From Kabul to Baghdad, today's wars are fought in cities. So Paintball has gone urban too. Shane Hegarty embeds himself in Santry.
Aargh! I've been shot. Ping! Alright, well done, you've got me again. Ouch! That hurt! Splat! Stop shooting me! It is a grey summer's evening on a battlefield in Santry. This used to be a 20-acre playground for 4x4 vehicles and scrambler bikes, but now it's a venue for war games. This is Urban Paintball, with no trees and little cover, but open, uneven ground of ditches and hummock, dotted with car wrecks, barrels and makeshift forts. Above us, the planes take off from Dublin Airport, and they seem close enough that a rogue shot might take one of them down.
There are plenty of rogue shots. From me, there are almost only rogue shots. I have played Paintball before, earlier this year at Skirmish in Wicklow. Then, it was a quick learning curve. The whistle blew. We dashed forward. I admired these colourful things whizzing past me as if they were very rare and wonderful insects, until I realised that I was being shot at. In a moment of clarity, I squeezed myself behind a tree until they stopped, and then spent the rest of the afternoon discovering ingenious ways to get shot.
Since then, I have watched military-themed television shows with extra attention. The stealth tactics in SAS: Are You Tough Enough? The survival tips of Ray Mears. I'm ready for this. I am a man. Deep down, there is a warrior inside me just waiting for the call. All I need are some smart tactics, a cool head, and a little outstanding bravery in the field.
So, this time, before each game, our team has tactical briefings, formulates a plan. Watch the flanks. Provide suppressing fire. Shoot and move. Survive on the nutrients from ferns and moss. Then the whistle blows and we charge. And it's straight to plan B: cower behind some barrels and shoot wildly at nothing in particular. I stick my head out for a look. Zing!
Paintball was born in a New Hampshire forest in 1981 when a group of men with paint guns played the children's game, Capture the Flag, only with a little more sting. It grew quickly from there. Chunks of forest were given over to organised games. The guns became more advanced; the safety more practised. Variations developed, such as Speedball and Airball. The game spread across the world. Professional teams now compete in international championships.
In Ireland, there are several sites across the country and Paintball societies in several colleges. It has become a corporate favourite. Bosses see it is a good exercise in employee team building. Employees see it is a good opportunity to shoot their boss.
"Every group is different, but each always has a couple of lunatics," says Karl Lennon, manager of Kart City, which runs Urban Paintball. The site is close to a shop called Boyztoys, which stocks the sorts of gadgets and accessories that cannot be spoken of without the use of the word "torque".
It is three months since Urban Paintball opened, and it recently invested in protective vests to offer a little extra padding to women who want it. It's there for the boys as well, "but they tend to get slagged to bits by their mates," adds Lennon.
The Paintballs do hurt. Sometimes, they really hurt. They leave the guns at 260 feet per second, so players' bruises are displayed in between games and later develop into impressive purple welts. At this site, there is no padding for the back of the head. When you get hit on the scalp it makes the ears ring. Tonight, there is initial concern over what a bullet might do if it hits a man in a place far more important than his pride, but nobody has the misfortune to find out.
As with all Paintball sites, safety is emphasised. Before we split into two teams, a pre-game briefing includes serious warnings over what can happen if you remove the mask in a combat zone ("you will lose an eye"); if someone shouts "surrender" (you should do so, because it's no fun being shot at very close range - "it will break the skin"); and if you don't follow the rules ("you will be removed from the game").
One group of girls recently showed up in the belief that the paint squirted from the guns in a playful drizzle. They got a bit of a shock. It is not exclusively male. Women play and enjoy it and on this night in Santry there is a mixed group playing. But, frankly, this is really set up for boys. It feeds in to the disturbing male need to shoot and be shot at; to play at soldiers but with a competitive edge and adrenaline rush; to get hurt, but not too badly. Military fantasies are given a run-out. Self-delusion gets shot down. I always presumed that, if this were a war movie, I would be the humble but heroic leader. Instead, it turns out that I'm the nerdy bookworm who buys it in the second reel. I stare down at the red paint leaking through my camouflage boiler suit. That stain will never come out. The horror.
After six games of 10 minutes each, involving grabbing flags, defending forts and finding hidden ammo, everyone is pretty exhausted. Except for a speedy, weedy 16-year-old from the other team who turns out to be the son of Rambo and appears to have wiped out our team almost single-handed. Our tactics have been shot to bits, although there is a growing suspicion that not everyone is admitting to the marshals when they've been hit. Four of us are surrounded, crouching behind the barrels of our base and shooting blindly.
Suddenly, the little fella pops up on the hill behind us and yells "surrender!". We turn as one and rain bullets upon him. He ducks behind the hill, whining, "I shouted surrender! You're out!" Then he reappears and shoots at us again. We shoot back. "You're dead!" we shout. "No, you're dead!" he screams back. The air is thick with exploding paint, crackles to the sound of the guns. Paintballs thwack on bodies. Santry is hell. We should do this again sometime.
Urban Paintball is at Kart City, Old Airport Road, Santry, Dublin 9 (01-8426322). Book a week in advance for between 10 and 40 people. Games last three hours and cost €40 a head