Why I Wrote About a WWII Veteran Who Isn’t a Hero

My Dad.

Today, on the anniversary of the D-Day invasion, I reflect on the unimaginable courage of those who crossed the sky and the sea to reach the shores of France—young men who stepped into a storm of terror with no promise of return. Their sacrifice deserves our reverence.

William Cook, the protagonist of A Warhorse Fallen, was one of those men. A decorated WWII veteran, he saved lives and nearly lost his own. But when the war ended, he faced a different kind of battle—the struggle to care for his family, to forgive himself, and to live with the quiet guilt of not always getting it right. Even after he took in his granddaughter following his daughter’s murder, that guilt never left him.

William’s story was inspired by my own father, a man who served honorably in the war but carried burdens that uniform and medals could never lighten. Like many of his generation, he was hailed as a hero—but heroism often meant silence, suppression, and stoic suffering. In writing A Warhorse Fallen, I wanted to explore that deeper truth: that even the “Greatest Generation” had cracks in their armor.

We like to say “heroes live among us,” but sometimes we forget what that really means. Heroism isn’t found in memes or moral grandstanding—it’s in the daily reckoning with pain, responsibility, and love.

In the end, maybe none of us are heroes in the mythic sense. But all of us, in the quiet endurance of our struggles, have the potential to be.