[ 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 .

George Carroll was a fighter some years ago. Did a tour in some forsaken sand pit that meant nothing to no one. His memory of that war, though starting to finally fade, was one of a long boredom punctuated by terror. 
 
 He drove convoys in that conflict. He named his deuce-and-a-half `` Big Bertha'' after his wife. She did n't appreciate the name. She did n't appreciate the war. She did n't appreciate the trips to the VA when George came back. 
 
 But this was years ago, and George was old now, and both a father and grandfather. He had retired from his latest string of corporate nonsense a few years ago, and was enjoying life. Well, he was *almost* enjoying life. It was just terribly boring. There was no fight to be had, and for a fighter it might as well be hell. It reminded him of his time in the sand, and of dried blood. Not the sort of dried blood one normally sees, but the sort that sinks into the sand, drying spontaneously as it flattens. The type that becomes a *part* of the land. The type you ca n't wash off; you just need to let it die over time. 
 
 George hated being bored, and so when he overheard his grandson talking about wanting to go to this `` paintball'' thing, he shot right up. `` I'll take him'' he said. His daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, and wife both looked at him with surprise. `` Really?'' Elizabeth started. `` Sure, why not? It'll be something for me to do.'' Bertha, as wise as any other wife, caught on quickly, and shot Elizabeth a knowing glance that persuaded her more than any spoken words could. `` Oh alright. Phillip, you can go. Grandpa's going to take you. Do n't stay there too long!'' 
 
 Phillip was ecstatic. For a 10 year old boy, paintball was the closest thing to real war he could get to, and like every boy his age the allure to `` be a war hero'' was intense. He had asked his Grandpa many times over `` what was it like'' and `` how many people did you kill.'' George always gave a quiet, subtle frown and started talking about something else. 
 
 Wolf's Den Paintball was situated in a strip-mall on a decidedly sketchy part of town. Well calling it `` sketchy'' was inaccurate. It was a bit run-down, and the pavement was pocked with potholes, but nothing bad ever really happened. I mean, this *was* Greenhills, Pennsylvania, not Detroit. Everyone just called this the `` sketchy'' part because it was easiest to describe it that way. 
 
 They entered the facility. There was a shop in the front part of the building, littered with advertisements, paintball guns, paintballs, CO2 canisters, hoppers, and masks. Behind the store was the actual arena itself, which had white walls and a grey floor, with big black inflatables in a symmetrical pattern. The inflatables were speckled with layers of spatters, all different colors that must have been brighter when they first hit, but now were slowly dying like the dried blood in the sand. 
 
 One of the walls had a large viewing window, where observers and casualties could both go to watch the match play out. George sat in one of the chairs. The place was pretty empty, with only 6 or so other people about to play. There was one other man, however, sitting close to the glass, watching a smaller boy, about Phillip's age, getting ready. 
 
 He was a darker man, his skin bitten by the sun. His hair was bright white, and he had light stubble on a wrinkled face, was sand dunes in the desert. His eyes were a piercing brown that bordered on black. They always looked tired. 
 
 George was n't a talking man, but this time he felt compelled to talk, though he was n't sure why. 
 
 `` Grandkid?'' he half-yelled, but then caught and excused himself. He did n't know why he was so loud. Or was the room just suddenly quiet? 
 
 `` Yes'' replied the man with both a smile and an accent. 
 
 `` Ah yes well. What can you do? Boys will be boys.'' George said. `` Where are you from, if you do n't mind me asking?'' 
 
 The man's smile faded a bit. `` I am from Iraq.'' 
 
 The sandpit. The God-forsaken nothingness that people wanted for no reason, and once they had it, they did n't want it any more. 
 
 `` Ah. Where specifically?'' George kept. He eyed the man a bit suspiciously. They seemed about the same age. 
 
 POP! POPPOP! A spray of paintballs hit the glass near them. Both men recoiled. The paint sprayed and started flowing downward a bit. It was a bright blue color ( was n't it just red? ). It started drying on the wall. 
 
 The dark man was the first to break the sudden silence. 
 
 `` My name is Abbas.'' 
 
 `` George.'' 
 
 The two shook hands coldly. 
 
 Some time went by. A few rounds of paintball. Phillip came in a few times defeated, as did Abbas's grandson, Abdel. 
 
 During another round, while both Phillip and Abdel were in the thick of the fighting, George's old wound started to hurt. The old shot through his side would occasionally do that, mostly right before a rain storm. But this time it was different. The pain was hot, like being quickly stabbed by a fire poker. He grabbed his hand there. 
 
 Abbas saw this and his dark eyes locked on. 
 
 `` Fallujah'' he said, as though the word was being drawn out of him. 
 
 `` What?'' George asked, but he had heard and already knew. 
 
 `` I am from Fallujah.'' 
 
 George gripped his side more fervently. Abbas clenched his teeth. Their eyes met and their hearts pounded loudly in their heads. This was the second time they met. 
 
 `` So. You gave me this.'' George pointed to his side. 
 
 `` Yes. I did.'' Abbas replied. 
 
 They had been close enough to see each other that long day in the sandpit. In that day, Abbas was the victor, and George lay in ruin while he was quickly evacuated to the field hospital, his blood staining the sand. By the time George's nation was finished, however, Abbas returned to a tattered homeland brought to its knees. These two men had both realized victory, and both went home defeated. 
 
 The two remained tense and cautiously watched each other. They talked no more. 
 
 After a little while longer, Phillip came in, along with Abdel. `` That was a great shot you had!'' Phillip told Abdel. `` Hey, *you're* the one that won the round!'' Abdel replied. The two had been on the same team throughout the morning. The two were war buddies. They were war heroes. 
 
 As they were still talking, George grabbed Phillip by the arm harshly. `` It's time to go, Phillip. Now.'' he said coldly. `` Just a second, Grandpa, I'm just talking to-'' `` NOW.'' said George. His grip was stronger than he thought, and started to bruise Phillip's arm. 
 
 `` Ouch! Okay! Sorry!'' Phillip scurried to clean up and get ready. He quickly tidied up. `` Bye Abdel!'' he yelled. `` I'll find you on Facebook!'' 
 
 `` Ok!'' Abdel yelled back, before Abbas started lowly talking to him in a rough tone and a different language. Abdel's head turned quickly, and the two waited in the room. 
 
 `` Hey Grandpa, will you take me back there? Can we go back?'' 
 
 George heaved a sigh. `` Yes, Phillip. We'll go back. We always end up going back.'' He gripped his side as they walked quickly to the car.
