A terrible mistake leads to a singular account of World War II heroism.
His name was French, and he was a Black messman on board the destroyer USS Gregory during World War II. Aside from that fact, most of the crew did not know much about French. His closest shipmates might have known he was an orphan, but they knew little else.
In time, his shipmates - and the nation - would learn much more about Charles Jackson French. He was born in Foreman, Arkansas, on September 25, 1919, but following the death of his parents, he moved to North 25th Street in Omaha, Nebraska, where he lived with his married sister.
When French turned 18, he joined the Navy as a messman, the only position open to Blacks. He was assigned to the USS Houston and spent much of his time stationed in Hawaii. After he honorably served his four-year commitment, he left the Navy and returned to Omaha. It was late 1941, a fateful year in America’s history.
Only days after French left the service, just as he was settling into his new life as a civilian, Pearl Harbor was attacked. French immediately put aside all his plans for civilian life, went back to the Navy Recruiting Office, re-enlisted and was assigned to the destroyer USS Gregory. Before long, he was on his way to the thick of the war.
French was on board the Gregory when a terrible mistake occurred on a night in 1942, a mistake that led to one of the most unusual accounts of heroism from World War II.
On September 4, the USS Gregory and the USS Little were in Savo Sound, returning on a moonless night to their base in the Solomon Islands. Unknown to them, a Japanese destroyer force was also nearby.
As the two destroyers moved quietly in the sound, a U.S. Navy PBY Catalina flying overhead detected flashes of light from the Japanese ships. The Catalina's pilot assumed the light was from a Japanese submarine, and he dropped five flares over the area where he thought he had seen the flashes. Unfortunately, the flares landed nearly on top of the two American destroyers, clearly illuminating them to the Japanese force. Their guns opened up.
Within three minutes, the two outmatched American destroyers were sinking, and the crew was ordered to abandon ship. Forty minutes after the attack began, the Gregory’s stern slipped beneath the waves. The Little followed two hours later.
Of the men who were on the Gregory’s bridge that night, only one survived the bombardment from the Japanese ships. His name was Ensign Robert Adrian, a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy, and he was the first to tell American media of the heroic events that happened after the Gregory went down.
Following the direct hit from the Japanese ship, Adrian was briefly knocked unconscious. As he came to his senses, he found that his legs were injured, and he had fragments in his eyes that clouded his vision. As the Gregory turned on its side and began to sink, Adrian slid down the deck and into the ocean. Hearing voices in the night, he painfully coaxed his body through the water until reaching a life raft crammed with other crew members, all of whom were wounded except for one, a powerful 22-year-old Black mess attendant who Adrian knew only by the name of "French." French had found the raft floating and had been picking up survivors, piling so many wounded sailors onto it that it almost sank. Altogether, there were 15.
Ensign Adrian knew nothing about French except that he was a messman. During World War II, messmen were nearly always Black sailors who served food, made coffee, and did kitchen cleanup duties. Now, thanks to a messman's valiant efforts, 15 sailors who might have drowned were safe. They were not, however, out of danger. The raft had no oars, and the current was pulling them toward Guadalcanal, which was still occupied by pockets of Japanese forces. If they floated to shore, announced Adrian to the others, they would become prisoners-of-war . . . if they were lucky.
To Adrian’s surprise, the messman French said he could tow the raft away from shore. Adrian told him that was impossible. French said he was a powerful swimmer, and he could do it. Adrian reminded him that the ocean around Guadalcanal was known to be shark-infested. French responded that he was more afraid of the Japanese than the sharks.
Adrian relented, and French stripped off his clothes and asked crew members to tie a rope around his waist. He slipped into the water, announcing, “Just keep telling me if I’m goin’ the right way.”
Probably none of the sailors knew much about French. But they were about to learn something very important: The man could swim. No one had any idea where he learned to swim, it was a detail about his life they would never learn, but as they huddled together and tended to the most seriously injured among them, they would occasionally lift their heads and peer through the darkness and watch that mysterious man swim, knowing that each stroke took them just a little bit farther from possibly being machine-gunned off the coast of Guadalcanal.
French swam for an hour . . . then two hours . . . and three, all the while towing that overloaded raft through the darkness. According to Adrian's account, French was still swimming six hours later when day broke and an American scout aircraft swooped down and spotted an incredulous sight: a naked Black man towing a life raft filled with sailors. In no time, a Marine landing craft, alerted by the plane, pulled up alongside and took them all on board.
After the rescue, the seriously wounded sailors were taken for medical attention. The remaining sailors were taken to a facility where they could rest and recuperate. But when they arrived, naval authorities tried to separate French from the white sailors.
According to the book, “Black Men and Blue Water,” written by Chester Wright and published by Authorhouse, the people in charge told French, “you a culud (colored) boy, mess . . . you can go over there where the culud boys stay.”
The fellows from the life raft would not hear of it. Covered with grime and their hair matted with oil, they raised their battered and weary bodies and told the Masters-at-Arms (Navy security personnel) that French was a member of their crew, he would be staying with them, and if anyone tried to remove him, they had better be prepared to come to blows. A tense standoff lasted for five minutes until the security folks finally relented, and French was permitted to remain with his fellow sailors.
Later in life, when French told this part of the story, his big shoulders began to shake, and tears ran down his cheeks.
“Them white boys stood up for me,” he said.
After the Gregory was sunk, French was assigned to the USS Frankford, a destroyer that provided gunfire support for troops pinned on the beach during the July 1944 D-Day invasion.
According to friends, French returned from the war traumatized and suffering from untreated PTSD symptoms. He moved to San Diego with his wife and their daughter, but, like many veterans with PTSD, he had problems that grew even too big for this young man who had saved so many others. He died on November 7, 1956, at the age of 37. He was buried in the Fort Rosencrans National Cemetery in San Diego.
No one was ever certain where French learned to swim. Some people guessed it was in the Red River in Arkansas, but whether or not that is correct, readers can be fairly certain that it was not in a swimming pool. Ironically, when French was growing up - and even when America was celebrating his swimming feat - French and other Black Americans would not have been allowed in most swimming pools and many beaches across the nation.
The Rest of the Story
After Ensign Adrian had recovered from the ordeal, he recommended French for the Navy Cross, which falls directly below the Medal of Honor. But by the time the recommendation had worked its way up the Navy chain of command, things had changed. French did not receive the Navy Cross. He did not receive the Silver Star. He did not receive the Bronze Star. In fact, all he received was a letter, a Letter of Commendation from Admiral "Bull" Halsey.
Adrian was reportedly enraged by this, but ensigns don’t have a good track record when they go up against admirals, particularly admirals with the nickname of "Bull," so French ended up with only the letter. Adrian died in 2011, and, according to his children, their father rarely spoke of his war experiences except for one detail: He would often tell them that if it were not for a Black man named French, he and 14 other sailors might not have survived the war.
Early in 2022, a pool used to train rescue swimmers at Naval Base San Diego was named in honor of Mess Attendant First Class French. The dedication of the pool marked the first recognition French received from the Navy since his letter from Admiral Halsey in 1943.
* * * * *
in December of 1943, French’s heroism was immortalized in a poem written entitled “The Strong Swimmer,” by the 1942 Pulitzer Prize recipient, William Rose Benet. Here is an excerpt from the 53-line poem:
The raft of sailors grimed from Hell Afloat on a smoky tide
And a dark shoulder and muscled arm Lunging, steady and strong. The messman, their brother, who bears a charm, Is towing their raft along.
He gasped, “Just say if I’m go’in right!” Yes, brother, right you are! Danger of ocean or dark of night, You steer by one clear star.
A final note for all the movie producers who read this (which is, like, none): For a time, Warner Brothers was contemplating a movie about French’s life, but those plans fell by the wayside. Despite that, it’s a story that could make a block-buster movie. So . . . who should play French?
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