Bob Palomaris’ life, like that of so many military veterans, was marked not only by moments of profound courage, but also by quiet, personal sacrifice. A longtime Central resident until his passing in 2015, Bob stood on the cusp of a professional baseball career when history took a sharp turn. World War II came calling—and Bob answered. By the time he returned home, his shot at the majors had slipped away.
That’s the reality for so many who wear the uniform: opportunities foregone in the name of something greater.
On his 17th birthday, with his mother’s blessing, Bob enlisted in the U.S. Navy. He soon found himself aboard the USS North Carolina, manning a 20-millimeter bow gun on one of the fastest, most formidable battleships of the war. Nicknamed “The Showboat,” the North Carolina earned its reputation—and 15 battle stars—by showing up where the action was hottest.
Enemy aircraft, lurking submarines and the vast, hostile Pacific were constant threats. In April 1945, off the coast of Okinawa, Bob recounted a near-death experience. Kamikaze planes swarmed, and amidst the chaos, a friendly round from a nearby U.S. ship misfired. It struck the North Carolina, mortally wounding three of Bob’s shipmates. Bob, sprinting to his battle station, caught metal fragments that left him with minor wounds.
A few seconds’ hesitation, and he could have been number four.
Later, Bob manned his post as a Japanese dive bomber broke through the clouds, bearing down on the ship. At 1,900 yards, the gunners opened up, red tracers desperately reaching for enemy metal. Still, the bomber kept coming. At 400 yards—just moments from impact—it burst mid-air. The crew erupted in the type of adrenaline and relief-fueled celebration that comes from surviving what felt like certain death.
“We jumped up and down like we’d scored a touchdown,” Bob told me once. “We tried to light cigarettes, but our hands were shaking too much. It’s only afterward that the fear hits you.”
Though he never returned to competitive baseball, Bob carved out a rich, meaningful life. He created stunning stained-glass windows, raised champion racehorses and made fast friends wherever he went.
I consider myself lucky to have been one of them. We talked endlessly—about baseball, about history—and carried on a written correspondence that would’ve made the pre-internet generation proud. Though he was 52 years my senior, our friendship never felt like one between a grandfather and grandson. We were pals. His death at age 89, though expected, hit me hard. Still does.
The courage, grit and loyalty Bob displayed aboard the North Carolina never left him. He was proud of his service—and I bet he was proud of the way his generation stepped up to help save the free world from the grips of tyranny. Bob understood what was at stake: a war to win, and a freedom too precious to lose.
David Cordero, communications and marketing director at City of St. George, has lived in St. George since 2006. He has won several awards for his writing on a variety of subjects, including sports, the military community and education.