Today is my Grandfather's birthday. He's legally 85, but actually only 83. You see, he had to lie about his age in order to join the Red Army and fight the Nazis in the Great Patriotic War. He was in a ski battalion at Stalingrad as part of the relief force which encircled Field Marshall Friedrich Paulus' army.
At some point his company was quarantined because of a dysentery outbreak. They didn't receive adequate supplies during this time and resorted to eating a horse they found frozen in the snow.
Later he ended up in a tank company-- he was apparently chosen because he knew how to drive a tractor-- and commanded a T-34. His tank was hit by a white phosphorus shell and his leg was burned. Even today, no hair grows on the burned part of his leg.
After the war he tried to leave the army, but wasn't allowed to, so he defected and snuck over to one of the western sectors of Germany. There, in a displaced persons camp, he met my grandmother.
Stories like this are almost impossible to get out of him anymore, on account of his memory fading. He also doesn't get around much anymore and spends his days watching TV, eating donuts, and smoking cigars-- which really doesn't sound that bad.