As bullets ping like hail off the hull, Andre Drouin brings his tank-like military transport to a halt. He's dead again. “We got hit by a grenade,” he explains.
As bullets ping like hail off the hull, Andre Drouin brings his tank-like military transport to a halt.
He's dead again.
“We got hit by a grenade,” he explains. “God-damned Taliban!”
Drouin, owner of Four Tracks All-Terrain Ltd., is a volunteer in Operation Valour – what's likely Western Canada's biggest airsoft tournament. He's one of some 223 people here at the Grunts Paintball field north of Morinville this Sept. 10 to shoot pretend guns in support of victims of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
Drouin is driving one of the two tank-like Hagglunds BV206s at the event. Whichever team shoots him can capture his vehicle and get its gunner, Claude Villeneuve, to rain some 3,500 rounds per minute down on their enemies using the roof-mounted replica minigun.
“They're throwing a lot of grenades and all sorts of mines and RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) at us, so it's very hard to stay alive for long because I'm a big target,” he says.
“Can we move?” asks Villeneuve, in his thick French accent, his upper half sticking out of the roof in the turret.
“Let's go! I want to go on a rampage! We've got Taliban to kill!”
Soon, Villeneuve gets his wish. The air-powered automatic buzzes like a chainsaw as it spews pelletized death. Outside, players in full camouflage gear return fire with replica assault rifles and machine guns, weapons whirring like homicidal ATMs that dispense bullets instead of bills.
Projectiles zip through the trees as men and women battle, almost invisible to each other in the foliage. Firework grenades and rockets whistle and crack. The air is full of the chatter of machine guns, the fog of smoke grenades, and cries of “Hit!” and “Medic!”
Healing war wounds
Overseeing the chaos is Scott Collacutt, founder of Operation Valour and 21-year veteran of the Canadian Forces.
He also has PTSD.
A long-time paintball and airsoft enthusiast, Collacutt says he created this fundraiser in 2013 because he knew friends who lost their lives to PTSD and was tired of hearing about that happening. Since he wanted military vets involved, he went with a combat-focused airsoft event instead of a run or telethon.
Operation Valour raises money for non-profit groups that support those with PTSD, he says. This year's group is the War Horse Awareness Foundation, which uses horses to help front-line service providers with occupational stress injuries.
PTSD is a mental condition that can develop after someone witnesses or experiences a traumatic event, reports the PTSD Association of Canada. Symptoms include fear, anger, flashbacks, anxiety, depression and aversion to social contact.
About 11 per cent of Canadian soldiers will have symptoms of PTSD in their lifetime, Statistics Canada reports.
Collacutt, who lives just outside of St. Albert, developed PTSD after serving with UN forces in Bosnia in the early 1990s. One of his first jobs was to help clear out Zetra Olympic Hall, which had been used as a makeshift morgue and filled with thousands of corpses, many of which were booby-trapped.
“We used 45-gallon drums of bleach,” Collacutt recalls.
Mortars would rain down for days on end, sometimes two or three per hour, making sleep impossible. Troops would have to listen to enemy forces rape and torture women less than a block away as, due to the UN's rules of engagement, they were forbidden to try and stop it.
“It was not something we were ever taught to deal with,” he says, and it messed up a lot of good soldiers.
“It was probably one of the worst times of my life.”
There was no place to decompress when he got back, and just one psychologist available for the whole Edmonton Garrison, Collacutt says. When he was diagnosed with PTSD in 1998 and medically discharged, it felt like the military slammed a door in his face.
“I was runner-up for soldier of the year in '93 and I had a 35-year military career in front of me. It all just evaporated with the title of PTSD.”
The smells of bleach or burning rubble would instantly trigger memories of Bosnia. He became irritable and quick to anger. He felt useless.
“It was agonizing just to get off the couch.”
With the help of his family and cognitive psychotherapy, Collacutt found life after PTSD. He started Force On Force Tactical in St. Albert (which folded due to a flood) and Grunts Paintball, and now works for Four Tracks.
The gear
Airsoft is a military simulation sport where players shoot each other with plastic or biodegradable BBs fired from model guns. The sport emphasizes realistic firearms and tactics.
You can get an airsoft replica of virtually any gun, Collacutt says. Unlike real guns, airsoft models use compressed gas or an electric piston instead of gunpowder to shoot their ammunition.
BBs typically move at under 500 feet per second, and sting like a big rubber band to the face. They don't burst like paintballs, so it's up to players to declare a hit – a fact many will not notice due to all the gear they're wearing, Collacutt notes.
Airsoft guns run for anywhere from a few hundred to a few thousand dollars, Collacutt says. BBs are cheap, with a bottle of 5,000 going for $25.
While most competitors at Operation Valour have assault rifles, many also pack pistols, grenades, and, in the case of one volunteer dressed as a Taliban elder, a rocket launcher that shoots tiny, whistling fireworks.
Collacutt says he's seen other airsoft events that use bazookas and Claymore mines that shoot scores of BBs at once. One team last year had a howitzer that could lob a football-sized “shell” some 600 feet.
Airsoft guns are not toys, Collacutt says. They are projectile weapons, and can cause serious injury in some circumstances.
BBs can draw blood, break teeth and injure eyes, says Cst. David Ferguson of the St. Albert RCMP, who took part in Operation Valour. The realism of airsoft guns can also cause tense standoffs with the police.
“Treat it like a real gun,” he says of airsoft weapons.
Ferguson says to always wear goggles when playing airsoft and to never point your weapon at someone who's not playing. Post warning signs if you're holding a match in public view, and if the cops show up, drop your gun immediately and follow their orders.
Serious fun
The troops gather around head referee Jeff Medynski, who reads out the rules.
Today's scenario pits the Canadian red team against the Opposing Force in blue, he explains. The reds attacked the blues, realized there were a lot more blues than they thought, and now have to resupply or be overrun. The reds have radios and maps, while the blues have numbers. Both have to deal with the Taliban-esque silver team, which starts with control of the big vehicles. Whoever seizes the most supply drops and blows up their opponent's command post wins.
Stony Plain firefighter Brock Adams spent most of the event picking people off from a sniper's nest using a scoped L96 bolt-action airsoft rifle.
“Loving the culture (of the sport) so far,” he says.
“Guys seem to get along really well. The last paintball scenario I was at, we had a fistfight!”
Like most players here, he cites the adrenaline rush as a big part of airsoft's appeal.
“It's exciting. You get your heart rate up, as you don't want to get shot.”
Airsoft teaches you teamwork and gives you a chance to talk to military veterans, Adams says. It's more realistic than paintball, and much less messy.
Ferguson says airsoft is a great workout, and also a good way for police to practice skills they don't use every day.
“Thankfully, it's not every day that people are shooting at us.”
Many other players at the event cite airsoft as a great way to let off steam.
For non-veterans, airsoft is a chance to play soldier for a day, Collacutt says.
“I don't know how many (people) I've heard say, ‘Oh, this is so cool! I wish I had gone into the military when I was younger.'”
For veterans with PTSD, airsoft is like comfort food, Collacutt says: a chance to get out of the home, use familiar tools and skills and hang out with fellow soldiers.
“You know that you're going home at the end of the day.”
By the end of the day, Team Canada has taken the win in a hail of faux bombs and bullets. But the real winner is War Horse, which will get a cheque for about $10,000 due to everyone's efforts.
Although he loves doing it, Collacutt says his ultimate goal is to make Operation Valour unnecessary.
“I don't want to continue to do this (fundraiser). I want the government to feel ashamed.”
Collacutt says he wants to shame the government into giving groups like War Horse the funding they need to support veterans with PTSD.
“If the government's willing to send us over into those areas, they should be willing to fix us when we come back.”
For more photos of Operation Valour see our gallery here.
