My grandfather on my mother’s side died when I was only six. One of the few things I still remember about him was the large scar that stretched down his leg. I can still clearly see him lifting his pant leg to show me. It was deeper than any scar I had ever seen, like a narrow canyon on his pale, hairless calf. It was an old scar. He acquired it as a souvenir from a trip to Tunisia in April of 1943 when shrapnel from a German bomb ripped through his flesh as he fought in World War 2 at the Battle of Fondouk Pass.