THE U.S.S. INDIANAPOLIS
A Great American Tragedy
They were daddies. They were sons. They were all heroes. One week before the “Enola Gay” dropped the first atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima, eight hundred and eighty crewmen and officers of the heavy cruiser, the U.S.S. Indianapolis, lost their lives in a tragic, but normal, act of war. They had carried the atomic bomb across the Pacific, but in the end they were sunk by a pair of two effectively placed Japanese torpedoes. Among the dead was Chief Warrant Officer, Leonard T. Woods, of Wrightsville, Georgia.
Leonard Woods was born in Wrightsville in 1918. After graduation from high school, Leonard joined the U.S. Navy. After surviving the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941, Woods served with distinction accumulating eight battle stars as a warrant officer specializing as a radio electrician. He made his last trip home during the Christmas season in 1944. He returned to the Pacific Coast to perform a short tour of duty. His wife, the former Miss Ada Brantley, left during the early months of 1945 for California to make her new home in anticipation of her husband’s return.
Leonard’s short tour of duty aboard the Indianapolis turned out to be not so short. After pounding Japanese positions in the Battle of Iwo Jima, the ship fended off persistent kamikaze attacks during the siege of Okinawa. As Chief Warrant Officer, Woods was responsible for the maintenance of the radio equipment aboard the ship. Radio communications were the lifeblood of naval ships in the vast expanse of the Pacific.
After returning from Okinawa, the Indianapolis was ordered back to port in San Francisco. The ship, under the command of Capt. W.T. McVay was ordered to carry a secret cargo to Hawaii and then to the island of Tinian in the Marianna Island chain. The cargo, the most critical and most dangerous of the entire war, was the uranium and major components used to make the atomic bomb which was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. The ship set sail on July 16th and delivered its cargo without a single incident.
On the 26th, the Captain McVay received his orders to take the ship toward Leyte in the Philippines. Despite the fact that the U.S.S. Underhill was sunk by Japanese submarines in range of the course of his ship and despite the fact that naval intelligence had information that the submarine, I-58 was known to be in the path of the Indianapolis, McVay was not warned of any enemy presence. He was told to use the “zig-zag” maneuver at his discretion. Naval officials denied his request for the customary destroyer escort. McVay and the Indianapolis set sail oblivious to the dangers the faced ahead.
In the late minutes of Sunday, July 29th, Captain McVay ordered the helmsman to continue its zig zag course toward Leyte. The ship was half way between Guam and Leyte traveling in the dark without any escort. Just before midnight, the Captain retired to his quarters for the night. Then within a few minutes the crew felt and large explosion and lunged to the side. A second torpedo
struck the ship, which rapidly began filling with acrid white smoke. Electrical systems began to malfunction and above the deck there were virtually no lights, only dense smoke.
Chief Woods was in the forward officer’s quarters. He managed to make it through the passageways to Radio Room II, where the ship’s only transmitters were located. A sailor aboard the ship described him as “a haven of normality in a ship gone topsy-turvy.” Woods took control of the room, which still had lights, power, and ventilation. Woods ordered the technicians in the room to “warm up the transmitters boys, then put on your life jackets and stand by.” Woods calmly stood
by waiting for a message to send. Woods told a radioman to tell Lt. Hill, “ we will pipe 4235 through to him on line 3, and look, bring back a copy of the distress message and we will key it from here on 500.” Radio Technician Hart, took the message back to Woods, but never made it. Woods couldn’t wait on orders. The situation had gone from grave to worse. Woods sat down at the transmitter position and began keying out the international SOS signal at 500 kilocycles, the frequency reserved for emergency communications. The antenna meter was moving so it appeared that the message was going out. But was it? Would anyone hear it? Woods remained on the key pad and tried at least three times to get out the distress signal until the ship listed beyond 45 degrees. Woods ordered “ Get out of here as fast as you can!” Woods and the technicians apparently made it out of the radio room just as the ship fell on her side. In just twelve minutes, the Indianapolis sunk beneath the surface.
Leonard never made it out of ship. Captain McVay, in a letter to Leonard’s mother wrote; “ Nothing that I can say will lighten the burden which is yours at this time; but I do want you to know that your son had done his part in the team-work which made the Indianapolis an efficient fighting unit of the fleet.” Commander L.R. Haynes, the ships’ chief medical officer also wrote, “ I knew Len very well.... Len was a fine officer and was well liked.”
Of the 1196 officers and crew, only about 300 managed to get out into the water. As daylight broke, Commander Haynes began to organize medical parties to search for survivors and the wounded. What he found was ghastly. Men were dead all around him, their life jackets still in place. One by one, the medical personnel took the jackets off the dead to give to the living. Haynes personally removed dog tags and placed him over his arm until he could hold no more. He said the Lord’s Prayer and set the bodies adrift to their watery graves.
The ship was expected to arrive in Leyte on Tuesday morning, but when it failed to arrive on time, a series of snafus alerted no one. Meanwhile, the men were parching in the sun, slowing thirsting to death. Despite the fact that the water appeared to be crystal clear, Commander Haynes tried in vain to stop the dehydrated sailors from drinking the salty water. The more they drank, the sicker and more dehydrated they became. Waves of mass hallucinations of islands swept over the survivors, who huddled together, the sickest men inside the circle. Being submersed in water for over three days, the body temperatures of men began to plummet sending them into delirium.
Just as the men in the water were about to give up hope, an act of divine providence led to their rescue. Lt. Wilbur C. Gwinn was flying over the area when a portion of his airplane came loose. As Lt. Gwinn glanced back to inspect the damage to his plane, he noticed an oil slick below him. As Gwinn circled back around he noticed the survivors splashing in the water. A little later, Lt. Adrian Marks was arrived in his flying-boat and took in some of the 316 survivors, who had been in the water for four days.
Captain McVay (left) was convicted in a court martial for failing to perform the standard zig zag maneuvers and dismissed from the Navy in disgrace. He was the only one of 350 ship’s captains to be convicted for losing their ships during the war. In 2000, the United States government exonerated Capt. McVay, but since there was no process for voiding a court martial verdict, his conviction still remains on records.
Chief Warrant Officer Leonard T. Woods’ body lies in a watery grave in the depths of the Pacific Ocean. A cenotaph marker to memorialize the life of this hero, who remained at his station signaling for help until the last possible moment, was placed by his family at Westview Cemetery in Wrightsville. (Photo courtesy of Loree and Billy Beacham, Dublin, GA, Find A Grave project.)
A Great American Tragedy
Leonard Woods was born in Wrightsville in 1918. After graduation from high school, Leonard joined the U.S. Navy. After surviving the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941, Woods served with distinction accumulating eight battle stars as a warrant officer specializing as a radio electrician. He made his last trip home during the Christmas season in 1944. He returned to the Pacific Coast to perform a short tour of duty. His wife, the former Miss Ada Brantley, left during the early months of 1945 for California to make her new home in anticipation of her husband’s return.
Leonard’s short tour of duty aboard the Indianapolis turned out to be not so short. After pounding Japanese positions in the Battle of Iwo Jima, the ship fended off persistent kamikaze attacks during the siege of Okinawa. As Chief Warrant Officer, Woods was responsible for the maintenance of the radio equipment aboard the ship. Radio communications were the lifeblood of naval ships in the vast expanse of the Pacific.
On the 26th, the Captain McVay received his orders to take the ship toward Leyte in the Philippines. Despite the fact that the U.S.S. Underhill was sunk by Japanese submarines in range of the course of his ship and despite the fact that naval intelligence had information that the submarine, I-58 was known to be in the path of the Indianapolis, McVay was not warned of any enemy presence. He was told to use the “zig-zag” maneuver at his discretion. Naval officials denied his request for the customary destroyer escort. McVay and the Indianapolis set sail oblivious to the dangers the faced ahead.
In the late minutes of Sunday, July 29th, Captain McVay ordered the helmsman to continue its zig zag course toward Leyte. The ship was half way between Guam and Leyte traveling in the dark without any escort. Just before midnight, the Captain retired to his quarters for the night. Then within a few minutes the crew felt and large explosion and lunged to the side. A second torpedo
struck the ship, which rapidly began filling with acrid white smoke. Electrical systems began to malfunction and above the deck there were virtually no lights, only dense smoke.
Chief Woods was in the forward officer’s quarters. He managed to make it through the passageways to Radio Room II, where the ship’s only transmitters were located. A sailor aboard the ship described him as “a haven of normality in a ship gone topsy-turvy.” Woods took control of the room, which still had lights, power, and ventilation. Woods ordered the technicians in the room to “warm up the transmitters boys, then put on your life jackets and stand by.” Woods calmly stood
by waiting for a message to send. Woods told a radioman to tell Lt. Hill, “ we will pipe 4235 through to him on line 3, and look, bring back a copy of the distress message and we will key it from here on 500.” Radio Technician Hart, took the message back to Woods, but never made it. Woods couldn’t wait on orders. The situation had gone from grave to worse. Woods sat down at the transmitter position and began keying out the international SOS signal at 500 kilocycles, the frequency reserved for emergency communications. The antenna meter was moving so it appeared that the message was going out. But was it? Would anyone hear it? Woods remained on the key pad and tried at least three times to get out the distress signal until the ship listed beyond 45 degrees. Woods ordered “ Get out of here as fast as you can!” Woods and the technicians apparently made it out of the radio room just as the ship fell on her side. In just twelve minutes, the Indianapolis sunk beneath the surface.
Of the 1196 officers and crew, only about 300 managed to get out into the water. As daylight broke, Commander Haynes began to organize medical parties to search for survivors and the wounded. What he found was ghastly. Men were dead all around him, their life jackets still in place. One by one, the medical personnel took the jackets off the dead to give to the living. Haynes personally removed dog tags and placed him over his arm until he could hold no more. He said the Lord’s Prayer and set the bodies adrift to their watery graves.
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