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This afternoon I watched the final episode of Ken Burns’ latest film, The War, bringing to a close two weeks of rapt viewing. And in spite of the detailed depiction of the allied victory, the subsequent jubilation and triumph of good over evil–and if there ever was a more clear-cut defeat of wickedness, I do not know it–I felt a great hollowness at the series’ conclusion.

For all the valiant and heroic deeds, gut-wrenching horrors endured and incomprehensible sacrifices made in World War II, the realization once came over me that no man today could possibly prove worthy of those noble, selfless acts, and this made me simultaneously grateful for my countless blessings, and regretful that I will most probably live my entire life without repaying the incalculable debt I owe to men now old or dead.

I was awakened to these feelings years ago, in the final days of an idyllic holiday that took me to northern France, where, at the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, I was overcome with grief at the sight of seemingly endless rows of immaculate white marble crosses, marking the final resting places of 9,387 military dead, the vast majority of whom were killed at an age younger than mine on that perfect spring day. What can I ever do to earn that? Four hundred thousand Americans died in the Second World War, and millions served. They gave their very best in service to their country. All I can give is my thanks.