My father would pin on the medal, tears pouring down his cheeks

From Trying to Please by John Julius Norwich.  Page 95.  

 We all looked forward to the investitures, when my father had to award decorations—usually the King’s Medal for Courage—to the heroes and heroines of the Resistance. Even now my eyes fill with tears when I think of them. Most were humble men and women from the remotest areas of France, quite often simple peasants who had never before been to Paris. Some had sheltered escaped British prisoners for weeks until they could be provided with false documentation and taken across the border into neutral Spain; others had regularly slipped out under cover of darkness to light a landing strip for the tiny little aircraft that flew from England to drop weapons, radio equipment, and occasionally undercover agents; yet others had planted bombs under railway viaducts or blown up Nazi staff cars. All, in doing so, had risked their lives. Some had been arrested and tortured by the Gestapo, but had refused to talk and on release had instantly resumed their old activities. And they were not, for the most part, stalwart young men; far more often they were middle-aged, even elderly women, who worked on the land or helped in their husband’s garage or served in the village shop. Eric Duncannon, my father’s secretary, would read their citations, his voice choking with emotion; then a small, frightened figure would step forward and my father would pin on the medal, tears pouring down his cheeks. These were, he used to say, the most moving moments of his life.