Chapter Seventeen

The Fire:

Two days after leaving Montevideo I was on watch, the 1200 hours to 1600 hours. The absence of the regular thump-thump from the diesel engine, or motor, signaled that it had stopped. As noted before, the motion of a ship changes markedly when she is no longer under power. After a little while, because these stops were almost a daily routine, I glanced out the rear porthole and was surprised to see the Second Engineer on the boat deck with a hand held water fire extinguisher. He was literally squirting water on a fire blazing up from the skylight opening, on a wooden "chicken coop" so called, built to allow the skylights to remain open during the night while blocking the light from the engine room. I thought briefly it seemed a futile effort. I learned later that the fire in the engine room started when an oil line apparently burst near an exhaust pipe, the hot exhaust pipe igniting the oil, causing the fire to spread rapidly through the engine room.

Moving out to the bridge, concerned now about my first duty, possibly to send out an SOS; nobody was there. Going below to the Captain’s quarters Captain Gaulen, over 60, was packing papers, etc. The obvious condition prompted me to inquire: "Do you want me to send out an SOS?". The Captain looked up stating, matter-of-factly, almost: -"we might as well".

When I advised there was no one on the bridge to confirm our position the Captain just looked up, ordering: -"then you go to the chart room and find it yourself!".

I was now vaguely aware of being in a situation for which Radio Officers really are necessary on a ship. The training for the condition now at hand had been from the teachers at the radio school, all former Radio Officers, who taught from experience or general knowledge. My action seemed as if by rote as I composed the SOS message, from memory, with the longitude and latitude information obtained from the latest position at noon from the chart room, with the name of the ship, ending with "Master".

My last contact with anybody else was the ‘old man’s order to find the position in the chart room. on the way there I had noticed two life boats off at a distance, but did not learn about that somewhat precarious situation till later. (Because of the approaching flames some of the crew, 3 or 4 to a boat, had lowered the two starboard lifeboats and were unable to handle them in the seas as they drifted away from the ship. The Second Mate had been able to get enough people in the wooden port-side lifeboat, which also had been on fire, and bring the two other boats back; which likely also is the reason I am able to relate this story.)

Starting the transmitter I became aware of a noise from the boat-deck. Glancing out the porthole I saw the wooden chicken coop structure fall into the engine room in a blaze. The power apparently failed about the same because the transmitter "died". This may have been coincidental but it crossed my mind that perhaps the burning wood fell on the generator.

The emergency transmitter was a battery operated spark gap transmitter, (hence the Radio Officer moniker "Sparks"). It was designed mostly as an emergency device and inherently limited. Starting it up and moving the switch in the ceiling to couple this transmitter to the main antenna I keyed out the emergency message. The noise from the spark gap, as the voltage arced across the "gap" to the crystal, focused my attention on the other necessary job at hand, once the SOS message was transmitted. The code books were kept in a weighted, perforated, steel box. I had mentioned the code box to the Captain and his orders, peculiarly I thought then, were to bring it to the lifeboat.

Heading out to the bridge to get down to the main deck, in order to get forward to the bow expecting the lifeboats waiting for me below the bow became a rude awakening. The usual way down was "blocked" because the fire had reached the starboard pill box for the Oerlicon 20mm antiaircraft gun on the boat deck. A veritable barrage of exploding ammunition, (it seemed so!) -indicated by tracer bullets sprayed in all directions. Fortunately, it crossed my mind, keeping low I found enough rope to first lower the code box, then myself over the front of the bridge down to the main deck, three decks in all.

I was vaguely aware of moving almost at an unhurried yet steady pace, as if by a plan. Proceeding towards the bow, oddly being aware of being on the starboard side, making my way past the two forward hatches, maybe some 120 feet in all, the deck now "moving" some in the rising seas. I was aware, too, of being all alone even reasoning that the job of getting into the lifeboats likely had occupied everyone because of the approaching fire that finally chased me over the front of the bridge. (I cannot recall if I considered trying the other side of the bridge to the deck; apparently the rope offered an extant, immediate, solution).

I remember being surprised, too, that the Chief Radio Officer had not paid me a visit during the time I was occupied in the radio shack, (with the "last rites"‘.?). Sigvart, the other Radio Officer, I learned later, had been rather actively involved with first putting out a fire in the only wooden lifeboat, on the port side, getting the boat into the sea and bringing the two other boats back. The Chief likely had been occupied aiding the Captain getting into the lifeboat. The usual romantic notion of the Captain being the last to leave the ship, is just that. our Captain was about 60, now having to get down a rope ladder from the deck railing into a lifeboat about 30 feet below, riding on the rising and falling seas in an approaching storm, fire blazing 50 feet away. Trying to step into the lifeboat too soon easily could break a leg, too late could result in a free fall, four to five feet, into a descending boat. The Chief Engineer was also about the same age and rather obese.

Continuing forward towards the bow I noticed the swamped motorboat some distance away, which motorboat was supposed to tow the lifeboats. It crossed my mind, sort of matter-of-factly, that the motorboat was more suited to chug around in a fjord than being out in open sea.

The Captain’s lifeboat was waiting below the port bow area, being the lee side. They motioned for me to lower the code box, then myself into the boat. I had not had time to ask the Captain why he wanted the code box brought into the lifeboat but raised the issue now that should a German sub surface they would be looking for the box. Before he could answer I resolutely heaved it over the side. Watching it sink, as designed, the Captain nodding his head indicating "OK ".

The Chief Radio Officer also was in the Captain’s boat. He decided to climb back onboard for a last "look-see". The ammunition no longer being sprayed about he was able to enter the bridge. Returning, he transferred to the Chief Mate’s boat. The fire was spreading rapidly stern-ward from the boat deck. It seemed evident the fire was reaching the linseed cargo in the aft cargo holds by way of the oil in the bilges.

The two lifeboats soon became separated because of the high seas. Sigvart’s wooden lifeboat, with 4 AB’s already had moved out of view. Meeting again ashore Sigvart related how they were able to set sail right away. The wooden life boats generally were built more to sail, with a deeper v-cut bottom and a 5-6 inch keel. The steel boats were more flat-bottomed and generally able to sail only with the wind. The Captain’s boat had 26 people including half the English gun crew.

Because of the steadily increasing seas the Second Mate ordered the boat turned into the seas and that two drift, or sea, anchors be deployed. They are made up of a three and a half foot diameter, ‘hoola-hoop’ type, steel ring with a long canvas cone attached, open at the end. Fastened to an about 100 ft long lanyard it will sink and serve as a drag anchor as the boat drifts with the sea, holding the bow into the seas to prevent the boat from broaching and capsizing. Everyone started huddling under a couple of tarpaulins as the inclement weather increased, except a Swedish AB and the old Steward who had spent a lot of time on fishing boats. During the approaching evening and through the night one could see the two standing in the bow tending to the lines for the sea anchors.

Once ashore we learned that the Chief Mate’s boat was to lose three of the passengers that joined at Montevideo. Their main problem, in addition to exposure, was that they had been ashore so long, consuming amounts of cheap alcohol, "puro", that when alcohol was no longer available to satisfy their body system’s cravings, they could no longer endure the rigors.

(I had heard that in fact they had brought onboard an about 30 gallon glass container enclosed in wicker for the trip to England. The Chief Mate stated later just one bottle of that would likely have kept them alive in the lifeboat). one of them, an older man, was just found dead after first night. The other two, one by one, passed through stages of delirium tremens before succumbing. The three were "buried", by committing them to the sea, after removing their clothes, the Second Engineer doing the duty of a parson, short form.

Ole, the Second Mate, was in charge of our boat and made me his second in command. The Captain agreed to this. Ole and I decided to stand two hour watches, occupying the aft compartment. The seas were breaking over the bow constantly and bailing became a continuous necessity. Taking the first turn in the darkness, a thought about the Lord’s prayer momentarily crossed my mind in the dark, but just as quickly returning to the necessary continuous bailing and my duty to the rest of the crew.

Midnight approaching I noticed the water level seemed to be increasing. It was about Ole’s turn, anyway, and I nudged him so as not to cause undue stir, whispering about the water level, as if anyone would notice over the din of the storm in the pitch darkness. Lifting the floor board we found that the screw cap over the hole used to empty the boat, when heaved out of the water, had been knocked loose by a small piece of board floating back and forth, the sea just streaming into the boat. I quickly knotted the handkerChief, (see, even sailors use these), plugging the hole. As an aside, a rubber ball in a basket fixture outside the tube, or port, was supposed to prevent just this condition. Apparently it had just rotted away during the stay at Bombay and not checked before leaving... Plugging the hole I thought the incident funny and laughed. Ole grabbed me thinking I was near panic and about to backhand me for a little shock treatment; I assured Ole it was OK, just found it funny. Ole answered: -"you’re crazy, like all Sparks ". But I thought I noticed Ole found it funny, too.

Ole roused me some time later because someone was signaling, lying low in the seas, by flipping a search light up and down, likely locating us by the lantern on our mast. It was a submarine asking our name. The sub disappeared as soon as I complied. We reasoned it was a German waiting for us. Buenos Aires was a known German spy beehive. (We also wondered, to ourselves, if the sub would reappear come daylight; sinking life boats with machine-gun fire by the new breed German sub Captains was not uncommon. By contrast, early in the war some apparently old line German sub Captains would surface and aid the crews in the lifeboats, even towing boats toward the coast). Once ashore Sigvart related the Braganza had blown up in a fireball around midnight, which also could have alerted the Germans.

Waking Ole before dawn broke he came out of a deep sleep: -"my legs are gone!", he uttered, his legs too numb to move from sitting in a crouch, partly in cold water. I had to assure him he was OK and helped him move around ‘till he ‘found’ his legs again. This was in October, same as March, northern time frame. Waking up later I had to hold my jaws thinking my teeth would break from excessive shivering. The waves were unbelievingly high with the boat as if racing down into the trough from the crest, like on a roller coaster, being held bow ahead by the sea anchors. One wondered if the bow would stay clear, ("are we going to make it?"), as it climbed up the next wave. The size of the waves may be estimated by the about 20 foot boat ‘sailing’ down into the trough, the lanyards for the sea anchors taughtely ahead. Ole complimented the Swedish AB and the old Steward for watching the lanyards during the long night, which had kept the boat from capsizing; everyone agreed...

The storm was abating as the day wore on and everyone was trying to dry out. The Captain delegated Ole and I to be in charge of rationing food and water. Both the Captain and the Chief Engineer were showing signs of suffering from the rigors. There were two barrels of water, about 40 gallons each, rationed to about 6 oz. twice a day; several boxes of canned, ready-to-eat, high protein foods, (Pemican?), most of which made me sick because of fat content. (I have to admit that during the nightwatch I would sneak an extra measure of water, reasoning it was deserved... )

Two flotation tanks along each side of the boat, under the seats running from stern to bow, were filled with hard tacks, each the size of half a hamburger roll. (-a hard tack is like a zwieback consistency). Each tank had two 7 inch screw covers with rubber gaskets. Filling the tanks with hard tacks one would light two candles in each tank, tighten the covers, and as the flames consumed all the oxygen the hard tacks would keep. (Apparently I also was too occupied to be bothered by sea sickness).

The sail was rigged to take advantage of the wind. I rigged up the life boat transmitter antenna. The transmitter was powered by a generator cranked by two men. Several messages were sent to no apparent avail.

The third day, now rowing mostly, brought three separate events. First a large cargo ship in ballast passed in a southwesterly direction. Ole put me in charge of the flare gun; several flares were fired. We figured it was impossible that the flares were not seen because we were near enough to see that the ship was in ballast. But she just moved away and out of sight. One small incident took place because of an AB, a tall powerful Maltese, rowed more in a staccato fashion of short strokes. Ole asked him to stay in tempo with the others used to rowing in longer, slower strokes.

The second event was the appearance of two large sharks. We learned, after reaching shore and the rest of the crew, the reason for the sharks likely was the three men buried from the Chief Mate’s boat. I thought one shark came too close and stuck my oar into it; it just moved out of reach.

The third event was the fourth passenger sailor from Montevideo who had to be quieted down, physically, as he verbally attacked the Captain for not having "picked a better boat". He likely was suffering the after-effects of a prolonged drinking period at Montevideo, already noted. Being younger and in better condition than the others in the Chief Mate’s boat he survived the ordeal, including necessarily being physically subdued and tied up most of the day. The incident brought back memories about my friend Oscar buried in Algiers...

The next night was moonlit. I thought of noting, romantic-wise, we were sailing by the Southern Cross, but thought better of it. It may be noted here, too, that the Chief Mate’s crew were picked up by a passing freighter and brought to Rio de Janeiro. Sigvart and the four A.B.s sailed their wooden lifeboat to shore in three and a half days. They were all experienced Seamen. Sigvart explained that the wooden boat was just light enough, with just five men, to be lifted to the crest of the waves, moving with the sea. Whenever a crest threatened to break over the stern hitting the wave crest with an oar would sort of "split" it he explained. Sigvart hailed from Kristiansund, northwestern coast of Norway, and well versed in the operation of boats.

Late in the afternoon the fifth day some of the crew thought they could see land. The Captain and Ole disagreed but Ole brought out the leaded ‘"sounding" line anyway; several throws of the line and lead had no results. Towards evening of the next day we spotted a light house. Ole and the Captain agreed this would be in northern Uruguay, a neutral country, hence a place to avoid so as not to be interned as members of a warring nation, (international law). We kept on rowing north along the coast-line, staying well clear, through the night into the middle of the day. About mid-morning the mast tops of a southbound ship became visible to the east of us, by about a 100 yards. our flares were used up and the radio water damaged. It was likely a coastal steamer, the sea too high for them to see us.

Just after noon we were likely about 6-700 yards off the beach. The Captain asked me how we were going get through the breakers, about 7 foot high, enough to capsize the boat should it broach. (I had already figured I could swim the distance, in the worst case; self preservation to the fore?). The Captain turned to me because Ole now was completely exhausted, we were worried about whether he would make it.

Sea Promotion?;

Surprising myself, (even thinking about it in later years), in a matter-of-fact sense telling the Captain I would take the boat in; with two sets of oars, two men per oar spaced one oarlock apart, for maneuvering, the men to follow my orders exactly. The "old man" stood up in the boat stating Sparks was now in command of the boat, his orders to be followed. He also noted I had his, the Captain’s ‘38’, which he gave to me the first night in the lifeboat. (Asking why, he stated the crew might reason he had the gun, would not suspect me. I felt good about this trust, I thought... )

It seemed redundant telling the rowers what to do: row as hard as they could till the boat would answer the tiller as I would turn towards the beach. Should the boat yaw the rowers on the "lee" side would hold while the rowers to "windward" would lay harder on the oars. The powerful Maltese was one of the rowers and I counted cadence to be sure they were all "in stroke". The Captain was holding my leg as I stood bracing myself against the little poop deck, the tiller between my legs. They understood at once and together we brought the boat straight up onto the beach, the bow digging into the sand. Some of the crew jumped ashore but I ordered that they help the old man, the Chief Engineer, and Ole ashore first. Continuing to order that we secure the boat by pulling it up the beach, as far as possible and bring the provisions ashore, I wondered where all this "ordering" came from, as if something I was wont to do. The Captain who had been watching a few paces away now came over shaking my hand stating it was a job well done. Thanking him I felt it was the highest praise I could receive.

(As an aside, perhaps, that also ended my "sea promotion" to be in charge!).

Abiding Luck?...

A bus came by later using the hard beach as a roadway between the town of Rio Grande and Uruguay. The driver said he would advise authorities. Sigvart’s boat, landing in this area two days before us, had alerted authorities to watch out for two more boats. We were able to make a fire, stretch out, enjoy the food and water, savoring being ashore. We were picked up by an Army lorry towards midnight. The Soldiers picked up the lifeboat transmitter and also Captain’s revolver which I proffered. We were transported to and quartered in the town, (in Rio Grande du Sol province), meeting Sigvart and the other four. We learned that the Chief Mate’s crew, picked up by a freighter, had been landed at Rio de Janeiro.

We needed a few days to settle down, clean our clothes, etc. Sigvart and I made the rounds of the local hotspots during the day as well as in the evenings. We were somewhat surprised to find there were bordellos, discussing this over a beer in a regular bar.

Somehow both of us had relegated this type entertainment as belonging in France. But because neither of us had visited Brazil before we accepted it was a seaport town, hence maybe a custom. I should have remembered that a crewman on the Tana, in North Africa, had owned a farm in the province west of Natal. He left to fight for Norway, didn’t know if he would return to Brazil. But he often talked about some of the customs among local farm families there. I remember I admired his fluency in Portuguese and Spanish. It was not unusual, he stated, that young farm boys were initiated to the charms of the women at these houses, with full knowledge and acquiescence of their fathers. Sigvart and I discussed, among sundry, how this war had thrown us together, taking us here and there, now finding ourselves in a small town in southern Brazil contemplating local mores.... (customs, more familiar that time).

After a few days we boarded a coastal steamer to take us northward to Rio De Janeiro, with stop at Santos. There were two Radio Officers onboard; only one of them was interested, seemingly, in speaking English. I mentioned the mast tops we had seen and he noted they were sailing close to shore to avoid submarines. The ship mast we had seen likely were from a company ship; they had been alerted to watch for another lifeboat.

We were quartered with the rest of the crew already at Rio de Janeiro. Sigvart and I roomed together, it seemed this was the expected condition. We spent some time with one of the British gunners; he was unsure of how they would be repatriated or sent back to Britain. This individual and the one who left at Durban were distinctly different in manner and bearing than some of the gunners mentioned before. I cannot recall if I ever understood under what type terms they had been hired as gunners for our Norwegian ship. They did belong under the British Army. Representatives of the International Red Cross visited and provided sundry items for personal care. The British soldier was wondering aloud, mockingly sort of, why the flush Norwegians needed to be under the care of the Red Cross... Considering our salaries against the pay of a British Tommy I could see he had a point. When I tried to parry with the fact that an American Radio Officer had twice our salary, he quickly countered this was just a condition between flush and double flush, and we enjoyed a good laugh.

The Norwegian consulate arranged that we could draw moneys against our salaries. The consul, or whoever, held a reception for us. It appeared we were an only Norwegian shipwreck in this area, for some time. I received a new passport at the Consulate dated November 3, -44, because the original had been damaged by sea water. (As an aside, on my first visit to Norway in 1971 my brother Claus told me that somehow this passport change had been reported as a missing Seaman, (me), for a certain time. But Claus did not elaborate).

During the about one week’s stay at Rio Sigvart and I, doing, the town, made a must visit to the Christ statue overlooking the city. One feels absolutely minuscule looking up at the statue from below at the base; it must be about 150 feet high. A guide pointed to a mark in the palm of the left hand of the Christ statue which he told was made by an English soldier firing his revolver. He noted that the soldier was in jail at that time, being nonspecific about the trial etc. We also managed to visit the renowned Copa Cabana beach, but this was before the bathing season... We found our way to take the cable car to the top of the so-called Sugar Loaf mountain landmark and visited the restaurant.

Time to leave we were divided into two groups for transfer via American Air Force cargo planes on the way to the U.S. The seats in the cargo plane were along both sides with cargo secured in the middle with sturdy nets and rope. Comfort was minimal. I found my way to say hello to the radio operator as we were flying over the green, dense, jungle area. The pilot advised that should a plane fall down in this area it would likely be worse than falling down into mid ocean, "good bye". One tried to find a soft area on top of the cargo for a cat-nap. This was my very first airplane trip and I remember trying to move about to counter possible airsickness I had been warned about, but thought I managed. The plane landed at Natal after several hours, it seemed.

We were advised we would be transferred to a larger plane for the trip to Miami, Florida. The stopover lasted two days, quartered in a hangar area, finding room to sleep where one could. I took to do a little sightseeing at this, to me, huge American maintained airfield. Coming up to a real, new, ‘Superfortress’ bomber an Officer appeared rather quickly and unceremoniously advised I was in forbidden territory, caught where I had no business despite my meekest explanation: I was a Norwegian Seaman from a ship lost a sea, -one of the Allies. The Air Force Captain was not impressed and demanded, not too unfriendly, that I remove myself to our allotted area.

The plane made a stopover at Georgetown, British Guyana, for fuel on the way to Miami. Back in the air we were asked to fill out papers as alien visitors, customary for the American Immigration Service. The Second Engineer, who was in charge of our group, had never visited the U.S. He was not too proficient in English but he became highly indignant having to indicate whether he could read or write. He thought this was an affront to a grown person, to my surprise. The engineer should have known a lot of people came to this country, from Europe and other places, without the benefit of any schooling. It was as if he fully expected that the individual handling the form automatically should have known that Norwegians could both read and write. Norway was, after all, an important seagoing nation!... But the American just shrugged his shoulders as I attempted to explain the incident.

Landing and passing through the Immigration Service at Miami it seems we were just about placed on the train for New York without much ado. I learned later I likely could have paid what was called "The Head Tax" at the immigration service there which would automatically have made one entitled to emigrate to the U.S. But at this time I had not entertained any notion about emigrating to this country; it was still a foreign place to me, a place of a sojourn because of my status as a Seaman, albeit a temporary status, in my mind. I thought, as well, I’d be allowed the sojourner expression now that I. spoke some French. Somehow it sounded French at that time, whether it was or not.

We met up with the rest of the crew already at Miami. We were advised we were to board the same train directly to New York. Somehow Sigvart, I, and the fourth engineer wound up with a cabin with sleeping room for three. It seemed that the world just could not become better as a night porter came in to make up our beds! Flipping for the beds I got the one by the window and remember being able to open the curtain slightly to see the lights flicker past as the train picked up speed and the clickety-clack of the wheels against the tracks lulled us to sleep.

The train took about thirty hours to get to New York, a pleasant little R&R after the airplane trips. The food was included in our fare apparently already paid by the Norwegian merchant marine officials. The Captain came by to say hello the next day, cursory like. It never dawned on us to ask the Captain about his quarters; we felt a little sheepish about this but soon surmised that we would have been advised by the others in case we had better quarters than the Master. But we had enough pocket money to be able to order some beer brought to the cabin and soon forgot if we indeed had been thoughtless, or something. The names of the places we were passing by were more or less meaningless. Sigvart thought we ought to be able to remember more from our geography lessons....

Arriving at New York we were quartered at the Norwegian Seamen’s House on Hanson place in Brooklyn, operated by the Norwegian Shipping and Trade Mission. We were officially signed off the Braganza October 30, -44. The shipping offices with a medical department were situated on Broad street, lower Manhattan. The Seamen’s house was situated near the Wiliamsburg Savings Bank across the street from the Long Island Rail Road depot. We received back wages and recuperation time. This area was ‘big time’ for me in the sense that we reveled in comparative luxury. The food, although never very important to me was excellent and single rooms with bath, tops compared to shipboard fare.

There was a recreation area on the top floor. The elevator was manned, no stopping with female company between first and the recreation area. However, I met Willy, one of the fellows from the Tana in North Africa. He was working at the Seamen’s house. He indicated it was not too difficult to take a girlfriend to the recreation room, then, by way of the emergency exit, walk down the stairs to the room, if one was so inclined, the same old Willy...It was like paid vacation for a while. Some shipped out again just about right away.

Calling on my Uncle I found out that my brother was in a TB hospital. He had apparently been living and working ashore under illegal status, like many other Norwegian Seamen, when the war broke out. Being called for induction into the American Army he was diagnosed with the sickness and placed in a hospital at State expense. (The Norwegian government denied him place at their hospital facility in New York State because he had failed to return to the Norwegian Merchant Marine when the Germans attacked Norway). After the war he was advised to leave or face deportation because he had been a charge to the State. He returned to Norway in -46.

Thinking back I came to the conclusion that the episode with the sinking of the Braganza, and the subsequent arrival at New York, represented a change that became the beginning of a new direction in my life. I remember talking with the Chief Radio Officer about the fact that paying the "Head Taxi" at Miami would have been useful if one had in mind to take that step. Apparently becoming a Radio Officer and beginning to take on additional responsibility, taking charge to bring the lifeboat ashore, effected a maturing process.

Norway was still as if a far-away place, inaccessible, hence also seemingly more remote. Out of sight, out of mind seemed replaced with, out of reach out of mind. The now was what was important. I was as if "only 25", yet already 25 years old, during the course of a war.