"Hot Foot" - The Story Of A Ship

On February 8, 1948, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, a great American naval career came to an end unnoticed by the world except for the few who remembered and loved an old ship affectionately known as Hot Fool. When word of her passing got around to steamship row and the sea ports, many eyes were moistened, because, during her time, Hot Foot had won a place close to the hearts of practically everyone connected with the sea. Her long and eventful life was so packed with spectacular and glamorous incidents that many of these people firmly believed that Hot Fool was the greatest ship that ever sailed.

She was destined for greatness right from the beginning. On her very first venture, she established herself as not only the speediest liner ever to come out of an American shipyard, but as the fastest liner in the world. This she accomplished on her sea trials despite adverse weather conditions. Although her international record fell with the passage of time, she retained her American crown all through her life and even held it posthumously for three years, until it was lifted from her by the Independence in January, 1951.

During the 33 years that Hot Foot sailed the seven seas she used four different names. Great Northern, her original name and the name she used in both services during and immediately following World War I, will be remembered by thousands of veterans. For a short period following World War I she served in the U. S. Navy as the Columbia. Tourists will remember her as the speedy coastwise liner, H. F. Alexander. In World War II she served as the U. S. Army Transport General George S. Simonds, carrying tens of thousands of troops safely to all theaters of operations. Under each name she distinguished herself brilliantly, but never received proper recognition.

Her conception was unique—she was built to compete with the railroads. Back in 1913 Mr. James J. Hill, who had the reputation of being the builder of our great Northwest, owned two large railroads—the Great Northern and the Northern Pacific. Mr. Hill felt that it was desirable to extend the service of his railroads to San Francisco, and tried unsuccessfully to work out a deal with the railroads operating between Portland, Oregon, and San Francisco. A man of great determination, Mr. Hill was undaunted by this failure. He decided to solve the problem in another way—by using ships. Throwing expense to the wind he ordered two ships built for the Portland-San Francisco run. His only demands were luxury and, above all, speed.

Plans were drawn and the contract for the building of both liners went to the William Cramp Shipyard in Philadelphia. The ships were named Great Northern and Northern Pacific after Mr. Hill’s two great railroads. They were to be 524' long, 63' in beam, and 12,000 tons displacement. Each ship was to be manned by a crew of 200, and each was to accommodate 800 passengers. The ships were to be driven at 25 knots by 25,000 horsepower engines. Their better than two-to-one horsepower-tonnage ratio rated them, proportionately speaking, as the highest-powered liners in the world. The transatlantic carriage trade paid little attention, however, because they were not intended to compete against them. Razor-like bows, and two tall, narrow, raked smokestacks with masts pitched at the same angle gave them the appearance of speed queens. One of this famous pair was destined to a sudden and untimely end, while the other went on to round out a long and successful career.

The Great Northern was the first of the pair to be delivered. Sailing from Philadelphia for the Pacific coast early in 1915, she had the distinction of being the first passenger liner and, to that date, the largest ship to pass through the recently-completed Panama Canal. A few months later the Great Northern was joined on the Pacific coast by the Northern Pacific.

As soon as the service was inaugurated, records began to fall. The ships were outrunning the crack express trains between the coast cities. Freight from Minneapolis was moved to San Francisco by rail and ship in two days better time than by rail all the way. The popularity of these ships was indicated when the competing railroads rose in arms against the venture. Mr. Hill, however, was backed one hundred percent by the people being served.

The ships remained in this Pacific coast trade until the United States became involved in World War I, when they were immediately requisitioned by the U. S. Navy. After conversion to troop transports they headed for the east coast. Now they found themselves traveling in high society. Because of their speed they were placed at once in fast convoys with the Mauretania, Leviathan, Olympic, Aquitania, and others in their class. The girls ran right along with their companions, except when the Atlantic rose to all its fury. Then the big ones would slow down so that the little ones could hang on. As soon as the weather moderated in the least, it was the Great Northern and her sister who had to be reined in.

When hostilities ceased in Europe they were released by the Navy and immediately entered the U. S. Army Transport service for the job of returning troops from overseas. During the war the Great Northern had never had the chance to stretch her legs on the transatlantic lanes. The rigid discipline of convoy duty plus the necessity for zig-zag courses stymied her completely. In the Army Transport Service she was held to a nine- teen-knot schedule for the sake of economy. It would have more than doubled her fuel consumption to get that extra six knots out of her. However, on her last trip for the Army, the Great Northern did get loose and went on a dizzy two week’s binge which had smokestacks wagging from one end of New York Harbor to the other. Before she settled down again to catch her breath, the Great Northern had, among other things, decisively whipped the giant Leviathan in an unofficial race across the ocean and lifted one of the haughty Mauretania's blue ribbons.

It all started when a mail pouch filled with important mail and documents for the President of the United States was placed on board. Instructions were given to proceed east at all possible speed, rendezvous with the George Washington in mid-Atlantic, and deliver the pouch to President Wilson, who was then returning from the Paris Peace Conference. With a free rein the Great Northern whipped out of New York like a Kentucky Derby winner thundering down the homestretch with her ears laid back. Weather in her favor, she clipped off the mile posts at about 600 a day. Her crossing was so fast that the President had hardly started home when contact was made just 300 miles off the French coast. Dipping her colors in respect to the President, the Great Northern then darted into Brest, France, where she picked up her contingent of three thousand joyful doughboys and started home. The Leviathan, starting home at the same time with twelve thousand troops, innocently fell in with her in a spirit of friendly rivalry. This time the Great Northern was dead in earnest, and she was not to be denied. The Leviathan fought gallantly to hang on but gradually fell behind.

Again favored by the weather, the Great Northern overhauled the George Washington and docked in New York ahead of her. Her elapsed time since leaving was twelve days, one hour, and thirty-five minutes. When the record book had been checked, brooms were run up in her rigging indicating that she had made a “clean sweep” of the transatlantic lanes. She had shattered by more than a day the record of the Mauretania, hitherto undisputed and unchallenged Atlantic speed queen, and this despite the fact that the Great Northern's route to Brest and return was five hundred miles longer than the Mauretania's record-breaking run from New York to Queenstown, Ireland, and return. For this accomplishment the Great Northern received a special citation from the President of the United States. Content to rest on her laurels, she blithely packed up and returned to San Francisco, leaving the transatlantic aristocracy scratching their fantails in utter amazement.

During the war the railroad situation on the Pacific Coast had been ironed out and there was no further need for ships in this service. Therefore, the Great Northern became a ward of the United States Government and went into temporary retirement in San Francisco. After every great conflict, military and naval geniuses make an effort to pick out the weak and vulnerable spots in their offensive and defensive operations, which show up only under actual combat conditions. One costly lesson had been learned from the loss of a ranking Allied admiral in combat. It was decided that in future naval warfare, the commanding admiral with his staff should never again be in a combat ship, but behind the scene of operations in a fast auxiliary. The Great Northern, because of her ability to make the run from the Panama Canal to New York in well under a hundred hours, was chosen from the roster of suitable candidates. She was the only merchantman ever to be so honored.

Scrubbed, painted, polished from stem to stern, and renamed USS Columbia, she shone like a silver dollar as, with great pomp and circumstance, she relieved the mighty USS Pennsylvania as flagship of the U. S. Navy at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Smartly she cruised the warm waters of the Caribbean with the giants of her combined fleets, during their exercises and simulated war maneuvers. She had her personal cruiser and destroyer escorts always at her side ready to pounce on anything that might attempt to molest her. The Columbia was now the vital nerve center of our entire naval offensive and defensive systems, and the most valued ship in the Navy. Powerful battlewagons, trim cruisers, sleek destroyers, and all lesser crafts jumped at every command which issued from her antennae, flag halyards, and blinker lights. Merchantmen, as well as naval crafts of all nations, paid her tribute by dipping their colors wherever they met. For the Columbia was carrying from her main the four-star flag of Admiral Hilary P. Jones, Commander in Chief of the United States Fleet and senior admiral afloat.

About seven months after the Columbia had stepped into this glamorous role, a tragedy occurred which was to affect her entire future. On February 8, 1922, her sister- ship, the Northern Pacific, burned, capsized, and sank at sea, off the entrance to the Delaware River.^*

The Pacific Steamship Company, a rapidly growing west coast organization, needed the services of a fast passenger liner to round out their fleet, and it was for this purpose that they had purchased the Northern Pacific from the government. It was while enroute from New York to Chester, Pennsylvania, where she was to be fitted out as a luxury liner, that the fatal accident happened. Desperately in need of a ship of this caliber, the officials of the company then made overtures to the government for the purchase of the Columbia. President Harding ordered her retired, and she was bought immediately by the Pacific Steamship Company, but she retained her position as a Naval Reserve ship, ready to step back into her role as flagship if the emergency ever arose.

The Columbia proceeded to the Sun Shipyard, at Chester, where she was completely rebuilt from the plans which had been drawn up for her ill-fated sister. For the third time she was re-named and, for the next twenty years, she was known as the H. F. Alexander, in honor of the President of the Pacific Steamship Company. Her hull, painted the dark green color of the company, had a fine gold streamline from bow to stern; her superstructure was white. The stacks, painted buff, had the company insignia on either side. She was a beautiful sight as she returned to the Pacific coast where she was given a tumultuous ovation upon her arrival in San Francisco. Thousands of visitors were awed by her breath-taking beauty. Newspapers used all the Hollywood adjectives. She picked up such titles as, “Palace of the Pacific,” and “Queen of the Seas.” Before entering her regular coastwise service the H. F. Alexander made a round-trip to Honolulu carrying a capacity load of Shriners to a convention. On this trip she won two more blue ribbons by establishing east- and westbound crossing records.

Entering the coastwise trade, it did not take long for the H. F. Alexander to attract attention. With scheduled regularity she ran her course on a weekly turnaround, departing from her Seattle terminal at 5:00 P.M. every Tuesday. By revolution counters and minute hand she traveled the 2,336-mile course in 135 hours, with three eight-hour whistle stops en route. A 33-hour layover in Seattle rounded out her week.

The seafaring men of the Pacific soon reduced her name to plain H. F. A stranger asking what H. F. meant was told that the initials stood for Hot Fool. Thus she was tagged with her famous nickname. The words of Herodotus in speaking of the Persian messengers could now apply to Hot Foot, when he wrote, “Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor darkness, are permitted to obstruct their speed.” So exacting and tight was her schedule that it was necessary for her to have two skippers relieving each other on alternating trips. The stopwatch precision with which she covered her route made her whereabouts known at any given time. For this reason she became a moving aid to navigation. Many a mariner groping his way through the murk has been saved from destruction when, not hearing her whistle at the calculated time, he hauled off shore and headed for the sanctuary of deep water. Her giant, triple-chimed, steam whistle’s chord was unmistakable and was heard and recognized all over the world. During World War II a Pacific coast shipmaster, who had sailed on Hot Foot in his youth, was riding at anchor in his ship at Gibraltar when he was lifted from his chair by the familiar chord. Going on deck he was not surprised to see Hot Foot sliding in behind the protective rock with her precious load of troops.

The roaring Twenties were also roaring for Hot Foot. She enjoyed prosperity with the rest of the nation. Her popularity kept her packed with happy, carefree travelers. Many important people from all walks of life paced her decks. Dr. Ralph Bunche, of United Nations fame, helped finance his education by working as a bell hop on her. She became a movie queen in her own right. When Hollywood needed luxurious steamship background, if available, Hot Foot was always chosen.

The H. F. Alexander returned to the Atlantic seaboard late in the fall of 1925 to take care of the plush Florida winter trade on the New York to Miami run. The transatlantic greyhounds viewed her return with concern and were relieved when they learned she was not to compete against them. This was the only time in her career when she had any difficulty in accomplishing what was asked of her. In spite of her capabilities, her owners did not take into consideration the treachery of Cape Hatteras in the winter time. Frequently on her northbound run she would hit a stone wall of waves off the Cape. Thoroughbred that she was, she would have broken her back to get through. To keep her from doing exactly that, her skipper would wisely ease her up. On these occasions she would arrive late in New York. Several times her southbound passengers would be waiting on the dock to sail, before she had even arrived from Miami. Unlike her competitors of the steel rails, where a fresh section would take off on time regardless of how late the running section was, Hot Foot had to make . up all lost time herself. Nothing bothered her more than to be running late. Given any slightest break in the weather and she would be right back on schedule.

Returning to the Pacific coast after a most successful season, she went back into her old routine. With the progress of time, automobile travel improved, roads were better, trucks were carrying more and more freight over the highways, and plane travel was becoming popular. Then the terrible Depression struck the nation. These handicaps caused Hot Foot’s season to become shorter and shorter. Along in the middle Thirties the H. F. Alexander was decommissioned permanently and laid up in the estuary at Alameda, California. During her long period of idleness Hot Foot shifted uneasily at her bonds, like an unexercised race horse. She broke these bonds once and her bow started to swing toward the open sea. Those in charge checked her, however, and thus she was frustrated in her attempt to escape.

When the United States entered World War II, ships were at such a premium that every available hull was pressed into service. The H. F. Alexander was hauled out of retirement and taken to San Francisco to be converted once again to a troop transport. In those trying days, there was on board an impatient, accelerated tempo in the atmosphere, a feeling of “Let’s get going! What are we waiting for?” She was creating the same spirit that was recorded of her after World War I, when it was officially documented by the U. S. Navy, in the Office of Naval Records and History that, “Her great spirit of ‘Hit the Ball’ and get results was born in the Navy Yard at Bremerton and remained the motto of this vessel as long as she was in the Navy.” This statement can now be extended to include her entire life.

Recommissioning and new construction of ships was progressing at such a pace that the United States did not have enough men to man the additional tonnage. Great Britain’s merchant fleet had suffered to such an extent that they had an overabundance of qualified men. For this reason the H. F. Alexander was transferred to British registry and temporarily became an alien. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, she turned her nose toward the open sea loaded with troops for our sadly depleted bastions in the Pacific. Traveling again in convoy she made a few trips to the Pacific, and then returned to the Atlantic to enter the European theater of operations. Soon after this our man power situation eased, and Hot Foot was returned to the flag of her birth.

Joining the U. S. Army Transport service she was renamed General George S. Simonds. In this capacity she transported many thousands of GI’s safely across the Atlantic. Her job in both World Wars was the supply line, and the fact that she did her job well is a matter of history. Equipped with only a few pea shooters for protection, she usually took advantage of her speed to avoid any physical contact with the enemy. When called upon to go where the going was rough, Hot Foot was right there. She ran the gauntlet of the Mediterranean several times where she often used her pea shooters.

On D-Day, June 6, 1944, came the great invasion of Normandy. Every nook and cranny in the British Isles was alive with activities which were to dovetail in the single operation. Under the cover of darkness General Eisenhower’s first wave of shock troops left Channel ports in landing craft which would deposit them right on the beachhead. At the same time, on England’s west coast and in Northern Ireland, troop transports were loading with reinforcements for the men who would make the initial assault. These transports, scheduled to arrive off Omaha Beach at full daylight on D-Day plus one, joined forces in the Irish Sea. The ships formed in single column and, with one exception, all were Army transports. Leading the column was the U. S. Navy Transport, Susan B. Anthony, in command. Directly behind the Anthony, in the number two position, was the General George S. Simonds. The convoy was protected on both sides by destroyers in the usual screening formation.

Slowly the armada moved down the Irish Sea. In complete blackout the column swung around Lands End into the English Channel. In the early hours before daylight distant cannon fire could be heard as the assembled battleships of the Allied Nations protected the forces who were hanging on by their boot straps. Quietly the convoy advanced toward its destination. At the first indication of dawn the ships were fully alerted with every man at his battle station, for prowling submarines operated at their best during these twilight hours. The tin cans were like nervous deer which had picked up an unfriendly human scent.

Without warning a terrific explosion rocked the entire column. When the smoke cleared away the Susan B. Anthony lay still in the water, mortally wounded, the victim of a magnetic mine. The tin cans, expertly trained for such an emergency, moved in to the stricken ship’s side for the evacuation. This is where Hot Foot's age and experience paid off. Taking command, she moved into the lead position. Not knowing whether the Anthony had struck a mine or whether they were under submarine attack, Hot Foot ordered a flank speed set at the maximum speed of the slowest ship. Such nerve and courage, under these trying circumstances, served as a steadying influence on her younger and less experienced companions who were badly shaken by the turn of events. She led the column in to Omaha Beach as directed, and General Eisenhower’s reinforcements were delivered without further incident.

Hot Foot met an old friend at Normandy that morning. In the line of Allied battleships was the USS Texas pouring out fourteen-inchers with all her might to help protect her former flagship’s operations.

During the next two months the Genera George S. Simonds made several more trips to Normandy. Each successive trip became less hazardous as the enemy was driven back. Her job completed, she returned to the United States.

Hot Fool was then loaned by the Army to the U. S. Maritime Commission. The “General” was dropped from her name and as the George S. Simonds she operated between Kingston, Jamaica, and Hampton Roads, Virginia, carrying Jamaican laborers to the United States. This assignment finished, she was permanently returned to the Maritime Commission and her name reverted to II. F. Alexander. She was immediately decommissioned and, on March 5, 1946, she was laid up in the James River near Norfolk, Virginia, where she anxiously awaited her next duty.

Much had transpired since she had last operated as a passenger liner, and she now found herself in a peculiar position. After the terrible Mono Castle disaster in 1934 the U. S. government took drastic measures to prevent the recurrence of such a tragedy on an American ship. Ship operators found the cost prohibitive to make the necessary improvements on Hot Fool. Foreign nations, taking advantage of this situation, were buying U. S. ships that were otherwise in good condition. Here again the H. F. Alexander was too small for the transoceanic trade and too large for the coastwise trade except along our own coasts. One by one Hot Foot watched her companions leave until at last she alone remained. On January 15, 1948, Hot Foot's official name and title, Triple Screw Turbine Steamer H. F. Alexander, was stricken from the register of the American Bureau of Shipping. She became a nonentity.

Fate was cruel. Providence deemed she would not be afforded the hero’s end received by some of our great fighting ships and which she so justly deserved. She was not permitted to sail proudly out to sea under her own power, with colors flying, to a spot away from the eyes of the morbidly curious, there to be committed to the deep where she would find peace and solace in the ocean’s bed somewhere along one of the coasts she had so faithfully served and nobly helped defend. Instead, on a bleak and cold morning, early in February, 1948, a small fleet of dirty little tugs threw their lines on her and the sad pilgrimage started for Philadelphia.

It is interesting to note that after traveling far and wide to the four corners of the earth, Hot Fool—as well as her less traveled and less illustrious sister—returned to the waters of her native Delaware to end her days. By coincidence, her last day happened to be the 26th anniversary of her sister’s fatal fire.

All night long the procession crept toward its destination. Dawn again broke leaden and wintry on her last day. The old ship would have preferred to have died in action or to have been claimed by the elements, rather than face this ignominious end. Even now, given the chance she could have warmed up her engines and departed by herself. In this way she could have eased into Philadelphia practically unnoticed, but she was not even afforded the veil of darkness to conceal her plight. Dragged on the end of a tow line, she was exhibited to the world. Slowly the cortege passed the tremendous Sun Shipyard at Chester, Pennsylvania, from which she had emerged the “Palace of the Pacific.” Then they went on by the gigantic Philadelphia Navy Yard, where the red rug had been rolled out for her many times when she breezed in as Flagship of the Navy. The yard was filled with fighting ships, but there was no saluting or dipping of colors this time—Hot Foot had no colors. Through the heart of Philadelphia’s busy water front the procession slowly wound its way. Along the entire route activities ceased, while her friends and former running mates looked on in quiet sympathy.

As they passed under the bridge which links Philadelphia to Camden, New Jersey, the tugs slowed down and gradually came to a stop in front of a shipyard. A short wait was necessary while preparations were made for Hot Foot’s final delivery. Suddenly, she was at the portals of the William Cramp Shipyard, where she had grown from a few lines on the drawing board into a graceful ship. But now her filthy hull was streaked with oil stain. Great chunks of paint had blistered and peeled from her stacks, leaving ugly scabs of rust. The wooden planking on her decks had cracked and bulged under the scorching sun. Odd pieces of rotten rope dangled here and there, and the dirty, torn canvas lifeboat covers, flapping lazily in the breeze, accentuated her threadbare appearance. She was a far cry from what she had been 33 years earlier when, on this very same spot, she had received the praise and acclaim of an admiring world. During those years she had won the Transatlantic Blue Ribbon, a Presidential Citation, served as a U. S. Navy Flagship, won Transpacific Blue Ribbons, been known as the “Palace of the Pacific,” and had experienced two glorious war careers.

Final preparations completed, the tugs started to move again. Hot Foot had reached the end of the road.

Those of us who knew and loved old Hot Foot can now see her successor resting at her berth in New York, and we are impressed by the similarity between these two great liners—the same trim and graceful hulls, though the Independence is considerably larger; the same cocky tilt to their twin stacks; the same beautiful fantail countertype stern, of which there are so few on the ocean today. The Independence is the first super-liner to appear with such a stern in eighteen years. It may be more than mere coincidence that the only berth the Independence has ever known in New York happens to be the same berth used by Hot Foot, the only time she operated out of New York as a passenger liner. The fact that just one year elapsed between Hot Foot’s last day and the day that her successor’s keel was laid, makes it well within the realm of possibility that some of Hot Foot’s steel has become a part of the Independence. Perhaps, in Hot Foot’s reincarnation, her indomitable spirit has returned in the form of this great new champion, to bless her with as stout and courageous a heart as ever faced the tempest of Father Neptune’s royal domain.