Down the hall from the Franklins, Don Iddon, New York columnist for the London Daily Mail, was assigned a single first-class cabin on U-deck and given free passage. “A modest little nook,” he lamented, “but it is big enough for a single traveler and is air-conditioned—as is all the ship.”8
Known as “Britain’s Walter Winchell,” Iddon entertained his British readers with a “hodgepodge of gossip, press agentry and political hip-shooting,” all under the umbrella of “Rule, Britannia.” Iddon, who described himself as a “terrific egoist,” became the main source of what was happening in America for a huge swath of the British public. “[H]e leaves the impression,” Time wrote, “that most Americans guide their lives by astrology, gorge themselves on thick steaks, give their daughters $10,000 debuts, and are all ready to jump into aluminum pajamas and lead-foil brassieres at the first hint of atomic attack.”9
Iddon did not like what he found on the first-class passenger list—he was disappointed by the lack of “big names.” There were lots of wealthy and successful businessmen, he said, as well as politicians and Navy brass. Margaret Truman was a charming person, a talented writer and musician. But where were the movie stars and the European royalty who made crossings interesting for a gossip columnist?
He then wandered the public rooms. “It is ultra-modern,” he said of the big American liner, “a big chromium, air-conditioned, streamlined Park Avenue apartment house afloat.” He added, “The Queens are more opulent, richer, more spacious and gracious, more dignified, and possibly a little bit old fashioned.”10
As the passengers and guests streamed aboard, William Francis’s excitement grew, but so did his anxiety. Once she left the pier, the ship would be in the care of Commodore Manning. And Manning did not like asking for advice.
At 10:45 A.M., all loading of the freight and baggage was complete, and the harbor pilot arrived on the bridge. He would steer the ship as far as Ambrose Lightship, and then disembark and return to shore by tender. By 11:50 A.M., the last passengers had scrambled aboard, and the stewards had finished shooing the last eight thousand bon voyage revelers off the ship.
Gibbs & Cox engineer Sidney Malmquist checked on the engine room as United States prepared to back away from her pier. The engineers, dressed in their white overalls, stood at attention, looking at the gauges and making last-minute adjustments as the machinery around them whirred. Nearby, the firemen starting lighting additional burners in the boilers, to provide an extra head of steam upon clearing New York harbor. When the bridge rang the “Standby!” signal, Malmquist watched as the crew scrambled to their stations.
Just after noon, Commodore Manning sounded three husky bellows from the whistles, followed by a long blast, and ordered “Slow astern.” Down in the engine room, Malmquist observed that “the whispering of steam flowing to the propulsion units can now be heard. An air of alertness still prevails in the machinery spaces although an interested observer can detect a partial smile, a sense of relaxed tension on the part of the operating personnel.”11
The tugs Barbara Moran and Nancy Moran began pushing United States back into the Hudson River. The liner’s four propellers slowly churned up the water around the stern, sending up billows of river mud. Twenty minutes later, the bow of United States was pointed downstream, and the tugs slipped their lines and let her free.
The Big Ship’s 1,660 passengers leaned over the railings, wildly cheering to their friends and relatives on the pier head, which was draped in red, white, and blue bunting. Confetti and steamers continued to rain down from her upper decks. Shouts of “Bon voyage!” and “Happy landings!” rang from pier to ship.12
Meyer Davis’s men lined up on deck and played “Anchors Aweigh,” but had a hard time being heard above the din of whistle salutes as the ship pulled back from the pier and out into the Hudson. By 12:45 P.M., still dripping streamers from her promenade deck and railings, United States glided past the gleaming skyscrapers of lower Manhattan, then the Statue of Liberty. Those standing on the deck as the ship passed 21 West Street noticed that Gibbs employees had hung three giant banners from the windows:
Once past Ambrose Lightship, at 2:20 P.M., the harbor pilot got off the ship. Manning ordered the telegraphs rung to “full ahead.” Down below, Kaiser opened up the steam valves and the turbines spun faster. Malmquist watched as Chief Engineer Kaiser, cigar in his mouth, barked out instructions to his subordinates. “Above these muffled voices,” he observed, “the quiet rhythm of the machinery plant can be heard.”13
Deck steward Jim Green, who had been on his feet since daybreak, felt the decks rumble beneath him as she picked up speed. “It was like a greyhound,” he said.
Although there was excitement among the crew about breaking the speed record, there was also the fear of what might happen if the brand-new ship were pushed too hard, as she picked up speed and raced toward Europe.
At 3:30 P.M., Manning ordered all hands to their emergency boat stations. Boat drills had become standard practice at sea since the Titanic disaster, yet passengers were merely “encouraged” to come. Hundreds of passengers donned their bright orange “Mae West” lifejackets (sailors joked they made their wearers look like the busty movie star) and lined up along the promenade deck. But for the crew, boat drill was mandatory. Commodore Manning descended from the bridge for inspection, not saying a single word to anyone.
By 5 P.M., United States had reached 30 knots. Manning told the press that “the plan was to move up the speed gradually.”
By nightfall, the ship’s four propellers were spinning at 160 revolutions per minute, pushing United States through the Atlantic at around Queen Mary’s regular service speed. Yet aside from a bit of shaking in the stern, the passengers could barely sense any effort coming from the machinery at work. By 7 P.M., the first-class dining room echoed with the clink of silverware, crystal, china, and the murmur of conversation, occasionally punctuated by a ripple of laughter. Passengers had to choose between an early and a late seating, except for the VIPs, like Margaret Truman; they could either eat in the fifty-seat private restaurant on the promenade deck, or in the center section of the first-class dining room, which boasted a two-deck-high vaulted ceiling and always had open seating. The “semi-millionaires,” as Assistant Bell Captain Krudener described the “ordinary” first-class passengers, were relegated to the sides of the main dining room. These areas were only one deck high and did not boast the same visibility as the center section.
Like a British butler, Assistant Chief Steward Malmsea determined the seating chart based on a passenger’s status. According to Krudener, a passenger eager for a prestigious table might slip Malmsea a twenty- or fifty-dollar bill to help the prestige commandant make a decision.14
As they opened up their menus, first-class passengers were pleased by the lavish selection of entrées: Braised Roulade of Beef “Forestier,” Lobster à la Newburg en Cassolette, California Asparagus with Hollandaise Sauce, Long Island Duckling, and Tenderloin Steak with Sauce Bernaise and Mushroom Sauté.15 If a passenger did not want anything from the menu, made-to-order dishes, including kosher ones, could be prepared with advance notice.