A young American seaman squints at the shore, trying to make sense of the horrible order he has just been given. He watches an elderly Japanese man sitting on the nearby rocks. Somehow the magnitude of the day has not reached the old man. It
A young American seaman squints at the shore, trying to make sense of the horrible order he has just been given.
He watches an elderly Japanese man sitting on the nearby rocks. Somehow the magnitude of the day has not reached the old man. It’s September 1945; dozens of American warships are in Tokyo Bay for the signing of documents that officially end World War II. But the old guy on the rocks is fishing.
So the young seaman stands on the deck of one of those ships, the USS Ancon. He holds a sub-machine gun and squints at the old man.
And he listens to an ensign and his horrible order.
“Shoot that man.”
William Vernon “Ray” Ross, seaman first class, a kid from Los Angeles and one of the few African-Americans allowed to be so close to history, doesn’ t know what to do.
His heart tells him to ignore the order. But his head tells him defying a white officer will ruin his life.
For a second time.
Ross, now 90 and living in Santa Ana, says what he did next might’ ve been different if he hadn’ t been where he had been, hadn’ t seen what he had seen; hadn’ t sustained the injuries he had sustained and felt the inhumanity he had felt.
Thirteen months earlier Ross survived the infamous disaster at Port Chicago, east of San Francisco, where 320 people — most of them black — lost their lives. It was the worst U. S. military disaster on the mainland during World War II.
In all, the twin explosions that ripped through the Northern California night on July 17,1944, killed and maimed more than 700 officers, enlisted personnel and civilians. They also exposed the overt racism of the U. S. Navy. Mishandled American bombs killed Americans that night, but the blame and punishment, like burning shrapnel from the explosions, fell squarely on the victims.
Ross didn’ t tell anyone his story for almost 70 years. He worked as a janitor, a postman and as an oil line inspector for Chevron for 26 years. He was married twice (both wives are deceased) and had six children. His youngest son, Marquis, is a pharmacist in the Navy and is stationed at Twentynine Palms.
“He could have been dead, ” said Marquis, 22, said. “I wouldn’ t be here.”
His family didn’ t know about the segregated conditions, the life-threatening assignment, the night he escaped with blood staining his skivvies. They didn’ t know about the Japanese fisherman either.
“It was so heartbreaking, ” Ross’ daughter Rachel said recently. “So sad.”
Until the day of the disaster, most Americans, even most Californians, would have placed Port Chicago in Illinois.
Port Chicago stood at the intersection of Suisun Bay and the Southern Pacific Railroad line, north of Concord, exactly 35 miles northeast of San Francisco. The basic job at Port Chicago was simple; munitions, mostly bombs, were taken off trains and put on warships heading for the Pacific Theater. The place itself was simple, too, with no officer’s mess hall or laundry facilities or recreation areas. Naval records indicate morale among those who served at Port Chicago was low.
It was where the U. S. Navy sent African-American sailors who had scored lowest on aptitude tests to handle thousands of tons of bombs, torpedoes, mines and, Ross said later, “damn near every kind of explosives the Navy used.” All of the men handling munitions were black; all of their commanding officers were white.
Ross spent five bad months at Port Chicago. During his final two months, he oversaw the unloading and loading of ammunition on the Port Chicago pier.
Only two months after the munitions loading pier was completed, it was blown to bits. And no one knows, after years of inquiries, court battles and book research, just what caused the explosions.
One fact about the explosions is undeniable.
“They were asking the black sailors to do the most unsafe work, ” said Tom Leatherman, general superintendent of the National Park Service. Leatherman oversees the monument and grounds at the site of the explosion, which in 2009 was dedicated as a national memorial by President Barack Obama.
Visitors must make appointments and get clearance before touring the site because the Army now loads munitions there and the area is deemed dangerous. It had only 1,942 visitors in 2016.
“We’ re pretty low on the list (of visitors) , ” he said. “There are people who want to forget about it.”
Cal Berkeley professor Robert Allen hasn’ t forgotten. He wrote a book “The Port Chicago Mutiny” after talking to nine survivors.
“There was a complete disregard (by the U. S. military) for the lives of African-Americans, ” Allen said. “These men’s lives were devalued and dispensable.”
The legacy of Port Chicago, Leatherman said, is that the Navy became the first of the U. S. military branches to desegregate. On Feb. 27,1946, the Bureau of Navy Personnel prohibited segregation. In 1948, President Harry S. Truman issued an executive order establishing equal treatment and opportunity for all military branches.
“Now, the Navy is completely different, ” Marquis Ross said. “They don’ t put up with any racial stuff.”
Ray Ross left Jefferson High School in Los Angeles and signed up for the Navy in December of 1943 because he wanted to see the world.
“I always wanted to be a sailor, ” Ross said. “I wanted to travel. I wanted to go to sea. I wanted to be on ships. Maybe I saw too many John Wayne movies.”
The Navy had other plans for Ross and the other African-Americans who signed up during World War II. First, he was sent to Naval Station Great Lakes, a segregated training center, for boot camp. He trained as a gunner’s mate, a job he would never be allowed to perform.
Then he and several of his classmates were sent west.
“None of the guys had ever heard of Port Chicago, ” Ross said. “I didn’ t like it at all.”
On the night of the disaster, Ross knew something was wrong.
Because he could read a manifest, Ross was put in charge of a loading unit. It was his job to make sure the bombs from the trains made it to the ships.
“They didn’ t want any harm to come to the white guys, ” Ross said.
He would watch box cars open and huge bombs roll out.
“The bombs would roll down… and hit the wharf, ” he said. “It would make your skin crawl. I knew it was dangerous. I would cringe seeing those big ol’ bombs rolling down.”
He also noticed that some of the bombs were marked “RDX, ” which he knew was a particularly volatile explosive, even more so than TNT. He warned his commanding officers, all of whom were white.
“I tried to tell guys this was dangerous, ” Ross said. “That ammunition won’ t take a beating. They won’ t listen to you.”
Just after 10 p.m. on July 17,1944, two ships — the SS E. A. Bryan and the SS Quinault Victory — were being loaded at the Port Chicago pier. The Bryan had been loaded with more than 4,606 tons of explosives. The Victory contained 253 tons of explosives. Another 429 tons of explosives were sitting on the pier.
Ross had just finished a shower in the barracks.
“We were talking BS, ” he said.
Then came the first deafening blast; the second came six seconds later.
“Everything just lit up like daylight, ” Ross said.
“The building started crumbling.”
The second explosion registered a 3.4 on the seismograph in Berkeley. The Victory was launched 500 feet, landing in the water upside down. The Bryan was turned to dust.
Ross was in his underwear.
