My mother has a vivid memory from childhood, 1959, riding in the back seat of a car with her friend as the friend's father drove them to and from school and Girl Scouts. From behind the front bench seat she would watch the father's unorthodox operation of his vehicle. The father had attached a sturdy metal or plastic stub to the steering wheel; it stuck out a few inches towards the driver's seat. When the car was aligned forward the piece rested at the steering wheel's eight o'clock position. The man would put the car into a turn by grabbing the handle with his left hand, wrenching the wheel around like a crank.
He did this because his right arm ended just above the elbow.
"Lost it in D-Day," my mother was told, nothing more, and that was all she needed to know. She never forgot; nor will I.