In the spring of 1943 in Germany, my grandfather, who had been separated from his company and had lost his dogtags (therefore was fundamentally alone and terrified he would be shot on sight) had finally had enough.

And punched a Nazi off his motorcycle.

To have heard my grandpa tell it, “I just suckerpunched that man right off his bike and took off down that road screaming, “What the hell! What the hell!” and I don’t even remember how fast I was going.”

So do a solid for my grandpa and punch a Nazi.