On June 18, nine days after I sent my letter, President Harry S. “It was named after one of the builders of Rome, and Rome has lasted for centuries, and I have no doubt that my ship will last out the war.” I added, in a burst of youthful pride and bravado, “It is really quite thrilling to think that I shall have a part to play, although small, in the invasion of Japan and victory,” a remark that surely did not thrill my parents.īut luck was on the side of the Romulus crew and to countless other people-a million, perhaps two million, perhaps three million, perhaps 20 million, God knows exactly how many, who faced the specter of death and mutilation.
“I have no fear of the Romulus,” I wrote in an attempt to ease parental worry at a time when the American Navy was suffering the greatest loss of men and ships in its history off the coast of Okinawa. On that day, sitting in the ship’s radio shack, I composed a letter to my mother and father. On June 9, 1945, I was 19 years of age and a radio operator aboard a Navy ship that someone in Washington had given the improbable name of USS Romulus.
