Steaks, Girls in Underwear, and Men in Camouflage: We Went to Europe's Largest Paintball Tournament

This article originally appeared on VICE Germany

I now realize that running into the house was a huge mistake. I put my back against the wall, to somehow get out of the line of fire and concentrate on the sounds inside the building. Its defenders are being massacred. I can hear their desperate pleas for backup, and then, one after the other, them going down in a hail of bullets. It is only a matter of minutes before the attackers work their way to my room—and there's absolutely no way to get out. Just as another volley of bullets starts shaking the wall behind me, my companion turns to me and whispers: "It was just like this 70 years ago. The Soviet troops back then had to fight with German soldiers for each building, from room to room. Can you imagine that?" In that moment I could—maybe more clearly than ever before in my life.

When VICE Germany photo editor Grey and I set off from Berlin to Mahlwinkel bei Magdeburg one morning back in May 2016, neither of us had any idea what to expect. The Euro Big Game was already underway on the former Soviet military base. According to their website, it's the "biggest paintball event in Europe," with well over 1,000 participants coming every year from mostly Northern European countries.

The first thing we saw once we reached the base, was a giant, dusty camp; the tents were covered in dozens of colorful flags, while hundreds of men in camouflage ran around them. We found the information tent and asked for the event organizers, as we had been instructed. A little while later, we were approached by a man dressed in head-to-toe black, who looked like a cross between Tom Cruise and John Lennon. He opened his arms and, smiling, he said, "What an insane pleasure it is to see you here!"

Our new friend was David "Reaper" Justin—apparently a huge celebrity in the world of paintball. "I travel around the world promoting the sport," the 54-year-old beamed. He also promotes his 200 paintball sponsors—the leading one being Tippmann, allegedly the greatest paintball gun manufacturer in the world. (Note: Paintball players don't call their weapons "guns," they call them "markers.")

And so we spent the next few hours with David, who led us prancing through the whole camp, while providing us with a never-ending stream of paintball-related information. For example, we learned that markers at these tournaments are all set to the same muzzle velocity; that people sometimes cheat; that Tippmann makes the best markers; that there are different types of ammo, which have various ranges and accuracies (the most accurate being obviously Tippmann's); that the paintball community is huge (and that Tippmann provides this community with first-class gear); and, most interestingly, that there was a Dutch Michelin chef among us, and that he would be grilling steaks later.

Throughout the day, it was hard not to notice the almost complete absence of women. Later, someone confirmed that only 40 women were participating in the entire tournament—topped off by a handful of hostesses who were running around the camp in crop tops shooting at each other with water guns.

After having been shown basically every stand and introduced to each of the salesmen, we started to get restless—we really wanted to see some action. So we were given two masks and two vests, but no guns. Apparently we weren't allowed to take part in the fighting, just to tag along with the Blue Team as "embedded journalists."

By that time, everyone had been split into two big teams—the Blue Team and the Red Team. Over the four days of the tournament, the Blues and Reds compete against each other in a number of individual missions to collect points—for example, they win points if they capture the enemy's flag or if they place their own in enemy territory. To achieve these goals, some of the better sub-teams develop pretty sophisticated strategies, making it all resemble real combat. If you get hit anywhere on your body or your weapon, you're out and need to run to a "spawn area" to wash yourself off and be reborn.

When we finally reached the battlefield, it was already 3 PM and the sun was blazing down on the sandy ground with full intensity. Soldiers wearing blue armbands were scurrying about at a large intersection. They were firing into the forest where you could see red armbands flashing through the trees, again and again. It all felt incredibly intense but not really dangerous, since our vests meant that nobody was shooting directly at us and all we had to do was make sure we did not get caught in the crossfire.

But that all changed when I followed the Reaper into a building. Shortly after we entered, the Reds decisively attacked the building and suddenly David and I were stuck in a room while a firefight broke out. People were firing and screaming all around us and I realized that my vest wasn't really going to protect me any more—if someone stormed the room, they would shoot first and apologize after. And these fucking paintballs really hurt when you get shot from a six foot distance. I felt like the worst war reporter of all time.

I really was a little afraid. David the Reaper, on the other hand, was amused to say the least: "Do you know what Napoleon always used to say?" he whispered to me through his black, skull mask. "Never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake!" His plan, he said, was to sit tight, let ourselves be overrun by the Reds, and then take them by surprise. Unfortunately, the plan didn't work out. After what felt like an eternity sweating in that room in silence, one of the Reds stuck their head through the door. The Reaper "executed" him, only to go down by the victim's friends in a hail of bullets. Miraculously, I wasn't hit and was very happy to get back outside.

A while later, it was time for the big finale, which consisted of ground fireworks that exploded on the playing field to make the battle even more realistic. Stupidly, the sun had warmed up the ground so much that the whole middle of the playing field burst into flames. The game was discontinued hectically and everyone had to return to their starting positions.

Despite everything, a boisterous mood never stopped dominating the camp. All these men seemed strangely relaxed and satisfied throughout our time there. People were hugging and patting each other on the back all over the place. A lot of them knew each other from previous tournaments and had formed true friendships throughout the years.

Two Swiss guys we met said they had driven for more than 500 miles to take part in the Euro Big Game. "I just think it's so much fun," one of them said. "Being outside, running around, throwing yourself into muddy trenches in your uniform—it's just amazing!"

"We spent all year preparing for this tournament," Willie, a happy Scott and leader of the Scottish Warriors, explained to me. "This is a family here, you know? We'll do anything for each other, we look after each other." A drunk Swede with viking war paint on his face, leaned on his shoulder and slurred something about wiping him out. Willie called him a "fucking asshole" and the Swede laughed happily.

"People come here for the first time, and then something clicks inside them," David the Reaper told me. "They get this stupid grin on their face and they get it. They think, "This is what's been missing from my life. And then they just keep coming and coming, year after year."

It was time for the winner to be announced on the main stage—that winner was Team Blue. The announcement was followed by a very long charity auction and then a very short performance by a few girls in their underwear.

Later that night, when we decided to leave, we drove past abandoned Soviet barracks and decommissioned tanks. And I thought to myself: "If you can let off enough steam with paintballs and markers, that you no longer want to invade a neighboring country, then maybe paintball is all right."

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