John Tatum and George Sweat were on a small landing craft trying to deliver troops to Omaha Beach. Robert Beroth was a helmsman, in charge of loading and off-loading cargo and troops from one ship to other vessels heading to Utah Beach.

It was D-Day, June 6, 1944. The U.S. assault force filled the skies and the water off the coast of Normandy, France, and all hell was breaking loose around the three Forsyth County residents.

Beroth says he didn't have time to be afraid, but Tatum and Sweat say they remember the fear vividly.

"Hell yeah, I was scared," Tatum said, "but I did my job. We got in, and we got out."

He paused and lowered his voice.

"The tide going out was more red than anything else."

Beroth said he saw the action through binoculars.

"I could see them off-loading onto the beach, and (soldiers) were just dropping like flies," he said, shaking his head. "It was pitiful."

Times change. Tatum and Sweat spent the better part of 60 years thinking they were the only Forsyth County residents who participated in D-Day. Now they know they're not alone.

Tatum, Sweat and Beroth got together recently to reminisce about old times and shared experiences. They showed off their old pictures and pulled out information about D-Day - Operation Overlord - and they reveled in the fact that they are among those still alive.

Now that they have found Beroth, "We hope we can turn up more veterans," Tatum said.

They realize, of course, that they have much in common. All three men served on Navy landing craft during World War II. They were all in D-Day. Beroth, like Sweat, lives in Clemmons, and Tatum lives not far away, on Meadowbrook Drive in Winston-Salem.

Today, they share something else, the 60th anniversary of the day when the greatest assault force in history crossed the English Channel and attacked the Nazis on the coast of Normandy.

Beroth showed pictures of the types of landing crafts the three men served on. Tatum and Sweat were crewmen on the 158-foot LCI (L) 538, which was the smallest class of ship to cross the ocean. The LCI, manned by four officers and 26 crew members, ferried 200 soldiers on each trip. Beroth was helmsman on the 328-foot LST (Landing Ship Tank) 282, which carried machinery and personnel, and stayed 2 miles off the shore of Utah Beach.

Sweat, the 19-year-old gunner's mate on LCI (L) 538, usually took care of the LCI's five 20-millimeter guns. On D-Day, he carried a lifeline to the beach so troops could follow. His height, 6 feet 4 inches, and a lanky 165 pounds, may have been the reason he was chosen to wade through the surf.

In fact, the LCI couldn't go to the beach on their first approach to Omaha Beach, when the water was over Sweat's head.

"All those men would have drowned with full packs on," he said.

So they waited for low tide.

"I jumped off the ramp, and the water was at my chin," Sweat said. "I was the first one on the beach, and other men came after me. I was the first one back, but I also brought back some wounded soldiers. They asked if they could go back, and I said, 'If you can follow the line, go to it.'"

Sweat and Tatum saw the mines and junk that the Germans put under the water to undermine the boats, but LCI (L) 538 wasn't stopped.

Overhead, the Allies flew dirigibles that were meant to keep fighter planes from strafing the troops and their machines. Instead, the balloons only gave the Nazis a better target for their 88-millimeter guns, and the Allies cut the dirigibles loose themselves.

"My job was on the stern of the ship, putting the anchor out, pulling it in," Tatum said. "We had a tough time getting the boat off the beach."

But they made it, and made two more trips for fresh troops and to bring back wounded. Most important, they survived.

Not all of the memories are bad.

"We just had a good time, a good camaraderie," Sweat said. "We had some swell guys, plain old boys. There were not a lot of us men."

The men smiled at practical jokes pulled off by comrades. Even Tatum's nickname of "Big John" was a mild joke, since Tatum then weighed 129 pounds.

"We looked like a bunch of pirates," Tatum said, smiling at the sight in his head. "We didn't have a dress code, you know."

Tatum, originally from Mount Airy, was living with family in Stokes County when he joined the Navy in 1943.

"I was 16," he said with a laugh. "I was underage. I lied about my age."

Tatum and Sweat went through boot camp together in Bambridge, Md., and they remained friends on the LCI.

"I always called him Big John, and everybody just called me Sweat," said Sweat, who didn't know until recently that Tatum's name is Clarence Webb Tatum.

"Me and him more or less buddied together," Sweat said. "We were from North Carolina, and there were a couple more from North Carolina."

Sweat and Tatum remain friends, but their youthful memories are long ago and far away.

"It don't seem like 60 years," Sweat said sadly.

All three men are concerned with their health, and they know they see fewer fellow World War II veterans at reunions. Sweat and Tatum said that 15 men are alive from their boat, and about a dozen come to reunions.

"I just feel lucky to live this long after the invasion," Sweat said. "Most of the veterans are up in their 80s, and me and John are both close to them. We're lucky to have that experience and we can sit down and talk about it."

The three veterans said they feel the constant loss.

"We're losing a lot of our men who served in World War II," said Beroth, 79, who works to preserve the memories of World War II and D-Day and is a member of several associations for veterans.

"Sixteen million service personnel overall served in World War II," he said. "Four million are estimated still living, but we're losing 1,100 per day."

Sweat, whose namesake son was once the Winston-Salem chief of police, said he returned to the cliffs of Normandy about 10 years ago and visited the cemetery.

Sweat and Tatum say they often dream about D-Day.

"It has an effect on me all the time," Tatum said. "It affects me about this time every year."

Beroth says he doesn't dream about June 6, 1944, and that's probably because he saw the beach only through binoculars.

"I don't think of it a whole lot, not really," Beroth said. "When I look back, it's hard to realize that I was a participant in D-Day."

Sweat said he avoided watching the movie Saving Private Ryan - no point in adding new memories of a rough day.

"I've jumped out of bed many a night," he said, "when I was dreaming that we were fighting our way out of there."

Sweat suddenly stiffened as he had a sobering thought.

"A lot of us won't be around in 10 years for the 70th anniversary," he said. He paused. "I hope I am. I hope I'm around for the 150th."

His companions nodded.