Hero, is a word that gets thrown around a lot in the press. More often than not, it's just hyperbole. Reporters who are under deadline pressure search their caffeine addled brains for an adjective that implies nobility, or bravery. They run to “hero” like a fat kid runs after the neighborhood ice-cream truck during summer vacation – without grace or accuracy.

I don't think you can reasonably call someone a hero if the only person they were trying to save from a predicament is themselves. I'm pretty sure the word is misused when it's being used to describe someone who is extricating themselves from a dangerous position they put themselves in through carelessness, or stupidity. To be honest, I'm not even sure it can be used with confidence to describe a cop or a fireman who saves a truly innocent person from real danger. After all, that's at least theoretically part of the job description. So while I appreciate and applaud the effort, and while my admiration for any man or woman who willingly puts themselves at risk for others – I'm really not sure where the line is on this one.

The more I think about it, the harder it is to come up with a line to demarcate the difference between true heroism, selfless commitment to a job, or just lucky bastards who are lucky enough to get themselves out of a jam.

This past weekend has muddied the waters even further for me. Because I spent Friday and Saturday as the moderator of an event that dealt with D-Day (June 6, 1944) and the men who played a personal role in the battle. Now it's worth noting that this was the largest military invasion force ever amassed by humans. Literally hundreds of thousands of people were involved, as well as thousands of boats, ships, airplanes, tanks, and a wide assortment of what Arlo Guthrie would almost certainly describe with absolute accuracy, implements of destruction.

Destruction as the name of the game, to be sure. And that's where I find myself searching for the right word. Certainly there were heroic efforts made on both sides. The political goals of the administrations that started this whole brew-ha-ha are immaterial in that respect, I think. Men really did throw themselves on grenades to shield their buddies from the blast. Now that's heroic, in my book. It's also pretty rare, as real heroism tends to be. But heroism did exist, and it speaks English, German, French, Italian, and every other language on the planet. Heroism knows no limits in that respect.

But I digress.

The men I spent the weekend with are old, now. They're still sharp, proud, and undeniably human. That's obvious when they talk about their time in the war. The speak well of others, and almost always downplay their own contribution to the cause. But they break down, too. In the middle of what may appear to be a benign story about marching from point A to point B, the voice will break, a long pause will follow, and then the words, “I'm sorry – I have to stop now.”

There's a lot going on inside those heads. Memories are spilling over the floodgates of the mind, exposing raw nerves and providing brutally colorful images of incidents that happened long ago, but that can never be fully excised from the memory, or blocked from the laser sharp view of the mind's eye.

One of the men I spent time with landed on the beach at Normandy. However he didn't run down the ramp of a Higgins boat. He was launched through the air after his boat was either hit by artillery, or destroyed by a mine. Many of the men who had been nervously awaiting their turn to lunge onto the beach never got the chance. They were dead before the boat got to its destination.

Another was a paratrooper who dropped into France in the dark of night. His feet touched down ten miles away from his point of intended landing, and only 4 of the 14 men in his airplane met up on the ground. The others were either drowned after landing in flooded fields, shot while still under their canopies, or lost in the dark along with thousands of their peers.

One man told the story of his friend, Tommy. Tommy was a good looking kid from out west. He was small, but he was tough. And one evening while working their way up towards and enemy position, Tommy found himself on the receiving end of a German 88 shell that blew him to smithereens, leaving parts of him all over the landscape. The man telling the story was standing no more than thirty feet away when the shell hit. He saw his friend's obliteration from right up close.

Now I'm not sure any of these guys can be truly called a hero. They fought for what they believed in, as did their adversaries. And they did their best to protect their buddies. But they will all tell you in complete honesty that they're main motivation was survival. That basic human instinct took over and drove them throughout the war, until the war was over, or they were wounded so badly they couldn't continue.

One fellow spent more than a year in a hospital recuperating from his wounds. He was awarded 7 Purple Hearts. Even at his advanced age, he's damn sure tougher and more courageous than I was on my best day.

They wouldn't call themselves heros. And I'm not sure I can either. The word just doesn't feel right attached to their names. But they're absolute giants on the scale of men who deserve my respect, though. I'm glad I had the opportunity to meet them.

Giants. Yeah, that sounds about right.