A Personal Recollection -

This was written by a friend of ours father. He has kindly allowed us to publish it. Today seems appropriate.

'Along the southern fringe of the North Atlantic, 800 miles off Newfoundland, the destroyer escort, Flaherty, cruised warily in April, 1945. We were tracking down the last Nazi submarines when we learned that the President was dead.

The message came first, of course, to the radio room, and by the time the radioman reached the executive officer in the wardroom one deck below, the scuttlebutt system had picked up the news and had carried it throughout the watch; from bridge to after-steering, “The President is dead!"

To make it official and substantiate the entry in the log, the Captain personally passed the word over the public address system.

Just a few details -- when and where; Mr. Truman on his way to the White House. A little later we heard that the ensign would fly at half-mast for thirty days, and a few of us gathered topside to watch it hauled down and secured.

For the rest of that day the crew was unusually quiet. They worked mechanically without the customary banter. That night, over coffee on the mess deck, they talked of the things they had been thinking: whether Mr. Truman would be big enough for the job; whether this would slow down winning the war. Winning the war, in this sense, meant going home.

The Captain announced there would be a memorial service, and we in the ship's office dug out the pamphlet provided for conducting burials at sea. We had difficulty finding it, for it had never been used. The services were set for Sunday morning, topside. The crew would fall in at quarters.

For the previous week, the weather had been the Atlantic’s characteristic gray. Every day looked and felt the same as the one before, and night was a curtain between the acts while the scene remained unchanged. Sunday morning dawned gray again, but the glass was dropping. By eight o'clock we had a hard and steady drizzle. We knew then the services would be held below decks, in the cramped and stuffy compartments, divisions scattered throughout the ship. At ten o'clock we stood, uncovered, at attention.

The ship rolled heavily now, and faintly we could hear waves exploding against her side. We stood wherever we could find room to stand, between the bunks, and in the companionways.

The Captain's voice -- softer than we had ever heard before--came over the P. A. System, as he began a prayer. It was simple and short, and one to which all the men of several faiths could respond in their hearts. Then he spoke briefly of the President. He said that we are free to differ in our political beliefs. That we may at times, as civilians, have been in disagreement with the policies of this man, but as Navy men we bore him loyalty. To all of us gathered here on the sea, he was our Commander-in-Chief .

We mourn his loss--to the Country, to all peoples who would be free, and to the Navy which he loved.

The Captain closed with a Psalm:
"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,
From which cometh my help.”

Each man went silently back to his station, and in the roar of the wind and the sea, the sound of the Captain’s voice came back to us:
“The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in,
From this time forth and even for evermore.”'


H/T HJB