The United States had been at war seven months when I entered Johns Hopkins in the summer of 1942.
Through most of my childhood there had always been war.
War in Ethiopia.
War in Spain.
War in china.
Dimly, I had been aware through all those years that worlds were burning, but they seemed far away.
It wasn't my world that was on fire, nor was it ever likely to be, or so I thought.
Sheltered by two great oceans, America seemed impregnable.
I was like a person on a summer night seeing heart lighting far out on the horizon and murmuring, "Must be a bad storm way over there someplace."
It was not my storm.


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