Close, but thank God not the real thing
Jul. 14th, 2009 09:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pecuniumI went paintballing on Sunday. My dad used to be a deputy sheriff (he'd still be one, and may decide to do it again... Tennessee, as does Calif., has a program where one can do it as a Reserve Officer; i.e. for free. You have to jump through all the same hoops, get POST certified, etc, but you don't [at least in California] have to spend time as a jailer. There is no functional difference between them, but it saves the county a lot of money. I have a very mixed mind on this, but it's not germaine to the story), and one of his buddies from the department has about half a dozen acres of draw he like to paintball in. He invited us.
It was a good time. The usual mess of not knowing the lay of the land, so the first couple of rounds were learning experiences.
Rules were simple. Two hits and you're out. No requirement for the balls to break. If it lands on the body, it's a hit. Splash, and gear, don't count.
First one out: Two guys in, three guys to flush them. We'd been given a quick lie of the land tour, a fair number of log bunkers and chunks of dead ground. We were in the three. I took some fire from my left (and above), dove right; into some dead ground. Took some more fire from my left front. Spotted the shooter, and got into cover.
I moved up the dead space, while other shooting was going on, but the guy to my left found the time to rain a bunch of balls at me, and the ground wasn't dead enough; which meant I was.
Next round, my dad and I went in. We did it wrong. Too much experience with real lead. If it has been bullets, not paintballs, no contest. Two of them moved up our left. I pinned one, but the other was out of my line of fire. My dad could pepper him, but his placement was completely exposed to the guy who moved upslope. I lay doggo when my dad was killed out.
The two down-draw moved up, nervously, and the one to my right came down. He was doomed. Unless he saw me, there wasn't a chance he was going to make it. All I had to do was not move. He came to where I could see him, and I let him have a volley. One down.
Moved back, fast as ever I could; while balls are whipping past. Got to a rock (actual cover, even if had been live ammo, not paint), and waited. But the odds were not good. One got to where he could put grazing fire over the rock, and the other was able to move up to where he could fire into the space.
Third round, every man for himself. I started in a spot too central. Three of four had nominal shots at me. I didn't last long.
The thing about paintball... it's amazingly like the real thing. The adrenaline is up. The sense of dread is there. The hyper awareness is there. The pounding heart, and the willingness to put up with nuisances (like insects) that normally one would slap and yelp at is there. It's up to about eight on the scale. Not having the real possibility of dying keeps it from getting all the way up.
One guy had to leave. I was limping a bit (I managed to get a cramp in my hip in the second round. As with other things, I didn't notice it when the action was hot and heavy, but in between rounds; well it was double up on the drugs when I got home), but we agreed to one more.
Our host had not been really popped all day. Peppered, and suppressed, but not a single broken ball (helps to know the ground), so he went in, and we were going to flush him. The odds were probably about 50-50. He was defending, there were three of us. He had the choice of when to engage. All we needed to do was maintain supporting relationships, and keep far enough apart to prevent him from suppressing the lot of us with short bursts.
When my dad looked at me to see what the plan was... well it was amusing; he denigrates the Army, as only an old jarhead can, but he didn't hesitate to consider I actually knew the drills.
"We need to go in fast, get wide, and fix him. I'll take the left (up a slope. My father moves heavily, even when he thinks he's being quiet, so that was a bad idea), one of you needs to go up the center, and one up the right. No dawdling".
The kid (20) wanted to "take point", so he went "hey diddle-diddle, straight up the middle,", with my dad on the right. Lets just say the kid's idea of "no dawdling," and mine/my dad's were different.
We went in, and fast to the sides. I was up the hill, and into the bush, as fast as ever I could. I didn't care about noise yet. I actually wanted him to hear me. He wasn't going to fire when the balls couldn't possibly carry to get to me. I went way up. Then in. I'd picked a line I wanted to get to, and then stop. Breath hard in my ears (the masks resonate), and the blood pounding, I moved in. Staring into the brush, looking for the odd bit of flash, angle, or color, trying to spot the cobra lying in wait.
I heard him holler, "I hear you flanker". Good. I slowed down some, but relaxed a bit too. He was on my right, in toward the center. I wasn't going to find him behind one of the bunkers waiting to do to me what I'd done to the kid in the second round. I could see the range limit. I stopped.
And waited. And waited.
And waited. I needed to get in another 10 yards, and downslope, so I could double back and take him from the rear (in technical terms, "embarrass him", honest). For that I needed to be slower and quieter, but I also needed him to be distracted.
Where the hell is my support? Then the sweet sound of gunfire; aimed at someone else. The odds just went from even, to about 4-1. I moved. Irregular steps... don't make even a semi-rhythmic pattern. Once tree to another. Crouching, stepping, lowering, stopping.
.... rattle... I can hear him loading more paint into the hopper. That's a really directional sound. It's not a rattle in the brush. Now I know where to look. There! A bit of motion.
Got him.
Down a little, to where I have a slim tree to get behind. Line up. Breath... relax, and a burst of about eight. "Hit!"
"Are you dead?"
"No," and a blast of balls comes up the hill. I was behind the tree. Conic sections being what they are, I was pretty safe. So I slipped over to the right side, and a quick burst. That one was a little low.
Step back, as the next blast comes up. Move to the left. A couple to keep his concentration from settling. A couple more, to keep him from just aiming to the right side. Back behind the tree as a dozen come ripping up to the leftish. Slide over, aim... and pour it on until he calls himself dead.
My quads ache. My back aches. My abs ache. It's funny. Most of the time is spent on your side, or your belly, or crouched; mostly at rest. But the other 20 percent of the time, it's all out, zero to sixty in a heartbeat. Like a lizard, or a bird, one goes from apparent rest to explosive motion. I have a couple of good hits, but only one bit of real bruising. There used to be a place in Santa Cruz to paintball, may I shall investigate it when I get there.
It was a good time. The usual mess of not knowing the lay of the land, so the first couple of rounds were learning experiences.
Rules were simple. Two hits and you're out. No requirement for the balls to break. If it lands on the body, it's a hit. Splash, and gear, don't count.
First one out: Two guys in, three guys to flush them. We'd been given a quick lie of the land tour, a fair number of log bunkers and chunks of dead ground. We were in the three. I took some fire from my left (and above), dove right; into some dead ground. Took some more fire from my left front. Spotted the shooter, and got into cover.
I moved up the dead space, while other shooting was going on, but the guy to my left found the time to rain a bunch of balls at me, and the ground wasn't dead enough; which meant I was.
Next round, my dad and I went in. We did it wrong. Too much experience with real lead. If it has been bullets, not paintballs, no contest. Two of them moved up our left. I pinned one, but the other was out of my line of fire. My dad could pepper him, but his placement was completely exposed to the guy who moved upslope. I lay doggo when my dad was killed out.
The two down-draw moved up, nervously, and the one to my right came down. He was doomed. Unless he saw me, there wasn't a chance he was going to make it. All I had to do was not move. He came to where I could see him, and I let him have a volley. One down.
Moved back, fast as ever I could; while balls are whipping past. Got to a rock (actual cover, even if had been live ammo, not paint), and waited. But the odds were not good. One got to where he could put grazing fire over the rock, and the other was able to move up to where he could fire into the space.
Third round, every man for himself. I started in a spot too central. Three of four had nominal shots at me. I didn't last long.
The thing about paintball... it's amazingly like the real thing. The adrenaline is up. The sense of dread is there. The hyper awareness is there. The pounding heart, and the willingness to put up with nuisances (like insects) that normally one would slap and yelp at is there. It's up to about eight on the scale. Not having the real possibility of dying keeps it from getting all the way up.
One guy had to leave. I was limping a bit (I managed to get a cramp in my hip in the second round. As with other things, I didn't notice it when the action was hot and heavy, but in between rounds; well it was double up on the drugs when I got home), but we agreed to one more.
Our host had not been really popped all day. Peppered, and suppressed, but not a single broken ball (helps to know the ground), so he went in, and we were going to flush him. The odds were probably about 50-50. He was defending, there were three of us. He had the choice of when to engage. All we needed to do was maintain supporting relationships, and keep far enough apart to prevent him from suppressing the lot of us with short bursts.
When my dad looked at me to see what the plan was... well it was amusing; he denigrates the Army, as only an old jarhead can, but he didn't hesitate to consider I actually knew the drills.
"We need to go in fast, get wide, and fix him. I'll take the left (up a slope. My father moves heavily, even when he thinks he's being quiet, so that was a bad idea), one of you needs to go up the center, and one up the right. No dawdling".
The kid (20) wanted to "take point", so he went "hey diddle-diddle, straight up the middle,", with my dad on the right. Lets just say the kid's idea of "no dawdling," and mine/my dad's were different.
We went in, and fast to the sides. I was up the hill, and into the bush, as fast as ever I could. I didn't care about noise yet. I actually wanted him to hear me. He wasn't going to fire when the balls couldn't possibly carry to get to me. I went way up. Then in. I'd picked a line I wanted to get to, and then stop. Breath hard in my ears (the masks resonate), and the blood pounding, I moved in. Staring into the brush, looking for the odd bit of flash, angle, or color, trying to spot the cobra lying in wait.
I heard him holler, "I hear you flanker". Good. I slowed down some, but relaxed a bit too. He was on my right, in toward the center. I wasn't going to find him behind one of the bunkers waiting to do to me what I'd done to the kid in the second round. I could see the range limit. I stopped.
And waited. And waited.
And waited. I needed to get in another 10 yards, and downslope, so I could double back and take him from the rear (in technical terms, "embarrass him", honest). For that I needed to be slower and quieter, but I also needed him to be distracted.
Where the hell is my support? Then the sweet sound of gunfire; aimed at someone else. The odds just went from even, to about 4-1. I moved. Irregular steps... don't make even a semi-rhythmic pattern. Once tree to another. Crouching, stepping, lowering, stopping.
.... rattle... I can hear him loading more paint into the hopper. That's a really directional sound. It's not a rattle in the brush. Now I know where to look. There! A bit of motion.
Got him.
Down a little, to where I have a slim tree to get behind. Line up. Breath... relax, and a burst of about eight. "Hit!"
"Are you dead?"
"No," and a blast of balls comes up the hill. I was behind the tree. Conic sections being what they are, I was pretty safe. So I slipped over to the right side, and a quick burst. That one was a little low.
Step back, as the next blast comes up. Move to the left. A couple to keep his concentration from settling. A couple more, to keep him from just aiming to the right side. Back behind the tree as a dozen come ripping up to the leftish. Slide over, aim... and pour it on until he calls himself dead.
My quads ache. My back aches. My abs ache. It's funny. Most of the time is spent on your side, or your belly, or crouched; mostly at rest. But the other 20 percent of the time, it's all out, zero to sixty in a heartbeat. Like a lizard, or a bird, one goes from apparent rest to explosive motion. I have a couple of good hits, but only one bit of real bruising. There used to be a place in Santa Cruz to paintball, may I shall investigate it when I get there.
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no subject
Date: 2009-07-14 02:15 pm (UTC)One of these days...
no subject
Date: 2009-07-14 03:13 pm (UTC)-- Steve got some fun "war" stories out of it.
PS: If you're ever invited to winter paintball, wear layers. Not just to stay warm and dry, but also to absorb the impact from paint that's half-frozen in the cold...
no subject
Date: 2009-07-14 04:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-15 12:12 am (UTC)Paint Ball
Date: 2009-07-16 05:18 am (UTC)