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     The SS Brazil followed three freighters, also leaving on Sunday the 31^st of May, 1942, as she eased her way through the mine fields that protected Bombay Harbor.  Once clear of the mine fields, the SS Brazil stretched her sea legs and got up to cruise speed; leaving the slower freighters behind.  When she passed the freighters, they radioed the Brazil’s captain and asked if he’d like to “convoy” with them; respectfully the skipper declined.  Those freighters would only slow the SS Brazil down and draw enemy submarines.  The captain preferred to chance sailing on alone at speed, making his ship that much harder to find.

     “Hindsight is always the best sight” – in this case the old adage being spot on.  After the war, it was determined that this particular period, of 1942, experienced the highest numbers of Allied ships lost to German submarines; the majority of losses occurring in “convoys.”

     My folks, God bless them, had picked the absolute worst and most dangerous time to come home, dear reader.  They’d have been far safer staying and working in the oilfields of India.  To illustrate my point: the three freighters they followed out of Bombay Harbor that day were sunk.

      SS Brazil’s lifeboat drill.

     The other challenge my parents were faced with was the lack of lifeboats; the SS Brazil only carried enough for 850 people, not 1,130.  To make up for this deficit, all three swimming pools were drained and filled with rigid life rafts – a rectangular flotation device with a webbed floor, which exposed one to the elements. 

     In the event of a sinking, these rafts were to be thrown overboard along with huge nets dropped down the ship’s sides.  Passengers and crew were expected to climb down these nets, get into the sea, and swim to the nearest life raft. 

     Besides my mother, dear reader, there were a lot of other pregnant, non-swimming mothers onboard that ship.  How they would possibly “catch” one of these life rafts was anyone’s guess.

     To add to the crew’s and passenger’s misery, on that first leg of the journey, an epidemic of measles broke out.  It swept the ship, wreaking havoc mainly among the children and their families, with fortunately no fatalities.

          SS Brazil’s Captain with kids who survived the measles.

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     On the second day at sea, while exploring the ship, Pinkie happened to wander back to the stern and discovered the 4”/50 single purpose gun, and its 8-man gun crew.  Pinkie was twelve on this occasion and these USN sailors weren’t much older – ranging in age from 18 to 22 - who were also very scared and homesick.  Pinkie reminded them of their kid sisters and cousins back in the States, and what they were fighting for.  Without taking a vote, the gun crew to a man adopted Pinkie as their “mascot and gopher.” 

     It was a good thing that they did, because roughly a week after that, one of the male passengers took an unsavory interest in Pinkie - got her alone in a dark corner - and felt her up.  Members of “Pinkie’s gun crew” caught the poor sap, beat him to a pulp, and threw him in the brig for the remainder of the trip.  Following this, similar to wild fire, word spread among the 1,130 passengers and crew: “Don’t mess with Pinkie or you’ll answer to her USN bodyguards.” From that day forward Pinkie went where she wanted, and when she wanted, with impunity – always being placed first in line.

     And how did one distinguish Pinkie amongst all those women and kids?  Well you may wonder, dear reader.

                           “Pinkie’s Gun Crew.” Note steel helmets and kapok life jackets.

     The gun crew had issued Pinkie a USN M-1 steel helmet, and kapok life jacket in navy-grey; wherever Pinkie went in this gear she always ran.  Therefore all one glimpsed, running in and out of strolling passengers, was this grey steel helmet atop a life jacket driven by pumping, bare legs - with a white Band Aid on one knee – shod in large brown and white oxfords, clomping down the deck, having one sock up and one sock down.  This was the little girl you didn’t impede, for she was always running a “mission” for “her gun crew.”

     Basically these “missions” had to do with creature comforts: Pinkie was forever rounding up fresh coffee, doughnuts, sandwiches, candy bars, chewing gum and cigarettes. However, occasionally she would also play cupid; delivering notes to female passengers and awaiting their response.

     Hey...this was important war work, dear reader.

     The only periods that really worried Mom, concerning Pinkie, was at dawn and sunset.  For all gun crews were at “battle stations,” as these were the times of day that the ship was most vulnerable to air or surface attack.  Since the sailors couldn’t leave their guns, Pinkie was there also running “missions” for them.  If the ship was ever actually attacked, these gun positions would draw the lion’s share of enemy fire.

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     The sexes were technically separated aboard ship, when it came to sleeping and bathing.  Consequently Mom and Pinkie were assigned a stateroom - originally designed in luxury for two - that had been stripped out and currently held 22 women and kids in pipe sleeping racks across which bare canvas was stretched; requiring my folks to supply their own blankets, pillows and mattresses.

    SS Brazil’s original stateroom designed for two. 

    

      Same stateroom stripped out and now holding 22.

     Talk about being packed like sardines, dear reader.

     Due to the black out the nights were the worst for my mother.  As there was nothing for her do, except lie in her cramped, dark bunk, sweat in the stuffy air and wait for an invisible sub to slam a torpedo into the ship’s hull.  She developed a terrible case of claustrophobia – even after the war she could never ride in an elevator – any tight space put her right back on the SS Brazil.

     So she’d crawl out of her bunk, go topside and prowl the promenade deck in the dark, pacing from one end of the ship to the other.  While she spied the Southern Cross constellation swing from port to starboard, as the ship periodically zigzagged in its attempt to avoid that German torpedo with its name on it.

     Finally, on the fourth day at sea, Dad ascertained Mom was losing it and clearly needed a diversion.  So he suggested - as she was up all night anyway - why not give a concert each night.  Getting everyone’s mind off the fact they might be blown out of the water at any minute.

     There were three pianos onboard the SS Brazil, but upon checking them out, my mother detected that the soldiers on the previous crossing had beaten them all to death; they were totally out of tune with missing keys and hammers.  Being a professional musician it broke Mom’s heart. 

     Despite this set back my pop didn’t give up; after scouring the ship he found an army major, in a poker game, that had a harmonium in his cabin.  This is a miniature, upright, free-reed organ with a keyboard in front and a bellows at its back.  One encountered them all over India.

     Mother was in business, dear reader.

     The ship had this mammoth, empty ballroom with a grand staircase ascending to several deck levels.  Pop placed a card table and chair for Mom on the top landing of this staircase, and the harmonium on the card table.  The natives usually played this instrument with one hand, while the other hand pumped the bellows.  Only my mother wanted to play with both hands – getting as much music out of the little organ as possible – requiring someone to stand by and pump the bellows; usually my dad’s job.

     On the first night they tried it, the enormous ballroom was empty and relatively dark, with a weak blue light at one end and a purple light at the other.  In contrast, the acoustics were outstanding, Mom’s coloratura soprano voice resonating like a bell, accompanied by the compact organ, negating the need for a microphone.  By the time Mother finished her first number, “Over The Rainbow,” more than a hundred people had quietly filed into the darkened cavern. Once again word swept the ship like wild fire, and within a half-hour the ballroom, stairways and all the upper deck levels were jammed-packed with hundreds more men, women and kids.  Of all the club dates and radio shows Mom had performed at, during the preceding ten years, these mini-concerts she gave each night, for the next six weeks, proved to be the most satisfying of her career.  These people needed Mother, and she needed them, to get through the terror of this arduous, wartime journey.  

     Everything was going well, until Mom sang “Little Brown Jug” and everybody joined in.  They hadn’t quite finished the number, when the ship’s captain appeared, shining a flashlight in my mother’s face and demanding she stop.  He ranted and raved, regarding how sound carries underwater for miles, and can be picked up by the German U-boats.  A dozen, large oil men – poker buddies of my dad’s - surrounded the captain and physically picked him up; hauling him outside to the promenade deck.  After setting him down, he was told to get his ass back up on the bridge and never come down here again, or he’d be pitched overboard.

     The captain retired to the safety of the bridge and, for the duration of the voyage, remained there; pacing like a caged lion.  While zigzagging his ship, and working on his ulcer during Mother’s impromptu concerts.

     It was the only occasion, dear reader, my attractive and very pregnant mother ever incited a mutiny at sea.

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