friendly attitude. These yuppies are not fighting for principles, religion or government. Instead, it is a battle with fun as the objective.

It had the makings of a usual out-of-town weekend gimmick. We all met at Petron Treats on South Expressway to load up of food and drinks. We had our coolers, extra clothes, and enthusiasm packed and ready to go. But something was different. My companions were clad in fatigue pants and boots. One girl was in a full desert outfit with dog tags hanging around her neck to complete the get up. I was even startled to hear my companion refer to my homemade brownies as "rations."

With all the troops accounted for, we began our convoy to Biñan, Laguna. There were two teams participating Team Wyvern with two girls and three guys, plus me, a first-timer weakling female and Team Recon First Battalion with one-first timer female and a dozen hefty men. We drove into a typical provincial subdivision. It was quiet, unassuming, and seemed like an unlikely location for the games. We headed straight into a pink clubhouse with a pool, just across the street from an unkempt empty lot which functions as the game site.

Gearing Up For War

With the guns, gear, and rations unloaded from the vehicles, it was time to dress down for battle. It was a long meticulous process, which the participants seemed to enjoy as much as the game itself. Like kindergarten kids in show-and-tell, the boys showed off their guns kept in special carrying cases. Others even had them lovingly stored in their original Styrofoam packaging.

The guns used for the gamer are Automatic Electric Guns (AEG’s) or commonly called "Airsofts." Powered by 9.5 volt batteries, these guns fire up BB pellets. While pellets are the size of the tiny sago found in taho, they are not as harmless as they seem. They can inflict terrible pain and leave behind welts, bruises or wounds for souvenirs. These young professional war enthusiasts shelled out anywhere from P10,000 for a basic airsoft to P30,000 for a fully loaded weapon with the works. Unlike their childhood days where they had to settle for any toy gun given to them, these yuppies can now afford to buy a high-powered, expensive weapon for their more sophisticated game of baril-barilan.

Getting dressed is itself an art. Khaki, green, fatigue, and black variations of pants, jackets, jumpsuits and vests make up the costume for this game. Boots are also mandatory. Some guys had bandanas, hats, helmets, algae-looking fringes concealing their head. There were even belts, suspenders and other paraphernalia for their magazines and extra ammunition. I watched amused at how much effort they took in looking good and coordinated. My ignorant mind thought it was merely for aesthetic purposes. Perhaps, they gained more confidence when they dressed the part well for this make-believe war. I was wrong. When they geared me up for the game, they were concerned that I had the basics. It was important to have the fatigue pants and jacket to keep my body safe from those deceptively harmless BB pellets. A full-face mask and helmet were necessary head protection from possible welts. A pair of gloves was also lent to me to protect my hands from severe itching from the plants when I had to crawl. Other participants had scarves to keep their neck safe from the bullets and knee and elbow pads to make crawling more comfortable.

Taking me aside, Team Wyvern took time to explain the basics of holding, carrying, loading, and of course shooting a gun. With a couple practice shots on the poor red palm, I was ready for battle. We left the clubhouse and crossed the streets. Having war games here almost every Sunday made the neighborhood kids immune to the sight of toy guns and full battle gear. In fact, they would run after the players to ask for pellets for souvenir.

Let The Games Begin

The entire 2,000 sq. meter lot is a mess. Cogon grass growing as high as a person, layers and layers of plants, some flowers, and a generous sprinkling of planks, scrap metal and junk scattered all over. Two junked cars functioned as great shields from the crossfire: an old Holden in front and a Mercedes Benz in the rear. There were also a small makeshift house structure for the bantay and a garage housing a white old Mercedes Benz. This lot is the property of Team Recon 1st Battalion’s members. Since the lot was not in use, he converted the property to a battlefield for his hobby. Oddly, amidst all the lifeless junk in the lot thrived two goats. Familiar with the weekly chaos of the games in this lot, they didn’t seem to mind the raucous as they continued grazing on the abundant supply of fresh grass and greens. Both teams’ attitudes were refreshingly friendly. Instead of having the usual cliquish attitude of pitting one team against the other, they mixed members. The girls and guys were equally divided through a friendly game of Jack en poy. All winners teamed up together and all losers in another team.

The team of winners took their places on the defense. The losers were to attack. Just like bari-barilan, the object of the game was to wipe out the competing team. Belonging to the team of losers, I was not certain how I was supposed to attack. I quickly learned by example. Following our team leader’s moves, I imitated him at close distance. When he crawled, I crawled. My adrenaline was pumping uncertain whether it was from excitement or plain fear of what might hit me. Paranoid and scared of the opponents, my head kept turning to check if they were behind me. Even with overcast skies, I was still sweating profusely.

The continuous rat-tat-tat- sound of gunshots could be heard and felt all around me. It happened so fast. After I fired a few shots, a flood of bullets came my way. They loudly hit my helmet and my shoulder. At that moment, I was grateful for the gear. It was not merely aesthetics after all, but it was necessary protection for the game. As I walked out of the battlefield, I held my gun upward and screamed, "Hit! Hit! Hit!" to signify it was game over for me. It was another way of communicating, "Hey, I’ve been hit. Please don’t shoot me anymore." I proceeded to the viewing deck to watch the rest of the game. About thirty minutes into the game and just a few players left, the game master decided to give them two minutes left. Before the two minutes were up, Christy one of Team Wyvern’s two girls was bleeding profusely. Her head was hit on the forehead and blood gushed out to her mask and shirt. She was not wearing a helmet for protection. Everyone came to her aid. With the blood cleaned out and everyone’s nerves calmed down, all let out of sigh of relief to find out it was only a small would. The guy who hit her apologized over and over for the accident, and the victim readily accepted his apology.

The second game was less exciting. Sitting it out on the defensive meant waiting and waiting for the opponent. Positioned way back in the lot, I spent what seemed like eternity seeking refuge behind a thick wooden board with my body close to the ground and the grass surrounding me. Since I was positioned deep in the back of the empty lot, the opponents never made it to me. My encounters were only with a few butterflies, bumble bees and bugs. The power of hearings gunshots at a distance and the feeling of uncertainty just multiples the fear within. The more fearful I was the more I clutched my gun ready to fire. In my nervousness, I even let out two shots to the ground. It then became clear to me why people react violently when they don’t know what they’re up against. After my long wait and deep musings in the battlefield, the game came to an anti-climactic end for me. My teammates yelled "Game Over" after they shot the last member of the opposing team. And as we filed out of the lot, opponents apologized to each other for the hits and friendly smiles were exchanged again. Nothing this refreshing gesture reminded me of how healthy the attitude of all the players were. After all, it is only a game.

The third game was "Die Hard" where all the dozen or so men ganged up against the four women. It seemed terribly frightening to be up against all those men, yet I joined in support of my female companions. While the game ended in a few minutes, we still gave those men a pretty good fight.

The Aftermath Of War

As nightfall came, we decided to call it quits. We all changed to clean clothes and sat around for a good laugh. In the end, no one even kept score on which team won. What mattered more were the hilarious anecdotes during the game. Except for the few wounds, scratches, bruises, welts, mosquito bites, and sore body parts, we were all fine. The camaraderie and good sportsmanship was clearly evident.

This is the closest I’ve been to war. Although it is just make believe, in some ways it is a pretty good simulation of war. The sound of continuous gunshots firing, the crawling, the heat, the exhaustion, waiting in fear, and the uncertainty of what will hit next were all so concrete. But this is merely a game. It is a controlled environment. The guns can’t kill. The players have a friendly attitude. They are out to have fun, not to kill. Their opponents are friends, not foes. They apologize when they hurt you. They are concerned for the safety and health of all. Most of all when someone yells, "GAME OVER!" — the war ends.