War Games

I tripped and tumbled to the ground, throwing my arms up to shield my head as I turned head over heels down the sharp incline. Bullets breezed by overhead, spiking my already high adrenaline levels. I rolled to my feet, running in a low crouch to the cover of a clump of trees.

Once there, I dropped to my belly and, drawing my pistol, sniped at my pursuers. Two fell prey to my bullets immediately, but the rest were too cautious. When they were less than twenty meters away, I scrambled up and started to run, firing over my shoulder, trying to force their heads down.

It worked. I made it to our crude base—merely a few rooms thrown together from loose lumber, though carefully guarded. Three of my squad mates were waiting for me, supplying cover fire and helping me up the slope.

“Are you hit?” our commander demanded and was relieved when I shook my head.

“It didn’t work, though,” I said regretfully.

“Doesn’t matter. We still have a chance. At least you weren’t hit.” He slapped my shoulder. “I’d hate to lose my best sniper.”

I grinned. “Thank you. Hey, where’s my rifle?”

He turned. “Hey, Squint,” he bellowed. “Whadja do with Eagle’s gun?”

Squint—which is what he did when he forgot his glasses—pointed towards a makeshift loft. “Up there, under a tarp.”

“Thanks.” I pulled myself up, praying the boards wouldn’t give way, and situated the rifle. I lay flat on my stomach and sighted down the barrel, choosing my first target. I squeezed off a shot and pegged a careless opponent that was too close to our base for comfort.

Suddenly, what was left of the enemy decided to launch a last ditch effort—a suicide charge down into the small valley between our hill and theirs. They came running, screaming like banshees, and firing wildly. Chaos reigned as orders were shouted and ignored. Targets were hard for me to pick, since it was sometimes difficult to tell who was ours and who wasn’t. An indictment of “friendly fire” was the last thing my reputation as a sniper needed.

As quickly as it had started, the charge was over. Most of the enemy lay flat on the battlefield, sprawled where they had been shot. Three of our boys surrounded their commander, holding pistols on him at point blank range.

I scrambled down from my perch and joined my commander on the field.

“We surrender,” the prisoner stated, looking momentarily discouraged. “You win this round.” Then he broke into a broad grin. “You guys play decent Airsoft. Wanna go again?”

My commander lowered his weapon. “If you’re up to being humiliated again. I think we’ve got enough ammunition.” He smirked, then shook his counterpart’s hand. “Good game.”

All the “dead” men on the field began to rise to their feet, complaining about the dirt, congratulating and insulting each other good-naturedly, and calling out excuses for getting shot.

Our two teams regrouped and took up positions at our respective bases.