by Sue Nelson
I noticed a grey panel mounted on wood. The words ‘engine control’ are above a number of switches and buttons labelled with names like ‘ready’, ‘start’, ‘engine lox tanks pressurized’ and ‘ignition’. On the left-hand side there’s a key in a slot, and on the right-hand side a worrying big red button. ‘This is the engine control panel for an Atlas rocket,’ explained Tribe. ‘It’s the panel from the block house in complex 36, and it’s the same panel we had for John Glenn’s flight.’
When the building was being torn down, Tribe rescued the panel and used the original schematics to wire it up. ‘The key is the engine ground power, and then as you go through the various engine controls you would arm the system.’
He asked me to push the start button, and when I did there was a crackly recording. ‘That’s John Glenn’s voice.’ Someone else said, ‘Godspeed John Glenn.’ Tribe informed me that this was Scott Carpenter. Then we heard a countdown to the launch.
It was a strange feeling listening to the two men who testified against the Mercury 13 while watching a member of the Mercury 13 through the window walking outside in the garden adjoining the lake with Tribe’s wife.
Tribe eventually moved from Project Mercury to the Apollo programme, and at the end of 1972, when Apollo 17 became the final manned Moon landing mission, he was reassigned to NASA’s new spaceplane – the Space Shuttle. There he met Melinda, another Shuttle engineer who would later become his wife. One of their windows in their home overlooked an outdoor miniature train track and was decorated with colourful stained glass. Naturally, considering their history, the design was of a Space Shuttle.
Women may not always have been visible in the US space programme but, as the book Hidden Figures testified, they had been present in many aspects of the space industry for a long time – from engineers and seamstresses to mathematicians.
As usual, during our drives back to our hotel after a full day of interviews, Wally was on her phone leaving voicemails for friends. Most were upbeat, some were occasional reprimands – ‘You didn’t call’ – and there were plenty of questions and non-stop commentary for me. Whenever we went over a bridge across the Indian River, she assessed the conditions from looking at windsocks, the bending of the trees, or the waves hitting the shoreline.
‘Wind speed ten knots. Twenty knots on the water. How full’s your tank?’
‘Half.’
‘It must be a very economical car. I wonder how many cylinders it’s got. Four or six I guess.’ There was a brief silence as she opened the glove compartment to read the driver’s manual.
‘Do you want to get a tattoo?’
‘No.’
‘I almost had DNR put on my chest. Sometimes I write it on there.’
‘Do not resuscitate?’
‘Yeah. In pen. You know I don’t want any of that stuff, honey.’
I often learned something new – she’d once co-owned a restaurant in Hermosa Beach – or gained an unexpected insight into Wally’s fearless approach to life. Once, while stationary at a red traffic light, she spotted a typical Florida tourist attraction. ‘There’s a gator park,’ she said. ‘I stood on a gator once. You stand on his back and cover his eyes with your fingers. By the way, I’ve not talked to you about my ballooning …’
On one of those evenings, back at the suite after a day’s work, she realised that her diamond-studded airplane brooch, a gift from her beloved dead mother, was no longer pinned on her shirt. It could have been anywhere on the ground thirty miles away in Titusville’s Memorial Park or by the lake near John Tribe’s house, where Wally had gone for a short stroll with his wife. This was assuming no one had pocketed the distinctive brooch, because by now five or six hours had passed since our first stop at the park. Understandably, Wally was distressed. Then I recalled admiring her brooch when we stopped off to eat lunch inside the Moon Light drive-in diner and looked up their phone number.
‘You mustn’t have noticed it wasn’t on straight.’
The diner not only had the brooch, it was already securely locked away in a safe. It was a huge relief for all concerned. As the restaurant was about to close, we arranged to collect it in the morning. It would mean an earlier start, but we could pick it up on the way to Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University up the coast in Daytona Beach. Wally switched back into her normal happy mode, and I celebrated averting a potential drama by opening a nicely chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, for one.
Perhaps because of the potential loss of the brooch from her mother, our discussion over dinner turned to family. Her father’s name was Lozier. I got her to spell it out as I’d never heard that name before. ‘I haven’t either. First time I’ve said it in a bunch of years. Lozier, L-O-Z-I-E-R, Ray Funk, and Mother was Virginia Shy Funk.’
‘Shy? You are the opposite of shy.’
‘Oh no. Shy was the family name.’ We both cackled. ‘No, I’m not shy at all.’
Her father owned several ‘5 and 10’ stores in New Mexico, including one in Taos. ‘Funk’s 5 and 10 on the Plaza. Five and dime. It had everything you would ever want from candy to soda, to linen to toys, to women’s dresses, men’s clothing,’ said Wally. ‘I suppose it would be like a Walmart today because Walmart did put Father out of business.’
Wally was always making pocket money. ‘I brought up rabbits and would take them in front of the store and sell them to the tourists. I’d also take my shoe shine stuff and shine shoes for a dime. Father said, “What are you doing with your nickels and dimes?” I said, “I’m gonna put ’em away.” He taught me how to save and invest.’
He also advised: ‘Don’t ever borrow and never lend. And the same with clothes.’ According to Wally, that was ‘the greatest thing he could ever say to me.’
Her father was born in Indiana in 1897. Before running the shop, he had been a maths teacher. ‘He was quite a bright boy because he owned a car back in the 1920s and 1930s, and most people didn’t have cars back then. He was in the 5 and 10 business when he met Mother. The story went that Father was trimming the shop window. Mother was looking at him and slipped and fell on the sidewalk. He went out and picked her up. This was at the 5 and 10 in Olney, Illinois – that’s where Mother was born and raised. They obviously dated and fell in love and married.’
When Lozier Funk contracted tuberculosis, his doctor suggested a move to a better climate in Taos, New Mexico, to be treated by the doctor’s nephew, another medical professional. Taos was north of Santa Fe, 2120 metres (7,000 feet) above sea level in the high desert, and surrounded by mountains. ‘Father was cured in the high mountains and the pure air.’
The physician’s nephew turned out to be Dr William Randolph Lovelace. The man who treated Wally’s father would later devise the astronaut tests for the Mercury 7 that were also used for the Mercury 13. The man who would push Wally to her physical limits to see if women also had what it took to go into space. It was a fortuitous move on several levels. By relocating to the mountains, Wally was able to grow up, skiing, cycling, running and performing all sorts of other sports at high altitude. She was in no doubt that it was these experiences that had made her physically strong enough to make the grade.
The 5 and 10 in Taos was particularly popular with artists, since it sold brushes made from squirrel hair, and her parents enjoyed company. ‘They ENTERTAINED a lot,’ she said. ‘Mother had beautiful china – Limoges crystal from Europe and jewellery made by Indians with turquoise that you can’t find today.’
Wally’s memories are of a happy childhood filtered through the unconditional love of her parents. She had one brother, nine years older, who later entered the military. This surprised me, as she had the self-possession of an only child. ‘I grew up feeling like an only child,’ she said.
‘At two, Daddy said I was very investigative. I was always curious as to how things were wrapped up. Mother had a picture of me trying to figure out how to open one of Daddy’s packages at the store. Then later I saw Father shaving one time and, when he left the razor,
I got up on a stool. Mother said, “What are you doing?” And I said, “I’m shaving like Daddy.”’
Considering the razor in those days was of the open cut-throat variety, Wally’s mother responded calmly: ‘You don’t want to do that right now.’ Voices were never raised.
‘Never was I ever put down. Never: “You can’t do that”. “No” was not a part of it.’
Never being told no must have played a formative part in shaping Wally’s character. It could have made her spoilt or precious. Instead, it gave her unlimited confidence in her own abilities. For someone so keen to try out new experiences, this was a tremendous asset. She viewed the world – as she still does now – as a place with limitless potential. Her parents, unlike many others in the 1940s and 1950s, did nothing to prevent their only daughter from learning to shoot or hunt or run or ski. They imposed no limits on her aspirations. Wally grew up thinking she could do anything.
In Taos Wally ran to school and back, morning and afternoon. ‘Mother would say, “Honey, you make sure that when you have to go to the bathroom you do it at home. You don’t do it at school.”’
I was confused. ‘Mother said it was not clean.’ Her voice became almost inaudible. ‘She said, “You’re with the Spanish and other people.”’ Wally sounded apologetic for her mother’s views. ‘So I always ran home after school to the bathroom. To this day I put toilet paper on the john because that’s the way I was taught.’ She laughed. ‘Do you?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t put toilet paper down?’
‘No!’
‘Do you sit?’
‘Yes.’
‘All those germs on your bottom?’
‘I have a shower every day.’ She didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘You need a certain amount of germs to survive.’
‘Well, I don’t think I have those.’
A slice of bread I was cutting shot off the table. I picked it up from the floor and put it back on my plate. ‘You never saw that,’ I said. Wally nodded in collusion. My germs were just fine.
There was only one occasion when her Mother’s poise faltered. ‘At four, Daddy was bringing me balsa wood to make planes. I was given a razor blade and everything you’d need to cut out the balsa wood to make the ribs, wings, fuselage, and glue to put everything together. I put the wings on the fuselage and then realised you had to put tissue paper over the fuselage so that I could eventually paint it. I got the tissue paper around the wings, and glued it but it wasn’t taut enough. I needed something to spray on it and I had watched Mother spray herself with her perfume. So I dumped out all of her perfume, which was quite expensive, put water in it and sprayed the wings and it came out perfect. That’s the only time she said: “You shouldn’t have done that. This was expensive perfume. Ask before you use my stuff.”’
What did you say? ‘Okay ma’am.’ She then informed me, as if this had been the purpose of the story: ‘You dope it. You don’t use that word anymore.’
She was right. I had to look it up. At the early part of the last century, ‘dope’ meant adding varnish to the cloth surface of airplane parts to make them taut. Wally described herself as a ‘happy-go-lucky kid’. She had a palomino horse called Victor and often wore a Wild West costume. She was jokingly called the Taos Kid. ‘Mother said, when I had Victor, “If you fall off your horse or your bike, you lick your wounds. Don’t come back running home crying.”’
I found that a little harsh, but not Wally. ‘They taught me to look after myself!’
Were her parents proud of what she did with the Mercury 13? ‘I guess they were, but they never really told me about it,’ she said. ‘The hugs and things were all there. But there were times that I was doing very well but they weren’t there.’
Wally also related an often-repeated story about being given a superman cape for her fourth birthday. ‘I got out on the barn with some hay down below and …’, her voice became sing-song, ‘… jumped off the barn trying to fly. You’ve heard that story many times. I did it again and thought, oh, it’s because my nose didn’t have a propeller. And then it wasn’t until later that I learnt you had to have lift. I had no lift off my wings. But I would be making all these wonderful planes and, to this day, after I went to college, I never saw another one. They must have got destroyed. I don’t know why they got destroyed or where they went. I hope they went to some kid because I made hundreds of them.’
Wally didn’t finish high school. ‘I went to Stephens at fifteen.’ This was in 1954. ‘It’s a girls’ college in Columbia, Missouri. I was not doing very well at school, so my parents sent me there.’
At first glance, Stephens College was not a natural fit for a tomboy. Founded in 1833, the second-oldest girls’ college in the United States turned out well-dressed young ladies with a view, some critics have said, to producing acceptable wife material. Parents and family friends were even interviewed ‘to see what kind of a girl you were’ before acceptance into the school.
‘Mother had to get me all new Neiman Marcus clothes, all dresses. Including one fancy white one for church on Sundays.’ Since it was around 800 miles away, Wally boarded ‘the Stephens Susies train’ at Lamy, New Mexico with her trunk.
It sounded like something out of Harry Potter, but it was the name given to the train that went to Columbia, Missouri. ‘Before my time the College president could never remember the girls’ names. Susie, would you get this for me. Susie, would you take care of that situation over there. They were all Susies. So we were the Stephens Susies.’
When she arrived at Stephens it was a complete culture shock for a girl used to wearing chaps, riding a horse and shooting her gun. ‘The girls had long fingernails, and their fingernails were coloured.’ Before that, the only person Wally had ever seen with painted nails was her mother. ‘The girls had long hair and I had a short haircut. I was dressed well but I didn’t fit. I didn’t fit IN.’ She almost shouted the last word.
‘I wasn’t sure I was going to like it. I unpacked my clothes and my trunk – you had to have sheets, washcloth, linen. About the second day I called home and said, “I don’t know if this is the right place for me.” And Mother said: “Why don’t you just stick it out for about a week and you can come home when you want to.” Brilliant. As I got to know people I enjoyed it more because I’ve always been out there … What’s the word I want to use?’
‘Gregarious?’
‘Yeah. But you see these older girls kinda overtook me. Their make-up, their dresses, their fingernails. Some of them had little drinks. They were all frou-frou. I don’t like frou-frou. I loved going to the gym. But I got into my courses and started getting along with people and met other people who weren’t as frou-frou. I called Mother and said, “I think it’s gonna be okay.” I was meeting more people that were interested in things that I did as a kid. I was a tomboy. I did mostly sports, and what’s funny is the sports we did then were basketball and baseball. I did some skating. Skiing I was good at because I was going to go to the Olympics. I had no fears. I’d do anything. I wasn’t going to break anything. I had a lot of confidence in myself. The spirit of the Taos Mountain …’
About six months after arriving at Stephens, Dr Bates, Wally’s advisor, called her parents. He informed them that their daughter was not doing as well as she could in her class work. Wally’s mother asked him if they had an airport. In the 1940s, Stephens College had started an aviation programme based nearby in Columbia Municipal Airport. Wally’s mother told him to get her daughter out there, and Wally started flying. All those years of studying how aircraft fly, making balsa wood planes and hanging them from her bedroom ceiling became a reality.
‘Did your grades improve?’
‘I don’t remember because I was either at the gym or the airport.’
I took that as a no. But there was another unexpected bonus to flying for Wally. ‘I could wear pants! Every night you had to have heels, hose and dress. In school, frou-frou stuff and a skirt. If I was going flyi
ng I could wear pants. Not Levis but pants.’
In the time I’d known Wally, she’d always worn trousers. Did she ever wear a skirt? Wally was indignant. ‘Of course. I have skirts in my closet now, but I can’t wear them as I don’t have the heels. Oh yeah. Mother always had me decked out. I had multiple dresses, honey, and heels, hose that I had to wear. It just wasn’t my thing, and they understood it. Anyway, I got through. I didn’t have the best grades, but you know what? I had more fun with my flying instructors, and I was very ANIMATED. I didn’t know much. Daddy helped me with my math. Mother helped me with my spelling which, to this day, is bad.’ More laughter. ‘Anyway, I’m flying, flying, flying thanks to my father for letting me do this.’
Did she date? ‘No. Just flying. Got my license at Stephens. Graduated on my second year. Mother wanted to give me a coming-out party in New York. I said no. I’d rather be out shooting my gun.’
Calamity Jane, eat your heart out.
During her time at Stephens College, Wally flew for the Stephens Susies flight team. ‘My last year I was super qualified to go to NIFA [National Intercollegiate Flying Association] air meets in the United States. I’d have a co-pilot and she would navigate and I’d fly the airplane. We’d come home and I’d have done very well. One time we won. That was about the time I graduated in 1958 and saw what Oklahoma State University had done. They had won EVERYTHING.’
Armed with her private pilot’s license, Wally knew exactly where she wanted to go next: Oklahoma State University (OSU) in Stillwater, Oklahoma. Although it was not what her parents had planned, Wally was there for one reason only: its aviation club.
OSU had a student flying team renowned for winning. They were called the Flying Aggies. ‘I had a ball. Got the rest of my flight ratings. It was a big, big part of my life.’
