The bridge, located at the curved, forward end of the ship’s superstructure, was the nerve center of the ship’s operations. Unlike Queen Mary’s bridge, there was no wood paneling or polished brass trim. Everything was painted battle gray, including the two small ship’s wheels, which required, according to Granville Parkinson of Gibbs & Cox, “little more effort than that required to turn the steering wheel of an automobile.” Should the master decide, the ship could be steered by gyro-pilot (known by sailors as the “Metal Mike”) on a fixed course, with no help from the helmsman.
If the ship were damaged or a fire broke out, the officer on watch could shut some or all watertight and fire doors using a panel located in the wheelhouse. The same officer could use a public address system to give evacuation orders to passengers and crew. There would be no confusion as there was aboard Titanic, Lusitania, or Morro Castle, none of which ships had a public address system or adequate emergency sirens.
And unlike Lusitania, which lost electrical power after a single torpedo strike, trapping passengers in jammed elevators and pitch-black corridors, United States was equipped with an emergency generating plant that would kick in if the main power plant were disabled. “The emergency diesel-engine-driven generators will start automatically upon the failure of the ship’s service power,” Parkinson noted, “but in the interim, while these units are coming up to speed and cutting in on the line, the emergency source is from storage batteries and direct current motor driven alternating current generators.”
Radar, pioneered by the British navy during the early months of World War II and refined by the Americans, allowed the captain to “bring the United States through harbor approaches which are enshrouded in fog or darkness, snow or rain, and bring it to its pier in absolute safety and on schedule.” The radar system consisted of two netlike antennae swiveling atop the ship’s single mast. “The powerful transmitters and receivers,” Parkinson wrote, “operating alternatively, can supply to the screens in the wheelhouse an uninterrupted diagram of all objects within a large area surrounding the ship… the navigator knows at all times exactly how close he is to land, another ship, or any other object within range.”34 Radar was a navigational aid that Captain Smith of the Titanic would have found useful as he drove his ship through the Atlantic at full speed. But then again, the veteran White Star commodore ignored iceberg warnings received by wireless. In 1912, radio communications between ships consisted of spark-generated dots and dashes, not voice transmissions, and wireless operators would switch off their sets before turning in for the night. Warnings about navigational hazards were delivered at the convenience of the operators, whose main priority was sending messages from paying passengers to shore stations. By the early 1950s, however, radio was no longer a novelty, but an integral part of life safety at sea. By international law, radio sets aboard passenger liners had to be manned twenty-four hours a day, and incoming messages about navigation hazards took precedence over outgoing “wish you were here” cables from passengers.
A few months before United States’ first trials, Gibbs decided to ensure the secrecy of the ship’s advanced technology by making it a national security matter, even during commercial operation. He added some provisions to the sales contract that the United States Lines would sign when it took possession of the ship. One of them read that “plans and data concerning this ship are considered to be confidential and classified, as would be the case of a combatant naval ship. The plans and data shall not be released without the approval of the Federal Maritime Board.” The leaking of such “confidential or classified” information could subject the owners, its agents, and representatives “to criminal liability under the laws of the United States.” The United States Lines was obligated to fire or refuse to hire anyone whom the Federal Maritime Board or the Navy Department deemed a risk for “espionage, sabotage, or subversive activity.”35
Gibbs’s “Big Ship” was now protected not just from Soviet spies, but from commercial and professional competitors as well.
20. TURN HER UP
On May 14, 1952, just as the sun rose over the cranes and sheds of Newport News, the engines of United States rumbled to life, and smoke began to drift from her two red, white, and blue funnels. Parts of her interiors were still unfinished, and because she carried only enough fuel and provisions for a few days, she rode relatively high in the water. Several days earlier, Gibbs & Cox’s chief engineer, Walter Bachman, had supervised a series of rigorous tests on the ship’s engines. United States remained at the dock, her four manganese bronze propellers removed to keep the ship from swaying back and forth. All aboard seemed in order, and the propellers were remounted. She was ready to embark on the test that could establish America’s postwar maritime greatness.
William Francis moved into first-class suite U-81, put away his threadbare suit, donned his coveralls and fedora, and headed up to the bridge.
Just before departure, yard president J. B. Woodward Jr. told the Newport News Daily Press: “If the people of the country could just understand what a remarkable ship this is, what lies behind the painted bulkheads in safety and stability, and what she will mean to the country in carrying power and speed, they would truly be proud of this American achievement.”1
Public expectations were high, stoked by the fact that the great ship’s speed achieved during the trials would be kept secret. Aboard ship, Maritime Administration chairman Admiral Cochrane told reporters that the ship “would go faster than any other of comparable size afloat.” But when asked if the ship could make 40 knots, Cochrane declined to say anything.2
At 9 A.M. sharp, Commodore Manning ordered “slow astern,” and United States, packed with 1,699 guests and crew, backed away from her pier and headed slowly down the James River. At the Old Point Comfort Lighthouse, Manning ordered the chief engineer to increase speed. The ship responded instantly, barely making a ripple or wake. Finally, at 11:45 A.M., after passing the Chesapeake Lighthouse, Manning ordered an increase of the turbine throttle to 100,000 shaft horsepower, and the helmsmen to steer United States on a due east course. The trial site lay eighty-five miles away. As the ship passed the breakwater, a photographer snapped a picture of William Francis and Frederic Gibbs atop the wheelhouse. In the black-and-white photo, Frederic leans against the rail and looks resolutely out to sea, the sunlight bathing his face. William Francis sits with his long legs akimbo. His right arm and black fedora hat shield most of his face as he peers warily at the photographer.3
As United States headed toward her destination at a steady 25 knots, the wind began to pick up, whipping off the tops of the wave crests into spray and whistling over the funnels. Despite the weather conditions, the ship remained remarkably steady, just as William Francis and Bachman had predicted in their model tests. The Gibbs brothers, Vincent Astor, and General Franklin went to the bridge to stand with Commodore Manning. They saw the prow cut through the waves, sending spray spattering against the windows. To clear the panes, officers on watch had to hand crank the wipers.
Grim-faced, Vincent Astor hunched over a set of charts and watched the movement of the gauges.