[ WP ] An aging veteran gets dragged to a paintball facility by his grandkids . Another elderly man is there with his grandkids . The two quickly realize they ’ ve faced off on the battlefield before .

`` Scheisse! Friendly fire! Friendly fire!'' Old Man Lars, as the neighborhood brats called him, was known for his raucous zeal for life even in his old age. Hell, maybe you'd appreciate every day above the dirt, too, if you'd been pinned into a foxhole by withering 105mm fire and then held your breath as Patton's 3rd Army rolled over your head in their green tin cans of death. 
 
 Old Man Lars turned to a tiny girl about age six. She sported flowing gold locks and an impish grin. `` Frieda, ziss happens over and over! How many times must I tell you to point the barrel zat way!'' He motioned toward the enemy team who were propped against cover as he wiped a giant splotch of pink paint off his visor. `` Es tut mir leid...'' she replied softly, looking up at him with huge blue eyes. `` Yes, you had better be sorry! Or else I will tell your mutter!'' Frieda looked down sheepishly. `` Again!'' he ordered, with a stern look. 
 
 Just then a fusillade of green paint came flying his way, spattering his chest, face, and helmet. As if in slow motion, Lars stumbled backward with each impact until finally falling over. 
 
 Bewildered and incredulous, Lars took off his paint-soaked helmet in order to assess the situation and regain his senses. Over the plywood cover, he saw a shriveled wrinkled fist rise up in triumph and heard a distinctly American Clint Eastwood-esque voice taunt him. `` Ha-hah! Have some paint for supper, you Nazi bastard!'' 
 
 `` What ze...? Can ziss be? Frank zee Yank?'' 
 
 Sure enough, as Frank rose up out of cover to take aim again, Lars noticed the tell-tale scar running down the bridge of his nose and his American flag eyepatch. 
 
 `` Frank? Frank is zat you?'' 
 
 `` You bet your Jerry ass it is, Hans.'' 
 
 `` Fraaaaank. Frank, where is your helmet, Frank? Ziss is not very smaaaaart.'' 
 
 `` Buddy, your boys threw everything but the Fuhrer's kitchen sink at me. Flak fire, potato mashers, hell, one of Goering's lackeys even divebombed me. And I'm still here, dammit.'' 
 
 `` But Frank, zee only reason you survived is because your helmet protected you from my Gewehr bullet. You know zat, right Frank?'' 
 
 `` Helmets are for pansies. Pansies like you!'' Frank lifted the gun to his shoulder. Then, suddenly: `` OOF!'' 
 
 Frank was struck with a big pink splotch in the middle of his forehead, dazing him and sending him reeling backward til he crashed through a pile of cardboard boxes that were set up as cover. 
 
 Lars, still dazed and out of commission in his own right, laughed from across the battlefield. `` I told you, Frank. I told youuuuu.'' 
 
 `` I did it, Opa!'' Frieda called out. `` I did it, I did it!'' 
 
 `` Gut gemacht, Frieda! Gut gemacht!''
