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Memory Drums. The first distress message was tapped out at 11:30 p.m. and gave the Lakonia's position as 180 miles northwest of Madeira. Already, thick, billowing smoke was seeping from under the door of the barbershop, where the fire apparently had started. And by now, the flames had burned their way through the floor. So thick was the smoke that Passenger George Chapman was forced to grab a gas mask as he tried to force his way below to his sleeping three-year-old son Geoffrey. "I thought if I had to die, I wanted to die with our baby," Chapman says. "Halfway down, I saw an engineer coming up through the smoke with Geoffrey in his arms. That man saved his life."
At 12:22, shortly after Captain Zarbis gave the order to abandon ship, the last mayday message was flashed: "S O S from Lakonia. Last time. I cannot stay any more in the wireless cabin. We are leaving the ship. Please help immediately."
More than 3,000 miles away, the distress signals were picked up by a U.S. Coast Guard station. The Lakonia's position was immediately fed into an AMVER (Atlantic Merchant Vessel Report) computer, which plots the location, course and speed—and records such information as whether a doctor is on board—of some 850 merchant ships in the North Atlantic. Within moments, the computer's memory drums typed out the names of five vessels within 100 miles of the Lakonia, and urgent messages were flashed to them to proceed to the stricken liner. The five were the Argentine passenger liner Salfa, the Belgian merchant ship Charlesville, the British freighters Montcalm and Stratheden, and the Brazilian freighter Rio Grande. Some were already on the way, having picked up the S O S on their own radios. The R.A.F. at Gibraltar hurriedly organized a flight of rescue planes.
Screams in the Air. At Lajes Air Force Base in the Azores, the U.S.'s 57th Air Rescue Squadron also swung into action. Shortly after the Lakonia's last message was received, four C-54 rescue planes swung out over the Atlantic toward the flaming vessel, 3 hr. 30 min. flying time away. The planes were loaded with 42 life rafts that could carry 600 persons, 400 blankets, food and survival packages, flares of 300,000 candlepower, and six paramedics who could jump into the ocean to help passengers, if necessary.
On board the Lakonia, the nightmare was all too real. With the loudspeaker system not operating, there was near-anarchy on deck. Officers issued contradictory instructions, and crewmen milled around unsure of what to do. Screams filled the air in half a dozen different languages. Unable to comprehend the crew's cries, passengers took charge of small groups and tried to lead them through the thick smoke to their boat stations. Pressed against the rail were scores of passengers in every variety of dress—nightgowns, pajamas, tramp costumes and evening clothes.
"Here You Are, Luv." Tying a rope to his feet, the ship's swimming pool attendant had himself lowered over the side head first, so that he could pull several children through portholes from smoke-filled cabins. Just before going over the side, Susan Redfern opened her pocketbook and gave her husband a gift package. "Here you are, luv," she said. "Merry Christmas." The package contained a handsome pair of gold cuff links.