Remembering...Operation Wolf

Early memories can be illusive things. As time wears on, the perpetual grinding of the clocks' gears tends to erode into the fabric of what once was, and the lines between what is real and what is dream can often meld into an undefinable gel. But then there are the keystones, the zeniths of memory which act as the keystones to our crumbling temporal doorways. And as shoddy, broken, or chipped away as the foundation may be...it stands tall still, a verifiable monument to our own personal history. This is the story of one of my keystones. And as drink and debauchery has surely done its wager of damage on my own foundation, there is still that monument. Held tightly and standing proud.

Growing up in Jersey, it was almost tradition for the family to spend a few weeks at a time during the summer at the Jersey shore, and the place of choice was Long Beach Island. The name seemed like such a long and pretentious title at the time so we would commonly referred to it as LBI instead. In hindsight, this was probably more pretentious in itself.

It was a euphoric time for me as a teenager. A few weeks away from my life in urban northern New Jersey where I could, for a short time, live a separate life away from the banality of young life that older eyes often yearn for. School, sports, bands, fumbling attempts at stable relationships. But there, at LBI, you could almost do whatever you wanted. You were protected by a blanket of brevity. It was “no questions asked” most of the time, just to have an experience.

Things moved quickly during those interludes. Short bursts of satisfaction stringing themselves end-to-end from one week to the other. Slow days, fast nights. Stumbling among the brambles and thickets to find quiet places for one form of lust or another. Or stumbling home while trying to transfix on the center of the street after too much booze at a impromptu beach party. If anything, there was a lot of stumbling. Stumbling feet, stumbling hands, stumbling excuses. An entire youth feeling like the obtuse angles of the villains lair from an episode of Batman.

But through it all we were exactly who we wanted to be. We used fake names, fake pasts and fake excuses. We were the characters of our own creation. Always changing, and yet, always who we wanted to be. It was self-stylized tribulation with the end-goal of prepubescent gratification.

It was wonderful.

Reflecting on that time, there are two distinct memories acting as book-ends to the debauchery and zaniness filling those days. Two memories, melded into feelings, that acted like constants through those winding paths created by too much alcohol, and too much starry-eyed wonderment. The smell of the ocean and Operation Wolf.

The ocean is...well, the ocean. I could wax poetic about the salty stiffness it creates within the nose, or the wet muggy breeze that envelopes when you move closer to the waves. But all of that is cursory, and honestly uninteresting, when I would rather talk about one of the best shooter games to come out in the late 1980's.

Admittedly, and possibly even to my benefit, I didn't come across the game until almost 6 years after it was released. Crammed between the skeet ball machines and the driving simulators, it had already found company amongst the Terminator 2 and Aerosmith light gun game Revolution X (yes the latter did exist), but there was something exceptional about it even then. As much as those other light gun games were fun, there was a pretentiousness about them which seemed to put a unnatural and distracting velour over the rawness of the gameplay. They arrived later, when the idea of a light gun game had probably already played out in the minds of publishers, so it was spruced up with unnecessary pomp and circumstance to the detriment of the gameplay as a whole. Something we're seeing even today to our most beloved of franchises.

Operation Wolf however, championed the rawness of a fresh idea. A simple light-gun with a motor that would jerk back with each shot, mowing down legions of bad guys in a progressing story of hostage rescue and sweeping, vengeful death. There was something fantastic about this simplicity, and in a way it reflected perfectly the black and white world we lived in as teenagers. Any greys were of our own manufacture, and any deeper meaning in Operation Wolf was as well. The game did have a story, however. And, in fact, it was one of the first light gun games to even bother with it. As elementary as it was, it did the job. This was not a game to espouse great tales of war. Nor was it a game to look for the deeper meaning, that emotional meaning, that many developers strive for today. This was a simpler time in gaming, as it was a simpler time for us, and that in itself was the allure. Violent fun. Like fucking or fighting on the beach during those long summer nights. Each thrust, each punch, reminiscent of the light-guns' forceful kickback.

Hangovers, sand, silly crushes and Operation Wolf. Each in its own place, and each harboring its own tricks for success. There was a way to score alcohol at 15 years old the same way there was a way to take out two military vehicles with one grenade. Remembering the timing of the clip powerups, and remembering to pull-out at the correct moment. It may sound silly to correlate success in gaming and success in life the same way, but I tend to think of success as a neutral party whose definition is both subjective and fleeting. It arises in multiple forms and extinguishes itself once the next challenge has arisen. The simplicity of the challenges at that age were especially susceptible to this sway, and finishing Operation Wolf on 4 quarters felt as good as laying that hot goth girl who you met at a beach party the night before. Both requiring a tenacity and focus for success. Both offering a lingering relationship that would offer joy for years to come.

You see, Operation Wolf wasn't a one night stand either. It is, technically, the most ported game ever made having having been transcribed from arcade, to DOS, and to the Sega Master System, just to name a few. Like Pong or Tetris, it contains a sort of magic that's only actualized within the simplicity of a special time. Lacking hubris but filled with timeless wonder. Those days may have been fleeting, but Operation Wolf marched on...and still does. The ports may have stopped and production may have ceased, but the idea is still there...as is the playability. Like other classics, it has managed to encapsulate the aura of the time in which it was created. As if it held a heart filled with the essence of youth. A heart of drinking, fighting, and fucking. A heart providing an endless supply of fuel dedicated to its existence, and a heart overflowing with the memories of those who played it.

All I know is when I play Operation Wolf, I can still smell the ocean.