The trip was three days, two nights in Rome for $37. I got in the line on the mess decks and paid the money. I was one of 300 lucky sailors out of the 4,200 on the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt who bought a ticket. The trip was scheduled for Easter weekend, March 31 to April 2, 1972.
Reveille was at 0500, but most of us were already awake. We would be taking the liberty boats from the aircraft carrier to shore starting at 6. The plan was to board the buses by 7 so we could be in St. Peter’s Square in an hour. There were plenty of activities on the docket, and the Navy likes to be on time for all of them.
It was exciting riding the school bus again. I looked at the bus capacity on the side as I entered. It had the usual number of 59. We easily exceeded that with at least a dozen standing in the aisle. As we entered the roundabout in Vatican City, two cars collided with our bus on the left rear side. I was sitting in the section where the cars hit. None of us were injured. I can still hear those Italian sirens rushing to the scene. Most sailors scattered in all the confusion. I was one of the last off the bus with my friend Mark Riley of Des Moines.
In 2020, on Good Friday, there is a Papal Mass at the Vatican in Saint Peter’s Basilica at 5 p.m. In 1972, the ceremonies started at one. Mark and I worked our way through the lines and got in the church. I stood next to the last pew on the right and Mark was behind me. The average age in the Basilica was at least 75. I doubt the fire marshal was in attendance.
The service was long. Pope Paul VI spoke in eight languages. I remember only a few words in English. I knew a little Latin, but very little. The women next to me were asking, “What did he say?” I didn’t understand him or them. The excitement had long since worn off.
With the Mass ending, they brought out a king’s throne for four husky men to carry the pope from the altar to the end of the church. He would then descend the steps so he could speak to an audience in the square of 100,000. As the men put the throne down for the pope to give final words to the parishioners at the rear of the church, he twisted his body and leaned on my right arm, which was resting on the pew. I don’t recall what he said, but I kept still so I didn’t interfere with his message. He smiled as he was lifted away, and I guess I did, too. I was speechless, that I do remember.
The three days flew by and we were back on ship close to 10 p.m. on Easter. The ship was abuzz with all the stories from those who were on the trip. Protestant Chaplain Chambliss and Father McCoy wanted a meeting with me on Monday night after supper. They wanted all the details.
My friend Jim McMahon from St. Charles, Missouri, poked his head in the room. He had a green logbook with him. Both the chaplains knew him, so he sat down with us. He wanted me to keep a diary. The three of them agreed. They all knew I had a great memory but wanted me to properly record such a momentous event and continue the practice. I said I would.
The very first entry in my diary was PPVI 3:57. It is not a biblical verse, but the time on Good Friday that Pope Paul VI touched my right arm for 10 seconds. I didn’t think that 1557 (military time) looked right and they all nodded their heads.
In 48 years, I haven’t made one request. I didn’t ask for a private meeting with the pontiff, my teams to always be victorious or a lottery jackpot windfall. I let the cards fall where they may. I kept that valuable card up my sleeve for that one special moment.
I saw Pope Francis this week giving his sermon to an empty St. Peter’s Square. Even the workers who built the platform for him weren’t allowed to hang around. He couldn’t have blessed or touched anybody because his entire audience was at home watching.
I am pushing that chip to the center of the table and am all in. I don’t think that’s too much to ask to remove this house arrest. We have places to go and people to see.
(Paul Murphy lives in Deerfield.)