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11 July 2024 — This Posh Passenger Liner Began with a Memorable Sendoff



Tucked inconspicuously in Sea History 90 (Autumn 1999) is a remarkable anecdote about the ocean liner SS Washington’s maiden voyage back in 1933:

In an attempt to maximize publicity for the 705-foot-long ship’s entry into passenger service, US Lines devised an elaborate launch of carrier pigeons from the tennis court on the liner’s sun deck just before she was to leave her pier at noon. There were a total of 48 pigeons, one per state, each given the nickname of the state they represented. New York’s bird was named Empire. The pigeons were loaned from the Army Signal Corps pigeon lofts in Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. Each pigeon carried a message to the governor of the state for which it was named, assuring him that the “state flag flies proudly over the SS Washington, largest liner ever built in America, sailing from New York today on her maiden voyage, for Europe.” The birds were trained to fly from the deck of the Washington back to their home at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey. Once the pigeons were recovered, their messages would be transmitted to the governor of each state. In addition, the top pigeon-racing houses in the country loaned eight special racing pigeons to fly to Washington, DC, and the White House with a message for the President from the Washington’s captain, Gerald Fried. In charge of releasing the pigeons from the deck were 48 female students of Barnard College in New York City representing each of the 48 states. 

Nothing was overlooked in the preparation of this event. In correspondence after correspondence from United States Lines to officials at the Fort Monmouth pigeon loft base, every factor was considered. This included how long it would take for the 48 pigeons to reach home from the ship, how long the eight racing birds would take to reach the nation’s capital and the location on the ship from which the pigeons should be launched. The Line even paid close attention to the shoe boxes within which the pigeons would be contained on board ship just before the launch—should they be ladies’ shoes or men’s shoes! Some 5,000 people crammed the pier to see the SS Washington off that morning. Alfred E. Smith, former governor of New York, gave the signal on the sun deck, and by just before noon the birds were off. The 48 pigeons reached their home base by 1:45 that afternoon, and all the messages were successfully transmitted. By the following morning, the President had received his message from Capt. Fried as well. 

By the time you get to the serious debate about what kind of shoe box is best suited to release a carrier pigeon on its way to send a telegram, you know this is perhaps one of the most geeky, mild-mannered and yet unforgettable publicity stunts ever connected to a ship’s departure. (If you’ve got a similar tale of a stranger-than-fiction launch or maiden voyage commemoration, please share!)

SS Washington at sea. Photo: NH 43546, courtesy Naval History and Heritage Command

Washington (1933) and her sister ship, Manhattan (1931), were built by New York Shipbuilding in Camden, New Jersey. Popular Mechanics magazine celebrated their construction—underway as of the early-1931 publication date—as America’s “first entries in the marathon for transatlantic supremacy.” The new liners were described as “palatial,” with a swimming pool finished in tile and marble, and amenities like barber shops, hair salons, children’s playrooms, gymnasiums, and a printing plant. The builders were promising a telephone in every cabin and central heat and air conditioning.

This brief video tour gives us a glimpse of the posh accommodations aboard SS Washington.

Washington served on the route carrying passengers between New York and Hamburg until December 1939, when President Roosevelt invoked the Neutrality Act against Germany. She was shifted to passenger service between New York and Naples/Genoa; Her last voyages in 1940 were to return US citizens from Europe as they fled the spreading conflict. On her penultimate voyage from Europe carrying American refugees, Washington’s crew experienced a frightening episode off the coast of Portugal. At 5 AM on 11 June, the ship received a message via blinker from a German submarine, ordering the captain to “stop, heave to” and informing him that he had ten minutes to evacuate the ship before it would be torpedoed. The captain ordered the signalman to respond that the ship was American—not a belligerent in the conflict at that time. The submarine continued to insist that the ship would be torpedoed. Finally, an hour after the incident had begun, there was enough daylight that the Germans could see that the ship was indeed an American ship, and the Germans backed down with a terse “Thought you were another ship, please go on, go on.” Washington continued on to Galway, then steamed for New York.  

Renamed Mount Vernon, the ship was acquired by the Navy and commissioned at Philadelphia Navy Yard on 16 June. She was converted for naval use, and all of her fancy furnishings were carefully stored away against the future day she would return to civilian life. Once the finery had been removed, however, the conversion process was a bit less fastidious, at least according to some former crewmembers:

 

Toward the end of the ship’s stay in the Navy Yard, the memorable paint job of the Navy Yard painters took place. Armed with spray guns, they came aboard and painted. Not only the ship was greyed. Anything in their way, whether a coat hanging on the bulkhead or a pile of crates, was painted. As those articles were removed in the future, their outlines remained. The ship was finally ready for her first big adventure.

USS Mount Vernon (AP-22) underway. Photo: National Archives

Mount Vernon served as a troop transport, operating in the European and Pacific Theaters. She was then decommissioned on 18 January 1946, struck from the Naval Register weeks later, and renamed Washington to return to service for United States Lines, but only one deck was restored to the way it was before the war. This phase of her career was brief; her last commercial voyage was in October 1951. After two subsequent years working for the Military Sea Transportation Service, she took her place in the Hudson River reserve fleet, until she was scrapped in 1965.

Washington had an interesting career, with twists and turns that were typical of many passenger liners of her era. But I’m particularly glad to have learned of her unique first sendoff—pigeons, Army Signal Corps, shoe boxes, Barnard students and all—in the pages of Sea History.

Extra Credit

Popular Mechanics: “Uncle Sam Enters Atlantic Race”

The Manhattan and the Washington

Sea History Today is written by Shelley Reid, NMHS senior staff writer. Past issues can be read online by clicking here.