My uncle Robert participated in the D-Day invasion. He was a giant of a man, six feet seven inches tall. He was the only member of his landing craft to survive the landing.

He lost his mind in the fighting. In and out of army hospitals for the rest of his life. When he'd get "better" he'd be released and would spend time at our house. Very gentle man when he was "better".

I recall one day in 1961 when I came home from school, asked mom "Where's Uncle Robert" and she told me how around noon he'd become convinced that the Germans had taken the town (we lived in Vermont....) and went running off into the forest. My dad, my aunt, and the chief of police went into the woods to find him, did, and convinced him that the Germans had retreated. Back to the army hospital for Uncle Robert.

Eventually, he just stayed in the army hospital, VA hospitals. In the 1970's he was living in one in Maine and sent my mother a letter. He said that he'd been sitting in a rocking-chair watching the sunset, and Jesus had come up and put a hand on his shoulder. He wrote that that was the first time since the war that he'd felt at peace. He died shortly thereafter.

I think of Uncle Robert often, and especially on June 6.