The France at speed. probably on her trial runs out of Saint Nazaire

The France at speed. probably on her trial runs out of Saint Nazaire

When the France was laid down in 1958 as the long term replacement for the ageing Liberte, more than 1.2 million passengers still crossed the Atlantic by sea each year, either on business or pleasure. But that same October, the first ever Pan Am jet airliner flew eastwards across the Atlantic in just six hours, and the apple cart was not so much upset, as reduced to matchwood and splinters.

By the time of her launch just two years later, those same jets had more than seventy per cent of the transatlantic trade, and those numbers were climbing as steadily as a Boeing 707 cleared for take off. So by the time that the France was finally ready for her first passengers at the beginning of 1962, a huge amount was riding on her, both figuratively and literally.

The France was the last true Atlantic liner, designed to make thirty four round trips a year between Europe and America, with  no thought whatsoever being given to ever using her as a cruise ship. She was every bit as much of an Atlantic thoroughbred as the Normandie before her and, to the French, she was intended to be every bit as much a national showpiece as that fabled thirties showstopper. Though her actual cost was astronomical- the American press was already referring to her as ‘an eighty million dollar gamble’- the French invested far more in her in terms of emotional currency.

But this maritime Joan Of Arc (a perhaps unfortunate comparison when considering how many French liners were actually lost to fire) was to turn out to be more of a gilded Canute, fighting valiantly to stem the unstoppable. All the same, she was almost ready by the dawn of 1962 and, prior to her maiden crossing to New York, the French Line decided to send her on a nine day, trial run of a cruise down to the Canary IslandsIt was an idea taken up again by Cunard, when they introduced the brand new QE2 into service in early 1969.

This trial voyage sailed from Le Havre on January 19th, 1962 and, while it was a good exercise in PR, it also served to highlight the numerous potential shortcomings of the France as a cruise ship. It was the equivalent of expecting a premier league centre forward to switch to rugby league, and perform at the same level. These shortcomings- mainly revolving around a lack of outdoor deck space and her glass enclosed swimming pools- would only be permanently addressed during her 1979-80 conversion into the Norway at Bremerhaven.

However, the cruise did serve to demonstrate the excellence of her machinery. The France was the second fastest ocean liner ever built but, with the jets thundering overhead at five hundred miles an hour, any attempt at a tilt for the speed record, held for the past ten years by the SS.United States, was quietly ruled out. The France was expected to excel on an entirely different level.

Finally, at 1400 on the afternoon of February 3rd, 1962, Commandant Georges Croisiele took the flag bedecked France clear of the dock at Le Havre, to begin her maiden crossing to New York. Among the capacity load of 1,958 passengers on board was Madame Yvonne De Gaulle, wife of the president. She was making the voyage in her official capacity as the Godmother of the ship. The young actress, Juliette Greco, was also on the roster.

February was hardly a typical time for a gala maiden voyage, and the Atlantic slammed the new liner with a series of savage, forty five foot waves that forced Croisile to reduce speed from thirty knots right down to six at the height of the gale. That said, the only casualties were a slightly dented anchor housing, one broken window in the first class library and, perhaps most distressingly, some eight bottles of premium scotch. The passengers responded with typical panache, by adapting the dance steps to the brand new ‘twist’ craze to suit the weather conditions and, despite this vicious baptism of fire, France and her surviving, happily ample supply of scotch were able to make up the lost time. She duly arrived off Quarantine in New York on schedule on February 8th, 1962.

The welcome was as warm as the day itself was bitterly cold. A quartet of fire boats arced vast, icy plumes of water into the air all around the France as the last great French liner swept proudly towards her berth; this was the exact same pier where her predecessor, Normandie, had burned and sank some twenty years minus one day before. The arrival date can hardly have been a coincidence.

Prophetic, indeed. The France tied up at Pier 88, Manhattan, at the same spot where the Normandie burned and sank.

Prophetic, indeed. The France tied up at Pier 88, Manhattan, at the same spot where the Normandie burned and sank.

A flotilla of tugs and small pleasure craft rode shotgun around the new ship as she proceeded in state past the Battery. Helicopters buzzed her like random, curious dragonflies, filming the event for posterity. Crowds shivered along the freezing banks of the Hudson and banners snapped in the icy breeze as the soaring flank of the France kissed the edge of Pier 88 for the first time. Despite the adverse conditions encountered on the crossing, the France had, indeed, performed flawlessly.

The subsequent press conference held on board was a curious mixture of euphoria and tempered wisdom. The owners stated that ‘the captain is satisfied with his ship- and the ship is satisfied with her captain.’ They then went on to enshrine her as ‘the last refuge of the good life.’

At the same time, the multi millionaire Charles Cloredisembarking from the France, took occasion to deny to the assembled press that he was planning to buy the Cunard Line.

The press were in general, enchanted and awed by the stunning new ship, but elements of it did reiterate the ‘eighty million dollar gamble’ epithet in their subsequent coverage. They also questioned the fact that the huge beam of the liner made her too large to transit the Panama Canal

That drew a classic, Machiavellian retort from no less than General De Gaulle himself, back in France. He said flatly that ‘the ship is not too big; the problem is that the canal is too small.’ In his grandiosity, Monsieur Le President had also conveniently forgotten (or ignored) the fact that the dimensions of the Panama Canal had actually been decided by another determined Frenchman, Ferdinand De Lesseps.



The magnificent Liberte setting sail on another Atlantic crossing

It’s near midnight in New York. Manhattan, on a balmy summer night in the mid- 1950’s, to be precise.

The French Line’s SS. Liberte is making ready to sail for Europe from Manhattan’s Pier 88. Fully booked, the ship is a mad rush of scarlet jacketed bellboys, delivering flowers, telegrams and cases of champagne to cabins already overflowing with hundreds of light hearted and laughing passengers. Last minute stores are coming aboard; valuables are being secured in the safes. Throngs of visitors mill around the palatial Art Deco interiors, their eyes as wide as saucers.

On the quay, mountains of baggage are being manhandled into the belly of the beast. Some people think nothing of sailing with sixty pieces of luggage for their extended European tours. A tidal wave of ambitious hacks turn the pier into a blazing neon dawn as each new limo swaggers up to the ship. Rumour has it that both Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable are sailing tonight.

The quay fairly groans under the combined weight of an assorted fleet of Daimlers, Bentleys and Packards, delivering the stars of stage, screen and sport to the ship. The French Line has a reputation for food, service and sheer fun that is second to none; the Liberte has always been a magnet for the famous, the fussy, and the downright frivolous.

As sailing time, nears, an avalanche of brightly coloured paper streamers rain down from the Liberte’s decks to the crowd on the pier below, trailing an amazing technicolor splash along the length of the great liner’s soaring, floodlit flank. The siren roars out in the night; a deep, gut shaking boom.that reverberates in the humid, muggy air, before it disappears among midtown Manhattan’s steel and glass canyons of skyscrapers.

Then, almost imperceptibly at first, she gets under way, backing out gingerly into the darkened Hudson. Like puppies trying to move a dinosaur, a quintet of feisty Moran tugs push, pull and cajole the nine hundred foot hull, until she swings lazily around into the midstream. The muted throbbing of their engines forms a surreal backdrop to the cheers of the passengers, and the popping of an entire salvo of champagne corks.

Now the Liberte is pointed downstream, and the famed Manhattan skyline is off to port; a million twinkling lights that form an unforgettable backdrop. Cars barrel along Twelfth Avenue at breakneck speed, tooting and honking in salute, or just out of sheer impatience at the idiot in front of them. Clad in all her luminous finery, New York City never looked sweeter or finer than on this warm, summer night.

Row upon row of the Liberte’s deck lights shimmer bewitchingly on the ink black Hudson, so far below. Artfully concealed lighting at their bases makes her two huge, red and black funnels stand out in a glorious show of bravado. Between them, huge electric letters spell out her name for all to see.


Forward now. Streamers flail skittishly against her flank as she slowly gathers way, like some mythical sea goddess, gliding out of an enchanted fairyland. The siren roars again, sundering the night air as the tugs back off respectfully, like courtiers bowing to a queen.

Pale green and floodlit, the Statue of Liberty bids farewell to the Liberte and her human cargo with sightless eyes as she makes her stately progress downstream. On board, the supper club opens, and Xavier Cugat’s Mambo Kings are laying down some blistering salsa in the Cafe De L’Atlantique.

It’s summer in the city, and another crossing to Europe is under way…