Maiden voyage. Two words that conjure up a unique sense of excitement and anticipation. Add the prospect of a record-breaking passage on the most prestigious Transocean crossing of them all and it is easy to imagine the thrilling atmosphere that surrounded SS United States and adjacent Pier 86, on the morning of Thursday 3rd July 1952.

Even as New Yorkers hastened to work on their early morning commutes, final preparations were in hand to welcome 1,660 passengers onboard William Francis Gibbs’ ‘big ship’. Many experienced travellers pointedly avoid maiden crossings, prudently they point out that crew, guests, and machinery are all novices and that ’teething troubles’ are almost inevitable. Nevertheless, the novelty of an eastbound first leg and persistent rumours about the liner’s extraordinary performance on trials off the Virginia Capes, had whetted the appetite of potential travellers and the American public alike.

As the morning wore on harassed crew members were inundated with the demands of not only embarking passengers but also a veritable army of 8,000 visitors. Many were attending ’bon voyage’ parties, others had simply paid their 50 cent donation to the seaman’s charity with the sole intention of snooping around those freshly completed interiors. Short of booking passage to Europe it was the next best badge of honour.

Amongst the mass of humanity clogging the pier that morning were mounds of trunks and baggage sporting the US Lines distinctive, colour-coded labels designated Baggage Room and Stateroom, the latter with the time-honoured imperative ’Wanted on Voyage’ on the reverse. Meanwhile, mixing with the echoing chatter and hustle and bustle of people on the move, were the upbeat ditties of the New York Department of Sanitation band, serenading embarking passengers with a stream of unapologetically patriotic tunes.

Also passing from pier to ship that morning were greetings and final provisions, those statistics so beloved by publicity departments, the media, and the public. Subsequently it transpired these included 10,000 parcels and items of mail as well as 12,000 telegrams. There was 123,000lb of meat, 12,000 quarts of milk, almost 8,000 quarts of ice cream and, inevitably on the publicists list, 500lb of caviar.

At 10:30am all eyes were focussed on the First Class gangway where the guest of honour, Margaret Truman, escorted on board by her mother (First Lady, Bess Truman) and their entourage, walked through those gleaming shell doors and were ushered to the capacious Main Deck suite (Cabin M66), that she would share with friends John and Dulcie Horton. Shortly afterwards the first chorus of gongs and accompanying calls, ’All ashore that’s going ashore’, resounded down the huge ships’ corridors and companionways. These generally unheeded warnings became progressively more intense and persuasive as sailing time approached, ultimately prompting even the tardiest interlopers to meander ashore, leaving exasperated cabin stewards to clear away detritus in their wake.

Maiden voyages are great levellers. Those remaining onboard, whether seasoned travellers or transatlantic newcomers now tried to get their bearings and the ship’s telephone operators were inundated with calls from lost passengers (and crew!), disorientated in the unfamiliar labyrinth.

As noon approached and mooring teams took up station at the bow and stern, meanwhile passengers emerged to line the ship’s outer decks. High up on the starboard bridge wing Commodore Harry Manning surveyed the scene with the New York docking pilot. Separate, but nearby, were Margaret Truman with the Hortons and General and Mrs John Franklin, the President of United States Lines, and his wife. Completing that select group was the ship‘s designer, William Francis Gibbs, making his one and only trip onboard his beloved ‘big ship‘. Famously when once challenged with the statement, “I do believe you love the United States more than your wife”, Gibbs unhesitatingly responded “You are 1,000 percent correct”.

At seven minutes passed midday, a standard diminutive traffic light fixed atop Pier 86’s outer roof, turned from red to green and with the pilot’s consent Commodore Manning issued the command to ‘let go fore and aft’. The remaining lines went slack before blasé stevedores prised them from bollards and disdainfully dropped them into the water below. As capstans whirred and the ropes swung aboard, the sound of cheering was drowned by three blasts on the ship’s whistle. United States edged astern, helped on her way by a pair of Moran tugs. Looming over the scene were the gleaming silver radar mast and pair of huge red, white, and blue stacks, supporting a festive array of fluttering signal flags. In addition to those on the pier’s flag-bedecked outer terrace, a crowd of 5,000 reputedly lined Twelfth Avenue to see her off.

Like the most famous maiden voyager of all, Titanic, the United States narrowly avoided colliding with another vessel as she moved away from of her berth that afternoon. The American liner’s potential nemesis was the USS Alshain, an amphibious assault ship proceeding upriver as an attendee for the city’s annual ‘Fleet Week’. Clearly unseen by the marine superintendent who had sanctioned the United States’ departure, the naval Captain was suddenly confronted by the liner’s huge starboard flank complete with cascades of streamers from the recent departure. Thanks to his swift action and the instant response of the ship’s crew, engines were reversed, and disaster avoided.

With her rudder hard over and billowing smoke streaming from those huge gleaming funnels, United States pirouetted in the North River until slow astern morphed into slow ahead and the liner’s backward movement was arrested. After a brief pause, she started to make headway towards the Atlantic, accompanied by a posse of tugs, all the while responding to the celebratory farewells of other ships in port, including the inbound cruise ship Nassau. Before long she was abreast of The Battery on Manhattan’s southern tip, crowds lining the rails on the port side to view the New York skyline swiftly shifted to starboard as she entered Upper Bay, to gaze on Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. United States now arced to port, bisected the Verazzano Narrows and entered Lower Bay, ready to negotiate the Ambrose Channel. As the ocean beckoned and the seaward end of the channel approached, she slowed to disembark the Sandy Hook pilot into a waiting boat. With no more impediments or confines to her progress, Commodore Manning telephoned his Chief Engineer, Bill Kaiser. “Wind her up” were Manning‘s precise words as United States passed the Ambrose lightship, the western measuring point for recording transatlantic passage. The time was 14:36, two and a half hours after the lines had been cast off in Manhattan and the course was set along Track C, the most northerly, and shortest, of the shipping lanes proposed by the American polymath Matthew Fontaine Maury. Not long afterwards United States passed the inbound Mauretania, whose Captain, Donald Sorrell, cheerily blew the ship’s whistle, hoisted flags and sent a ‘Good voyage‘ radio message. Presumably pre-occupied rather than a deliberate slight, the new American flagship didn’t respond.

Passengers now settled into the rhythm of shipboard life, clothes and cabin luggage were stowed, dinner table and deck chair reservations made. Indeed, that first afternoon at sea, as Kaiser’s engineering team toiled below, the clear blue skies and glittering sea were tempting sun worshippers onto the serried rows of aluminium loungers lining Bridge, Promenade and Sports decks. Meanwhile other, perhaps exhausted, travellers dozed in their cabins or investigated the ship’s lounges for a newly favoured spot, whilst bars were already frequented by the interminably thirsty. For the first time on a commercial liner all passenger spaces onboard were air-conditioned.

By late afternoon on the 3rd July United States was heading into a ’slight’ sea, with a following Force 4 south westerly breeze. Kaiser reported to the bridge that she passed 30 knots at around 5.30pm. In the evening, as passengers donned their finery and took their places in their assigned restaurants, the ship’s extraordinary pace was inevitably the principal topic of conversation.

Amongst the sizeable press corps there was similar excitement. At midday on Friday 4th July 1952 came the first official announcements to be assimilated into copy for the following day’s publication. Of the many reporters onboard, George Horne for the New York Times is probably the most quoted. Commodore Manning and (a clearly reluctant) William Francis Gibbs held court. The United States, it was announced in a matter-of-fact manner, had travelled 696 nautical miles in the 20 hours and 24 minutes since passing the Ambrose Light. This equated to an average of 34.11 knots, just shy of 40 mph on land. “Just cruising along” was Manning’s summation of his charge’s achievement, although he also conceded (more a smokescreen than statement of fact) that she had exceeded all expectations. When asked a similar question, the normally taciturn Gibbs responded, “My expectations are rather high and the ship is running them hard”. Being innately superstitious (and as protocol and common sense dictated) Gibbs would not be drawn on any attempt at the speed record. Both he and Manning knew that a significant change in weather, or simple ill fortune, could dash any attempt at a moment’s notice. Indeed, Gibbs and company President Franklin cautioned against pushing the engines too hard, especially considering the over-heated bearing issue that had affected initial trials.

There were two other considerations which made both the designer and owner reluctant to pursue excessive speed, namely safety and comfort. A controversial test of the former would come that night as she passed south of Newfoundland. Despite encountering the perennial fog that drifts over the Grand Banks where Gulf Stream and Labrador current converge, the United States was still increasing speed. A Finnish shipping journal later drew unapologetic comparisons between Commodore Manning and Captain Edward John Smith of the Titanic, stating he had needlessly endangered his ship and her complement, and perhaps more relevantly the numerous fishing vessels that operate in the area. Manning’s over reliance on Radar was called into question. When buttonholed on the subject the Commodore disingenuously stated that he was firmly determined to keep to schedule, presumably his own since the ship was so far ahead of her published one. Regarding comfort, passenger numbers had been deliberately limited to around 1,700, despite a maximum capacity of about 2,000 in case excessive vibration made sleep intolerable for those Cabin Class passengers housed near the stern. Several of them reported the disturbance, although to the chagrin of most there was no upgrade of accommodation, just a repositioning further forward. There was of course no similar consideration for the waiters and stewards housed one deck below and directly above the screws.

Despite these concerns the ‘Big U’ steamed remorselessly on. As passengers enjoyed elaborate Independence Day celebrations into the small hours, Commodore Manning held vigil on the bridge. By noon the following day, Saturday 5th July 1952, the fog had dispersed, and United States was more than halfway to the finishing line. A clearly tired Harry Manning (he had slept for only three of the previous twenty four hours due to the fog) announced that the ship had travelled 801 nautical miles since noon the previous day (22.5 hours, all ship‘s clocks being forwarded 90 minutes rather than the traditional 60 minutes on account of United States‘ remarkable speed). The average speed was 35.6 knots, easily bettering the previous day’s record run. That helping Force 4 SW breeze now swept around to the East, increasing slightly to Force 5. Horne subsequently reported that the ship was encountering a moderate sea, whipped up by a 20mph headwind. Facetiously Commodore Manning commented, “Of course she is using all four propellers”.

Although those onboard continued to wager, the odds on United States achieving the Atlantic record were shortening by the minute. Momentarily taking the helm for an obligatory press photograph, the President’s daughter claimed she wouldn’t make a special effort to be ‘up and awake’ should the United States take the record, as predicted, early on 7th July. With consummate ease Margaret Truman then deftly steered conversation back to politics.

Excitement mounted throughout Sunday 6th July, as did the onrushing seas. For the second successive day United States broke her own daily record, covering 814 nautical miles at an average of 36.17 knots. Heading west and diverting from their reciprocal courses to view the challenger, were the incumbent and former Blue Riband holders, Queen Mary and Liberté. The French ship passed at noon, whilst the Cunarder’s Captain, another Harry (Grattidge), sent a message to his American counterpart that read, “Welcome to the family of big liners on the Atlantic”. In the late afternoon sunshine, the two liners closed on each other at over 60 knots, dipping ensigns as they passed in mutual respect. It was a scene forever etched on those who witnessed it.

Having enjoyed a benign passage thus far the United States and her human cargo endured a tempestuous final night. Not that you would have guessed it from the partying. Of course there was a certain irony that dollar for dollar this would prove to be the worst value crossing of them all, it was now self-evident that she would call at Le Havre almost a day ahead of schedule. As if wanting to ensure their money’s worth revellers partied through the night, whilst the United States ploughed on, through rain squalls and a gale force wind which caused seas to break over her decks and tossed a table tennis table overboard. Although the dawn was delayed by heavy cloud and further squalls, United States rapidly approached the Isles of Scilly and the eastern Blue Riband finishing post, the sentinel lighthouse sited on Bishop Rock. After a few hours rest Margaret Truman had defied her own prediction and was ensconced in a chair on the bridge when the moment came. Close by, dimly illuminated, stood William Francis Gibbs and a huddle of senior officers conversing about the ship’s performance. At 05:16 GMT (06:16 British Summer Time which was used onboard), Bishop Rock lighthouse was officially passed, its beam obscured by yet another rain shower so that it showed only as a featureless green dot on a Radar monitor. Although drowned out by the tempest all three of United States’ whistles were sounded in celebration.

The SS United States had crossed the Atlantic in 3 days, 10 hours and 40 minutes, undercutting Queen Mary’s previous record passage from 1938 by ten hours. Celebrations below decks continued in full swing, a cheer rang out as she crossed the finishing line and Meyer Davis’ band decamped to the enclosed Promenade, where an impromptu conga line of party-hat wearing revellers would wend its way from side to side, replete with weary smiles. The press corps decamped from the bridge and frantically knocked out the news for waiting editors and an eager readership. Asked how he was feeling, an ebullient Commodore Manning responded with the appropriately American metaphor, “I feel like a pitcher who has pitched a no-hit game”. Meanwhile a taciturn Gibbs remarked, “A fine performance”. Amongst the plethora of congratulatory telegrams, including one from President Truman, was a particularly personal and touching fraternal note from ’Freddie’ to his older brother, “The outstanding unprecedented performance and record of the SS United States is surely a reward for your extraordinary knowledge, skill and foresight, plus years of your great and constant enthusiasm” .

Having passed Bishop Rock, the United States, like those weary passengers, gradually relented her extraordinary progress as she passed up the English Channel. The noon announcement, as she skirted the Cherbourg peninsular, confirmed that despite the weather in the final ’day’s run’ she had once more broken her own record, 833 miles at an average 36.21 knots. Officials in Le Havre were frantically trying to rearrange some of the welcoming festivities that had all been scheduled for the following morning, 8th July. They were aided by logistical considerations, the new American liner was forced to wait her turn to enter port and was anchored in the roadstead, what the French refer to as La Rade, for almost five hours.

When the pilots eventually advised Commodore Manning to weigh anchor the United States was escorted in by celebratory fireboat fountains, Abeilles tugs and hordes of Havrais cheering from piers and La Plage. Like almost all new vessels she was bearing the battle scars of that final night at sea, with virgin black paint scoured from her bow to reveal the protective undercoat. The whistles of almost every ship in port greeted the new record holder, only the Polish Batory abstained, having been removed from New York service the previous year due to ongoing political tensions.

Despite her early arrival United States became the focus of on-going partying and festivities that evening and night, indeed the famous journalist Jeanne Toomey would refer to the entire roundtrip as ‘Operation Hangover‘. Passengers were permitted to disembark but most remained onboard until Tuesday morning. Most official welcoming ceremonies were carried out as planned on the morning of 8th July, those passengers remaining onboard having been refuelled, or perhaps topped up, by a champagne breakfast. Just before 1pm United States slipped her moorings and leaving the cliffs of Sainte-Adresse in her wake, settled into, for her, a modest pace towards The Solent and Southampton.

Less than three hours later she was passing the Nab Tower at the start of what those who witnessed it considered to be the most spectacular welcome ever afforded to a ship, anywhere. Blasé Americans were left stunned and seasoned hacks tearfully drained by the experience. In part it was the unexpected nature of it all. Not only had this Yankee upstart taken the speed record from their Queen Mary but the British were regarded as an inherently reserved, understated lot. They weren’t supposed or expected to provide such overt, spontaneous outpourings of emotion. Even as she approached the Isle of Wight a formation of RAF jets flew over in celebration and destroyers of both the US and Royal Navy took up station to escort her in. By the time she had passed Cowes and negotiated the notorious Brambles bank at the head of Southampton Water, scores of pleasure boats, tugs, and daytrip steamers had joined the throng, filled to the gunwales with cheering, waving, and singing humanity. The crowds lining the quays and piers were estimated to be twenty deep in places, whilst at Ocean Terminal the local constabulary band joined the ship’s orchestra in playing the British and American anthems.

Nowhere was the atmosphere of bonhomie more apparent than on the bridge of United States. Visibly moved by the occasion, William Francis Gibbs, one of whose prime motives in creating ‘the big ship’ had been to finally get one over the British (in a less exultant moment he referred to British ship designers as condescending, supercilious bastards!), made a magnanimous, and for him lengthy, statement, “We submit our effort with humility and friendliness for kind sympathy and consideration. We honour you for your achievements in ships. We have tried to emulate you”. An equally generous Commodore Manning commented that whilst he felt proud of his ship’s achievement it was tinged with regret that it was at the cost of the Queen Mary. Perhaps a more stereotypical British response to these events was provided by a writer in Punch magazine, who resignedly commented, “After the loud and fantastic claims made in advance for the liner United States, it comes as something of a disappointment to find them all true”.

The United States remained at the Hampshire port the following day, during which there was a VIP lunch and a near continuous stream of sightseeing boats, edging in and out of ocean dock for a close up view of the new speed queen. She sailed on 10th July for Le Havre and departed for New York in the early hours of the following day. At 09:17 she passed Bishop Rock and stretched her legs out into the becalmed Atlantic. The westbound voyage was perhaps inevitably anti-climactic, with nothing left to prove but heading into prevailing winds and currents, there was an expectation that she would beat Queen Mary’s existing record but fall short of her own remarkable eastward achievement. So it would prove.

The ‘Big U’ swept past the red-hulled Ambrose lightship just before half past four on the afternoon of Monday 14th July 1952, one week on from her eastbound success and having completed the passage from Bishop Rock in 3 days 12 hours and 12 minutes, at an average speed of 34.51 knots. Once again impolitely early for her own party the ship anchored at Quarantine for the night, during which there was a final gala dinner onboard. Early the following morning New York Mayor Vincent Impellitteri and other officials boarded, before she commenced the two hour passage to her Manhattan berth, mobbed by helicopters, dressed overall, and surrounded by another flotilla of escorts. As she headed into the Bay a huge symbolic rectangular blue banner, 40 feet long, was brought out, presented, and unfurled from the starboard yardarm of the liner’s aluminium mast. The other tangible manifestation of the speed record, the rather ostentatious Hales Trophy (named after its British parliamentary sponsor) was also onboard. It was due to be formally presented to Commodore Manning and company president Franklin later that day by the Duke of Sutherland, a trustee who had sailed with the new champion back to the USA. In the event the transfer was deferred until November to enable a more lavish ceremony.

Twin fireboats joined the throng off the Statue of Liberty, accompanying her up to Pier 86 where, at 09:12 and responding to the welcoming salutes of the Italian Line’s Vulcania and Cunard’s Queen Elizabeth, the ‘Big U’ completed her maiden voyage. The press was full of yet more superlatives for the ship, her master and designer.

Somewhat bizarrely, given the ship’s inability to attend, a Broadway tickertape parade was arranged in the SS United States’ honour, which would be seen by an audience estimated to be around 150,000. Commodore Manning, the all-American hero, trained pilot, and former navigator to Amelia Earhart, had received his own tickertape welcome 23 years earlier for skippering the rescue boat that saved all hands of the Italian vessel Florida in a full gale, but relished the experience once more. Nevertheless, the Commodore’s moment in the spotlight would be brief.

In terms of personality Manning was the antithesis of William Francis Gibbs, and despite the latter’s support of his appointment as Master of the ‘big ship’, their relationship was fraught from the start. Manning’s maverick tendencies grated the controlling Gibbs, Manning’s focus on generalities and unwillingness to adhere to strict conventions was an assault on Gibbs’ desire for infinitesimal detail. Both Gibbs and the US Lines’ president General Franklin (hardly buddies themselves due to the historic fallout between the then young designer and Franklin’s father as President of the IMM) felt Manning had been showboating for much of the maiden voyage. Where they had urged caution, he pushed the limits, and whilst the United States got nowhere near her maximum speed during the trip, both designer and owner were unimpressed. On her second west bound voyage, shortly after passing Bishop Rock, United States charged past the similarly America bound Queen Elizabeth. On arrival at New York Manning denied the two ships had been racing in a dismissive but rather arrogant manner, “There wasn’t any race, we just raced away”. For Gibbs and Franklin, it was simply too much. Manning was immediately replaced by Captain John W. Anderson, previously of the SS America and despite the odd cameo had retired from the role within a year.

Despite the redundancy in her power plant the SS United States never attempted to break those maiden voyage runs. There was simply no reason. There were rumours that the Queen Elizabeth might make an attempt, but these were immediately denied by Cunard and the ship’s Captain. A decade later, having shown her own exceptional pace on trials the new France was touted as a possible contender. The French merely responded that they would concentrate on the Cordon Bleu rather than the Ruban Bleu.

It was left to that serial entrepreneur and self-publicist Richard Branson to return the Blue Riband to public consciousness. In 1986, despite stopping periodically to refuel, his Virgin Atlantic Challenger shaved two hours off United States’ record. Whilst undoubtedly a tremendous achievement it was quickly dismissed as a gimmick. The Trustees of the Hales Trophy emphasised that the modified powerboat did not qualify as a commercial vessel and so the trophy and accolades remained with United States, housed at New York Maritime Museum. Nevertheless, four years later the record was finally broken, when Hoverspeed Great Britain, an Incat catamaran on her delivery voyage from Australia, made the eastbound crossing in 3 days, 7 hours and 54 minutes. Undisputedly a commercial vessel, albeit designed and operated on a cross-Channel route, her owners milked the publicity and gratefully accepted the trophy.

The record is now nominally held by another, larger Incat vessel which is currently called Skane Jet. In 1998, once again on her delivery voyage as Cat-Link V, the catamaran made an eastbound crossing in 2 days 20 hours and 9 minutes, averaging 41.2 knots. Nevertheless, the majority of observers and most record books maintain selective amnesia on the subject. No matter what the data might show, for them only one vessel deserves the accolades and adulation, the undisputed title of the fastest Transatlantic passenger ship. That ship is the SS United States.