by Jay Barbree
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For Jo
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Foreword
Introduction
1. A Wing and a Prayer
2. Test Flight, High Desert, and a Satellite or Three
3. Those Who Would Ride Rockets
4. The Moon Is Calling
5. Pasadena Overshoot
6. Training Days
7. Home Fire
8. The Gemini Twins Are Flying
9. Gemini 8
10. Gemini 8: The Docking
11. Gemini 8: The Emergency
12. Tragedies Ground Spaceflight
13. How to Land on the Moon
14. Hello Moon
15. The Misfits
16. Rehearsal Finals
17. The Launch
18. Outbound
19. The Landing
20. Moonwalk
21. The Return
22. Back Home
23. An American Tragedy
24. Space Shuttle and Beyond
25. Then, Now, and Tomorrow
Acknowledgments
Index
About the Author
Also by Jay Barbree
Copyright
FOREWORD
Neil Armstrong was an aviator. He flew everything heavier-than-air—even gliders. He never boasted, never lobbied to be the first to walk on the moon, yet it would be difficult to find another who achieved as much in a lifetime.
Once when we were talking about his first step on the lunar surface, I told Neil that I was not normally a jealous person, but for him I would make an exception.
He was never comfortable with fame, hated talking about himself, so how do you write a book about Neil Armstrong’s life of flight?
It helps if you are Jay Barbree, a friend and a pilot.
Barbree covered every one of our spaceflights for the NBC networks, all 166, and Neil wrote, “Jay Barbree is one of the world’s most experienced space journalists devoted to getting it right, and he does.”
This is the story of Neil Armstrong from the time he flew combat missions in the Korean War, flew a rocket plane called the X-15 to the edge of space, saved his Gemini 8 by flying the first emergency return from Earth orbit, and then flew Apollo 11 to the moon’s Sea of Tranquility. There he made the first footprints on someplace other than Earth.
If you turn the page, I think you will be pleased.
—John Glenn
INTRODUCTION
There was a time when Neil Armstrong was the most well-known person in the world. But despite the notoriety, he never used his fame for personal gain. As Brian Williams reported, Neil could have easily owned a chain of moon burger joints. He could have challenged the wealth of a Donald Trump. Instead he remained a private person until he died.
For someone who never considered himself special, everyone else did. The world praised him in all languages, every radio and television spoke his name, and newspapers and magazines everywhere heralded stories about his accomplishments.
In a quiet, critical way the fame annoyed Neil. He considered most of the stories were from the outside looking in. He very much wanted stories written from the inside, giving credit due others. He wanted not a book about himself, but a book about all flyers and astronauts—an interesting, moving, entertaining factual book about those who flew from decks pitching at sea, from runways hacked through jungles, from desert strips, and from snow-laden mountain slopes; those who rode rockets from launchpads to live on orbiting outposts; those who rode spacecraft to the moon and always found their way back. These were the people who punched holes in the sky, raced moonward, and Neil was convinced any one of them could have flown the same flights he did.
He regarded Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff a great yarn and good filmmaking, but terrible history: the wrong people working on the wrong projects at the wrong times, a project that bore no resemblance whatever to what was actually going on. Neil said, “What else could you expect written by one who never got closer to spaceflight than a Manhattan penthouse?”
For a half-century, Neil Armstrong lived flight and space travel, and he and I talked about writing a book from the inside. But every time we got close Neil found he was not comfortable writing about himself. He could in no way brag his accomplishments were greater than others and finally, he told me, “Jay you write it. You’re a pilot. You’re one of us.”
There are only a couple of things I truly know. First, as a pilot I couldn’t carry Neil Armstrong’s lunch box. Second, I was never going to find a way to drag Neil to a keyboard to write about Neil because he simply marched to his own drummer. He wasn’t much for rubbing elbows. He was quiet without being shy with a well thought out fairness in his sense of humor and his brand of justice. By some people’s measurements he was a recluse.
Over the years Neil and I did write together. Not about his notable deeds, but rather about most anything that did not praise Neil Armstrong.
He wrote the introduction to Moon Shot—the New York Times bestseller by Alan Shepard, Deke Slayton, and myself—and when he accepted invites before Congress to talk about the state of our space program he often asked for my input.
When Neil; Jim Lovell of Apollo 13 fame; and Gene Cernan, last to walk on the moon, wrote an op-ed on what they felt should be the future of America’s space program we reported their op-ed on Brian Williams’s NBC Nightly News.
One of Neil’s last projects was writing with me a five-story series called Space in the 20Teens. Five weeks after we finished the project, Neil Armstrong died at the age of 82.
In 2008, NBC News gave me a dinner for 50 years of service and Neil surprised everyone. The quiet man came.
Neil was the keynoter, and following the dinner we pulled up seats at the bar of one of our favorite watering holes from the past, and Neil confessed all the things NASA did to mislead the media during history’s first walk on the moon. He and I closed the bar. I wrote the story and was instantly pleased it was read by more than two million.
Neil Armstrong’s propensity for getting things right makes it essential we do our best to accurately chronicle this American icon’s exciting life of flight.
I first met Neil in 1962, and I’ve researched every detail of his record-breaking years. I asked, and Neil and those who flew with him answered.
Left to right: Jo Barbree, Jay Barbree, and Neil Armstrong enjoy dinner with America’s first in orbit, John Glenn, who is performing standup comedy out of the picture. (Courtesy of the author)
Neil’s words in this book are direct quotes by me and others I know to be trustworthy. They are from years of personal e-mails, recorded interviews, 51 years of this reporter’s notes and files—a voice history as Neil told two NASA historians and transcripts of every word he spoke in space and on the moon.
The primary engine driving this book is accuracy: that’s how Neil lived his life. But I will not report to you a single word he told me in confidence. At times I will put myself in Neil’s shoes to re-create his thoughts just as he conveyed them to me, and just as important, I shall write more in this book about Neil Armstrong than he would have liked.
Panthers launch for attack on North Korean targets. (U.S. Navy)
ONE
A WING AND A PRAYER
At daybreak, pilots came onto the deck of the a
ircraft carrier Essex. Bundled like schoolchildren on a snow day, they waddled to their jet fighters. One of the first to climb aboard was a young ensign named Neil Armstrong.
His plane’s captain helped Neil into the cockpit—helped him connect his shoulder and lap straps, double-checked his parachute harness, and rechecked his oxygen mask. Last, he made sure Neil’s life raft and radio were ready to go.
Suddenly, flight deck speakers blared, “Prepare to launch aircraft!”
The date was September 3, 1951.
Armstrong had turned 21 only four weeks earlier, but despite his age he was suited and ready to fly his seventh combat mission.
“Move jet into position for launching!”
The deck crew inched his Panther onto its catapult, and Neil reminded himself that his first few “hot catapult” launches had taken faith. There was a degree of uncertainty. If for one reason or another the catapult produced a weak shot, he and his Panther could end up in the water. He instinctively rechecked his harnesses and lap belt before resting a gloved hand on the jet’s control stick. His other hand rested on the throttle. He was ready to increase his Panther’s power plant to maximum thrust.
“Launch jet!”
Neil felt himself go rigid. He saw the launch officer whirl one finger above his head and he increased his jet’s thrust to an unbearable roar and waited—waited until the launch officer whirled two fingers then moved instantly to maximum thrust.
The white heat scorched everything nearby and the launch officer’s right hand shot downward. The catapult fired.
Neil felt his weight double. His facial skin stretched from the powerful acceleration. His lips lengthened. His eyes and body slammed against his seat. Eight tons of jet and pilot were swept down the catapult track, and within one blink of his eyes—less than the length of a football field—Neil’s Panther climbed from its carrier’s deck. Acceleration held him prisoner as one jet fighter and its pilot reached for sky.
Minutes would pass before Neil Armstrong would fly high enough and fast enough to become part of the soul-lifting beauty of quiet flight. It was the perfect escape—streaking ahead so fast that the overwhelming whine of his jet never caught up. It was necessary to capture the moment—to enjoy the single last morsel of time wherein a fighter pilot could relax before sending his 500 pounders under his wings and his 20mm shells from his guns speeding toward their targets.
Neil was aware it was his final moment of sanctuary from those who would be trying to do him harm, and despite his age his older brethren of the air regarded him a competent flyer. He taught himself to focus on the reasonable and the plausible instead of imagined fears.
Neil would never lose sight of the fact he was a small town boy with 15 cents in his pocket. He was thankful he was flying jets for the Navy, thankful he had the get-up-and-go to study what made the machines he flew fly, and the good sense to hit the books until he roped himself acceptance into the Navy’s Aviation Midshipman Program.
He had selected Purdue University. The Navy’s seven-year program called for him to spend two years in the classroom studying aeronautical engineering. Then there would be flight training where he’d get his commission as a Navy ensign followed by active duty before completing classes for his degree.
But it didn’t work out that way. After he had studied for a year-and-a-half the Navy discovered they were short on fighter pilots and Neil was called early to flight training.
He got his wings in August of 1950, two months after the Korean Conflict had begun. Neil was one of those rare birds, a midshipman with wings. He had to wait a few weeks for his ensign bar.
“I asked for the Pacific Fleet and was given the Pacific Fleet,” he would later say. “I was first sent out to a squadron called FASRON, Fleet Air Service Squadron, which was a utility unit where I waited until there was an opening in Fighter Squadron 51 (VF-51). I’d be flying from the deck of the Essex with midshipman wages of 75 dollars a month plus flight pay calculated at 50 percent of my base wage.”
Neil had no regrets as the morning flight continued, suddenly feeling himself enjoying the new day. The sun was peaking over the horizon, spreading its warming rays. He studied the sky filled with VF-51 pilots and their planes. It was a togetherness that brought with it a certain sense of safety.
Better than being alone Neil agreed with himself as he suddenly saw one of nature’s stunning creations, Mount Fuji in the rising sun.
The magnificent volcano’s cone was perfect rising 12,000 feet to poke a hole through the clouds. Just as suddenly as Japan’s most recognized landmark appeared, Neil was aware the peace the great mountain brought with it was about to end.
Japan’s Mount Fuji shows its peak above the clouds at sunrise. (U.S. Navy)
Dead ahead, across the Sea of Japan, were the mountains of Korea—ugly mountains placed there by some ancient geological event that tortured them into jagged boldness—left them twisted and scattered, presenting no organized or logical face to visitors.
Neil judged them as terrible mountains—mountains of pain and death that ran in crazy directions. Their peaks formed no patterns. Their valleys led nowhere yet somewhere. Hidden from his view were today’s targets.
His group’s assigned duty was to fly into a hot zone naval intelligence called “Green Six.” It was the code name for a valley with gun sites, freight yards and trains, a dam, and one of those ever-loving stubborn bridges.
Neil was comfortable flying the F9F Panther. He thought of it as a very solid airplane—built by the Grumman team, the best airplane builders around. “But in retrospect,” he said, “it didn’t fly well. It didn’t have particularly good handling qualities. Pretty good lateral directional control, but very stiff in pitch. Its performance both in max speed and climb were inferior to the Chinese MIG by a substantial amount.
“I’m sure I would not have enjoyed going against a MIG in my Panther,” he laughed.
* * *
They crossed the Korean coastline. The guns were waiting. The Essex’s fighters began to descend in swift dips and dives to confuse the antiaircraft. Then John Carpenter, Neil’s group leader, pounced his Panthers upon the heaviest guns with blazing fire, raking the big gun emplacements through grey smoke and bursts of flak as they thundered straight down “Green Six”—lower and lower they charged, releasing their 500-pound bombs as five-inch and three-inch guns, even machine guns, fired at their jets.
Neil was instantly aware that a single shell could pulverize any of them. When he climbed up from the valley, heaviness was upon his legs and his face was drawn down upon his chin. The gravity gods were at work as he kept his Panther snug on John Carpenter’s wing.
Panthers cross North Korea’s coastline. (U.S. Navy)
Back upstairs Neil could see clearly the targets were essentially demolished with one exception—that damn bridge.
John Carpenter saw it, too, and their leader immediately recognized the job needed to be finished.
Carpenter rolled his Panther left and brought his group down again, jets screaming along the shimmering river. They were roaring toward the bridge like bats out of Hades, thundering straight for the stone and steel spanning the river. Neil quickly noticed it was historic—tall pillars rising above one of North Korea’s major waterways and decidedly vulnerable. Neil activated his nose guns and watched his heavy bullets rip into concrete and stone before releasing his last 500-pound bomb, which exploded, tearing and twisting the bridge into useless steel.
Time to reach for sky again, Neil ordered only himself. He hauled back on the Panther’s stick. Damn! He had only a brief instant to see an antiaircraft cable stretching hundreds of feet from mountain to mountain.
WHOMP!!!!!!
An ugly shock wave shook his fighter from nose to tail.
“If you’re going fast, a cable will make a very good knife,” Neil told me later, remembering how the tightly wrapped strands of steel had sliced through his right wing too swift to be seen. It cut metal, wiring, tubing, and his con
trol connections. Instantly six to eight feet beginning at the wing’s tip was no longer there.
Quickly Neil judged he was about 500 feet from ground; his speed was 350 knots. His damaged Panther was flying at an angle that could aerodynamically compensate for the loss of almost half of his right wing—as long as he held the undamaged aileron on his opposite wing at an extreme that it could compensate.
The aileron is the movable surface on an aircraft’s wings that controls roll and the amount of bank needed to work in concert with the rudder to turn the aircraft. Neil had to make rapid judgments. Not only had he lost almost half of his right wing and much of its aileron, his elevators that controlled up and down pitch had become sluggish.
Damn! Neil spat. The ground was coming up, coming up fast, and he had to— Oh, trim! With lagging elevators, trim tabs would boost them so he could climb. As quickly as his thumb could move the “coolie hat” trim toggle atop his control stick he was rolling in trim to bring his jet’s nose up. But nothing was happening! Wait, there it goes! His nose was rising. “Move, move,” he shouted at the forward end of his Panther. And it did, just before he would have clobbered Korean dirt. He was headed back upstairs—a slow, steady climb—and he was instantly aware he was not breathing. He gulped in air. “Armstrong,” he shouted aloud. “20 feet above ground is no place to be at 350 knots.”
If Neil had had time to sweat he would have. Instead, the young fighter pilot radioed John Carpenter, “Hey, boss,” he stammered. “I’ve lost … I’ve lost about half of my starboard wing. I’m carrying a lot of aileron to keep from rolling, and if I get too slow she’s gonna’ roll on me.”
“Roger.”
“I’m regaining altitude slowly,” Neil told Carpenter. “I have all the trim back on its heels, and my elevators aren’t much use. I’ll have to make one hot landing.”
“How hot?”
“About one hundred seventy.”
“Too damn hot,” Carpenter shot back, realizing the carrier couldn’t handle 170.
