The Bremerton Base of the United States Submarine Veterans in 1994 was not a large organization, but it was a living one. You can see it in the way the year unfolds, month by month, not in dramatic events but in the accumulation of small efforts, each one a thread in a larger fabric.
The year began with a familiar challenge. Money and membership. The February newsletter makes that plain enough. The annual scholarship program was underway, raffle tickets printed, prizes needed, and the quiet hope that someone out there might be generous enough to contribute. There is a certain honesty in the way it is written, almost conversational. “Do you know a business that might be willing to give?” It is less a directive and more a nudge between shipmates. The Base Commander at the time, Dene Rogers, was nearing the end of his run, and there was already talk of nominations for a new slate of officers. Even then, the organization understood that continuity did not happen by accident. It had to be asked for.
By March, the machinery of the Base was in motion. The scholarship effort continued, and there was the steady drumbeat of reminders. Dues needed to be paid. Meetings needed to be attended. The Blueback, a point of pride for submariners in the Pacific Northwest, was finally getting attention again, with ceremonies planned in Portland. There is a sense that the Base saw itself not just as a social group, but as a custodian of memory. Boats mattered. Stories mattered. The connection to the larger Submarine Force mattered.
April carries a tone that is almost reflective. There is discussion of the changing submarine force, the end of older classes, the rise of Trident boats, and what that meant for the men who had served on them. It reads like a quiet acknowledgment that the Navy they had known was slipping into history. At the same time, the Base kept its feet firmly planted in the present. The scholarship raffle continued. New members were sought. Old shipmates were tracked down and invited in. The message was simple. If we do not gather, we disappear.
May and June bring a little more life into the picture. Meetings, raffles, and a bit of humor about who might be skimming raffle proceeds for refreshments. There is a sense of camaraderie that does not need to be explained. These were men who understood each other without much effort. The June newsletter notes that election season had arrived, and like many volunteer organizations, there was a certain reluctance among members to step forward. It is an old story. Everyone values the work. Fewer volunteer to do it.
Still, the Base pressed on. The scholarship was awarded. Over 700 raffle tickets sold. That number tells you something important. This was not a passive group. People showed up. People participated. People cared enough to buy in, literally and figuratively.
Then July arrives, and with it, a change of command. The June meeting had elected a new slate of officers for the 1994 to 1995 term. Dick Litscher took over as Base Commander, Bud Berg as Vice Commander, Clyde Crowder remained Treasurer, and Jim Foote stepped in as Secretary. It is the kind of transition that speaks to continuity rather than disruption. No upheaval. Just a passing of responsibility from one set of hands to another.
The summer months revolve around something more human than administration. The annual picnic. Held in August at Scenic Beach State Park, it was less about formal business and more about bringing families together. There is something telling in that. These were not just veterans remembering the past. They were men building a present that included spouses, children, and friends. The Base was not just a relic. It was a community.
By September, attention turns outward again. The national convention in Portsmouth is discussed, and there is a sense of pride in participation at the national level. The Bremerton Base was part of something larger, and they knew it. There is also a hint of fatigue in the note from Jim “Big” Foote, who admits to missing a meeting while traveling. It is a small detail, but it reminds you that these were volunteers, balancing lives, obligations, and the quiet duty of keeping the organization going.
October and November settle into a steady cadence. Meetings are held. Stories are shared. A new member is welcomed. Plans are made for a Christmas party at the Bremerton Elks Lodge. The tone is relaxed, almost comfortable. The urgency of earlier months has softened into routine. That is not a sign of decline. It is a sign of stability.
And throughout it all, certain themes repeat like a familiar refrain. The need to recruit new members. The importance of paying dues. The effort to preserve submarine history. The simple act of showing up. These are not glamorous tasks, but they are the backbone of any organization that intends to endure.
If there is a single thread that runs through 1994 for the Bremerton Base, it is this. Survival through participation. Not survival in the dramatic sense, but in the quiet, persistent way that organizations either endure or fade away. They chose to endure.
In the end in December, 1994 was not a year of grand events for the Bremerton Base. It was something more important. It was a year in which the organization proved it could carry on. New leaders stepped forward. Old traditions were maintained. New members were welcomed. And through it all, the memory of service beneath the sea remained the common bond.
It is easy to overlook years like this. No headlines. No defining moment. But if you look closely, this is where the real work happens. Not in the extraordinary, but in the ordinary. Not in the dramatic, but in the steady.
And like any good patrol, it was not about glory. It was about getting the job done and bringing everyone home.
The Puget Soundings 