My father, Captain Leighton Wood, graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in the class of 1915 and was the first commanding officer of the USS Montpelier (CL-57). Dad was also my hero.
I had great admiration for my father and wanted very much to follow in his footsteps. So when I was in high school in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, I worked hard enough to win a senatorial appointment to Annapolis in 1937. When I took the vision test at the Philadelphia Naval Dispensary, however, my eyes weren't up to the standards that the Navy demanded at that time. Instead of the Academy, I went off to the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, where my family had roots.
As time went on and things began to heat up in the Pacific, the Navy reduced its physical standards somewhat, and suddenly I was an ensign in the U.S. Naval Reserve. After a short course in naval indoctrination and some training and temporary duty, I was assigned to MTB (Motor Torpedo Boat) Squadron 6—specifically executive officer of PT-124.
In August 1942, my dad and I made visits to each other's ships. At that time, the Montpelier was outfitting at Newark Shipbuilding in Newark, New Jersey. I was helping outfit PT-124 in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I remember dad telling me that it was wonderful having all the young officers on his ship because they understood the electronics by which the vessel was operated and he didn't. He told me that what he had was the experience of an "old sea dog," which was what the commanding officer would need.
When my father came to visit PT-124 in the Brooklyn Navy Yard in September 1942, he gave me a wonderful lesson in naval leadership. As he came aboard, my father sensed that my crew had never really seen a four-striper before. Accordingly, he took off his jacket, folded it up, and put it down on a convenient canopy. Now, he was no longer an awe-inspiring officer. He then turned to the nearest member of my crew and asked him, "Son, what is your name, and what do you do?"
The young man explained that he was a gunner's mate. My dad pointed at the .50-caliber and said, "What's this gun, and can you service it?"
The enlisted man replied: "Yes I can, sir. That's a .50-caliber machine gun."
"Well, can you take it apart and put it back together?"
"Yes I can, sir."
The gunner's mate proceeded to quickly disassemble the .50-caliber and put it back together. My father then congratulated and thanked him and turned to the next man. Dad went on to speak personally to each of my men, and had each of them tell him about his job on the boat, and if possible, demonstrate his proficiency.
Before long, it was time for lunch. My dad and I seated ourselves in the officer's mess, which on a PT boat was about the size of a small card table, and were served the usual hot dogs and beans. While we ate, the heads of all nine of my crew somehow squeezed into the little space. My father then congratulated the cook on a wonderful meal and explained that he now had to leave.
Dad had met each man eyeball to eyeball, respected and treated each of them civilly, and courteously thanked each individually. As he left I realized that had he simply said, "All right men, follow me," all nine of my guys would have followed behind him and never asked where they were going.
In August 1942, the U.S. Marines landed on Guadalcanal, and the war was really heating up. It turned out that I arrived in the war zone a little bit ahead of my father. We dropped the hook in Tulagi Harbor, across Iron Bottom Sound from Guadalcanal, on Christmas 1942. While we missed the campaign's early naval battles, we still managed to engage in four pitched fights with Japanese destroyers and cruisers. This activity culminated on the night of 1-2 February when enemy destroyers arrived off Guadalcanal to begin evacuating troops.
As life would have it, I was returning from patrol at first light on 20 February 1943 when I saw ten ships coming up from the south. Our boat ran over to see who and what they were and to beg, borrow, or steal whatever supplies we could. As I ran up the line of the four cruisers, they were numbers 54, 55, 56, and 57??—my old man's ship! I then grabbed our semaphore flags, jumped up on our little signal bridge, and sent over a message to the Montpelier: "Captain Wood would like to speak with Captain Wood." I was, of course, not a real captain, but at that time I was acting captain of PT-124. The signalman sent back a message that I should follow them into the harbor and come alongside when they anchored. That certainly was no problem, because they steamed into Tulagi, where I was still stationed.
After the Montpelier anchored, I came alongside. In so doing, the boat displayed the two Japanese flags my crew had painted on her side that signified we had sunk two enemy destroyers. As we tied up, I heard my father announcing over their loud hailer that "The ship's store of the Montpelier is open to the crew of the PT-124, and each man can have as much for free as he can carry in two loads."
While the cruiser was lowering a rope ladder for me to climb up, my crew, looking like sailors from an Errol Flynn pirate movie, swarmed up the lines that were over the cruiser's side. Then, as I climbed the ladder, I was trying desperately to remember the proper protocol when one boarded a real U.S. naval vessel. I remembered right away from my text on naval etiquette that you had to salute the officer of the deck, whom you would recognize because he would have a spyglass under his arm. But of course, the Navy hadn't used spyglasses for decades. I also knew that I had to salute the quarterdeck, but I wasn't sure whether that was at the bow or the stern. So I gazed up at the heavens and said, "Look, if you're really up there, help me now. Which is it, the bow or the stern?" I didn't want to embarrass my father, or myself for that matter. Somehow, the message came back to me: "Stern."
As I climbed aboard, I saluted the stern of the Montpelier and held the salute, looking for the officer of the deck. By now I was so excited I had a roaring in my ears and I could hardly see anything. As I stood there saluting, looking around, all I could see was a semicircle of friendly faces, some officers, some men.
Finally one person stepped forward and stuck his hand out to shake. I stood there shaking hands with him, unable to hear what he was saying, when over his shoulder I saw my father. At that point, I gave a pull on the hand I was shaking, put my left hand on the man's shoulder, gave him a real shove out of the way, and ran over and hugged my dad.
You must understand that my father was 5 foot 6 inches and weighted 126 pounds, so when I bear-hugged him and picked him up, I knocked his hat off. Picking it up, I put it back on his head. But as I hugged him again, I knocked it off once more. It was then that I heard laughter from the people around us and realized that my dad had been saying the same sentence to me over and over. He was asking, "Would you like to meet the admiral of the task force?" I remember coming to attention and saying, "Yes, sir." My father pointed to the man who had greeted me when I first came aboard and said, "Son, this is Admiral Merrill."
The admiral (Rear Admiral Aaron S. "Tip" Merrill) was holding onto the Montpelier's lifelines and laughing so hard tears were streaming down his face. I realized that I had almost thrown him over the side! Admiral Merrill then said, "Son, that was the most amazing entrance I've ever seen onto a warship of the U.S. Navy."
Soon I was in the Montpelier's wardroom having coffee with my father and the admiral, joined by the captains of the three other cruisers and the captain of their destroyer escort. Of course, we talked about what we had all been doing the last couple of months. I mentioned to my father that we could've used a little help a few weeks earlier when the Japanese evacuated Guadalcanal.
Three times between 1 and 8 February, the Japanese had sent groups of 18 to 20 destroyers to evacuate their remaining forces from the island. The Navy chose to oppose the first run with 11 motor torpedo boats, even though a task force of destroyers and cruisers was in the vicinity. There was quite a silence and finally my father said, "Son, we [meaning his task force] were there, but we had lost so many ships in the prior three or four months that the high command did not want to risk the loss of more destroyers and cruisers." As it turned out, the more than 10,000 Japanese officers and men eventually evacuated were ineffectives because of near-starvation, malnutrition, and disease.
After an hour or two of chatting in the wardroom, word was passed that the Japanese were sending down a force of 75 or so airplanes to attack the task force. So I said goodbye to dad, told him what a wonderful ship he had, and departed. The task force of cruisers and destroyers got under way very quickly, leaving for open water.
In retrospect, this was quite a coincidence, because dad and I had last seen each other in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. It was 12,000 miles away—almost exactly the opposite side of the earth from Tulagi. My father and I had each gone to the opposite end of the world, and met en passant.
I spent the next couple of months patrolling around Guadalcanal, operating out of the PT base. Then on 6 June 1942, a teletype message arrived at Tulagi. Dad had died. He bled to death after falling down a hatch while inspecting his cruiser and tearing open an old appendix wound from World War I.
Maybe a week later the base received another teletype message, this one stating that COMDESRON 23 (the commander of Destroyer Squadron 23) wanted Leighton Wood to have his PT boat in the middle of Tulagi Harbor at 1110 the next day.
Well, my crew and I had no idea what this was all about, nor did anybody else. However, we were up at daylight cleaning up the boat and ourselves, and we were at the right spot well before the appointed time. At about 1100, we saw four U.S. destroyers coming into the harbor, but not at harbor speed. They were really going, and made a long circle around the harbor.
I came alongside the lead destroyer, saluted the quarterdeck (as I had learned to do), and requested permission to come aboard from the officer who was standing there. He gave permission, and when I stepped aboard he asked, "Is your name Leighton Wood?"
I replied, "Yes, sir."
"Was Captain Leighton Wood your father?"
"Yes, sir."
"Son, my name is Arleigh Burke, and I am on a mission, but I calculated that I had just enough time to divert here and say a few words to you. When your dad went down, the Navy lost a great officer and I lost a great friend. Now I'm sorry son, but you must leave because I must leave."
I saluted the commander and boarded PT-124. Soon, the destroyers were gone at high speed. My crew asked me, "Hey captain, what happened?"
"I hardly know," I replied. "But he was a friend of dad's."
I didn't think too much about it then, but with the passage of time I realized that the kind of person who, though on a mission, would somehow manage to make the time to console the son of a friend was the kind of person who would go the distance. Of course, Arleigh Burke did. He became an admiral and then a chief of naval operations.
Taking on the MakigumaOn the rainy, dark night of 1 February 1943, the Japanese began their evacuation of Guadalcanal. Coastwatchers up the line had reported a force of 16 destroyers and three heavy cruisers was headed down the "Slot" (the New Georgia Sound). Actually, 20 Japanese destroyers were coming our way, and their ETA was 2100. We opposed this force with 11 PT boats organized into strike units of two to three vessels and spread around the area between the north end of "the canal" and Savo Island.As our PT units closed in to attack, the Japanese were tracking them. Enemy planes strafed our boats, and Japanese destroyers shelled them. Lieutenant Clark Faulkner commanded PT-124. During our approach we spotted a destroyer about 800 yards away. We closed to 600 yards and fired all four of our torpedoes. At the same time, a Japanese float plane coasted down over the wake of our companion boat, PT-123, and planted a bomb on her transom that set the vessel on fire. She sank shortly thereafter. I, meanwhile, saw one of our "fish" hit the destroyer Makiguma. She shortly thereafter ran into and set off one of the U.S. mines laid earlier that day, caught fire, and eventually sank. The Makiguma was the only Japanese ship lost that night, while three of our PT boats were destroyed and one was driven aground. —Leighton C. Wood |