Steve Warner, a former monk, Marine and mad man, lives in Cleveland.
There it is.
My first week in the Nam, a Sargent who was on his second tour advised me to dig a shoe box sized hole, a deep one, in the corner of my fighting hole. If a grenade came in I might be able to kick it into that hole so the blast would mostly go up. I believed him and it saved my life. The blast shook something violently in my head and one small piece of shrapnel, the size of a BB, pierced my skull and two other small pieces tore through part of my larynx and across my face up to my ear.
I came back to Cleveland with a large scar, a gravelly voice like Willy Nelson drunk, and a small piece of metal in my brain that would be there for the rest of my life.