Weekend Warriors

Joe Hewett

Weekend Warriors

It had been raining for hours, ranging from a light shower to a full downpour. Mercifully, the former was the case right now, even though it was a small mercy at best. The forest floor had been transformed into thick mud long ago and my BDUs were drenched, weighing me down to a sluggish jog and reminding me of the cold weather every time I moved. I couldn’t help but wear a slightly satisfied smile though, three of my teammates had already had to turn back, their weapons falling victim to the harsh conditions, not me though. My rifle was well maintained, every moving part oiled and every screw tightened, the MP5 in my hands could carry on like this for the rest of the day without the slightest problem. The same went for the Berettas I had strapped to my thigh and chest; I always came prepared.
“I’m hit!”
The call came only three foot to my right as a small plastic pellet slapped against the shoulder of my friend. I cursed myself for getting distracted as I ducked down in cover along with the last two people left with me, seconds later a hail of automatic fire tore through the rotten bark of the log we were crouched behind. So here I was, legs coated in mud, out of breath, freezing cold in the middle of the woods holding a toy gun and being shot at. Could I think of something I’d rather do on a Sunday? Of course I couldn’t, this was my sport; this was airsoft.

For the many people not familiar with the sport, I’d often tell them to imagine paintball but to replace the guns that looked like spray cans with electric, spring and gas automatic replica weaponry that fired lightweight plastic ball bearings at high power in quick succession. Then all you had to do was replace the businessmen on stag weekends and students that had found a coupon in a magazine with a large group of like-minded men from all walks of life and you had yourself a game of airsoft.

The objective was simple enough, red team had a briefcase in a shack in the middle of the woods; they had to hold onto it while blue team, that was me, fought their way through their defenses before grabbing the case and taking it back to their base. It all sounds simple enough until you’re pinned down behind a fallen tree trading fire while outnumbered two to one. I couldn’t move out of cover for more than a second at a time before I was spotted, I was lucky if I had time to aim and squeeze off a three round burst. The two men I was with were having similar difficulties, if we continued like this it was only a matter of time before we were bested. I decided to try a different tactic, I told the two remaining people with me to lay down as much covering fire as they could while I tried to crawl through the woods to get to a better position. They agreed and I was all set to move when the man to my left started swearing, his G36 rifle had finally succumbed to the rain and mud, the deadly substances now worked so far into the gun mechanics that it lay in his arms, lifeless and pitiful. The one man still shooting from our group wore a mask of desperation and terror as he stoically tried to keep the six, continually more ferocious men from red team from charging forward. The only thing stopping them was the 30 foot of open ground between them and us, despite superior numbers, even if only one of us were firing, they would get mown down before they got half way. Their best bet was to continue trench warfare, and they knew it.

I handed my MP5 over; the guy with the busted G36 needed it more than I did. I switched to my side arm Berettas and began crawling through the dense shrubbery; I heard the continual volleys of fire getting distant as I moved off. When I was satisfied I’d covered enough ground I turned and started moving parallel to the combat, crawling as flat as I could I was soon so plastered in mud that I started missing what it felt like just to be wet. As if on cue the rain picked up again, drops pounded against leaves, ground and my back so loud that it became difficult to distinguish between rainfall and gunfire. I soon arrived where I wanted, no more than fifteen foot to the left of the enemies flank I raised myself to one knee. Six targets, 20 rounds in each of my pistols, this would be easy; I got overconfident again. One of the enemy looked up while he was reloading and saw me, I didn’t have long before he called out to the others.

I raised my pistols together; I didn’t have time to pick my targets anymore so I just aimed in the group’s general direction and fired. The two triggers mirrored each other, dancing back and forth in quick succession, each time the hammers behind them sprang forward, striking the valve on the back of their respective magazines. The high-pressure gas was freed from its cold prison to perform the two tasks it had been waiting for. First, it would impact the BB in front of it, punching it to speeds of nearly 300 foot per second almost instantly. The gas then diverted its attention to the top of the gun, the vast amount of built up pressure had to go somewhere and with the BB in front, the only way left was backwards. So backwards it went, taking the metal slide with it. With no bullet case to eject the recoil served only to push back the hammer that had only just finished being thrown forward by the spring responding to the triggers released hold. The small mock munitions repaid my hard work by finding their targets, two of the enemy went down before they had time to respond, a third watched helplessly as at least three rounds struck his camouflaged jacket, but he didn’t go down. The cheating son of a bitch looked around to see if anyone had noticed before diving back into cover, with four opponents left, I was in trouble. As one of my adversaries pointed his P90 sub machine gun at me, I could have sworn I saw the individual droplets of rain explode in the path of the guns trademark high cyclic rate. As the straight line of rapid firing rounds flew towards me, I dived to the left for cover; the stream of death followed me, decapitating the tall flowers as the dozens of plastic drones lashed out indiscriminately.

I couldn’t stay here for long, I was pinned down again and the same trick wouldn’t work twice. Then I heard a sound that was recognised by every participant of this sport. The faint rush of air grew louder as it got closer, soon accompanied by a shrill whistle as it continued to approach the sound altered as the Doppler Effect began to take hold. This all happened in under a second and before the sound could be altered completely it was replaced by a resounding crack and a call from my attacker to let people know that he was hit. I was filled with renewed confidence, we were winning this fight. That sound could only have been made by one type of gun, a sniper rifle. Due to the fact that they were only allowed to be used at long range, wielders of these specialist weapons enjoyed the perks of not only loading up with heavier rounds than their automatic counterparts, but their power could be taken beyond the legal 325 foot per second limit of the sight to a terrifying 500. The tables had turned, now we had the other team pinned down. I checked my watch and saw that we only had five minutes left to complete our objective. We didn’t have the luxury our opponents enjoyed of drawn out trench warfare; we had to end this quickly. Through a gap in the foliage, I saw that the three remaining enemies had dug themselves in, out of sight of the sniper they popped up only momentarily to blindly fire short bursts at the other members of my group. I had no easy shots any more and not enough ammo for siege combat, only one choice still presented itself to me. In the lower left pouch of my tac-vest sat the only chance I had of finishing this fast enough, the ring pull tennis-ball grenade. I’d hoped to save it for taking out the shack as it would undoubtedly be well protected but unfortunately, priorities have a tendency to shift.

With the sniper and my two remaining friends continually keeping the pressure on I had plenty of time to aim. Raising myself once more I held the grenade firmly in my right hand, the index finger of my left slipped through the metallic hoop, as I pulled the two apart the rough surface met with the chemical compound inside. Like a match, the reaction instantly sent sparks spouting from the top of the grenade like a fiery fountain. As I threw the explosive, I noticed the cheater look up at me, his eyes wide as he realised what was coming.
“Ignore this you bastard!”
All three of them lay flat to the floor and put their hands over their heads as they tried to shield themselves from the inevitable blast. The grenade landed perfectly, the short fuse reached its end almost as soon as it touched ground. Dozens of BBs flew in all directions, violently slapping against water logged clothing and protective fingers. The remainder of the red group didn’t have to say anything, I knew they had all been taken out, but now time was very short, it would take nothing short of a miracle for us to complete our task. I leapt from my position and ran headlong in the direction of the shack; the others were slightly slower, the larger weapons proving more cumbersome than the pistols I held once again. As I neared the clearing I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, the barrel of an assault rifle was aimed directly at me, I jumped to my left to avoid the shots without thinking. I couldn’t have made a bigger mistake.

As I leapt into the clearing, the shack loomed in front of me, closer than I expected I could see every gun, in every window, pointing straight at me. The game had been going on for almost an hour, these guys wouldn’t have seen an enemy yet, they were undoubtedly wound up and anxious, I had just stumbled in like a gift-wrapped target. The first to fire were a pair of M16s, the electric motors winding round as fast as the 9.6 volt batteries could manage, the owners jammed their fingers hard onto the triggers and the cross streams met on their point of aim, me. My momentum was still carrying me left as I stumbled through the clearing, each shot stinging my arms and legs as they found their mark. Then a third gun, an AK47 joined its modern American cousins, the long-standing enemies called a truce in an alliance of unrelenting assault on my soaked body. Whether it was the noise of the rain and gunfire or they just didn’t listen I don’t know, but my call of ‘hit’ went unheeded. Then a new sound joined in, one that made me forget about the continual pain I was currently being bombarded with. From the roof of the shack, an M60 roared into life. The heavy support weapon made famous by Rambo had the capacity to churn out hundreds of rounds a minute without having to stop in bursts like the assault rifles. I heard the rhythmic thud as its powerful piston fired round after round from the box magazine underneath it. Each shot impacted with such ferocity that it was easily distinguishable from the other three. People often underestimated the pain these guns were capable of inflicting and it wasn’t more than a couple of seconds before the relentless onslaught brought me to my knees. As the cannons were silenced, the last of my momentum brought me to the ground with a thud, my back splashed into the thick mud and the heavy raindrops fell like tiny bombs onto the safety goggles that shielded the only part of me truly at risk. From the shack, I heard someone call out, apologising and asking if I was ok. As I blinked my eyes open and felt my sore, battered carcass, covered in stinging welts that would eventually become painful bruises, I looked around and started smiling to myself, then, it transformed into full-blown laughter. Could I think of anything I’d rather do with my Sunday? Of course I couldn’t!