Final Breath

Chapter 1

In the belly of the USS Westchester County, metal trays clanged and young sailors rewarded every attempt at jest or joke without reservation. Like toddlers on a playground, proximity alone became reason enough to forge fast friendships; but these young men facing each other over mess tables in this stuffy, oiled air, were not playing children’s games.

 Fork loaded with scrambled eggs, Harold nodded to a somewhat familiar face approaching the last empty seat at his table. After spending five months in a claustrophobic community of less than a hundred and fifty regulars, one gets to know their neighbors; however, he hadn’t yet rubbed elbows with this particular crewman.

“May I?” the fellow petty officer asked, a folded hat stuffed in his belt.

Shifting a mouthful of food into his cheek, Harold tapped the space across from him. “It’s all yours.”

“Names Earl—Earl Clark.” His breakfast tray on the table, the sailor stretched out a hand as he sat down.

“Harold Schumaker.” He gave the man’s hand one sturdy shake. “Pleased to meet you. Where you from?”

“Petersburg Virginia. You?” Earl stabbed a link sausage and washed it down with a few gulps of orange juice, his dark eyes and toothy smile suggesting an honest soul; the type one might seek out after getting a Dear John letter.

Spinning the gold band on his left hand with his thumb, Harold leaned in, the rumble of voices making it difficult to hear. “I’m from Charleston. This your first combat tour?”

Earl held up two fingers, then swiped at a stray hash brown on his chin. “Second time around.” A hand rolling in front of him, he added, “Did my first tour with the Brown Water Navy as well, but served as a sentry on the Benewah.” He tipped his hand portside where the USS Benewah sat anchored along with several other support ships in the Navy River Assault Division 111.

A bell clanged, triggering a frenzy of forks scrapping over trays as sailors stuffed down what remained of their breakfast.

Harold pushed away from the table, the galley clearing for the next rotation. “Take it easy, Earl.”

“Have a good one,” the crewman replied, as they parted ways.

 Like a kicked anthill, shipmen scurried into lines fanning out in every direction, white-hatted heads bobbing as they ducked and hopped through baffle barriers in the narrow passageways. Lines dwindled as men sifted off to shimmy below or topside in ladderwells.

*  *  *

From the main deck, Harold felt the thrust of diesel engines maneuvering the landing tanker in the muddy waters of the Mekong Delta; the troubled shores of South Vietnam too close for comfort. For the next four hours, he saw to the cleaning of guns and a shift change of gunners.

A quick lunch consumed, Harold returned to his post to stock and load ammunition. The sky rumbled, dark clouds full of monsoon rain, threatening him with their daily dousing. The canopy cut loose, pouring over the delta. No one stopped working on account of the rain. When the sun finally came out again, it turned the ship’s deck into a steam oven. A typical November day in Vietnam. He peeled off his rain gear and set it aside, clothes clinging to his skin within seconds. The last pallet tagged for a supply boat, Harold sought out the nearest drinking fountain and swallowed down enough water to satisfy a camel, dog tags clicking against the bowl.

Behind him, an airman called out to secure the deck. Harold leaned into a shaded doorway, rotors chirping on two of the five Army helicopters as they picked up speed. He held a hand on top of his white, Dixie cup hat to keep a turbulent mix of wind and rain-water from blowing it away.

A crewmate stepped beside him into the alcove, a delighted grin on his freckled face, and a box nestled in the crook of his arm. “Harold—it’s a boy,” the young man nearly sang as he handed him a cigar, proud blue eyes as bright as searchlights.

“A boy is it? Congrats, Red!” He shook the lanky sailor’s hand, before the new father scooted off to spread the news.

With a half-hour of R&R until his next shift, Harold walked the length of the ship, unlit cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. Before too long, he’d be the new father passing out cigars. The thought offered a mixed bag of emotions, an ache to be home, but also the security of having a wife—and soon a child—to go home to.

  On the starboard side, with one hand on the deck-rail, Harold listened to the thump-thump-thump of propellers, the sound fading as the Hueys disappeared over the endless, bright-green landscape. On the water below, patrol boats hummed as they approached aluminum barges fixed to the ship. Harold shifted his attention to the infantry and assault divisions; some returning, others heading out for the night. He didn’t envy the battalions their ship hosted: men ferried into the thicket-lined waterways and rice paddies. Many went face to face with the Viet Cong; too many came back in body bags.

At the end of his evening shift, the sun dipped below the Western Horizon, painting wispy clouds in shades of red. “Sailor’s delight,” he mumbled, a day’s worth of sticky sweat and grime staining his white t-shirt.

 Harold made his way several decks below to a crowded berthing compartment. Pin-ups along with pictures of girlfriends, wives, and children lined the bulkhead. He could tell a lot about a man by the pictures next to their pillows, some of the paper faces slipped in bunk springs. One hothead had pictures of his wife and four kids lined up the length of his bunk. He knew the man was more lonely than angry, and just wanted to go home.

 Waiting for a shower to free up, he licked over dry lips as salty as the South China Sea, and peeled off his filth-covered t-shirt.

“Look out, Charlie!” A crewman teased, a friendly pat on Harold’s bicep. “Petty officer third-class Shumaker got his guns loaded and ready to fire.” With machine-gun fingers, the sailor spun in a circle. “Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.” The well-known clown earned a few tired laughs.

“You know it.” Harold rewarded him with an approving nod, the sailor far more annoying than funny, although he’d trust him with his life in a heartbeat.

At the far end of the berthing deck, the shipmate he’d met at breakfast, shuffled around men clad in dog tags and white skivvies, his shower kit in hand. Lights dimmed and bunks creaked under the weight of home-sick sailors, their latest letters crinkling as they stowed them beneath their pillows.

A crewmate they called Frankie, on account of his Sinatra-like voice, sang out a quiet phrase, “My gals a corker, she’s a New Yorker; I buy her everything to keep her in style.”

Harold joined in with twenty-plus crewmates to finish the tune, “She’s got a pair of hips just like two battleships; yes boys that’s where my money goes.”

Chapter 2

Showered and in desperate need of sleep, Harold settled in his bunk, the rattling fan in the crowded compartment, doing little good in the dank and musty space. Although he couldn’t make out the details of his wife’s picture in the low light, he kissed a fingertip and brushed it over the shadowed image, seeing every feature in his mind’s eye. “Love ya, babe,” he silently mouthed.

*  *  *

All too soon, a hand tapped his shoulder, the messenger waking him for night duty. A pleasant thought pushed aside the pain of aching shoulders and itch of tired eyes—Esther, his wife. In three months, she’d give birth to their first child. There’d be plenty of night duty to be had after the Wesco returned to homeport; but he’d much rather walk carpeted hallways with a babe in arms than scan dark waters for signs of the enemy. He wished he could be at home, see Esther’s tummy poke out, and hold their newborn seconds after it took its first breath. The baby would be almost four months old by the time he saw him … or her.

His dungarees on, Harold tied up his boots and pulled a rain slicker out of his duffle bag. Envious of the still-sleeping sailors, he knew they too would get their turn at night watch. A low light illuminated the closest ladderwell. He slipped between the rows of bunks, and with his slicker over his shoulder, reached for a rung.

A blast of pressure ripped him off his feet, the unseen force sending his body tumbling like a rag doll through a blender of railings and steel shards. He could hear nothing—see nothing. Everything hurt. He cried out, finding himself unable to hear his own voice. Blood pounded through his veins, his neck and head thumping out a panic-driven pulse. Somewhere in the darkness, a faint whine began to build—an alarm! Light-headed, he knew within seconds he’d pass out. He fought it, afraid he would never wake up, but his will alone wasn’t enough to keep him conscious. 

As Harold came to, he could hear muffled moans and anguished cries sifting past the ringing in his ears. The ship listed. He tried to press against the crushing weight on his legs, but pain shot through his wrist. He ran a trembling hand down his right arm, feeling over an unnatural bend and mangled fingers. “God help us.” Breath shallow, he dared to pull in the fuel-filled air, broken ribs needling his chest. There was no way to gain his bearings in this dark, tangled hell. They’d been attacked. If this ship went down, he’d soon drown in the muddy water.

To his left, a voice not far from him whispered out a prayer.

“Hey—” Harold craned his neck toward the sound, his ears still ringing. “Can you hear me?”

“I can.”

Wet fingers trailed over his forearm.

Harold took the unseen crewmate’s hand in his. “Who’s there?”

“It’s Clark …I’m here.”

He felt a pull on his hand, the man inching closer. “Earl?”

“That’s right, brother. What’s your name?”

“Harold.” He winced at the stab in his chest. “We’re in deep, aren’t we?”

“Seen better days,” Earl replied. “You and me, we’re gonna get out of this.”

“Earl—I can’t feel my legs.” Harold leaned his head back, the unmistakable sound of moving water adding to his fears. Hearing no reply, he squeezed the hand in his.

“Still with ya, Harold.” Earl’s hand slipped away.

Harold heard the man hiss in several long breaths through clenched teeth. “Are you busted up bad?”

“Can’t see much to know one way or the other,” Earl replied. “Say … when I met ya this mornin’, saw you had on a ring.”

Harold ran the pad of his thumb over the base of his finger, relieved to find he still had his wedding band. He welcomed Earl’s all-too-obvious intent to distract him. “Yeah.” A pained smile pulled at the corner of His mouth. “Got a wife … and a little one on the way.”

“Gonna be a daddy, huh? Congrats are in order then.”

Harold could tell by the strain in Earl’s voice that the man was in a world of hurts. “You got yourself a girl?” He heard a deep chuckle. “You done gave yourself away. Go on, Earl. Tell me about her.”

“Oh … I like to call her May … her name’s Maybeline. Preacher’s daughter.” He chuckled again.

“Better watch yourself, boy. Don’t want no preacher trouble,” Harold teased.

“May’s trouble enough on her own.” Earl shifted and audibly sucked in a few quick breaths. “When we get back home, gonna ask her to marry me. If she says yes, I’ll be the lucky one.”

“Signing up for the ol’ Ball and chain. Can’t say I blame ya, Earl.” 

 Mechanical sounds began to mix in with distant shouts. The realization that all was not lost offered a palpable measure of relief. The ship creaked and groaned, its torn frame shifting. Harold panicked as the pile of metal on him pressed deeper into his pelvis, the strength in his good arm doing nothing to secure the invisible load.

“God, please no! No! No!” Harold cried out, his hip giving way to the pressure with a stick-like crack. Unable to stand the pain, he closed his eyes and wept, preferring death to this slow torture, his teeth clenched lock-tight.

Again the whispered prayer, “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort—“

“Earl?” Harold huffed in gulps of air, reaching into the dark space next to him. “Earl!” He felt fingers slip over his, the thrumming of Earl’s pulse racing beneath his thumb. Salty sweat poured down Harold’s forehead and into his eyes. It was too much. “Ain’t gonna make it, Earl. Tell my wife I love her. Esther Shumaker—Charleston, South Carolina. Tell her, Earl. Tell her I loved her from the first second I seen her.” Fresh tears cleared the sting from his eyes. The unbearable pain in his hip began to subside, in its place a thousand pinpricks. His throat pinched at the reality of it all. “Tell her—tell her I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t come home to her like I promised.”

“I won’t have to, Harold. You’ll be telling her yourself. Stay with me now. We’re gonna make it.”

“Promise me, Earl. Give me your word,” he sobbed out, then calmed down a bit when he felt a squeeze on his hand.

“It’s okay. You got my word. Don’t worry no more ‘bout it. Take it easy now, brother.”

For what seemed like an eternity, Harold tried to stifle a cough, knowing the pain from it would hurt worse than the ache in his throat; but his body involuntarily choked out a lung full of caustic air, sending sharp stabs deep into his chest. Thick saliva coated his tongue. What he hoped was spittle trickled out of the corner of his mouth and slid down his neck. He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood unmistakable.

chapter 3

Distant light began to flicker on and off through tiny spaces in the twisted wreckage. When pumps and saws quieted, he could hear officers barking orders, as the able remaining crew sifted through layers of shredded steel. A man screamed out, the wailing barely human. Harold squeezed his eyes shut, a chill working up the hair on his arms and neck. He willed for the man to stop, but when he suddenly went quiet, the eerie silence felt as troublesome as the man’s desperate cry.

“Earl … you with me?” He again felt through the darkness, somewhat able to either imagine or make out the outline of his shipmate’s head and shoulders only a few feet away.

A sticky hand scooted over his arm. “Right here, Harold.”

“Seems like we’ve taken a starboard hit.” He coughed again, his chest somewhat numb to the pain. “What’s left of ya, Earl?”

“Oh … I’m sure I got me some body art them hippies would envy.”

Harold grinned at the reference, the sailor lying next to him a balm for a troubled soul. “Afraid I ain’t got nothing left to envy. Don’t think it’ll matter much longer.”

“You a religious man?” Earl asked.

“Darkened the church door a few times. Can’t say if the good Lord knows me by name.”

“He does, Harold. I’m sure he does.”

“Yeah? Well … right now the idea of a higher power appeals to me a great deal.” He wheezed when he tried to laugh, a sputter building in his throat. “Met my Esther on a Sunday.”

“Met her at church, did ya?”

“No … Got a friend named Tuck; out there somewhere in them infested mangroves, Lord help him. Asked me to go with him one Sunday.” Harold took in a few breaths, a calmness settling in as he shared his story. “He told me some white couple asked him to dinner; asked him to bring a friend.”

“Don’t wanna turn down no Sunday dinner,” Earl added.

“No sir. Esther had herself a job there. She and a big old gal worked the kitchen, serving up the meal.” Harold cleared his dusty throat, a memory-induced smile lifting his cheeks. “Heart done stopped beating the second I laid eyes on her.” He paused to savor the mental image of that day: Esther’s shy smile and the timid glance she flitted his way every time she walked back into the dining room. Lord have mercy, what he’d give to hold her again. “Tell me about your girl.”

“Maybeline? …she’s the prettiest thing I ever saw.” Earl huffed out a few soft puffs. “But she don’t hold back none. You know how it is. Sometimes them gals, they like to speak their mind.” His voice suggested both affection and humor, his low, baritone chuckle a light of its own in what felt like death’s darkness.

“Only ever met one gal that didn’t speak her mind,” Harold replied, then waited for Earl to ask him about the closed-mouth mystery woman.

“Was she layin’ in a coffin with her lips sewn shut?”

Harold snickered at Earl’s reply. “You heard that one, huh?”

“One of my daddy’s favorites. Said it still weren’t true though. Their souls be up yonder waving a finger in the face of poor ol’ St. Peter, ‘cause he’s too slow at getting them pearly gates open.”

“Sounds about right.” Harold tried again to move legs he couldn’t feel, draining what little energy he had. “I’m afraid there’s a pine box soon to have my name on it.”

“No, Harold. You hold on. I can hear them boys are digging us out of here. Won’t be long now.”

Harold drifted in and out of sleepfor an unknown length of time. Esther smiled up at him, a blanketed bundle cradled in her arms, but when he reached out to hold her, he felt as if he were on fire. He turned to look down, finding his arm bloody, hand hanging from shredded skin. Water began to poor into the house. Unable to move, he yelled, “Esther, get out! … Get out!”

“Harold—Harold.”

Startled by Earl’s hand on his arm, he woke to a nightmare just as horrifying as the one he’d imagined.

Early morning light began to filter through the torn hull; jagged lengths of steel peeled back as if made of tinfoil. Like a devil’s Christmas tree, clothes, bedding, and bodies hung from twisted railings.

The ship went quiet. Someone called out in search of survivors. Harold could hear several desperate men yelling out at once, then one after another men called out their name and rank, some Navy, a few Army.

After a pause, he yelled out, “Petty Officer 3rd-class—” His lungs burned as he gulped to refill them. “Harold Schumaker.”

Beside him, Earl sucked in a deep breath. “Petty Officer 3rd- class Earl Clark.”

Harold waited to hear a call from other trapped survivors, but he and Earl would be the last to call out.

The buzzing and grinding of saws resumed, their occasional stall followed by the high-pitched screech of metal sliding against metal. Harold tuned in to another sound; likely small boats coming and going every so often. They seemed to be driving right through the deck below. Wasn’t possible, but he couldn’t make sense of it.

For the first time in over five months, Harold felt cold—really cold. He continued to drift in and out of sleep, the chatter of his own teeth waking him. Earl’s hand lay limp on his arm, the sailor next to him still and quiet. “Earl?”

Fingers tapped his arm. “Still with ya, brother.”

Harold tried to lift his head to look over his injuries, but there was no seeing around the pile on top of him. A rattle took up residence in his throat, which he attempted to clear without success. An odd sense of heaviness began to build. At first, he feared the sensation, until its movement through his body began to push the pain away, first from his mangled hand, then his arms and shoulders. Even his eyelids felt heavy.

“Earl,” he slurred out, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth. “That prayer you was sayin’.”

“Twenty-third Psalm?” Earl asked, scooting another inch closer.

 “Yeah. Can you …can you say …” Only able to pull in short, stilted huffs, Harold ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Will ya say it, Earl? I’ll listen.”

“I will. Come on now, Harold, you stay with me… The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

Harold could feel Earl’s breath on his ear, his voice sounding as if it were drifting, coming first from one direction, then another.

“He restoreth my soul.”

Shoulders involuntarily twitching, he tried to close his mouth to swallow, but his jaw felt as heavy as lead. Though he knew Earl lay right beside him, he seemed somehow farther away, the words of his prayer running together … overlapping in a slow, unsteady rhythm.

“For thou art with me.” Earl stopped for a moment, patted his arm, felt his wrist, then kept on praying, his wavering voice that of a man in mourning.

He tried to say Earl’s name. Wanted to tell him it was all right. Wanted to thank him; but he couldn’t make a sound, not even a whisper. A throatfulof blood bubbled up out of his mouth. He would die, but not alone.

“And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

Death’s hand landed on Harold’s chest, stilling its rise and fall. A single tear trailed slowly down his cheek as he slipped away.

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