There’s a story my dad used to tell about his father, my grandfather, during World War II.
My grandfather, who was in the Chinese resistance against the Japanese, had to get my grandmother and some relatives to Quezon, where they would be safe. He found a sedan, stuffed 16 people, including my grandmother and her infant son (my eldest uncle), inside, and sent it off to Quezon while he traveled to the province on foot.
I’m not sure if it was during this journey that a grenade went off nearby, a piece of shrapnel grazing his cheek. In any case, the wound healed, to the point where we grandkids didn't notice anything physically different.
I only knew my grandfather as a quiet, kind man, so it was a nice surprise to learn that he had the heart of a hero as well.