Paintball in the Redwoods
by Jim Kucharek on Mar 03, 2009
Deep in the redwood forest, fourteen of us are hidden. Most wear camouflage attire, topped off with boonie hats or head wraps. Six “new” players have joined us today; they’re not new to paintball, they are experienced speedball players. But speedball isn’t what we are going to play today. This is woodsball.
I can’t but help catch their sidelong looks as I slip into my ghillie suit. The new players are obviously a little taken aback with my “furry suit” and the rifle rag that camouflages my scoped Armotech.
“Hey, Bigfoot!” one says. “Are you some kind of sniper? Why do you wear that get-up? And what’s all that crap on your gun?”
“You can’t shoot what you can’t see,” I answer.
“Does all of that really work?” he asks.
I smile. “When we’re all done playing today,” I say, “you can tell me.”
The new guys, along with our regular player who invited them, decide to play as a team. We agree to play “Capture the Flag”: In an open patch of ground near the back boundary of the playing field, a flag hangs from a branch. The attackers have thirty minutes to touch the flag without being shot by the defending team.
The entire playing area is heavily wooded, with redwood trees scattered throughout. Looking out from the front boundary, the field slopes upward along the right side to the top of a ridge. This ridge is the right boundary. To the left, the field drops sharply down until it hits a small stream. This rivulet marks the left boundary.
As guests, the new players are offered their choice of whether to attack or defend. Not surprisingly, given their speedball background, they choose to be attackers. As such, they move off to take their positions at the center of the front boundary line. According to the rules, they must stay there until play begins. Then they can start maneuvering toward their goal, the flag at the far end of the field.
As the defending players, we are permitted to move to positions ahead of time but must remain within 100 feet of the flag until the start of the game. It’s time for us to determine who will go where.
We assume that the pending assault will be a two-pronged attack: one coming from the high ground, on the right, and one from the low side, on the left. Most likely, though, the primary attacking force will come from the right side. In addition to its high vantage point, this area is dense with ferns and bushes for cover. We decide to put three of our defenders there, on the high ground. Two others will take up positions near the flag, one on each side. A rover will move around, focusing his efforts on wherever the fighting seems heaviest. My job is to protect the low side.
The front boundary line on my side of the field is delineated by a long, deep cut in the ground. An effective attack strategy on this flank is to travel the edge of this gulch down to the bottom of the hill. This approach works well because (1) an attacking player can’t be seen from the flag area while moving down the slope to the creek, and (2) cover becomes very thick down near the creek. Using this approach, a stealthy attacker can get around behind the flag and be at the backs of the defenders without ever being seen.
How will I protect my side of the field? I remember a place where the trees and vegetation thin along the ravine just before it drops steeply into the heavy cover at the bottom of the hill. This small clearing is about thirty feet wide; it is virtually impossible to stay concealed while crossing it. An attacker must either cross the clearing to get to the bottom of the field, or move straight ahead toward the flag in the center of the field, which is even more open.
Overlooking the clearing is a small hill, a great spot for me to execute an ambush. From this point I can scan the downward slope of the ravine from my right to my left. The clearing is below me at a distance of about 80 feet. The cover to the right of the opening—the direction from which they would come— is substantial, but anyone trying to work his way down along the boundary has to pass right in front of me. What’s more, with me facing them and their back up against the gully, they will have little room for any type of tactical movement.
At the top of the rise, I find a small tree with a trunk that is split into a V-shape just above the ground. Taking a prone position with my gun in the crotch of the tree gives me a good field of fire and satisfactory concealment from anyone looking up from below. Every position has at least one weakness, however, and this one has two. First, there isn’t much cover behind me. Fortunately, though, it is unlikely that anyone will be coming from that direction. Second, once I start shooting and my general position becomes known, I will be vulnerable to a flanking movement on my right. This isn’t a major drawback either, because I don’t intend to stay here long once anyone has discovered where I am. To help prevent such a discovery, I pull the ghillie hood up over my mask and shake handfuls of redwood duff all over myself so I’ll blend in with the forest floor.
One of my teammates shouts an inquiry as to whether everyone on his team is ready. Receiving no appeal for more time, he calls to the other team, “We’re ready!”
Someone from their side shouts, “Three, two, one, game on!”
I push the button on my stopwatch and the timer starts counting down from thirty minutes. From experience I know that nothing will happen right away. Sometimes 10-15 minutes can pass without a shot being fired. Speedball players tell me they get bored by this lack of activity. I, on the other hand, find this to be one of the really enjoyable parts of the game. The sense of anticipation builds, creating an intense awareness within me as I wait and wonder: What will happen? When? Where will it come from? Every cell in my body is aware of this stillness that is soon to be shattered. All of my senses are sharpened to an ultra-heightened acuity.
This time I don’t have long to wait. I hear them before I see them. There are more than one, and they’re making plenty of noise as they move quickly down the near edge of the gully. I must not make quick movements; the human eye is very good at picking up motion. Slowly I turn my head and cut my eyes to the very right edge of my goggle lenses. On the far right edge of the clearing below me is a large redwood tree. Its six-foot diameter provides the last opportunity for concealment that any attacker will enjoy before trying to steal across the open ground.
I see a mask first. It appears from behind the redwood tree, but only for a second or two before pulling back out of sight. After a pause it appears a second time, slightly lower than before and for longer. The crosshairs in my scope are resting squarely on this player’s mask; I’m fairly certain that I can take him out with one short burst. He is not alone, however, and I want a shot at the other player too. The mask pulls back and soon appears a third time, this time for an extended look around. Twice I see him look in my direction. Both times, his head scans past my position to the perimeter around the opening and the top of the hill. He doesn’t see me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the sun glint off the chrome barrel of another gun at the other side of the redwood tree. Two of them are behind the same tree, apparently trying to figure out how to cross the open ground. The mask disappears back behind the tree on one side and, a moment later, the gun barrel disappears from the other side. The masks, the guns, and the amount of noise they are making tell me that both of these guys are speedballers.
A moment later, I see the mask a fourth time, near the ground, followed by the rest of the player’s body as he begins slowly crawling across the open ground. As soon as his body is clear of the redwood tree, I see the player with the chrome barrel pop out around the near side of the tree, directly above the player on the ground. This is a standard tactic: one player moving and his partner doing his best to cover him should he come under attack. As I watch the player on the ground snaking forward, I search for a possible third player; I can’t see or hear anyone else.
The low-crawler is about two-thirds of the way across to the thick vegetation on the far side of the opening when I see my opportunity. His teammate has become impatient, and I can see most of his upper body as he moves farther around the redwood tree, trying to get a better look at the forest around him. I have been tracking the player on the ground in my scope, and the crosshairs are resting directly between his shoulder blades. Out of the corner of my eye, I am watching his teammate’s head—when his mask lenses swivel away from me, my eye flicks back to the crawler.
I take up the slack in the trigger and fire a short two-round burst. Two paintballs break on his back. Quickly I swing the scope back to his partner, who is now firing blindly in all directions. I can hear paintballs breaking against the trees, above my head.
As I’m bringing my gun to bear on him, he stops firing and quickly dives back behind the tree. I shoot anyway. Green paint spatters against the edge of the tree as he disappears from sight.
Unfortunately, he has gotten away clean. Then I see that one of his boots is still visible. He must be having that same thought, because his foot starts to disappear back behind the tree. I fire quickly and one ball explodes against it. Our rules require two hits on an extremity (arm or leg) before it constitutes a kill. One paintball to the torso or head, however, is enough to eliminate a player. Gun hits don’t count for anything. He’s still in the game.
I watch the player who had been crawling across the clearing struggle to his feet and, while holding his gun in one hand, throw his left arm above his head and call himself out. He begins his trudge off the field toward the deadbox.
I steal a glance at my watch; sixteen minutes left in the game. The player behind the tree must be struggling with what to do next. If it were me down there, I would move twenty to thirty feet back up the ravine and then try to quietly flank the knoll, looking for the shooter. I could be seen from that side, so if that happens I’ll be forced to move.
A full minute slips by. Has the attacker somehow been able to draw back up the ravine without my hearing him? Worse, maybe he has already managed to flank me and I haven’t detected his approach. Has he spotted me? Doubts about holding my position flood though me, but it feels right to just stay motionless and trust my camouflage. I hope the hunter isn’t about to become the hunted.
Then I see sunlight glint off the chrome tip of a gun barrel, this time protruding from behind the near side of the big redwood tree, where the mask of the eliminated player first appeared. The remaining guy is still there.
Suddenly, with one hand, he shoves his gun out from around the tree and starts shooting. Ropes of paint streak in a narrow arc up the hill. I hear paintballs in the air above me. He is using the “spray and pray” offense to get me to either respond or retreat. When his gun finishes the arc, he pulls back without even poking his mask out from behind the tree. I don’t return fire. He knows I was shooting from somewhere on the hill but doesn’t know whether I’m still here or have moved off to another position.
So far I’ve heard very little firing coming from the other side of the field.
In the next couple of minutes, the gun comes out two more times. Based on his shooting spree, it occurs to me that if he fires like that again, it might be possible to hit the hand holding the gun when he’s reached the end of a firing arc. If I can pull that off, he’ll be out because of the earlier hit to his foot.
The gun pops out a third time. I wait until it has swung past my position. Then I press and hold the trigger.
Paint spatters all over his gun. Gun hits don’t count. Immediately he withdraws back out of sight. Did I hit his hand? I wait, hoping for the “I’m out!” announcement. It doesn’t come.
Four more minutes pass without any action. Then, off to my right, I hear soft sounds of branches breaking. This guy is learning. He has moved quietly back up the ravine using the tree as cover and is now trying to get to my right flank.
I begin crawling backward to my left and off the crown of the hill, away from my would-be attacker. Once the brow of the hill is between him and me, I move off about another seventy feet, bury myself in the ferns, and wait. I’m betting he’ll try to find me. There are nine minutes left. I hear periodic fire coming from the far side of the field, near the flag.
Time passes without any sign of my pursuer. Where is he? Then I get my answer. A paintball gun opens up, but it’s not close enough to be shooting at me. A second gun starts firing, but at a much higher rate. These shots are coming from somewhere near my side of the flag. Now I understand: instead of looking for me, he has done the smart thing and chosen to approach the flag via the more open center of the field.
Seven minutes left. The shooting goes from intermittent to intense, telling me that this situation has turned into a fixed-position firefight. The close-in flag defenders can’t retreat, because they are the last line of protection.
I’m running as fast as I can toward the sound of the shooting. I spot “my” attacker about 150 feet away. His back is to me as he rises to blaze away at one of my teammates. Because speedball games don’t usually involve someone attacking from the rear, most speedball players are not very conscientious about “checking their six.” I am moving faster than usual and with less cover than I would prefer but I have little choice. Using a high rate of fire to keep the defender’s head down, he is pressing forward with his attack. If he takes the close-in defender out, he will be able to make a dash for the flag.
I move to within seventy-five feet of him. His back is still to me. He is concentrating on my teammate and has made the mistake of lapsing into tunnel vision. Not once has he turned to look over his shoulder.
I raise the Armotech and brace it against a small tree. As soon as the crosshairs settle between his shoulder blades, I pull and hold the trigger. Several balls break on his back and head. He throws his left hand up and yells, “Ok, I’m hit! I’m out!”
He turns and looks to see where the shots came from. As I quickly move past him, I recognize his mask: This is the guy who asked me about my ghillie suit.
As I continue moving forward, I see yellow paint spattered all around my teammate’s fighting position. The flag is only fifty feet behind him. I crouch next to him and whisper, “I don’t think there’s anyone else in front of you. I’m going to the other flank to help out. If you see someone, start shooting and I’ll come back.”
The firing on the right side is now constant. Only three minutes remain, and from the intensity of the shooting I can tell that our foes are making a determined push to the flag. I start working my way toward the right flank.
Movement catches my eye. I go prone and freeze. Silent, indistinct shadows dart between the trees directly forward of my position. I strain my eyes to make them out. Finally, one imprecise outline moves
partially out of the gloom and resolves into a vague, camouflaged human shape creeping along the ground.
They are moving my way, and they’re moving quickly. How many attackers are left in the game? How much help will I have? Where should I set up?
I love this game…
Jim Kucharek has been playing woodsball for about five years and is currently a member of the Humboldt FogDogs. He has served in the military and as a SWAT Team sniper.