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The first of the three, RMS Olympic, was launched with much fanfare in 1911. Her $7.2 million price tag alone (nearly one-third of a billion today) was staggering. She quickly set the bar for sumptuousness at sea that stood until RMS Titanic was christened the following year.

For six days in April 1912, the Titanic cruised on her maiden voyage, sailing straight into disaster and legend. Nearly 115 years later, fascination with her short, sad life shows no signs of abating.

Which brings us to her kid sister.

RMS Britannic was supposed to be the grand finale, the best of the bunch, the ship that would add an exclamation point to White Staròòò½ÊÓƵ™s dominance of the waves. It didnòòò½ÊÓƵ™t turn out that way.

For starters, some believe the ship was initially supposed to have been named Gigantic. (Which makes sense, since Olympic, Titanic and Gigantic all evoke visions of gargantuan scale). However, Titanicòòò½ÊÓƵ™s untimely demise is thought to have led the builders to switch to the more patriotic-sounding (at least to English travelers) Britannic.

Her completion was delayed by several modifications made after the Titanic tragedy. Britannic was finally launched in February 1914 and was still being fitted out in August when World War I started. Britainòòò½ÊÓƵ™s Admiralty quickly pressed private ships into government service. Although owners were paid handsomely for the wartime loan of the vessels, the risk of losing them was high. But what choice did they have?

Before Britannic ever got a chance to make the trans-Atlantic journey she was designed for, she was initially considered as a troop transport. However, she was soon needed for more urgent service.

In 1915, Britain launched the disastrous Gallipoli campaign. Largely the brainchild of Winston Churchill, it was intended to seize the European part of the Ottoman Empire, Germanyòòò½ÊÓƵ™s partner and modern-day Turkey. Instead, it was a bloody failure that left nearly 80,000 British soldiers injured and sick. (Not counting the 31,000 killed.)

So, Britannic was turned into a humongous hospital ship. Her immense size made her ideal for the unhappy task of caring for thousands of injured and ailing soldiers. Her owners were given four weeks to overhaul her to specifications for her new duties and repaint her with large red crosses to indicate her humanitarian mission.

Inside, 3,309 beds, plus several operating rooms, were installed.

Her first voyage in her new role in late December 1915 went well. Two more followed. When the Admiralty called her up again in August 1916, it was all downhill from there.

Her fourth voyage involved battling an especially vicious storm. Her fifth voyage had the entire crew quartered, battling a nasty food-borne illness.

Her sixth voyage to the Mediterranean began on Nov. 12. She was sidelined at Naples by bad weather. When the clouds broke, her captain decided to make a run for it. By the morning of Nov. 21, she was sailing at full speed with 1,066 people on board.

And then it happened.

At 8:12 a.m., she was rocked by a terrific explosion. Britannic had hit a powerful mine. The blast on the starboard side severely damaged a watertight compartment; four watertight bulkheads were soon rapidly filling up. Britannic, like her older sister, was doomed.

This time, the majority of people were safely evacuated in 35 lifeboats. Thirty lives were lost, a far cry from the 1,517 who perished onboard the Titanic four years earlier.

However, Britannic went to the bottom much faster, sinking in only 55 minutes, compared to the 2 hours and 40 minutes it took Titanic to go under.

Britannic was the largest ship sunk during World War I. Famed oceanographer Jacques Cousteau discovered the wreck in 1975.

She rests on the Mediterraneanòòò½ÊÓƵ™s floor today on her side, largely forgotten in a world still obsessed by the legacy of her more famous, but no less ill-fated, big sister. Together, they are twin reminders of the adage that bigger doesnòòò½ÊÓƵ™t always mean better.