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![How D-Day stories inspired Diane Covington-Carter a photo mashup of Donald K. Johnson and Diane Covington-Carter](https://aarp.widen.net/content/vowubh6dty/jpeg/00-Hero-Donald-Johnson-Diane.jpg?crop=true&anchor=0,0&q=80&color=ffffffff&u=ovnylx&w=1140&h=655)
I was born after World War II, a boomer, and my father’s stories about his time in France during the war were as much a part of my childhood as the yellow Formica table we all crowded around for dinner each evening at 6 o’clock sharp.
My dad, Lt. Donald K. Johnson, was a Seabee, a civil engineer in the Naval Construction Battalion, whose mottos are ‘We build, we fight’ and ‘Can Do!’ The Seabees’ mascot, a bumblebee, carries a drill and a gun.
![member card Image Alt Attribute](https://cdn.aarp.net/content/dam/experience-fragments/uxdia-folder-structure/en/features/membership/inline-membership-promo/default/master5/_jcr_content/root/responsivegrid/container_copy/container/articleimage.coreimg.75.1140.png/content/dam/uxdia/membership-card-d-and-t.png)
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Dad landed in the D-Day invasion and spent five months at the Navy camp on the cliffs above the American landing beach called Omaha.
He loved to tell stories about his time in France, including how his high school French made “s’il vous plaît” come out sounding like “silver plate.” But he’d smile remembering the kindness and patience of the French at his attempts.
My favorite story was about the orphan boy Gilbert, whom Dad took under his wing. Gilbert lived next to the Navy camp with a caretaker, and Dad noticed the skinny little boy and invited him to have lunch in the officers’ mess. That became a daily occurrence, and Dad and Gilbert became so close that Dad tried unsuccessfully to adopt Gilbert and bring him home.
![How D-Day stories inspired Diane Covington-Carter two american soldiers each hold a child in their arms in a black and white image](https://aarp.widen.net/content/e4xmwrduzk/jpeg/01-1944-Gilbert-Normandy-liberation.jpg?crop=true&anchor=0,0&q=80&color=ffffffff&u=ovnylx&w=1140&h=855)
Dad’s stories influenced me in profound ways that I didn’t realize then.
I studied French in high school and college, though I lived in California, where Spanish was the more practical language. I continued studying French throughout my adult life, following a passion I could not logically explain.
Before my father passed away in 1991, we spoke about his time in the war again and he mentioned Gilbert. “I wonder whatever happened to him,” he said. He seemed so wistful, and that made an impression on me. I remembered then that Dad had traveled to Paris once, in 1972, and tried to find Gilbert but was unsuccessful.
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