I joined the Navy when I was just sixteen. I grew up in New Bedford, Massachusetts, in a house full of kids. There were five of us, and this was right after the Depression. Things were tough back then. I worked all kinds of little jobs—cutting fish, washing cars, hanging laundry, changing diapers—anything to help out. But I wanted more. I wanted to be a man and get out of the house. That’s why I joined the Navy.

I went downtown to the recruiting office and got a piece of paper. The man there said, “You’re not old enough—bring this home.” I did, and my father signed it. That was it. Off I went.

I’m Cape Verdean and Wampanoag Indian. But back then, the Navy didn’t recognize anything like that. When I told them I was Indian and Portuguese, the guy at the recruiting station said, “We don’t know nothing about that. You’re either Black or white.” So I chose Black. I wasn’t white, and I figured I better stay where I belonged. I grew up around mostly Black and Cape Verdean folks in the South End of New Bedford, so that made the most sense.

They treated us bad. I went to boot camp at Bainbridge, Maryland. The officers running the show were all white, and they picked on us something awful. They’d wake us up in the middle of the night and make us run around with sea bags on our heads. They didn’t trust us with real rifles—we drilled with wooden ones. They didn’t think we were trustworthy enough.

Eventually I got assigned to the USS Muscoma, an oiler in the Fifth Fleet under Admiral Halsey. Our job was to carry fuel, mail, and supplies—everything the fleet needed to keep moving. We’d follow the carriers and destroyers around, refueling them wherever they went—Ulithi, Guam, the Philippines. Especially the carriers—they burned up a lot of gas flying those planes during all the attacks on the islands.

It got a little better aboard the ship. I didn’t know many of the men, just a few, mostly the other Black sailors. I was a steward’s mate, and that meant I worked up in the officers’ quarters, changing their bedding, bringing their dirty clothes down to the laundry. That’s how I met Rex Lamb. He worked in the laundry room. We became close. We kept in touch after the war, wrote each other, talked on the phone, traded pictures. He passed away just a few years ago, from lung trouble—he was on oxygen at the end.

Another friend of mine was Lloyd Bryant, also a Black sailor on board. I tried to find him later, but never could. Some of the best people I knew were on that ship.

The worst day came on November 20, 1944. We were at Ulithi. I was down in the kitchen early in the morning, getting coffee and breakfast ready, when the ship shook from an explosion. That’s when the USS Mississinewa blew up. The flames shot high, and we could see men jumping into the water. The ocean was on fire. Oil from the Mississinewa had spread out, burning on the surface, and the heat and smoke were unbearable.

Debris was falling down like rain on our ship. Some of the pieces were still on fire when they landed. It was terrifying. We saw a little plane fly in and land in the water, picking up some of the men. We lowered two of our boats to go help. I think we pulled about twenty-something men out of the water—including Mike Mair’s father.

The destroyers were chasing submarines all around. We could hear the depth charges going off—those big cans of explosives. Must have been deafening for the men in the water. One of the destroyers chased a sub onto the beach of a small island nearby. I saw the explosion. I don’t know if they sank it, but they definitely hit it hard.

It was awful to witness. A terrible ordeal. We carried the memory of it with us a long time.

There was another time—a typhoon—just as bad. That storm took over 700 men. We almost got blown into Luzon. Our ship lost power, and we were floundering around while the wind battered us. God bless the Muscoma, though—she kept running. Once we got the engine started again, a little destroyer stayed with us until we caught up with the fleet.

I’ve had a long life since then. I still think of those men, especially the ones who didn’t make it. I was honored to give a blessing at the start of the Veterans Breakfast Club program on the Mississinewa. It meant a lot to me to speak from the heart and say a prayer for everyone there—those who served, those who died, and those who still remember.

The Great Spirit wants to say hello and bless you all. Bless the men and women who served, in the Navy, the Army, the Marines. Bless those taking care of the sick in hospitals—our frontline people. Bless you when you go home. And bless those we lost. Especially them.