On April 14, Senate resolution S. 3609 was presented to the House. “Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled,” the resolution read, “that this Act may be cited as the National Aeronautics and Space Act of 1958.” It went on to stipulate that the agency’s focus would be on expanding man’s knowledge of atmospheric phenomena and the space environment as well as improving the usefulness, performance, safety, and efficiency of aircraft. Organizationally, it would be headed by a director, appointed by the president, who would, in turn, be advised by the sixteen-person National Aeronautics and Space Board.
A month later, Lyndon began the hearings of the Senate Special Committee on Space and Astronautics that would turn that bill into law. “I believe,” he said in his opening statement, “it is entirely fair to say that seldom if ever, has a Congress and an administration faced a more challenging task. We are dealing with a dimension—not a force. We are dealing with the unknown—not the known. The challenge of the space age, at the beginning now, is to open a new frontier to permit its use for peace.”
LBJ, with his trademark panache, laid the foundation for a civilian space agency.
* * *
Randy Lovelace knew America had little time to waste in figuring out who America’s new space agency should eventually send into space. As a leading authority in space medicine and an active member in the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale, he had traveled to Russia a number of times over the years and knew just how advanced the Soviets were in their quest to conquer space. It was enough to make him seriously concerned for America’s future. He was thus thrilled at the opportunity to shape America’s future astronaut program as chairman of the Working Group on Human Factors and Training for the Special Committee on Aeronautics.
The eight-man committee met toward the end of April 1958 at the High Speed Flight Station at Edwards Air Force Base in California. Committee member Scott Crossfield, a former NACA test pilot who was now working with North American Aviation on the X-15 rocket plane, had firsthand knowledge of the challenges facing pilots in space. Also on the committee was Dr. Don Flickinger, an air force flight surgeon who was working on the service’s own manned spaceflight program called Man in Space Soonest, a program using blunt capsules like the ones John Glenn had seen at Langley. Tapping into the experiences of its members, the working group determined that pilots would be the best people to make the first flight into space.
* * *
“I have today signed the National Aeronautics and Space Act.” The president read his prepared statement at the White House on July 29, 1958, before gathered politicians and journalists, including Lyndon Johnson. LBJ was proud that his bill had been passed so swiftly and that he’d stayed in the headlines, but he knew the real work in space hadn’t even started. His own presidential ambition, meanwhile, oscillated by the hour; he’d wake up in the morning desperate for the top office only to be repulsed by the idea by lunchtime. Regardless of his next political move, he remained confident that his close affiliation with the space agency would be vital going forward.
The NACA’s successor organization, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, opened its doors two months later on October 1. The eight thousand employees at research centers around the country who went to work that Tuesday morning suddenly found themselves on the forefront of the space age. NACA president Hugh Dryden stayed on as deputy administrator to Ike Eisenhower’s pick of T. Keith Glennan as administrator. The new agency moved into the Dolley Madison House in Washington’s Lafayette Square.
Almost as soon as it opened for business, the Space Task Group with T. Keith Glennan as its chairman began laying out the qualifications for the astronauts NASA would soon hire. Building off the lessons learned from earlier aviation medicine and experimental high-altitude programs, the agency decided to release a public call for “research astronaut-candidates” as part of “Project Astronaut.” Applicants had to be American citizens between the ages of thirty-five and forty by the date their application was filed, be in excellent physical condition, and stand no taller than five feet eleven inches. Candidates were also required to hold a bachelor’s degree in physical, mathematical, biological, medical, psychological sciences or engineering as well as have three years of relevant technical or operational experience. Though astronauts would go through extensive training and the capsule would be largely automated, the announcement read, “he will contribute by monitoring the cabin environment and by making necessary adjustments. He will have continuous displays of his position and attitude and other instrument readings, and will have the capability of operating the reaction controls, and of initiating the descent from orbit…will make research observations that cannot be made by instruments; these include physiological, astronomical and meteorological observations.”
These qualifications were ultimately deemed too broad. The president needed a measure of security in the program and advised that the existing pool of military test pilots was a large enough group from which to select astronauts. Administrator T. Keith Glennan agreed. The qualifications remained the same with the addition that an applicant must have graduated from a test pilot school, have a minimum of 1,500 hours flight time, and be a qualified jet pilot. This made sense for NASA in light of the unknowns of spaceflight. Everything was new, the whole venture an experiment. The closest analogue, really, was military test flying. These pilots possessed the fast thinking and even faster reaction times needed to keep themselves alive in high-risk environments while also serving as the engineers’ eyes and ears in the air. For the foreseeable future, while NASA figured out how to live, work, and fly in space, astronauts would need to play the same role. It was the only way the agency could get off the ground.
Even with these qualifications in place, there were more than a hundred servicemen NASA could test. Since it didn’t need that many astronauts to begin with—a half dozen, maybe—it could be exhaustive in its testing to pick the absolute best men for the job.
Orders marked “Top Secret” made their way to John Glenn’s desk at the Bureau of Aeronautics in Washington asking him to report to the Pentagon for a briefing. He arrived to find a room full of his fellow test pilots and two NASA officials who confirmed the rumors he’d been hearing: NASA was looking for pilots to send into space. It would be a new kind of flying that had never been done. It was a volunteer position, and anyone could reconsider their choice to participate at any time, but everyone in that room met the basic qualifications. John volunteered without hesitation.
There were some 110 elite aviators nationwide who received the same orders as John. Each had more than 1,500 hours of flying time, extensive jet piloting experience, and had graduated from a test pilot school. But they weren’t all as excited about the opportunity as John. Some career military pilots didn’t like the idea of flying with a civilian agency, while others thought the gamble of flying in space risked sidetracking their careers and removed themselves from contention. The pool narrowed to just over eighty-five candidates. Several further screenings followed. The candidate pool was whittled down based on the men’s experience, their motivations, personality, communication skills, and less tangible qualities like dependability and adaptability. The pilots worked through a long series of interviews and exacting technical quizzes. Psychologists probed for odd personalities: anyone too shy or too strident and forceful in their personal ambitions was pushed aside.
Over the course of these preliminary tests, the pool narrowed, and John was deselected. He did not have the required academic degree. The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor midway through his sophomore year, and he’d promptly dropped out of Muskingum College to enlist with the navy. As a career pilot, he’d taken more than enough classes and gained enough experience to make up for the missing degree, but it was still a vital requirement he didn’t have. He tried to convince his alma mater to take his career into consideration and award him the degree, but it refused.
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p; Unbeknownst to John, his commanding officer, Jake Dill, stepped in. Jake took John’s combat and academic records as well as his technical flight reports to NASA and sat down with the selection board to make the case that John was more than qualified. NASA, satisfied with John’s background, made an exception. In spite of his missing qualification, the agency sent him a letter saying that if he was still interested in becoming an astronaut to please present himself at the Lovelace Clinic for physical testing.
Dozens of highly qualified pilots were removed from consideration, and the pool was down to the final thirty-two candidates when John got to the Lovelace Clinic for the final phase of testing: exhausting physical checks. John spent a week in New Mexico submitting to the most detailed medical tests he’d ever experienced before submitting to an equally exhaustive examination into his psyche at the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. Throughout it all, he stayed positive, knowing that any show of displeasure could lead to his disqualification on account of attitude.
The men were ranked, the tiniest variation from the norm affecting their standing. NASA took the top eighteen candidates and winnowed the list to seven, all men with the experience to jump right into NASA’s cutting-edge test flying environment. It was, after all, an extension of the work they’d been doing for years.
John had been back at work for a week when the phone on his desk rang. The voice on the other end belonged to Charles Donlan from NASA.
“Major Glenn, you’ve been through all the tests. Are you still interested in the program?”
“Yes, I am. Very much,” he answered, then held his breath for what he hoped was coming next.
“Well, congratulations. You’ve made it.”
John barely registered the rest of the conversation. All he knew was that he was going to be an astronaut. Hanging up the phone, he noted that it was April 6, his fifteenth wedding anniversary with Annie. He couldn’t help but smile, sure that it was a good omen.
Chapter 15
Oklahoma City, End of 1958
Jerrie had thought that breaking two world records would make it easier to find a flying job, but the opposite was proving true. Her name had become synonymous with Aero Design, the manufacturer behind her record-setting Commanders, and no company was willing to hire a pilot who was so closely linked to its competitor. She finally went to the source of her troubles and met with Tom Harris, Aero Design’s new sales manager working out of its Oklahoma offices.
“Mr. Harris,” Jerrie announced, “I want to set some more records with the Aero Commander. I’d like to go to work for you right now. Today.”
“Miss Cobb, I’d like to have you with us. You’ve shown what you can do with the airplane, and there’s no question about your ability as a pilot. But,”—she knew that but was always the harbinger of bad news—“you’re a luxury we can’t afford.”
A luxury? She didn’t understand what he meant. How could she be a luxury?
“You’d be a luxury because first of all we don’t need another pilot. And second, because this is a man’s industry. Front offices are womanless. And I’m afraid it’s going to continue that way.”
Jerrie had to respect his honesty, but she also wasn’t prepared to let that be the end of the conversation. She returned to his office with dozens of ideas, from speed and distance flights, to a flight around the world from pole to pole, a never-before-done circumnavigation route that would be a record for her while also showing just what an Aero plane could do. Tom killed every one of Jerrie’s suggestions with ifs—if she could get clearances from the nations she’d be landing in, if the manufacturers allowed her to take on a dangerous flight, if she got some assurance from the weather bureau that the temperatures she’d meet were survivable. Every proposal hit an impasse until she came up with something she was sure would win Tom over.
“Mr. Harris, I have an idea.” She was back in his office for yet another meeting toward the end of 1958. “You’re probably planning to have an Aero Commander in the show at Las Vegas.”
Las Vegas was the site of the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale’s First World Congress of Flight, and it was entirely Jackie’s doing in her new capacity as the FAI’s first female president. The five-day-long event of meetings and flight demonstrations showcasing the latest developments in aviation promised to bring together the top people from every corner of the aviation industry, from military to commercial and even the fledgling space world. Delegates were coming from dozens of countries including Spain, Yugoslavia, Holland, Belgium, Portugal, Israel, Austria, and the Soviet Union to attend a handful of FAI subcommittee meetings. Coordinating with Charles Logsdon, the chairman of the FAI’s contest committee who had verified her speed runs in 1953, Jackie arranged for the European officials to fly via Military Air Transport Service from Frankfurt to Las Vegas to make sure everyone arrived on time. For Jackie, the event was her chance to lead the FAI to the cutting edge of space. For Jerrie, it meant she’d have the ideal audience for a record-breaking flight.
“How about letting me try for a world’s speed record there?” She wanted to go for the 2,000-kilometer closed-course record in a twin-engine propeller plane, one currently held by a male Soviet pilot. “You’ll have a captive audience of the top people in aviation.” Jerrie paused, letting Tom think through the prospect of her flight yielding immediate sales.
Tom couldn’t deny this great idea. He hired an elated Jerrie on a four-month contract that would last just long enough to try for the record in Las Vegas in April.
Jerrie wasted no time getting to work, and she quickly found the 2,000-kilometer record one of the hardest flights she’d ever undertaken.
First, she had to figure out her route. The most direct and obvious path distance-wise was flying a there-and-back course between Las Vegas and some point in Canada or Mexico, but Jerrie thought there might be a better way. She studied a half century of weather bureau data and found that strong winds coming off the Pacific Ocean could give her an added speed boost in the air, so she settled on a triangular course. From her starting point at McCarran Field in Las Vegas, she’d fly to Reno, then to San Francisco, where she’d pass over a beacon at Pescadero that would serve as her official checkpoint. From there, she’d turn south toward another beacon at Lindbergh tower in San Diego, her second checkpoint. Then she’d make a straight shot back to McCarran. On paper, it was a perfect route, but in reality, there was one big problem: it meant flying over the atomic proving grounds out in the desert. This wasn’t just restricted airspace, it was prohibited. No plane—not commercial, private, or even military—could fly over the area. Jerrie’s heart sank. If she had to bypass the site, it would kill her time before she even started. Hoping for a miracle, she asked the Atomic Energy Commission for clearance, but the answer was no. She got every person she could think of with enough importance to ask a favor from the Atomic Energy Commission, but still, the answer was no. Another if—if she could get clearance—was standing in her way. Then one day, without warning, the answer changed to “okay.” No one offered an explanation for the change of heart and Jerrie didn’t dare ask questions. She just hopped in the plane and flew right over the proving grounds on a trial run.
The flight was a disaster. Not only did the winds blow opposite from all the weather data she had, but foul weather also forced her down to refuel in San Francisco. She wouldn’t set any nonstop records if she had to land.
Undaunted, she set about preparing her plane as per National Aeronautic Association guidelines. The rules said she needed to be visually identifiable, so she painted “COBB” in four-foot-high dayglow letters on the underside of the fuselage. She also bored a hole in the floor next to the pilot’s seat and installed a tube through which she could fire a Very pistol at every checkpoint; the flare would signal to the judges that it was indeed her flying overhead. Then came the business of lightening the plane. To qualify for her weight class, she and the Aero Design team needed to strip out at least 887 pounds. They removed everything they deemed supe
rfluous, including the heater, every seat except the pilot’s, and all the instruments except a transceiver so she could talk to the checkpoints and the automatic direction finder so she would know what direction she was flying. The only weight they added was ten two-gallon emergency cans of gasoline. Refueling while flying wouldn’t be easy, but it was a better option than landing.
The final piece of the puzzle was organizing the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale representatives to verify the run; teams would be stationed at each checkpoint with Charles Logsdon manning the start and finish lines in Las Vegas.
Finally ready, Jerrie, her stripped-down Commander, and the team from Aero Design set off for Las Vegas before the World Congress of Flight officially started. Jackie was already in town when they arrived, staying in a bungalow in the brand-new Stardust Hotel at the north end of the Strip where she could entertain guests in the evening. Everything was set. In a few days, the weekend would kick off with a press preview.
* * *
Sequestered behind a curtain in the ballroom at NASA’s headquarters on the afternoon of April 9, John Glenn could hear what sounded like a veritable horde of journalists and photographers filling the room. He milled around with six other men, military pilots all slightly self-conscious in civilian suits. The agency’s tall, stoop-shouldered head of public affairs, Walter Bonney, said he’d never seen such an excited crowd.
Just before two o’clock, Walter pulled the curtain back. John was momentarily blinded by the glaring television lights as he walked along a table covered by a blue cloth. He took the seat behind his nameplate as the others did the same, putting them in alphabetical order by surname. On the floor were two models, one of an Atlas rocket and the other of the conical Mercury spacecraft. Behind the table hung a large red, white, and blue NASA insignia.
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