Cats Eyes

The story was told later in newsprint (January 10, 1943, Hanford, CA), folded into a Sunday paper in California, trimmed to fit a column and given a confident headline that promised reassurance to families far from the sea. It said there was never a dull moment for a submarine, and that submarine duty was not a job but a way of life. It said the night belonged to sharp eyes, steady nerves, and a skipper who knew when to act. All of that was true. None of it conveyed what the night of February 3, 1942 actually felt like aboard USS Searaven SS-196.

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Motors and Petals

He did not set out to be a hero. Most submariners did not. They signed on for steady work, for a trade, for the promise of learning a machine well enough that it would not kill them. Frank Nelson Horton belonged to that quiet fraternity of men who understood engines the way farmers understand soil. He knew how things were supposed to sound, how they smelled when they were healthy, and how to tell when trouble was coming before it arrived at full speed.

The irony is that history remembers men like Horton precisely because they never sought remembrance.

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Jack’s Silver Star Moment

Back in early September, I stumbled on a small piece in the Standard Speaker (PA) from September 2, 1944. It was nothing more than a picture of Ensign Sylvester Kohut shaking hands with Admiral Nimitz and a line about him receiving the Silver Star. That was it. No details, no story.

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