Soldier's daughter reflects on D-Day

Monday marks the 61st anniversary of the D-Day Invasion of World War II, June 6, 1944. On that day, more than 175,000 men of the Allied Forces landed on the Normandy Coast of France, opening the way for 3 million more to follow.

The invasion included more than 5,000 ships and 11,000 planes. It was the largest land and sea invasion in the history of the world and it turned the tide of World War II, leading to Nazi Germany's surrender.

Last June, for the 60th anniversary, writer Diane Covington accompanied a group of veterans to the ceremonies at Normandy as a guide and a translator. Here are some of her thoughts about the journey.

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Tom Brokaw called them the greatest generation. They arrived on the shores of Normandy 61 years ago, young, strong and determined soldiers. They did their assigned jobs with courage and valor. Hundreds of thousands of them died, never to return home to America.

Last June, I traveled to France for the 60th anniversary of D-Day with eight veteran Rangers and their families and friends. The Rangers, elite army commandos, climbed the 100-foot cliffs at Pointe du Hoc, straight up into the fury of the Germans.

I also went to honor my dad, who landed on D-Day and was never able to return to Normandy.

During the many ceremonies, the veterans stood at attention, saluting. Their shoulders were stooped with age; they couldn't stand as straight and tall as they had all those years ago. But you could see the pride in the way they held their bodies. You could see the soldiers they had been.

They shook hands, signed autographs, and posed for photos. The jet lag was hard. The sun was hot. The hours were long. But they were in their glory and everyone wanted them to have it.

These were men who were raised not to cry. They would quietly wipe away a tear as they leaned down close to read the name on a white cross in the cemetery, remembering someone they had lost in the war.

Most of them were born in the early '20s, a time of model-T Fords and farms. Women had just received the right to vote. Life was simpler then, more black and white. It was a life without television, computers or the Internet.

On our tour, most of our veterans had family with them. I'll never forget watching a 23-year-old grandson with his grandpa. They'd walk together, the handsome young man guiding his grandpa's slow steps, his hand on his back. His grandson was the age he had been during the war. You could see their resemblance, separated by 60 years.

One veteran on our tour came alone. His wife had gotten sick at the last minute and couldn't come. He had no children. Everyone on the tour worked together to look out for him. We had to cajole him to ride in the wheelchair so he wouldn't tire out. We had to make sure he drank water and didn't get too much sun.

He had been trained to not show weakness. His tall, bony frame looked fragile. But when I'd hold his hand, he'd squeeze it hard. His eyes blazed with determination and the wonder of being back in France.

My father's stories of the Normandy Invasion were not about war, per se, but about relationships. Sixty years later, I came home telling stories about the relationships I experienced in Normandy. Between the veterans and their families, between the young and the old, between the French and the Americans.

The returning veterans had stories to tell at their Veterans of Foreign War meetings. Their long-time friends would lean in close, hands cupped over their ears, to catch all the details of the powerful journey.

For the rest of us who were on the trip, we'll never forget that we were there with them that one last time.

I think we're fascinated with World War II because it was a display of courage by so many ordinary men. In the face of danger and death, they did the right thing. Not only the right thing, but the heroic thing.

I think we're fascinated with the story because we want to believe that we all have the capacity within us to be heroes, to be great, to be courageous, even in the face of death.

World War II veterans are dying at the rate of 1,000 per day. While they are still here with us, we have the chance to ask them questions and to listen. To thank them.

They gave us so much. Now it is our turn to give back to them.

And if you look into their eyes, you can see who they were.

It's right there. You just have to look.

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Diane Covington lives in Nevada City.