Over the course of your life you learn many things. Some of the lessons are learned over a lifetime such as how to live in a society and be a good person. These lessons are ongoing and you never really hit a point where you can say, "I have learned." Others are very deliberate acts like learning to walk and where learning occurs in defined stages. Some lessons occur at defining points in one's life when a crisis hits. Others are the lessons that are much like the change of a caterpillar into a butterfly. No defining moment, no specific intent to learn and even though these lessons take time, you know at some exact point, you have learned. I am currently in this stage of learning. It started last year and I have no way of knowing how long it will last. All I can say is that "I have learned and my understanding is greater because of it."

Early in 1998 I was in Europe on business and had a two-day layover in Paris. I did the normal tourist type of things of visiting the sites and enjoyed the city. I took one day and made a visit to Normandy to pay my respects to the men and women in the American Military Cemetery at Colleville-Sur-Mer France. To my dismay the trip took much longer than I had expected so that when I arrived gates were locked. Not wanting this trip to be in vain, I made my way to the invasion beach code-named Omaha beach. To my utter delight I found stairs that lead to the cemetery. The beach was beautiful and the day warm as the sun was setting over the English Channel, so I set off on my adventure. I set out on a journey to climb the seemingly endless stairs to reach the summit of this hill and had my first experience of being in a 173-acre cemetery, at dusk, totally alone.

As I walked among a few of the graves, I was filled with pride that "we had conquered this hill and we had won the war." I felt proud in the fact that America had stood for what was right and had been the victor. I also had an experience where my mind went back to a statement made by George C. Scott in the opening sequence in the movie "Patton." He was portraying the great tank commander General George S. Patton.  I could see him standing in front of a huge American flag in his dress uniform, with chrome pistols and polished helmet, saying "No one ever won a war by dying for his country, wars are won by making the enemy die for theirs." With this attitude I ventured among the graves and walked into the garden of the missing. My mind went back to all I had learned about the D-Day invasion and I wondered how anyone made it off the beach alive.

As I stood the top of the hill and looked out over the landing beach, I, for the first time, realized the disadvantage that these men were under, trying to assault this area. The enemy had the perfect spot from which to exact a tremendous cost from the invasion force, and a tremendous cost was exacted.

Upon entering the cemetery I was greeted with the sight of the monument to the living and the dead, and again I was filled with pride. I walked among a few of the 9,386 graves, (four of which are women) looked at the monuments and left feeling I had accomplished my goal of saying thank you to those who were buried on that great battlefield. However, this feeling did not last long. I had the nagging feeling that I was being exposed to some great truth of life and had somehow missed the point. This feeling would quickly grow from a nagging feeling into confusion. Little did I know that this confusion signaled I had started down a path that would take me to a new place of learning. This place would help me grow to such an extent that it now feels like I have experienced a metamorphosis in understanding.

As I walked down the winding path, back to my car, confusion crept into my mind about the feelings I had had earlier. The first point of confusion centered on my use of the word "we," as in "we had won the war." I wasn't sure how "we" fit into this equation. I was also uncomfortable with the statement, "No one ever won a war by dying for his country, wars are won by making the enemy die for his." This nagging feeling that both were somehow wrong would come and go over the next year.

My real learning experience would start later that night when I stopped at a small restaurant on Omaha Beach. The hour was late and I had decided to eat supper before returning to Paris. When I entered the restaurant it was empty except for an elderly couple having dinner. The couple spoke French and beside the old man lay a dog. This didn't seem too out of place, so I sat down a table or so away and tried to decipher the menu. As I tried to order supper, the old gentleman startled when he heard me speak English. He said something to his wife and they both looked at me. I felt out of place not knowing what I had done to become the center of attention. The old man, using his best English, asked me, "Are you an American?" I told him that I was. He then surprised me when he asked, "Could we have the pleasure of your company for dinner?" I was shocked that this couple would ask me to have dinner with them. I had heard stories of how the French do not hold Americans in high regard. I replied that I would love to have dinner with them and said, "Thank you." Little did I know that I was about to begin my metamorphosis in understanding that would take me to a place of intense learning.

After formal introductions, the old man made a statement that started to change my perspective and would have a profound effect on my life. He simply said, "No American will ever have to say thank you to me." He went on to say, "I was here when the Americans landed and liberated my family and my country. I saw the price they paid. If I were to say thank you 1000 times a day for my entire life, it would only be a drop in the ocean compared to what I should say. No American ever has to say thank you to me." I was speechless. How could I respond to such a statement? I searched for the response that would be appropriate but found none. After a short silence I asked, "So you were here during the D-day invasion?" He looked puzzled and softly said, "Yes." Then like an eastern mystic teaching a student one of the great truths of the universe, he said, "Please don't call it an invasion. What these brave men did was not an invasion but rather a liberation." He went on to explain, "The Nazis invaded and occupied France, but the Allies liberated us and gave us our country back." Once again I was relegated to complete silence as I searched for something to say. But once again I found nothing.

After a short while we continued our small talk about the war years and what life was like under Nazi occupation. I told him of my father-in-law who flew B-17s out of Europe in 1944. He looked me in the eyes and spoke another great truth. He told me, "You must have great respect for this man. He risked his life over and over to free us. You must thank him for me." What a simple, but profound statement this was, for it put into human terms, that for which my father-in-law had fought.

I asked the old man, "What kept you going during those years?" Once again the learning would continue. He reached out and softly touched the wrinkled face of his wife of 63 years and said, "I had the love of this wonderful woman and I also knew that in the world, good men would never let this evil endure." He spoke with total conviction and sincerity and I knew this was from his heart. The love of his wife and a belief in the basic goodness of man kept him going.

Following this wise old man's advice; I talked with my father-in-law about his experiences during the war. I told him of my chance meeting with this couple and through our discussions I have learned to have the utmost respect for my father-in-law, G. Larry Gorr. I respect him for the moral stance he took and for the brave way he conducted himself during this very difficult time. Reading his flight diary I discovered that he had flown 24 combat missions, just one short of a combat tour. When I returned to the United States, that year, I thanked Larry in the best way that I knew how. I arranged for him to take a flight in a B-17.

He returned to a B-17 after a 50-year absence. He boarded the plane with much excitement and tears remembering the crew that was lost on the one mission that he was not present. He was sent away for training to learn the new radar navigation system and his crew was lost on their 6th mission over Germany. I watched as he passed on stories, of this time, to my children. I thought of the many lessons I had learned from him, as he talked to my children of the war. The understanding I gained from an elderly man in France and from G. Larry Gorr would be the foundation upon which my pilgrimage back to Normandy would be built.

In 1999 I had the opportunity to spend eight months in South Wales on business. Over the Easter holiday I returned to Normandy to spend several days visiting the area and exploring my feelings. As I entered the cemetery much of the confusion I had felt in 1998 returned. As I started walking through the thousands of graves, I suddenly realized why I had been confused. For over a year I had felt that something was wrong with, "We had won the war." It became clear that there should be no "we" anywhere in that statement. I was feeling much like a draft pick to a world championship ball team making "we" statements as if he had been part of the team's prior success. How dare I include myself in this victory when I had not been part of the struggle and had never been tested in battle. I had allowed my self-centered feelings to take over and I had tried to become part of something important, but of which I knew little. I had not experienced battle and could only gain a quick glimpse of the horrors of this landing through movies, books and TV. How was it that I could have included myself in the triumph of these men? A new lesson had been learned. I learned to take pride that these men had opposed evil and had conquered it. I also learned that this is an exclusive group of extraordinary people who took part in this war. I can never be part of that group but instead I should have the greatest respect and appreciation for what they achieved and what they endured. This lesson had been taught by a wise old man, a year earlier in a small restaurant. It had, however, taken a full year for me to comprehend what I had been taught.

As I walked among the rows of white crosses and stars of David I recalled a poem I had learned in my youth. In Flanders Field by Lieut. Col. John McCrae. This went through my mind over and over as I walked. The next lesson was soon to be realized.

I spent many hours walking among the graves reading names and trying to come to grips with the sacrifice each had made. While walking along a row I saw a cross without a name. I paused and re-read the inscription. It simply said, "HERE RESTS IN HONORED GLORY A COMRADE IN ARMS KNOWN BUT TO GOD." I knew that we had unknown Soldiers, but this headstone was the first that I had come across. I paused for a long time and felt as if a large load had been placed on my shoulders. I looked at the grave marker and saw it was section B row 12 grave 21. Who are you in section B row 12 grave 21? What great and brave acts did you perform before losing your life and your identity? What dreams did you have that were never fulfilled? What family did you leave that still grieve over your loss? Did you leave a wife or a lover alone in the world, never again to feel the gentle touch of your hand? Did you have children that will never have the pleasure of knowing you as Dad and also as friend?

Who comes to this spot to pay their respect and to say thank you for what you have done? Who places flowers at your grave on your birthday, or special occasion? Is your nameamong the hundreds of names on the wall of those whose remains were never recovered, or has history forgotten who you are? How can I ever say thank you for the sacrifice you have made? What can I do to show you that I have the greatest respect and appreciation for you? All I could offer was to lean down and to kiss your headstone. By this I tried to express my thanks for what you have given for my freedom. You have given so much: your life, your identity, your heritage and the ability for future generations to know who won their freedom. How can my simple act of kissing your headstone ever show the depth of gratitude that I have? I have nothing else to offer but the assurance that I will not forget you, whoever you are in section B row 12 grave 21. As I continued to walk I found many more crosses locating the graves of men "KNOWN BUT TO GOD." I stopped and kissed each headstone, 307 in total. What a sacrifice you have made. I have visited you, kissed your headstone and said thank you. You have not been overlooked or forgotten.

As I continued my pilgrimage through the graves I came across several headstones side by side with the same last name. I wondered about this so I went to the information center and asked. I was surprised to find out that 33 sets of brothers were buried or memorialized on the wall of the missing. Two of the brothers were Joseph and Manuel Arruda. They were in the first wave of Americans to land on Omaha beach on June 6th. They were assigned to the same landing craft and they went ashore side by side. Both were killed when one brother stepped on a land mine. Both now lay side by side on that same beach.

Another set is the Hobrack brothers. They also landed on Omaha Beach in the first wave on the morning of June 6th. Their company was wiped out in the first 10 minutes of the landing. Bradford was killed instantly as he left the landing craft, his body washed out to sea and was never recovered. All that was recovered was a Bible with his name inside. It had been carefully wrapped in a plastic bag. Raymond, his brother, was gravely wounded as he left the landing craft. He lay on the beach in the middle of the battle and died alone on June 6th. Bradford is memorialized on the wall of the missing among the names of 1,557 others whose remains were never found or identified. Raymond is laid to rest in the cemetery.

I was amazed to find out that two of the graves were those of the Niland brothers. The story of the Niland brothers was the basis for the movie "Saving Private Ryan." On June 6, 1944 Robert Niland had been air dropped behind enemy lines near the village of Sainte-Mere-Eglies. This was the first village in France to be liberated before dawn on June 6th. He was killed while fighting during the early morning hours on the first day of the liberation. The following day, June 7th, his brother Preston was killed in fighting at Utah Beach. During the same week a third brother, Edward, was shot down and presumed dead in the Pacific Theater. The Niland family was notified of all three losses the on same day. The forth son, Francis (Fritz) , participated in the June 6th landing at Omaha Beach and survived. By order from the Allied Command Headquarters, he was located by Father Simpson, a Chaplain, and sent home. I was pleased to find out that at the end of the war, Edward was located in a Japanese POW camp and returned home. This was some consolation to a family that had given so much for their country. As I stood at these graves I wondered how a mother could survive such a devastating loss, but more than 33 families suffered that level of loss in this battle. As a parent I don't know if I could suffer the loss of two of my children and not know the condition of a third child and make it through.What can you say to a mother who has just found out that her entire family has been lost? How futile condolences must be. How great is the sacrifice these families paid for my freedom. Not only do we owe such a debt to each who gave his life but we also owe a debt to the mother and father who lost so much. 

As I stood at the graves of these brothers, I thought back to a letter written by Abraham Lincoln. It was a letter, written to a mother who had lost all of her sons during the Civil War. It expresses the depth of gratitude that I feel.

Executive Mansion,

Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

Dear Madam,--

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.

I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,

Abraham Lincoln

As I walked away I looked around me and saw nothing but a sea of white marble. I was surrounded by markers representing thousands of men who had laid the ultimate sacrifice upon that same altar of freedom. They sacrificed everything they held dear so that I could be free. I had been living their legacy but was oblivious to their sacrifice. I will not make that mistake in the future. Your legacy lives inside me and I will protect it well for it is to be passed to my children. You have made a difference for having lived and died.

As I continued to walk along the rows of crosses, I found the graves of Ollie W. Reed and Ollie W. Reed Jr. I assumed that this was a father and son. I felt like I needed to find out more about them so once again I returned to the information center to inquire. I found that both father and son had been killed during in the month of July 1944. Ollie Jr. was killed on July 6th in Italy and Ollie Sr. was killed on July 30th in France. The wife and mother was notified of both deaths on the same day. She received the telegrams 45 minutes apart. Not only had she lost a beloved son but also she had lost the love of her life. This is a loss beyond comprehension.

Spending several hours in this cemetery I noticed that most of the visitors walked the areas close to the front and close to the sea. I felt sad that many of the graves apparently went unvisited. I committed to visit every grave in the Cemetery before I left that day. I walked the areas that seemed devoid of visitors and soon found myself at the last grave, on the last row, furthest from the sea. It appeared that this grave was the least visited only because of its location. I stood at the grave of Daniel J. Knapp from New York. You died on June 7, 1944 the second day of the liberation. I have visited your grave and said thank you for the gift of freedom you helped secure for me. The location of your grave places it where few visit but I have visited, and I will always remember what you did. You were not given a medal for your sacrifice, your name is not written in the annals of history, but I remember. I have visited your grave and I will visit you every time I return to these hallowed grounds. Neither your name nor your sacrifice have been forgotten. I have paid my respects to your grave and said thank you, so rest well Daniel Knapp, for I have not broken faith with you.

I sat for a long time in this place, listened to the patriotic songs being played by the bells in the chapel and watched people paying respect to these men. I wondered how many of these were experiencing the lessons in life that I was experiencing. I wondered how many would walk away somehow changed by this visit, as I had been changed. Did they have the attitude that "We had accomplished this," or have they gone through the life-altering change that I was encountering. Did they now have a new respect for these people, both living and dead, who paid the price for our freedom? Or, will they let this generation fade without saying thank you. I wondered for a long time if they were visitors or pilgrims.

During the next few hours I met several people. One group had two brothers who were making their first return visit to the same beaches where they had landed as liberators, 55 years earlier. One brother had landed on Omaha on June 6, 1944 and the other landed on Utah on June 7, 1944. They had faced the same fierce fighting as did the Niland, Hobrack and Arruda brothers. Both bravely performed their duty and both survived to live long and prosperous lives. What a strange bed partner fate makes. These brothers were no different than the 33 sets of brothers buried here; other than for some unknown reason fate was on their side. I tried to get close enough to hear their discussion without intruding on this emotional time. They talked about the day that had changed their lives. They talked of buddies who went ashore but never returned and tears flowed from both men as they relived the sights and sounds of that day. I talked to both briefly to ask questions, but found them somewhat reluctant to discuss these events with a stranger. I shook hands with both brothers and said, "Thank you," for what they had done. I found that the tears flowed from me. I was overwhelmed with a feeling that I had met two men who are part of the greatest generation this world has yet produced. They talked of their lives and what they had accomplished. One was a manager in a manufacturing company, and the other had a long career in a company producing fighter aircraft.

When the small talk had run out we turned and stood side by side looking at the beach where so many a young men had died. This was the view the enemy had as these men came ashore. I again wondered how anyone made it off the beach alive. I now understood why so many did not. I stood for a while beside these men looking over the beach that had seen untold bravery among unimaginable carnage and tried to compose myself. We said a polite good-bye, and I watched them as they walked slowly toward the graves to pay their respects. Each had a list of graves they wanted to visit. These were the friends that were lost during the liberation. I watched these men and again was amazed that they have lived among us for over 50 years. I wondered how many of their family and friends knew what they had accomplished. Did anyone else know the deep effect this day has had on their lives? Was I the only person that had said, "Thank you," for being willing to face death day after day? Have we, the later generations, forgotten that each one of these men faced certain death to ensure our freedom?

How could we let this generation of such brave and determined men pass without even knowing what they have accomplished? Are these men much the same as the brave man who lies in section B row 12 grave 21? History has forgotten the name of this Soldier while we have forgotten the brave deeds of the living. How can we forget to say thank you? My mind flashed back to the statement made by the truly grateful man that I had met a year earlier. "If I were to say thank you 1000 times a day, for my entire life, it would only be a drop in the ocean compared to what I should say." I realized that this is the same feeling we all should have. I realized that I am part of the next generation that has received the benefits of the price paid by both the living and the dead from this war. I have been so wrong in my thinking. As I returned to the graves I realized that a new lesson had been learned.

As I prepared to leave I noticed two couples laying flowers on a grave. Once again I tried to get close enough to overhear their discussions. I found it curious that they were French. I waited until they had laid the flowers, paused in silence and had taken pictures. I was so curious that I introduced myself and started talking to them. I discovered that they, too, were in this area during the liberation. They had lived in the area and had been present to see the toll that had been exacted on the Americans, as they came ashore. They told me that they had adopted a grave to visit and care for as a way of saying thank you. They have visited this grave and brought flowers on special occasions for over 40 years. Local people have adopted many of the graves. This gave me assurance that the price paid by these men was not in vain. The people who experienced life before and after the liberation understood the importance of the actions of these men. They have, in their own way, assured that these men have not been forgotten. These two couples are passing this tradition down to their children and grandchildren. They have tried to pass this feeling of gratitude to generations to come, "lest we forget." Rest well, fallen warrior, for the people you liberated have not broken faith with you. They, too, remember what you did and the price you paid.

After visiting every grave, I decided to leave the cemetery and find a place for the night. I found a small inn and tried to get some sleep. Sleep was fleeting that night. As I continued to think about the sights I had seen and the people I had observed. I tried to understand the emotions that were held within me. How would I ever be able to tell anyone what I have experienced? How would I ever be able to view everyday life issues the same? Was I over reacting to being somewhere historic? Were these lessons something that would fade? Would I have been willing to face the same possibility of death, as were these men? I had more questions than answers. This trip took the cold statistics of war and put them in human terms. I had learned about this liberation in school, but only as a passing paragraph in a chapter titled World War II. I wondered how we as a nation could take such an important act and so trivialize it that we have to learn about its true nature from a Hollywood movie. I wondered why we hadn't passed the true story of this war down to my generation? I felt that, as a father, I had somehow failed not only my children but also these men by not teaching my children the price that was paid for their freedom. I tried to sleep, but sleep would not come easily. I wondered what the next day would hold.

The following day I again returned to Omaha beach. It's interesting how I can put things into compartments inside of myself. As I walked on the beach I had returned here as a tourist and was somehow able to put the pilgrim aside. The emotions that had overwhelmed me the day before had been neatly slotted, folded and packed away to be explored another day. The morning was brisk but the sun was out. I had just spent two months in south Wales with only two days of sunshine, and I was determined to enjoy the beach. I walked along the edge of the water and decided to look for seashells to take home to my family. I had not been home in months and missed the noise and the hustle-bustle of life with five kids. I decided to look for some artifacts from the war that I could take home to my two stepsons. While searching the beach I once again started watching people.

This area was awash with sunlight and the chill that had been in the air earlier had given way to a warm breeze. The smell of salt and flowers hung heavy in the air. The sky was blue and all my cares seemed to be miles away. This is what I needed, a day of relaxation walking along a beautiful beach, watching kids having fun and I could once again be a tourist. I walked and watched people who were riding wind cars and play in the surf. The day was filled with the carefree laughter of children on holiday. I tried to enjoy my time on the beach and worked very hard to keep the emotions that I had experienced the day before hidden away. That was not to be, however, because as I watched the families sharing the day and enjoying each other my mind once again started to wander back to a day 55 years earlier. On that day boys, not much older than these children walked onto this beach as boys and, for those who survived, walked off the same beach as battle hardened men. They had to face some of the fiercest fighting of the liberation. They watched as the men, with whom they had trained, lived and become family to, were wounded and killed. They had to hold their position along the sea wall and watch the lifeblood of the men, with whom they had just hours before been laughing, drain from their bodies and die. They saw friends torn apart by the ravages of enemy fire and could do nothing. What emotions they must have experienced. How they must have felt helpless watching buddies die, in such great numbers, and not be able to prevent it. I now understood that every man involved in this liberation became a casualty that day, either in body or in spirit.  A new lesson had been learned.

I watched as a mother ran down the beach enjoying the company of her son. After much prodding by her son she finally started playing soccer with him. They laughed and played and enjoyed the day. Whenever the boy got a ball past his mom he would throw up his hands and yell as if he had just scored the winning goal in the World Cup finals. He ran to his mother and gave her an enormous hug as she picked him up and swung him around and around. The bond between a mother and son is so strong. I thought of the bond that exists between my mother and me. This is a bond of friendship and love that will never be broken. How many of the boys who died on this beach had this strong bond with their mother? How a piece of each mother must have died when she learned that a beloved son had been killed in action on this lonely beach. What of the mothers that had given up two sons on this beach? How much of their spirit died, never to be reborn. Even though thousands of mothers have lived through this experience, that knowledge did not make it any easier for any one mother. These men had given "their last full measure of devotion" to the country that they loved. The mothers, however, gave part of themselves that could never be resurrected. They also gave a "full measure of devotion" and somehow found the will to go on with life. Life finds a way to go on even in such loss and pain.

After a long while of pondering these thoughts, I started watching another mother with a little boy. He was running and playing near the surf as most boys at the age of three or four would do. I saw how his mother was so protective of him and watched out for his safety. She kept him from getting to close to the water and watched over him to keep him from getting into the salt marsh. She let him explore but kept him under her watchful eye at all times. She would let him venture out on his own, just not too far. The care she gave him made it clear that she deeply loved this child. As I watched, the little boy tripped over some seaweed and fell. Unable to catch himself he hit very flat. He started to cry and ran to his mother for comfort. In her gentle way she brushed off each hand and took him into her arms. He held both hands up so she could kiss them and make them better. She ever-so-gently kissed each hand and held them to her cheeks. She then leaned down and held him until his tears turned into a smile. What gentleness she had shown. What love she had given her beloved son. A mother's kiss can take care of so many hurts.

This sight was more than I could endure. The emotions that had been so neatly slotted, folded and packed away the day before began to surface and they had to be explored. I wondered how many boys had lain on this beach dying, longing for the gentle kiss of a mother.  But, among the carnage of that day no comfort was found. As they lay in the sand, dying alone, their thoughts would inevitably go back to the one, who, just a few years earlier, could make everything better with a kiss. Life feels so simple and safe when you are in the arms of a loving mother. No obstacle is too big nor hurt too deep when a mother's love is given in an abundant supply.My heart ached as I thought of the mothers who learned that one of their children had been killed, on a distant beach, when they received the telegram that each had dreaded. It would start with the words, "We regret to inform you..." How cold those words must have sounded when they were read. What heartache they must have brought. So many of the mothers would have given anything to have just one more day to play and run and laugh with their son. What they would have given to be able to protect them from the ravages of war. How their hearts must have broken knowing their son died alone and they were not there to comfort them. How they must have longed to hold their son as he died, or to have mended his wounds with a kiss. To have one last opportunity to say, "I love you," but fate had intervened and it was not to be. They couldn't be there at the end and all they had was a telegram, in a form letter style saying, "We regret to inform you..." As a parent I don't understand how a mother or a father could stand losing a child, in such a far away place, under such terrible circumstances, but thousands did. I realized that you must tell the ones you love, "I love you," often, for you never know when you might receive the message, "We regret to inform you..." The next lesson was learned.

I walked down the beach alone and longed for time with my wife and children. I saw how fast time was passing and how I'd missed out on a year of their lives. I discovered how precious the time we have is and oh, how I wanted to hold each of them and tell them that I loved them. I also thought of my parents. They have always been my rock of support. I missed them so much as I strolled the beach. I once again started wondering if I was the only pilgrim on the beach that glorious Easter Sunday. Were others walking the beach and feeling as I, or did tourists surround me? Were these people being exposed to truths in life and were they missing the point just as I had been a year earlier? Have they become so accustomed to the sight of thousands of white headstones in the center of a meticulously manicured cemetery, that they are no longer affected? Where are the pilgrims? Why weren't more people affected as I? I walked for a long time down this beautiful beach that had once been a killing field, and pondered these things. It wasn't long before I came across the unmistakable sign that another pilgrim had passed this way. I looked and saw written in the sand simply the words, "Thank You." I pondered this simple act and wondered how it was perceived by tourists.  I recalled how simple my act of kissing the headstone of the unknown Soldier must have looked to a tourist. However, I knew this act would be understood by a pilgrim, as I understood the significance of this simple script.

I left this beautiful beach and drove south to another monument to the brave and the dead. As I approached Point Du-Hoc I expected to walk through another field with carefully manicured lawns and great monuments to a triumphant army. How wrong I was. As I approached the area I paused to read the history of this place. This point had a group of heavily fortified gun emplacements that could rain death down on the liberators landing at Omaha beach. The assignment went out, to 225 Rangers of the 116th Infantry under the command of Colonel James Rudder, to take this point and hold it "at all costs." Little did anyone know what the term "at all costs" would really mean.

Early on the morning of June 6th the Rangers landed to find that they faced high cliffs that had to be scaled using water soaked ropes. As they climbed these cliffs the enemy fire blanketed the area. This fire took its toll as over 90 of the Rangers were killed within the first 45 minutes of the assault. Through the first day of fighting the Rangers took this point, located the guns and destroyed them. They had orders to hold this point until the liberators from Omaha Beach relieved them. They were true to their orders and held the point through three days of fierce fighting. On the third day of battle, forces fighting inland from Omaha Beach relieved what remained of this fighting force. 225 men landed on this point on June 6th, but on June 8th, fewer than 90 were evacuated alive. Many of these 90 men were wounded. They held this point "at all costs." What a price they paid for this small piece of real estate. With this history lesson complete, I walked onto this battlefield once again alone.

As I entered this battlefield I stopped and stood stunned at what I saw. This battlefield had not been mended or repaired in 55 years. No attempt had been made to remove the deep scars that had been left by this tremendous struggle. I looked and saw destroyed bunkers scattered throughout a virtual moonscape of open wounds in the earth. What a contrast this desolate place was from the beautiful beach and the pristine cemetery I had just left. Omaha beach was so beautiful that one could hardly comprehend the ferocity of the battle that had occurred on its shores. 

The cemetery is peaceful with its monuments made from stone and the thousands of white marble headstones standing in a carpet of green. This place, in contrast, was full of destruction and carnage. It had the unmistakable signs that a great battle had raged here at the cost of many lives. As far as the eye could see were holes in the earth that told a story of death and destruction. What a terrible price these men paid for this devastated parcel of land. I walked and wondered how many of the men who died in this place, had I visited a day earlier. Once again my mind went to the liberator that is "Known but to God," and I wondered if he was at this place. Is this the location where his life ended and he gave up so much?

I walked through the bunkers that had once housed the invaders of this country, and saw the remnants of this great battle. The walls had deep scars from the bombs and bullets that had been intended for men. The ceilings were charred, paying testimony to true horrors of war that each man faced. For many, death came in an instant and without warning, while for others it was a long and agonizing time. It was apparent that many men, both friend and foe, had died in this place. Each man, who fought, did so in hopes that they would not shrink from the task to which they were assigned and that their courage would not fail them. They each fought with valor and courage and they each were true to their task and held this point "at all costs."

As I continued on I walked the length and breadth of this place. I was amazed to discover that out of this destruction, life had emerged. Even though the scars are still in the earth, a soft carpet of grass now covers the ground. The area is teeming with life that has transformed this battle-scarred landscape into a place of rugged beauty. In the bottom of many of the shell craters now stand pools of water that are full of life. The cliffs that were paid for by so many young lives are now covered with a blanket of yellow wildflowers. The point that had seen such death is now full of life. I stood in awe at how nature has reclaimed the land that was so destroyed and has returned it to a place of such beauty. I now had a personal insight into the price that was paid for my freedom.

As I stood at a point that overlooks the sea, I wondered how many of the men who survived this battle, are much like this place. How many, in spirit, still retain the deep scars of what they experienced. Are they like this land? Life has continued for many of these men, and beauty has emerged while hidden below the surface are the scars of war. Many of these men have tried to hide these scars but they still remain. "Hold the point and any cost" was required of these men in 1944. But each has continued to pay the emotional price throughout their entire lives. I realized the price has continued to be paid even to this day. Both the living and the dead have paid a tremendous price for this small plot of land. As I left this place of devastation, I had gained a greater understanding into the violence of this struggle. I also realized that the price paid by these brave men continues to go even higher with each passing day.  Another lesson was learned.

Venturing further south, I soon found myself driving through village after village that had also been the battlefield of this war. Most of the villages have been rebuilt and bore no sign of this liberation, while the scars of war were still present on many of the homes. I saw an occasional home that had been destroyed during the liberation but never rebuilt. Innocent lives were also lost, as is unavoidable in war. Stopping to tour an old church, I walked through the cemetery. It did not take long until I found the graves of several of the liberated who also died on June 7, 1944. These were common people who found themselves trapped between the opposing forces of good and evil. They too paid the price for freedom with innocent blood. I realized that the price of liberation had also been high and the burden heavy for the liberated.

As I continued my pilgrimage south I came to the town of Saint-Mere-Eglies. This was the first town liberated in France. The paratroopers of the 82nd and the 101st Airborne were dropped behind enemy lines in the darkness of the early morning hours of D-day. The fighting was fierce but the town was liberated early on the morning of June 6th. As I approached the town-square, a strange sight caught my eye.

I saw what appeared to be a large piece of plastic or cloth that had become lodged on the steeple of a huge gothic cathedral. I had the passing thought, "I wouldn't want to be the person elected to remove that," and went on. I stopped to look around the square of this, the first town to be liberated in France. When I looked at the church again I was surprised at what I saw. The cloth on the church steeple was actually a silk parachute. Below it hung the likeness of a U.S. paratrooper who had gotten trapped on the steeple during the airdrop. I tried to find someone who spoke English so I could ask about this, but found I was alone in a foreign land. After marveling at this sight, I went into the church to look around. This church was obviously several hundred years old with its carved stone walls and high arches. As I entered the church I found a pamphlet that told of the liberation and explained about the paratrooper on the steeple.

The hour was growing late and I realized that my time exploring this area was drawing to a close. My trip was coming to an unwelcome end as the holiday was over. As I drove north, I had one stop to make before returning to the ferry and the long trip back to Wales. As I approached the Normandy cemetery I realized that once again the gates would be locked. I again walked the long flight of stairs from the invasion beach to the cemetery. I walked into these hallowed grounds at dusk all alone. How ironic, to end this two year pilgrimage, just as it had started, alone in this place. I walked once again to the last grave in the last row furthest from the sea, to pay my respects to Daniel J. Knapp. I had promised that I would always pay my respects to him while visiting this place. I then walked to section B row 12 grave 21. I stood for a long time and talked to the unknown warrior who rests below this marker. I told him of what I had seen in the small town of Saint-Mere-Eglise. I talked to him of the things that I had learned and I promised him that I would pass on these lessons to this and to future generations. I once again said thank you, leaned down, kissed his headstone and started my long journey home.

I drove in the darkness for what seemed an eternity along the deserted beaches. I would occasionally pass through a sleeping village or come upon another lone traveler. I have never felt so totally alone in my life. The only sounds were the monotonous thumps from the car passing over the sections in the road. So many thoughts went through my mind, of all that I had seen and all that I had experienced. After many hours the site of the great ship that would carry me home came into view. I loaded my car and went to the seating area and tried once again to sleep.

After the ferry had pulled out of the dock, I again found that sleep was fleeting. Even though I was physically and emotionally spent, sleep would not come. I ventured out of the lounge and walked to the rail near the bow of this great ship. I stood outside and starred into the darkness. The night was cold and the channel was covered in a thick fog. A mist hung heavy in the air. I listened to the low rumble of the engines and the sound of the sea as this ship parted it. I tried to find answers to many of the questions that I had, and I enjoyed the solitude of this time. I wondered to myself, "How can I ever show my gratitude to these men both living and dead?" What can I take away from this experience that will, in some small way, keep the loss of these men from being in vain? I must have learned something more than to realize the pain and suffering of these men and their families. I had learned so much but was it enough? Had I learned enough to justify the thousands of men that lay buried or memorialized in that place? What more could I do? I pondered these questions for hours, but found few answers.

For now all I can do is to accomplish my part by teaching my children about the great sacrifice that these brave young men and women have made. I wished that I could make a return trip to Normandy with my wife and 5 children. I wanted my children to walk among the headstones and to read the names. I wanted them to know what price was paid for their freedom. I wanted to help them understand that they still have a small window of opportunity to get to know the living from this, the greatest generation. They must know that we are losing this generation at an ever-increasing rate. If they wait to find out first hand what these men did, it will be too late. They must take the time to learn from these men and women, both living and dead, how precious, but also how fleeting life is. They must learn what dedication to a cause really means. They must try and understand what it means to be willing to give one's life to assure the freedom of a nation. They must learn that they have to be willing to look beyond themselves and be totally dedicated to a cause. But, they must temper that willingness and be very selective as to the objectives of the cause to which they dedicate their lives. They must take the time to say, "Thank you," to this, "the greatest generation."

They must never forget that thousands of men and women have fought all over this earth, at different times and in many different wars, to secure their freedom, in places with familiar names like Bunker Hill, Gettysburg, Dun-Sur-Meuse, Normandy, Korea, Vietnam, and Kuwait. These are the battlefields where their freedom was won. These were the places where freedom was paid for with the blood of young men and women. They must know that these are places where freedom was challenged by evil and brave men and women died to secure that freedom for each of them. They must learn that freedom is not free. Freedom comes by way of a very high price. All they have to do is walk through any Military Cemetery or Veteran's Hospital to see this price. They must learn that they are responsible to know the price that was paid and to never take freedom for granted. They must also learn that it is their responsibility to pass on to future generations these lessons "lest we forget." Maybe if I could help my children learn these things, then, and only then, can I say, "I have not broken faith with those who died." Sleep fallen warrior, for I have learned and I will teach future generations of the price you paid for our freedom. I hope that this will assure you, the living and the dead, that I now understand the sacrifice you have made and it will not be forgotten. I wanted every member of these generations of brave men and women, who won my freedom, to know that you have my undying gratitude for the price you have paid.

As the ship neared its port in Dover, with its snow-white cliffs and its ancient fortress, I thought back to where my pilgrimage had actually started. I realized that it had started over a quarter century ago when my Mom and Dad first exposed me to a national cemetery. It was a Civil War cemetery in my hometown of Springfield, Missouri, USA. I remember walking through the cemetery and looking at the headstones. I also remember being confused because the graves of the Confederate and Union Soldiers are still separated by a large stone wall. I didn't understand what could cause a nation to be so divided that it would kill its own young men. To be truthful, at age 42 I still don't understand. The strongest memory I have of this visit was, however, as we drove out that day, my Dad stopped and read a plaque that was inscribed with the Gettysburg Address.

Abraham Lincoln was asked to dedicate a military cemetery in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania USA. He struggled to put into words what he was feeling. He finally wrote four paragraphs comprised of 10 simple sentences containing 267 words. However, these words will live for eternity as one of the greatest speeches ever delivered. His words were few but profound, and in many ways they summed up my feelings about the place that I had just visited. Almost every American can quote the first few lines but sadly, few can even describe it's content. These few but very profound words that were spoken in dedication of that cemetery proved to me that Abraham Lincoln had also walked his own path as a pilgrim. Standing on the bow of this ship I could see the lights of Dover off in the distance and his words passed through my mind. As I remembered the words, a feeling of humility and gratitude once again came over me. My throat tightened as I fought to hold back the tears for I knew the words spoken by President Lincoln were not only for the brave men in the Gettysburg National Cemetery but they were also for a lone young man "KNOWN BUT TO GOD" in section B row 12 grave 21.

As we approached the town of Colleyvill-Ser-Mer, we saw signs of the celebration. Homes all through the area were displaying both French and American flags. We saw army trucks, jeeps and cars that had been preserved by the French people all through the streets. Men were dressed in GI uniforms and carrying American flags. The excitement and joy, that was evident, made it obvious that the price paid by the allied forces 55 years earlier had not been forgotten nor taken for granted. Parades were being held in many of the towns, the US army was staging an assault of Point-Du-Hoc, the US 101st Airborne staged an airdrop and ceremonies were scheduled. The area was electric with excitement and my children picked up that excitement.

The first stop that we made was at the US Military Cemetery above Omaha Beach. As we parked I said a quick prayer that God would help me provide the lessons to my kids in such a way that they too would become pilgrims. We entered the Garden of the missing and we talked about the names on the wall. They asked questions about the war and the sacrifice these men made. We walked through the many graves and visited the grave of the man KNOWN BUT TO GOD.  We paused to say thank you and we talked about his gift to us. We talked about freedom and the price these men paid to secure it for us. I could tell they were having trouble understanding what I was trying to say.

We walked to a terrace that overlooks the beach and encountered a veteran of this landing telling of his experience. He had a crutch on each arm because he could not use his legs. He told of coming ashore on the first day of the liberation and how he was wounded in the spine and left for dead. He told of lying in the sand struggling to stay alive and knowing his life had changed forever. He fell silent for a time then tears began streaming down his face.  Like the two brothers I had encountered on an earlier trip, he was unable to talk of many of his experiences. I watched my children stand and listen intently to what he had to say. They watched as he pulled a slip paper from his pocket with the names of fallen friends whose graves he came to visit. From that point on I saw change in the demeanor of my children. I hoped that they had taken the first steps from being a tourist and they had started down the path of their pilgrimage.

My wife and I walked along a gray stone wall that divides the lush green of the cemetery from the rugged bluffs upon which so many of these men had died. We held hands and talked of our feelings about being here. I was able to allow her into a very private place within me that few have visited. I was able to open up my emotions and let her see a very vulnerable side of me that I keep hidden deep within. I thought back to the first time that I walked in this place and how I missed having her with me to share this experience. I remembered how much I missed her company and longed for the comforting feel of her hand in mine. I was filled with such peace walking and sharing, knowing my feelings were safe with her. We walked for a while talking of our feelings and having a time of intimate emotional sharing. Having been away from her for six months I had so desperately missed this time of intimate sharing.

She shared her thoughts of what she was experiencing and I understood that she too was walking the path as a pilgrim. She too felt overwhelmed as we stood as a family to say thank you to the unknown man in a lonely grave in section B, row 12, grave 21. I understood the depth of her gratitude as I watched the tears flow down her cheek as we paused at his grave. I felt so grateful that I could share this time with my companion, my lover and my closest friend. I stood in amazement watching her as she, in her gentle way, spent time with our children to share with them what she was experiencing. She had come to this place as a tourist but quickly became a pilgrim, a mentor, a teacher and a friend to our children.

When our time had come to say a final farewell, each of our children went their own way and walked reverently among the graves. I watched as they would pause and read a headstone before moving on. What did they feel? What had they learned? Would this be just a stopover in a trip to France? Would this visit be nothing more than footnotes to an exciting vacation? Had I fulfilled my duty to my children and also to the thousands of men and women who have given their lives for our freedom? Only time will answer these questions. I could only hope that a seed had been planted that would spring up into full bloom at some point in the future. We said good-by and left this place, then drove to the beach where this drama had played out 55 years earlier.

On the beach we once again walked as a family and I talked of the battle that had raged here. I explained about the landing and how the field of fire had made it a killing ground. We walked among the bunkers that had once housed the enemy and I found myself teaching a history lesson. As we walked along the beach one of my stepsons asked, "Can we play in the water?" "Sure," I replied. These were kids in a new country on a beautiful beach. I sat down and watched my kids as they ran and laughed and played, as any kid should on such a beautiful beach.

As I watched my 15-year-old stepson, my thoughts went back to a young Canadian Soldier, Gerard Dore, who had died not far from this place. He had come ashore with Canadian forces at Juno beach, just a few miles from where we were enjoying the day. When Gerard signed up for service he lied about his age. He was 15 years and 9 months old when he joined and was just 16 when he gave his last full measure of devotion to his country. He was the youngest Soldier to be killed during the liberation. I watched my son as he played with the other kids. He was the same age as Gerard Dore. I found it hard to imagine my son or any other young man of his age facing certain death to free a continent, but this story was repeated over and over throughout all theaters of war.

As I watched my kids playing in the surf, a man came walking down the beach dressed in the uniform of US Soldier. I watched in amassment, as the people on the beach did not seem to notice him. So many men were dress in this style uniform that the sight was not uncommon. As I watched him I could picture in my mind this beach filled with men dressed just like him struggling against all odds to secure a place of refuge. I could also picture the many dead and dying young men not much older than my son. The man stopped and washed a plate in the surf. What an ironic site, a GI from 55 years ago washing his plate while my kids played in the surf around him. 

Our time was limited so we had to leave and move on to Point-Du-Hoc.

At Point-Du-Hoc a reunion was being held. The remaining men that had assaulted and taken this hill were reunited on this point. Rudders Rangers, as they were known, came to this place to be honored. Many of them had not stood on this small-devastated plot of land for 55 years. They came so a grateful nation could give them the praise and the thanks that were so long over due. Many also came to try and come to grips with what had happened over a half century ago. These are the remnants of the group of 225 men who helped change the course of history.

When we entered this place my children were silent. The devastation of this area had the same impact on them as it did when I first saw the carnage. One of my children asked with wide-eyed amazement, "Dad, what happened to the ground?" This gave me the opportunity to tell them about the 225 men who took and held this point. They had the chance to see and meet some of them. Soon they were exploring the many bunkers and craters on this apparent moonscape. They were getting a first hand experience of the violence of the battle. As kids do, they ran up and down the craters and explored every nook and corner. They enjoyed the chance to be kids, but the time was drawing near when we had to return to Britain. We had many other stops to make and other villages to visit. Our time of learning would now give way to a time of exploration. We left this place and turned into tourists.

I soon realized that even on this trip I had continued to gain insight into the many lessons that I had learned. I still, however, struggled to find the overriding truth that I was destined to learn. I worried, "How can I ever repay these men if I miss the greatest truth of all?" But, what is that truth? I pondered this for several hours until I came to the realization that I had already discovered the greatest truth of all I had discovered the great truth while watching my children, answering their insightful questions, and seeing this place through the eyes of a child. 

The great truth was learned when I gained the understandingthat we can never repay both the living and the dead for this great gift for which they fought and so many died--this gift of freedom. Freedom is the greatest gift that man can give his fellow man. Oh, how I have taken it so for granted. I have spent most of my life feeling that freedom was an entitlement instead of a gift. People have died to give me this gift. How I should hold it in such high importance but how often I have taken it for granted. This was the great truth that I had missed only a year earlier.† The knowledge of how precious this gift is has helped me understand that these men did not die in vain. Only when I live under the delusion that I am somehow entitled to freedom have I broken faith with those who died. This is what John McCrae was trying to say in his poem. 

I realized that freedom is only free to me because it was paid for by the lives of many men. The amazing part is that they gave it to me with no expectation of anything in return. A gift that was fought for and won by the greatest generation was given to me with no strings attached. My only responsibility is that I protect it well so I can pass it down to my children and all future generations. The great truth for which I have searched is that we don't have to remember the names of those who died but rather we should hold sacred the cause for which they died.

So this was the truth of life I was destined to learn on this far away beach. 

As I said, I am in a learning phase and I don't know how long it will last. All I can say, with confidence, is that "I have learned."

Late in the night as I drove toward Calais, France, I was alone with my thoughts, and I pondered this truth. Eventually I heard one of my children stir and wake up. It was my 11-year-old daughter. She and I talked for a while about everything that she had experienced and what it meant to her. I was hoping the trip was successful and that it had piqued her interest in these issues. She soon became very quiet and I thought she had gone back to sleep. From the lights of a passing car I noticed that she was looking out of the window-- just staring into the darkness. I asked, "Honey, what are you thinking about?" She paused for a while to gather her thoughts and asked, "Daddy, I was just wondering, why did so many people kill each other?" I thought for a while to find the appropriate answer. I could have tried to talk to her about global politics and of all the economic and political issues that dominated the 1930s and 1940s. I also thought about trying to explain Anti-Semitism and the plight of the Jewish people.

I had learned about these issues in college but now these answers seemed so sanitized. I even thought about giving her the pat answer to questions like this, the one about, "Bad people live in the world and sometimes they do bad things," but these answers now seem so hollow. I answered her as honestly as I knew how. I simply said, "Honey, I don't know." She paused for a long time and then made a final comment. I now believe that out of the mouths of babes pour the truths of the ages, for she leaned very close to me and whispered a statement that will remain with me forever. In her quite, soft, innocent voice she whispered, "Isn't it sad?" Then she settled back and drifted off to sleep. I pondered those profound words as I continued driving along the dark, lonely stretch of highway and in my mind I thought, "Yes it is so very, very sad." Her insight so effected me that once again I could feel the warmth of a tear as it rolled down my cheek and fell onto my lap. I knew that this trip had not been in vain and that she had gained the true insight into the tragedy of this war. I knew this because sometimes emotions make for better understanding than do words. I had learned a new lesson and gained true perspective by seeing through the eyes of a child.

Life is so full of change. G. Larry Gorr, my father-in-law, who risked his life flying 24 combat missions over Germany, is now in a life and death struggle fighting cancer. He is no longer mobile and is confined to the Veterans Administration hospital in Norman, Oklahoma. I watch my mother-in-law make her daily trips to spend every day with him, consoling him, caring for him, and loving him. My family and I visit him often and each time I see him I kiss him on the cheek, thank him, and tell him that I love him.

I walk the halls of this hospital and once again I am filled with confusion. Am I again being exposed to a great truth in life and am I missing it? The hospital staff takes wonderful, loving care of these men but sadly many are still dying alone. They sit alone and live out the last days of their lives lonely and many feel abandoned. My father-in-law is one of the lucky ones for he has the care of a loving and dedicated wife, but sadly most do not. 

I'm confused. Why have we been willing to shuffle off the defenders of our democracy and leave them to die alone? We (you and I) are living free because of these men. Did our responsibility to this generation end when we celebrated winning the war by marching the triumphant army down Main Street? Was our debt paid to these men when the last of the ticker tape was swept from the street and disposed of? This generation is dying at such a rate that the military cannot provide enough buglers to play taps at the gravesides. Taps is now played from a cassette tape. How sad that the generation who laid their lives on the line to save a nation and uphold the concept of freedom is repaid in such a way.

As I write this Epilogue it is Thanksgiving Day 2000. Thanksgiving. It is a time to give thanks to God for all he has provided. It is also the time to give thanks to those people who have given so much so we might remain free. My family and I have made the trip to the VA hospital in Norman to spend this time of family fun and laughter with Larry. I once again hugged him, said "thank you" and kissed him on the cheek. We shared this special day and were once again a complete family.

I slipped away from the family gathering long enough to walk the halls of the hospital and again contemplate the fate of these men. It was quiet and lonely in these corridors. All I could hear was the click of my shoes on the tile floor, the muffled sound of a far away TV, and an occasional call for a nurse. In nearly every room I passed lay a warrior who had fought for my freedom so many years ago. They now lay alone on Thanksgiving Day, many praying to die. I rounded one corner and came across a solitary figure sitting in a wheelchair. This brave man, who helped storm Omaha beach on June 6, 1944, the first day of the liberation, now sits alone on Thanksgiving Day and sleeps in the hall. No family came to visit him today. 

Where is the grateful nation now that he is in the final days of his life? My mind goes back to the French couple whom I met on the first day of my pilgrimage. The words this old man spoke come back to me. " If I were to say thank you 1000 times a day for my entire life, it would only be a drop in the ocean compared to what I should say." How sad they would be to see this man, who saved their nation, dying alone.

These passing soldiers have left a living legacy for all to see. They have left a legacy of service, dedication, self-sacrifice, and honor. They have made sure that we can sleep at night, never having to worry that a storm trooper will break down our door and haul our family to a concentration camp for nothing more than one’s heritage, religious belief, or skin color. Because of these men, each and every one of us has the free choice to participate in democracy through voting or even by freely voicing our opposition to choices made by our government. What a tremendous legacy they leave to us and to future generations.

What legacy will we leave? Will we leave a legacy of forgetfulness? Will we teach our children to remember the past but forget the people who shaped it? Will we show our gratitude to this generation by leaving them lonely, abandoned, and afraid? Will we lock them away to live the remainder of their days being cared for by paid caregivers? Will history record that we cared for this generation in their last days on earth by proxy? That after letting them die alone we honor these men with simply a folded flag and taps played from a tape recorder? The caregivers in this hospital are many of these men's surrogate families because their real families have forgotten them. How quick we forget what they did. Is this the example we want to show our children? Is this our tribute to great soldiers who have sacrificed so much for all of us? What a legacy we are creating for ourselves.

The men who died during this tragic war are honored forever for their sacrifice because we have cemeteries commemorated to do so. But what about the living soldiers that are now forgotten and left to die alone? How can we justify allowing the greatest generation to pass from our lives in such a way? Some day I might find the answer to these questions; however, will I be able to face what I find? Will my conclusion to this situation be the same as my daughter’s was a year ago? Her words flow through my mind when, we were driving in the darkness of night, she leaned close to my ear and whispered "isn’t it sad?"

As I said before, I am in a learning phase of my life. I don't know how long it will last but for now I can say "I have learned." I have learned that it is my responsibility to make sure this generation does not die alone. I want my legacy to be one of service, thankfulness, dedication, and remembrance. What will be your legacy?

We should honor these men and show them, through our kindness, that we remember them and are thankful for what they have sacrificed. They should be told that they have made a difference for having lived--because they have made a difference. They need us to be with them as they pass through the final days of their lives. We owe this simple kindness to them, to ourselves, and to our children. As these men are great examples for our lives, we must now carry the torch and live as an example for our children

"Take up our quarrel with the foe

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields."

The circle of life has been closed. G. Larry Gorr passed away in his sleep at about 2:00 AM this morning. I am sitting here filled with mixed emotions about his passing. I am deeply sad that we have lost a man that I loved. I am also deeply sad that we, as a nation, have lost one more of the greatest generation. He fought cancer for years and was ready to meet his Lord. His wish has been that he pass on in his sleep and today his wish was realized. Larry was a passionate man. Larry was a man who spoke his mind with sometimes-brutal honesty. I always knew where I stood with Larry. He was also a man of deep emotions. I often sat with him as he told stories of his time in WW II. He would cry when talking about the friends he lost in that global war. 

The tears would flow as he allowed me into the deeply emotional side he reserved for a select few. He would anguish over not being with his crew when it was shot down over Germany. As many men have wondered, he spent much of his life asking, “Why did I survive and my friends die?” This question was with him for over 50 years. Larry had a deep love for his family, a deep love for his country and a deep love for his Lord. But above all of this he had a total love, maybe even a consuming love, for his partner, his lover, his wife and his best friend, Rose. His love for Rose was beyond my ability to put into words. His life was filled with her love. Rose was also filled with love for Larry. Their dedication to and love for each other is something to behold.

So the circle of life goes on. I sit here getting ready to make the trip to Oklahoma City to help make the arrangements for his funeral. I just could not go without putting my feelings and thoughts on paper. I want to dedicate this writing to one of the most patriotic men I have ever known. Larry, I dedicate this site to you. I have told you many times how much I love you and how proud I am to have been allowed to share part of your life. I want you to know that I am proud of you for how you lived your life. I am humbled that you loved me in return. I thank you for laying your life on the line so my family can live in freedom. I love you and I will miss you more than I can ever express in this writing. Sleep well passing warrior for I now have reached the level of understanding that I am the generation to carry on your fight. At 2:00 AM this morning you passed the torch of freedom to me. I will carry it with pride and passion. My only hope is that at the end of my life you will look down upon me and say that I carried it well. I did my part and passed it on, undiminished, to the generations to follow. I love you Larry and I will miss you deeply.