The next space explorers were chimpanzees, who were selected because their reaction times were nearly identical to those of human beings. A group of 40 chimps housed at New Mexico’s Holloman Aerospace Medical Center were trained for space flight. On January 21, 1961, six of the astrochimps, along with 20 handlers and medical specialists, travelled from New Mexico to Cape Canaveral, in preparation for the first test launches. The now impatient Mercury astronauts questioned the need for further test flights; a disgusted Alan Shepard expressed hope that the next launch would result in a “chimp barbecue.”
On January 31, 1961, ape number 61, nicknamed Ham, an acronym for Holloman Aerospace Medical Center, was launched into space. Strapped in a cockpit seat within a plastic pressure chamber the size of a trunk (designed to simulate conditions inside a spacesuit), Ham endured the 16-minute, 39-second flight, sustaining only a minor injury—a bruised nose that occurred during lift-off or splash down.
Ham’s flight was not without misadventure. When the spacecraft’s retrorockets were jettisoned too early, increasing re-entry speed to 1,400 miles per hour, the capsule splashed down 130 miles beyond the target zone. At impact, two holes were punched in the capsule, causing it to take on 800 pounds of seawater. It took nearly two hours for Navy helicopters to locate the listing capsule; by then, Ham was in a rage, snarling and biting at his rescuers. During the post-flight press conference, the camera flash bulbs further angered the chimp, who viciously bared his fangs to the world.
While monkeys were actually flying in space, the Mercury 7 proceeded with training exercises. The astronauts were taken for flights aboard F-100 jets, executing Mach 1.4 dives, and C-130 transport planes, flying parabolas; both exercises exposed them to periods of weightlessness.
Using flight simulators, the astronauts familiarized themselves with the newly designed space capsule. In January of 1959, McDonnell Aircraft Corporation had been awarded the contract to build 20 Mercury capsules. More than 4,000 suppliers ultimately contributed parts or materials for the spacecraft’s construction.
Only six-feet, ten-inches-long and six-feet, two-inches-wide (at its greatest diameter), the 4,300-pound capsule’s interior was cramped. Engineers and flight technicians, however, were not particularly concerned about the astronauts’ comfort, viewing pilots as superfluous additions to the space flights. The spacecraft’s propulsion, altitude, guidance, and re-entry systems were designed to be controlled exclusively by ground-based technicians. The astronauts bristled at the diminished role of the pilot, as Deke Slayton angrily acknowledged: “Mercury was designed to operate unmanned.” At one point, consideration was given to drugging the astronauts just prior to launch, rendering them immune to space sickness and G-force pain, and also preventing them from pushing buttons and flipping cockpit switches.
“All we need to louse things up is a skilled space pilot with his hands itching for the controls,” a Bell Lab engineer groused.
In the end, NASA needed heroes as much as it needed spacecraft, if for nothing more than propaganda purposes. Dissatisfied with their roles as passive capsule occupants, the Mercury 7 successfully lobbied to modify the spacecraft, including installation of a back-up manual navigation system, a cockpit window, and an escape hatch with explosive bolts. The latter feature was deemed a necessity, as the astronauts did not want to be dependent on others to get them out of the capsule, in the event of an emergency.
Before a manned Mercury spacecraft ever took flight, the Soviet Union scored another first. On April 12, 1961, Cosmonaut Yuri A. Gagarin became the first person to orbit the Earth. A former fighter pilot, the 27-year-old Gagarin completed a single orbit, lasting 1- hour and 48-minutes, aboard the Vostok 1 spacecraft. While in orbit, the Soviet cosmonaut ate, drank, and wrote on a note pad, proving that digestive, metabolic, and neurological functions were not seriously impaired by weightlessness.
After returning to Earth, Gagarin earned effusive praise from Nikita Khrushchev: “You have made yourself immortal.” Adding fuel to the propaganda fire, Gagarin boasted: “Let the Capitalist countries catch up to our country.”
The Soviet newspaper and Communist mouthpiece Pravda boasted that Gagarin’s space flight was a “great event in the history of humanity.” At the same time, the Washington Post echoed the angst of many Americans: “The fact of the Soviet space feat must be faced for what it is, and it is a psychological victory of the first magnitude for the Soviet Union.” Over the next 26 months, the Soviets successfully launched five more manned space flights, convincing many that America was hopelessly mired in second place in the Space Race.
After the retrorocket malfunction during the chimp Ham’s flight, Wernher von Braun insisted on another unmanned test flight, much to the chagrin of the Mercury astronauts. The flight proved successful, with the spacecraft following the correct trajectory and landing 307 miles down range in the Atlantic Ocean. Ever cautious, NASA officials had originally planned to send more chimps into space, but after the Soviets launched Yuri Gagarin into orbit, the United States was pressured into launching its own manned spacecraft.
On May 5, 1961, Alan B. Shepard, Jr. became the first American to travel into space. On the morning of the historic launch, Shepard breakfasted on filet mignon, scrambled eggs, and orange juice, before donning cotton underwear and his spacesuit. The latter, manufactured by B. F. Goodrich in Akron, Ohio, was made of plastic and aluminized nylon; a modified version of the Navy Mark IV pressurized suit. Inside the space suit, Shepard’s core temperature was carefully regulated and his body odor was drawn away through an activated charcoal filter. Life-sustaining oxygen entered the protective garment at the thorax and exited through the helmet. To complete his launch attire, Shepard wore custom-designed gloves, boots, and a helmet—the entire 22-pound outfit cost $5,000.00.
High above the launch pad, aided by back-up pilot John Glenn, Shepard squeezed inside the 4,300-pound space capsule, christened Freedom 7; each Mercury spacecraft would bear the same number, in honor of America’s first seven astronauts. Intermittently obscured by cloud cover, a half-Moon overlooked Cape Canaveral, as Shepard sat atop the Redstone rocket, an upgraded version of the famed V-2, which was capable of generating 367,000 pounds of thrust. Twin movie cameras were mounted inside the capsule—one to monitor the instrument panel and the other to record Shepard’s physiological and emotional responses during the space flight.
Fellow astronaut, Deke Slayton, stationed at the launch control center, was designated as the capsule communicator (Cap Com)—the individual who would maintain a direct radio link with Shepard during his flight. Just prior to lift-off, Slayton was joined at launch control by John Glenn and Gus Grissom. In an adjacent building, Gordon Cooper monitored weather conditions, and was on stand-by to coordinate rescue efforts, in the event of an emergency. Wally Schirra and Scott Carpenter waited at nearby Patrick Air Force Base; they were strapped in the cockpit seats of F-106 jets, poised to chase the spacecraft after launch.
Another man, whose name would eventually become synonymous with space exploration, was on hand at Cape Canaveral to witness Shepard’s historic launch. Television news was still in its technological infancy, and CBS News anchorman, Walter Cronkite, was forced to narrate the telecast from the back of a station wagon, which was parked within sight of the launch pad.
The 44-year-old Cronkite was an unabashed space enthusiast. NASA capitalized on media exposure to bolster its space program, and Cronkite became one of the agency’s most-valued spokespersons. Designated as a space agency insider, the newsman was privy to specific details about space missions, and established close personal relationships with many of the astronauts.
Cronkite’s growing fame during the 1960’s paralleled the trajectory of the American space program. By the end of his storied career, Cronkite would be known as “America’s anchorman,” and the “most trusted man in America.” Some media pundits, however, criticized Cronkite’s enthusiastic support for space exploration, believing that he was compromising his journalist
ic objectivity to become a “cheerleader” for NASA.
Cronkite’s enthusiasm was readily evident during CBS broadcasts, and he made no effort to apologize for his often giddy commentary. Cronkite readily acknowledged complicity in the glorification of the Mercury 7 astronauts: “We were quite aware that the image that NASA was trying to project was not quite honest. But, at the same time, there was recognition that the nation needed heroes.”
Prior to the lift-off of Freedom 7, Alan Shepard was confronted with the most basic of human needs. Because the initial Mercury flights were of such short duration, the space capsules were not equipped with toilet facilities. When Freedom 7’s launch was delayed several times, Shepard was forced to urinate inside his space suit; NASA medics shut down the electric sensors, to prevent an electrical short. As he awaited the final countdown, America’s first star voyager was stoically philosophical: “I just kept looking around me, remembering that everything in the capsule was supplied by the lowest bidder.”
The countdown to blast-off was repeatedly delayed by cloud cover and an overheated inverter, which had to be replaced. Strapped in his claustrophobic cockpit couch, Shepard’s impatience escalated: “Why don’t you fix this little problem, and light this candle?”
At 9:34 a.m., as 45 million Americans watched on television, the mighty Redstone rocket’s engines finally roared to life and the ground trembled. At the base of the rocket, solid steel flame deflectors deliberately channeled the exhaust away from the engines. Streams of water, delivered at the rate of 35,000 gallons per minute, cooled the deflectors, producing giant steam clouds that partially obscured the launch pad.
As the rocket sped skyward over the Atlantic Ocean, Shepard radioed launch control: “Roger. Lift off, and clock is started.”
Eighty-eight seconds after blast-off, the rocket surpassed Mach 1, eventually reaching a maximum velocity of 5,100 miles per hour. Through the capsule’s periscope, Shepard was able to identify Florida’s west coast, the Gulf of Mexico, mammoth Lake Okeechobee, and the Bahamas.
Shepard’s 15-minute flight followed a 302-mile arc, reaching an apogee of 116.5 miles, and ended with splash down in the Atlantic Ocean. He endured five minutes of alternating G-ll forces and weightlessness, before landing 260 miles downrange from Cape Canaveral.
During the course of his history-making flight, Shepard briefly disabled the autopilot and used the manual control stick. Jets of hydrogen peroxide, emitted from nozzles on the side of the spacecraft, allowed him to test all axes of flight—the pitch, yaw, and roll of the capsule. Shepard found the brief interval of weightlessness “pleasant and relaxing,” partially dispelling the fears of many NASA medical experts.
During the fiery re-entry into Earth’s atmosphere, the external walls of Freedom 7 soared to 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit. While the interior of the capsule reached 100 degrees (F), the temperature in Shepard’s pressurized space suit never exceeded 82 degrees (F). At 10,000 feet, the spacecraft’s main parachute opened, and minutes later, Shepard likened the impact of splash down to the force of landing a jet on the deck of an aircraft carrier.
Alan Shepard’s inaugural space flight transformed him into an instant hero. The Mercury 7 astronauts and their wives were invited to the White House, where President Kennedy awarded Shepard the Distinguished Service Medal during a ceremony in the Rose Garden. A quarter of a million people lined the streets of New York City during a ticker tape parade honoring the country’s first star voyager. The Freedom 7 capsule was sent for display at the Paris Air Show. For the first time, the United States appeared to be making headway in the Space Race.
On April 10, 1961, some three weeks before Alan Shepard’s historic flight, President Kennedy convinced Congress to amend the Space Act, which had been passed during the Eisenhower Administration. Kennedy requested that the Vice-President, rather than the President, serve as Chairman of the Space Council. Having long been passionate about space exploration, Lyndon Johnson readily embraced his new appointment.
On April 20th, eight days after Yuri Gagarin became the first man to orbit Earth, Kennedy charged his Vice-President with answering the following questions: “Do we have a chance of beating the Soviets by putting a laboratory in space, or by a trip to the Moon, or by a rocket to go to the Moon and back with a man? Is there any other program which promised dramatic results in which we could win?” Emphasizing the words win and beat, Kennedy affirmed that the Space Race was as much political as it was technological.
After convening a special committee, deliberately stacked with advocates of space exploration, the Vice-President formulated his response to the President’s inquiries. On April 28th, just eight days after undertaking his assignment, Johnson presented Kennedy with a hyperbole-laden, yet compelling memorandum: “Other nations, regardless of their appreciation of our idealistic values, will tend to align themselves with the country which they believe will be the world leader—the winner in the long run. Dramatic accomplishments in space are being increasingly identified as a major indicator of world leadership…If we do not make the strong effort now, the time will soon be reached when the margin of control over space and over men’s minds through space accomplishments will have swung so far on the Russian side that we will not be able to catch up, let alone assume leadership.”
On May 25th, only 20 days after Alan Shepard’s inaugural space flight, capitalizing on the nation’s pride and overwhelming sense of accomplishment, Kennedy took his case directly to the public. Addressing a joint session of Congress concerning “urgent national needs,” the President issued a bold proposal: “I believe that this nation should commit itself to achieving the goal, before the end of the decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon, and returning him safely to Earth.” Near the end of his speech, Kennedy explained that his proposal would be costly: “Let it be clear that this is a judgment which the members of Congress must finally make. Let it be clear that I am asking Congress to accept a firm commitment to a new course of action—a course that will last for many years and carry very heavy costs—531 million dollars in fiscal ’62 and an estimated 7 billion to 9 billion additional over the next 5 years…”
While Kennedy’s proposal met opposition from a handful of Republicans, including Senator Barry Goldwater and Representative Gerald Ford, and Conservative Southern Democrats, like Senators Richard Russell and J. William Fulbright, all of whom argued against such mammoth expenditures, the President struck pay dirt with the American public and a clear majority of the lawmakers. Having endured the low point of his presidency a month earlier, during the Bay of Pigs fiasco, Kennedy seized upon an issue that energized fellow Americans and rejuvenated his own political fortunes. The anxiety-provoking impact of a Soviet cosmonaut orbiting the Earth on the American psyche was enormous, as reflected by space historian Gerard J. Degroot’s succinct analysis: “Gagarin was Kennedy’s Sputnik.”
Kennedy’s declaration was inspiring, but many questioned if it was realistic. With only a single space flight under its belt, NASA had less than nine years to fulfill JFK’s dream. Nonetheless, on July 21, 1961, the President signed into law the newly passed Extended Space Program Act, giving birth to Project Apollo.
At 7:20 a.m., on July 21, 1961, Virgil I. “Gus” Grissom became the second American to be launched into space. Recalling Alan Shepard’s bladder issues during the first Mercury mission, Grissom chose to wear a woman’s girdle under his space suit, believing that it would better absorb urine, in the event nature called. In a similar vein, Grissom, like his fellow astronauts, consumed a low residue diet for three days prior to their launches, avoiding the urge to defecate during the space flight.
Grissom’s 15-minute, 37-second suborbital flight aboard Liberty Bell 7 reached an apogee of 118.2 miles and a maximum speed of 5,168 miles per hour. Grissom experienced 10 minutes of weight-lessness, without suffering any adverse effects. As a result of the astronauts’ earlier demands, Liberty Bell 7 was equipped with an enlarged cockpit window, providing Grissom with a much clear
er view during his space flight. After re-entry, the capsule’s main parachute opened at 12,000 feet, and seven minutes later, the spacecraft splashed down without incident, ending what appeared to have been a flawless mission.
As the capsule bobbed in the Atlantic Ocean, 302.8 miles down range from Cape Canaveral, Grissom removed his helmet and unbuckled his harness, before completing a post-flight checklist and radioing two nearby Navy Sikorsky helicopters to come to his rescue. Suddenly and without warning, the capsule’s explosive escape hatch blew.
Activation of the escape hatch, similar in design to the ejection seats of the fighter jets Grissom had flown, required the pilot to a pull out a lock pin, before applying five to six pounds of pressure to the plunger, which detonated 70 explosive bolts and blew the door 25 feet away from the spacecraft. For the remainder of his life, Grissom would insist that he did not purposefully or accidently depress the plunger: “I was minding my own business, when I heard a dull thud.”
Seawater poured inside the capsule through the open hatch, forcing Grissom to abandon the rapidly sinking ship. One of the two rescue helicopters managed to snag the capsule, but could not lift the heavy, water-filled spacecraft, and was forced to abandon the rescue operation. Liberty Bell 7 quickly sank 17,000 feet to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, and would not be recovered for 37 years.
While the helicopter crews were preoccupied with saving the capsule, Grissom nearly drowned in the choppy seas, made rougher by the downward draft of the choppers’ rotors. Grissom’s buoyant spacesuit grew dangerously heavy as seawater poured in through the garment’s open neck, as well as the oxygen port that he had mistakenly left unplugged. As he struggled to stay afloat, the astronaut grew dismayed and angered by the rescuers’ focus on saving the space capsule. Eventually, one of the helicopter crews lowered a harness and retrieved the exhausted and waterlogged Grissom from the ocean.
The Eagle Has Landed: The Story of Apollo 11 Page 5
