Code name: Grandpa

Code name: Grandpa. I was sent into combat this Memorial Day Weekend. It had been more than ten years since my last tour. More than ten years since I had fired a weapon at another man. More than ten years since returning home with whelps and bruises that stayed with me for days as a reminder of just how inept I would have been as a soldier. I played paint ball. The Survival Game of Texas.

A group of 18, much younger, men from work had signed up for the mission. The draft was not necessary. At their age the excitement of splattering marble-sized balls of yellow paint against opponents at 190 mph was all the incentive that they needed . . . "Oh yeah, this will be fun", they were thinking at enlistment. I was thinking, "Play smart and just don't break anything!"

On the way to the battleground I stopped at Waffle House for a hearty breakfast of cheese-eggs, grits, raisin toast and bacon, and a big orange juice. I needed my strength for was to come in the next few hours.

Above the densely wooded combat site was a gray sky filled with ominous looking clouds. The Houston humidity was high and nickel-sized mosquitoes took pot-shots at the exposed areas not covered in camo bought earlier in the week at the Army surplus store. The swamp-like ground was thick with deep ribbons of mud from days of heavy rain and smelled of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. Clusters of fire ants floated undisturbed in puddles awaiting an unsuspecting combatant. Their attacks on our teammates would come soon enough.

The first battle was in a rain created bog lined with plywood buildings facing each other across an open area of no more than 50-feet. Scattered throughout the field in between were stacks of old tires, sheet metal barricades and other spots to shoot from behind, hide behind, become trapped behind. Playing smart for an old guy, I chose to lay back behind a building and provide semi-automatic cover fire for those who didn't mind a smarting shot to the head, torso or groin . . . yes, that did happen.

The referee blew the whistle. Paint balls began screaming past, some hitting their mark while others smacked and splattered on the buildings and props around us. Shouts of "I'm out," or "They're coming around the left" filled the air for the next 15-minutes. Finally came the ref's whistle and welcomed call, "Game Over!". My orange team had won round one, I had popped a few slow moving targets from the other side, and I hadn't taken a single hit . . . Let's do this again!

So, for the next three hours we fought in the mud and among the trees, in a wooden castle and and a simulated southeast Asian village. We fought in a blinding thunderstorm for 45-minutes with goggles so filled with sweat and rain that we had our own player pinned down for ten minutes before realizing that he was on our side.

I continued to play smart, so unlike my previous bout with paint ball, my wound count was minimal. I took a stinging shot to the left hand . . . non-lethal, so I stayed in the game. I took a glancing shot to the top of the head . . . the paint ball didn't break, so I stayed in the game. I took a shot to the thigh . . . again, non-lethal. And, most embarrassing, I took a shot to the butt . . . it didn't break, so I stayed in the game to the livid protests of the shooter Code name: Rambo/Dumbo . I was one lucky paint baller this Memorial Day.

Team Orange took five of the seven matches, and Code name: Grandpa was there to help make it happen. Cheers to the Orange, and better luck next time to the black and blue battered members of the Team Yellow.