Story written in 1981 tells of former Malta resident's time in the US Navy during WWII

Editor's Note: This story was written by Paul Dunscomb in 1981 when he was a senior in high school. Dunscomb interviewed Harry Carpenter (a former Malta resident) when Carpenter worked as a janitor at Ossining High School in New York.

The story was brought to our attention by Harry’s son, also Harry, who still lives on Malta. Carpenter passed in 1996 after moving to the area in 1988 and Dunscomb is now a professor in Anchorage, Alaska. The story is reprinted here with Dunscomb’s permission.

Ever wonder what it might be like to lead a double life? Few get the chance, yet Harry Carpenter of Peekskill, in effect, has led two lives: one in peacetime, and one in wartime, helping deliver a part of the atomic bomb to the South Pacific. Presently, the wiry, energetic Carpenter serves as head custodian at Ossining High School. Looking back thirty-seven years to his wartime experiences, he recalls adventures of which he can only dream.

“In June of 1944 I joined the Navy because my cousin had been shot down and wanted to help even the score,” Carpenter explains. This decision was not popular with his wife at all, for he could have easily stayed at home. At that time, he had an essential job, delivering milk to New York City. But he wanted to do his bit, so he signed up.

“After eight weeks of boot camp in Great Lakes, I applied for immediate overseas duty.” He got it. Carpenter’s first assignment was to the destroyer Cunningham, which patrolled the icy and treacherous water of the Northern Pacific, just south of the Aleutian Islands. His stay on the Cunningham, was brief, however, three weeks after joining his ship, “We came under attack by a number of Japanese medium ‘Betty’ bombers. We dodged for a time, then we took a direct hit on the rudder. Things still weren’t bad, though, because the Cunningham was a two-screw ship and by working our engines we could steer fairly well. But then we took another hit and the port screw was knocked out. Once that happened, we could only circle and so the captain gave the order to abandon ship.”

Most of the crew got off and soon the crippled ship was blasted from the water, Carpenter recalls. But the weather was rough, and the men were tossed from their boats into the near-freezing sea. Though they were in the water only about 14 minutes from the time they abandoned ship until they were picked up by a Navy tug, “It was enough.” Of a complement of 217 men, Harry Carpenter was one of only 12 survivors.

After 30 days of survivor’s leave, Harry joined a new ship, the heavy cruiser, Louisville. His first cruise on the “Lady Lou” was hardly eventful, but much more important in the long run. “Something was up. The ship was carrying a very important piece of cargo.”

The men didn’t know what, only that they had to empty a recently filled ammunition hold to take it aboard, and that meant important. So the “Lady Lou” and her special cargo set out, along with a sister ship, the Indianapolis. On the way to their destination, Guam, the Indianapolis was sunk by a rouge Japanese submarine. But the Louisville made port and the valuable cargo was unloaded. It wasn’t until much later that the crew found out they had transported part of the atomic warhead that was dropped on Hiroshima on August 28, 1945.

But further adventures lay in store for Harry Carpenter. After the bomb was delivered, the Louisville was sent to Okinawa to help with the invasion. The vessel was serving as flagship for a force of destroyers and cruisers on close support, and the fleet was being continually attacked by kamikaze aircraft. At 7 p.m., two days before Carpenter’s birthday, the “Lady Lou’s” luck at Okinawa ran out when the fleet came under attack by two waves of planes. Though the anti-aircraft fire was intense, some of the kamikazes managed to slip through. The pilots had been ordered to get the biggest ships they could find, and, for this fleet, that meant only one thing: “Get the Louisville.”

“One of the planes dived on us and hit us square in the bridge. We lost the captain and admiral. I was near the bridge at the time and some got serious shrapnel wounds and a punctured lung. But there were fires everywhere and the thing to do was get them out. I manned a hose; I was on the hose for over eight hours before I finally passed out from exhaustion. I was taken down below with the rest of the wounded and later transferred to a hospital ship. I got about 195 stitches in my side and I don’t know how many inside.”

Five weeks later, Carpenter rejoined his ship. By then, the war was over.

For a time, life improved for the Navy veteran. After a few weeks of work in China seizing Japanese river gunboats, and a stopover in Vladivostok, the first American warship there in 14 years, it was finally time to go home.

The trip back on a Navy transport took “forever and a day.” And even that wasn’t quiet. On the way, they ran into the outer edges of a typhoon and wound up going to Portland, OR., instead of San Francisco as originally planned. After three weeks in Portland, Harry was given first-class rail transportation home. But at home, all was far from quiet.

Apparently, when the Louisville was hit and Carpenter was transferred to the hospital ship, someone made a mistake. He was reported missing in action and later declared dead. For over a month, Harry’s family thought that he had been lost. But then, one day, he walked through the front door of his parents’ home in Peekskill.

“I wanted to surprise them” and he did just that. In fact, his father was so shocked that he had a mild heart attack. Mother was not so surprised, for she “knew that Harry wasn’t dead.” Two days after his master’s return, the old dog, crippled and blind, died, after finally seeing his master come home.

The next time you walk down the halls of Ossining High School and see Harry Carpenter, stop and think about what he did and where he was. You might find it hard to believe, but it really happened. In fact, there are about a million Harry Carpenters all over the country today. It makes you think, doesn’t it?