In 1943 on the eastern front a happy story for one but sad for many unfolded.
Outside the bunker it's hot. The heat found yet no home in the bunker. The heavy machine guns are greased and ready to nibble and bite whatever and wherever he points. To stay behind them gives you a sense of sureness. It's a sunny morning. Through the slits the grassy plain has an infinite look.
After the morning gathering, they're all waiting for the upcoming enemy offensive. Moral is high. Most of them have front line experience.
Several hours later the battle is at it's full. He shoots like crazy.
For one short moment he hears nothing, he doesn't exist. The bunker has been hit by a large shell and collapsed. The munition that was stored underground ignites and explodes. He is propelled from the reinforced concrete grave in the direction of the advancing enemy troops. Some of the soldiers, on both sides, stop as their minds tell them that there is a fast tumbling man through the air grasping half of a machine gun.
He lands on his bottom, covered in white dust mixed with blood, deaf and with obvious wounds. He has a puppet posture. With eyes wide opened he looks around,unable to move. He has no idea where he is or what he was doing. Soldiers surround him , some laugh, some say the divinity protected and gave him a second chance.
"Sprung from the grave" are the words uttered on both sides for the next month.