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When the Japanese were eliminated, the shooting brought to a halt, and the American dead and wounded carried away, it was questionable whether the island served any useful purpose, even as a refueling station for B-29’s returning to their bases in the Marianas after massive and decimating firebombings of Japan’s cities. The battle there had cost the slaughter of three Marine Corps divisions, an engagement that some historians later dubbed an unnecessary waste of gallant young men and a U.S. Most of the casualties had occurred on atrocious, uncivilized islands during those jubilant months when war-weary Americans back home in the States were still enjoying the liberation of lovely, civilized Paris, thoughts of peace with Nazi Germany’s collapse, and a return to the good life.Ī substantial percentage of the Pacific casualties took place on the island of Iwo Jima, an odious volcanic nothing in the middle of nowhere. In the three-month period since becoming president following the death of Franklin Roosevelt on April 12, 1945, the Commander in Chief’s land and sea forces in the Pacific had suffered almost half of all casualties inflicted on them by the Japanese in three years of warfare. Like the Marine Corps and Army grunts on land and the Navy sailors at sea, Okinawa had scared the hell out of Truman, an old Army hand from the trenches of World War I. He decided to drop two atomic bombs-one fell on Hiroshima, the other on Nagasaki-in order to prevent “an Okinawa from one end of Japan to the other.” But Truman, an expert in the game of poker, had an ace to play. He was told that they had agreed unanimously that the invasion of Japan should proceed on November 1. Truman met at the White House with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretaries of War and the Navy. 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.