The Unquenchable Valor: The Life, Sacrifice, and Enduring Legacy of Chief Watertender Oscar V Peterson

From Wisconsin Farmlands to Naval Depths

Oscar Verner Peterson’s story began not on the deck of a warship, but in the quiet heartland of Prentice, Wisconsin, where he was born on August 27, 1899. The values of diligence and resilience instilled in this rural community would later define his naval career. On December 8, 1920, Peterson chose a life of service, enlisting in the United States Navy. For over twenty years, he embraced the relentless rhythm of sea duty, serving aboard various ships across the globe. Amidst the demands of naval life, he built a family with his wife, Lola, raising two sons, Fred and Donald. By the time World War II engulfed the Pacific, Peterson had risen to the rank of Chief Watertender—a position demanding technical mastery and leadership in the ship’s vital engineering spaces 72.

The Crucible: USS Neosho and the Battle of the Coral Sea

In May 1942, the Pacific theater became a battleground of existential stakes. Peterson was assigned to the fleet oiler USS Neosho (AO-23), a vessel critical for refueling Allied warships. On May 7, 1942, during the pivotal Battle of the Coral Sea, the Neosho’s role turned from sustainer to target. Japanese dive bombers descended like furies, scoring direct hits that transformed the ship into a floating inferno.

Peterson, leading a repair party deep in the engineering spaces, faced catastrophe. A bomb rupture sent scalding steam roaring through compartments, threatening to flood the engine room and cripple the ship. Severely wounded and with his team incapacitated, Peterson made a choice that defied human instinct: with no concern for his own life, he lunged into the superheated vapor to manually close four bulkhead steam line valves. The act required Herculean effort—each valve, warped by heat, demanded immense force to shut. As he fought, third-degree burns seared his face, shoulders, arms, and hands. His success isolated the steam, preventing catastrophic failure and buying precious time for survivors. But the cost was unimaginable agony 713.

A Sea Burial and a Muted Honor

The Neosho, ravaged beyond repair, was scuttled on May 11, 1942, by the destroyer USS Henley (DD-391), which had taken aboard 123 survivors. Peterson, clinging to life, succumbed to his wounds on May 13, 1942. With solemn naval tradition, he was buried at sea hundreds of miles off Australia’s coast—a warrior returned to the depths he had sailed for two decades 7.

For his “extraordinary courage and conspicuous heroism above and beyond the call of duty,” Peterson was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor on December 7, 1942. Yet, in a baffling break from protocol, the medal arrived not in a ceremonial gathering, but by mail to Lola’s California home. The Medal of Honor citation immortalized his sacrifice, emphasizing his “spirit of self-sacrifice and loyalty” and adherence to the “highest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service” 73.

Medals, Memory, and Long-Overdue Recognition

Peterson’s valor was recognized through multiple honors:

• Medal of Honor

• Purple Heart

• Good Conduct Medal

• American Defense Service Medal with “FLEET” clasp

• Asiatic-Pacific Campaign Medal with two battle stars

• World War II Victory Medal 7

His legacy, however, transcended decorations. After his death, Lola and their sons relocated to Richfield, Idaho, carrying the quiet weight of his sacrifice. Decades passed—Lola died in 1991, son Donald in 2008—but history had an unfinished debt. On April 3, 2010, sixty-eight years after the Battle of the Coral Sea, the Navy corrected its oversight. In a poignant ceremony at the Richfield meetinghouse of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Rear Admiral James A. Symonds presented Peterson’s surviving son, Fred, with the Medal of Honor and a forty-eight-star U.S. flag. Roughly 850 people—family, veterans, military leaders, and Idaho officials—bore witness. That same day, a military-issued memorial marker was placed in Richfield Cemetery, granting Peterson a tangible resting place far from his ocean grave 7.

Eternal Vigil: Ships, Symbols, and the Politics of Remembrance

Peterson’s name would sail on. The U.S. Navy destroyer escort USS Peterson (DE-152) honored him during WWII. Then, on June 27, 2025, a new chapter unfolded: U.S. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth announced the USNS Harvey Milk (T-AO-206), a fleet replenishment oiler, would be renamed USNS Oscar V. Peterson. The decision, framed as depoliticizing ship naming, ignited debate. Critics noted Harvey Milk—a gay rights icon and Navy veteran—was erased, signaling to some that certain identities remained “second-class” in military memory. Yet for Peterson, the honor reaffirmed his timeless stature: a Chief Watertender whose heroism now graces the very type of ship he saved in 1942 1213.

Conclusion: The Anchor of Sacrifice

Oscar Verner Peterson’s life echoes beyond dates and citations. Born in rural Wisconsin, he chose a path of unflinching duty. In the steam-choked bowels of the Neosho, he embodied the “highest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service”—not through grand strategy, but through an act of raw, self-immolating courage. His posthumous Medal of Honor, belatedly presented to his son, and the ships bearing his name, ensure that his “spirit of self-sacrifice” remains a beacon. As the USNS Oscar V. Peterson soon takes to the seas, it carries more than fuel; it carries the legacy of a “fine seaman” who, in the words of his citation, “gallantly gave his life in the service of his country” 713.

“The valves he closed saved his ship; the sacrifice he made saved his crew. In that inferno, Peterson did not just endure—he chose.”