Theater of War

Gung ho in the Poconos

IN the vacation highlands of east Pennsylvania, down a road from the Enchanted Cottage and the picturesque Heidelberg Restaurant, fifteen guys looking like creatures from the Black Lagoon are huddled in a wood. Their sweaty faces are masked in greasepaint. Ferns and branches sprout from camouflaged uniforms. Behind mirrored sunglasses, their toughguy captain points to a gritty map.

"We'll move out in twos and threes," he growls. "Ford the stream here, then hit 'em with everything we've got. "

Somewhere in the distance an air horn sounds.

"It's ahelluva way to spend a Saturday, ' ' one of the men jokes nervously.

But the squad is off like a pack of rabbits.

What's going on in the Poconos? A C.I. A. training camp? Hardly. These would-be warriors on attack are really Cadillac salesmen from New Jersey, bused in for the afternoon to play a rival dealership in what's fast becoming an American craze: war games.

Competitive and controversial, these simulated-combat jollies are actually beefed-up versions of the old capture the flag: two teams on a large wooded field try to get their opponent' s pennant back to their own home base. Only, here, for extra fun, players use plastic CO2 guns that shoot gelatin marbles filled with red goo. Instead of tagging the guy, you shoot him.

A loud bang rings out through the woods. Whoops of attack, more bangs. "I'm hit, I'm hit!" yells someone, laughing. He holds a jelly-covered shoulder and heads back for a beer. Charles Gaines, author of Pumping Iron, first tried out the idea three years ago in New Hampshire. The battle lasted nearly three hours, and half the players "died," but the exhilaration of undeadly combat left most with a natural high.

Modifying the rules, Gaines's friend Bob Gurnsey marketed the game as a slickpackaged "team sport," complete with rental camouflage jumpsuits, guns, goggles, and referees—for under forty dollars. The targeted consumer: anyone to whom a good run amok sounds like a fun idea— jocks, frat boys, pent-up business types. The perfect opportunity to take potshots at people without pain of consequence. The first year alone, 25,000 people played the National Survival Game.

Marketed now under numerous names—N.S.G. and Skirmish are the main rivals—war games have shot their way to big business. The number of Americans who have tried them out is more than what U.S. troop strength was at its peak in Vietnam, and the creators of N.S.G. expect to gross $2 to $3 million this year.

"We average 18,000 people per weekend, playing on over two hundred game sites across the U.S. and Canada," says N.S.G. publicist Debra Dion. "Most come back for a second round. '' Though the vast majority of these are men, Dion feels certain more women will try the game when they realize how enjoyable it is. "This isn't some macho fad we're seeing. It's the growth of a national sport. ' '

Others think it's also an ominous sign of the times. Dr. Arnold Goldstein, director of the Center for Research on Aggression at Syracuse University, says such play desensitizes people, "making it easier to pick up a gun and view others as an enemy." New York artist Andrea Kovacs, an outspoken Buddhist pacifist, believes women will abstain from playing, because they're not interested in destruction. "The very concept," she says, "is hostile, perpetuating a disgraceful myth that war can everbe fun."

Clayton Smart, operation manager of Skirmish, "the Friendly War Game" in the Poconos, says it's all a healthy fantasy, about as much like real war as bumping Dodgem cars are like real crashes. "It's a PacMan game, or Star Wars," he explains, "except you get to do the fighting. "

Out there with the guys in uniform, greased like a banshee, my belly to the ground, the fantasy certainly felt 3-D. Sneaking, stalking, ducking bullets. There, by the stream, easy prey. Quietly load the gun.

Before there's time to figure out all the questions this devilish pretense prompts, splat! A bloody custard pie lands right in my kisseroo. A messy comedy, painless but perplexing.

"As far as fun goes, this ain't bad," says one tired soldier, a Vietnam vet. "But don't think you guys know a crap about war just because you've played it. "

Paul Grossman