The Port Chicago explosion in 1944 is still one of the most destructive incidents on American soil in World War II, not only because of the amount of destruction it inflicted, but because of the subsequent injustice. It was a turning point that revealed endemic racial discrimination in the army and would eventually propel attempts at civil rights and reform.
On July 17 of the same year, a huge explosion hit the Port Chicago Naval Magazine in California when more than 4,600 tons of ammunition burst unexpectedly. The blast killed 320 on the spot and injured close to 400 others. The impact was so great that it destroyed two cargo vessels, reduced a section of the base structures, and generated shockwaves that traveled as far as Nevada. Most of the dead were young Black naval personnel, several of whom had been assigned to this hazardous task with no training or preparation.
The events that precipitated the disaster were no accident. Black servicemen stationed at the base were routinely tasked with loading bombs and explosives—frequently without gloves or protective clothing—while white officers oversaw from a distance. No safety training had been given. Instead, the loading crews were forced to work more quickly, sometimes as if they competed as opposed to moving live explosives. The union among workers had complained about the hazardous conditions, but nothing was done about it. The Navy ignored the warning signs, and the payoff was devastating.
Following the explosion, the injustice became even greater. When white officers were given leave, Black sailors were directed to clean up the burned ruins and body parts of their dead comrades. Soon afterwards, they were instructed to go back to loading munitions, this time at a different location, with no changes in safety procedures. When 258 sailors refused not go back to doing this dangerous job, they were threatened with penalties. Though most of them ultimately went along under duress, 50 refused. The Navy charged them with mutiny, prompting the largest such trial in naval history.
The aftermath was anything but a fair trial. The 50 men, who came to be known as the “Port Chicago 50,” were all packaged together in a single courtroom, though they had disparate cases and issues. Their defense was very weak, and their court-martial was convened before a full investigation of the explosion itself had been carried out. They were convicted within 45 minutes by the Navy’s board. They were given hard labor, dishonorable discharges, loss of pay, and reduction in rank. The other sailors, who had first refused but later returned to duty, were also penalized with bad conduct discharges and loss of pay.
But it didn’t end there. Thurgood Marshall, the great young lawyer who would someday sit on the Supreme Court, had a special interest in the case. Although he was not an attorney for any of the sailors, he attended the trial, supported the defense, and campaigned vigorously to bring national notoriety to what he perceived as a shameful act of racial injustice. To him, these men were not criminals; they were protesting a system that had disregarded their lives and safety. Marshall once famously declared that this was not about 50 men accused of mutiny; it was about putting the Navy on trial for its treatment of Black servicemen.
Even with his efforts, the convictions remained on the books for decades. Some of the men were released in a matter of two years, but the stigma persisted. Their names were tainted, their records indelibly marked. The case, like so many others, went into the shadows when the war ended. But it persisted quietly in the struggle for change. In 1948, only four years afterward, President Truman signed an executive order to desegregate the military, and the Port Chicago disaster was part of what prompted him to do so.
Years went by. In 1999, President Clinton pardoned Freddie Meeks, one of the final survivors of the Port Chicago 50. It was a positive step, but not nearly sufficient. For many years, families, activists, and historians maintained the memory of Port Chicago, pushing the Navy to formally rectify the injustices perpetrated against those men. Monuments were constructed, annual commemorations took place, and parks were dedicated in their memory. The campaign for justice never wavered.
At last, on the 80th anniversary of the blast, the U.S. Navy did what it should have done decades ago. Secretary of the Navy Carlos Del Toro declared the complete exoneration of 256 Black sailors who had been found guilty in the wake of the tragedy. Although the majority of them were long deceased, the action was no less significant. Del Toro stated their tale was one of courage and honor, and that it would still inspire generations. President Biden likewise voiced those words, stating that the country was finally righting a profound injustice and paying tribute to the sailors’ bravery.
For some families and activists, the moment was poignant. There was relief in the vindication, but regret that those men didn’t live to see their names exonerated. Yulie Padmore of the Port Chicago Alliance described it as a moment for the country to admire its ability to learn and rectify itself. Jonathan Lee, who headed local legal efforts connected to the case, referred to it as the culmination of an “80-year cry for justice” that helped set the stage for the civil rights movement that came later.
The Port Chicago disaster left marks on families, on the military, and on the nation’s conscience. But it also set off a reckoning. It forced the military toward integration, brought about a focus on systemic racism, and demonstrated what can occur when regular people refuse to stand for injustice, even in the worst of circumstances. The exoneration of Port Chicago sailors, however much too late in coming, remains today a compelling illustration of how justice and truth will ultimately reach the surface, albeit after a lifetime.