Chasing the Moon

by Robert Stone

  Gemini was first and foremost a necessary transition to Apollo, which wouldn’t be ready to fly until late 1966 at the earliest. The two-man missions would give the astronauts and engineers an opportunity to test and refine equipment and procedures that would be needed later when voyaging to the Moon. These included learning how to navigate, approach, and rendezvous with another vehicle; physically dock with a second craft; experience the effects of long-duration missions of up to two weeks; and venture outside the spacecraft and learn how to work in that environment.

  Ten Gemini Titan missions with two astronauts aboard were launched from Cape Kennedy between March 1965 and November 1966. The Gemini program accomplished the necessary milestones before astronauts could be sent to the Moon, including completing successful long-duration flights, rendezvousing and docking with other vehicles in orbit, and mastering an ability to maneuver and work outside the spacecraft.

  In conjunction with NASA’s public outreach, James Webb believed, Gemini would serve as a persuasive strategy to sustain public and congressional support for NASA and the lunar program. With each successive mission, the astronauts would demonstrate a progressive sequence of acquired skills and accomplishments, somewhat akin to an episodic adventure narrative with new installments every three or four months. And nothing was more important when telling the story of Gemini to the world than the photographs brought back from space. The spectacular color images shot during the Gemini missions were like nothing that had been seen on any previous flight, and their reproduction in the pages of magazines, newspapers, and on television visually charted the nation’s rapid and dramatic extraterrestrial progress.

  After the United States’s last Mercury flight, in spring 1963, the Soviet Union executed some hastily improvised space missions intended to capture world attention with their novelty, including the first woman in space. Just a few days prior to the first scheduled crewed Gemini flight in early 1965, the Soviets did it again by broadcasting television pictures of the first person to walk in space. Cosmonauts Alexei Leonov and Pavel Belyayev were launched in a Voskhod spacecraft, a modified Vostok reconfigured to hold two men. Less than two hours into the mission, Leonov entered an airlock and proceeded to perform a twelve-minute spacewalk outside the spacecraft. Russia later released a color motion-picture film of Leonov floating away from a mounted camera fixed to the Voskhod, with central Asia shrouded in clouds one hundred miles below. On the brow of Leonov’s space helmet were large red letters reading CCCP, leaving no doubt of the nationality of the world’s first spacewalker. The film implied Leonov’s feat had been easily accomplished. But the cosmonaut’s experience was anything but smooth. The vacuum of space caused his pressure suit to inflate and stiffen, so severely limiting his mobility that he had difficulty maneuvering himself back into the Voskhod. Only by gradually purging oxygen to depressurize his suit did he manage to force his way back through the airlock.

  The Soviet Union had no need to accomplish the first spacewalk when it did, other than to snatch propaganda headlines before the United States. A week after Leonov surprised the world, NASA launched Gemini 3. It was America’s first piloted flight in nearly two years, but in comparison to Voskhod 2, it was anticlimactic. The Soviets had already orbited three men in the cramped Voskhod 1 the previous fall, so when Gus Grissom and John Young completed three orbits in Gemini 3, there was little to suggest the United States wasn’t lagging behind once again, despite Lyndon Johnson’s confident words following Ranger 7’s lunar mission the previous year.

  But less than three months later, everything changed. Gemini 4’s four-day mission came close to meeting the Soviet endurance record set in 1963. It also attempted the first rendezvous of two vehicles in space, as command pilot James McDivitt tried to move closer to the second stage of the Titan II missile that had placed it in orbit. (Attempting an actual physical docking would wait until a later Gemini flight.) The exercise soon revealed that maneuvering a piloted craft closer to another object in space was far more difficult than had been imagined and that to do it successfully would require not only radar—which Gemini 4 did not have—but additional training so the astronauts could accurately calculate the speed and distance differentials between the individual orbits of the two vehicles. Gemini 4 sighted the upper stage of the Titan, but when it tried to move closer, the two objects actually moved farther apart due to their differing orbital velocities.

  More significantly, Gemini 4 is remembered for a second event, which also took place on the mission’s first day: the dramatic spacewalk executed by pilot Edward White. White was originally scheduled to merely open his hatch and stand up in the cockpit as a test of the external suit and life-support system. But a review of the Soviet film of Leonov’s feat encouraged planners at Houston’s Manned Spacecraft Center to add a full spacewalk to Gemini 4’s flight plan, less than a month before its June launch date.

  The person assigned to carry out the American space program’s first extravehicular activity—or EVA, as this and all future excursions outside a spacecraft became known—was ideally chosen for the task. White was the “astronaut’s astronaut,” an archetype who inspired not competitive envy but near reverence; he was an exemplar who reminded others of their aspirations. The son of an Air Force major general, White was renowned among his peers for his physical strength and athleticism; at West Point he almost qualified for the Olympic track team. Novelist James Salter knew White when both served as Air Force pilots in West Germany during the mid-1950s. He described White as “a man who could be relied upon—in every way” and someone whose handsome presence convinced those around him that they were “intimate with greatness.” Salter had no doubt that White would leave his mark on history.

  Ed White stepped out of the Gemini spacecraft while it was speeding at 17,500 miles per hour over the Pacific Ocean, as the West Coast of North America came into view. Anchored to the Gemini by a twenty-five-foot gold-plated tether, White attempted to maneuver with a small handheld gun that shot spurts of pressurized oxygen as a propellant. But within a very few minutes its fuel was exhausted.

  The lasting impact of Ed White’s spacewalk was solidified by his complete exuberance during the experience: He floated and whirled around the Gemini spacecraft as the Earth passed below. White was outside twice as long as Leonov had been, and it began to look as though he didn’t want to come inside. The available sunlight was rapidly dwindling as he struggled back into his couch, remarking, “It’s the saddest moment of my life.” Journalists were fascinated by White’s giddy joy, and some asked NASA physicians whether he may have been experiencing “space intoxication.” In fact, his return to Gemini had taken longer than planned because he discovered that moving his body into the proper position to get inside was more difficult to execute than anyone had predicted.

  Much of the back-and-forth conversation between McDivitt, White, and capsule communicator (capcom) astronaut Gus Grissom during the EVA concerned making sure the event was captured on film. White had mounted a time-lapse 16mm film camera on the spacecraft and had a small still camera attached to his handheld maneuvering unit. Inside the spacecraft, McDivitt operated a 70mm Hasselblad camera, shooting images whenever White floated into the view afforded by the command pilot’s small hatch window. “Take some pictures!” Grissom reminded them. White shot a small number of photos as he drifted, but none of them conveyed any sense of what he was experiencing. In contrast, McDivitt’s pictures taken through his tiny window were a revelation. They became iconic images that paid invaluable dividends and are among the most reproduced photographs of the American space program.

  The photos and film of Ed White floating in space were a record of an extraordinary achievement but also an eerie reminder of the fragility of a human body suspended in the harsh environment of space. White appeared at ease while hurtling hundreds of miles an hour above the Earth, enclosed in his fragile personal spacecraft. Despite the fact that his face was obscured
by a reflective gold visor, the photographs left no doubt this was an American spaceman: In almost every photograph, an American flag is prominently displayed on the upper left shoulder of his space suit, a deliberate counterpart to the CCCP on Leonov’s helmet. Gemini 4 was the first time an American space suit displayed the flag. Henceforth it was worn on all U.S. space missions.

  White’s exuberance in space was nearly matched by Lyndon Johnson’s elation with Gemini 4’s success. He was particularly excited by how the news was being received in Europe and shared reports of enthralled audiences at the Paris Air Show queuing up to see screenings of newly released films of the spacewalk. He also invited the astronauts and their families for an overnight visit at the White House. Honoring them at the reception, Johnson referred to McDivitt and White as “the Christopher Columbuses of the twentieth century.” In her diary, First Lady Lady Bird Johnson wrote that her husband was subtly shifting the rhetoric of the space race away from talk of a global battle for survival to one of peaceful exploration: “Men who have worked together to reach the stars are not likely to descend together into the depths of war and desolation,” she wrote. It was far better that brave pilots ride “together in a spaceship to a new adventure, to discover a new world, than shoot down each other’s planes [in Vietnam] as we had to last night.”

  NASA’s own publications echoed Johnson’s shift in tone. On the front cover of A Guide to Careers in Aero-Space Technology, widely distributed to secondary schools and colleges in the mid-1960s, the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria were shown in the blackness of space, accompanied with the words: “NASA 20th Century Explorer…into the sea of space.” The Soviet challenge had not disappeared, but NASA and the journalists covering Apollo now defined the quest to the Moon as a manifestation of national will, the fulfillment of Kennedy’s aspirational challenge, and an exploration to expand knowledge about the universe.

  The national attention given Gemini 4 also provided an opportunity to highlight Webb’s personal vision of NASA in its role as a catalyst for science education. Before being honored at the White House, McDivitt and White were feted in Ann Arbor, where they attended the dedication of the new Space Research Building at the University of Michigan. That year alone, the University of Michigan received more than 6 million dollars in NASA funding for space-related research, just one of hundreds of similar educational programs that the space agency was funding around the country. By the mid-1960s, NASA was distributing more than 50 million dollars a year to state universities for research grants and contracts. Webb intended to use the space agency’s money to strengthen the academic standing of state schools that had difficulty competing for top academic talent against better-endowed prestige schools. Disbursing these state-university grants throughout the country also ensured sustained support in Congress whenever NASA’s budget came up for a vote.

  The NASA educational program was beginning to flourish just as Lyndon Johnson’s relationship with the academic community was becoming strained. Ironically, the first anti-war “teach-in” about the Vietnam War occurred on the Ann Arbor campus a few weeks before the Space Research Building dedication; classes had been canceled and two hundred faculty members took part in a series of seminars about the colonial history in Southeast Asia and America’s involvement there. Johnson was particularly peeved that his foreign policy had come under academic criticism; he had assumed the educational community shared his ideals and was among his strongest allies. But the continued campus protests against his foreign policy undermined Webb’s university program, which was still too new to have evidenced the promise he had envisioned. On one occasion when fuming about his critics, Johnson complained to Webb about the “little bastards” on the campuses and demanded that Webb stop allocating NASA money to support his educational initiative. As NASA suffered continued budget cuts triggered by increased spending for the war in Southeast Asia, the university subsidies became a line item Webb was reluctantly forced to reduce.

  Despite their similar and near-simultaneous political educations in Washington during the early FDR years and their shared conviction that effective big government could constructively effect social change and improve lives, Webb and Johnson were never close personally. Perhaps their temperaments were too much alike, each wanting to maintain control. Nevertheless, they worked well together, keeping out of each other’s way when necessary. As the war escalated, Johnson repeatedly apologized to Webb about the sacrifices to NASA’s budget, promising him that once the conflict was over, NASA would see a brighter future.

  When Johnson needed his help on Capitol Hill, Webb proved a valuable White House ally, particularly when the president was looking for Southern Democratic votes to pass the Civil Rights Act and the Voting Rights Act. With so many NASA branches located in Southern states—especially after the addition of new facilities in Louisiana and Mississippi in the early 1960s—Webb was responsible for a lot of jobs below the Mason–Dixon Line. Johnson called on him as NASA administrator to exert pressure on many of the segregationist congressmen. Much of this was framed in the form of a quid pro quo gentleman’s agreement that assured a continued influx of NASA dollars to their states. Seeing that the Southern NASA centers complied with the new federal equal-employment statutes was even more fraught, especially as the civil rights movement gained ground during the 1960s. Attorney General Robert Kennedy unleashed his fury on Webb and Johnson concerning NASA’s poor record for equal-opportunity hiring in 1963, and the problem continued to plague the space agency for the remainder of the decade, though it seldom received national attention.

  Additional complications arose whenever a powerful NASA-friendly politician or organization in the South attempted to use the allure of the space program to attract attention to a segregationist event or promote their agenda. NASA received a constant stream of requests for astronaut public appearances. As part of their official duties, they were expected to spend a few weeks every year bolstering public support for the space program. In accordance with the new civil rights legislation, Webb enacted strict guidelines prohibiting NASA representatives from participating with organizations that had membership restrictions.

  Webb found himself in one such sticky situation when Mississippi’s powerful senator John Stennis, a staunch supporter of the space program as well as a fierce segregationist, asked NASA’s administrator to deliver a speech in Jackson. Only hours before he was to appear at the event in the state capital, Webb learned that the venue was a segregated Chamber of Commerce celebration where the governor was to promote a slate of politicians elected on a racist platform. The Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee was preparing a massive protest against the event, while the local deputies were preparing to bring out police dogs and use violence against the demonstrators. Webb felt duty bound to honor his promise to Stennis, but he realized it would be a PR disaster if he did so. Shortly before the event was scheduled to take place, he called Stennis and told him that he would not appear. But he attempted to let the senator save face by giving him full permission to personally blame Webb for the embarrassing situation and telling him he could assign any motives he wished for Webb’s failure to show up.

  Webb was far better prepared some months later when Alabama’s governor George Wallace tried to boost his national profile by inviting a contingent of journalists and state legislators on a tour of von Braun’s Marshall Space Flight Center. Weeks earlier Webb had publicly criticized Wallace’s segregationist policies as “backward” for Alabama. Privately, Webb regarded Wallace as a ruthless and dangerous demagogue. Concerned that Wallace intended to use NASA’s recent successes in space to burnish his national profile, Webb and von Braun decided to undercut Wallace’s grandstanding. They did this by first upstaging Wallace with an event that was literally earthshaking: a long-duration static test firing of an F-1 Saturn V engine. When the engine ignited, a massive plume of smoke shot away from the test stand, and there was a roar that rose to a continuous and deafening
wall of sound. Those watching from the observation area were buffeted by a concussive wave of air pressure so forceful that it rippled their clothing and the men could feel the heat from the engine forced up their pant legs. This was the longest sustained test of the engine ever attempted, and after it had concluded, all present were somewhat shaken by the sheer power of what they had witnessed.

  From the test area the guests were then escorted to the Marshall visitors’ center, where both Webb and von Braun used the opportunity to explain to the press and the legislators why they believed the governor’s segregationist policies would hinder future industrial expansion in Alabama. In his speech, von Braun even pointedly alluded to Alabama’s racial history, by saying the dawning age of space technology would “belong to those who can shed the shackles of the past.” Henceforth, Wallace avoided antagonizing the citizens of Huntsville, choosing other locations in the state to deliver his fiery rhetoric.

  The segregationist policies of Alabama’s governor George Wallace prompted NASA to consider relocating their Marshall Space Flight Center from Huntsville to another state. During a Marshall press event where the power of the new Saturn V engine was demonstrated, Wernher von Braun (center) and NASA administrator James Webb (right) confronted Wallace (left) as representing the dangerously regressive ideas of the past.

  The national attention accorded von Braun’s speech prompted new focus on him as one of the nation’s more unlikely civil rights advocates. Von Braun had recently appeared onscreen in an internal NASA film outlining the importance of compliance with the Civil Rights Act. He had urged Huntsville merchants to integrate the city’s hotels and restaurants, explaining that their Jim Crow policies were harming local businesses because commercial aerospace contractors were unable to book rooms in the city. In a profile published shortly after the incident with Governor Wallace, The New York Times named von Braun “one of the most outspoken spokesmen for racial moderation in the South” and noted how Marshall was having difficulty attracting job candidates to Alabama in the wake of the negative press coverage about recent civil rights incidents in Birmingham and Selma. There was even a hint that NASA might be forced to close and relocate the Marshall Space Flight Center if the situation did not significantly improve.