|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Apollo 11 Plaque
|   Chapter: 
!    Author: 
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 0
|-----------------------------------------------------
HERE MEN FROM THE PLANET EARTH
  FIRST SET FOOT UPON THE MOON
      JULY 1969 A.D.
 WE CAME IN PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND
                From the plaque on the Eagle, Apollo 11
                which landed on the Moon, July 20, 1969
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
|   Chapter: 
!    Author: Edgar M. Cortright
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 0
|-----------------------------------------------------
    Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
    NASA SP-350
    Edited by Edgar M. Cortright
    Scientific and Technical Information Office
    National Aeronautics and Space Adiministration
    Washington, D.C.
    1975
    
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Forward
|   Chapter: 
!    Author: James C. Fletcher
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 0
|-----------------------------------------------------
      
             No nation ever demonstrated its aspirations and abilities as 
dramatically as did the United States when it landed the first 
men on the Moon, or as much in public: More people on Earth 
watched that first small step on a foreign planet than had 
witnessed any prior event in the ascent of man. While it is still 
too early to assess the full significance of that remarkable 
undertaking, I think it is a good time to look back on the total 
enterprise, while the images are still sharp, and while those 
concerned are available to give testimony. Historians have 
observed that ventures into uncharted waters are often 
illuminated most vividly in the words of those who were there; 
one thinks of Caesar's Commentaries, Bradford's History of 
Plymouth Plantation, Darwin's Voyage of the Beagle. An 
interesting parallel exists between the voyages of H.M.S. Beagle 
and the missions of Apollo: One changed the course of the 
biological sciences, and the others are reshaping planetary and 
Earth sciences. In this volume you will find the personal 
accounts of eighteen men who, like Darwin, were much involved in 
long and influential voyages.
     New scientific insights are an important part of the legacy 
of Apollo, as well as the worldwide lift to the human spirit that 
the achievement generated. But there is a third legacy of Apollo 
that is particularly germane today. This was the demonstration 
that great and difficult endeavors can be conducted successfully 
by a steadfast mobilization of national will and resources. Today 
we face seemingly intractable problems whose resolution may call 
for similar mobilization of resources and will. Husbanding the 
planet's finite resources, developing its energy supplies, 
feeding its billions, protecting its environment, and shackling 
its weapons are some of these problems. If the zest, drive, and 
dedication that made Apollo a success can be brought to bear, 
that may be the most priceless legacy of Apollo.
    JAMES C. FLETCHER 
    Administrator
    National Aeronautics and Space Administration
    July 30, 1975
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Introduction
|   Chapter: 
!    Author: Robert C. Seamans, JR.
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: VIII
|-----------------------------------------------------
     In looking back at the origins and development of the Apollo
program, one word that comes to mind is action. From my vantage
as Associate Administrator from 1960 to 1968, and then as Deputy
Administrator from 1965 to 1968, I had an excellent picture of
the intricate action processes that comprised the Apollo program.
Disparate and numerous, the actions and their companion reactions
came together in a remarkably coordinated and cooperative
blending for the goal of placing men on the Moon and bringing
them back safely.
     The precipitating action was the successful Soviet launching
of Sputnik in 1957. This remarkable and surprising achievement
was the impetus for NASA's creation in 1958 by President
Eisenhower and the Congress. Forged in large part from the widely
respected National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, with its
valued research facilities in Virginia, Ohio, and California,
NASA also incorporated other research elements, From the Navy
came the Vanguard Satellite Project team. From the Army came the
ballistic missile team at Redstone Arsenal, to become the nucleus
of the Marshall Space Flight Center. The Jet Propulsion
Laboratory, operated by the California institute of Technology
for the Defense Department, was also made part of the growing
NASA organization.
     During the NACA-NASA transition period the elements of
Project Mercury for placing a manned capsule in orbit were born.
Work also began, and progressed well, on scientific,
meteorological, and communication satellites- themselves
considerable examples of technological virtuosity- but interest
remained high on manned space flight, Estimates of the technical
problems and price tag for a manned lunar landing mission were
forbidding. The understandable reluctance to make such a major
commitment diminished dramatically, however, with Gagarin's
successful manned orbital flight in March 1961. Again, as in the
period following Sputnik, grave concern about Soviet successes
was vocalized in the Congress and President Kennedy asked his
administration for plans to make this Nation preeminent in space.
Out of this introspection came plans and a favorable response to
President Kennedy's special address to Congress in which he
stated: "I believe this Nation should commit itself to achieving
the goal, before this decade is out, of landing a man on the Moon
and returning him safely to Earth." But as we were to learn in
carrying out this objective, sustaining the resources meant
renewing the commitment annually. The Congress tends to operate
with fiscal-year and session perspective; while our horizon was
set nine years ahead. We found that an agency's performance as a
good steward of public funds is a keystone to its continued
support.
     As planning for Apollo began, we identified more than 10,000
separate tasks that had to be accomplished to put a man on the
Moon. Each task had its particular objectives, its manpower
needs, its time schedule, and its complex interrelationship with
many other tasks. Which had to be done first? Which could be done
concurrently? What were the critical sequences? Vital questions
such as these had to be answered in building the network of tasks
leading to a lunar landing. The network had to be subdivided into
manageable portions, the key ones being: determination of the
environment in cislunar space and on the lunar surface; the
design and development of the spacecraft and launch vehicles: the
conduct of tests and flight missions to prove these components
and procedures; and the selection and training of flight crews
and ground support to carry out the missions.
     Early in the critical planning stages for Apollo, three
different approaches to the Moon were considered: direct ascent,
rendezvous in Earth orbit, and rendezvous in lunar orbit. The
choice of mission mode was a key milestone in our development of
Apollo. Like many other decisions, it set us in a direction from
which retreat could come only at extreme penalty to the schedule
and cost of the program.
     Lunar-orbit rendezvous meant considerable payload savings
and in turn a reduced propulsion requirement; in fact the
reduction was on the order of 50 percent. But in requiring less
brute force, we needed more skill and finesse. A module designed
especially for landing on and lifting from the lunar surface had
to mate with a module orbiting the Moon. Rendezvous and docking,
clearly, were of critical importance. The Gemini program was
created to provide greater experience than Mercury would in
manned operations in space, and especially in perfecting
procedures on rendezvous and docking.
     While lunar rendezvous was the choice for getting to the
Moon, many other fundamental technical, policy, and management
questions had to be answered: How and where were major parts to
be developed and made? How were they to be shipped? Where were
they to be assembled? Where would we site the important
supporting facilities and the launch complex? The huge scale of
the Apollo operation precluded conventional answers. Facilities
that were in themselves major engineering challenges were
created, and a separate network of giant deep-space antennas was
constructed in Spain, Australia, and California to receive the
tremendous volume of data that would flow back from the Moon.
     Apollo was an incredible mixture of the large and the small,
of huge structures and miniaturized equipment. These astronomical
variations in scale had to he dealt with in a thoroughgoing way,
with technical competence and managerial assurance. In planning
the serial buildup of Apollo missions, we could not take steps so
small that the exposure to the ever-present risk outweighed minor
gains expected. Yet neither could we take steps so big that we
stretched equipment and people dangerously far beyond the
capabilities that had already been demonstrated. We followed the
fundamental policy of capitalizing on success, always advancing
on each mission as rapidly as good judgment dictated.
     So step by step, confidence and experience were accumulated.
The four manned orbital flights of the Mercury program proved
man's ability to survive in space, fly spacecraft, and perform
experiments. These abilities were expanded in the Gemini program;
in particular, the ability to rendezvous, dock, and conduct
extravehicular activity was demonstrated. The Ranger, Surveyor,
and Orbiter series contributed necessary cartographic, geologic,
and geophysical data about the Moon. All these missions were in
preparation for the fights with the powerful Saturn V launch
vehicle first flown unmanned in late 1967.
     Throughout the program we tried to maintain a flexible
posture, keeping as many options open as possible. When
difficulties were experienced and delays occurred, alternate
plans had to be quickly but carefully evaluated. This meant there
was a continual need for steady judgment and cool decision.
Apollo managers and astronauts met that need. The Apollo 8 flight
was an example of the virtue of schedule flexibility. Lunar-
module progress had slowed and the Lunar Orbiter spacecraft had
revealed unexpected circumlunar navigational questions. Our
action was to send the command and service modules alone into
lunar orbit. And so in December 1968 man first flew to the
neighborhood of the Moon. Apollo 8 was indeed a significant
Christmas gift for the program.
     To acquire critical rendezvous and docking experience,
Apollo 9 flight-tested the whole system, booster, command and
service module, and lunar module in Earth orbit. Could we next
put it all together and land on the Moon? Was the step too big?
Would it stretch us too far? Yes, it would, we concluded. To
resolve the remaining unknowns, astronauts again went to the
Moon, not yet to land, but to do as many of the required
nonlanding tasks as possible. Apollo 10 was a successful dress
rehearsal.
     Throughout the testing, both ground and flight, we played
deadly serious "what-if" games- designed to anticipate
contingencies and cope successfully with them. Computers were
invaluable aids to these simulation exercises. Out of these
efforts came the experience and team coherence that were the
backbone of Apollo's success. Out of these efforts came the
ability to adjust to the spurious computer alarms during Apollo
11's descent, to the lightning bolt during the launch of Apollo
17, and to the ruptured oxygen tank on Apollo 13. From the first
step of a man onto the Moon in Apollo 11 to the last departing
step in Apollo 17, we showed that enormously difficult large
endeavors can succeed, given the willingness, discipline, and
competence of a dedicated crew of gifted people.
     My vantage point in NASA gave me one perspective of the
Apollo program's development. As you read this volume you will
get other perspectives and insights from key participants in the
program. I'm sure you will sense in their writing the
exhilaration and pride they justifiably feel in their roles in
the Apollo expeditions of the Moon. From my present vantage point
as Administrator of the Energy Research and Development
Administration I see more clearly that Apollo was as much a
triumph of organization as of anything else. It was essential
that we had the support of the President and the Congress, the
participation of many accomplished scientists and engineers, and
the continuing interest of the public at large. No single
Government agency nor institution nor corporation can perform
alone the tasks associated with reaching major national
objectives. Apollo was an outstanding example of how governmental
agencies, industrial firms, and universities can work together to
reach seemingly impossible goals.
      ROBERT C. SEAMANS, JR.
      Administrator
      Energy Research and
      Development Administration
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: A Perspective on Apollo
|   Chapter: One
!    Author: James E. Webb
!      Page: 1
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
|-----------------------------------------------------
A Perspective on Apollo
     After hundreds of thousands of years of occupancy, and
several thousand years of recorded history, man quite suddenly
left the planet Earth in 1969 to fly to its nearest neighbor, the
Moon. The ten-year span it took to accomplish this task was but a
blink of an eye on an evolutionary scale, but the impact of the
event will permanently affect man's destiny.
     In reflecting on the Apollo program, I am sometimes
overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of the task and the temerity
of its undertaking. When Apollo was conceived, a lunar landing
was considered so difficult that it could only be accomplished
through exceptional large-scale efforts in science, in
engineering, and in the development of operational and training
systems for long-duration manned flights. These clearly required
the application of large resources over a decade.
     Industry, universities, and government elements had to be
melded into a team of teams. Apollo involved competition for
world leadership in the understanding and mastery of rocketry, of
spacecraft development and use, and of new departures of
international cooperation In science and technology. Like the
Bretton Woods monetary agreement, President Truman's Point Four
Program, and the Marshall Plan, the Apollo program was a further
attempt toward world stability- but with a new thrust.
     This chapter will review the origins of this policy and how
it was successfully implemented. Subsequent chapters describe how
particular problems were solved, how the astronauts and other
teams of specialists were trained and performed, how the giant
spaceboosters were built and flown, and how all this was joined
together in a fully integrated effort. In many of these essays
you will find indications of the meaning of the Apollo program to
those who devoted much of their lives to it.
     In the pre-space years the main defensive shield of the free
world against Communist expansion was the preeminence of the
United States in aeronautical technology and nuclear weaponry.
These were an integral part of a system of mutual-defense
treaties with other non-Communist nations.
     In the 1950s, when the U.S.S.R. demonstrated rocket engines
powerful enough to carry atomic weapons over intercontinental
distances, it became clear to United States and free world
political and military leaders that we had to add technological
strength in rocketry and know-how in the use of space systems to
our defense base if we were to play a decisive role in world
affairs.
     In the United States the first decision was to give this job
to our military services. They did it well. Atlas, Titan,
Minuteman, and Polaris missiles rapidly added rocket power to the
basic air and atomic power that we were pledged to use to support
long held objective of world stability, peace, and progress.
     The establishment of the Atomic Energy Commission as a
civilian agency had emphasized in the 1940s our hope that nuclear
technology could become a major force for peaceful purposes as
well as for defense. In 1958 the establishment of the National
Aeronautics and Space Administration, again as a civilian agency,
emphasized our hope that space could be developed for peaceful
purposes.
     NASA was specifically charged with the expansion into space
of our high level of aeronautical know-how. It was made
responsible for research and development that would both increase
our space know-how for military use, if needed, and would enlarge
our ability to use space in cooperation with other nations for
"peaceful purposes for the benefit of all mankind."
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Ferment of Debate
     The Apollo program grew out of a ferment of imaginative
thought and public debate. Long-range goals and priorities within
our governmental, quasi-governmental, and private institutions
were agreed on. Leaders in political, scientific, engineering,
and many other endeavors participated. Debate focused on such
questions as which should come first- increasing scientific
knowledge or using man-machine combinations to extend both our
knowledge of science and lead to advances in engineering? Should
we concentrate on purely scientific unmanned missions? Should
such practical uses of space as weather observations and
communication relay stations have priority? Was it more vital to
concentrate on increasing our military strength, or to engage in
spectacular prestige-building exploits?
     In the turbulent 1960s, Apollo flights proved that man can
leave his earthly home with its friendly and protective
atmosphere to travel out toward the stars and explore other parts
of the solar system. In the 1970s the significance of this new
capability is still not clear. Will there be a basic shift of
power here on Earth to the nation that first achieves dominance
in space? Can we maintain our desired progress toward a
prosperous peaceful world if we allow ourselves to be outclassed
in this new technology?
     Policy makers in Congress, the White House, the State and
Defense Departments, the National Science Foundation, the Atomic
Energy Commission, NASA, and other agencies agreed in the 1960s
that we should develop national competence to operate large space
systems repetitively and reliably. It was also agreed that this
should be done in full public view in cooperation with all
nations desiring to participate. However, this consensus was not
unanimous. Critics thought that the Apollo program was too vast
and costly, too great a drain on our scientific, engineering, and
productive resources, too fraught with danger, and contended that
automatic unmanned machines could accomplish everything
necessary.
     Specialized groups frequently overlooked the multiple
objectives of developing a means of transporting astronauts to
and from the Moon. Some manned spaceflight enthusiasts deplored
NASA's simultaneous emphasis on flights to build a solid base of
scientific knowledge of space. Some critics failed to recognize
the value of having trained men make on-site observations,
measurements, and judgments about lunar phenomena, and sending
men to place scientific instruments where they could best answer
specific questions.
     A vast array of government agencies participated in the
network of decision making from which the basic policies that
governed the Apollo program evolved. Collaboration between
academic and industrial contributors required procedures that
often seemed burdensome to scientists and engineers. Even some
astronauts failed at times to appreciate the potential benefits
of precise knowledge as to the effect of weightlessness and
spaceflight stress on their bodies. Fortunately our Nation's most
thoughtful leaders recognized the necessity as well as the
complexity of the various components of NASA's work and strongly
endorsed the Apollo program. It is a tribute to the innate good
sense of our citizens that enough of a consensus was obtained to
see the effort through to success.
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Goal of Apollo
     The Apollo requirement was to take off from a point on the
surface of the Earth that was traveling 1000 miles per hour as
the Earth rotated, to go into orbit at 18,000 miles an hour, to
speed up at the proper time to 25,000 miles an hour, to travel to
a body in space 240,000 miles distant which was itself traveling,
2000 miles per hour relative to the Earth, to go into orbit
around this body, and to drop a specialized landing vehicle to
its surface. There men were to make observations and
measurements, collect specimens, leave instruments that would
send back data on what was found, and then repeat much of the
outward-bound process to get back home. One such expedition would
not do the job. NASA had to develop a reliable system capable of
doing this time after time.
     At the time the decision was made, how to do most of this
was not known. But there were people in NASA. in the Department
of Defense, in American universities, and in American industry
who had the basic scientific knowledge and technical knowhow
needed to predict realistically that it could be done.
     Apollo was based on the accumulation of knowledge from years
of work in military and civil aviation, on work done to meet our
urgent military needs in rocketry, and on a basic pattern of
cooperation between government, industry? and universities that
had proven successful in NASA's parent organization, the National
Advisory Committee for Aeronautics The space agency built on and
expanded the pattern that had yielded success in the past.
     Systems engineering and systems management were developed to
high efficiency. So was project management. New ways to achieve
high reliability in complex machines were worked out. New ways to
conduct nondestructive testing were developed. The best of
large-scale management theory and doctrine was used to bring
together both organizational (or administrative) optimization and
join it to responsibility to work within the constraints of
accepted organizational behavior.
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Large Issues of Policy
     In 1961, when President Kennedy asked me to join his
administration as head of NASA. I demurred and advised him to
appoint a scientist or engineer. The President strongly
disagreed. At a time when rockets were becoming so powerful that
they could open up "the new ocean of space." he saw this Nation's
most important needs as involving many large issues of national
and international policy. He pointed to my experience in working
with President Truman in the Bureau of the Budget and with
Secretary Acheson in the State Department as well as to my
experience in aviation and education as his reasons for asking me
to take the job. Vice President Johnson also held this view, and
emphasized the value of my experience with high-technology
companies in the business world.
     I could not refuse this challenge, and I found that large
issues of policy were indeed to occupy much of my energy. How
could NASA, in the Executive Branch, do its work so as to
facilitate responsible legislative actions in the Congress? How
could public interest in space be made a constructive force? How
could other nations' help be assured? In resolving policy and
program questions, NASA was fortunate that Dr. Hugh Dryden, as
Deputy Administrator, and Dr. Robert Seamans, as Associate
Administrator, also had backgrounds of varied experience that
could bring great wisdom to the decisions. We early formed a
close relationship and stood together in all that was done.
     Soon after my appointment, several significant events
occurred in rapid succession. The first was a thorough review
with Dr. Dryden and Dr. Seamans of what had been learned in both
aeronautics and rocketry since NASA had been formed in 1958 to
make projections of these advances into the future. We examined
the adequacy of NASA's long-range plans and made estimates of the
kind of scientific and engineering progress that would be
required. We reviewed estimates of cost and found that sufficient
priority and funds had not been provided.
     The second event was the U.S.S.R.'s successful launch of the
first man into Earth orbit, the Gagarin flight on April 12, 1961.
A few weeks before this spectacular demonstration of the
U.S.S.R.'s competence in rocketry, NASA had appealed to President
Kennedy to reverse his earlier decision to postpone the manned
spaceflight projects that were planned as a followup to the
Mercury program. In his earlier decisions President Kennedy had
approved funds for larger rocket engines but not for development
of a new generation of man-rated boosters and manned spacecraft.
The "talking paper" that I used to urge President Kennedy to
support manned flight included the following:
     "The U.S. civilian space effort is based on a ten-year plan.
When prepared in 1960, this ten-year plan was designed to go
hand-in-hand with our military programs. The U.S. procrastination
for a number of years had been based in part on a very real
skepticism as to the necessity for the large expenditures
required, and the validity of the goals sought through the space
effort.
     "In the preparation of the 1962 budget, President Eisenhower
reduced the $1.35 billion requested by the space agency to the
extent of $240 million and specifically eliminated funds to
proceed with manned spaceflight beyond Mercury. This decision
emasculated the [NASA] ten-year plan before it was even one year
old, and, unless reversed, guarantees that the Russians will, for
the next five to ten years, beat us to every spectacular
exploratory flight . . .
     "The first priority of this country's space effort should be
to improve as rapidly as possible our capability for boosting
large spacecraft into orbit, since this is our greatest
deficiency . . .
     "The funds we have requested for an expanded effort will
bring the entire space agency program up to $1.42 billion in FY
1962 and substantially restore the ten-year program . . .
     "The United States space program has already become a
positive force in bringing together scientists and engineers of
many countries in a wide variety of cooperative endeavors. Ten
nations all have in one way or another taken action or expressed
their will to become a part of this imaginative effort. We feel
there is no better means to reinforce our old alliances and build
new ones . . .
     "Looking to the future, it is possible through new
technology to bring about whole new areas of international
cooperation in meteorological and communication satellite
systems. The new systems will be superior to present systems by a
large margin and so clearly in the interest of the entire world
that there is a possibility all will want to cooperate- even the
U.S.S.R."
     President Kennedy's March decision had been to proceed
cautiously. He had added $126 million to NASA's budget. mostly
for engines. but postponed the start on manned spacecraft. In
March of 1961, he was not yet ready to move unambiguously toward
a resolution of the great national and international policy
issues about which he spoke when he asked me to join the
administration.
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Kennedy's Decision
     Gagarin's successful one-orbit flight in Vostok in April
1961 changed Presidential caution into concern and resulted in
the Apollo decision.
     A thoughtful scholar, Dr. John Logsdon, has described the
situation in these words:
     "The Soviet Union was quick to capitalize on the propaganda
significance of the Gagarin flight. In his first telephone
conversation with Gagarin, Nikita Khrushchev boasted. 'Let the
capitalist countries catch up with our country.' The Communist
Party claimed that in this achievement 'are embodied the genius
of the Soviet people and the powerful force of socialism.' . . .
Soviet propaganda stressed three themes: (1) The Gagarin flight
was evidence of the virtues of 'victorious socialism'; (2) the
flight was evidence of the global superiority of the Soviet Union
in all aspects of science and technology: (3) the Soviet Union.
despite the ability to translate this superiority into powerful
military weapons, wants world peace and general disarmament."
     "New York Times correspondent Harry Schwartz suggested that
it appeared likely 'that the Soviet leaders hope their space feat
can further alter the atmosphere of international relations so as
to create more pressure on Western governments to make
concessions on the great world issues of the present day.'"
     Logsdon also wrote: ". . . the events of April produced a
time of crisis, a time in which a sense of urgency motivated
space planners and government policymakers to reexamine our
national space goals and space programs. This reexamination
resulted in a presidential decision to use the United States
space program as an instrument of national strategy, rather than
to view it primarily as a program of scientific research. This
decision identified, for the world to see, a space achievement as
a national goal symbolic of American determination to remain the
leading power in the world."{1}
     There were, of course, many other elements of national
policy and commitment, but it is not easy to relate them to any
one event such as the Gagarin flight. Continued Congressional
understanding and support was the product of years of work by
outstanding legislative leaders, and by devoted committee members
and staffs. Cooperation and participation by Department of
Defense elements and leaders were essential and are shown
throughout this volume.
{1} Logsdon, John M., "Decision to Go to the Moon," The MIT
Press, 1970, pp. 10 and 100.
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Working with Industries and Universities
     There is another event, however? that relates to what was
done and how NASA proceeded with Apollo. This event was a visit
from a sophisticated senior official of a large corporation
holding many aerospace contracts. He hit me right between the
eyes with the question: "In the award of contracts are you going
to follow 100 percent the reports of your technical experts, or
are there going to be political influences in these awards?" My
answer was just as direct: "In choosing contractors and
supervising our industrial partners, we are going to take into
account every factor that we should take into account as
responsible government officials."
     This meant that NASA officials would be required to meet
President Kennedy's basic guideline -- that we would not limit our
decisions to technical factors but would work with American
industry in the knowledge that we were together dealing with
factors basic to "broad national and international policy." This
also became our basic guideline for relations with universities
and with scientists in the many disciplines that became so
important a part of Apollo.
     We constantly endeavored to set our course so that all who
participated in Apollo could grow stronger for their own purposes
at the same time that they were doing the work to succeed in
NASA's projects. As they worked under NASA support, we were
determined not to deplete their capability to achieve those goals
that were important to them. In essence, our policy was to help
them build strength so they could add to the Nation's strength.
     Historians will find many lessons in the Apollo program for
the managers of future large-scale enterprises. It was a new kind
of national venture. Suddenly and dramatically it brought men of
action and men of thought into intimate working relationships
designed to solve a large number of extremely difficult
scientific and technical problems. It was a major challenge to
legislators, scientists, and engineers.
     After a careful study of the way we conducted our work, Dr.
Leonard R. Sayles and Dr. Margaret K. Chandler of the Graduate
School of Business at Columbia University wrote:
     "NASA's most significant contribution is in the area of
advanced systems design: getting an organizationally complex
structure, involving a great variety of people doing a great
variety of things in many separate locations, to do what you
want, when you want it -- and while the decision regarding the best
route to your objective is still in the process of being made by
you and your collaborators."
     Although our goal was clear and unambiguous, to reach it we
had to use rapidly developing technology that in turn was based
on rapidly increasing scientific knowledge. This required our
organization to be highly flexible, and it was altered when
unexpected developments made this necessary. As Mercury phased
into Gemini, and Apollo reached its peak effort, NASA's work
force grew to 390,000 men and women in industry, 390,000 in NASA
Centers, and 10,000 in universities. By 1969, the year of the
first lunar landing, this total had been reduced by 190,000. By
1974, it was down to 126,000. This is certainly an administrative
record.
     No more flights to the Moon are scheduled now, and future
ones will undoubtedly be made differently, but the Apollo program
has not really ended. Instruments placed on the Moon by the
American astronauts are still transmitting important data to
scientists throughout the world. We know much about how the Moon
is bound to the Earth by invisible gravitational fields, and how
both are similarly bound to the star we call the Sun. Daily, men
and women arc learning more about that star, and about the whole
universe.
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Benefits from Space Technology
     No one can yet fully appraise the ultimate benefits from
this historic achievement. Many of the technical innovations
necessary for men to go to the Moon and back have already been
embodied in everyday processes and products. These range from
versatile electronic computers to fireproof bedding in hospitals
and special equipment for the handicapped. More applications of
information acquired from space research are continually being
reported.
     Possibly more significantly, the idea that if we can go to
the Moon we can accomplish other feats long considered impossible
has been firmly implanted in people's minds. Confidence that
solutions can be found to such urgent problems as an energy
shortage, environmental degradation, and strife between nations,
has been nourished by this spectacular demonstration in space of
man's capabilities.
     Apollo was a multidimensional success, triumphant not only
as a feat of scientific and engineering precision, but also as a
demonstration of our country's spirit and competence. In the
worldwide reaction at the time of the lunar landing, it was clear
that this great adventure transcended nationality and became a
milestone for mankind. Every participant in the Apollo program
saw a slightly different facet of it. While leading these
personal accounts and studying these pictures, you will possibly
perceive more clearly the motives, the hazards faced, and the
triumphs that first enabled men to set foot on the Moon.
- James E. Webb
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
|  Sub-Title: I Believe We Should Go to the Moon     
|    Chapter: Two
|     Author: Robert R. Gilruth
|       Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
|       Page: 19
|-----------------------------------------------------
  
"I Believe We Should Go to the Moon"
     President Kennedy's statement, "Fly man to the Moon in this
decade," was a beautiful definition of the task. There could be
no misunderstanding as to just what was desired, and this clarity
of purpose was one factor in the success of Apollo. By
definition, it settled the old question of man versus instrument,
and it provided a goal so difficult that new concepts, as well as
new designs, would be required to accomplish it. Since the
landing was geared to the decade of the sixties, the pace of the
program was also defined, and a clear test of strength with the
Soviets was implicit, if they chose to compete.
     The President's decision came after a long series of Russian
firsts. They were the first to orbit the Earth, and the first to
send instruments to the Moon; only a month earlier, Yuri Gagarin
had become the first man in space. Alan Shepard had followed
Gagarin into space by only a few weeks to become the first
American in space. This feat had given America the feeling that,
with a major effort, we might close the gap with the Soviets. The
public was ready and willing to expand the space effort, and
Congress did not bat an eye at Webb's estimate than $20 to $40
billion could be required to go to the Moon. It was a popular
decision, and the vote of the Congress on the Moon program was
virtually unanimous.
     But could it really be done? Flying man to the Moon required
an enormous advance in the science of flight in a very short
time. Even the concepts of manned spaceflight were only three
years old, and voyaging in space over such vast distances was
still just a dream. Rendezvous, docking, prolonged
weightlessness, radiation, and the meteoroid hazard all involved
problems of unknown dimensions. We would need giant new rockets
burning high-energy hydrogen; a breakthrough in reliability; new
methods of staging and handling; and the ability to launch on
time, since going to the Moon required the accurate hitting of
launch windows.
     Man himself was a great unknown. At the time of the
President's decision we had only Alan Shepard's brief 15 minutes
of flight on which to base our knowledge. Could man really
function on a two-week mission that would involve precise
maneuvers, including retrofire into lunar orbit backing down and
landing on the Moon, lunar take-off, midcourse corrections on the
way home and, finally, a high-speed reentry into Earth's
atmosphere, performed with a precision so far unknown in vehicle
guidance? We would have to do intensive work on spacesuit
development, since flying to the Moon would be unthinkable
without giving astronauts the capability of exploring the Moon on
foot, and perhaps later in some roving vehicle. These men would
have to be trained in the complex problems of flying and
navigating in space, and we would need a cadre of men with space
experience before setting out on such a voyage.
     On the spacecraft side, we felt that the concepts, already
under trial in Project Mercury would be applicable for the
command and service module, but we would need new sources of
onboard power such as the fuel cell. The landing on the Moon
would require precision guidance, as well as good visibility from
the cabin for the astronauts, and a graduated control of rocket
thrust heretofore undeveloped. The state of the art in tracking
and communication would be severely tested. Precision navigation
techniques using inertial systems would be necessary, and high-
speed computing for solving complex navigation problems involving
the celestial mechanics of three-body systems. The mass ratios
involved in the spacecraft, particularly the lunar lander, would
require the ultimate in materials. Safety factors would have to
be stretched in order to give the low structural weights
required. And in the spacecraft, as well as the launch vehicle,
new orders of reliability would be required for so long a mission
so far from home.
     The Moon itself was a great unknown. Its surface, its mass
distribution, and whether the lunar soil would be firm enough to
support a landing craft were all open to conjecture. Finally. a
master plan had to be evolved. The launch site had to be
selected, roles and missions of government centers had to be
determined, and a choice had to be made between the various
concepts of how to go to the Moon, whether to use Earth-orbit
rendezvous, direct ascent, or the most controversial of all,
lunar-orbit rendezvous. A government team had to be built that,
working closely together with leaders of industry, would manage
the development and production of the launch vehicles, the
spacecraft and facilities for tests and operations. Not only
would all these things have to be done in the short time
available, but many would have to be worked out at the beginning,
during what I have called "the year of decisions."
- Robert R. Gilruth
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
What We Had To Build On
     Many of our key people in Apollo, particularly on the
spacecraft side, grew out of the old NACA the National Advisory
Committee for Aeronautics. We had the heritage of the airplane to
work from. with all its methods of design, test, and operation.
For the ballistic-missile programs of the early 1950s we had
helped to develop solutions for reentry problems that were to
have direct application to spacecraft design. But it was the
launching of Sputnik 1 in October 1957 that put a new sense of
value and urgency on the things we were doing. When one month
later, the dog Laika was placed in orbit in Sputnik 2, I was sure
that the Russians were planning for man in space.
     It seemed to me that the United States would surely enter
into space competition with the Soviet Union and flying man into
space would be a legitimate national goal. Thus it was that our
small but creative group in NACA started working intensively on
spacecraft-design problems. Most of the effort in those early
days had been directed toward hypersonic gliders, or winged
vehicles, that would fly at high Mach numbers and perhaps even
into orbit. But our views were changing, and Harvey Allen of the
Ames Laboratory was the first, to my recollection, to propose a
blunt body for flying man in space. He suggested a sphere to
enclose the man and said, "you just throw it," meaning, of
course, launch it into space with a rocket. In March 1958, Max
Faget presented a paper that was to be a milestone in spacecraft
design. His paper proposed a simple blunt-body vehicle that would
reenter the atmosphere without reaching heating rates or
accelerations that would be dangerous to man. He showed that
small retrorockets were adequate to initiate reentry from orbit.
He suggested the use of parachutes for final descent, and small
attitude jets for controlling the capsule in orbit during
retrofire and reentry. His paper concluded with a statement that:
"As far as reentry and recovery are concerned? the state of the
art is sufficiently advanced to proceed confidently with a manned
satellite project based upon the use of a blunt-body vehicle."
     Starting with the formation of NASA in October 1958, intense
efforts were undertaken to create a manned space vehicle and
flight organization capable of flying man in orbit around the
Earth. The plans for this vehicle were based on the blunt reentry
body proposed earlier by Harvey Allen and Max Faget. A special
team, the Space Task Group, was formed at Langley Field,
Virginia, to manage this effort, and the McDonnell Aircraft
Corporation won the competition to build what would be the
Mercury spacecraft.
     The heat shield was a slightly convex surface constructed of
plastic and fiberglass material that would give out gas under
intense heat, protecting itself from destruction. The conical
afterbody was covered by shingles of high-temperature alloy
similar to that used in turbine blades of jet engines. These
shingles were insulated from the titanium pressure shell and they
dissipated their heat by radiation. Parachutes were by far the
lightest and most reliable means of making the final descent to
Earth, and the parachute section was protected from heat by
shingles of beryllium. Another key factor in the Mercury design
was the supine couch for the astronaut. There had been
considerable doubt that man could withstand the G-loads
associated with rocket launching and reentry, particularly in
abort situations. The form-fitting couch gave such well-
distributed support that man could withstand over 20g without
injury or permanent damage.
     This concept of the Mercury capsule and, indeed, the whole
plan for putting man into space was remarkable in its elegant
simplicity. Yet its very daring and unconventional approach made
it the subject of considerable controversy. Some people felt that
such a means for flying man in space was only a stunt. The blunt
body in particular was under fire since it was such a radical
departure from the airplane. It was called by its opponents "the
man in the can," and the pilot was termed only a medical
specimen. Even Dr. Dryden, at the time the Director of NACA.
labeled one early ballistic-capsule proposal the same as shooting
a young lady from a cannon. However, he approved the Project
Mercury design, since it was by then a complete system for
orbital flight. The Mercury spacecraft and, in fact, Gemini and
Apollo as well, were designed to land on the water because of the
large water area which lay east of Cape Canaveral over the South
Atlantic. If an abort were required during launch the spacecraft
would have to survive a water landing; and this therefore became
the best way to make all landings. It was easier to attenuate
landing-impact forces in water landings although the spacecraft
was designed to survive a land impact without harm to flight
crews.
     The first astronauts were brought onboard the Mercury
program in April 1959. They were volunteer military pilots,
graduates of test pilot schools. Each was required to have a
bachelor's degree in engineering or equivalent, and at least 1500
hours of jet time. Of the first group of 60 candidates called to
Washington to hear about the program, more than 80 percent
volunteered. All were of such high caliber that selection was
difficult. However, I picked seven: three Air Force, three Navy,
and one Marine, on the basis that the Mercury program would
probably not give more than this number a chance to fly. These
men were true pioneers. They volunteered at a time when our plans
were only on paper and when no one really knew what the chance of
success was. One had to respect their motivation and courage.
     We were to have many spectacular successes as well as
failures in the Mercury program. However, we were able to learn
from each failure, and fortunate in having these failures early
in the program so that the astronauts and the animal passengers
as well were flown without mishap when their time came. Perhaps
our most spectacular failure in Mercury came to be known as the
"tower flight." In this sad affair, the escape tower, the
parachutes, and the peroxide fuel were all deployed on the
launching pad in front of the domestic and international press. A
relatively simple ground-circuit defect in the Redstone launch
vehicle caused the main rocket engine to ignite and then shut
down after a liftoff from the launching pad of about two inches.
The capsule events were keyed to the engine shutdown after having
been armed by stage liftoff, as this was the normal procedure for
sequencing unmanned flights. As you might expect, it was very
difficult to explain this spectacular series of events to the
working press, and to officials in Washington.
     In those days an animal, in our case a chimpanzee, had to
precede man into space. The flight of the chimpanzee Ham was a
major milestone in our program. Here again we had some problems
in the Redstone launch vehicle that resulted in a delayed pickup
of the spacecraft, and water entered the spacecraft as a result
of landing damage to the pressure shell. However, the animal
performed admirably at zero gravity and was picked up unharmed.
Ham became quite famous and proved to be a really lovable little
fellow as well as a true pioneer.
     All the things that were wrong with Ham's flight were
corrected by hard work on the ground without further flight
tests. We were now ready for our first manned suborbital flight
and I recommended to Dr. Dryden and Mr. Webb that we were ready
to go ahead. However, the Marshall Center required one more
unmanned flight with the Redstone for booster development. It was
during this period that the Russians sent Yuri Gagarin aloft in
the Vostok spacecraft to become the first man in space.
     All of these events were occurring at the time that
President Kennedy and his staff were taking over from the
outgoing Eisenhower administration. Dr. Glennan, the
Administrator of NASA during its first years, gave way to James
Webb, who was to be the Administrator until October 1968. With
the change came other events. Project Mercury was examined by the
new head of the President's Science Advisory Committee, Dr.
Jerome Wiesner, and a staff of medical and physical scientists.
Our hearings before the Wiesner Committee went reasonably well
until we came to convincing the doctors that it was safe for man
to fly at zero gravity. Even though Ham, the chimpanzee, had
fared well and was completely normal after his flight, the
medical men on the committee were reluctant to accept this
evidence that man could stand even 15 minutes of zero gravity.
They were even concerned whether man could stand the mental
stress of lying on top of a rocket and being blasted into space.
However, we were able to convince Mr. Webb and Dr. Dryden that
the program was sound, and they, in turn, convinced the President
and his staff. It was at this time that Ed Welsh, Executive
Secretary of the Space Council, remarked while Mr. Kennedy was
pondering the impact of a failure, "Mr. President, can the
country stand a success?"
     On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard became the first American to
blast off from Cape Canaveral in a flight that was to be of great
importance to our future programs. His flight in Freedom 7 was
followed by Gus Grissom in a Mercury capsule called Liberty Bell
7. Orbital flights of the Mercury capsule followed with a
mechanical man and a chimpanzee named Enos. We were ready for
manned flight into orbit. We were extremely fortunate to have six
successful Atlas launch vehicles in a row to complete the Mercury
program. John Glenn's Mercury-Atlas mission on February 20, 1962.
was America's first orbital flight. We were to learn much from
the flights of Glenn, Carpenter, Schirra, and Cooper that helped
us in planning for the lunar program.
     The exposure of man to zero gravity in these early manned
flights was perhaps among the greatest medical experiments of all
time. All the Mercury astronauts found the weightless state no
particular problem. All returned to Earth with no medical
difficulties whatever. This finding was so fundamental and
straightforward that its importance was missed by many medical
critics at the time. It now became simply a question of how long
man could withstand weightlessness, and detailed medical
measurements were made to cast light on how the body compensated
for the new environment. Zero gravity produced some problems in
locomotion and habitability, but not in man himself. We believed
that even the longest flights of the future would probably
require only methods of keeping the human body properly exercised
and nourished in order to prevent a different reaction on
returning to the gravity of Earth.
- Robert R. Gilruth
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Year of Decisions (June 1961 to June 1962)
     The twelve months following the decision to go to the Moon
saw the complete plan unfold. New Centers were created, roles and
missions were assigned, and the basic designs for the launch
vehicle and spacecraft were agreed upon. In addition, a vital new
program, called Gemini, was instituted to explore rendezvous,
docking, and the many other factors that were vital before Apollo
could set out.
     At the onset of the program, there were two government
groups eager to participate. There was the Marshall Space Flight
Center under Dr. Wernher von Braun, which was a mature Center
having more than 5000 people, and there was the small but expert
Space Task Group of only a few hundred people, a group already
severely loaded with the Mercury project. Mr. Webb, the
Administrator, Dr. Dryden, the Deputy Administrator, and Dr.
Seamans, the Associate Administrator, were the top management of
the agency, and they brought onboard a young man named Brainerd
Holmes to head the manned spaceflight effort in Washington. This
group lost little time in deciding roles and missions for the
lunar program. A new launch Center was created in Florida, and
Dr. Kurt Debus, formerly of Marshall, was named its head. The
Marshall Center got the job of developing the huge Moon rockets,
although the size of the rocket and the mode for going to the
Moon had not yet been decided. The decision was made to expand
the Space Task Group into a full NASA Center and assign it the
job of developing the spacecraft and of creating a complex of
technical facilities for spacecraft research and development,
astronaut training, and flight operations. I became head of this
new NASA Center in Houston. The Center facilities were authorized
by Congress, but they did not yet exist. And so during the first
year of Apollo the Space Task Group became the Manned Spacecraft
Center and moved from Virginia to Texas. We occupied some 50-odd
rented buildings while the new Center was being designed and
built. It was a period of growth, organization, and growing
pains. We were establishing new contractor relations, moving
families and acquiring new homes, as well as conducting the
orbital flights of Project Mercury.
     Many of the key ideas and designs for going to the Moon were
created during this period of upheaval, turmoil, and the stress
of major flight activities. Even before the President's decision
to land on the Moon, we had been working on designs and
guidelines for a manned circumlunar mission. This was done in a
series of bull sessions on how we would design the spaceship for
this purpose if the opportunity occurred. Our key people would
get together evenings, weekends, or whenever we could to discuss
such questions as crew size and other fundamental design factors.
We believed that we would need three men on the trip to do all
the work required, even before the complexity of the landing was
added. We believed that man would be able to stand a zero-gravity
environment for the time required to go to the Moon and return.
We had decided that an oxygen atmosphere of 5 pounds per square
inch was the best engineering compromise for a system that would
permit extravehicular activity without another module for an
airlock. Other basic decisions included the selection of an
onboard navigation system as well as the ground-based systems and
controlled reentry to reduce G-loads and give pinpoint landings.
These original guidelines for lunar flight were presented to all
NASA Centers and to the aerospace industry.
     The conceptual design of the moonship was done in two
phases. The command and service module evolved first as part of
our circumlunar studies, and the lunar lander was added later
after the mode decision was made. We were extremely fortunate
that the design that evolved had such intrinsic merit. We had
designed our circumlunar spaceship to have a command module
containing the flight Crew located on top of the stack, so that
the astronauts could escape by means of an escape tower if abort
were necessary during launch. The service module containing fuel
for space propulsion, electric power equipment, and other stores,
was underneath it with its big rocket and its maneuvering
systems. In the adapter below the service module, a third element
of the spacecraft was located: a mission module to which the crew
would transfer for special experiments. Thus when the full
landing mission came along, we were able to substitute the lunar
lander for this mission module. The turnaround, docking, and
tunnel transfers between the command module and the lunar module
were then the same ones that we had planned between the command
module and the mission module.
     The shape of the command module was a refinement of the
Mercury capsule, optimized for the higher heating rate and the
angles of attack required for controlled reentry (One must
remember that at this early time, reentry was still considered a
serious problem.) Reentry from the Moon would generate heating
rates twice as great as those in vehicles returning at orbital
speed. Experts had warned us that shock-wave radiation would be
an additional source of heating. Our studies showed that the
blunt body was still the optimum shape, although the afterbody
shape should be more highly tapered than in the Mercury capsule.
As it turned out, our flights to the Moon showed that the Apollo
design was very conservative, particularly on the afterbody, and
the margins of safety for the astronauts in returning from the
Moon were comfortably large. Max Faget, Caldwell Johnson, and
others of the Manned Spacecraft Center were largely responsible
for putting down the original lines of the Apollo command module.
They also suggested the internal arrangement.
     All during the early planning for the lunar missions, I had
been greatly concerned about the effects of solar radiation on
the astronauts. Experts were not all in agreement as to the
amount of radiation that might be received on a mission to the
Moon. I remember George Low stating that the normal shielding of
the cabin walls, together with the low probability of intense
solar activity, would alleviate this hazard. He was right and the
radiation experienced by astronauts on trips to the Moon was of
no medical significance. Navigation in space might have been a
serious problem had not Stark Draper and his group at MIT gotten
an early start. They were brought in under contract to devise a
system for Apollo back in 1961. Working with their industrial
partners, they produced a system that was amazingly accurate.
     The pieces of the master plan were now beginning to fit
together. In the fall of 1961, North American Aviation had won
the contract for the Apollo command and service module. The basic
designs of the service propulsion engine, the reaction control
system, and the fuel cells were underway, but there were still
major technical areas to be settled. One of these was the
launch-vehicle design. As a result of many studies, the large
rocket originally proposed had lost its backers. Dr. von Braun
and the Huntsville team were zeroing in on a rocket of
intermediate size. This rocket was to use five of the huge F-1
engines on the first stage and a new hydrogen-oxygen engine in
the upper stages. It could easily be sized to send more than
90,000 pounds on a course to the Moon. We in Houston strongly
supported this design, which was later called the Saturn V. Only
one rocket vehicle of this size would be required to send our
spacecraft to the Moon, if we used the lunar-orbit rendezvous
technique. Getting official approval for the lunar-orbit
rendezvous was, however, to take considerable time and effort.
Brainerd Holmes, chosen by Webb to head Apollo in Washington,
strongly favored Earth-orbit rendezvous. This mode would use dual
launchings of the huge Saturn V rockets, joining them together in
orbit and pumping fuel from one to refill the other; and then
realigning and lighting off that rocket to the Moon. In this way,
much larger payloads could be flown to the Moon than by a single
rocket, but the technical and operational problems seemed to me
to be overwhelming.
     In contrast, I believed in and supported lunar-orbit
rendezvous. In this mode, the lander leaves the mother ship in
lunar orbit and goes down to the Moon's surface. Upon returning
to lunar orbit, it links up with the mother ship and the
astronauts transfer to the command module and return to Earth for
reentry and landing. Lunar-orbit rendezvous was espoused by John
Houbolt, chairman of the group that studied this plan at the
Langley Research Center. When I heard of this plan, I was
convinced that this was the way to go. It required far less
weight injected toward the Moon, but even more important, in my
view, was the fact that one spacecraft could be designed
specifically for lunar landing and takeoff, while the other could
be designed for flying to and from the Moon and specifically for
reentry and Earth landing. An additional bonus was that it
allowed the tremendous industrial job to be divided between two
major contractors since there would be two spacecraft, thereby
giving each one a more manageable task.
     By the late fall of 1961, all of us at the new Manned
Spacecraft Center were unified in support of lunar-orbit
rendezvous and were working tooth and nail to find out all we
could about lunar landers, rendezvousing, and the tradeoffs to be
made. In December of 1961 we made an earnest appeal to Brainerd
Holmes to approve lunar-orbit rendezvous. He could not be
convinced at that time, however, and only six months later was
the final decision made. Much of the credit for selling the
lunar-orbit mode must be given to the Houston people. Charles
Frick, who was our Apollo Spacecraft Manager at that time, was
particularly effective. Studies conducted by Frick's people
converted first the key engineers at the Marshall Space Flight
Center, including Drs. Rees and von Braun, and, finally, Brainerd
Holmes. Dr. Joe Shea, Holmes' assistant, then carried the
decision on to higher echelons of the Government. Mr. Webb
approved the lunar-orbit plan and only Dr. Wiesner and a few
others of the President's Science Advisors remained unconvinced.
However, the White House accepted Mr. Webb's decision.
     We were extremely fortunate during this period to have
Brainerd Holmes in charge of the Apollo program. He encouraged
the key Center leaders to work together by establishing a
management council with regular meetings. During these meetings,
we argued out our different opinions and developed into a
management team. A less skillful leader might have forced an
early arbitrary decision that would have made the whole task of
getting to the Moon virtually impossible.
     Our Administrator, Mr. Webb, now had a master plan. It
consisted of the giant three-stage launch vehicle, the Saturn V.
There would be a command module with three astronauts onboard.
The command module would be a blunt body, properly shaped and
ballasted for controlled gliding reentry. It would use ablative
material for the heat shield and would land at sea with
parachutes. A separate service module would carry the space-
propulsion engine? attitude-control jets, the fuel cells for
electric power, together with supplies of fuel and oxygen. There
would be a lunar-landing stage designed specifically for the job
of landing on the Moon. It would carry two men down to the Moon's
surface and back to rendezvous with the mother ship in orbit. In
simple terms. this was the technical plan for Apollo, and it was
to need no change as it went forward in development. All of this
had been decided within one year after the President's
announcement. Less than six months later. Grumman had won the
contract to build the lunar lander.
     One major element of basic program planning was still
missing. How were we to bridge the tremendous gap between the
simple Mercury Earth-orbital program and the Apollo voyage to the
Moon? We needed a chance to train our men in many new elements of
spaceflight. and we needed an engineering prototype for our ideas
as well. The answer was Project Gemini.
- Robert R. Gilruth
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Gemini Program
     The Gemini program was designed to investigate in actual
flight many of the critical situations which we would face later
in the voyage of Apollo. The spacecraft carried an onboard
propulsion system for maneuvering in Earth orbit. A guidance and
navigation system and a rendezvous radar were provided to permit
astronauts to try out various techniques of rendezvous and
docking with an Agena target vehicle. After docking, the
astronauts could light off the Agena rocket for large changes in
orbit, simulating the entry-into-lunar-orbit and the return-to-
Earth burns of Apollo. Gemini was the first to use the controlled
reentry system that was required for Apollo in returning from the
Moon. It had hatches that could be opened and closed in space to
permit extravehicular activity by astronauts. and fuel cells
similar in purpose to those of Apollo to permit flights of long
duration. The spacecraft was small by Apollo standards, carrying
only two men in close quarters. However, the Titan 2 launch
vehicle, which was the best available at that time, could not
manage a larger payload.
     A total of 10 manned flights were made in the Gemini program
between March 1965 and November 1966. They gave us nearly 2000
man-hours in space and developed the rendezvous and docking
techniques essential to Apollo. By burning the Agena rockets
after docking we were able to go to altitudes of more than 800
nautical miles and prove the feasibility of the precise space
maneuvers essential to Apollo. Our first experience in EVA was
obtained with Gemini and difficulties here early in the program
paved the way for the smoothly working EVA systems used later on
the Moon. The Borman and Lovell flight, Gemini VII, showed us
that durations up to two weeks were possible without serious
medical problems, and the later flights showed the importance of
neutral buoyancy training in preparation of zero-gravity
operations outside the spacecraft.
     Gemini gave us the confidence we needed in complex space
operations, and it was during this period that Chris Kraft and
his team really made spaceflight operational. They devised superb
techniques for flight management, and Mission Control developed
to where it was really ready for the complex Apollo missions.
Chris Kraft, Deke Slayton, head of the astronauts, and Dr. Berry,
our head of Medical Operations, learned to work together as a
team. Finally, the success of these operations and the high
spaceflight activity kept public interest at a peak, giving our
national leaders the broad supporting interest and general
approval that made it possible to press ahead with a program of
the scale of Apollo.
- Robert R. Gilruth
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Plan in Retrospect
     In thinking back over the flights of Apollo, I am impressed
at the intrinsic excellence of the plan that had evolved. I have,
of course, somewhat oversimplified its evolution and there were
times when we became discouraged, and when it seemed that the
sheer scope of the task would overwhelm us in some areas there
were surprises and other areas proceeded quite naturally and
smoothly.
     The most cruel surprise in the program was the loss of three
astronauts in the Apollo fire, which occurred before our first
manned flight. It was difficult for the country to understand how
this could have occurred, and it seemed for a time that the
program might not survive. I believe that the self-imposed
discipline that resulted, and the ever-greater efforts on
quality, enhanced our chances for success, coming as they did
while the spacecraft was being rebuilt and final plans
formulated.
     The pogo problem was another surprise. Like the fire, it
showed how difficult it was to conquer this new ocean of space.
Fortunately, intensive and brilliant work with the big Saturns
solved the problem with the launch rocket, permitting the flights
to proceed without mishap.
     We had planned a buildup of our flights, starting with a
simple Earth-orbit flight of the command and service modules
(Apollo 7) to be followed by similar trials with the lunar module
(LM) added, for tests of rendezvous and docking and various burns
of the LM engines (Apollo 9). These tests would have then been
followed by flights to lunar orbit with the LM scouting the
landing but not going all the way in (Apollo 10), and then the
landing (Apollo 11).
     After Apollo 7, however, the LM was not yet ready and the
opportunity occurred to fly to the Moon with command and service
module (CSM) only. This flight (Apollo 8) was to give us many
benefits early in the program. Technically, it gave us
information on our communication and tracking equipment for later
missions, a close view of our landing sites. and experience in
cislunar space with a simplified mission. Politically, it may
have assured us of being first to the Moon, since the stepped-up
schedule precluded the Russians from flying a man around the Moon
with their Zond before we reached the Moon following our
previously scheduled missions.
     The flights came off almost routinely following Apollo 8 on
through the first lunar landing and the flight to the Surveyor
crater. But Apollo 13 was to see our first major inflight
emergency when an explosion in the service module cut off the
oxygen supply to the command module. Fortunately, the LM was
docked to the CSM, and its oxygen and electric power, as well as
its propulsion rocket, were available. During the 4-day ordeal of
Apollo 13, the world watched breathlessly while the LM pushed the
stricken command module around the Moon and back to Earth.
Precarious though it was, Apollo 13 showed the merit of having
separate spacecraft modules, and of training of flight and ground
crews to adapt to emergency. The ability of the flight directors
on the ground to read out the status of flight equipment, and the
training of astronauts to meet emergencies, paid off on this
mission.
     Apollo surely is a prototype for explorations of the future
when we again send men into space to build a base on the Moon or
to explore even farther away from Earth.
- Robert R. Gilruth
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Saturn the Giant
|   Chapter: Three
!    Author: Wernher Von Braun
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 41
|-----------------------------------------------------
Saturn the Giant
     With the beep-beep-beep of Sputnik on 4 October 1957, the
Soviet Union had inaugurated the Space Age. It had also presented
American planners with the painful realization that there was no
launch vehicle in the U.S. stable capable of orbiting anything
approaching Sputnik's weight.
     Responding to a proposal submitted by the Army Ballistic
Missile Agency the Department of Defense was in just the right
mood to authorize ABMA to develop a 1,500,000-pound-thrust
booster. That unprecedented thrust was to be generated by
clustering eight S-3D Rocketdyne engines used in the Jupiter and
Thor missiles. The tankage for the kerosene and liquid oxygen was
also to be clustered to make best use of tools and fixtures
available from the Redstone and Jupiter programs. The program was
named "Saturn" simply because Saturn was the next outer planet
after Jupiter in the solar system.
     Gen. John B. Medaris, commander of ABMA and my boss felt
that for a good design job on the booster it was necessary for us
also to study suitable upper stages for the Saturn. On November
18, 1959. Saturn was transferred to the new National Aeronautics
and Space Administration NASA promptly appointed a committee to
settle the upper-stage selection for Saturn. It was chaired by
Dr. Abe Silverstein who as associate director of NASA's Lewis
Center in Cleveland, had spent years exploring liquid hydrogen as
a rocket fuel. As a result of this work the Air Force had let a
contract with Pratt & Whitney for the development of a small
15,000-pound-thrust liquid hydrogen/liquid oxygen engine, two of
which were to power a new "Centaur" top stage for the Air Force's
Atlas. Abe was on solid ground when he succeeded in persuading
his committee to swallow its scruples about the risks of the new
fuel and go to high-power liquid hydrogen for the upper stage of
Saturn.
     In the wake of Gagarin's first orbital flight on April 12
1961 Saturn gained increased importance. Nevertheless when the
first static test of the booster with all eight engines was about
to begin at least one skeptical witness predicted a tragic ending
of Cluster's last stand. Doubts about the feasibility of
clustering eight highly complex engines had indeed motivated
funding for two new engine developments. One was in essence an
uprating and simplification effort on the S-3D and it led to the
188,000-pound-thrust H-1 engine. The other aimed at a very
powerful new engine called F-1, which was to produce a full 1.5-
million-pound thrust in a single barrel. Both contracts went to
Rocketdyne.
     Following up on the recommendation of the Silverstein
committee, NASA awarded a contract to the Douglas Aircraft
Company for the development of a second stage for Saturn that
became known as S-IV. It was to be powered by six Centaur
engines. On 8 September 1960 President Eisenhower came to
Huntsville to dedicate the new Center named after Gen. George C.
Marshall. It was to become the focal point for NASA's new large
launch vehicles, and I was appointed as its first director.
- Wernher von Braun
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Determining Saturn's Configuration
     The first launch of the Saturn booster was still five months
away when, on May 25, 1961, President John F. Kennedy proposed
that the United States commit itself to land a man on the Moon in
this decade. For this ambitious task a launch vehicle far more
powerful than our eight-engine Saturn would be needed. To
determine its exact power requirements a selection had to be made
from among three operational concepts for a manned voyage to the
Moon: direct ascent Earth orbit rendezvous (EOR) and lunar orbit
rendezvous (LOR).
     With direct ascent the entire spacecraft would soft-land on
the Moon carrying enough propellants to fly back to Earth. Weight
and performance studies showed that this would require a launch
vehicle of a lift-off thrust of 12 million pounds furnished by
eight F-1 engines. We called this hypothetical launch vehicle
Nova. The EOR mode envisioned two somewhat smaller rockets that
were to rendezvous in Earth orbit where their payloads would be
combined. In the LOR mode a single rocket would launch a payload
consisting of a separable spacecraft toward the Moon where an
onboard propulsion unit would case it into orbit. A two-stage
lunar module (LM) would then detach itself from the orbiting
section and descend to the lunar surface. Its upper stage would
return to the circumlunar orbit for rendezvous with the orbiting
section. In a second burst of power the propulsion unit would
finally drive the reentry element with its crew out of lunar
orbit and back to Earth.
     As all the world knows the LOR mode was ultimately selected.
But even after its adoption the number of F-1 engines to be used
in the first stage of the Moon rocket remained unresolved for
quite a while.  H.H. Koelle who ran our Project Planning Group at
Marshall had worked out detailed studies of a configuration
called Saturn IV with four F-1's and another called Saturn V with
five F-1's in its first stage. Uncertainty about LM weight and
about propulsion performance of the still untested F-1 and upper-
stage engines, combined with a desire to leave a margin for
growth finally led us to the choice of the Saturn V
configuration.
     Despite the higher power offered by liquid hydrogen,
Koelle's studies indicated that little would be gained by using
it in the first stage also, where it would have needed
disproportionately large tanks. (Liquid hydrogen is only one
twelfth as dense as kerosene so a much larger tank volume would
have been required.) In all multistage rockets the upper stages
are lighter than the lower ones. Thus heavier but less energetic
kerosene in the first stage in combination with lighter but more
powerful hydrogen in the upper stages made possible a better
launch-vehicle configuration.
     Saturn V as it emerged from the studies, would consist of
three stages- all brand new. The first one burning kerosene and
oxygen, would be powered by five F-1 engines. We called it S-IC.
The second stage, S-II would need about a million pounds of
thrust and if also powered by five engines, would call for the
development of new 200,000-pound hydrogen-oxygen engines. A
single engine of this thrust would just be right to power the
third stage. The Saturn I's S-IV second stage was clearly not
powerful enough to serve as the Saturn's third one. A much larger
tankage and at least thirteen of Pratt & Whitney's little LR-10
engines would be required; this did not appear very attractive.
     When bids for the new J-2 engine were solicited. Pratt &
Whitney with its ample liquid-hydrogen experience was a strong
contender. But when all the points in the sternly controlled
bidding procedure were counted North American's Rocketdyne
Division won again.
     North American had been involved in the development of
liquid fuel rocket engines since the immediate postwar years and
the Navajo long range ramjet program. The engines it developed
for the Navajo booster and their offspring later found their way
into the Atlas, Redstone. Thor and Jupiter programs. For the
testing of these engines NAA's Rocketdyne Division had acquired a
boulder-strewn area high in the Santa Susana mountains north of
Los Angeles that had previously served as rugged background for
many a Western movie. The Santa Susana facility would henceforth
serve not only for the development of the new J-2 engine. but
also for short duration battleship testing of the five-engine
cluster of these engines powering the S-II stage. (Safety and
noise considerations ruled out the use of Santa Susana for the
1.5-million-pound-thrust F-1 engine. Test stands for its
development were therefore set up in the Mojave desert adjacent
to Edwards Air Force Base.)
- Wernher von Braun
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Choosing the Builders
     How many prime contractors, we wondered, should NASA bring
in for the development of the Saturn V? Just one, or one per
stage? How about the Instrument Unit that was to house the
rocket's inertial-guidance system, its digital computer and an
assortment of radio command and telemetry functions? Who would do
the overall systems engineering and monitor the intricate
interface between the huge rocket and the complex propellant-
loading and launching facilities at Cape Canaveral? Where would
the various stages be static-tested?
     Understandably the entire aerospace industry was attracted
by both the financial value and the technological challenge of
Saturn V. To give the entire plum to a single contractor would
have left all others unhappy More important Saturn V needed the
very best engineering and management talent the industry could
muster. By breaking up the parcel into several pieces more top
people could be brought to bear on the program.
     The Boeing Company was the successful bidder on the first
stage (S-IC); North American Aviation won the second stage
(S-II); and Douglas Aircraft fell heir to the Saturn V's third
stage (S-IVB). Systems engineering and overall responsibility for
the Saturn V development was assigned to the Marshall Space
Flight Center. The inertial-guidance system had emerged from a
Marshall in-house development and as it had to be located close
to other elements of the big rocket's central nervous system it
was only logical to develop the Instrument Unit (IU) to house
this electronic gear as a Marshall in-house project. IU flight
units were subsequently produced by IBM, which had developed the
launch-vehicle computer.
     Uniquely tight procurement procedures introduced by NASA
Administrator Jim Webb made it possible to acquire billions of
dollars worth of exotic hardware and facilities without
overrunning initial cost estimates and without the slightest hint
of procurement irregularity. Before it could issue a request for
bids, the contracting NASA Center had to prepare a detailed
procurement plan that required the Administrator's personal
approval and that could not be changed thereafter. It had to
include a point-scoring system in which evaluation criteria-
technical merits, cost, skill availability, prior experience etc.
-were given specific weighting factors. Business and technical
criteria were evaluated by separate teams not permitted to know
the other's rankings. The total matrix was then assembled by a
Source Evaluation Board that gave a complete presentation of all
bids and their scoring results to the three top men in the agency
who themselves chose the winner. There was simply no room for
arbitrariness or irregularity in such a system.
     The tremendous increase in contracts needed for the Saturn V
program required a reorganization of the Marshall Space Flight
Center. Most of our resources had been spent in-house. and our
contracts had either been let to support contractors or to
producers of our developed products. Now 90 percent of our budget
was spent in industry much of it on complicated assignments which
included design manufacture and testing. So on September 1, 1963,
I announced that Marshall would henceforth consist of two major
elements, one to be called Research and Development Operations
the other Industrial Operations. Most of my old R&D associates
then became a sort of architect's staff keeping an eye on the
integrity of the structure called Saturn V. and the other group
funded and supervised the industrial contractors.
     That same year Dr. George Mueller had taken over as NASA's
Associate Administrator for Manned Space Flight. He brought with
him Air Force Maj. Gen. Samuel Phillips, who had served as
program manager for Minuteman, and now became Apollo Program
Director at NASA Headquarters. Both men successfully shaped the
three NASA Centers involved in the lunar-landing program into a
team. I was particularly fortunate in that Sam Phillips persuaded
his old friend and associate Col. (later Maj. Gen.) Edwin
O'Connor to assume the directorship of Marshall's Industrial
Operations.
     On September 7, 1961, NASA had taken over the Michoud
Ordnance plant at New Orleans. The cavernous plant- 46 acres
under one roof- was assigned to Chrysler and Boeing to set up
production for the first stages of Saturn I and Saturn V. In
October 1961 an area of 13,350 acres in Hancock County Miss. was
acquired. Huge test stands were erected there for the static
testing of Saturn V's first and second stages.
     Shipment of the oversize stages between Huntsville, Michoud
the Mississippi Test Facility the two California contractors, and
the Kennedy Space Center in Florida required barges and seagoing
ships. Soon Marshall found itself running a small fleet that
included the barges Palaemon, Orion, and Promise. For shipments
through the Panama Canal we used the USNS Point Barrow and the SS
Steel Executive. For rapid transport we had two converted
Stratocruisers at our disposal with the descriptive names
Pregnant Guppy and Super Guppy. Their bulbous bodies could
accommodate cargo up to the size of an S-IVB stage.
- Wernher von Braun
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
An all-up Test for the First Flight
     In 1964 George Mueller visited Marshall and casually
introduced us to his philosophy of all-up testing. To the
conservative breed of old rocketeers who had learned the hard way
that it never seemed to pay to introduce more than one major
change between flight tests George's ideas had an unrealistic
ring. Instead of beginning with a ballasted first-stage flight as
in the Saturn I program adding a live second stage only after the
first stage had proven its flight worthiness his "all-up" concept
was startling. It meant nothing less than that the very first
flight would be conducted with all three live stages of the giant
Saturn V. Moreover, in order to maximize the payoff of that first
flight George said it should carry a live Apollo command and
service module as payload. The entire flight should be carried
through a sophisticated trajectory that would permit the command
module to reenter the atmosphere under conditions simulating a
return from the Moon.
     It sounded reckless but George Mueller's reasoning was
impeccable. Water ballast in lieu of a second and third stage
would require much less tank volume than liquid-hydrogen-fueled
stages. so that a rocket tested with only a live first stage
would be much shorter than the final configuration. Its
aerodynamic shape and its body dynamics would thus not be
representative. Filling the ballast tanks with liquid hydrogen?
Fine but then why not burn it as a bonus experiment? And so the
arguments went on until George in the end prevailed.
     In retrospect it is clear that without all-up testing the
first manned lunar landing could not have taken place as early as
1969. Before Mueller joined the program. it had been decided that
a total of about 20 sets of Apollo spacecraft and Saturn V
rockets would be needed. Clearly at least ten unmanned flights
with the huge new rocket would be required before anyone would
muster the courage to launch a crew with it. (Even ten would be a
far smaller number than the unmanned launches of Redstones
Atlases and Titans that had preceded the first manned Mercury and
Gemini flights.) The first manned Apollo flights would be limited
to low Earth orbits. Gradually we would inch our way closer to
the Moon. and flight no. 17, perhaps would bring the first lunar
landing. That would give us a reserve of three flights, just in
case things did not work as planned.
     Mueller changed all this and his bold telescoping of the
overall plan bore magnificent fruit: With the third Saturn V ever
to be launched Frank Borman's Apollo 8 crew orbited the Moon on
Christmas 1968 and the sixth Saturn V carried Neil Armstrong's
Apollo 11 to the first lunar landing. Even though production was
whittled back to fifteen units Saturn V's launched a total of two
unmanned and ten manned Apollo missions plus one Skylab space
station. Two uncommitted rockets went into mothballs.
     But let us go back to 1962. To develop and manufacture the
large S-II and S-IVB stages two West Coast contractors required
special facilities. A new Government plant was built at Seal
Beach where North American was to build the S-II. S-IVB
development and manufacture was moved into a new Douglas center
at Huntington Beach while static testing went to Sacramento. The
Marshall Center in Huntsville was also substantially enlarged. A
huge new shop building was erected for assembly of the first
three S-IC stages. A large stand was built to static-test the
huge stage under the full 7,500,000-pound-thrust of its five F-I
engines. These engines generated no less than 180 million
horsepower. As about 1 percent of that energy was converted into
noise neighborhood windows could be expected to break and plaster
rain from ceilings if the wind was blowing from the wrong
direction or the clouds were hanging low. A careful
meteorological monitoring program had to be instituted to permit
test runs only under favorable weather conditions.
     Although the most visible and audible signs of Marshall's
involvement in Saturn V development were the monstrous and noisy
S-IC engines, equally important work was done in its Astrionics
Laboratory. The Saturn V's airbearing-supported inertial guidance
platform was born there, along with a host of other highly
sophisticated electronic devices. In the Astrionics Simulator
Facility. guidance and control aspects of a complete three-stage
flight of the great rocket could be electronically simulated
under all sorts of operating conditions. The supersonic passage
of the rocket through a high-altitude jet stream could be
duplicated for instance or the sudden failure of one of the S-II
stage's five engines. The simulator would faithfully display the
excursions of the swivel-mounted rocket engines in response to
external wind forces or unsymmetrical loss of thrust establishing
the dynamic response of the entire rocket and the resulting
structural loads.
     The Saturn V's own guidance system would guide the Apollo
flights not only to an interim parking orbit but all the way to
translunar injection. It fed position data to the onboard digital
computer which in turn prepared and sent control signals to the
hydraulic actuators that swiveled the big engines for flight-path
control. As propellant consumption lightened the rocket and as it
traversed the atmosphere at subsonic and supersonic speeds the
gain settings of these control signals had to vary continuously
for proper control damping. Serving as the core of the Saturn V's
central nervous system the computer did many other things too. It
served in the computerized prelaunch checkout procedure of the
great rocket helped calibrate the telemetry transmissions
activated staging procedures turned equipment on and off as the
flight proceeded through various speed regimes and even watched
over the cooling system that stabilized the temperatures of the
array of sensitive blackboxes within the IU. So although the
working flight lifetime of the Saturn computer was measured in
minutes it performed many exacting duties during its short and
busy life.
     In planning the lunar mission why did we plan to stop over
in a parking orbit? The reason was twofold: For one, in case of a
malfunction it is much easier and safer for astronauts to return
from Earth orbit than from a high-speed trajectory carrying them
toward the Moon. A parking orbit offers both crew and ground
controllers an opportunity to give the vehicle a thorough once-
over before committing it to the long voyage. Second there is the
consideration of operational flexibility. If the launch came off
at precisely the right instant, only one trajectory from the
launch pad to the Moon had to be considered. But as there was
always the possibility of a last-minute delay it appeared highly
desirable to provide a launch window of reasonable duration. This
meant not only that the launch azimuth had to be changed, but due
to Earth rotation and to orbital motion the Moon would move to a
different position in the sky. A parking orbit permitted an ideal
way to take up the slack: the longer a launch delay the shorter
the stay in the parking orbit. Restart of the third stage in
parking orbit for translunar injection would take place at almost
the same time of day regardless of launch delays. (As it happened
all but two of the manned Apollo-Saturns lifted off within tiny
fractions of a second of being precisely on time. One was held
for weather and the other was held because of a faulty diode in
the ground-support equipment.)
     Why was the big rocket so reliable? Saturn V was not
overdesigned in the sense that everything was made needlessly
strong and heavy. But great care was devoted to identifying the
real environment in which each part was to work- and
"environment" included accelerations, vibrations, stresses,
fatigue loads, pressures, temperatures, humidity, corrosion, and
test cycles prior to launch. Test programs were then conducted
against somewhat more severe conditions than were expected. A
methodology was created to assess each part with a demonstrated
reliability figure such as 0.9999998. Total rocket reliability
would then be the product of all these parts reliabilities and
had to remain above the figure of 0.990, or 99 percent. Redundant
parts were used whenever necessary to attain this reliability
goal.
     Marshall built an overall systems simulator on which all
major subsystems of the three-stage rocket could be exercised
together. This facility featured replicas of propellant tanks
that could be loaded or unloaded, pressurized or vented, and that
duplicated the pneumatic and hydraulic dynamics involved.
Electrically, it simulated the complete network of the launch
vehicle and its interfacing ground support equipment.
- Wernher von Braun
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Perils of Pogo
     An important Marshall facility was the Dynamic Test Tower
the only place outside the Cape where the entire Saturn V vehicle
could be assembled. Electrically powered shakers induced various
vibrational modes in the vehicle so that its elastic deformations
and structural damping characteristics could be determined. The
Dynamic Test Tower played a vital role in the speedy remedy of a
problem that unexpectedly struck in the second flight of a Saturn
V. Telemetry indicated that during the powered phases of all
three stages a longitudinal vibration occurred under which the
rocket alternately contracted and expanded like a concertina.
This pogo oscillation (the name derived from the child's toy)
would be felt particularly strongly in the command module.
     Analysis supported by data collected in engine tests
confirmed that the oscillation was caused by resonance coupling
between the spring like elastic structure of the tankage, and the
rocket engines' propellant-feed systems. Susceptibility to pogo
(a phenomenon not unknown to missile designers) had been
thoroughly investigated by the Saturn stage contractors, who had
certified that their respective designs would be pogo-free. It
turned out that these mathematical analyses had been conducted on
an inadequate data base.
     Once the problem was understood, a fix was quickly found.
"In sync" with the pogo oscillations, pressures in the fuel and
oxidizer feed lines fluctuated wildly. If these fluctuations
could be damped by gas-filled cavities attached to the propellant
lines which would act as shock absorbers, the unacceptable
oscillation excursions should be drastically reduced. Such
cavities were readily available in the liquid-oxygen prevalves,
whose back sides were now filled with pressurized helium gas
tapped off the high-pressure control system. After a few weeks of
hectic activity a pogo-free Saturn flight no. 3 successfully
boosted the Apollo 8 crew to their Christmas flight in lunar
orbit.
- Wernher von Braun
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Artificial Storms at the Arm Farm
     The connections between the ground and the towering space
vehicle posed a tricky problem. An umbilical tower, even higher
than the vehicle itself, was required to support an array of
swingarms that at various levels would carry the cables and the
pneumatic fueling, and venting lines to the rocket stages and to
the spacecraft. The swingarms had to be in place during final
countdown, but in the last moments they had to be turned out of
the way to permit the rocket to rise. There was always the
possibility, however, of some trouble after the swingarms had
been disconnected. For instance, the holddown mechanism would
release the rocket only after all five engines of the first stage
produced full power. If this condition was not attained within a
few second, all engines would shut down. In such a situation,
unless special provisions were made for reattachment of some
swingarms, Launch Control would be unable to "safe" the vehicle
and remove the flight crew from its precarious perch atop a
potential bomb.
     These considerations led to the establishment, at Marshall,
of a special Swingarm Test Facility, where detachment and
reconnection of various arms was tested under brutally realistic
conditions. On the "Arm Farm" extreme conditions (such as a
launch scrub during an approaching Florida thunderstorm) could be
simulated. Artificial rain was blown by aircraft propellers
against the swingarms and their interconnect plugs, while the
vehicle portion was moved back and forth, left and right,
simulating the swaying motions that the towering rocket would
display during a storm.
     Throughout Saturn V's operational life, its developers felt
a relentless pressure to increase its payload capability. At
first, the continually growing weight of the LM (resulting mainly
from additional operational features and redundancy) was the
prime reason. Later, after the first successful lunar landing,
the appetite for longer lunar stay times grew. Scientists wanted
landing sites at higher lunar latitudes and astronauts like
tourists everywhere wanted a rental car at their destination. How
well this growth demand was met is shown by a pair of numbers:
The Saturn V that carried Apollo 8 to the Moon had a total
payload above the IU of less than 80,000 pounds; in comparison
the Saturn that launched the lunar mission, Apollo 17, had a
payload of 116,000 pounds.
- Wernher von Braun
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Spaceships
|   Chapter: Four
!    Author: George M. Low
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 59
|-----------------------------------------------------
The Spaceships
     On 3 April 1967, NASA 2, a Grumman Gulfstream, was taxiing
for takeoff at Washington National Airport. Bob Gilruth, Director
of NASA's Manned Spacecraft Center and I (his Deputy at that
time) were about to return to Houston after a series of meetings
in Washington. But just before starting down the runway, the
pilot received a cryptic message from the tower: return to the
terminal and ask the passengers to wait in the pilot's lounge.
Soon arrived Administrator Jim Webb, his Deputy Bob Seamans,
George Mueller, the head of Manned Space Flight, and Apollo
Program Director Sam Phillips. Counting Bob Gilruth, everybody in
the NASA hierarchy between me and the President was there.
     Jim Webb, using fewer words than usual, came right to the
point: Apollo was faltering; the catastrophic fire on 27 January
that had taken the lives of three astronauts had been a major
setback. All its consequences were not yet known; time was
running out on the Nation's commitment to land on the Moon before
the end of the decade. Then the punch line: NASA wanted me to
take on the task of rebuilding the Apollo spacecraft, and to see
to it that we met the commitment.
     Thus began the most exciting, most demanding, sometimes most
frustrating, and always most challenging 27 months in my career
as an engineer. Not that Apollo was completely new to me. Six
years earlier I had chaired the NASA committee that recommended a
manned lunar landing and provided the background work for
President Kennedy's decision to go to the Moon. In the
intervening years I had not been involved in the day-to-day
engineering details of the Apollo spaceships- yet 27 months
later, sitting at a console in the Launch Control Center during
the final seconds of the countdown for Apollo 11. I had come to
know and understand two of the most complex flying machines ever
built by man.
- George M. Low
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Two Magnificent Flying Machines
     But in April 1967 these machines were essentially strangers
to me. How were they designed? How were they built and tested?
What were their strengths and their weaknesses? Above all, what
flaw in their design had caused the fire, and what other flaws
lurked in their complexity?
     First there was the command and service module- the CSM-
collectively a single spacecraft, but separable into two
components (the command module and the service module) for the
final minutes of reentry. It was built by North American Rockwell
in Downey, California, a place which would become one of my many
"homes" for the next 27 months. The command module was compact,
solid, and sturdy, designed with one overriding consideration: to
survive the fiery heat of reentry as it abandoned the service
module and slammed back into the atmosphere at the tremendous
speed of 25,000 miles an hour. It was a descendant of Mercury and
Gemini, but its task was much more difficult. The speed of
reentry from the Moon is nearly one and one-half times as fast as
returning from Earth orbit; to slow down from that speed required
the dissipation of great amounts of energy. In fact, there is
enough energy at reentry to melt and vaporize all the material in
the command module several times over, so the spacecraft had to
be protected by an ablative heat shield that charred and slowly
burned away, thereby protecting all that it surrounded. The
command module was also crammed with equipment and subsystems:
and of course three men lived in it for most of the lunar
journey, and one of them for all of it. It was cone-shaped, with
a blunt face for reentry; it was 11 feet long, 13 feet in
diameter, and weighed 6 tons.
     The service module was the quartermaster of the pair. It
carried most of the stores needed for the journey through space;
oxygen, power-generation equipment, and water as a byproduct of
power generation. More than that, it had a propulsion system
bigger and more powerful than many upper stages of present launch
vehicles. It made all the maneuvers needed to navigate to the
Moon, to push itself and the lunar module into lunar orbit, and
to eject itself out of orbit to return to Earth. The service
module was a cylinder 13 feet in diameter and 24 feet long. Fully
loaded it weighed 26 tons.
     Then there was the lunar module (LM, pronounced LEM, which
had actually been its designation- for lunar excursion module-
until someone decided that the word excursion' might lend a
frivolous note to Apollo). LM was the first true spaceship: it
was hidden in a cocoon during the launch through the atmosphere
because it could operate only in the vacuum of space. Built by
Grumman in Bethpage, New York (another of my many homes away from
home), it was somewhat flimsy, with paper-thin walls and spindly
legs. Its mission was to carry two explorers from lunar orbit to
the surface of the Moon, provide a base for them on the Moon, and
then send its upper half back into lunar orbit to a rendezvous
with its mother ship, the CSM. Designed by aeronautical engineers
who for once did not have to worry about airflow and
streamlining, it looked like a spider, a gargantuan, other-world
insect that stood 23 feet tall and weighed 16 tons. When Jim
McDivitt returned from Apollo 9, LM's first manned flight, he
gave me a photograph of his Spider in space, with this caption:
"Many thanks for the funny-looking spacecraft. It sure flies
better than it looks."
     These were the Apollo spacecraft: two machines, 17 tons of
aluminum, steel, copper, titanium, and synthetic materials; 33
tons of propellant; 4 million parts, 40 miles of wire, 100,000
drawing, 26, subsystems, 678 switches, 410 circuit breakers.
     To look after them there was a brand-new program manager who
would have to leap upon this fast-moving train, learn all about
it, decide what was good enough and what wasn't, what to accept
and what to change. In the meanwhile, the clock ticked away.
bringing the end of the decade ever closer.
- George M. Low
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Complex Subsystems Performed Vital Functions
     At the heart of each spacecraft were its subsystems.
"Subsystem" is space-age jargon for a mechanical or electronic
device that performs a specific function such as providing
oxygen, electric power, and even bathroom facilities. CSM and LM
subsystems performed similar functions, but differed in their
design because each had to be adapted to the peculiarities of the
spacecraft and its environment.
     Begin with the environmental control system- the life-
support system for man and his machine. It was a marvel of
efficiency and reliability, with weight and volume at a premium.
A scuba diver uses a tank of air in 60 minutes; in Apollo an
equivalent amount of oxygen lasted 15 hours. Oxygen was not
simply inhaled once and then discarded: the exhaled gas was
scrubbed to eliminate its CO2, recycled, and reused. At the same
time, its temperature was maintained at a comfortable level,
moisture was removed, and odors were eliminated. That's not all:
the same life-support system also maintained the cabin at the
right pressure, provided hot and cold water, and a circulating
coolant to keep all the electronic gear at the proper
temperature. (In the weightless environment of space, there are
no convective currents, and equipment must be cooled by means of
circulating fluids.) Because astronauts' lives depended on this
system. most of the functions were provided with redundancy- and
yet the entire unit was not much bigger than a window air
conditioner.
     How do you generate enough electric power to run a ship in
space? In the CSM, the answer was fuel cells; in the LM, storage
batteries. Apollo fuel cells used oxygen and hydrogen- stored as
liquids at extremely cold temperatures- that when combined
chemically yielded electric power and, as a byproduct, water for
drinking. (In early flights the water contained entrapped bubbles
of hydrogen which caused the astronauts no real harm but
engendered major gastronomic discomfort. This led to loud
complaints and the problem was finally solved by installing
special diaphragms in the system.) The fuel-cell power system was
efficient. clean and absolutely pollution-free. Storing oxygen
and hydrogen required new advances in leakproof insulated
containers. If an Apollo hydrogen tank were filled with ice and
placed in a room at 70 F, it would take 8.5 years for the ice to
melt. If an automobile tire leaked at the same rate as these
tanks it would take 30 million years to go flat.
     "Houston, this is Tranquility." These words soon would be
heard from another world coming from an astronaut walking on the
Moon, relayed to the LM, then to a tracking station in Australia
or Spain or California, and on to Mission Control in Houston with
only two seconds' delay. Communications from the Moon were
clearer and certainly more reliable than they were from my home
in Nassau Bay (a stone's throw from the Manned Spacecraft Center)
to downtown Houston. At the same time, a tiny instrument would
register a reading in the astronauts' life-support system, and a
few seconds later an engineer in Mission Control would see a
variation in oxygen pressure, or a doctor a chance in heart rate:
and around the world people would watch on their home television
sets. Behind all of this would be the Apollo communications
system- designed to be the astronauts' life line hack to Earth,
to be compact and lightweight, and yet to function with absolute
reliability; an array of receivers, transmitters, power supplies
and antennas, all tuned to perfection, that allowed the men and
equipment on the ground to extend the capabilities of the
astronauts and their ships. (Later on when the computer on Apollo
11's LM was overloaded during the critical final seconds of the
landing, it was this communications system that enabled a highly
skilled flight controller named Steve Bales to tell Neil
Armstrong that it was safe to disregard the overload alarms and
to go ahead with the lunar landing.)
     If you had to single out one subsystem as being most
important, most complex, and yet most demanding in performance
and precision, it would be Guidance and Navigation Its function:
to guide Apollo across 250,000 miles of empty space; achieve a
precise orbit around the Moon; land on its surface within a few
yards of a predesignated spot; guide LM from the surface to a
rendezvous in lunar orbit; guide the CM to hit the Earth's
atmosphere within a 27-mile "corridor" where the air was thick
enough to capture the spacecraft, and yet thin enough so as not
to burn it up; and finally land it close to a recovery ship in
the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Designed by the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology under Stark Draper's leadership, G&N
consisted of a miniature computer with an incredible amount of
information in its memory; an array of gyroscopes and
accelerometers called the inertial-measurement unit; and a space
sextant to enable the navigator to take star sightings. Together
they determined precisely the spacecraft location between Earth
and Moon, and how best to burn the engines to correct the ship's
course or to land at the right spot on the Moon with a minimum
expenditure of fuel. Precision was of utmost importance; there
was no margin for error, and there were no reserves for a missed
approach to the Moon. In Apollo 11, Eagle landed at Tranquility
Base, after burning its descent engine for 12 minutes, with only
20 seconds of landing fuel remaining.
     But the guidance system only told us where the spacecraft
was and how to correct its course. It provided the brain, while
the propulsion system provided the brawn in the form of rocket
engines, propellant tanks, valves, and plumbing. There were 50
engines on the spacecraft, smaller but much more numerous than
those on the combined three stages of the Saturn that provided
the launch toward the Moon. Most of them- 16 on the LM, 16 on the
SM, and 12 on the CM- furnished only 100 pounds of thrust apiece;
they oriented the craft in any desired direction just as an
aircraft's elevators, ailerons, and rudder control pitch, roll,
and yaw.
     Three of the engines were much larger. On the service module
a 20,500-pound-thrust engine injected Apollo into lunar orbit,
and later brought it back home; on the LM there was a 10,500-
pound-thrust engine for descent, and a 3500 pounder for ascent.
All three had to work: a failure would have stranded astronauts
on the Moon or in lunar orbit. They were designed with
reliability as the number one consideration. They used hyperbolic
propellants that burned spontaneously on contact and required no
spark plugs; the propellants were pressure-fed into the thrust
chamber by bottled helium eliminating complex pumps; and the
rocket nozzles were coated with an ablative material for heat
protection, avoiding the need for intricate cooling systems.
     Three other engines could provide instant thrust at launch
to get the spacecraft away from the Saturn if it should
inadvertently tumble or explode. The largest of these produced
160,000 pounds of thrust. considerably more than the Redstone
booster which propelled Alan Shepard on America's first manned
spaceflight. (Since we never had an abort at launch, these three
were never used.)
     There were other subsystems, each with its own intricacies
of design, and, more often than not, with its share of problems.
There were displays and controls, backup guidance systems, a
lunar landing gear on the LM and an Earth landing system
(parachutes) on the CM, and a docking system designed with the
precision of a Swiss watch, yet strong enough to stop a freight
car. There were also those things that fell between the
subsystems: wires, tubes, plumbing, valves, switches, relays,
circuit breakers, and explosive charges that started, stopped,
ejected, separated, or otherwise activated various sequences.
- George M. Low
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Tragic Fire Takes Three Lives
     Apollo in January 1967 was adjudged almost ready for its
first manned flight in Earth orbit. And then disaster. A routine
test of Apollo on the launching pad at Cape Kennedy. Three
astronauts- Grissom, White, and Chaffee- in their spacesuits in a
100-percent oxygen environment. A tiny spark, perhaps a short
circuit in the wiring. It was all over in a matter of seconds.
Yet it would be 21 months before Apollo would again be ready to
fly.
     By April 1967, when I was given the Apollo spacecraft job,
an investigation board had completed most of its work. The board
was not able to pinpoint the exact cause of the fire, but this
only made matters worse because it meant that there were probably
flaws in several areas of the spacecraft. These included the
cabin environment on the launch pad, the amount of combustible
material in the spacecraft, and perhaps most important, the
control (or lack of control) of changes.
     Apollo would fly in space with a pure oxygen atmosphere at 5
psi (pounds per square inch), about one-third the pressure of the
air we breathe. But on the launching pad, Apollo used pure oxygen
at 16 psi, slightly above the pressure of the outside air. Now it
happens that in oxygen at 5 psi things will generally burn pretty
much as they do in air at normal pressures. But in 16 psi oxygen
most nonmetallic materials will burn explosively; even steel can
be set on fire. Mistake number one: Incredible as it may sound in
hindsight, we had all been blind to this problem. In spite of all
the care, all the checks and balances, all the ' what happens
if's" we had overlooked the hazard on the launching pad.
     Most nonmetallic things will burn- even in air or 5 psi
oxygen- unless they are specially formulated or treated. Somehow,
over the years of development and test, too many nonmetals had
crept into Apollo. The cabin was full of velcro cloth, a sort of
space-age baling wire, to help astronauts store and attach their
gear and checklists. There were paper books and checklists, a
special kind of plastic netting to provide more storage space,
and the spacesuits themselves, made of rubber and fabric and
plastic. Behind the panels there were wires with nonmetallic
insulation, and switches and circuit breakers in plastic cases.
There were also gobs of insulating material called RTV. (In
Gordon Cooper's Mercury flight, some important electronic gear
had malfunctioned because moisture condensed on its uninsulated
terminals. The solution for Apollo had been to coat all
electronic connections with RTV, which performed admirably as an
insulator, but, as we found out later, burned in an oxygen
environment.) Mistake number two: Far too much nonmetallic
material had been incorporated in the construction of the
spacecraft.
     There is an old saying that airplanes and spacecraft won't
fly until the paper equals their weight. There was a time when
two men named Orville and Wilbur Wright could, unaided, design
and build an entire airplane, and even make its engine. But those
days are long gone. When machinery gets as complex as the Apollo
spacecraft, no single person can keep all of its details in his
head. Paper, therefore, becomes of paramount importance: paper to
record the exact configuration; paper to list every nut and bolt
and tube and wire; paper to record tic precise size, shape,
constitution, history, and pedigree of every piece and every
part. The paper tells where it was made, who made it, which batch
of raw materials was used? how it was tested, and how it
performed. Paper becomes particularly important when a change is
made, and changes must be made whenever design, engineering, and
development proceed simultaneously as they did in Apollo. There
are changes to make things work, and changes to replace a
component that failed in a test, and changes to ease an
astronaut's workload or to make it difficult to flip the wrong
switch.
     Mistake number three: In the rush to prepare Apollo for
flight, the control of changes had not been as rigorous as it
should have been, and the investigation board was unable to
determine the precise detailed configuration of the spacecraft,
how it was made, and what was in it at the time of the accident.
Three mistakes, and perhaps more, added up to a spark. fuel for a
fire, and an environment to make the fire explosive in its
nature. And three fine men died.
- George M. Low
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
And then the Rebuilding Began
     Now time was running out. The race against time began, with
only 33 months remaining from April 1967 and the end of the
decade. The work to be done appeared to be overwhelming and
dictated 18-hour days, seven days a week. My briefcase was my
office, my suitcase my home, as I moved from Houston to Downey,
to Bethpage, to Cape Kennedy, and back to Houston again. At
Tranquility Base, the Sun would only rise 33 more times before
1970.
     Rebuilding meant changes and changes meant trouble if they
were not kept under perfect control. Our solution was the CCB,
the Configuration Control Board. On it were some of the best
engineers in the world: my two deputies, Ken Kleinknecht and Rip
Bolender; Apollo's Assistant for Flight Safety, Scott Simpkinson;
Max Faget, Houston's Chief Engineer; Chris Kraft, the Chief of
Flight Operations; Deke Slayton, the head of the astronauts; Dale
Myers for North American Rockwell; and Joe Gavin for Grumman. The
Board was rounded out with Chuck Berry for medical inputs and
Bill Hess for science. It was organized by my technical
assistant, George Abbey, who knew everything about everybody on
Apollo, and who was always able to get things done. I was its
chairman and made all decisions. Arguments sometimes got pretty
hot as technical alternatives were explored. In the end I would
decide, usually on the spot, always explaining my decision openly
and in front of those who liked it the least. To me, this was the
true test of a decision- to look straight into the eyes of the
person most affected by it, knowing full well that months later
on the morning of a flight, I would look into the eyes of the men
whose lives would depend on that decision. One could not make any
mistakes.
     When I wasn't sure of myself or when I didn't trust my
judgment, I knew where to go to get help- Bob Gilruth, my boss.
who himself had been through every problem in Mercury. An
extremely able engineer, Bob had acquired great wisdom over the
years dealing with men and their flying machines. Bob was always
there when I needed him.
     The CCB met every Friday, promptly at noon, and often well
into the night. From June 1967 to July 1969 the Board met 90
times, considered 1697 changes and approved 1341. We dealt with
changes large and small, discussed them in every technical
detail, and reviewed their cost and schedule impact. Was the
change really necessary? What were its effects on other parts of
the machine, on computer programs, on the astronauts, and on the
ground tracking, systems? Was it worth the cost, how long would
it take, and how much would it weigh?
     We redesigned the command module hatch to open out instead
of in, because the old hatch had been a factor in trapping
Grissom, White, and Chaffee inside their burning craft. This may
sound simple, but it wasn't. An inward-opening hatch was much
easier to build, because when it was closed it tended to be
self-sealing since the pressure inside the spacecraft forced it
shut. The opposite was true for an outward-opening hatch, which
had to be much sturdier, and hence heavier, with complicated
latches.
     We rewired the spacecraft, rerouted wire bundles, and used
better insulation on the wires. We looked at every ounce of
nonmetallic material, removed much of it, and concocted new
materials for insulation and for pressure suits. We invented an
insulating coating that would not burn only to find that it would
absorb moisture and become a conductor, so we had to invent
another one. Pressure suits had to shed their nylon outer layer,
to be replaced with a glass cloth; but the glass would wear away
quickly, and shed fine particles which contaminated the
spacecraft and caused the astronauts to itch. The solution was a
coating for the glass cloth. We solved the problem of fire in the
space atmosphere of 5 psi oxygen; but try as we might we could
not make the ship fireproof in the launch-pad atmosphere of 16
psi oxygen. Then Max Faget came up with an idea: Launch with an
atmosphere that was 60 percent oxygen and 40 percent nitrogen,
and then slowly convert to pure oxygen after orbit had been
reached and the pressure was 5 psi. The 60-40 mixture was a
delicate balance between medical requirements on the one hand
(too much nitrogen would have caused the bends as the pressure
decreased) and flammability problems on the other. It worked.
     Weight is a problem in the design of any flying machine.
Apollo, with its many changes, was anything but an exception.
Problems are always easier to solve if one can afford a little
leeway for making a change, but difficult and expensive if there
is no weight margin. In the command module, we found a way to
gain an extra 1000 pound margin by redesigning the parachute to
handle a heavier CM. This margin made other CM changes relatively
simple, and certainly less costly and time consuming.
     For LM there was no such solution. We had to shave an ounce
here, another there, to make room for the changes that had to be
made. It was difficult, lengthy, and expensive.
- George M. Low
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Testing and Retesting to get ready for Flight
     We tested for "sneak circuits" (inadvertent electrical
paths), discovered some, and made changes. We ran a "failure
mode: and effects analysis" -- a search for all the "what happens
if's" -- and made more changes. We tested, and retested, and
changed and fixed and tested again. We set off small explosive
charges inside the burning rocket engines, and to our horror
found the all-important LM ascent engine was prone to
catastrophic instability -- a way of burning that could destroy the
engine on takeoff and leave the astronauts stranded on the Moon.
Much to the consternation of my bosses in Washington, we sent out
new bids and selected a different contractor who built a new
engine faster than anyone believed possible. But it worked.
     No detail was too small to consider. We asked questions,
received answers, asked more questions. We woke up in the middle
of the night, remembering questions we should have asked, and
jotted them down so we could ask them in the morning. If we made
a mistake, it was not because of any lack of candor between NASA
and contractor, or between engineer and astronaut; it was only
because we weren't smart enough to ask all the right questions.
Every question was answered, every failure understood, every
problem solved.
     We built mockups of the entire spacecraft, and tried to set
them on fire. If they burned, we redesigned, rebuilt, and tried
again. By vibration we tried to shake things apart; we tested in
chambers simulating the vacuum of space. the heat of the Sun, and
the cold of the lunar night. We subjected all systems to humidity
and salt spray, to the noise of the booster, and the shock of a
hard landing. We dropped the command module into water to
simulate normal landings and on land to test for emergency
landings; we plopped the lunar module on simulated lunar terrain.
We overstressed and overloaded until things broke and if they
broke too soon, we redesigned and rebuilt and tested again.
     The final exam came in flight. First the command module was
tested with only the launch-escape tower, against the possibility
of a Saturn exploding on the launch pad. Then we launched the CSM
on a special booster, the Little Joe II, to see whether it would
survive if the Saturn should fail in the atmosphere, when air
loads are at their peak. (There is a big difference between
manned and unmanned flight. If the launch vehicle should stray
off course while lifting an automated payload, the range safety
officer could press a button and destroy booster and payload
together; in manned flight the spacecraft would first be
separated from the errant booster. which would then be blown up
before it wandered off, leaving the CM to be carried to safety by
the launch escape tower. This separation maneuver demanded the
utmost in speed and power.)
     The CSM, unmanned, was flown twice on the Saturn 1B
(1,600,000 pounds of thrust). Then, on November 9, 1967, came the
most critical test of all: Apollo 4, the first flight of the
Saturn V (7,500,000 pounds), would subject the CSM to the lunar
return speed of 25,000 mph. After achieving an altitude of 10,000
miles, the spacecraft's engines drove Apollo back down into the
atmosphere at unprecedented speed. Temperatures on the heat
shield reached 5000 F, more than half the surface temperature of
the Sun. The heat shield charred as expected, but the inside of
the cabin remained at a comfortable 70 F. A major milestone had
been passed.
     Apollo 5 on 22 January 1968, was the first flight test of
LM -- an unmanned flight in Earth orbit that put the lunar module
through its paces. There were problems. The computer shut down
the LM's descent engine prematurely on its first burn. But then
the flight controllers on the ground took over and continued the
flight with an alternate mission. Now another question arose:
Should we repeat this flight? Grumman felt we should; I
disagreed. After considerable technical debate, we decided that
the next flight with LM would be manned -- which it was, 14 months
later.
     Apollo 6, three months after Apollo 5, was to be a simple
repeat of Apollo 4, but it wasn't. The Saturn had problems, and
so did the spacecraft adapter -- that long conical section which
joined the CSM to the booster. and which also served as LM's
cocoon. (The spacecraft itself did a beautiful job.) After a
fantastic piece of detective work by Don Arabian, our chief test
engineer, we found a flaw in the manufacturing of the honeycomb
structure of the adapter, and how to fix it.
     11 October 1968. Eighteen months since that day in the
pilot's lounge at Washington Airport when I said yes. I would
take on Apollo. Eighteen of the greatest months an engineer could
ask for. In that time 150,000 Americans had worked around the
clock, dedicating their skills and their lives to force two of
the most magnificent flying machines yet devised: CSM and LM It
was a beautiful morning in Florida, just the kind of morning for
another launch. This time Apollo was ready for its men.
- George M. Low
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Scouting the Moon
|   Chapter: Five
!    Author: Edgar M. Cortright
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 79
|-----------------------------------------------------
Scouting the Moon
     After centuries of studying the Moon and its motions, most
astronomers -- faced with diminishing returns -- had abandoned it to
lovers and poets by the time that Sputnik ushered in the space
age. The hardy few who had not been wooed away to greener
astronomical pastures were soon to be richly rewarded for their
patience.
     Before the invention of the telescope in 1608, astronomers
had to be content with two good eyes and a fertile imagination to
surmise the nature of the lunar surface. As a consequence they
mainly devoted themselves to the mathematics of the Moon's
motions relative to the Earth and Sun. The early telescopes that
first revealed the crater-pocked face of the Moon touched off
several centuries of speculation about the lunar surface by
scientists and fiction writers alike- it often being unclear who
was writing the fiction. But telescopes peering through the
turbulent atmosphere of Earth have severe limitations. By 1956
the very best terrestrial telescope images of the Moon were only
able to resolve objects about the size of the U.S. Capitol.
Anything smaller was a mystery.
     So the question remained: What was the lunar surface really
like? While few people really believed the Moon to be made of
green cheese. many scientific hypotheses cherished not long ago
were equally strange and rather more ominous. They included deep
fields of dust into which a spacecraft might sink; a labyrinth of
fairy castles" such as children build by dripping wet sand at the
beach; electrostatic dust that might spring up and engulf an
alien object; and treacherously covered crevasses into which an
unwary astronaut might fall. What proved to be the most accurate
prediction, however, likened the Moon to a World War I
battlefield, bombarded by a rain of meteoroids throughout the
millennia and churned into a wasteland of craters and debris. The
absence of an atmosphere and the low gravitational field would
allow small secondary particles to be blasted from the surface by
a primary meteoroid impact and thrown unimpeded halfway around
the Moon. This led to the concept of a uniform blanket of ejecta
over the entire Moon.
     But our story is getting ahead of itself. The surface
properties of the Moon were largely unknown in 1958 a matter
which assumed great practical importance when man's first
journeys to the Moon began to take shape. How much weight would
the surface support? What were the slopes? Were there many rocks-
and of what size? Would the dust or dirt cling? What was the
intensity of primary and secondary meteoroid bombardment? What
was the exact size and shape of the Moon, and what were the
details of the lunar gravity field into which our spaceships
would one day plunge?
- Edgar M. Cortright
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Shaky Start
     The military rockets developed in the 1950s provided a basic
tool with which it became possible to send rudimentary spacecraft
to the Moon. Both the Army and the Air Force were quick to
initiate efforts to be the first to the Moon with a manmade
object. (The Russians, as it proved, were equally quick, or
quicker.) These first U.S. projects, which were transferred in
1958 to the newly formed National Aeronautics and Space
Administration consisted of four Air Force Thor-Able rockets, and
two Army Juno II rockets, each with tiny payloads, designed to
measure radiation and magnetic fields near the Moon and in some
cases to obtain rudimentary pictures. NASA and the Air Force then
added three Atlas-Able rockets which could carry heavier payloads
in an attempt to bolster these early high-risk efforts. Of these
nine early missions launched between August 1958 and December
1960, none really succeeded. Two Thor-Able and all three Atlas-
Able vehicles were destroyed during launch. One Thor-Able and one
of the Juno II's did not attain sufficient velocity to reach the
Moon and fell back to Earth. Two rockets were left.
     The Soviets were also having problems. But on January 4
1959. Luna 1, the first space vehicle to reach escape velocity,
passed the Moon within about 3700 miles and went into orbit about
the Sun. Two months later the United States repeated the feat
with the last Juno II, although its miss distance was 37,300
miles. A year later the last Thor-Able payload flew past the Moon
but like its predecessors it yielded no new information about the
surface. On October 7, 1959, the Soviet Luna 3 became the first
spacecraft to photograph another celestial body, radioing to
Earth crude pictures of the previously unseen far side of the
Moon. The Moon was not a "billboard in the sky" with slatted back
and props. Its far side was found to be cratered, as might be
expected, but unlike the front there were no large mare basins.
The primitive imagery that Luna 3 returned was the first milepost
in automated scientific exploration of other celestial bodies.
     Undaunted by initial failures, and certainly spurred on by
Soviet efforts, a NASA team began to plan a long-term program of
lunar exploration that would embody all necessary ingredients for
success. The National Academy of Sciences was enlisted to help
draw the university community into the effort. The Jet Propulsion
Laboratory, a California Institute of Technology affiliate that
had been transferred from the Army to NASA in 1958, was selected
to carry out the program. JPL was already experienced in rocketry
and had participated in the Explorer and Pioneer IV projects.
- Edgar M. Cortright
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Our First Close Look
     The first project to emerge from this government/university
team was named Ranger, to connote the exploration of new
frontiers. Subsequently Surveyor and Prospector echoed this
naming theme. (Planetary missions adopted nautical names such as
Mariner, Voyager and Viking.) The guideline instructions
furnished JPL for Ranger read in part: "The lunar reconnaissance
mission has been selected with the major objective . . . being
the collection of data for use in an integrated lunar-exploration
program . . . The [photographic] system should have an overall
resolution of sufficient capability for it to be possible to
detect lunar details whose characteristic dimension is as little
as 10 feet." Achieving this goal did not come about easily.
     The initial choice of launch vehicle for the Ranger was the
USAF Atlas, mated with a new upper stage to be developed by JPL.
the Vega. Subsequently NASA canceled the Vega in favor of an
equivalent vehicle already under development by the Air Force the
Agena. This left JPL free to concentrate on the Ranger. The
spacecraft design that evolved was very ambitious for its day,
incorporating solar power, full three-axis stabilization and
advanced communications. Clearly JPL also had its eye on the
planets in formulating this design.
     Of a total of nine Rangers launched between 1961 and 1965,
only the last three succeeded. From the six failures we learned
many lessons the hard way. Early in the program, an attempt was
made to protect the Moon from earthly contamination by
sterilizing the spacecraft in an oven. This technique, which is
now being used on the Mars/Viking spacecraft had to be abandoned
at that time when it wreaked havoc with Ranger's electronic
subsystems.
     In the first two launches in 1961 the new Agena B upper
stage failed to propel the Ranger out of Earth orbit. Failures in
both the launch vehicle and spacecraft misdirected the third
flight. On the fourth flight the spacecraft computer and
sequencer malfunctioned. And on the fifth flight a failure
occurred in the Ranger power system. The U.S. string of lunar
missions with little or no success had reached fourteen. Critics
were clamoring that Ranger was a "shoot and hope" project. NASA
convened a failure review board, and its studies uncovered
weaknesses in both the design and testing of Ranger. Redundancy
was added to electronic circuits and test procedures were
tightened. As payload Ranger VI carried a battery of six
television cameras to record surface details during the final
moments before impact. When it was launched on January 30, 1964,
we had high confidence of success. Everything seemed to work
perfectly. But when the spacecraft plunged to the lunar surface
precisely on target, its cameras failed to turn on. I will never
forget the feeling of dismay in the JPL control room that day.
     But we all knew we were finally close. Careful detective
work with the telemetry records identified the most probable
cause as inadvertent turn-on of the TV transmitter while Ranger
was still in the Earth's atmosphere, whereupon arcing destroyed
the system. The fix was relatively simple, although it delayed
the program for three months. On July 28 1964, Ranger VII was
launched on what proved to be a perfect mission. Eighteen minutes
before impact in Oceanus Procellarum, or Ocean of Storms, the
cameras began transmitting the first of 4316 excellent pictures
of the surface. The final frame was taken only 1400 feet above
the surface and revealed details down to about 3 feet in size. It
was a breathless group of men that waited the arrival of the
first quick prints in the office of Bill Pickering, JPL's
Director. The prints had not been enhanced and it was hard to see
the detail because of lack of contrast. But those muddy little
pictures with their ubiquitous craters seemed breathtakingly
beautiful to us.
     By the time of the Ranger VII launch the Apollo program had
already been underway for three years and Ranger had been
configured and targeted to scout possible landing sites. Thus
Ranger VIII was flown to a flat area in the Sea of Tranquility
where it found terrain similar to that in the Ocean of Storms:
gently sloping plains but craters everywhere. It began to look as
if the early Apollo requirement of a relatively large craterless
area would be difficult to find. As far as surface properties
were concerned, the Ranger could contribute little to the
scientific controversy raging over whether the Moon would support
the weight of a machine- or a man.
     To get maximum resolution of surface details it was
necessary to rotate Ranger so that the cameras looked precisely
along the flight path. This was not done on Ranger VII in order
to avoid the risk of sending extra commands to the attitude-
control system. I recall that on Ranger VIII JPL requested
permission to make the final maneuver. NASA denied permission- we
were still unwilling, after the long string of failures, to take
the slightest additional risk. It was not until Ranger IX that
JPL made the maneuver and achieved resolution approaching 1 foot
in the last frame. This final Ranger, launched on March 21. 1965
was dedicated to lunar science rather than to reconnaissance of
Apollo landing sites. It returned 5814 photographs of the crater
Alphonsus again showing craters within craters, and some rocks.
Despite its dismal beginnings the Ranger program was thus
concluded on a note of success. Proposed follow-on missions were
canceled in favor of upcoming Surveyor and Orbiter missions whose
development had been proceeding concurrently.
- Edgar M. Cortright
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Testing the Surface
     Surveyor, which had been formally approved in the spring of
1960, was originally conceived for the scientific investigation
of the Moon's surface. As in the case of the Ranger, its use was
redirected according to the needs of Apollo.
     With the proposed addition of an orbiting version of
Surveyor, later to become Lunar Orbiter, the unmanned lunar-
exploration program in support of Apollo shaped up this way:
Ranger would provide us with our first look at the surface;
Surveyor would make spot checks of the mechanical properties of
the surface; and Lunar Orbiter would supply data for mapping and
landing-site selection. The approach was sound enough but
carrying it out led us into a jungle of development difficulties.
     Few space projects short of Apollo itself embodied the
technological audacity of Surveyor. Its Atlas-based launch
vehicle was to make use of an entirely new upper stage, the
Centaur, the world's first hydrogen-fueled rocket. It had been
begun by the Department of Defense and later transferred to NASA.
Surveyor itself was planned to land gently on the lunar surface,
set down softly by throttlable retrorockets under control of its
own radar system. It was to carry 350 pounds of complex
scientific instruments. Responsibility for continuing the Centaur
development was placed with the Marshall Space Flight Center with
General Dynamics the prime contractor. JPL took on the task of
developing the Surveyor, and the Hughes Aircraft Company won the
competition for building it. We soon found that it was a very
rough road. Surveyor encountered a host of technical problems
that caused severe schedule slips, cost growth, and weight
growth. The Centaur fared little better. Its first test flight in
1962 was a failure. Its lunar payload dropped from the planned
2500 pounds to an estimated 1800 pounds or less- not sufficient
for Surveyor. Its complex multi-start capability was in trouble.
Wernher von Braun necessarily preoccupied with the development of
Saturn, recommended canceling Centaur and using Saturn-Agena
combination for Surveyor.
     At this point we regrouped. Major organizational changes
were made at JPL and Hughes to improve the development and
testing phases of Surveyor. NASA management of Centaur was
transferred to the Lewis Research Center under the leadership of
Abe Silverstein, where it would no longer have to compete with
Sat-urn for the attention it needed to succeed. Its initial
capabilities were targeted to the minimum required for a Surveyor
mission- 2150 pounds on a lunar-intercept trajectory. This
reduced weight complicated work on an already overweight
Surveyor, and the scientific payload dropped to about 100 pounds.
     It all came to trial on May 31 1966, when Surveyor I was
launched atop an Atlas-Centaur for the first U.S. attempt at a
soft landing. On June 2, Surveyor I touched down with gentle
perfection on a level plain in the Ocean of Storms Oceanus
Procellarum. A large covey of VIPs had gathered at the JPL
control center to witness the event. One of them Congressman
Joseph E. Karth, whose Space Science and Applications
Subcommittee watched over both Surveyor and Centaur, had been
both a strong supporter and, at times a tough critic of the
program. The odds for success on this complex and audacious first
mission were not high. I can still see his broad grin at the
moment of touchdown, a grin which practically lighted up his
corner of the darkened room. We sat up most of the night watching
the first of the 11,240 pictures that Surveyor I was to transmit.
     Four months prior to Surveyor's landing, on February 3,
1966, the Russian Luna 9 landed about 60 miles northeast of the
crater Calaverius, and radioed back to Earth the first
lunar-surface pictures. This was an eventful year in lunar
exploration, for only two months after Surveyor 1 the U.S. Lunar
Orbiter 1 ushered in that successful and richly productive series
of missions.
     Surveyor found as had Luna before it, a barren plain pitted
with countless craters and strewn with rocks of all sizes and
shapes. No deep layer of soft dust was found and analysts
estimated that the surface appeared to be firm enough for both
spacecraft and men. The Surveyor camera, which was more advanced
than Luna's, showed very fine detail. The first frame transmitted
to Earth showed a footpad and its impression on the lunar
surface, which we had preprogrammed just in case that was the
only picture that could be received. At our first close glimpse
of the disturbed lunar surface the material seemed to behave like
moist oil or wet sand, which, of course, it was not. Its
appearance was due to the cohesive nature of small particles in a
vacuum.
     Surveyor II tumbled during a midcourse maneuver and was
lost, but on April 19, 1967 Surveyor III made a bumpy landing
inside a 650-foot crater in the eastern part of the Sea of
Clouds. Its landing rockets had failed to cut off and it
skittered down the inner slope of a crater before coming to rest.
Unlike its predecessors, Surveyor III carried a remotely
controlled device that could dig the surface. During the course
of digging, experimenters dropped a shovelful of lunar material
on a footpad to examine it more closely. When Surveyor III was
visited by the Apollo 12 astronauts 30 months later in 1970, the
little pile was totally undisturbed.
     The historic rendezvous of Apollo 12 with Surveyor III would
never have been possible without the patient detective work of
Ewen Whitaker of the University of Arizona. The difficulty was
that the landing site of Surveyor was not precisely known. Using
Surveyor pictures of the inside of the crater in which it had
landed, Whitaker compared surface details with details visible in
Orbiter photographs of the general area that had been taken
before the Surveyor landing. He eventually found a 650-foot
crater that matched, and concluded that that was where Surveyor
must be. Thus the uncertainty in Surveyor's location was reduced
from several miles down to a single crater. By using Orbiter
photographs as a guide. Apollo 12 was able to fly down a
"cratered trail" to a landing only 600 feet away from Surveyor.
     Surveyor IV failed just minutes before touchdown, but the
last three Surveyors were successful. On September 10, 1967.
Surveyor V landed on the steep inner slopes of a 30 by 40 foot
crater on Mare Tranquillitatis. It carried a new instrument, an
alpha-backscattering device developed by Anthony Turkevich of the
University of Chicago. With this device he was able to make a
fairly precise analysis of the chemical composition of the lunar-
surface material, which he correctly identified as resembling
terrestrial basalts. This conclusion was also supported by the
manner in which lunar material adhered to several carefully
calibrated magnets on Surveyor. Two days after landing, Surveyor
V's engines were reignited briefly to see what effect they would
have on the lunar surface. The small amounts of erosion indicated
that this would pose no real problem for Apollo, though perhaps
causing some loss of visibility just before touchdown.
     Surveyor VI checked out still another possible Apollo site
in Sinus Medii. The rocket-effects experiment was repeated and
this time the Surveyor was "flown" to a new location
approximately 8 feet from the original landing point. Some of the
soil thrown out by the rockets stuck to the photographic target
on the antenna boom.
     The last Surveyor was landed in a highland area just north
of the crater Tycho on January 9, 1968. A panoramic picture of
this ejecta field taken by Surveyor VII is shown as well as a
mosaic of its surface "gardening" area. I remember walking into
the control room at JPL at the moment the experimenters were
attempting to free the backscatter instrument, which had hung up
during deployment. Commands were sent to the surface sampler to
press down on it. The delicate operation was being monitored and
guided with Surveyor's television camera. When I started asking
questions, Dr. Ron Scott of Cal Tech crisply reminded me that at
the moment they were "quite busy." I held my questions- and they
got the stuck instrument down to the surface. It seemed almost
unreal to be remotely repairing a spacecraft on the Moon some
quarter of a million miles away.
     Before the launch of Surveyor 1, in the period when we faced
cost overruns and deep technical concerns NASA and JPL had
pressed the Hughes Aircraft Company to accept a contract
modification that would give up some profit already earned in
favor of increased fee opportunities in the event of mission
successes. They accepted, and this courageous decision paid off
for both parties. NASA of course was delighted with five out of
seven Surveyor successes.
- Edgar M. Cortright
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Mapping and Site Selection
     Meanwhile the third member of the automated lunar
exploration team had already completed its work. The fifth and
last Lunar Orbiter had been launched on August 1, 1967, nearly
half a year earlier. When JPL and Hughes began to experience
difficulties with Surveyor development, and with the Centaur in
deep trouble. NASA decided to back up the entire program with a
different team and different hardware. The Surveyor Orbiter
concept was scrapped, and NASA's Langley Research Center was
directed to plan and carry out a new Lunar Orbiter program, based
on the less risky Atlas-Agena D launch vehicle. Langley prepared
the necessary specifications and Boeing won the job. Boeing's
proposed design was beautifully straightforward except for one
feature the camera. Instead of being all-electronic as were prior
space cameras, the Eastman Kodak camera for the Lunar Orbiter
made use of 70-mm film developed on board the spacecraft and then
optically scanned and telemetered to Earth. Low-speed film had to
be used so as not to be fogged by space radiation. This in turn
required the formidable added complexity of image-motion
compensation during the instant of exposure. Theoretically
objects as small as three feet could be seen from 30 nautical
miles above the surface. If all worked well, this system could
provide the quality required for Apollo but it was tricky, and it
barely made it to the launch pad in time to avoid rescheduling.
     The Orbiter missions were designed to photograph all
possible Apollo landing sites, to measure meteoroid flux around
the Moon and to determine the lunar gravity field precisely, from
accurate tracking of the spacecraft. Orbiter did all these
things- and more. As the primary objectives for Apollo program
were essentially accomplished on completion of the third mission,
the fourth and fifth missions were devoted largely to broader,
scientific objectives- photography of the entire lunar nearside
during Mission IV and photography of 36 areas of particular
scientific interest on the near side during Mission V. In
addition 99 percent of the far side was photographed in more
detail than Earth-based telescopes had previously photographed
the front.
     The first Lunar Orbiter spacecraft was launched on August
10, 1966, and photographed nine primary and seven secondary sites
that were candidates for Apollo landings. The medium-resolution
pictures were of good quality, but a malfunction in the
synchronization of the shutter caused loss of the high-resolution
frames. In addition, some views of the far side and oblique views
of the Earth and Moon were also taken. When we made the
suggestion of taking this "Earthrise" picture, Boeing's project
manager, Bob Helberg, reminded NASA that the spacecraft maneuver
required constituted a risk that could jeopardize the company
profit, which was tied to mission success. He then made the gutsy
decision to go ahead anyway and we got this historic photograph.
     The next two Lunar Orbiter missions were launched on
November 6, 1966, and February 4, 1967. They provided excellent
coverage of all 20 potential Apollo landing sites, additional
coverage of the far side and other lunar features of scientific
interest, and many oblique views of lunar terrain as it might be
seen by an orbiting astronaut. One of these was a dramatic
oblique photograph of the crater Copernicus, which NASA's
Associate Administrator, Dr. Robert C. Seamans. unveiled at a
professional society conference in Boston and which drew a
standing ovation and designation as "picture of the year." Among
the possible Apollo sites photographed by Orbiter III was the
landing site of Surveyor 1. Careful photographic detective work
found the shining Surveyor and its dark shadow among the myriad
craters.
     The Apollo site surveys yielded surprises. Some sites that
had looked promising in Earth-based photography were totally
unacceptable. No sites were found to be as free of craters as had
been originally specified for Apollo, so the Langley lunar
landing facility was modified to give astronauts practice at
crater dodging. Since the basic Apollo photographic requirements
were essentially satisfied by the first three flights. the last
two Orbiters launched on May 4 and August 1, 1967, were placed in
high near-polar orbits from which they completed coverage of
virtually the entire lunar surface.
     The other Orbiter experiments were also productive. No
unexpected levels of radiation or meteoroids were found to offer
a threat to astronaut safety. Studies of the Orbiter motion,
however, revealed relatively large gravitational variations due
to buried mass concentrations -- the phrase was soon telescoped to
"mascons" -- in the Moon's interior. This alerted Apollo planners
to account properly for mascon perturbations when calculating
precise Apollo trajectories.
     With the completion of the Ranger, Surveyor, and Orbiter
programs, the job of automated spacecraft in scouting the way for
Apollo was done. Our confidence was high that few unpleasant
surprises would wait our Apollo astronauts on the lunar surface.
The standard now passed from automated machinery to hands of
flesh and blood.
- Edgar M. Cortright
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
  SP-350 Page 92.
Lunar Orbiter Photography
     Lunar Orbiter was planned for use in conjunction with
Surveyor; one spacecraft class was to sample the surface of the
Moon, and the other was to map potential Apollo landing sites.
Five Orbiters were flown, so successfully that they returned not
only precision stereo-photography of all contemplated landing
areas but also photographed virtually the entire Moon, including
the far side. Included in the photographs returned were the
landed Surveyor 1, the impact crater caused by Ranger VIII, and
many breathtaking images of high scientific value. Orbiter
coverage is shown at the left; below is the equatorial Apollo
landing zone with its precursor Ranger and Surveyor landing
sites.
     The two-eyed robot above is the spacecraft that mapped the
Moon for Apollo planners. It was built by Boeing for the NASA
Langley Research Center, and launched by an Atlas-Agena. Weighing
850 pounds, it drew electrical power from the four solar-cell
arrays shown, which delivered a maximum of 450 watts. The rocket
motor at top provided velocity changes for course corrections.
Guidance was provided by inertial reference (three-axis gyros),
celestial reference (Sun and Canopus sensors), and cold-gas jets
to give attitude control. Because it would necessarily be out of
touch with Earth during part of every orbit, it carried a
computer-programmer that could accept and later carry out up to
16 hours of automatic sequenced operation.
     It was in its photo system that Orbiter was most
unconventional. Other spacecraft took TV images and sent them
back to Earth as electrical signals. Orbiter took photographs,
developed them on board, and then scanned them with a special
photoelectric system- a method that, for all its complications
and limitations, could produce images of exceptional quality. One
Orbiter camera could resolve details as small as 3 feet from an
altitude of 30 nautical miles. A sample complication exacted by
this performance: because slow film had to be used (because of
risk of radiation fogging) slow shutter speeds were also needed.
This meant that, to prevent blurring from spacecraft motion, a
velocity-height sensor had to insure that the film was moved a
tiny, precise, and compensatory amount during the instant of
exposure.
     The five Orbiters accomplished more than photo
reconnaissance for Apollo. Sensors on board indicated that
radiation levels found near the Moon would pose no dangerous
threat to astronauts. An unexpected benefit came from careful
analysis of spacecraft orbits, which showed small perturbations
suggesting that the Moon was not gravitationally uniform, but had
buried concentrations of mass. By discovering and defining these
"mascons," the Orbiters made possible highly accurate landings
and the precision rendezvous that would characterize Apollo
flights. Once their work was finished, the Orbiters were
deliberately crashed on the Moon, so that their radio
transmitters would never interfere with later craft.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
  SP-350 Page 100.
The Selection of Apollo Landing Sites
     The search for places for astronauts to land began with
telescopic maps and other observations from the Earth, and Ranger
photos. The site-selection team considered landing constraints/
potentials for scientific exploration, and options if a launch
was delayed, which shifted chosen sites to the west. The team
then designated a group of lunar areas as targets for Surveyors
and Lunar Orbiters.
     From the Orbiters' medium-resolution photos, mosaics were
made and searched for geologic and topographic features that
could make a landing risky roughness, hills, escarpments,
craters, boulders, and steep slopes.
     Navigation errors could cause an Apollo landing module to
miss a target point up to 1.5 miles north or south and 2.5 miles
east or west. So ellipses were drawn on the mosaics around
possible target areas. Those ellipses represented 50, 90, and 100
percent dispersion possibilities. The surfaces within them were
then examined to select the target points that appeared to be
least hazardous.
     Flight-path clearance problems were considered next. This is
illustrated by drawing diverging lines eastward for 35 miles from
the elliptical areas that otherwise looked best on the mosaics.
     A typical marked mosaic is reproduced above. It is a view of
a region in Mare Tranquillitatis, and the area within the set of
ellipses at the far left was chosen as the target for the first
manned landing.
     Before it was selected, high-resolution Orbiter photos were
used to examine details within the landing ellipses. In those
photos surface irregularities as small as 3 feet could be seen.
One such mosaic is reproduced at the top of the facing page.
     The black cross in a white circle on the upper picture marks
the spot where the Apollo 11 astronauts landing module descended.
It was in an elliptical target area only 200 feet wide.
     The lower picture is an oblique view of the same area. This
Lunar Orbiter photograph illustrates more nearly the way it would
look to an astronaut descending to land. The white lines indicate
the elliptical target site and the approach boundaries.
Processing flaws such as seen in this picture resulted
occasionally from partial sticking of the moist bimat film
development used aboard the Orbiter spacecraft.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Cape
|   Chapter: Six
!    Author: Rocco A. Petrone
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 103
|-----------------------------------------------------
The Cape
     At last everything was coming together- all those elements
that had been committed piecemeal- the command module in Apollo
7, the first manned flight away from the bonds of Earth in Apollo
8, the flying of the lunar module with men on board in Apollo 9,
and then Apollo 10, which went to the Moon and did everything
short of landing. It all led up to that hot July morning in 1969,
when Apollo's moment of truth was irreversibly upon us.
     Uncounted things had to be done before we reached that
moment. Before the operational phase even began, we had to pass
through the conceptualization and construction phase, remembering
something Jim Webb once said, "The road to the Moon will be paved
by bricks and steel and concrete here on Earth." For Apollo we
had to build Complex 39 at a cost of half a billion dollars, that
is, we had to finish Stage Zero, before we could proceed to Stage
One, the flying of the birds.
     Complex 39 was to Moon exploration what Palos was to
Columbus the takeoff point. Man had never attempted any such
thing before, and I wonder when he will again. Everything was
outsize- among the impressive statistics about the core of
Complex 39, the Vehicle Assembly Building, were its capacity
(nearly twice as big as the Pentagon) and its height (525 feet,
thirty feet short of the Washington Monument's).
     During 39's construction phase we were, of course, flying
Saturn Is- ten of them- and in 1966 three Saturn IBs, all from
Pads 34 and 37. Everything- launches and construction- had to
mesh; it was like building a thousand different homes for a
thousand demanding people. It was on the last of these IBs that I
made my rookie appearance as director of launch operations,
August 25, 1966. The mission was a 1 hour 23 minute suborbital
flight to test the command and service module subsystems and the
heatshield. CM 011 was recovered near Wake Island in good
condition; its shield had withstood the heat of reentry at
19,900 mph.
     During the construction phase of Complex 39 (1961-66) I was
Apollo Program Manager at the Cape. The first thing we had to do
was decide where to build the moonport. My boss, Dr. Kurt Debus,
and Maj. Gen. Leighton Davis, USAF, were directed to find a place
from which to launch huge vehicles like the projected Nova or the
Saturn V- Cape Canaveral's 17,000 acres weren't nearly large
enough. In this study we considered sites in Hawaii, the
California coast, Cumberland Island off Georgia, Mayaguana Island
in the Bahamas, Padre Island off the coast of Texas, and several
others. Eventually we concluded that the most advantageous site
was Merritt Island, right next to the Air Force's Cape Canaveral
facilities, which had been launching missiles since 1950 and NASA
vehicles since 1958. Our report was completed July 31, 1961, and
we spent all night printing it, after which Dr. Debus and I flew
up to Washington and briefed Mr. Webb and Dr. Seamans. So 84,000
acres of sand and scrub were acquired for NASA by the government,
plus 56,000 additional acres of submerged lands, at a total cost
of $71,872,000.
     We lost no time in raising the curtain on Stage Zero. No one
who was involved can ever forget the driving urgency that
attended Apollo. Nor the dedication of those who worked on it,
including the construction crews, who by 1965 numbered 7000
persons at the Cape.
     At one time we had considered preparing the space vehicle
horizontally, and then erecting it vertically on the pad, but
this was simply out of the question for a 360-foot bird. So we
had to erect the Saturn V stage by stage, which meant that,
because of rain and wind, we had to have an enclosed building.
Even a 10- to 15-knot wind would have given us trouble while we
were erecting outdoors, and higher winds could prove disastrous.
Thus the Vehicle Assembly Building became an enclosed structure.
Should the high bays be strung out four in a row, or built back-
to-back? We decided on the latter format because only two big
cranes (250-ton bridge cranes) would be needed instead of four,
and because the box-like structure would better withstand
hurricane winds of 125 mph. The possibility of hurricanes also
dictated that we have two crawlers, one to carry the Mobile
Service Structure away from the pad, and one to bring the
Apollo-Saturn V and its Mobile Launcher to shelter in the VAB.
The height of the building was dictated by the hook height, and
we started planning for 465 feet? the final height was 525.
Remember that when we started planning the VAB in 1961 we weren't
sure what size bird would roost in this big nest. We also had to
begin design work before we knew whether the trip to the Moon
would involve an Earth-orbit or lunar-orbit rendezvous.
     I think of the VAB not as a building but as an intricate
machine that assembled the vehicle in its final phases. People
were surprised to learn that the various stages had never seen
each other until they were introduced in the VAB drydock. The
first stage had been built by Boeing at Michoud outside New
Orleans, the second stage by North American at Redondo Beach,
Calif.? the third by McDonnell Douglas at Huntington Beach,
Calif., and the Instrument Unit by IBM at Huntsville, Ala. The
spacecraft that went on top of this stack were also introduced
for the first time in the VAB, the CSM from the North American
plant at Downey, Calif., and the LM from Grumman in Bethpage,
Long Island.
     Could these pieces, arriving from all over the country, play
together? Every wire in every plug had to join exactly the right
wire, with no electrical interference or change of signal
strength, and a command signal had to work from the Instrument
Unit through the third and second stages into the first. After
the various stages had been put together they had to be checked
out as an entity, and once this had been done you naturally don't
want to break the electrical connections again. When the
Instrument Unit orders, "Go right," you don't want an engine
three stages down to go left. The pieces not only had to match
each other, but also the ground equipment. Lines for the flow of
liquid hydrogen from the ground had to match the stages, and so
did others for the flow of liquid oxygen and still others for
gaseous nitrogen and helium. Television monitors had to be
designed and installed so that we could know what was happening
in hundreds of places at any given time- which meant all the
time.
     The skill required of the technicians working within Complex
39- and throughout the Kennedy Space Center- had to be fine-
honed. One of the legends had it that the crane operator who set
the 88,000-pound second stage on top of the first stage had to
qualify for the job by lowering a similar weight until it touched
a raw egg without cracking the shell. Of the Cape's 26,500
workers- the peak number in 1968- a high percentage were men and
women who possessed such skills. One can speculate whether such a
crew is likely to be assembled in one place again.
     The pads of Complex 39 were a building at the same time the
VAB rose on its 4225 16-inch steel pipe pilings that had been
driven more than 160 feet below the sandy surface into bedrock.
Pad A and Pad B were twins, each occupying about 160 acres; we
had also planned a Pad C, which explains why the crawlerway from
A to B has an elbow-like crook in it- the elbow would have led to
C. (We even had a contingency plan for a Pad D in case launchings
became more and more frequent.) The ads were built 8700 feet
apart so that an explosion could not wreck more than one of them.
They were located three and one-half miles from the VAB and the
Launch Control Center. In the early days we'd had to control a
launch from a site close to the pad, to avoid electrical problems
induced by a longer run of electric cabling, which in turn meant
that we worked from a blockhouse heavily protected against fire
and blast. Now, by the time the Saturns were ready, digital data
technology had advanced to the point where firing rooms could be
in a structure miles away.
     How to get the Apollo-Saturn V from its birthplace in the
VAB to the pad from which it would fly for the first and only
time in its life? Early in the program we considered moving it on
its three and one-half mile journey by water. The barge concept
was deep in our thinking: the first and second stages had to come
to the Cape from Louisiana and California, respectively, by man's
oldest form of transportation, since they were too large to go
through tunnels or under bridges. On this short trip why not also
float the Saturn V and its Mobile Launcher standing upright on a
barge? We got the Navy to run tests at the David Taylor Model
Basin in Washington, which showed that the hydrodynamic
requirements of such a top heavy barge would be too demanding. We
looked into a rail system, into pneumatic-tire transporters, and
ground effects machines but all were impractical or too
expensive.
     Then somebody in our shop came up with the idea of using
giant tracked machines like those used in strip mining. What
evolved was the unique crawler or, more politely. transporter. As
built by the Marion Power Shovel Company, the crawler took shape
with eight tracks, each 7 by 41 feet, with cleats like a Sherman
tank, except that each cleat weighed a ton. Mounted over these
eight tracks was the platform, bigger than a baseball diamond, on
which the Apollo-Saturn V and its Mobile Launcher would ride
majestically from VAB to pad at one mile per hour. The package
weighed 9000 tons, two-thirds cargo, one-third crawler.
     If that sounds easy, it wasn't. In July 1965, during a test,
some bearings cracked because we had assumed the weight would be
equally distributed on various parts of the crawler. We were
wrong. The bearings, incidentally, were ten inches in diameter
and there were eleven sets of them. This problem was met by
changing from roller bearings to sleeve bearings; we also topped
off the crawlerway with eight inches of Alabama river rock to
distribute the load evenly and to relieve friction at the turns.
- Rocco A. Petrone
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Keeping Vertical on the Move
     The crawler also required a leveling system that would keep
the Saturn V to within one degree of absolute vertical. The
sensing system depended on two manometers- each 135 feet long,
extending like an X from corner to corner under the platform; if
they showed the deck was out of level by even half an inch, it
was corrected by hydraulically raising or lowering one or more of
the corners. Adjustments were made many times during the trip
from the VAB, especially when the crawler climbed the five-degree
incline leading up to the pad.
     One of the great days in the history of the Cape was May 25,
1966, when Apollo-Saturn 500-F- a test vehicle built by Marshall
Space Flight Center that duplicated everything except engines and
spacecraft, of which it had none- rolled out of the VAB on the
crawler and moved at glacial speed to Pad A, gleaming in the
brilliant sunshine. It was the biggest rocket ever built by man,
dummy though it was, and up there. safely on the pad, Saturn V
was something to behold. It was five years to the day since
President Kennedy had proposed landing a man on the Moon and
returning him safely to Earth. When the crawler put the launcher
on its supports that afternoon, one of the men who (along with
me) breathed easier was Don Buchanan, on whose able shoulders the
design responsibility for both the crawler and launcher had been
placed three years before.
     Dr. Debus had been wearing two hats, one as director of this
growing Center, the other as director of launch operations. With
the pressure mounting he decided to doff one of them, so two
months after the roll-out of 500-F, I was appointed Director of
Launch Operations, an assignment I held until after Armstrong,
Aldrin, and Collins demonstrated in July 1969 that Apollo was a
success.
     In the very early days there had been a lot of hit-and-miss,
seat-of-the-pants business in launching rockets- and, insofar as
the public was concerned, a lot of black magic. Some odd things
happened. I recall a Redstone launch in May 1954, when I was
still in the Army? that we had to delay because somebody reported
a fishing skiff offshore, a dangerous place to be at liftoff
time. We sent out some guards to warn the fishermen out of the
way. By the time the guards reached the spot they found the boat
was up on the beach and the fishermen were gone. Then we had to
send someone to find the guards and tell them to come back, and
that took another hour before we could launch. At other times the
count would be held up because diesel engines powering a tractor
didn't work, or a key to the tractor had been lost.
     But we learned as we traveled this long road. The really big
event was the launch of the first Saturn V, November 9, 1967,
which we designated Apollo 4. To me that was the real mark; its
success meant we were really going to make the Moon landing. To
bring together the massive hardware and the complex ground
equipment exactly when we wanted to was an achievement. You don't
look at a thing like the Saturn V without a lot of humility in
your heart. Consider the three stages, the Instrument unit, the
vast amount of automation, the many computers on the ground and
in the stack, the swing arms, the hold-down arms, the propellant
loading system- all these were intricate and potentially
troublesome elements that had to be brought up to speed, and at a
vast launch complex that was being used for the first time.
     We kept having problems during the Countdown Demonstration
Test in September and October; it was scheduled for three and
one-half days, but lasted 23. We'd go so far, and we'd find a
leak. We had ground equipment problems, then procedural problems;
batteries failed, and pressure gauges developed faults. But these
problems melded our team, as in a cauldron. Under pressure our
people came of age, in the firing room and on the pad. When the
five engines of Saturn 501 fired up at 7 AM we had confidence,
which proved to be justified.
     By the time of Apollo 11, the number of printed pages,
including interface control documents, that were required to
check out a space vehicle actually surpassed 30,000. We had to
make to many copies that a boxcar would have been required to
hold the documents necessary to launch a Saturn V. The more
contractors involved, the greater the need for formality. No more
holding up launches for fishing skiffs; no more offhand decisions
such as we sometimes had to make in the early days. The schedule
was always upon us in Apollo. We had to work concurrently on
different launch flows. When Apollo was at its peak we had three
firing rooms working simultaneously in the launch control center.
with three crews of 500 apiece manning the consoles. That took a
lot of manpower, and the person I depended on most heavily to
keep the operation moving was Paul Donnelly, an unflappable
veteran of Mercury and Gemini days.
- Rocco A. Petrone
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Launch Every Other Month
     The centers -- that's what we called intervals -- between
launches were two months. That is, Apollo 9 went in March, Apollo
10 in May, and Apollo 11 in July. But each vehicle took five
months from the time its components arrived in the VAB until its
launch. Thus the overlapping.
     Look at the situation in early March 1969. Apollo 9 on Pad A
was ready for launch -- delayed three days because the astronauts
caught colds -- and the team of 500- engineers and technicians -- was
working twelve -- or thirteen-hour days. Apollo 10 was ready to be
rolled out of the 456-foot hangar doors of the VAB for two months
of intensive checkout on Pad B. But the components of Apollo 11
had already arrived and were undergoing tests in the VAB and in
the vacuum chambers of the Manned Spacecraft Operations Building.
Apollo 11 would roll out at 12:30 PM, May 20, one month and 26
days before it lifted off for the Moon.
     The pressure on these people was pretty severe. At a launch
a person just sat there glued to his console, watching the
needles for any sudden changes, knowing that he would be
committing this big vehicle, with men aboard: a $400 million
commitment. And it wasn't the money only, or the men. The entire
world was watching for the success of the United States.
     We had both to prepare the bird and to make sure our people
could detect and understand any anomaly. I used to walk through
the console panel area right up to about the last 45 minutes
before liftoff. I'd be checking on alertness, especially among
men who had been working long hours. Were they fatigued? Were
they concentrating on the dials? Was there any unnecessary
chit-chat going on?
     When we had long holds during the Countdown Demonstration
Tests I had to judge how far we could go, whether we were pushing
too hard, whether we had to call a delay and wait until the next
day. The team had to be as well rehearsed as any ballet, or any
football team. You do not get the commitment for launch without a
lot of hard days and weeks and months of practice.
- Rocco A. Petrone
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Testing the Team
     About eighty percent of the people on these teams worked for
the contractors; the rest were NASA employees. All of them had to
go through examinations. We'd call a man in -- say a swing-arm
console operator -- before a board of three or four examiners and
we'd have his part of the mission simulated on a console. He
would have five minutes to get set, before making split-second
decisions. We'd say, "Okay, here's your console, and here's your
condition." The examiners would move a red-green slide, or put a
yellow light on. The operator would look at the simulation on his
console, and say, "Okay, that's green, and it means the pressure
is okay; that's red and it means the pressure is too low." Dozens
of other simulators would test his proficiency. We had to make
sure. We had to be able to say. "We understand the problems,
we've done the detective work; we've found the solution and we've
tested it, and we have confidence everything will work."
     In our testing we had a building block approach, very
logical, very methodical; you built each test on the last test,
and the whole sequence expanded in the process. Everything
culminated in the two main tests, Flight Readiness and Countdown
Demonstration. Flight Readiness would take us through the total
flight, including an abbreviated trip to the Moon, with all the
valves working, all the sequences following according to the
logic we had worked out for them. It was a total test of the
electrical system and the software.
     The Flight Readiness Test was dry (that is, without
propellants) but the Countdown Demonstration Test (93 hours) was
loaded with propellants, including several thousand tons of
cryogenics in the three stages and tons of RP-1 fuel in the first
stage. This one we took right up to the point of 14 seconds
before ignition. We had four or five different ways to stop the
countdown sequence at 14 seconds, and I would customarily look at
Ike Rigell and say, "How many stops have we got?" The test had to
be stopped at T minus 14 seconds because if it went down to 9 we
would activate the ignition sequence. So everybody wore a sort of
tense smile when it came to 14 seconds. We never had an
accidental ignition, which would have meant chaos. (We did not
have the astronauts in the CM during this part of the CDDT.)
     Then we would unload the cryogenic propellants and dry out
the tanks, which took five or six hours. a little longer than it
took to load. Next day we would pick up the count at about three
hours and run through the schedule up to simulated lift-off, now
with the astronauts on board. It was important for the flight
crew to go through this final exercise: to suit up in the Manned
Spacecraft Operations Building, get in the vans, ride out to the
pad, load into the CM. and check the flight systems.
     I have often been asked why it took hundreds of men to
launch the astronauts to the Moon, whereas just two of them on
the Moon can launch themselves back to Moon orbit. Well, the two
of them were there on the Moon in the LM's ascent stage. They had
everything they needed: their fuel was loaded; they had water;
their cooling system was working and so was their oxygen supply.
Their radar was tracking and their communications to Earth were
functioning, and long before launch we had checked to see that
they had no electrical interference. These systems were working
because of the preparations and check-out efforts of hundreds of
people on the ground before the spacecraft was committed to
launch.
- Rocco A. Petrone
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
When the Red Light Lit Up
     It was remarkable that every manned Apollo launch lifted off
exactly on schedule, up to the last one. (Apollo 14's forty-
minute delay was due to weather.) But Apollo 17, the only night
launch was delayed 2 hours and 40 minutes, until 12:33 AM,
because of the failure of an automatic countdown sequencer in the
ground equipment. The way we had the launch set up was that the
last three-minute period in effect was a series of automatic
commands, all done by a timer. If you didn't get through a
certain gate in the automatic sequencer the next command would
not be given. This protected us against a faulty liftoff.
     This is what the term "terminal sequence" meant, which took
a great deal of check-out time in the months preceding launch.
When we got down to 30 seconds before lift-off. the indication of
pressurization for one of the propellants in the S-IVB stage
hadn't registered, so the sequencer stopped the count. The red
light on the overhead indicator in the firing room lit up. The
engineer monitoring that read-out on the strip chart told us the
S-IVB was not pressurized. The ladder in the sequence wasn't met,
so we got a cut-off at 30 seconds.
     The team went through a back-out act, as they had practiced,
the arming command was withdrawn, the on-board batteries were
taken off line, the radio-frequency transmitters turned off, and
within three or four minutes the space vehicle had been returned
to a status where we could safely hold. Everything was done very
coolly, very gingerly. Gene Cernan, the commander of the flight,
said later that he kept his hand -- very tightly -- on the abort
switch, "because you never know." But once again the launch
escape tower went unused.
     The problem turned out to be a faulty diode in the terminal
sequencer. Among the hundreds of commands given in sequence, one
was not forthcoming, so everything stopped- which is one of the
marvels of Apollo. At this late date in the program nobody batted
an eye, including Walter J. Kapryan, the able engineer who had
succeeded me as launch director when I went to Washington as
Apollo Program Director three years earlier.
     No story about the Cape -- Canaveral, then Kennedy, then
Canaveral again -- would be complete without a mention of the
visitors. By the time the Apollo program ended in 1972 we had
attracted more than 6 million of them, and that doesn't count
people who lined the roads and watched the lift-offs (there were
a million of those, it was estimated, for Apollo 11). We had VIP
visitors in a steady stream -- Presidents of the United States.
members of the Supreme Court, members of Congress, almost any
prominent person you could mention.
     We had leaders from many countries -- I recall the Shah of
Iran, King Hussein of Jordan (he was a jet pilot), the King of
Afghanistan, King Baudoin of Belgium, Haile Selassie of Ethiopia,
Chancellor Erhard of Germany, and President Radhakrishnan of
India, who had been a professor of philosophy at Oxford. Other
visitors included foreign ministers and cabinet members from many
countries. We talked to most of them in informal sessions,
explaining as best we could the mysteries of spaceflight.
     The one visitor who impressed me most came in November 1963,
and we briefed him on a Saturn-Apollo unmanned mission due to fly
in January -- which would be the first Saturn I to carry two stages
(with a total of 14 engines, still the record for launch
vehicles). He promised to come back for the launch if he possibly
could. But he never made it because he was assassinated in Dallas
six days later.
- Rocco A. Petrone
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: This is Mission Control
|   Chapter: Seven
!    Author: Christopher C. Kraft, Jr.
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 122
|-----------------------------------------------------
  The last Apollo flight to the Moon has been called "the end of the
beginning."  It represented more than just the end of a program to me.
It brought to a close a phase of my career. Apollo had become
intimately interwoven in the fabric of the waking hours of my life and
often caused the remaining hours to be fewer than they should have
been.  My first involvement with the program had occurred at Langley
Field, Va., 11 years before the Apollo 17 flight.  During those
formative years of the lunar program I was faced with the challenge of
flying Mercury, and of necessity my commitment to Apollo could not
assume the proportions it would in later years.  Only twenty three
days before my first Apollo meeting at North American Aviation, we
were flying Frendship 7 and John Glenn on the country's first manned
orbital flight.
  In those naive early days I had no idea I would be charged with the
responsibility not only for flight operations but for managing the
computer software programs that wold be used for landing two
astronauts on the Moon and returning them to Earth.  Although in 1962
we had decided twe were going to the Moon, we had yet to figure out
how we were going to get there and return, let alone determine the
equipment, facilities, and personnel we would need.  Many difficult
hours were yet to be spent in conference rooms, visiting contractor
plants and test sites, and waiting at airports.  I had yet to
experience the frightening experience of disarming an angry young man
with a gun on one of many flights to Cape Kennedy.  The future held
both periods of dispair and frustration and those exciting and
satisfying moments when we flew that were to make it all seem
worthwile.  Now, with Apollo 17, it was coming to an end.  I found it
difficult to accept the finality of that landing on December 19, 1972,
near the USS Ticonderoga in the Pacific Ocean.  The challenge would
never again be quite the same.  Apollo was like an intoxicating wine
and certainly the last of the vintage.
VIGILANCE AND JUDGEMENT
  "The accomplishments of this last Apollo mission and the successes
of the previous Apollo flights were the result of the dedicated
efforts and the sacrifices of thousands of individuals."  I have
difficulty recollecting how many times I stood on the platform at
Ellington Air Force Base welcoming the returning flight crews and
heard those words repeated.  But they are nevertheless quite true.
The people in Houston were with their astronauts each step of the way.
The interchange between Mike Collisn, serving as the CapCom (capsule
communicator), and Bill Anders as Apollo 8 orbited the Moon clearly
demonstrated this feeling.  Mike called Apollo 8, saying "Milt says we
are in a period of relaxed vigilance."  Bill came back with "Very
good.  We relax; you be vigilant."  They came to rely on the
controllers, as they well knew their very lives depended on their
vigilance and judgement.  Mike later put it well in his book, Carrying
the Fire.  He writes of the Gemini 10 reentry and their reliance on
"Super Retro" John Llewellyn.  Mike says that they knew if they made a
mistake John would be so angry that he would stick up his strong Welsh
arm and yank them out of the sky.  John's dominant personality is
illustrated by the time he was coming on duty for his shift in the
Control Center and, finding his parking space taken, he simply parked
on the walk next to the door rather than waste time looking.  Like his
compatriots, John was thoroughly dedicated.  His type is at its best
when fighting wars or flying missions.
A LIGHTNING STRIKE
     I could recall any one of hundreds of incidents that have
occurred over the years as we flew Apollo. Launch has always been an
uneasy time for me, and I always looked forward to successful
separation from the booster. When one adds to this an apprehension
caused by bad weather over the Cape, I become even more concerned.  It
turned out that all of the elements were present for Apollo 12. The
launch was made into a threatening gray sky with ominous cumulus
clouds. Pete Conrad's words 43 seconds after liftoff, electrified
everyone in the Control Center: "We had a whole bunch of buses drop
out," followed by "Where are we going?" and "I just lost the
platform." The spacecraft had been struck by lightning. Warning lights
were illumi- nated, and the spacecraft guidance system lost its
attitude reference.
     The spacecraft was still climbing outbound, accelerating on its
way to orbit.  There was not much time to decide what should be done.
The crew was given a "go" for staging and separation from the first
stage of the Saturn V launch vehicle. Within seconds, John Aaron, the
CSM electrical and environmental systems engineer, found what had
happened. Pete was asked to switch to the secondary data system so
that telemetry would show the status of the electrical system. The
crew was then asked to reset the fuel cells, which came back on line,
and Apollo 12 continued on its way into orbit. Additional checks were
made of the spacecraft electrical system and a guidance reference was
reestablished. Apollo 12 went on to the Moon.
     A chapter of this book is devoted to Apollo 13. As I moved up in
the organization, I reluctantly relinquished the job of flight
director. But there were many well qualified young men to assume this
responsibility. My faith in their abilities was confirmed by their
actions during this epic flight. Following the successful return of
the Apollo 13 crew, the performance of the Operations Team was
recognized with the presentation of the Medal of Freedom by the
President of the United States to Sig Sjoberg, my colleague through
all the tribulations of Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo.
     Docking was another major hurdle that had to be overcome if we
were to make it to the Moon. Normally, it went well but I always
breathed easier when it was behind us. There had been no major docking
problems in the program until Apollo 14.  After five unsuccessful
attempts by Al Shepard and his crew, we still had not made the initial
doc)~ing with the lunar module. Previously we'd always had a docking
probe and drogue available in the Control Center, as well as experts
on the system, but now there were frantic calls for assistance and the
absent docking system had to be hurriedly located to help understand
what might be going on thousands of miles out in space. Procedures
were worked out and another attempt proved successfu1.
REPROGRAMMING IN FLIGHT
     The next Apollo 14 problem occurred just prior to the final
descent for landing at Fra Mauro. An abort command was received by the
lunar module's guidance computer. Had the abort command been
initiated, it would have separated the ascent stage from the descent
stage and terminated the landing. The descent had to be delayed; and,
as Al Shepard and Ed Mitchell orbited the Moon, the ground valiantly
tried to determine the cause of the problem. It was isolated to one
set of contacts of the abort switch on the instrument panel. Recycling
the switch or tapping on the instrument panel removed the signal from
the computer. A computer program was developed and verified within two
hours by the Operations Team and inserted manually into the computer,
allowing the computer to disregard the abort command. The unexpected
came again within minutes. As the crew started the descent to the
Moon, the altitude and ve1ocity lights of the computer display
indicated that the landing radar data were not valid. This information
provided essential updates to the computer. Flight Con- tro1ler Dick
Thorson made a call to recycle the landing radar circuit breaker. The
crew complied. The lights were extinguished and the necessary computer
entry update was made at an altitude of about 21,000 feet. Apollo 14
and Al Shepard's and Ed Mitchell's diinb almost to the top of Cone
Crater are now history.
     There were occasions when the problems that came up did not
require an instant decision but rather resulted in long hours in
conference in Mission Control.  For example, on Apollo 15, the flight
of Endeavour and Falcon, as the spacecraft traveled from the Earth to
the Moon, the service propulsion system developed a problem. This is
the system that is required to place the spacecraft in orbit around
the Moon and on its trajectory back to Earth. Needless to say, this
was a critical sys- tem. A light had illuminated showing that the
engine was firing while it obviously was off. This had to be caused by
a short in the ignition circuitry. Had this circuit been armerl while
the short was present, the service propulsion engine would have fired.
The Operatipns Team, working with Don Arabian, a legend in his own
time, and Gary Johnson, an excellent young electrical engineer,
isolated the short to one of two systems. A test firing was initiated
by the crew to verify that the short existed on the ground side of one
of two sets of valves. Procedures were then developed by the ground,
working with the flight crew, and the mission continued.
LONG-DISTANCE SOLUTIONS
     Apollo 16 had its unique problems and one was a major one of the
instantaneous "and serious variety. Just after separation of the CSM
from the LM, prior to initiating final descent for the landing, a
maneuver was to be performed by the command and service module Casper
to circularize its orbit around the Moon. Preparations for the burn
went well until a check was made of the secondary yaw gimbals. These
gimbals controlled the direction of thrust in yaw plane for the
service propulsion system, a system that was essential to insuring
that the astronauts could get out of lunar orbit.  The gimbals
appeared normal until the motor was started and then they exhibited
rapidly diverging oscillations. The two spacecraft were asked to
rendezvous; and Jim McDivitt, the Apollo Spacecraft Program Manager,
met with Bob Gilruth and me to tell us that it appeared to him that
the mission would have to be terminated.  Another meeting in an hour
was scheduled to review the bidding. By the time we had the second
meeting, the Operations Team, through extensive testing and
simulations, determined that the oscillations would have damped and
the secondary servo system was safe to use. John Young and Charlie
Duke proceeded with the landing, as I reflected on the phenomenal
capabilities of a group of young engineers who had solved a problem of
a spacecraft 240,000 miles away from Earth.
     Apollo 17, the final mission to the Moon, clearly demonstrated
the maturity of the Operations Team. For the first time, a manned
launch was made at night. A landing was made in the valley of
Taurus-Littrow, the most difficult of any of the Apollo landing sites.
The spacecraft performed in an outstanding fashion, and there were no
major problems. Minor ones that did occur were handled without
difficulty.
     The problems encountered were all overcome due to the careful
premission preparation, rigorous testing, planning, training, and
hours and hours spent simulating critical phases of the mission with
the flight crew. These simulations prepared the controllers and the
crew to respond to both normal and abnormal situations. Their record
speaks for itself on the adequacy of the training. This was not
brought together overnight, and in 1962 we were a long way from
Taurus-Littrow.
     The basic flight-control concepts used for Apollo were developed
by a small group of people on the Mercury Operations Team. In 1958,
under the leadership of Robert R. Gilruth, the Space Task Group had
been given the fantastic responsibility of placing a man in orbit
around the Earth. Those few young men who assumed this task did not
have any previous experience on which to rely. It had never been done
before. What they did have was the willingness to tackle any job, and
a technical capability that they had attained through an
apprenticeship in what I consider to have been the Nation's finest
technical organization, the National Advisory Committee for
Aeronautics. Other members of the Mercury Operations Team had
experience with aircraft development and flight testing with the Air
Force and Navy or with major aircraft companies, both within this
country and in particular with AVRO of Canada. That country's
cancellation of the CF-105 with its attendant effect on the AVRO
program proved to be a blessing to the United States space program.
Many L fine engineers came to work as members of the Space Task Group
at Langley: Jim Chamberlin, John Hodges, Tecwyn Roberts, Dennis
Fielder, and Rod Rose, to name !1 a few. The operational concepts that
were developed by this cadre on Mercury were improved as experience
was gained on each flight. As the Operations Team assumed the
responsibility for flying Gemini, the concepts were further developed,
expanded, and improved. There were many essential steps that had to be
taken to get to the Moon. For the Operations Team, Gemini was one.
   Only a small group of people were involved in Mercury operations.
When the team was "given the responsibility for flying Gemini, and
with the Mercury flights continuing, the organization had to be
expanded. A conscious effort was made to bring young people into the
organization. With an abundance of recent college graduates, the team
took on a young character. The additions brought with them the
aggressiveness, initiative, and ingenuity that one finds in the young
engineer. They did not all come from major colleges; there were
graduates of Southwestern State College in Oklahoma, Willamette
University in Oregon, San Diego State College, Texas Wesleyan College,
and Northeastern University in Boston, to name a few. A large
contingent of officers was also made available by the U.S. Air Force
and this group provided excellent support. I came to rely on these
young people and I can honestly say they never let me down.
  AN ADVANCED COMPUTER COMPLEX
   As the team was being built, the facilities and equipment were also
being defined, developed, constructed, and brought on line.  The
Mercury flights were directed from a control center at Cape Canaveral,
Fla. In l962, the Space Task Group moved to Houston to form the Manned
Spacecraft Center. The construction of the Mission Control Center in
Houston, designed to accomplish the lunar missions, was started in
1962. Thirty-six months later it was to be used to control Jim
McDivitt's and Ed White's flight in the Gemini IV spacecraft. Its full
capability was not used for Gemini, however, as much work still had to
be accomplished. One of the most advanced computer complexes in the
world had to be integrated with a global tracking network.  Tracking
and telemetry data had to be relayed from stations in Australia,
Spain, the Canary Islands, Guam, Ascension Island, California,
Bermuda, Hawaii, Tananarive, and Corpus Christi. Tracking ships were
built to provide additional communication coverage in ocean areas.
Special Apollo Range and Instrumentation Aircraft (modified Boeing
KC-135 jets) were deployed around the world.
   All this was being done concurrently with the evolution of
operational concepts.  During the Mercury and Gemini flight programs,
teams of flight controllers at the remote tracking stations were
responsible for certain operational duties somewhat independent of the
main Control Center. The advantages of having one centralized
operations team became more apparent, and for Apollo, two high-speed
2.4-kilobit- per-second data lines connected each remote site to the
Mission Control Center in Houston. This permitted the centralization
of the flight control team in Houston.  Provisions were also made to
tie into the Control Center, through a communications network, the
best engineering talent available at contractor and government
facilities.  
    As engineers from the Goddard Space Flight Center were intently
determining the requirements for this ground communications network,
building and installing equipment, and laboriously testing and
verifying the network's capabilities, engineers in Houston, led by a
young Air Force officer, Pete Clements, and a fine young engineer,
Lynwood Dunseith, were feverishly working to integrate the computer
complex and Control Center displays with the network. The critical
parameters and limits that had to be monitored in flight needed to be
defined; the necessary sensors for measuring the parameters needed to
be incorporated in the design of the spacecraft; and rules for
utilizing the measurements needed to be developed. But it was not only
a question of ensuring that the right measurements were made.
Spacecraft and sub- system design also had to have the redundancy and
the flexibility needed to overcome failures and contingencies as they
arose. And time was relentlessly marching on. Test- ing of the
spacecraft revealed new problems, and new techniques and procedures
often had to be developed to avoid potential difficulties in flight.
Programs had to be developed for operating the spacecraft and Control
Center computers, and the pro- grams had to be verified, tested, and
incorporated in the computers. The end of the decade moved closer each
day. The complexity of the spacecraft and launch vehicle was exceeded
only by the complexity of a worldwide ground-control system.
   
   Then came January 27, 1967, and the AS-204 fire, a day I'll never
forget. I was at the console in Houston monitoring the test at the
Cape, together with a group of flight controllers. We thought we had
considered every eventuality, and now we were struck down by an event
that did not occur in space but happened during a ground test. There
were no excuses that could be offered but, out of the despair of the
fire, there came a rededication to the successful accomplishment of
the goal and an intensified effort on the part of every individual.
    The Operations Team had many functions not associated with testing
and check- ing out the spacecraft and controlling the mission. These
functions were nevertheless essential to success. One was recovery
operations. Recovery techniques for the space- craft and the crew had
to be worked out in conjunction with the Department of Defense and the
U.S. Navy. Bob Thompson organized and led this effort during Mercury
and Gemini. The organizational team he established provided the same
excel- lent recovery support for Apollo as it had for Mercury and
Gemini.  
 NASA SP350 Page 135.
An array of specialists manned the consoles during an Apollo
mission -
     Key numbers above identify the locations of flight
controllers. 1 was the Booster Systems Engineer, responsible for
the three Saturn stages. 2 was the Retrofire Officer, keeping
continuous track of abort and return-to-Earth options. 3 was the
Flight Dynamics Office, in charge of monitoring trajectories and
planning major spacecraft maneuvers; he also managed onboard
propulsion systems. 4 was the Guidance Officer, who watched over
the CSM and LM computers and the abort guidance system. In the
second row/ 5 was the Flight Surgeon, keeping an eye on the
condition of the flight crew. At 6 was the Spacecraft
Communicator, an astronaut and member of the support crew, who
sent up the Flight Director's instructions. (He was usually
called CapCom, for Capsule Communicator, from Mercury days.) 7
concerned CSM and LM systems, including guidance and navigation
hardware; and electrical, environmental, and communications
systems. After Apollo 11, all communications systems were
consolidated as a separate task. On the next row in the middle
was 8I the Flight Director, the team leader. 9 was the Operations
and Procedures Officer, who kept the team- in and out of the
Center working together in an integrated way. 10 was the Network
Controller, who coordinated the worldwide communications links.
11 was the Flight Activities Officer, who kept track of flight
crew activities in relationship to the mission's time line. 12
was the Public Affairs Officer who served as the radio and TV
voice of Mission Control. 13 was the Director of Flight
Operations; 14 the Mission Director from NASA Headquarters; and
15 the Department of Defense representative. During activity on
the lunar surface an Experiments Officer manned the console at 1
to direct scientific activities and relay word from the science
team.
MANEUVER TARGETING
    The team also developed the techniques for flying the spacecraft
and controlling its trajectory. It had the primary responsibility for
developing the programs or logic used in the computers onboard the
lunar module and the command and service module as well as those in
the Control Center. Except for rendezvous maneuvers, the Control
Center was the only source of maneuver targeting; that is, determining
the exact magnitude, direction, and the time for executing each flight
maneuver. Bill Tindall, a truly outstanding engineer, contributed
significantly to this effort. Operations were planned in detail before
a flight. Plans were based both on everything working properly and on
the "what if" situations that might occur. The "what if" situations
could not be carried to the point of actually reducing reliability by
introducing confusion or complexity into the system. This was quite
often a fine line to walk. Techniques also had to be developed for
monitoring all essential systems during critical mission phases. The
procedures, the techniques, the personnel, and an organization all had
to be defined and developed, a task of no small magnitude. Each
landing demonstrated how well the task was performed.  Apollo 12 was a
classic example, with an incredible pinpoint landing some 600 feet
from the Surveyor spacecraft that had previously landed on the Ocean
of Storms.
    To conduct operations for the flights, four complete
flight-control teams were organized and used for all Apollo missions.
Each team was headed by a flight director; Gene Kranz, Cliff
Chaflesworth, Glynn Lunney, Gerry Griffin, Pete Frank, Milt Windler,
Neil Hutchinson, Phil Shaffer, and Chuck Lewis were all assigned this
responsibility during various phases of the program. To simplify the
overall training program, each team was assigned different events or
activities. The individuals on each team could thus devote their full
attention and energy to developing proficiency in accomplishing a few
things, as opposed to having to cover an impossible spectrum.
    The team was responsible for developing the mission plans to
demonstrate the capability of the spacecraft, the systems, and the
team to land a crew on the Moon.  A series (Jf unmanned developmental
flights was planned with well defined objectives to be demonstrated on
each flight. Apollo 7, the first manned flight, occurred in October
l968, and the first flight to the Moon, Apollo 8, occurred two months
later.  Even while Apollo 7 was flying, the Operations Team was
performing simulations and training for the Apollo 8 mission. As
Apollo 8 was flying, training and simulations were being conducted for
Apollo 9, the first Earth-orbital flight of the LM and CSM in March
1969. The next step, Apollo 10-a dress reliearsal for the first
landing- was taken in May I969. On this flight, on the far side of the
Moon, a fuel cell was lost and taken off line. The team had trained
for this contingency and reacted accordingly.
TRAINING CREWS AND CONTROLLERS
    Astronaut training and development of the flight plans and crew
procedures were directed by Deke Slayton. He accomplished these tasks
in an outstanding manner.  The training that Deke provided the crews,
as well as the training provided the flight controllers, gave them the
capability to react to the unexpected. Quite often it resulted in
unique training devices and equipment. The zero-gravity environment
was simu- lated by using a modified KC-1 35 aircraft that flew
parabolas, thus creating 20 to 30 seconds of weightlessness. A neutral
buoyancy water tank was also used to simulate the weightless
environment. The unique Lunar Landing Training Vehicle (LLTV) was
developed to train the astronauts in controlling the lunar module
during the final phase of its descent and landing. The test flights of
the LLTV, for example, saw the successful emergency ejection of three
pilots-Joe Algranti and Stu Present, research pilots, and Neil
Armstrong, the commander of the first lunar landing mission -- because
of vehicle failures. Bob Gilruth and I both believed that flying this
craft was more hazardous than flying the actual lunar module.
    Simulators also had to be developed to provide training for the
flight crew in the operation of the spacecraft. These simulators were
tied in with the Mission Control Center so that an integrated training
could be accomplished with the flight controllers.  These simulations
allowed the flight crew to train realistically for all phases of the
mission, including the landing itself. Unique display techniqu9s were
used with actual models of each landing site. The models allowed the
crew to gain familiarity with the terrain and recognizable landmarks.
Detailed lunar maps that were based primarily on data provided by the
NASA unmanned lunar orbit program were prepared by the Air Force
Information and Charting Service and by the U.S. Geological Survey.
    As the system matured after Apollo 11, greater emphasis was placed
on scientific training and on ensuring that the astronauts were
prepared to perform scientific experi- ments when they arrived on the
Moon. Prominent scientists both from within the government and from
universities throughout the country offered their time and talent to
ensure that the crew and the Operations Team were adequately trained
to perform the demanding scientific tasks. During the mission, they
also participated as members of the Operations Team. Apollo brought a
new aspect to spaceflight as man on the surface of the Moon worked in
conjunction with a science team on Earth that capitalized on his
observations, judgments, and abilities. They assessed his comments and
evaluations, and modified the science planning and objectives in real
time. This was not accomplished, however, without moments of
frustration and anguish during the early flights, when the
acceptability of the spacecraft and its systems was yet to be proved.
During the later lunar missions, the crew and the Operations Team were
working with proven procedures and a proven spacecraft, and the
capabilities of the science organization were effectively integrated
in the performance of the missions.
    As a means of saying thanks, on March 5, l973, this group of
scientists held a dinner for a number of the program and operations
personnel they had worked with over the years. The events of that
night clearly showed how well this relationship had developed. As late
as 1969, there were very few that would have been brave enough to
predict such a dinner would have ever occurred.
CONTRIBUTIONS OF FLIGHT SURGEONS
    Chuck Berry and Dick Johnston and their medical personnel also
played an important role as members of the Operations Team. Working
with engineering per- sonnel, they developed the monitoring techniques
used to observe the critical medical parameters of man in flight.
~1'he flight surgeons' judgment and ability to assess the astronauts'
well-being in flight as well as their confidence in the crew's
readiness to undertake each of the missions were very necessary to
achieving success. In the beginning, there were some who doubted man's
capability to even exist, let alone work, in the environment of space.
Chuck Berry had no such doubts and worked hard to alleviate such
concerns. I do not believe that we could have gotten to the Moon
without the contributions of the flight surgeons.
    The Apollo Operations Team was a unique group brought together to
accomplish a successful landing on the Moon and return to Earth. I do
not believe that the dedi- cation and the capabilities of these people
have ever previously been duplicated, and 1 doubt that such a group
will ever be brought together again. A great amount of preparation
preceded the actual flying of an Apollo mission. The spacecraft had to
be designed, built, and tested, but the group that actually flew the
mission was faced with an awesome responsibility. President Truman had
a sign on his desk in the White House stating that "The buck stops
here." This comment could well be applied to the Apollo Operations
Team. For these young men and women, the Apollo missions were their
finest hour-the truly great adventure of their lives as well as of
mine.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Men for the Moon
|   Chapter: Eight
!    Author: Robert Sherrod
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 
|-----------------------------------------------------
Men for the Moon
     On a June day in 1965, following their spectacular Gemini 4
flight, James McDivitt and Edward White flew up to Washington
from Houston with their wives and children. The helicopter
bearing them from Andrews Air Force Base, MD., had no sooner
settled on the White House lawn than Lady Bird Johnson said she
wanted them all to spend the night; babysitters would be
provided. The two astronauts heard the President call them
"Christopher Columbuses of the twentieth century," and he
pronounced the United States now caught up with the Russians.
     The two astronauts had a parade. They lunched with Vice
President Humphrey and congressional leaders, and in the evening
they went to the State Department for a reception. Before a
packed assemblage of foreign diplomats they showed a 20-minute
movie of their flight, which included the first American walk in
space by Ed White.
     In strode Lyndon B. Johnson himself, who told McDivitt and
White, "I want you to Join our delegation in Paris." Furthermore,
the President wanted them to go now, as soon as they and their
wives could pack. He was seething because the Russians had
humbled the Americans at the Paris Air Show, where Yuri Gagarin
was standing by his spacecraft, shaking hands with everybody and
passing out Vostok pins. The French press noted that the
lackluster American pavilion was shunned by the crowds.
     Patricia McDivitt and Patricia White wailed in unison, "But
we have nothing to wear!" Never mind, said LBJ, Lady Bird and
Lynda Bird and Luci have plenty of clothes. The ladies retired to
the White House bedrooms, and the two Pats were duly outfitted.
Long after midnight the Presidential plane took off, bearing as
additional passengers Hubert Humphrey, James Webb, and Charles
Mathews, the Gemini program manager.
     The astronauts made it only in time for the last day and a
half of the eleven-day show, but they gave the Russians some real
competition. Wherever they appeared, the American jumeaux de
space were followed by masses of Frenchmen. "A partial recovery
for the United States" was the Paris newspapers' verdict.
     Such were the glory days, when to be an astronaut was to be
in heaven- if one could endure the slavery that was the obverse
of the coin.
     Altogether there were seven groups of astronauts, a total of
73, of whom 43 flew before the long night settled on manned space
flight after the Apollo-Soyuz mission in July 1975. Twenty-nine
of these filled the 33 slots in Apollo, with which we are
principally concerned here.
     What did it take to become an astronaut? Dr. Robert Voas, a
psychologist who was the Mercury astronauts' training director,
detailed the required characteristics as he saw them:
intelligence without genius, knowledge without inflexibility, a
high degree of skill without overtraining, fear but not
cowardice, bravery without foolhardiness, self-confidence without
egotism, physical fitness without being muscle-bound, a
preference for participatory over spectator sports, frankness
without blabbermouthing, enjoyment of life without excess, humor
without disproportion, fast reflexes without panic in a crisis.
These ideals were fulfilled to a high degree.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Strenuous Selection Process
     In December 1958, plans had been made to post civil service
notices inviting applications for astronaut service, GS-12 to
GS-15, salary $8,330 to $12,770. President Eisenhower thought
this ridiculous, and decided that the rolls of military test
pilots would furnish all the astronauts necessary. "It was one of
the best decisions he ever made," said Robert Gilruth sixteen
years later. "It ruled out the matadors, mountain climbers, scuba
divers, and race drivers and gave us stable guys who had already
been screened for security." From the records of 508 test pilots,
110 were found to meet the minimum standards (including the
height and age limitations, 5 feet 11 inches and 40 years).
     After further examination, the 1 10 were narrowed to 69,
then to 32, who were put through strenuous physical tests: How
much heat could the man stand? How much noise? How many balloons
could he blow up before he collapsed? How long could he keep his
feet in ice water? How long could he run on a treadmill?
     Worst of all, the astronauts thought, were the 25
psychological tests that entailed minute and painful self-
examination ("Write 20 answers to the question: `Who am I?'")
From the 18 survivors, seven were chosen in April 1959, and they
would remain the Nation's only astronauts for three and one-half
years. Their IQs ranged from 130 to 145, with a mean of 136. Even
before they had accomplished anything they became instant heroes
to small boys and other hero-worshipers around the world.
     Among those who flunked the first round were James Lovell
and Charles Conrad, who were picked up in the Second Nine in 1962
and went on to make four spaceflights apiece- a record they
shared only with John Young and Tom Stafford. The Second Nine
proved even more stable than their predecessors. Excepting Ed
White, killed in the spacecraft fire of January 1967, and Elliott
See, who died in a plane crash, all commanded Apollo flights.
     The Second Nine were test pilots, too, but two of them were
civilians: Neil Armstrong, who had flown the X-15 for NASA, and
See a General Electric flier. By the time the third group of
fourteen was selected in 1963 the test-pilot requirement had been
dropped- as had most of the outlandish physical tests- but the
educational level had risen to an average of 5.6 years of
college, even though the IQ average fell a couple of points below
the first two groups. Four of the fourteen would die in accidents
without making a spaceflight.
     The fourth group of six men wasn't even required to be
pilots because they were scientists (doctors of geology,
medicine, physics, and electrical engineering) who, after
selection, had to take an extra year to learn to fly. Because
three missions were cut from the program, only one, Harrison
Schmitt, was to fly in Apollo. Three others flew in Skylab.
     The fifth group was the biggest of all, nineteen pilots, of
whom twelve would fly in Apollo, three in Skylab, and one in
Apollo-Soyuz. The sixth group, eleven more scientists, scored the
highest mean IQ? 141, but they came too late to fly and six
resigned before 1975. The final group of seven transferred from
the Air Force's defunct Manned Orbital Laboratory in 1969 and
their hope had to rest on the resumption of flight with the Space
Shuttle about 1979.
     One thing all astronauts had in common: hard work. Each
astronaut was assigned one or more specialties, which he had to
learn with dizzying completeness. Neil Armstrong, for example,
was assigned trainers and simulators, John Young environmental
control systems and personal and survival equipment, Frank Borman
boosters. In the third group Buzz Aldrin, who had earned a
doctorate with a dissertation on orbital rendezvous, was a
natural for mission planning; Bill Anders, who had a master's
degree in nuclear engineering, drew the environmental control
system; Mike Collins had the spacesuit and extravehicular
activity. The astronauts worked with and learned from scientists
and engineers, and suggested many ideas from a crewman's
viewpoint.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Preparing for all Eventualities
     Training was the name of the game, and they trained until it
seemed the labors of Hercules were child's play- how to make a
tent out of your parachute in case you came down in a desert; how
to kill and eat a snake in the jungles of Panama; how to
negotiate volcanic lava in Hawaii. An Air Force C-135 flew
endless parabolas so the astronauts could have repeated half-
minute doses of weightlessness. They wore weights in huge water
tanks in Houston and in Huntsville to get a feel of movement in
zero and one-sixth gravity.
     Hair-raising was the device called the Lunar Landing
Training Vehicle, a sort of flying bedstead, which had a
downward-pointing jet engine, gimbal-mounted and computer-
controlled to eliminate five-sixths of gravity. In addition, it
had attitude-controlling thrusters to simulate the way the LM
would act before touchdown on the Moon. If the trainer ran out of
fuel at altitude, or if it malfunctioned, the Apollo commander-
for he was the only one who had to fly the thing- had to eject,
which meant he was catapulted several hundred feet into the air
before his parachute opened. That was exactly what happened to
Neil Armstrong a few months before his Apollo 11 mission, when
his bedstead started to tilt awry a hundred feet above the
ground. Armstrong shot into the air, then floated to safety; the
machine crashed and burned.
     Dozens of training aids sharpened astronaut skills, but the
most indispensable were flight simulators, contraptions built
around copies of CM and LM control areas and complete to every
last switch and warning light. Astronauts on prime status for the
next mission would climb in to flip switches and work controls.
The simulator would be linked to a computer programmed lo give
them practice too. What made it exciting was that training
supervisors could also get in the loop to introduce sneaky
malfunctions, full-bore emergencies, or imminent catastrophes to
check on how fast and well the crews and their controllers would
cope. Surrounding the mockup spacecraft were huge boxes for
automatic movie and TV display of what astronauts would see in
flight: Earth, Moon, stars, another spacecraft coming in for
docking. When John Young first encountered a simulator he
exclaimed. The great train wreck!" Hour after weary hour the
spacemen had to solve whatever problems the training crews
thought up and fed into the computer. The Apollo 11 crew
calculated they spent 2000 hours in simulators between their
selection in January and their flight in July 1969.
     Some of this bone-cracking training was done in Houston but
much of it at the Cape, in Downey, Calif. (the CM), or Bethpage.
Long Island (the LM). When the astronauts were not training they
were flying in their two-seater T-38 planes from one place to the
other, or doing aerobatics to sharpen their edge, or simply to
unwind. Their long absences proved a plague on their home lives,
and there was hardly a man among them who did not consider
quitting the program at one time or another "to spend some time
with my family."
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Astronauts: Their Origins and Characteristics
     The 29 Apollo astronauts tended to originate in the American
heartland, in such places as Weatherford, Okla.; Columbus, Ohio;
Jackson, Mich.; and St. Francis, Kans. Four states gave birth to
three astronauts each: Texas, Ohio, New Jersey, and Illinois Only
one astronaut was born in New England, and none in New York City;
only two in the Deep South and two on the West Coast. Birthplaces
in the twentieth century can be deceptive, however: Frank Borman
was born in a steel-mill town, Gary, Ind., but because he was a
sickly child (sinus problems and mastoiditis) his family moved to
Arizona; John Young first saw light in San Francisco, but his
accent was authentic grits and red-eye because he grew up in
Orlando and rural Georgia and attended Georgia Tech (where he
stood second in engineering). Two were born overseas of U.S.
families, Anders in Hong Kong and Collins in Rome.
     The service schools educated nearly half the Apollo
astronauts: the U.S. Naval Academy eight, West Point five. As
might be expected of superachievers they were good students, the
median class-standing pegged at the top sixteen percent. Only two
other colleges produced more than one Apollonian: the University
of Colorado and Purdue with two apiece. Three of the twenty-nine
earned doctorates: Aldrin and Mitchell at MIT, Schmitt, the only
one with no military experience, at Harvard. (Pete Conrad was the
lone astronaut to do his undergraduate work at an Ivy League
institution, Princeton.)
     The average Apollo astronaut was medium-sized, slightly
under 5 ft 10 in., about 160 pounds. He was 38.6 years old when
he made his flight or, in the case of the four who flew two
Apollo missions, his first one. The blue-eyed outnumbered the
brown, 16 to 8, and five had eyes described as hazel or green.
Nineteen had (or had had) brown hair, seven blond, one black, and
there were two redheads, Schweickart and Roosa. Six of them were
well over on the bald side, Stafford almost at the peeled-egg
stage.
     The twenty-seven who were married (Swigert and Schmitt were
not) produced an average of 2.8 children. Generally the
astronauts- twenty-three Protestants and six Catholics- adhered
more closely to formal religion than their contemporaries; a high
proportion of them served as elders, stewards, deacons, or
vestrymen. Presbyterian Aldrin administered holy communion to
himself inside Eagle after it landed on the Moon, and when Frank
Borman was orbiting the Moon he apologized to his fellow members
of St. Christopher's Episcopal Church because his absence made it
impossible for him to serve as a lay reader on Christmas Eve. The
prayer he did say reached a somewhat larger audience and caused
an atheist to sue NASA, unsuccessfully, on a separation-of-state-
and-church issue.
     The astronauts were big on sports and flashy cars, but weak
in the classics. Mike Collins, who combined the fastest game of
handball (nobody could even come close to beating him) with a
taste for literature, used to say that the space program needed
more English majors to get away from the engineers in the
exhaustive checklists. He proved his versatility by writing a
literate, perceptive, and witty book called Carrying the Fire.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Advantages of being the Eldest Son
     Let us proceed to the anomalies, space jargon for the
surprises. Who would have imagined that seven of these superboys-
next-door would turn out to be left-handed (over twice what the
percentages would predict), particularly since it is more
convenient for test pilots to be right-handed? Was it another
symptom of the determination to beat the odds? Similarly, nine of
the twenty-nine didn't make it the first time they applied for
admission (two of them had to apply three times). Was it the
"I'll show 'em" obsession that prompted them to try again- and
win?
     Then there is the eldest-son syndrome. As long ago as 1874 a
psychologist noted that the first child in a family tended to
excel. He got a headstart: his doting parents taught him to read
early, to study hard, to take on responsibility for himself. A
survey of the twenty-nine confirms this thesis to an astonishing
degree. Twenty-two were first-born (six of them in the only-child
category). Five others had older sisters but were eldest sons.
Only two, Stuart Roosa and Mike Collins, had older brothers, and
in the case of Collins there is a qualification: he hardly knew
his brother, who was thirteen years older, and Major General and
Mrs. Collins gave Mike the only-son treatment the second time
around.
     To be dubbed astronaut, by way of the thrilling telephone
call from Deke Slayton or, in some cases, his deputy Al Shepard,
was to achieve knighthood. This occasion the chosen one never
forgot, like the day he got married or the day JFK was shot.
     Soon he learned that this was only the beginning. An
astronaut didn't join the peerage until he got assigned to a
flight, initially to a back-up crew and then later prime. "I
would have flown alone, or with a kangaroo- I just wanted to
fly," Mike Collins wrote.
     Men assigned to a crew not only were in the public eye. They
and their families achieved status with their peers; they went to
the head of the line when it came to time in the simulators, or
in access to the T-38 planes.
     The men with missions got invited to the White House;
Congress welcomed them. Even as late as Apollo 13, whose crew
appeared before the Senate Space Committee, Senator Curtis
credited the astronauts with the ability "to increase the
attendance of this committee more than anything I know of."
Senator Symington observed that Lovell & Co. represented "all the
best in this country," and Senator Margaret Chase Smith of Maine
said that "this is certainly one of the most momentous occasions
of my career."
     Sometimes fate played a hand, as in the case of Buzz Aldrin.
Deep in despair over his failure to be assigned to a prime Gemini
crew- he was back-up on Gemini 10, and there would be no Gemini
13- Aldrin was suddenly catapulted to the last mission because
his next-door neighbor Charles Bassett was killed in a plane
crash. From his superb walk in space on his Gemini mission Aldrin
went on to back up Apollo 8, succeeded to prime on Apollo 11, and
assured himself a front seat in the history books.
     Spaceflight was the sine qua non, but ironically the man who
sat atop this bastion of power was an unflown astronaut. Donald
K. Slayton, a dairy farmer's son from Sparta, Wis., got his wings
at age 19 and flew 56 B-25 missions in the Mediterranean theater
before he was 21, followed by seven missions in the Pacific.
After World War II he went to the University of Minnesota
(aeronautical engineering) and became an Air Force test pilot.
     A blue-eyed, steel-nerved flier, he was a natural for the
second orbital Mercury mission, after John Glenn's. But doctors
discovered he had a slightly irregular heartbeat, which raised an
issue that assumed vast proportions- his six colleagues even
appealed to President Kennedy to overrule the faction of doctors
who wanted to ground Deke. Kennedy assigned this hot potato to
his Vice President, who invited the astronauts, along with Robert
Gilruth, to a weekend at the LBJ Ranch to thrash out this
complaint and others. Deke remained grounded but his comrades
elected him their leader, thereby conferring on him (with
Gilruth's concurrence) immense power that would control the
destinies of all astronauts for the next decade.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
 SP-350 page 156.
Steps on the Moon
     The lunar environment is hostile to man. It lacks oxygen and
water; it is too hot in the day's sunshine (250 F) and too cold
in the night s darkness (-250 F). Hazardous micrometeoroids and
space radiation dart about. With no atmosphere and therefore no
atmospheric pressure fluids in an exposed human body will boil on
the Moon. How can man survive much less operate in such an
unfriendly environment? Answer: by taking his own friendly
environment with him in the form of a spacesuit.
     The spacesuit or Extravehicular Mobility Unit (EMU) shown on
opposite page is actually three suits in one. These three may
roughly be described as: a union suit a diver s suit and a suit
of armor. Each is custom-tailored to an astronaut s dimensions.
Precise models of astronaut s hands for example (shown below
right) were used to prepare fitted gloves.
     The union suit is climbed into first. Made up of a network
of flexible tubes embedded in a mesh fabric this water-cooled
underwear is linked to the vital backpack portable life support
system (PLSS) where the water and oxygen are stored and metered
for precise circulation. The cooling is necessary because body
heat cannot dissipate adequately.
     Over this liquid cooling garment the astronaut wears the
pressure garment assembly a kind of super-sophisticated diver s
suit. Constructed of rubbers and fabrics and with cleverly
contrived joints this assembly retains the oxygen atmosphere
without leakage while facilitating movement. It too is linked
into the PLSS where carbon dioxide and other contaminants are
removed from the oxygen stream. A chest-mounted remote control
unit permits the astronaut to adjust oxygen flow and cooling
temperature to match his preferences. The PLSS will sustain
activity for up to 8 hours before its oxygen water and battery
power must be recharged. A separate oxygen system atop the PLSS,
is available for emergencies; up to 75 minutes worth of oxygen is
available depending on the draw-off rate.
     Protecting the integrity of the pressure garment is the
outer suit of armor a 13-layer composite more like a coat of mail
than the rigid clanking uniform of castle-haunting ghosts. The
various layers of the outer garment protect the knight of Apollo
from the slings and arrows of outer space: micrometeoroids
ultraviolet rays and other radiation. Visors and shades similarly
protect the eyes.
     All suited up the astronaut is not unlike the small boy who
has been so bundled up that he can hardly move, much less frolic
in the snow. Actually given all the constraints and requirements
spacesuit designers were highly successful in affording the
astronaut extensive mobility in his EMU. Nevertheless like the
knights of old squires are needed to assist suited astronauts in
mounting their steeds and once aboard their spacecraft the
astronauts help each other in donning and doffing their outfits.
Going to the bathroom, as one would imagine would be nigh
impossible in such garb. So designers built in a sheath urinal
and collector bag. Aside from specially absorbent underwear there
was no provision for bowel movements during EVA. (Within the
spacecraft these were coped with by sealable disposable bags.)
     A compressed food bar for the astronaut to nibble on is
positioned inside the helmet, as is a straw-like tube for sipping
a beverage from a neck-ring suspended bag. Close to the mouth
also are voice-actuated microphone pick-ups which are an integral
part of a skull cap worn under the helmet. A backpack-housed
communications system enables the astronaut out on the airless
Moon to converse with his colleagues in the spacecraft and in
Mission Control. The latter also receive through the PLSS
telemetered biomedical data picked up from sensors on the
astronaut.
     Astronauts actually had a wardrobe of suits each
appropriately designed for use in training flight surface and
free-space EVA and as backup. Expensive sartorial splendor was
not one of the suit s design criteria; survival plus the
abilities to communicate move about and deal with equipment were.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
  SP-350 Page 155.
 
Which Men for which Flight Crews?
     How did Deke select the men to fly? Mostly by seniority. An
astronaut stood in line until his turn came, though the order of
assignment within his own group was important. "They are a durn
good bunch of guys, real fine troops, a bunch of chargers," said
Slayton in 1972. "It's not the kind of organization where you
have to keep pointing people in the right direction and kicking
them to get them to go. Everybody would like to fly every
mission, but that's impossible, of course. They all understand
that, even if it makes some of them unhappy." Slayton was rarely
accused of unfairness, a remarkable achievement considering the
stakes involved; his own eventual assignment at age 48 to the
Apollo-Soyuz mission was universally popular.
     Not all astronauts were equal, of course. Before the first
manned Apollo flights six crews had been formed, commanded by
Schirra, Borman, McDivitt, Stafford, Armstrong, and Conrad, who
had shaken down as the natural leaders with appropriate
seniority. Before he flew Apollo 7 Schirra announced he was
quitting afterward, and that left five. Which one would land
first on the Moon? It depended on the luck of the draw. "All the
crews were essentially equal," said Slayton, "and we had
confidence that any one of them could have done that first job."
     Either Borman or McDivitt seemed likeliest to be first on
the Moon; after they flew their early Gemini missions they were
sent straight to Apollo instead of being recycled into later
Gemini flights. But in 1968 two things happened to derail this
prospect: McDivitt, scheduled to lift off on the first Saturn V
(Apollo 8), declined the opportunity because it would not carry
the LM, on which he had practiced so long. Borman, scheduled for
Apollo 9, was "highly enthusiastic" about Apollo 8, LM or no LM,
but in deference to wife and children he decided that this would
be his last flight.
     Borman's back-up was Armstrong; McDivitt's was Conrad. In
each case, the back-up shifted with the prime, so Armstrong in
the normal rotation became Apollo 11, and Conrad lost his chance
to be first man on the Moon by becoming Apollo 12. There was also
the possibility that Apollo 10 (Stafford) might be the first Moon
lander -- George Mueller initially saw no point in going to the
Moon a second time without touching down. But for this one the LM
wasn't completely adapted for the task (it weighed too much) and
the program management decided they were not ready for the big
step. When the batting order was aligned in the summer of 1968,
nobody could have forecast how the assignments would sort out.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Choosing the First Man on the Moon
     Once it was fairly certain that Apollo 11 was it, newspaper
reporters and some NASA officials predicted that Aldrin would be
the first man to step on the Moon. The logic was that in Gemini
the man in the right-hand seat had done the EVA, and the early
time line drawn up in MSC's lower engineering echelons showed him
dismounting first. But the LM's hatch opened on the opposite
side. For Aldrin to get out first it would have been necessary
for one bulky-suited, back-packed astronaut to climb over
another. When that movement was tried, it damaged the LM mockup.
"Secondly, just on a pure protocol basis," said Slayton, "I
figured the commander ought to be the first guy out . . . I
changed it as soon as I found they had the time line that showed
that. Bob Gilruth approved my decision." Did Armstrong pull his
rank, as was widely assumed? Absolutely not, said Slayton. "I was
never asked my opinion," said Armstrong. "It was fine with me if
it was to be Neil," Aldrin wrote, half-convincingly.
     Five days before he sent McDivitt and White on that 1965
midnight ride to Paris, Lyndon B. Johnson had thrown a monkey
wrench into the Pentagon's machinery by jubilantly announcing
that he was promoting those astronauts, both Air Force officers,
from major to lieutenant colonel (he didn't bother to find out
that both had only recently made major). The astronauts were
naturally delighted.
     In justice to Maj. Virgil Grissom USAF and Lt. Comdr. John
Young USN, who had flown Gemini 3 three months earlier, the
President accelerated promotions for them, too, again without
saying anything to NASA or the Defense Department. He also went
back and picked up some unprompted Mercury astronauts. Admiral W.
Fred Boone, NASA's liaison officer to the Pentagon, noting "some
dissatisfaction both among the astronaut community and in the
Pentagon," undertook a study. Wrote Boone: "We agreed it would be
preferable that meritorious promotions be awarded in accordance
with established policy rather than on a 'spur of the moment'
basis."
     The upshot was a policy, approved by the President,
providing that each military astronaut be promoted after his
first successful flight, but not beyond colonel USAF or captain
USN. Civilians would be rewarded by step increase in civil
service grade. Only one promotion to any individual.
     That policy came unstuck on Apollo 12, flown by three Navy
commanders, Pete Conrad, Dick Gordon, and Alan Bean. Conrad and
Bean, having been upped from lieutenant commander to commander
after their Gemini 11 flight, were ineligible for another
promotion. Rookie Bean was. But should Bean be promoted over the
heads of his seniors? Hang the policy, said President Nixon,
promoting all three.
     Of all the amenities accruing to astronauts, the hard cash
came from "the Life contract." Between 1959 and 1963 Life
magazine paid the Seven Original astronauts a total of $500,000
for "personal" stories- concerning themselves and their families-
as opposed to "official" accounts of their astronautical duties.
This arrangement increased the astronauts' military income by
about 200 percent. It also simplified NASA public relations,
since the famous young men's bylines would be concentrated in one
place and the contract called for NASA approval of whatever they
said.
     There were drawbacks. The rest of the press took a sour view
of what it considered public property being put up for exclusive
sale (the dividing line between "personal" and "official" was
wafer-thin). Since the same ghostwriters put their stories in
print, the astronauts (and their families) all seemed shaped in
the same mold, utterly homogenized for the greater glory of home,
motherhood, and the space program. "To read it was to believe we
were the most simon-pure guys there had ever been," wrote Buzz
Aldrin in Return to Earth. "The contract almost guaranteed
peaches and cream, full-color spreads glittering with harmless
inanities," was the way Mike Collins's book had it.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
What Happens to Ex-Astronauts?
     The exclusive-story gambit almost ended when the Kennedy
Administration took over, and Kennedy's press secretary actually
announced there would be no more contracts after Mercury ended.
But John Glenn went sailing with the President one summer day in
1962 and enumerated the costs and risks that came with fame. The
President relented and more contracts were signed after the
Second Nine entered, this time with not only Life but also Field
Enterprises. But as more astronauts were selected, the pie sliced
thinner until finally each astronaut was receiving only $3000 per
year for his literary output. One last surge came with Life's
European syndication of the stories of Apollo 8 through 11 in
1969, which brought about $16,000 for each of sixty astronauts
and widows.
     A principal advantage of the contracts was the insurance,
$50,000 worth from both Life and Field for each astronaut, and
the widows of the accident victims were left with nest eggs.
Congress might have been able to provide extra income and extra
insurance, but the Vietnam War got in the way, and who was to say
a man dying in space was more deserving than one who stepped on a
land mine in a jungle path?
     Unfortunately, this easy money led, directly or indirectly,
to money acquired less scrupulously when the Apollo 15 astronauts
sold 400 unauthorized covers to a German dealer in exchange for
$8000 each (the dealer got $150,000). The three returned the
money, and were subsequently reprimanded. It also turned out that
each of fifteen astronauts had sold 500 copies of his signature
on blocks of stamps for $5 apiece, without saying anything to
bosses Slayton and Shepard about it (five of the fifteen gave the
proceeds to charity). Deke and Al were incensed, but threw up
their hands. If a man has a claim to owning anything, it is his
own signature. Nevertheless NASA put a stop to this business and
also placed heavy restrictions on what astronauts could and could
not carry into space.
     Homogeneous the astronauts never were. Frank Borman learned
to fly a plane before he was old enough to get a driver's
license, and so did Neil Armstrong, but at the same age Dick
Gordon was considering the priesthood, Mike Collins was more
interested in "girls, football, and chess" than in planes, and
Jim Irwin had never flown until he rode a commercial aircraft to
begin flight training.
     John Glenn went into politics and, after several
disappointments, was elected U.S. Senator from Ohio on the
Democratic ticket in 1974. Alan Shepard's $125,000 from the Life
and Field contracts became the egg that hatched a fortune in real
estate. Borman, success-prone as always, spent a semester at
Harvard Business School, went to work for Eastern Airlines, and
became its president. For several years Donn Eisele served as
director of the Peace Corps in Thailand, which was as different
from Dick Gordon's executive job with the New Orleans Saints
football team as was Mike Collins's directorship of the
Smithsonian Institution's Air and Space Museum. Armstrong became
a professor of engineering at the University of Cincinnati, Ed
Mitchell founded an organization devoted to extrasensory
perception, and Jim Irwin became a fundamentalist evangelist. Jim
McDivitt became an executive of Consumers Power Company in his
home town, Jackson, Mich., and Jim Lovell stayed put with the
Bay-Houston Towing Company.
     Once in awhile some them still turned up on television or
radio: Schirra plugging the railroads, Aldrin Volkswagens,
Armstrong and Carpenter banks, and Lovell insurance. Collins was
offered $50,000 to advertise a beer but he turned it down,
"although I like beer." Lest he appear too upright, Collins did
confess that he once made an unpaid commercial for U.S. Savings
Bonds, although he had never seen one in his life.
     If the astronauts sometimes dwelt in an aura of public
misconception, they nonetheless performed dazzling feats with
skill and finesse. You may search the pages of history in vain
for deeds to match theirs, and many years will pass before
similar feats occur again. All hail, then, to these daring young
men who married technique to valor and in barely a decade
transformed the impossible into the commonplace.
- Robert Sherrod
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Shakedown Cruises
|   Chapter: Nine
!    Author: Samuel C. Phillips
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 167 
|-----------------------------------------------------
The Shakedown Cruises
     Consider the mood of America as it approached the end of
1968, by any accounting one of the unhappiest years of the
twentieth century. It was a year of riots, burning cities,
sickening assassinations, universities forced to close their
doors. In Southeast Asia the twelve-month toll of American dead
rose 50 percent, to 15,000, and the cost of the war topped $25
billion. By mid-December the country's despair was reflected in
the Associated Press's nationwide poll of editors, who chose as
the two top stories of 1968 the slayings of Robert Kennedy and
Martin Luther King; Time magazine picked a generic symbol, "The
Dissenter," as its Man of the Year. The poll and the Man were
scheduled for year-end publication.
     This condition was changed dramatically during the waning
days of the year, figuratively with two out in the last half of
the ninth, and that is what this chapter is about.
     Nineteen sixty-seven, which began as a bad year for the
space program, had had its own sensational upturn with the first
flight, unmanned, of the giant Saturn, on November 9- a landmark
on the path to the Moon. Then 1968 started fairly well with
Apollo 5, the first flight of the lunar module on January 22,
which proved the structural integrity and operating
characteristics of the Moon lander, despite overly conservative
computer programming that caused the descent propulsion system to
shut off too soon.
     The second unmanned Saturn V mission, numbered Apollo 6, on
April 4, 1968, was less successful. For a time it raised fears
that the Moon-landing schedule had suffered another major
setback. Three serious flaws turned up. Two minutes and five
seconds after launch the 363-foot Saturn V underwent a lengthwise
oscillation. like the motion of a pogo stick. Pogo oscillation
subjects the entire space-vehicle stack to stresses and strains
that, under certain circumstances, can grow to a magnitude
sufficient to damage or even destroy the vehicle. This motion,
caused by a synchronization of engine thrust pulsations with
natural vibration frequencies of the vehicle structure, tends to
be self-amplifying as the structural oscillations disturb the
flow of propellants and thus magnify the thrust pulsations.
     The second anomaly, loss of structural panels from the lunar
module adapter (the structural section that would house the lunar
module), was originally thought to have been caused by the pogo
oscillations. Engineers at Houston were able to establish,
however, that a faulty manufacturing process was to blame. This
was quickly corrected.
     The third problem encountered on this flight was more
serious. After the first stage had finished its work, the second
stage was to take over and put Apollo 6 into orbit; then the
third stage, the S-IVB, would take the CSM up to 13,800 miles,
from where reentry from the Moon would be simulated, retesting
the command module heat shield at the 25,000 mph that Apollo 4
had achieved five months earlier.
     The second stage's five J-2 engines ignited as scheduled.
About two-thirds of the way through their scheduled burn, no. 2
engine lost thrust and a detection system shut it down. No. 3
engine followed suit. With two-fifths of the second stage's
million-pound thrust gone, Apollo 6, with the help of the single
J-2 engine of the third stage, still achieved orbit, though in an
egg-shaped path. But when the attempt was made to fire the third
stage's engine a second time- as would be necessary to send
astronauts into translunar trajectory- the single J-2 failed to
ignite. The mission was saved when the service module's
propulsion-system engine- 20,000 pounds of thrust as against the
third stage's 225,000- took over and sent the CSM up to the
desired 13,800-mile altitude from which it reentered the
atmosphere and landed in the Pacific.
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Detective work on the Telemetry
     What had happened? Ferreting out clues from mission records
and the reams of data recorded from telemetry was a fascinating
story of technical detective work. More than a thousand engineers
and technicians at NASA Centers, contractor plants, and several
universities were involved in establishing causes and designing
and testing fixes.
     The solution for pogo was to modify the pre-valves of the
second-stage engines so that they could be charged with helium
gas. This provided shock-absorbing accumulators that damped out
the thrust oscillations.
     Finding the culprit that cut off the J-2 engines involved
long theorizing and hundreds of tests that finally pinpointed a
six-foot tube, half an inch in diameter, carrying liquid hydrogen
to the starter cup of the engine. This line had been fitted with
two small bellows for absorbing vibration. It worked fine on
ground tests because ice forming on the bellows provided a
damping effect. But in the dryness of space- eventually simulated
in a vacuum chamber- no ice formed because there was no air from
which to draw moisture, and there the lines vibrated, cracked,
and broke. The fix: replace the bellows with bends in the tubes
to take up the motion.
     With careful engineering analysis and extensive testing we
satisfied ourselves that we understood the problems that plagued
Apollo 6 and that the resulting changes were more than adequate
to commit the third Saturn V to manned flight.
     At this point we planned that the next Saturn V would be the
D mission, launching Apollo 8 in December with Astronauts
McDivitt, Scott, and Schweickart. Their main objective would be
to test the spider-like lunar module then a building at the
Grumman plant on Long Island. Early in 1968 we had set the
objective of flying the D mission before the year was out. It was
a reasonable target at the time, considering progress across the
program, and would put us in an excellent position to complete
the preparatory missions and have more than one shot at the
landing in 1969.
     Meanwhile, the command and service modules, after almost two
years of reworking at the North American Aviation plant in
Downey, Calif., would have their crucial flight test on Apollo 7,
the C mission, after launch in October 1968 by the smaller Saturn
IB. On board this first manned Apollo mission would be Astronauts
Schirra, Eisele, and Cunningham.
     By midsummer it was apparent that Apollo 7 would fly in
October, but that the lunar module for the D mission would not be
ready for a December flight. Electromagnetic interference
problems were plaguing checkout tests, and it was obvious that
engineering changes and further time-consuming tests were needed.
After a comprehensive review in early August, my unhappy estimate
was that the D mission would not be ready until March 1969.
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
An Early Trip Around the Moon
     George Low, the spacecraft program manager, then put forward
a daring idea: fly the CSM on the Saturn V in December, with a
dummy instead of the real EM, all the way to the Moon. We would
then make maximum progress for the program, while we took the
time necessary to world out rigorously the LM problems. Low had
discussed the feasibility of such a mission with Gilruth, Kraft,
and Slayton at the Manned Spacecraft Center; I was at the Kennedy
Space Center in Florida when he called to voice his idea. The
upshot was a meeting that afternoon of the Apollo management
team. The Marshall Space Flight Center at Huntsville, Ala., was a
central point, considering where we all were at the moment.
George Hage, my deputy, and I joined with Debus and Petrone of
KSC for the flight to Huntsville. Von Braun, Rees, James, and
Richard of MSFC were there. Gilruth, Low, Kraft, and Slayton flew
from Houston.
     We discussed designing a flexible mission so that, depending
on many factors, including results of the Apollo 7 flight, we
could commit Apollo 8 to an Earth-orbit flight, or a flight to a
few hundred or several thousand miles away from Earth, or to a
lunar flyby, or to spending several hours in lunar orbit. The
three-hour conference didn't turn up any "show-stoppers." Quite
the opposite; while there were many details to be reexamined, it
indeed looked as if we could do it. The gloom that had permeated
our previous program review was replaced by excitement. We agreed
to meet in Washington five days later. If more complete
investigation uncovered no massive roadblocks, I would fly to
Vienna for an exegesis to my boss, Dr. George E. Mueller,
Associate Administrator for Manned Space Flight, and to the NASA
Administrator, James Webb, who were attending a United Nations
meeting on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space. (Going to Vienna was
at first considered necessary, lest other communications tip off
the Russians, believed to be planning a Moon spectacular of their
own. Eventually it was decided that my appearance in Vienna would
trip more alarms than overseas telephone conversations.)
     Many problems remained. The high-gain antenna was an
uncertain quantity; but Kraft agreed that the mission could be
flown safely with the omniantennas, even though television might
be lost. What should we carry in lieu of the LM? The answer was
the LM test article that had been through the dynamics program at
Marshall. Deke Slayton wanted to leave McDivitt and his crew
assigned to the first LM mission; so the next crew, Borman,
Lovell, and Anders, scheduled for the E mission, were brought
forward for the newly defined Apollo 8 mission. McDivitt's
mission retained its D designation, and Borman's was labeled
"C-Prime."
     Upon returning to Washington, I presented the plan to Thomas
O. Paine, Acting Administrator in Webb's absence. Paine reminded
me that the program had fallen behind, pogo had occurred on the
last flight, three engines had failed, and we had not yet flown a
manned Apollo mission; yet "now you want to up the ante. Do you
really want to do this, Sam?" My answer was, "Yes, sir, as a
flexible mission, provided our detailed examination in days to
come doesn't turn up any show-stoppers." Said Paine, "We'll have
a hell of a time selling it to Mueller and Webb."
     He was right. A telephone conversation with Mueller in
Vienna found him skeptical and cool. Mr. Webb was clearly shaken
by the abrupt proposal and by the consequences of possible
failure.
     On August 15 Paine and I sent Webb and Mueller a seven-page
cable with suggested wording of a press release saying lunar
orbit was being retained as an option in the December flight, the
decision to depend on the success of Apollo 7 in October. Webb
replied from Vienna via State Department code, accepting the crew
switches and schedule changes. But he proposed saying only that
"studies will be carried out and plans prepared so as to provide
reasonable flexibility in establishing final mission objectives"
after Apollo 7.
     Paine interpreted Webb's instructions "liberally," and
authorized me to say in an August 19 press conference, upon
announcing the McDivitt-Borman switch, that a circumlunar flight
or lunar orbit were possible options. I am told that I diminished
the possibility so thoroughly, by saying repeatedly "the basic
mission is Earth orbit," that the press at first mostly missed
the point.
     October 11 at Cape Kennedy was hot but the heat was tempered
by a pleasant breeze when Apollo 7 lifted off in a two-tongued
blaze of orange-colored flame at 11:02:45. The Saturn IB, in its
first trial with men aboard, provided a perfect launch and its
first stage dropped off 2 minutes 25 seconds later. The S-IVB
second stage took over, giving astronauts their first ride atop a
load of liquid hydrogen, and at 5 minutes 54 seconds into the
mission, Walter Schirra, the commander, reported, "She is riding
like a dream." About five minutes later an elliptical orbit had
been achieved, 140 by 183 miles above the Earth. The S-IVB stayed
with the CSM for about one and one-half orbits, then separated.
Schirra fired the CSM's small rockets to pull 50 feet ahead of
the S-IVB, then turned the spacecraft around to simulate docking,
as would be necessary to extract an LM for a Moon landing. Next
day, when the CSM and the S-IVB were about 80 miles apart,
Schirra and his mates sought out the lifeless, tumbling 59-foot
craft in a rendezvous simulation and approached within 70 feet.
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Superb Spacecraft
     During the 163 orbits of Apollo 7 the ghost of Apollo 204
was effectively exorcised as the new Block II spacecraft and its
millions of parts performed superbly. Durability was shown for
10.8 days- longer than a journey to the Moon and back. A
momentary shudder went through Mission Control when both AC buses
dropped out of the spacecraft's electrical system, coincident
with automatic cycles of the cryogenic oxygen tank fans and
heaters; but manual resetting of the AC bus breakers restored
normal service. Three of the five spacecraft windows fogged
because of improperly cured sealant compound (a condition that
could not be fixed until Apollo 9). Chargers for the batteries
needed for reentry (after fuel cells departed with the SM)
returned 50 to 75 percent less energy than expected. Most serious
was the overheating of fuel cells, which might have failed when
the spacecraft was too far from Earth to return on batteries,
even if fully charged. But each of these anomalies was
satisfactorily checked out before Apollo 8 flew.
     The CSM's service propulsion system, which had to fire the
CSM into and out of Moon orbit, worked perfectly during eight
burns lasting from half a second to 67.6 seconds. Apollo's
flotation bags had their first try-out when the spacecraft, a
"lousy boat," splashed down south of Bermuda and turned upside
down; when inflated, the brightly colored bags flipped it aright.
     In retrospect it seems inconceivable, but serious debate
ensued in NASA councils on whether television should be broadcast
from Apollo missions, and the decision to carry the little 4 1/2-
pound camera was not made until just before this October flight.
Although these early pictures were crude, I think it was
informative for the public to see astronauts floating
weightlessly in their roomy spacecraft, snatching floating
objects, and eating the first hot food consumed in space. Like
the television pictures, the food improved in later missions.
     Apollo 7's achievement led to a rapid review of Apollo 8's
options. The Apollo 7 astronauts went through six days of
debriefing for the benefit of Apollo 8, and on October 28 the
Manned Space Flight Management Council chaired by Mueller met at
MSC, investigating every phase of the forthcoming mission. Next
day came a lengthy systems review of Apollo 8's Spacecraft 103.
Paine made the go/no-go review of lunar orbit on November 11 at
NASA Headquarters in Washington. By this time nearly all the
skeptics had become converts.
     At the end of this climactic meeting Mueller put a
recommendation for lunar orbit into writing, and Paine approved
it. He telephoned the decision to the White House, and the
message was laid on President Johnson's desk while he was
conferring with Richard M. Nixon, elected his successor six days
earlier.
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Lifting from a Sea of Flame
     In the pink dawn of December 21 a quarter million persons
lined the approaches to Cape Kennedy, many of them having camped
overnight. At 7:51, amid a noise that sounded from three miles
away like a million-ton truck rumbling over a corrugated road,
the first manned Saturn V, an alabaster column as big as a naval
destroyer, lifted slowly, ever so slowly, from the sea of flame
that engulfed Pad 39-A. The upward pace quickened as the first
stage's 531,000 gallons of kerosene and liquid oxygen were
thirstily consumed, and in 2 minutes 34 seconds the big drink was
finished, whereupon the second stage's five J-2 engines lit up.
S-II's 359,000 gallons of liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen
boosted the S-IVB and CSM for 6 minutes 10 seconds to an altitude
of 108 miles. After the depleted S-II fell away, the S-IVB, this
time the third stage, fired for 2 minutes 40 seconds to achieve
Earth orbit. Except for slight pogo during the second-stage burn,
Commander Borman reported all was smoothness.
     During the second orbit, at 2 hours 27 minutes, CapCom Mike
Collins sang out "You are go for TLI" (translunar injection), and
23 minutes after that Lovell calmly said, "Ignition." The S-IVB
had restarted with a long burn over Hawaii that lasted 5 minutes
19 seconds and boosted speed to the 24,200 mph necessary to
escape the bonds of Earth. "You are on your way," said Chris
Kraft, from the last row of consoles in Mission Control, "you are
really on your way." The anticlimactic observation of the day
came when Lovell said, "Tell Conrad he lost his record." (During
Gemini 11 Pete Conrad and Dick Gordon had set an altitude record
of 850 miles.) After the burn the S-IVB separated and was sent on
its way to orbit the Sun.
     In Mission Control early in the morning of December 24 the
big center screen, which had carried an illuminated Mercator
projection of the Earth for the past three and one-half years- a
moving blip always indicated the spacecraft's position- underwent
a dramatic change. The Earth disappeared, and upon the screen was
flashed a scarred and pockmarked map with such labels as Mare
Tranquillitatis, Mare Crisium, and many craters with such names
as Tsiolkovsky, Grimaldi, and Gilbert. The effect was
electrifying, symbolic evidence that man had reached the vicinity
of the Moon.
     CapCom Gerry Carr spoke to the three astronauts more than
200,000 miles away, "Ten seconds to go. You are GO all the way."
Lovell replied, "We'll see you on the other side," and Apollo 8
disappeared behind the Moon, the first time in history men had
been occulted. For 34 minutes there would be no way of knowing
what happened. During that time the 247-second LOI (lunar orbit
insertion) burn would take place that would slow down the
spacecraft from 5758 to 3643 mph to enable it to latch on to the
Moon's field of gravity and go into orbit. If the SPS engine
failed, Apollo 8 would whip around the Moon and head back for
Earth on a free-return trajectory (ala Apollo 13); during one
critical half minute if the engine conked out the spacecraft
would be sent crashing into the Moon.
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Orbiting the Moon Christmas Eve
     "Longest four minutes I ever spent," said Lovell during the
burn, in a comment recorded but not broadcast in real time. At 69
hours 15 minutes Apollo 8 went into lunar orbit, whereupon Anders
said, "Congratulations, gentlemen, you are at zero-zero." Said
Borman, "It's not time for congratulations yet. Dig out the
flight plan."
     Unaware of this conversation, Mission Control buzzed with
nervous chatter. Carr began seeking a signal to indicate that the
astronauts were indeed in orbit: "Apollo 8, Apollo 8, Apollo 8."
Then the voice of Jim Lovell came through calmly, 'Go ahead,
Houston."
     Mission Control's viewing-room spectators broke into cheers
and loud applause. Apollo 8 was in a 168.5 by 60 mile orbit on
this day before Christmas.
     "What does the old Moon look like from 60 miles?" asked
CapCom.
     "Essentially gray; no color," said Lovell, "like plaster of
paris or a sort of grayish beach sand." The craters all seemed to
be rounded off; some of them had cones within them; others had
rays. Anders added: "We are coming up on the craters Colombo and
Gutenberg. Very good detail visible. We can see the long,
parallel faults of Goclenius and they run through the mare
material right into the highland material."
     During the second egg-shaped orbit the astronauts produced
the Moon on black-and-white television (color would not come
until Apollo 10). It proved to be a desolate place indeed, a
plate of gray steel spattered by a million bullets. "It certainly
would not appear to be an inviting place to live or work," Borman
said later.
     On the third revolution the SPS engine fired nine seconds to
put the spacecraft into a circular orbit, 60.7 by 59.7 miles,
where it would stay for sixteen hours longer (each orbit lasted
two hours, as against one and one-half hours for Earth).
     At 8:40 PM the astronauts were on television again.
First, they showed the half Earth across a stark lunar landscape.
Then, from the other unfogged window, they tracked the bleak
surface of the Moon. "The vast loneliness is awe-inspiring and it
makes you realize just what you have back there on Earth," said
Lovell. The pictures aroused great wonder, with an estimated half
billion people vicariously exploring what no man had ever seen
before.
     "For all the people on Earth," said Anders, "the crew of
Apollo 8 has a message we would like to send you." He paused a
moment and then began reading:
     In the beginning God created the Heaven and the Earth.
After four verses of Genesis, Lovell took up the reading:
     And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called
Night.
At the end of the eighth verse Borman picked up the familiar
words:
     An God said, Let the waters under the Heavens be gathered
together unto one place, and let the dry land appear; and it was
so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together
of the waters He called seas; and God saw that it was good.
     The commander added: "And from the crew of Apollo 8, we
close with good night, good luck, a Merry Christmas, and God
bless all of you- all of you on the good Earth." It was a time of
rare emotion. The mixture of the season, the immortal words, the
ancient Moon, and the new technology made for an extraordinarily
effective setting.
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Lunar Christmas
     "At some point in the history of the world," editorialized
The Washington Post, "someone may have read the first ten verses
of the Book of Genesis under conditions that gave them greater
meaning than they had on Christmas Eve. But it seems
unlikely . . . This Christmas will always be remembered as the
lunar one."
     The New York Times, which called Apollo 8 "the most
fantastic voyage of all times," said on December 26: "There was
more than narrow religious significance in the emotional high
point of their fantastic odyssey."
     As Apollo 8 began its tenth and last orbit. CapCom Ken
Mattingly told the astronauts: "We have reviewed all your
systems. You have a GO to TEI" (trans-earth injection). This time
the crew really was in thrall to the SPS engine. It had to ignite
in this most apprehensive moment of the mission, else Apollo 8
would be left in lunar orbit, its passengers' lives measured by
the length of their oxygen supply. Ignite it did, in a 303-second
burn that would effect touchdown in just under 58 hours. Apollo 8
reentered at 25,000 mph and splashed down south of Hawaii two
days after Christmas.
     The stupendous effect of Apollo 8 was strengthened by color
photographs published after the return. Not only was the
technology of going to the Moon brilliantly proven; men began to
view the Earth as "small and blue and beautiful in that eternal
silence," as Archibald MacLeish put it, and to realize as never
before that their planet was worth working to save. The concept
that Earth was itself a kind of spacecraft needing attention to
its habitability spread more widely than ever.
     During the last week of 1968 the Associated Press repolled
its 1278 newspaper editors, who overwhelmingly voted Apollo 8 the
story of the year. Time discarded "The Dissenter" in favor of
Borman, Lovell, and Anders; and a friend telegraphed Frank
Borman, "You have bailed out 1968."
- Samuel C. Philips
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
 (SP-350 Page 172)
Graduated missions led confidently to a landing on the Moon
     We designed seven types of missions to test the suitability
and safety of all equipment in all mission phases. These were
designated by letters A through G:
     A. Unmanned flights of launch vehicles and the CSM, to
demonstrate the adequacy of their design and to certify safety
for men. Five of these flights were flown between February 1966
and April 1968; Apollo 6 was the last.
     B. Unmanned flight of the LM, to demonstrate the adequacy of
its design and to certify its safety for men. The flight of
Apollo 5 in January 1968 accomplished this. C. Manned flight to
demonstrate performance and operability of the CSM. Apollo 7,
which flew an eleven-day mission in low Earth orbit in October
1968, was a C mission. Apollo 8, which flew the CSM into lunar
orbit in December 1968 was also a C mission, but designated as
C-Prime, to distinguish it from the prior flight.
     D. Manned flight of the complete lunar landing mission
vehicle in low Earth orbit to demonstrate operability of all the
equipment and (insofar as could be done in Earth orbit) to
perform the maneuvers involved in the ultimate mission. Apollo 9,
which flew in March 1969, satisfied this requirement.
     E. Manned flight of the complete lunar-landing mission
vehicle in Earth orbit to great distances from Earth. When the
time came to commit this mission to flight, we decided that we
had already accomplished its objectives and that it was not
required. But because this mission was in the program, we had
made detailed plans for it, and in fact pulled much of the
planning, preparation, and training forward to use in the
Apollo 8 lunar-orbit mission.
     F. This was a complete mission except for the final descent
to and landing on the lunar surface. Apollo 10, flown by
Stafford, in May 1969, was an F mission. The need for this
mission was hotly debated. Here we would be, 50,000 feet above
the Moon, having accepted much of the risk inherent in landing.
The temptation to go the rest of the way was great; but this
mission demonstrated the soundness of the strategy of "biting off
chunks." The training and confidence of readiness that the Apollo
10 mission gave the entire organization was of inestimable value.
     G. The initial lunar-landing mission. This, of course,
was accomplished by Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins in July
1969, - S.C.P.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Getting It All Together
|   Chapter: Ten
!    Author: George E. Mueller
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 187
|-----------------------------------------------------
 
Getting It All Together
     The Apollo 9 and 10 missions were the learning phase of the
program, coming as they did between the first tests of the
command module in deep space on Apollo 8 and the lunar landing of
Apollo 11.
     Apollo 9 and 10 were missions designed to rehearse all the
steps and reproduce all the events of the Apollo 11 mission with
the single exception of the lunar touchdown, stay, and liftoff.
The command and service modules and the lunar module were used in
flight procedures identical to those that would later take
similar vehicles to the Moon and a landing. The flight mechanics,
the mission support systems, the communications, the recording of
data -- all these techniques and components were tested in a final
round of verification.
     We learned from those two missions how to develop our flight
procedures. They are complex, at best, and for future missions we
wanted to know exactly what alternatives we would have under a
wide variety of circumstances to assure the safety of the
astronauts and the success of the missions, in that order.
Fortunately we had very few problems on both missions. Three
reasons for that good fortune were the extensive ground tests,
the simulation exercises which provided the crews with high-
fidelity training for every phase of the flight, and the critical
design review procedures.
     The crews rehearsed and re-rehearsed their movements in
ground simulators and in conditions of inflight weightlessness
produced by parabolic flights in a converted Air Force KC-135
tanker and by neutral buoyancy simulations. They had started this
kind of training as a crew months before the flight, gradually
working toward proficiency and a degree of automatic response to
the checklists, the pilots' shorthand notes that were developed
simultaneously. By the time they were ready for their actual
missions, they had run through all the normal routines many
times, and had thoroughly rehearsed emergency procedures for
every imaginable trouble or failure.
     The critical design reviews were fundamental to the testing
and simulation programs. What we actually did was to go over
every single part of the spacecraft to make sure that we
understood how it worked, how it might go wrong, and what
alternative procedure or backup system we had in case it did go
wrong. The overriding consideration was, of course, crew safety;
there always had to be at least one way back from orbit or from
the Moon if something went wrong. These design reviews were done
by a number of task groups, because there were too many
spacecraft systems for any single group to consider, let alone
understand to the required degree.
     One of my areas of special interest lay in what we called
software -- the computer programs that provided the intelligence
and control functions onboard the spacecraft and at the ground
stations. General Phillips asked me to form a special software
review group that met for several months and initiated some
disciplines which, I believe, finally made it possible for the
Apollo 11 lunar landing to take place when it did.
     An interesting point about the Apollo 10 flight is that it
did fail to do one of the steps that was later done on the Apollo
11 and which caused some brief moments of tension just before the
lunar landing. On Apollo 10, the landing radar and the rendezvous
radar never were operated at the same time. They are used for two
different procedures, and at two different altitudes, so that
there didn't seem to be any need for simultaneous operation of
the pair. But on Apollo 11, they wanted to check the operation of
the high-altitude gate radar as they approached the surface of
the Moon, and so it was left on. That radar and the landing radar
were feeding information directly into the onboard computer in
the Apollo 11 lunar module. Although the data from the altitude
radar was not being used, it nevertheless was driving the input
registers of the computer and thus forcing the central processor
to decide at each cycle that the radar data were not germane.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Those Computer Alarms
     Fortunately, in our software review we had insisted on one
point: We had to have at least a 10-percent spare capacity in the
memory of the onboard computer. We did that to provide for
unforeseen contingencies, and that contingency occurred on the
Apollo 11 lunar landing. On that mission we used up the 10
percent with those extraneous messages from the high-altitude
radar, and in spite of the spare capacity, we nearly overloaded
the landing computer. It set off alarms that caused a few seconds
of fast thinking, but it was quickly put right and the landing
went on to a safe touchdown.
     All this critical design review was then followed by a
review of all the things that happened during the dry runs before
the final countdown, checking to make sure that there were no
anomalies that hadn't been identified and traced back to their
origins. That was done in the last couple of days before the
flight. What we were basically doing was making sure that
everybody had done everything that could be done to assure the
safety of the mission.
     But you can only do so much in ground simulation and
analysis, and then you've got to test the articles in actual
flight. One example of this was with the docking mechanism, which
presented no particular problems in ground tests and in
simulation. But the first time it was tried in space, they had
considerable difficulty getting the mechanism into place. That
led to a very rapid redesign of the mechanism between flights,
which was just one of the things accomplished in the very short
time between flights. Looking back on it, it seems amazing that
we were able to do a number of things on those two-month centers
that would have been considered flatly impossible only a few
months earlier. The key to that ability, though, was getting
ourselves organized and then finding the will to do things. That
made all the difference in the world on the Apollo program; there
was the highest motivation, and it produced results, time and
time again.
     Of course, after the flights we had a thorough debriefing
and evaluation of the mission, and of the behavior of the
spacecraft and other systems, checking the actual results against
our predicted performance, analyzing actual anomalies against
ones that we had expected and planned for. The rigid discipline
of postflight analysis and the preflight reviews were among the
most important inputs of Apollo management to the success of the
program.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
First Manned Flight of the Lunar Module
     The Apollo 9 mission was to be the first manned flight in
the lunar module, and the whole purpose of the mission was to
qualify, in flight, that portion of the overall spacecraft
system. Further, we wanted to show that the lunar module, in
combination with the command and service modules, could perform
its assigned tasks in weightless flight. It wasn't necessary to
go to the Moon for this work, so the Apollo 9 mission took place
in Earth orbit. The conditions were the same, insofar as those
qualifying tests were concerned, and we had the further advantage
of a more comfortable situation in case any problems developed.
     It was planned to fly a ten-day mission, approximating in
time a complete trip to the Moon, a lunar landing, stay and
ascent, and then return to the Earth. We had developed a mission
profile that would put astronauts into the lunar module on three
separate occasions during the flight, first of all to check a lot
of procedures and other items, and second to do multiple
activations and deactivations of the lunar module. This mission
was the only one in which the LM was powered up and down more
than once; it was done here with the intent of discovering
anything that might go wrong, and to refine the procedures worked
out in simulations.
     The lunar module might well be called the first true
spacecraft, since it was designed for flight only in the
environment of space. Folded and stowed as it was in the nose of
the Saturn V, its frail body caused some concern about its
ability to stand up to the stress of a Saturn launch. Some of the
earlier Saturn launches had shown what was called a pogo
oscillation, named after the pogo-stick phenomenon. We wanted to
make certain that the LM would be able to take that longitudinal
acceleration and shock. We also wanted to make sure the
mechanisms for extending its landing legs and pads would not be
jammed by unusual loads in flight, and that the adapter between
the LM and the rest of the spacecraft could take those loads.
     Other objectives of the mission included checking propulsion
system operation in both the docked and undocked conditions, to
complete a rendezvous between the LM and the command module, with
the LM being the active partner during the maneuver, and to
demonstrate extravehicular activity from both spacecraft in order
to evaluate the case or difficulty of that kind of task, and to
check out the handholds, handrails, and localized illumination
that had been developed for EVA.
     The crew for Apollo 9 was commanded by James A. McDivitt.
David R. Scott was the command pilot and Russell L. Schweickart
was lunar module pilot. There was an initial three-day delay, not
because of any equipment failure but because one of the crew had
a cold. Liftoff occurred on March 3, 1969, at 11 AM The normal
launch phase followed, and then the S-IVB stage was ignited to
place the spacecraft in a nearly circular Earth orbit of about
102 by 104 nautical miles. That orbit was the arena for what was
to follow. In a routine manner, the combined command and service
modules were separated from the rest of the spacecraft, turned in
space, and docked with the lunar module. About one hour later,
the docked spacecraft were ejected from the S-IVB, using the
ejection mechanism for the first time. From this point on, many
of the events were done for the first time.
     About two hours after the ejection, the crew fired the
service propulsion system for the first time on that mission, in
a burst that lasted five seconds. It was the first of several
such firings planned to check the service module propulsion
system and the resulting maneuvering capability of the docked and
undocked spacecraft. That task also completed the list of work
for the first day in orbit. It may seem as if there was very
little for the astronauts to do on that first day, but it must be
realized that much time is spent checking and rechecking onboard
systems, the communications and telemetering links to the ground
stations, the receipt of data, and all the myriad tasks that
confront astronauts in space.
     On the second day in Earth orbit, the crew of Apollo 9 also
spent much time in systems checks. They fired the service
propulsion system three times, each time with about a two-hour
interval between firings. Two of the firings were long, lasting
almost two and almost five minutes; the third was a shorter burst
of less than a half-minute.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Descent Engine Fired
     McDivitt and Schweickart entered the lunar module on the
third day in orbit and powered it up to check out its systems and
to fire the descent engine while in the docked condition. The
engine burn lasted more than six minutes, during which time the
crew controlled the engine manually, and also demonstrated
digital-autopilot attitude control. After returning to the
command module, the full crew made the fifth of the docked
maneuvers, using the service propulsion system.
     Early on the fourth day, Schweickart and Scott began their
extravehicular activity, that spectacular and exhilarating solo
performance outside the spacecraft. Unfortunately, Schweickart
had been affected by a form of motion sickness during the
previous days, a difficulty that later led to a regime of zero-G
flights for all crews during the last days before launch. But
this time it affected the planned time line for the EVA, and it
was decided to reduce the activities outside the spacecraft.
     Schweickart went into the lunar module, which was
depressurized, and left it by way of the exit hatch that would
later be used by the astronauts who landed on the Moon. He stayed
around the platform -- the "front porch" as the astronauts called
it -- by that hatch for about three-quarters of an hour, checking
the handholds and the lights that had been trained on specific
portions of the spacecraft. Scott, meantime, had opened the
command module hatch and clambered partially outside, still
hooked to the spacecraft through a life-support umbilical system.
     Schweickart was using a portable life-support system in his
EVA, checking it for the first time outside. Both men detailed
their experiences, took some photographs, and retrieved some
thermal samples, testing the maneuverability of the space suits
and the accessibility of the sample locations on the spacecraft.
We had planned to have Schweickart move externally from the LM to
the command module, to verify a way of getting from one
spacecraft to the other if the tunnel were not available. This
step was not completed beyond evaluating the specific handholds
that would have been necessary to such a transfer.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The LM on its Own
     The fifth day of the Apollo 9 mission was the crucial test
for the LM. Schweickart and McDivitt entered the LM, powered it
up, and prepared to separate from the command module. They
released the craft, and the astronauts were flying free in the
LM. They backed away and rotated the module so that Scott, in the
command module, could see that all the legs were down and
extended, and that there were no physical failures in the craft
itself. Then they fired the descent engine just enough to move
the LM into a parallel orbit about three miles away from the
command module. The mechanics of the orbit were such that the LM
was on its own, but twice during each swing around the Earth? the
two spacecraft were close enough so that Scott could initiate
rescue operations should anything have happened to the EM.
     For nearly six hours the two astronauts in the LM rehearsed
the possible phases of the lunar approach and departure. They
exercised the reaction control systems, fired the descent engine
again, then jettisoned the descent stage, and then fired the
ascent engine for the first time in space. From their adjusted
position about 10 miles below and 80 miles behind the command
module, they began their approach to a rendezvous and docking,
much the same as the actual event to take place later on Apollo
11. The first phase of their rendezvous terminated temporarily
with about a 100 foot separation, so that both spacecraft could be
photographed. Then they docked, a solid and clean joining that
verified the crews' training and the performance of the docking
and locking mechanisms. They jettisoned the ascent stage, and
remotely fired its engine to insert it into a highly elliptical
orbit around the Earth.
     From here on, the rest of the mission was almost an
anticlimax, because the performance of the spacecraft left no
doubt as to its ability to make the lunar trip, complete with
landing and departure. But there was still work to be done, and
so for the remaining five days in orbit, the crew again and again
exercised the service propulsion system, once to lower the
perigee of their Earth orbit, once to test the propellant staging
system, and once to head home to Earth. On the last four days,
they also did a series of landmark tracking experiments, using
visual sightings of Earth features which were observed and
photographed. They also made a number of photographs with a
multiple-camera assembly using different film emulsions to obtain
pictures in different portions of the photographic spectrum.
These were further augmented by pictures taken almost
simultaneously with hand-held cameras, using conventional films.
     Once out of orbit, following the eighth successive firing of
the service propulsion system, the reentry was normal. They
landed right on their target in the Atlantic, 241 hours after
takeoff, and were recovered quickly by Navy helicopters.
     Apollo 10 was different, because it did go to the Moon- or
at least within 47,000 feet of it- in its rehearsal of the Apollo
11 mission. There had been some speculation about whether or not
the crew might have landed, having gotten so close. They might
have wanted to, but it was impossible for that lunar module to
land. It was an early design that was too heavy for a lunar
landing, or, to be more precise, too heavy to be able to complete
the ascent back to the command module. It was a test module, for
the dress rehearsal only, and that was the way it was used.
Besides, the discipline on the Apollo program was such that no
crew would have made such a decision on its own in any event.
     Thomas P. Stafford was the Apollo 10 mission commander, with
command module pilot John W. Young and lunar module pilot Eugene
A. Cernan. They were launched on schedule at 11:49 AM, on May
18, 1969, about two and one-half months after Apollo 9 had set
out on its successful test flight.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Dress Rehearsal
     Launching was routine, as was the establishment of the Earth
parking orbit that followed. After systems checks, and approval
from Mission Control, the crew fired the S-IVB stage engine to
leave the parking orbit and enter the translunar trajectory. Then
they separated the command and service modules from the S-IVB,
and turned to dock with the lunar module. Ejection of the docked
spacecraft followed, as the crew performed a separation maneuver
to increase the distance between the docked spacecraft and the
S-IVB stage. Then they eased the S-IVB into a solar orbit by
propulsive venting of its excess propellants.
     The translunar trajectory had been established so precisely
that it was not necessary to make the first midcourse correction,
generally a routine step during the early phases of the flight
toward the Moon. Finally, after a little more than a day in
flight, a single translunar midcourse correction was done to make
the flight path of Apollo 10 coincide with the trajectory planned
for the Apollo 11 mission. Three days and four hours away from
the launch pad, the crew fired the service propulsion system for
almost six minutes, inserting the spacecraft into a lunar orbit.
Apollo 10 now was orbiting the Moon in a circular flight path
about 60 miles above its surface.
     Stafford and Cernan entered the lunar module about six hours
later to check the systems. They transferred some needed
equipment, and moved back into the command module for a normal
sleep period. They then recentered the lunar module to go through
a complete systems check to prepare for the lunar-orbit
rendezvous, the final check of the flight mechanics of the Apollo
mission.
     Just after two hours into the fourth day, the two spacecraft
were undocked and separated. The crew performed its routine
communications and radar checks, and then Stafford and Cernan
began their descent toward the lunar surface by firing the
descent stage engine. They let down to an altitude of about eight
miles above the surface, the closest they were to go in that
mission. Over one of the selected landing sites, they checked the
landing radar, which worked successfully. After this descent,
Stafford and Cernan maneuvered the LM into an elliptical orbit.
11 by 190 miles, to establish the conditions for their rendezvous
with Young in the command module. They completed one swing around
the Moon? and then staged the lunar module, firing its ascent
engine in a simulation of a return from the lunar surface.
     These words read rapidly, as if the performance they
describe were done swiftly. But it must be appreciated that this
rehearsal, which was planned to follow the schedule for the
Apollo 11 as closely as possible, actually took more than six and
one-half hours from the beginning of the descent toward the Moon
until both spacecraft had docked for the second time for crew
transfer back to the CSM.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Flawless Rendezvous
     The rendezvous was flawless. It began with the usual
maneuvering by the LM, using its reaction control system. Young,
in the command module, nominally had nothing to do except to wait
passively for the docking; the lunar module was expected to be
the active seeker and mover in the rendezvous. But in fact he had
to be prepared to take over the rendezvous if anything failed on
the LM. So he checked the rendezvous every step of the way with
sextant observations and ranging with very-high-frequency radio,
working out the things he would have to do in the event of a
lunar module system failure. The terminal phase of the docking
began an hour later, and the lunar module nudged its way into the
locking mechanism of the command module. The jubilant crews met
back in the command module.
     For the final day in lunar orbit, Stafford, Young, and
Cernan spent their time in a series of experiments that would add
to the general fund of Apollo knowledge. They tracked landmarks.
worked on alignment exercises for the inertial platform, and took
a series of stereo-pair and sequence photographs of the lunar
surface, singling out features that would guide future
landing-site selections. And then it was time for the return to
Earth.
     They fired the service module engine once again to move out
of the lunar orbit and back onto a trajectory toward the Earth,
using a fast-return flight path that would bring them back again
in 54 hours. The flight path again was established with great
precision; the only midcourse correction needed was done just
about three hours before the reentry, and it changed the velocity
by slightly more than two feet per second, or about one part in
20,000.
     Fifteen minutes before reentry, they separated the command
module from the service module. The command module bearing the
crew streaked through the atmosphere; the parachutes deployed and
let the spacecraft down on their target coordinates. The
astronauts always made much of the accuracy of their landings,
with a pool going to the crew landing closest to the target. (In
fact, the navigation and guidance accuracy was such that the
spacecraft computers pinpointed the target location better than
the recovery ships were able to. Later, ships used inertial
navigation that was as accurate as that in the spacecraft, but
their captains stood off by a mile or two from the landing point
to avoid any possibility of a collision.) Navy helicopters swung
over their rafts, lifted the crew and took them back to the
recovery carrier, the USS Princeton, within 39 minutes after the
craft had hit the water. About an hour later, the spacecraft
itself was hoisted. charred and dripping, onto the deck of the
Princeton.
     These two flights had been successful; more, they had been
nearly trouble-free. The confidence they gave to the planned
Apollo 11 mission was almost tangible, erasing any doubts about
the pace and the direction of the program before Apollo 9 and 10.
The thoroughness of the approach, the critical design reviews,
and the extensive test and simulation work on the ground had
successfully demonstrated the readiness of equipment and crews
for the next step.
     Everything had been done that would later be done by the
crew of Apollo 11, except for the actual touching down on the
Moon's surface, the stay there, and the liftoff. Apollo 9 and 10
had done all they could to prepare the entire team- astronauts,
flight controllers, ground-support personnel, and management- for
the great adventure.
- George E. Mueller
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Eagle Has Landed
|   Chapter: Eleven
!    Author: Michael Collins and Edwin E. Aldrin, Jr.
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 203
|-----------------------------------------------------
"The Eagle Has Landed" - Prelude
     All was ready. Everything had been done. Projects Mercury
and Gemini. Seven years of Project Apollo. The work of more than
300,000 Americans. Six previous unmanned and manned Apollo
flights. Planning, testing, analyzing, training. The time had
come.
     We had a great deal of confidence. We had confidence in our
hardware: the Saturn rocket, the command module, and the lunar
module. All flight segments had been flown on the earlier Apollo
fights with the exception of the descent to and the accent from
the Moon's surface and, of course, the exploration work on the
surface. These portions were far from trivial, however, and we
had concentrated our training on them. Months of simulation with
our colleagues in the Mission Control Center had convinced us
that they were ready.
     Although confident, we were certainly not overconfident. In
research and in exploration, the unexpected is always expected.
We were not overly concerned with our safety, but we would not be
surprised if a malfunction or an unforeseen occurrence prevented
a successful lunar landing.
     As we ascended in the elevator to the top of the Saturn on
the morning of July 16, 1969, we knew that hundreds of thousands
of Americans had given their best effort to give us this chance.
Now it was time for us to give our best.
 -Neil A. Armstrong
     The splashdown May 26, 1969, of Apollo 10 cleared the way
for the first formal attempt at a manned lunar landing. Six days
before, the Apollo 11 launch vehicle and spacecraft half crawled
from the VAB and trundled at 0.9 mph to Pad 39-A. A successful
countdown test ending on July 3 showed the readiness of machines,
systems, and people. The next launch window (established by
lighting conditions at the landing site on Mare Tranquillitatis)
opened at 9:32 AM EDT on July 16, 1969. The crew for Apollo 11,
all of whom had already flown in space during Gemini, had been
intensively training as a team for many months. The following
mission account makes use of crew members' own words, from books
written by two of them, supplemented by space-to-ground and
press-conference transcripts.
     ALDRIN: At breakfast early on the morning of the launch. Dr.
Thomas Paine, the Administrator of NASA, told us that concern for
our own safety must govern all our actions, and if anything
looked wrong we were to abort the mission. He then made a most
surprising and unprecedented statement: if we were forced to
abort, we would be immediately recycled and assigned to the next
landing attempt. What he said and how he said it was very
reassuring.
     We were up early, ate, and began to suit up- a rather
laborious and detailed procedure involving many people, which we
would repeat once again, alone, before entering the LM for our
lunar landing.
     While Mike and Neil were going through the complicated
business of being strapped in and connected to the spacecraft's
life-support system, I waited near the elevator on the floor
below. I waited alone for fifteen minutes in a sort of serene
limbo. As far as I could see there were people and cars lining
the beaches and highways. The surf was just beginning to rise out
of an azure-blue ocean. I could see the massiveness of the Saturn
V rocket below and the magnificent precision of Apollo above. I
savored the wait and marked the minutes in my mind as something I
would always want to remember.
     COLLINS: I am everlastingly thankful that I have flown
before, and that this period of waiting atop a rocket is nothing
new. I am just as tense this time, but the tenseness comes mostly
from an appreciation of the enormity of our undertaking rather
than from the unfamiliarity of the situation. I am far from
certain that we will be able to fly the mission as planned. I
think we will escape with our skins, or at least I will escape
with mine, but I wouldn't give better than even odds on a
successful landing and return. There arc just too many things
that can go wrong. Fred Haise [the backup astronaut who had
checked command-module switch positions] has run through a
checklist 417 steps long. and I have merely a half dozen minor
chores to take care of- nickel and dime stuff. In between switch
throws I have plenty of time to think, if not daydream. Here I
am, a white male, age thirty-eight, height 5 feet 11 inches,
weight 165 pounds, salary $17,000 per annum, resident of a Texas
suburb, with black spot on my roses, state of mind unsettled,
about to be shot off to the Moon. Yes, to the Moon.
     At the moment, the most important control is over on Neil's
side, just outboard of his left knee. It is the abort handle, and
now it has power to it, so if Neil rotates it 30
counterclockwise, three solid rockets above us will fire and yank
the CM free of the service module and everything below it. It is
only to be used in extremes. A large bulky pocket has been added
to Neil's left suit leg, and it looks as though if he moves his
leg slightly, it's going to snag on the abort handle. I quickly
point this out to Neil, and he grabs the pocket and pulls it as
far over to the inside of his thigh as he can, but it still doesn't
look secure to either one of us. Jesus, I can see the headlines now:
"MOONSHOT FALLS INTO OCEAN." Mistake by crew, program officials
intimate. Last transmission from Armstrong prior to leaving the
pad reportedly was `Oops.'"
     ARMSTRONG: The flight started promptly, and I think that was
characteristic of all events of the flight. The Saturn gave us
one magnificent ride, both in Earth orbit and on a trajectory to
the Moon. Our memory of that differs little from the reports you
have heard from the previous Saturn V flights.
     ALDRIN: For the thousands of people watching along the
beaches of Florida and the millions who watched on television,
our lift-off was ear shattering. For us there was a slight
increase in the amount of background noise, not at all unlike the
sort one notices taking off in a commercial airliner, and in less
than a minute we were traveling ahead of the speed of sound.
     COLLINS: This beast is best felt. Shake, rattle, and roll'
We are thrown left and right against our straps in spasmodic
little jerks. It is steering like crazy, like a nervous lady
driving a wide car down a narrow alley, and I just hope it knows
where it's going, because for the first ten seconds we are
perilously close to that umbilical tower.
     ALDRIN: A busy eleven minutes later we were in Earth orbit.
The Earth didn't look much different from the way it had during
my first flight, and yet I kept looking at it. From space it has
an almost benign quality. Intellectually one could realize there
were wars underway, but emotionally it was impossible to
understand such things. The thought reoccurred that wars are
generally fought for territory or are disputes over borders; from
space the arbitrary borders established on Earth cannot be seen.
After one and a half orbits a preprogrammed sequence fired the
Saturn to send us out of Earth orbit and on our way to the Moon.
     ARMSTRONG: Hey Houston, Apollo 11. This Saturn gave us a
magnificent ride. We have no complaints with any of the three
stages on that ride. It was beautiful.
     COLLINS: We started the burn at 100 miles altitude, and had
reached only 180 at cutoff, but we are climbing like a dingbat.
In nine hours, when we are scheduled to make our first midcourse
correction, we will be 57,000 miles out. At the instant of
shutdown, Buzz recorded our velocity as 35,579 feet per second,
more than enough to escape from the Earth's gravitational field.
As we proceed outbound, this number will get smaller and smaller
until the tug of the Moon's gravity exceeds that of the Earth's
and then we will start speeding up again. It's hard to believe
that we are on our way to the Moon, at 1200 miles altitude now,
less than three hours after liftoff, and I'll bet the launch-day
crowd down at the Cape is still bumper to bumper, straggling back
to the motels and bars.
     ALDRIN: Mike's next major task, with Neil and me assisting,
was to separate our command module Columbia from the Saturn third
stage, turn around and connect with the lunar module Eagle, which
was stored in the third stage. Eagle, by now, was exposed; its
four enclosing panels had automatically come off and were
drifting away. This of course was a critical maneuver in the
flight plan. If the separation and docking did not work, we would
return to Earth. There was also the possibility of an in-space
collision and the subsequent decompression of our cabin, so we
were still in our spacesuits as Mike separated us from the Saturn
third stage. Critical as the maneuver is, I felt no apprehension
about it, and if there was the slightest inkling of concern it
disappeared quickly as the entire separation and docking
proceeded perfectly to completion. The nose of Columbia was now
connected to the top of the Eagle and heading for the Moon as we
watched the Saturn third stage venting, a propulsive maneuver
causing it to move slowly away from us.
     Fourteen hours after liftoff, at 10:30 PM by Houston time,
the three astronauts fasten covers over the windows of the slowly
rotating command module and go to sleep. Days 2 and 3 are devoted
to housekeeping chores, a small midcourse velocity correction,
and TV transmissions back to Earth. In one news digest from
Houston, the astronauts are amused to hear that Pravda has
referred to Armstrong as "the czar of the ship."
     ALDRIN: In our preliminary flight plan I wasn't scheduled to
go to the LM until the next day in lunar orbit. but I had lobbied
successfully to go earlier. My strongest argument was that I'd
have ample time to make sure that the frail LM and its equipment
had suffered no damage during the launch and long trip. By that
time neither Neil nor I had been in the LM for about two weeks.
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Most Awesome Sphere
     COLLINS: Day 4 has a decidedly different feel to it. Instead
of nine hours' sleep, I get seven -- and fitful ones at that.
Despite our concentrated effort to conserve our energy on the way
to the Moon, the pressure is overtaking us (or me at least), and
I feel that all of us are aware that the honeymoon is over and we
are about to lay our little pink bodies on the line. Our first
shock comes as we stop our spinning motion and swing ourselves
around so as to bring the Moon into view. We have not been able
to see the Moon for nearly a day now, and the change is
electrifying. The Moon I have known all my life, that two-
dimensional small yellow disk in the sky, has gone away
somewhere, to be replaced by the most awesome sphere I have ever
seen. To begin with it is huge, completely filling our window.
Second, it is three-dimensional. The belly of it bulges out
toward us in such a pronounced fashion that I almost feel I can
reach out and touch it. To add to the dramatic effect, we can see
the stars again. We are in the shadow of the Moon now, and the
elusive stars have reappeared.
     As we ease around on the left side of the Moon, I marvel
again at the precision of our path. We have missed hitting the
Moon by a paltry 300 nautical miles, at a distance of nearly a
quarter of a million miles from Earth, and don't forget that the
Moon is a moving target and that we are racing through the sky
just ahead of its leading edge. When we launched the other day
the Moon was nowhere near where it is now; it was some 40 degrees
of are, or nearly 200,000 miles, behind where it is now, and yet
those big computers in the basement in Houston didn't even
whimper but belched out super-accurate predictions.
     As we pass behind the Moon, we have just over eight minutes
to go before the burn. We are super-careful now, checking and
rechecking each step several times. When the moment finally
arrives, the big engine instantly springs into action and
reassuringly plasters us back in our seats. The acceleration is
only a fraction of one G but it feels good nonetheless. For six
minutes we sit there peering intent as hawks at our instrument
panel, scanning the important dials and gauges, making sure that
the proper thing is being done to us. When the engine shuts down,
we discuss the matter with our computer and I read out the
results: "Minus one, plus one, plus one." The accuracy of the
overall system is phenomenal: out of a total of nearly three
thousand feet per second, we have velocity errors in our body
axis coordinate system of only a tenth of one foot per second in
each of the three directions. That is one accurate burn, and even
Neil acknowledges the fact.
     ALDRIN: The second burn to place us in closer circular orbit
of the Moon, the orbit from which Neil and I would separate from
the Columbia and continue on to the Moon, was critically
important. It had to be made in exactly the right place and for
exactly the correct length of time. If we overburned for as
little as two seconds we'd be on an impact course for the other
side of the Moon. Through a complicated and detailed system of
checks and balances, both in Houston and in lunar orbit, plus
star checks and detailed platform alignments, two hours after our
first lunar orbit we made our second burn, in an atmosphere of
nervous and intense concentration. It, too, worked perfectly.
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Asleep in Lunar Orbit
     We began preparing the LM. It was scheduled to take three
hours, but because I had already started the checkout, we were
completed a half hour ahead of schedule. Reluctantly we returned
to the Columbia as planned. Our fourth night we were to sleep in
lunar orbit. Although it was not in the flight plan, before
covering the windows and dousing the lights, Neil and I carefully
prepared all the equipment and clothing we would need in the
morning, and mentally ran through the many procedures we would
follow.
     COLLINS: "Apollo 11, Apollo 11, good morning from the Black
Team." Could they be talking to me? It takes me twenty seconds to
fumble for the microphone button and answer groggily, I guess I
have only been asleep five hours or so; I had a tough time
getting to sleep, and now I'm having trouble waking up. Neil,
Buzz, and I all putter about fixing breakfast and getting various
items ready for transfer into the LM. [Later] I stuff Neil and
Buzz into the LM along with an armload of equipment. Now I have
to do the tunnel bit again, closing hatches, installing drogue
and probe, and disconnecting the electrical umbilical. I am on
the radio constantly now, running through an elaborate series of
joint checks with Eagle. I check progress with Buzz: "I have five
minutes and fifteen seconds since we started. Attitude is holding
very well." "Roger, Mike, just hold it a little bit longer." "No
sweat, I can hold it all day. Take your sweet time. How's the
czar over there? He's so quiet." Neil chimes in, "Just hanging
on- and punching." Punching those computer buttons, I guess he
means. "All I can say is, beware the revolution," and then,
getting no answer, I formally bid them goodbye. "You cats take it
easy on the lunar surface...." "O.K., Mike," Buzz answers
cheerily, and I throw the switch which releases them. With my
nose against the window and the movie camera churning away, I
watch them go. When they are safely clear of me, I inform Neil,
and he begins a slow pirouette in place, allowing me a look at
his outlandish machine and its four extended legs. "The Eagle has
wings'" Neil exults.
     It doesn't look like any eagle I have ever seen. It is the
weirdest-looking contraption ever to invade the sky, floating
there with its legs awkwardly jutting out above a body which has
neither symmetry nor grace. I make sure all four landing gears
arc down and locked, report that fact, and then lie a little, "I
think you've got a fine-looking flying machine there. Eagle,
despite the fact you're upside down." "Somebody's upside down,"
Neil retorts. "O.K., Eagle. One minute . . . you guys take care."
Neil answers, "See you later." I hope so. When the one minute is
up, I fire my thrusters precisely as planned and we begin to
separate, checking distances and velocities as we go. This burn
is a very small one, just to give Eagle some breathing room. From
now on it's up to them, and they will make two separate burns in
reaching the lunar surface. The first one will serve to drop
Eagle's perilune to fifty thousand feet. Then, when they reach
this spot over the eastern edge of the Sea of Tranquility,
Eagle's descent engine will be fired up for the second and last
time, and Eagle will lazily are over into a 12-minute computer-
controlled descent to some point at which Neil will take over for
a manual landing.
     ALDRIN: We were still 60 miles above the surface when we
began our first burn. Neil and I were harnessed into the LM in a
standing position. [Later] at precisely the right moment the
engine ignited to begin the 12-minute powered descent. Strapped
in by the system of belts and cables not unlike shock absorbers,
neither of us felt the initial motion. We looked quickly at the
computer to make sure we were actually functioning as planned.
After 26 seconds the engine went to full throttle and the motion
became noticeable. Neil watched his instruments while I looked at
our primary computer and compared it with our second computer,
which was part of our abort guidance system.
     I then began a computer read-out sequence to Neil which was
also being transmitted to Houston. I had helped develop it. It
sounded as though I was chattering like a magpie. It also sounded
as though I was doing all the work. During training we had
discussed the possibility of making the communication only
between Neil and myself, but Mission Control liked the idea of
hearing our communications with each other. Neil had referred to
it once as "that damned open mike of yours," and I tried to make
as little an issue of it as possible.
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Yellow Caution Light
     At six thousand feet above the lunar surface a yellow
caution light came on and we encountered one of the few
potentially serious problems in the entire flight, a problem
which might have caused us to abort, had it not been for a man on
the ground who really knew his job.
     COLLINS: At five minutes into the burn, when I am nearly
directly overhead, Eagle voices its first concern. "Program
Alarm," barks Neil, "It's a 1202." What the hell is that? I don't
have the alarm numbers memorized for my own computer, much less
for the LM's. I jerk out my own checklist and start thumbing
through it, but before I can find 1202, Houston says, "Roger,
we're GO on that alarm." No problem, in other words. My checklist
says 1202 is an "executive overflow," meaning simply that the
computer has been called upon to do too many things at once and
is forced to postpone some of them. A little farther along, at
just three thousand feet above the surface, the computer flashes
1201, another overflow condition, and again the ground is
superquick to respond with reassurances.
     ALDRIN: Back in Houston, not to mention on board the Eagle,
hearts shot up into throats while we waited to learn what would
happen. We had received two of the caution lights when Steve
Bales the flight controller responsible for LM computer activity,
told us to proceed, through Charlie Duke, the capsule
communicator. We received three or four more warnings but kept on
going. When Mike, Neil, and I were presented with Medals of
Freedom by President Nixon, Steve also received one. He certainly
deserved it, because without him we might not have landed.
     ARMSTRONG: In the final phases of the descent after a number
of program alarms, we looked at the landing area and found a very
large crater. This is the area we decided we would not go into;
we extended the range downrange. The exhaust dust was kicked up
by the engine and this caused some concern in that it degraded
our ability to determine not only our altitude in the final
phases but also our translational velocities over the ground.
It's quite important not to stub your toe during the final phases
of touchdown.
From the space-to-ground tapes:
     EAGLE: 540 feet, down at 30 [feet per second] . . . down at
15 . . . 400 feet down at 9 . . . forward . . . 350 feet, down at
4 . . . 300 feet, down 3 1/2 . . . 47 forward . . . 1 1/2
down . . . 13 forward . . . 11 forward? coming down nicely . . .
200 feet, 4 1/2 down . . . 5 1/2 down . . . 5 percent . . . 75
feet . . . 6 forward . . . lights on . . . down 2 1/2 . . . 40
feet? down 2 1/2, kicking up some dust . . . 30 feet, 2 1/2
down . . . faint shadow . . . 4 forward . . . 4 forward . . .
drifting to right a little . . . O.K. . . .
     HOUSTON: 30 seconds [fuel remaining].
     EAGLE: Contact light! O.K., engine stop . . . descent engine
command override off . . .
     HOUSTON: We copy you down, Eagle.
     EAGLE: Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed!
     HOUSTON: Roger, Tranquility. We copy you on the ground.
You've got a bunch of guys about to turn blue. We're breathing
again. Thanks a lot.
     TRANQUILITY: Thank you . . . That may have seemed like a
very long final phase. The auto targeting was taking us right
into a football-field-sized crater, with a large number of big
boulders and rocks for about one or two crater-diameters around
it, and it required flying manually over the rock field to find a
reasonably good area.
     HOUSTON: Roger, we copy. It was beautiful from here,
Tranquility. Over.
     TRANQUILITY: We'll get to the details of what's around here,
but it looks like a collection of just about every variety of
shape, angularity, granularity, about every variety of rock you
could find.
     HOUSTON: Roger, Tranquility. Be advised there's lots of
smiling faces in this room, and all over the world.
     TRANQUILITY: There are two of them up here.
     COLUMBIA: And don't forget one in the command module.
     ARMSTRONG: Once [we] settled on the surface, the dust
settled immediately and we had an excellent view of the area
surrounding the LM. We saw a crater surface, pockmarked with
craters up to 15, 20, 30 feet, and many smaller craters down to a
diameter of 1 foot and, of course, the surface was very fine-
grained. There were a surprising number of rocks of all sizes.
     A number of experts had, prior to the flight, predicted that
a good bit of difficulty might be encountered by people due to
the variety of strange atmospheric and gravitational
characteristics. This didn't prove to be the case and after
landing we felt very comfortable in the lunar gravity. It was, in
fact, in our view preferable both to weightlessness and to the
Earth's gravity.
     When we actually descended the ladder it was found to be
very much like the lunar-gravity simulations we had performed
here on Earth. No difficulty was encountered in descending the
ladder. The last step was about 31/2 feet from the surface, and
we were somewhat concerned that we might have difficulty in
reentering the LM at the end of our activity period. So we
practiced that before bringing the camera down.
     ALDRIN: We opened the hatch and Neil, with me as his
navigator, began backing out of the tiny opening. It seemed like
a small eternity before I heard Neil say, "That's one small step
for man . . . one giant leap for mankind." In less than fifteen
minutes I was backing awkwardly out of the hatch and onto the
surface to join Neil, who, in the tradition of all tourists, had
his camera ready to photograph my arrival.
     I felt buoyant and full of goose pimples when I stepped down
on the surface. I immediately looked down at my feet and became
intrigued with the peculiar properties of the lunar dust. If one
kicks sand on a beach, it scatters in numerous directions with
some grains traveling farther than others. On the Moon the dust
travels exactly and precisely as it goes in various directions,
and every grain of it lands nearly the same distance away.
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Boy in the Candy Store
     ARMSTRONG: There were a lot of things to do, and we had a
hard time getting, them finished. We had very little trouble,
much less trouble than expected, on the surface. It was a
pleasant operation. Temperatures weren't high. They were very
comfortable. The little EMU, the combination of spacesuit and
backpack that sustained our life on the surface, operated
magnificently. The primary difficulty was just far too little
time to do the variety of things we would have liked. We had the
problem of the five-year-old boy in a candy store.
     ALDRIN: I took off jogging to test my maneuverability. The
exercise gave me an odd sensation and looked even more odd when I
later saw the films of it. With bulky suits on, we seemed to be
moving in slow motion. I noticed immediately that my inertia
seemed much greater. Earth-bound, I would have stopped my run in
just one step, but I had to use three of four steps to sort of
wind down. My Earth weight, with the big backpack and heavy suit,
was 360 pounds. On the Moon I weighed only 60 pounds.
     At one point I remarked that the surface was "Beautiful,
beautiful. Magnificent desolation." I was struck by the contrast
between the starkness of the shadows and the desert-like
barrenness of the rest of the surface. It ranged from dusty gray
to light tan and was unchanging except for one startling sight:
our LM sitting there with its black, silver, and bright yellow-
orange thermal coating shining brightly in the otherwise
colorless landscape. I had seen Neil in his suit thousands of
times before, but on the Moon the unnatural whiteness of it
seemed unusually brilliant. We could also look around and see the
Earth, which, though much larger than the Moon the Earth was
seeing, seemed small -- a beckoning oasis shining far away in the
sky.
     As the sequence of lunar operations evolved, Neil had the
camera most of the time, and the majority of pictures taken on
the Moon that include an astronaut are of me. It wasn't until we
were back on Earth and in the Lunar Receiving Laboratory looking
over the pictures that we realized there were few pictures of
Neil. My fault perhaps, but we had never simulated this in our
training.
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Coaxing the Flag to Stand
     During a pause in experiments, Neil suggested we proceed
with the flag. It took both of us to set it up and it was nearly
a disaster. Public Relations obviously needs practice just as
everything else does. A small telescoping arm was attached to the
flagpole to keep the flag extended and perpendicular. As hard as
we tried, the telescope wouldn't fully extend. Thus the flags
which should have been flat, had its own unique permanent wave.
Then to our dismay the staff of the pole wouldn't go far enough
into the lunar surface to support itself in an upright position.
After much struggling we finally coaxed it to remain upright, but
in a most precarious position. I dreaded the possibility of the
American flag collapsing into the lunar dust in front of the
television camera.
     COLLINS: [On his fourth orbital pass above] "How's it
going?" "The EVA is progressing beautifully. I believe they're
setting up the flag now." Just let things keep going that way,
and no surprises, please. Neil and Buzz sound good, with no
huffing and puffing to indicate they are overexerting themselves.
But one surprise at least is in store. Houston comes on the air,
not the slightest bit ruffled, and announces that the President
of the United States would like to talk to Neil and Buzz. "That
would be an honor," says Neil, with characteristic dignity.
     The President's voice smoothly fills the air waves with the
unaccustomed cadence of the speechmaker, trained to convey
inspiration, or at least emotion, instead of our usual diet of
numbers and reminders. "Neil and Buzz, I am talking to you by
telephone from the Oval Office at the White House, and this
certainly has to be the most historic telephone call ever
made . . . Because of what you have done, the heavens have become
a part of man's world. As you talk to us from the Sea of
Tranquility, it inspires us to redouble our efforts to bring
peace and tranquility to Earth . . ." My God, I never thought of
all this bringing peace and tranquility to anyone. As far as I am
concerned, this voyage is fraught with hazards for the three of
us- and especially two of us- and that is about as far as I have
gotten in my thinking.
     Neil, however, pauses long enough to give as well as he
receives. "It's a great honor and privilege for us to be here,
representing not only the United States but men of peace of all
nations, and with interest and a curiosity and a vision for the
future." [Later] Houston cuts off the White House and returns to
business as usual, with a long string of numbers for me to copy
for future use. My God, the juxtaposition of the incongruous-
roll, pitch, and yaw; prayers, peace, and tranquility. What will
it be like if we really carry this off and return to Earth in one
piece, with our boxes full of rocks and our heads full of new
perspectives for the planet? I have a little time to ponder this
as I zing off out of sight of the White House and the Earth.
     ALDRIN: We had a pulley system to load on the boxes of
rocks. We found the process more time-consuming and dust-
scattering than anticipated. After the gear and both of us were
inside, our first chore was to pressure the LM cabin and begin
stowing the rock boxes, film magazines, and anything else we
wouldn't need until we were connected once again with the
Columbia. We removed our boots and the big backpacks, opened the
LM hatch, and threw these items onto the lunar surface, along
with a bagful of empty food packages and the LM urine bags. The
exact moment we tossed every thing out was measured back on
Earth- the seismometer we had put out was even more sensitive
than we had expected.
     Before beginning liftoff procedures [we] settled down for
our fitful rest. We didn't sleep much at all. Among other things
we were elated- and also cold. Liftoff from the Moon, after a
stay totaling twenty-one hours, was exactly on schedule and
fairly uneventful. The ascent stage of the LM separated, sending
out a shower of brilliant insulation particles which had been
ripped off from the thrust of the ascent engine. There was no
lime to sightsee. I was concentrating on the computers, and Neil
was studying the attitude indicator, but I looked up long enough
to see the flag fall over . . . Three hours and ten minutes later
we were connected once again with the Columbia.
     COLLINS: I can look out through my docking reticle and see
that they are steady as a rock as they drive down the center line
of that final approach path. I give them some numbers. "I have
0.7 mile and I got you at 31 feet per second." We really are
going to carry this off' For the first time since I was assigned
to this incredible flight, I feel that it is going to happen.
Granted, we are a long way from home, but from here on it should
be all downhill. Within a few seconds Houston joins the
conversation, with a tentative little call. "Eagle and Columbia,
Houston standing by." They want to know what the hell is going
on, but they don't want to interrupt us if we are in a crucial
spot in our final maneuvering. Good heads! However, they needn't
worry, and Neil lets them know it. "Roger, we're stationkeeping."
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
All Smiles and Giggles
     [After docking] it's time to hustle down into the tunnel and
remove hatch, probe, and drogue, so Neil and Buzz can get
through. Thank God, all the claptrap works beautifully in this
its final workout. The probe and drogue will stay with the LM and
be abandoned with it, for we will have no further need of them
and don't want them cluttering up the command module. The first
one through is Buzz, with a big smile on his face. I grab his
head, a hand on each temple, and am about to give him a smooch on
the forehead, as a parent might greet an errant child; but then,
embarrassed, I think better of it and grab his hand, and then
Neil's. We cavort about a little bit, all smiles and giggles over
our success, and then it's back to work as usual.
     Excerpts from a TV program broadcast by the Apollo 11
astronauts on the last evening of the flight the day before
splashdown in the Pacific:
     COLLINS: ". . . The Saturn V rocket which put us in orbit is
an incredibly complicated piece of machinery, every piece of
which worked flawlessly. This computer above my head has a
38,000-word vocabulary, each word of which has been carefully
chosen to be of the utmost value to us. The SPS engine, our large
rocket engine on the aft end of our service module, must have
performed flawlessly or we would have been stranded in lunar
orbit. The parachutes up above my head must work perfectly
tomorrow or we will plummet into the ocean. We have always had
confidence that this equipment will work properly. All this is
possible only through the blood, sweat, and tears of a number of
people. First, the American workmen who put these pieces of
machinery together in the factory. Second, the painstaking work
done by various test teams during the assembly and retest after
assembly. And finally, the people at the Manned Spacecraft
Center, both in management, in mission planning, in flight
control, and last but not least, in crew training. This operation
is somewhat like the periscope of a submarine. All you see is the
three of us, but beneath the surface are thousands and thousands
of others, and to all of those, I would like to say, 'Thank you
very much.'"
     ALDRIN: ". . . This has been far more than three men on a
mission to the Moon; more, still, than the efforts of a
government and industry team; more, even, than the efforts of one
nation. We feel that this stands as a symbol of the insatiable
curiosity of all mankind to explore the unknown. Today I feel
we're really fully capable of accepting expanded roles in the
exploration of space. In retrospect, we have all been
particularly pleased with the call signs that we very laboriously
chose for our spacecraft, Columbia and Eagle. We've been pleased
with the emblem of our flight, the eagle carrying an olive
branch, bringing the universal symbol of peace from the planet
Earth to the Moon. Personally, in reflecting on the events of the
past several days, a verse from Psalms comes to mind. 'When I
consider the heavens, the work of Thy fingers, the Moon and the
stars, which Thou hast ordained; What is man that Thou art
mindful of him?'"
     ARMSTRONG: "The responsibility for this flight lies first
with history and with the giants of science who have preceded
this effort; next with the American people, who have, through
their will, indicated their desire; next with four
administrations and their Congresses, for implementing that will;
and then, with the agency and industry teams that built our
spacecraft, the Saturn, the Columbia, the Eagle, and the little
EMU, the spacesuit and backpack that was our small spacecraft out
on the lunar surface. We would like to give special thanks to all
those Americans who built the spacecraft; who did the
construction, design, the tests, and put their hearts and all
their abilities into those craft. To those people tonight, we
give a special thank you, and to all the other people that are
listening and watching tonight, God bless you. Good night from
Apollo 11."
- Michael Collins and Edwin E. "Buzz" Aldrin, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Ocean of Storms and Fra Mauro
|   Chapter: Twelve
!    Author: Charles Conrad, Jr., and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 225
|-----------------------------------------------------
Ocean of Storms and Fra Mauro
     Scientific exploration of the Moon began in earnest with the
Apollo 12 and 14 missions. Four astronauts worked on the Moon in
four-hour shifts, walking from site to site. The Apollo 12
astronauts carried everything: experiments, equipment, tools,
sample hags, cameras. The Apollo 14 team had a small equipment
cart, and some of the time it was a help. But the missions showed
that a man in a pressurized suit had definite limitations on the
rugged and perplexing lunar surface. It was more work than it
seemed, and in the case of Apollo 14, medical advice from Earth
ended one phase of activity. But the two missions produced a
wealth of new scientific data and lunar samples, and both laid a
firm foundation for the great voyages of lunar exploration to
follow.
     The sky was cloudy and rain was falling on November 14,
1969, as the Apollo 12 crew prepared for launch. Half a minute
after liftoff a lightning strike opened the main circuit breakers
in the spacecraft. Quick action by the crew and Launch Control
restored power, and Astronauts Charles "Pete" Conrad, Jr.,
Richard F. Gordon, and Alan L. Bean sped into sunlight above the
clouds. "We had everything in the world drop out," Conrad
reported. "We've had a couple of cardiac arrests down here too,"
Launch Control radioed back.
     Their destination was the Ocean of Storms. Four and a half
days later, Conrad and Bean entered the lunar module Intrepid and
separated from Gordon in the command module Yankee Clipper. Their
landing site was about 1300 miles west of where Apollo 11 had
landed, on a surface believed covered by debris splashed out from
the crater Copernicus some 250 miles away. The exact site was a
point where, 31 months before, the unmanned lunar scout Surveyor
III had made a precarious automatic landing. The Surveyor site
was a natural choice: it was a geologically different surface, it
would demonstrate pinpoint landing precision, and it would offer
a chance to bring back metal, electronic, and optical materials
that had soaked for many months in the lunar environment.
Here is Pete Conrad's account of the mission:
     It was really pioneering in lunar exploration. We had
planned our traverses carefully, we covered them, and we stayed
on the time line. We had a real-time link with the ground, to
help guide our work on the surface. Of course we had practiced a
lot beforehand. working with geologists in the field to learn
techniques from them while they learned what we could and
couldn't do in the lunar environment.
     Our first important task was the precision landing near
Surveyor III. When we pitched over just before the landing phase,
there it was, looking as if we would land practically on target.
The targeting data were just about perfect, but I maneuvered
around the crater, landing at a slightly different spot than the
one we had planned. In my judgment, the place we had prepicked
was a little too rough. We touched down about 600 feet from the
Surveyor. They didn't want us to be nearer than 500 feet because
of the risk that the descent engine might blow dust over the
spacecraft.
     Our second important task- and of course the real reason for
going to the Moon in the first place- was to accomplish useful
scientific work on the surface. We had to set up the ALSEP and
its experiments; we had to do a lot of geologizing; and finally
we had to bring back some pieces of the Surveyor, so they could
be analyzed for the effects of their exposure.
     Al Bean and I made two EVAs, each lasting just under four
hours; and we covered the planned traverses as scheduled. We
learned things that we could never have found out in a
simulation. A simple thing like shoveling soil into a sample bag,
for instance, was an entirely new experience. First, you had to
handle the shovel differently, stopping it before you would have
on Earth, and tilting it to dump the load much more steeply,
after which the whole sample would slide off suddenly.
- Charles Conrad, Jr. and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Little Clouds Around Your Feet
     And the dust! Dust got into everything. You walked in a pair
of little dust clouds kicked up around your feet. We were
concerned about getting dust into the working parts of the
spacesuits and into the lunar module, so we elected to remain in
the suits between our two EVAs. We thought that it would be less
risky that way than taking them off and putting them back on
again.
     On the first EVA, the first thing I did was to take the
contingency sample. When Al joined me on the surface, we started
with the experimental setups. We set out the solar wind
experiment and the ALSEP items. We planted the passive seismic
experiment, deployed and aligned antennas, laid out the lunar
surface magnetometer, and took core samples. Some of the
experiments started working right away as planned, sending data
back. Others weren't set to start operating until after we had
left.
     We were continually describing what we were doing; we kept
up a stream of chatter so that people on the ground could follow
what was going on if we were to lose the video signal. And we did
lose it, too, soon after we landed. That was hard to take.
     One strange surface phenomenon was a group of conical
mounds, looking for all the world like small volcanoes. They were
maybe five feet tall and about fifteen feet in diameter at the
base. Both of us really enjoyed working on the surface; we took a
lot of kidding later about the way we reacted. But it was
exciting; there we were, the third and fourth people on the Moon,
doing what we were supposed to do, what we had planned to do, and
keeping within schedule. Add to that the excitement of just being
there, and I think we could be forgiven for reacting with
enthusiasm.
     Our second EVA was heavily scheduled. We were to make visual
observations, collect a lot more samples, document
photographically the area around the Ocean of Storms, and- if we
could- bring back pieces of the Surveyor III spacecraft. We had
rehearsed that part with a very detailed mockup before the
flight, and were well prepared.
     We moved on a traverse, picking up samples and describing
them and the terrain around them, as well as documenting the
specific sites with photography. We rolled a rock into a crater
so that scientists back on Earth could sec if the seismic
experiment was working. (It was sensitive enough to pick up my
steps as I walked nearby.) Anyway, we rolled the rock and they
got a jiggle or two, indicating that experiment was off and
running.
- Charles Conrad, Jr. and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Tan Dust on Surveyor
     We found some green rocks, and some gray soil that
maintained its light color even below the surface, which is not
common, and we finally reached the Surveyor crater. I was
surprised by its size and its hard surface. We could have landed
right there, I believe now, but it would have been a scary thing
at the time. The Surveyor was covered with a coating of fine
dust, and it looked tan or even brown in the lunar light, instead
of the glistening white that it was when it left Earth more than
two years earlier. It was decided later that the dust was kicked
up by our descent onto the surface, even though we were 600 feet
away.
     We cut samples of the aluminum tubing, which seemed more
brittle than the same material on Earth, and some electrical
cables. Their insulation seemed to have gotten dry, hard, and
brittle. We managed to break off a piece of glass, and we
unbolted the Surveyor TV camera. Then Al suggested that we cut
off and take back the sampling scoop, and so we added that to the
collection.
     Then we headed back to the Intrepid. We retrieved the solar-
wind experiment, stowed it and the sample bags in the Intrepid,
got in, buttoned it up, and started repressurization. Altogether
we brought back about 75 pounds of rocks, and 15 pounds of
Surveyor hardware. We also brought back the 25-pound color TV
camera from Intrepid so that its failure could be investigated.
     While we were busy on the surface, Dick Gordon was busy in
lunar orbit. The Yankee Clipper was a very sophisticated
observation and surveying spacecraft. One of the experiments that
Dick performed was multispectral photography of the lunar
surface, which gave scientists new data with which to interpret
the composition of the Moon.
     After Al and I got back to Yankee Clipper following lunar
liftoff and rendezvous, all three of us worked on the photography
schedule. We were looking specifically for good coverage of
proposed future landing sites, especially Fra Mauro, which was
then scheduled for Apollo 13. That's a rough surface, and we
wanted to get the highest resolution photos we could so that the
crew of the Apollo 13 mission would have the best training
information they could get.
     We changed the plane of our lunar orbit to cover the sites
better, and we also elected to stay an extra day in lunar orbit
so that we could complete the work without feeling pressured. We
took hundreds of stills, and thousands of feet of motion-picture
film of the Fra Mauro site, and of the Descartes and Lalande
craters, two other proposed landing sites.
     Meantime the experiments we had left on the lunar surface
were busy recording and transmitting data. They all worked well,
with one exception, and were really producing useful data. One
unexpected result came from the seismic experiment recording the
impact of Intrepid on the surface after we had jettisoned it. The
entire Moon rang like a gong, vibrating and resonating for almost
on hour after the impact. The best guess was that the Moon was
composed of rubble a lot deeper below its surface than anybody
had assumed. The internal structure, being fractured instead of a
solid mass, could bounce the seismic energy from piece to piece
for quite a while.
     The same phenomenon was observed at two ALSEP stations when
the Apollo 14 crew jettisoned their lunar module Antares and
programmed it to crash between the Apollo 12 and 14 sites.
     With every mission after Apollo 12, additional seismic
calibrations were obtained by aiming the Saturn S-IVB stage to
impact a selected point on the Moon after separation from the
spacecraft. The seismic vibrations from these impacts lasted
about three hours.
     Apollo 13 was supposed to land in the Fra Mauro area. The
explosion on board wiped out that mission, and it became instead
a superb example of a crew's ability to turn a very risky
situation into a safe return to Earth.
     So the Fra Mauro site was reassigned to Apollo 14, because
scientists gave that area a high priority. The following account
is by Alan B. Shepard, Jr., the first American into space and of
the original seven astronauts.
     The Fra Mauro hills stand a couple of hundred of miles to
the cast of the Apollo 12 landing site. I was selected to command
this mission, my first since the original Mercury flight in 1961.
With me to the lunar surface went Edgar D. Mitchell in Antares,
while Stuart A. Roosa was the command module pilot of Kitty Hawk.
- Charles Conrad, Jr. and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Choosing a Smoother Spot
     The targeting data for the Apollo 14 landing site were every
bit as good as the data for Apollo 12; but we had to fly around
for a little while for the same reason they had to. The landing
site was rougher, on direct observation, than the photos had been
able to show. So I looked for a smoother area, found one, and
landed there.
     Our first EVA was similar to those before; we got out, set
up the solar-wind experiment and the flag, and deployed the
ALSEP. The latter had two new experiments. One was called the
"thumper." Ed Mitchell set up an array of geophones, and then
walked out along a planned survey line with a device that could
be placed against the surface and fired, to create a local impact
of known size. Thirteen of the 21 charges went off, registering
good results. The other different experiment we had was a grenade
launcher, with four grenades to be fired off by radio command
some time after we had left the Moon. They were designed to
impact at different distances from the launcher, to get a pattern
of seismic response to the impact explosions.
     While Ed and I were working on our first EVA. Stu was doing
the photographic part of the orbital science experiments. One job
was to get detailed photographic coverage of the proposed site
for the Apollo 15 mission, near the Descartes crater.
     He was asked also to get a number of other photos of the
lunar surface, in areas that had not been well-covered in earlier
missions. Stu produced some great photos of the surface, rotating
the command module Kitty Hawk to compensate for the motion of the
image. He photographed the area around Lansberg B, which had been
the predicted impact site of the Apollo 13 S-IVB stage. It was
calculated that the impact could have produced a crater about 200
feet in diameter, and scientists wanted good pictures of the area
so they could search for the brand-new crater on the Moon.
     Stu also found them another new crater on the back side of
the Moon. It was serendipity; he was shooting other pictures and
suddenly this very bright, young crater came into view directly
under Kitty Hawk. So he swung the camera around, pushed the
button, and then went back to his original assignment.
- Charles Conrad, Jr. and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Lunar Rickshaw
     Ed and I worked on the surface for 4 hours and 50 minutes
during our first EVA; after the return to Antares, a long rest
period, and then resulting, we began the second EVA. This time we
had the MET- modularized equipment transporter, although we
called it the lunar rickshaw- to carry tools, cameras, and
samples so we could work more effectively and bring back a larger
quantity of samples.
     Our planned traverse was to take us from Antares more or
less due east to the rim of Cone crater. That traverse had been
chosen because scientists wanted samples and rocks from the
crater's rim. The theory is that the oldest rocks from deep under
the Moon's surface were thrown up and out of the crater by the
impact, and that the ones from the extreme depth of the crater
were to be found on the rim.
     On our way to the crater, one of the first things Ed did was
to take a magnetometer reading at the first designated site. When
he read the numbers over the air, there was some excitement back
at Houston because the readings were about triple the values
gotten on Apollo 12. They were also higher than the values Stu
was reading in the Kitty Hawk, and so it seemed that the Moon's
magnetic field varied spatially.
     Our first sampling began a little further on, in a rock
field with boulders about two or three feet along the major
dimension. These were located in the centers of a group of three
craters, each about sixty feet across. Like the bulk of the
samples brought back, these were documented samples. That means
photographing the soil or rocks, describing them and their
position over the voice link to Mission Control, and then putting
the sample in a numbered bag, identifying the bag at the same
time on the voice hookup.
     Apollo 14 tried an experiment to do something constructive
about the dust that plagued all of the missions. NASA engineers
wanted to check out some of the finishes proposed for the Rover
and other pieces of operating equipment. I had a group of
samples- material chips with different finishes- and I dusted
them with the surface dust, shook them off, and then brushed one
set to try to determine the abrasive effects, if any, of such
dust removal. The other set was left unbrushed as a control
sample. All this was of course recorded with the closeup camera.
     The mapped traverse was to take us nearly directly to the
rim of Cone crater, a feature about 1000 feet in diameter. As we
approached. the boulders got larger, up to four and five feet in
size. And at this time, the going started to get rough for us.
The terrain became more steep as we approached the rim, and the
increased grade accentuated the difficulty of walking in soft
dust.
- Charles Conrad, Jr. and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Hunt for the Rim of Cone
     Another problem was that the ruggedness and unevenness of
the terrain made it very hard to navigate by landmarks, which is
the way a man on foot gets around. Ed and I had difficulty in
agreeing on the way to Cone, just how far we had traveled, and
where we were. We did some more sampling. and then moved on
toward Cone, into terrain that had almost continuous undulations,
and very small flat areas. Soon after that, the surface began to
slope upward even more steeply, and it gave us the feeling that
we were starting the last climb to the rim of Cone. We passed a
rock which had a lot of glass in it, and reported to Houston that
it was too big to pick up.
     We continued, changing our suit cooling rated to match our
increased work output as we climbed. and stopping a couple of
times briefly to rest. For a while, we picked up the cart and
carried it, preferring to move this way because it was a little
faster.
     And then came what had to be one of the most frustrating
experiences on the traverse. We thought we were nearing the rim
of Cone, only to find we were at another and much smaller crater
still some distance from Cone. At that point, I radioed Houston
that our positions were doubtful, and that there was probably
quite a way to go yet to reach Cone.
     About then, there was a general concurrence that maybe that
was about as far as we should go, even though Ed protested that
we really ought to press on and look into Cone crater. But in the
end, we stopped our traverse short of the lip and turned for the
walk back to Antares.
     Later estimates indicated we were perhaps only 30 feet or so
below the rim of the crater, and yet we were just not able to
define it in that undulating and rough country.
     One of the rocks we sampled in that area was a white breccia
(a rock made up of pieces of stone embedded in a matrix). The
white coloring came from the very high percentage of feldspar
that was in the breccia. That rock, and others in the area, were
believed to approach 4.6 billion years in age.
     We stopped at Weird crater, for more sampling and some
panoramic photography, and then continued the return traverse. At
the Triplet craters, more than three-quarters of the way back to
Antares, we stopped again. Ed's job there was to drive some core
tubes; I was to dig a trench to check the stratification of the
surface. But the core material was granular and slipped out of
the tube every time Ed lifted it clear of the surface. I wasn't
having any better luck with my trenching, because the side walls
kept collapsing. I did get enough of a trench dug so that I could
observe some stratification of the surface materials, seeing
their color shift into the darker browns and near blacks, and
then into a surprisingly light-colored layer underneath the
darkest one.
     That was it, Antares was in sight, as it had been throughout
much of the traverse, and our long Moon walk was almost over. I
went on past Antares to the ALSEP site to check antenna alignment
because of reports from Houston that a weak signal was being
received. Ed took some more samples from a nearby field of
boulders.
     At that, our surface tasks were done, with the exception of
recovering the solar-wind experiment and getting back into
Antares for the return flight. We had covered a distance of about
two miles and collected many samples during four and one-half
hours on the surface in the second EVA. I also threw a makeshift
javelin, and hit a couple of golf shots.
     After liftoff there were still experiments left to do. The
first of these was another seismic event, generated by the impact
of the jettisoned Antares on the Moon. Again the Moon responded
with that resonant ringing for some time after the event. Once we
were on our way back to Earth, we did a series of four
experiments in weightlessness. One was a simple metal casting
experiment, to see what the effects of zero gravity would be on
the purity or the homogeneity of the mass. The materials included
some pure samples, and others with crystals or fibers for
strengthening. As you might expect, the materials turned out to
be more homogeneous under zero-gravity conditions. We measured
heat flow and convection in some samples and, sure enough, zero
gravity changed those characteristics also. We did some
electrophoretic separations, which are techniques used by the
pharmaceutical industry to make vaccines, in the belief that
maybe zero-gravity conditions could simplify a complex and
expensive process. Finally, we did some fluid transfer
experiments, simply trying to pour a fluid from one container to
another in zero gravity. The surface tension works against you
there, and so it was much easier when the containers being used
were equipped with baffles that the fluid could cling to, as it
were.
     That was our mission. Our return was routine, our landing on
target, and our homecoming as joyous as those before.
     I look back now on the flights carrying Pete's crew and my
crew as the real pioneering explorations of the Moon. Neil, Buzz,
and Mike in Apollo 11 proved that man could get to the Moon and
do useful scientific work, once he was there. Our two flights-
Apollo 12 and 14- proved that scientists could select a target
area and define a series of objectives, and that man could get
there with precision and carry out the objectives with relative
ease and a very high degree of success. And both of our flights.
as did earlier and later missions, pointed up the advantage of
manned space exploration. We all were able to make minor
corrections or major changes at times when they were needed,
sometimes for better efficiency, and sometimes to save the
mission.
     Apollo 12 and 14 were the transition missions. After us came
the lunar rover, wheels to extend greatly the distance of the
traverse and the quantity of samples that could be carried back
to the lunar module. And on the last flight, a trained scientist
who was also an astronaut went along on the mission.
     I'd like to look on that last flight as just a temporary
hold in the exploration of space.
- Charles Conrad, Jr. and Alan B. Shepard, Jr.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: Houston, We've Had a Problem
|   Chapter: Thirteen
!    Author: James A. Lovell
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 247
|-----------------------------------------------------
"Houston, We've Had a Problem"
     Since Apollo 13 many people have asked me, "Did you have
suicide pills on board?" We didn't, and I never heard of such a
thing in the eleven years I spent as an astronaut and NASA
executive.
     I did, of course, occasionally think of the possibility that
the spacecraft explosion might maroon us in an enormous orbit
about the Earth -- a sort of perpetual monument to the space
program. But Jack Swigert, Fred Haise, and I never talked about
that fate during our perilous flight. I guess we were too busy
struggling for survival.
     Survive we did, but it was close. Our mission was a failure
but I like to think it was a successful failure.
     Apollo 13, scheduled to be the third lunar landing, was
launched at 1313 Houston time on Saturday, April 11, 1970; I had
never felt more confident. On my three previous missions, I had
already logged 572 hours in space, beginning with Gemini 7, when
Frank Borman and I stayed up 14 days- a record not equaled until
Skylab.
     Looking back, I realize I should have been alerted by
several omens that occurred in the final stages of the Apollo 13
preparation. First, our command module pilot, Ken Mattingly, with
whom Haise and I had trained for nearly two years, turned out to
have no immunity to German measles (a minor disease the backup LM
pilot, Charlie Duke, had inadvertently exposed us to). I argued
to keep Ken, who was one of the most conscientious, hardest
working of all the astronauts. In my argument to Dr. Paine, the
NASA Administrator, I said, "Measles aren't that bad, and if Ken
came down with them, it would be on the way home, which is a
quiet part of the mission. From my experience as command module
pilot on Apollo 8, I know Fred and I could bring the spacecraft
home alone if we had to." Besides, I said, Ken doesn't have the
measles now, and he may never get them. (Five years later, he
still hadn't.)
     Dr. Paine said no, the risk was too great. So I said in that
case we'll be happy to accept Jack Swigert, the backup CMP, a
good man (as indeed he proved to be, though he had only two days
of prime-crew training).
     The second omen came in ground tests before launch, which
indicated the possibility of a poorly insulated supercritical
helium tank in the LM's descent stage. So we modified the flight
plan to enter the LM three hours early, in order to obtain an
onboard readout of helium tank pressure. This proved to be lucky
for us because it gave us a chance to shake down this odd-shaped
spacecraft that was to hold our destiny in its spidery hands. It
also meant the LM controllers were in Mission Control when they
would be needed most.
     Then there was the No. 2 oxygen tank, serial number 10024X-
TA0009. This tank had been installed in the service module of
Apollo 10, but was removed for modification (and was damaged in
the process of removal). I have to congratulate Tom Stafford,
John Young, and Gene Cernan, the lucky dogs, for getting rid of
it.
     This tank was fixed, tested at the factory, installed in our
service module. and tested again during the Countdown
Demonstration Test at the Kennedy Space Center beginning March
16, 1970. The tanks normally are emptied to about half full, and
No. 1 behaved all right. But No. 2 dropped to only 92 percent of
capacity. Gaseous oxygen at 80 psi was applied through the vent
line to expel the liquid oxygen, but to no avail. An interim
discrepancy report was written, and on March 27, two weeks before
launch, detanking operations were resumed. No. 1 again emptied
normally, but its idiot twin did not. After a conference with
contractor and NASA personnel, the test director decided to "boil
off" the remaining oxygen in No. 2 by using the electrical heater
within the tank. The technique worked, but it took eight hours of
65-volt DC power from the ground-support equipment to dissipate
the oxygen.
     With the wisdom of hindsight, I should have said, "Hold it.
Wait a second. I'm riding on this spacecraft. Just go out and
replace that tank." But the truth is, I went along, and I must
share the responsibility with many, many others for the $375
million failure of Apollo 13. On just about every spaceflight we
have had some sort of failure, but in this case, it was an
accumulation of human errors and technical anomalies that doomed
Apollo 13.
     At five and a half minutes after liftoff, Swigert, Haise,
and I felt a little vibration. Then the center engine of the S-II
stage shut down two minutes early. This caused the remaining four
engines to burn 34 seconds longer than planned, and the S-IVB
third stage had to burn nine seconds longer to put us in orbit.
No problem: the S-IVB had plenty of fuel.
     The first two days we ran into a couple of minor surprises,
but generally Apollo 13 was looking like the smoothest flight of
the program. At 46 hours 43 minutes Joe Kerwin, the CapCom on
duty, said, "The spacecraft is in real good shape as far as we
are concerned. We're bored to tears down here." It was the last
time anyone would mention boredom for a long time.
     At 55 hours 46 minutes, as we finished a 49-minute TV
broadcast showing how comfortably we lived and worked in
weightlessness, I pronounced the benediction: "This is the crew
of Apollo 13 wishing everybody there a nice evening, and we're
just about ready to close out our inspection of Aquarius (the LM)
and get back for a pleasant evening in Odyssey (the CM). Good
night."
     On the tapes I sound mellow and benign, or some might say
fat, dumb, and happy. A pleasant evening, indeed! Nine minutes
later the roof fell in; rather, oxygen tank No. 2 blew up,
causing No. 1 tank also to fail. We came to the slow conclusion
that our normal supply of electricity, light, and water was lost,
and we were about 200,000 miles from Earth. We did not even have
power to gimbal the engine so we could begin an immediate return
to Earth.
     The message came in the form of a sharp bang and vibration.
Jack Swigert saw a warning light that accompanied the bang, and
said, "Houston, we've had a problem here." I came on and told the
ground that it was a main B bus undervolt. The time was 2108
hours on April 13.
     Next, the warning lights told us we had lost two of our
three fuel cells, which were our prime source of electricity. Our
first thoughts were ones of disappointment, since mission rules
forbade a lunar landing with only one fuel cell.
     With warning lights blinking on, I checked our situation;
the quantity and pressure gages for the two oxygen tanks gave me
cause for concern. One tank appeared to be completely empty, and
there were indications that the oxygen in the second tank was
rapidly being depleted. Were these just instrument malfunctions?
I was soon to find out.
     Thirteen minutes after the explosion, I happened to look out
of the left-hand window, and saw the final evidence pointing
toward potential catastrophe. "We are venting something out into
the- into space," I reported to Houston. Jack Lousma, the CapCom
replied, "Roger, we copy you venting." I said, "It's a gas of
some sort."
     It was a gas- oxygen- escaping at a high rate from our
second, and last, oxygen tank. I am told that some amateur
astronomers on top of a building in Houston could actually see
the expanding sphere of gas around the spacecraft.
- James A. Lovell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Arranging for Survival
     The knot tightened in my stomach, and all regrets about not
landing on the Moon vanished. Now it was strictly a case of
survival.
     The first thing we did, even before we discovered the oxygen
leak, was to try to close the hatch between the CM and the LM. We
reacted spontaneously, like submarine crews, closing the hatches
to limit the amount of flooding. First Jack and then I tried to
lock the reluctant hatch, but the stubborn lid wouldn't stay
shut' Exasperated, and realizing that we didn't have a cabin
leak, we strapped the hatch to the CM couch.
     In retrospect, it was a good thing that we kept the tunnel
open, because Fred and I would soon have to make a quick trip to
the LM in our fight for survival. It is interesting to note that
days later, just before we jettisoned the LM, when the hatch had
to be closed and locked, Jack did it- easy as pie. That's the
kind of flight it was.
     The pressure in the No. 1 oxygen tank continued to drift
downward; passing 300 psi, now heading toward 200 psi. Months
later, after the accident investigation was complete, it was
determined that, when No. 2 tank blew up, it either ruptured a
line on the No. 1 tank, or caused one of the valves to leak. When
the pressure reached 200 psi, it was obvious that we were going
to lose all oxygen, which meant that the last fuel cell would
also die.
     At 1 hour and 29 seconds after the bang, Jack Lousma, then
CapCom, said after instructions from Flight Director Glynn
Lunney: "It is slowly going to zero, and we are starting to think
about the LM lifeboat." Swigert replied, "That's what we have
been thinking about too."
     A lot has been written about using the LM as a lifeboat
after the CM has become disabled. There are documents to prove
that the lifeboat theory was discussed just before the Lunar
Orbit Rendezvous mode was chosen in 1962. Other references go
back to 1963, but by 1964 a study at the Manned Spacecraft Center
concluded: "The LM [as lifeboat] . . . was finally dropped,
because no single reasonable CSM failure could be identified that
would prohibit use of the SPS." Naturally, I'm glad that view
didn't prevail, and I'm thankful that by the time of Apollo 10,
the first lunar mission carrying the LM, the LM as a lifeboat was
again being discussed. Fred Haise, fortunately, held the
reputation as the top astronaut expert on the LM- after spending
fourteen months at the Grumman plant on Long Island, where the LM
was built.
     Fred says: "I never heard of the LM being used in the sense
that we used it. We had procedures, and we had trained to use it
as a backup propulsion device, the rationale being that the thing
we were really covering was the failure of the command module's
main engine, the SPS engine. In that case, we would have used
combinations of the LM descent engine, and in some cases, for
some lunar aborts, the ascent engine as well. But we never really
thought and planned, and obviously, we didn't have the procedures
to cover a case where the command module would end up fully
powered down."
     To get Apollo 13 home would require a lot of innovation.
Most of the material written about our mission describes the
ground-based activities, and I certainly agree that without the
splendid people in Mission Control, and their backups, we'd still
be up there.
     They faced a formidable task. Completely new procedures had
to be written and tested in the simulator before being passed up
to us. The navigation problem was also theirs; essentially how,
when, and in what attitude to burn the LM descent engine to
provide a quick return home. They were always aware of our
safety, as exemplified by the jury-rig fix of our environmental
system to reduce the carbon dioxide level.
     However, I would be remiss not to state that it really was
the teamwork between the ground and flight crew that resulted in
a successful return. I was blessed with two shipmates who were
very knowledgeable about their spacecraft systems. and the
disabled service module forced me to relearn quickly how to
control spacecraft attitude from the LM, a task that became more
difficult when we turned off the attitude indicator.
- James A. Lovell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Fifteen Minutes of Power Left
     With only 15 minutes of power left in the CM, CapCom told us
to make our way into the LM. Fred and I quickly floated through
the tunnel, leaving Jack to perform the last chores in our
forlorn and pitiful CM that had seemed such a happy home less
than two hours earlier. Fred said something that strikes me as
funny as I read it now: "Didn't think I'd be back so soon." But
nothing seemed funny in real time on that 13th of April, 1970.
     There were many, many things to do. In the first place, did
we have enough consumables to get home? Fred started calculating,
keeping in mind that the LM was built for only a 45-hour
lifetime, and we had to stretch that to 90. He had some data from
previous LMs in his book -- average rates of water usage related to
amperage level, rate of water needed for cooling. It turned out
that we had enough oxygen. The full LM descent tank alone would
suffice, and in addition, there were two ascent-engine oxygen
tanks, and two backpacks whose oxygen supply would never be used
on the lunar surface. Two emergency bottles on top of those packs
had six or seven pounds each in them. (At LM jettison, just
before reentry, 28.5 pounds of oxygen remained, more than half of
what we started with.)
     We had 2181 ampere hours in the LM batteries. We thought
that was enough if we turned off every electrical power device
not absolutely necessary. We could not count on the precious CM
batteries, because they would be needed for reentry after the LM
was cast off. In fact, the ground carefully worked out a
procedure where we charged the CM batteries with LM power. As it
turned out, we reduced our energy consumption to a fifth of
normal, which resulted in our having 20 percent of our LM
electrical power left when we jettisoned Aquarius. We did have
one electrical heart-stopper during the mission. One of the CM
batteries vented with such force that it momentarily dropped off
the line. We knew we were finished if we permanently lost that
battery.
     Water was the real problem. Fred figured that we would run
out of water about five hours before we got back to Earth, which
was calculated at around 151 hours. But even there, Fred had an
ace in the hole. He knew we had a data point from Apollo 11,
which had not sent its LM ascent stage crashing into the Moon, as
subsequent missions did. An engineering test on the vehicle
showed that its mechanisms could survive seven or eight hours in
space without water cooling, until the guidance system rebelled
at this enforced toasting. But we did conserve water. We cut down
to six ounces each per day, a fifth of normal intake, and used
fruit juices; we ate hot dogs and other wet-pack foods when we
ate at all. (We lost hot water with the accident and dehydratable
food is not palatable with cold water.) Somehow, one doesn't get
very thirsty in space and we became quite dehydrated. I set one
record that stood up throughout Apollo: I lost fourteen pounds,
and our crew set another by losing a total of 31.5 pounds, nearly
50 percent more than any other crew. Those stringent measures
resulted in our finishing with 28.2 pounds of water, about 9
percent of the total.
     Fred had figured that we had enough lithium hydroxide
canisters, which remove carbon dioxide from the spacecraft. There
were four cartridge from the LM, and four from the backpacks,
counting backups. But he forgot that there would be three of us
in the LM instead of the normal two. The LM was designed to
support two men for two days. Now it was being asked to care for
three men nearly four days.
- James A. Lovell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Square Peg in a Round Hole
     We would have died of the exhaust from our own lungs if
Mission Control hadn't come up with a marvelous fix. The trouble
was the square lithium hydroxide canisters from the CM would not
fit the round openings of those in the LM environmental system.
After a day and a half in the LM a warning light showed us that
the carbon dioxide had built up to a dangerous level, but the
ground was ready. They had thought up a way to attach a CM
canister to the LM system by using plastic bags, cardboard, and
tape- all materials we had on board. Jack and I put it together:
just like building a model airplane. The contraption wasn't very
handsome, but it worked. It was a great improvisation- and a fine
example of cooperation between ground and space.
     The big question was, "How do we get back safely to Earth?"
The LM navigation system wasn't designed to help us in this
situation. Before the explosion, at 30 hours and 40 minutes, we
had made the normal midcourse correction, which would take us out
of a free-return-to-Earth trajectory and put us on our lunar
landing course. Now we had to get back on that free-return
course. The ground-computed 35-second burn, by an engine designed
to land us on the Moon, accomplished that objective 5 hours after
the explosion.
     As we approached the Moon, the ground informed us that we
would have to use the LM descent engine a second time; this time
a long 5-minute burn to speed up our return home. The maneuver
was to take place 2 hours after rounding the far side of the
Moon, and I was busy running down the procedures we were to use.
Suddenly, I noticed that Swigert and Haise had their cameras out
and were busy photographing the lunar surface. I looked at them
incredulously and said, "If we don't make this next maneuver
correctly, you won't get your pictures developed!" They said,
"Well, you've been here before and we haven't." Actually, some of
the pictures these tourists took turned out to be very useful.
     It was about this time that I said, "Boys, take a good look
at the Moon. It's going to be a long time before anybody gets up
here again." Later on I was accused of sabotaging Apollo; poor
Dr. Paine had to explain that I didn't really mean it, and the
space program would go on. The Senate Space Committee asked me
about it a week after we got back. Actually, I didn't mean that
remark to be public. (I later learned that, unknown to us, we had
had a hot mike for about 45 minutes.) Nonetheless, it was 9
months before Apollo 14 was launched.
     We had many crises on Apollo 13, but the biggest heart-
stopper has hardly been noticed, partly because the transcription
released to the press was garbled, and partly because there
wasn't much point in talking about a crisis that had been averted
earlier. It occurred prior to the second maneuver I mentioned
earlier; we called it P.C. + 2 (pericynthian 2 hours).
     We had transferred the CM platform alignment to the LM. but
we had to make sure that this alignment was accurate before we
made the long P.C. + 2 burn. Ordinarily it is simple to look
through the sextant device, called the Alignment Optical
Telescope, find a suitable navigation star, and with the help of
our computer verify the guidance platform's alignment. But
traveling with us was a swarm of debris from the ruptured service
module. The sunlight glinting on these bits of junk- I called
them false stars- made it impossible to sight a real star.
     So what to do? If we couldn't verify the accuracy of the
alignment, we didn't have a way to make an accurate burn, or to
align the CM platform for reentry. In other words, the ground
would have no accurate way to tell us the correct attitude to
make the proper maneuvers to return home.
     A genius in Mission Control came up with the idea of using
the Sun to check the accuracy of our alignment. No amount of
debris could blot out that star! Its large diameter could result
in considerable error, but nobody had a better plan.
     I rotated the spacecraft to the attitude Houston had
requested. If our alignment was accurate, the Sun would be
centered in the sextant.
     When I looked through the AOT, the Sun just had to be there.
It really had to be. And it was. At 73:46 hours the air-to-ground
transcript sounds like a song from "My Fair Lady":
     Lovell: O.K. We got it. I think we got it. What diameter was
it?
     Haise: Yes. It's coming back in. Just a second.
     Lovell: Yes, yaw's coming back in. Just about it.
     Haise: Yaw is in....
     Lovell: What have you got?
     Haise: Upper right corner of the Sun....
     Lovell: We've got it!
     If we raised our voices, I submit it was justified.
     I'm told the cheer of the year went up in Mission Control.
Flight Director Gerald Griffin, a man not easily shaken, recalls:
"Some years later I went back to the log and looked up that
mission. My writing was almost illegible I was so damned nervous.
And I remember the exhilaration running through me: My God,
that's kinds the last hurdle -- if we can do that, I know we can
make it. It was funny, because only the people involved knew how
important it was to have that platform properly aligned." Yet
Gerry Griffin barely mentioned the alignment in his change-of-
shift briefing -- "That check turned out real well" is all he said
an hour after his penmanship failed him Neither did we, as crew
members, refer to it as a crisis in our press conference nor in
later articles.
     The alignment with the Sun proved to be less than a half a
degree off. Hallelujah Now we knew we could do the 5-minute P.C.
+ 2 burn with assurance, and that would cut the total time of our
voyage to about 142 hours. We weren't exactly home free: we had a
dead service module, a command module with no power, and a lunar
module that was a wonderful vehicle to travel home in, but
unfortunately didn't have a heat shield required to enter the
Earth's atmosphere. But all we needed now was a continuation of
the expertise we seemed blessed with, plus a little luck.
- James A. Lovell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Tired, Hungry, Wet, Cold, Dehydrated
     The trip was marked by discomfort beyond the lack of food
and water. Sleep was almost impossible because of the cold. When
we turned off the electrical systems, we lost our source of heat,
and the Sun streaming in the windows didn't much help. We were as
cold as frogs in a frozen pool, especially Jack Swigert, who got
his feet wet and didn't have lunar overshoes. It wasn't simply
that the temperature dropped to 38 F: the sight of perspiring
walls and wet windows made it seem even colder. We considered
putting on our spacesuits, but they would have been bulky and too
sweaty. Our teflon-coated inflight coveralls were cold to the
touch, and how we longed for some good old thermal underwear.
     The ground, anxious not to disturb our homeward trajectory,
told us not to dump any waste material overboard. What to do with
urine taxed our ingenuity. There were three bags in the command
module; we found six little ones in the LM, then we connected a
PLSS condensate tank to a long hoses and finally we used two
large bags designed to drain remaining water out of the PLSS's
after the first lunar EVA. I'm glad we got home when we did,
because we were just about out of ideas for stowage.
     A most remarkable achievement of Mission Control was quickly
developing procedures for powering up the CM after its long cold
sleep. They wrote the documents for this innovation in three
days, instead of the usual three months. We found the CM a cold,
clammy tin can when we started to power up. The walls, ceiling,
floor, wire harnesses, and panels were all covered with droplets
of water. We suspected conditions were the same behind the
panels. The chances of short circuits caused us apprehension, to
say the least. But thanks to the safeguards built into the
command module after the disastrous fire in January 1967, no
arcing took place. The droplets furnished one sensation as we
decelerated in the atmosphere: it rained inside the CM.
     Four hours before landing, we shed the service module;
Mission Control had insisted on retaining it until then because
everyone feared what the cold of space might do to the
unsheltered CM heat shield. I'm glad we weren't able to see the
SM earlier. With one whole panel missing, and wreckage hanging
out, it was a sorry mess as it drifted away.
     Three hours later we parted with faithful Aquarius, rather
rudely, because we blasted it loose with pressure in the tunnel
in order to make sure it completely cleared. Then we splashed
down gently in the Pacific Ocean near Samoa, a beautiful landing
in a blue-ink ocean on a lovely, lovely planet.
     Nobody believes me, but during this six-day odyssey we had
no idea what an impression Apollo 13 made on the people of Earth.
We never dreamed a billion people were following us on television
and radio, and reading about us in banner headlines of every
newspaper published. We still missed the point on board the
carrier Iwo Jima, which picked us up, because the sailors had
been as remote from the media as we were. Only when we reached
Honolulu did we comprehend our impact: there we found President
Nixon and Dr. Paine to meet us, along with my wife Marilyn,
Fred's wife Mary (who being pregnant, also had a doctor along
just in case), and bachelor Jack's parents, in lieu of his usual
airline stewardesses.
     In case you are wondering about the cause of it all, I refer
you to the report of the Apollo 13 Review Board, issued after an
intensive investigation. In 1965 the CM had undergone many
improvements, which included raising the permissible voltage to
the heaters in the oxygen tanks from 28 to 65 volts DC.
Unfortunately, the thermostatic switches on these heaters weren't
modified to suit the change. During one final test on the launch
pad, the heaters were on for a long period of time. "This
subjected the wiring in the vicinity of the heaters to very high
temperatures (1000 F), which have been subsequently shown to
severely degrade teflon insulation . . . the thermostatic
switches started to open while powered by 65 volts DC and were
probably welded shut." Furthermore, other warning signs during
testing went unheeded and the tank, damaged from 8 hours
overheating, was a potential bomb the next time it was filled
with oxygen. That bomb exploded on April 13, 1970 -- 200,000 miles
from Earth.
- James A. Lovell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Great Voyages of Exploration
|   Chapter: Fourteen
!    Author: Harrison H. Schmitt
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 265
|-----------------------------------------------------
The Great Voyages Or Exploration
     First I want to share a new view of Earth? using the
corrected vision of space. Like our childhood home, we really see
the Earth only as we prepare to leave it. There are the basically
familiar views from the now well-traveled orbits: banded sunrises
and sunsets changing in seconds from black to purple to red to
yellow to searing daylight and then back; tinted oceans and
continents with structural patterns wrought by aging during four
and a half billion years; shadowed clouds and snows ever-varying
in their mysteries and beauty; and the warm fields of lights and
homes, now seen without the boundaries in our minds.
     Again like the childhood home that we now only visit-
changing in time but unchanged in the mind- we see the full Earth
revolve beneath us. All the tracks of man's earlier greatness and
folly are displayed in the window: the Roman world, the
explorers' paths around the continents, the trails across older
frontiers, the great migrations of peoples. The strange
perspective is that of the entire Earth filling only one window,
and gradually not even doing that. No longer is it the Earth of
our past, but only a delicate blue globe in space. With something
of the sadness felt as loved ones age, we sec the full Earth
change to half and then to a crescent and then to a faint moonlit
hole in space. The line of night crosses water, land? and cloud,
sending its armies of shadows ahead. We see that night, like time
itself, masks but does not destroy beauty.
     In sunlight, the sparkling sea shows its ever-changing
character in the Sun's reflection, in varying hues of blue and
green around the turquoise island beads, and in its icy
competition with polar lands. The arcing, changing sails of
clouds, following whirling, streaking pathways of wind, mark the
passage of the airy lifeblood of the planet.
     The revolving equatorial view concentrates our attention.
There is the vast unbroken expanse of the Indian Ocean, south of
the even more vast green and tan continent of Asia. In another
complete view there are all of the blending masses of greens,
reds, and yellows of Africa from the Mediterranean to the Cape of
Good Hope, from Cap Vert to the Red Sea. Then we see across the
great Atlantic from matching coast to matching coast. Scanning
all of South America with one glance, we seemingly cease to move
as the planet turns beneath us. And then there is the South
Pacific. At one point only the brilliant ranges and plains of
Antarctica remind a viewer that land still exists. The red
continent of Australia finally conquers the illusion that the
Earth is ocean alone, becoming the Earth's natural desert beacon.
     When at last we are held to our own cyclic wandering about
the Moon, we see Earthrise, that first and lasting symbol of a
generation's spirit, imagination, and daring. That lonesome,
marbled bit of blue with ancient seas and continental rafts is
our planet, our home as men travel the solar system. The
challenge for all of us is to guard and protect that home,
together, as people of Earth.
- Harrison H. Scmitt
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A New View of the Moon
     What will historians write many years from now about the
Apollo expeditions to the Moon? Perhaps they will note that it
was a technological leap not undertaken under the threat of war;
competition, yes, but not war. Surely they will say that Apollo
marked man's evolution into the solar system, an evolution no
longer marked by the slow rates of biological change, but from
then paced only by his intellect and collective will. Finally, I
believe that they will record that it was then that men first
acquired an understanding of a second planet.
     What then is the nature of this understanding, and how did
the visits of Apollo 15, 16, and 17 to Hadley-Apennines,
Descartes, and Taurus-Littrow relate to it?
     The origins of the Moon and the Earth remain obscure,
although the boundaries of possibility are now much more limited.
The details of the silicate chemistry of the rocks of the Moon
and Earth now make us reasonably confident that these familiar
bodies were formed about 4.6 billion years ago in about the same
part of the youthful solar system. However, the two bodies
evolved separately.
     As many scientists now view the results of our Apollo
studies, the Moon, once formed, evolved through six major phases.
Of great future importance is the strong possibility that the
first five of these phases also occurred on Earth, although other
processes have obscured their effects. Thus, the Moon appears to
be an ever more open window into our past.
The known phases of lunar evolution are as follows:
     1. The existence of a melted shell from about 4.6 to 4.4
billion years ago.
     2. Bombardment to form the cratered highlands from about 4.4
to 4.1 billion years ago.
     3. The creation of the large basins from about 4.1 to 3.9
billion years ago.
     4. A brief period of formation of light-colored plains about
3.9 billion years ago.
     5. The eruption of the basaltic maria from about 3.8 to
about 3.1 billion years ago.
     6. The gradual transition to a quiet crust from about 3.0
billion years ago until the present.
     The detail by which we understand these six phases of lunar
evolution is quite great. It derives from analysis of returned
samples and observations of their geologic setting on the Moon,
from the interpretation of geophysical and geochemical data from
stations that still operate on the Moon or that previously
operated in lunar orbit, and from our experience on Earth.
     During the melted shell phase from about 4.6 to 4.4 billion
years ago, at least the outer 200 miles of the Moon was molten or
partially molten. As this shell cooled, the formation and
settling of crystals of differing composition resulted in the
creation of major chemical differences between various layers
tens to hundreds of miles thick. A crust, mantle, and core
apparently were formed at this time. The crust consisted of
light-colored minerals rich in calcium and aluminum (largely the
mineral plagioclase); the mantle contained dark minerals rich in
magnesium and iron (largely the minerals pyroxene and olivine);
and the core probably was composed of dense, molten material rich
in iron and sulfur.
- Harrison H. Scmitt
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Inconceivable Violence
     The cratered highland phase that followed was extremely,
almost inconceivably violent. The debris left over from the
creation of the planets bombarded the light-colored crust. These
highland surfaces have survived as the bright portions of the
full Moon we see today. They were pulverized, remelted,
reaggregated, and, finally, saturated with craters at least 30 to
60 miles in diameter. The sheer violence of those times is
difficult to comprehend.
     The large basin phase was the time when very large basins
were formed. This appears to have been the result of a distinctly
more massive scale of bombardment than that which preceded their
formation. These large basins dominate the surface character of
the front side of the Moon and are responsible for the major
chemical differences we have measured between various large
surface regions.
     The light-colored plains phase that followed was a brief,
still controversial period in which most old basins appear to
have been partially filled with debris largely derived from the
surrounding light-colored crust. The events that created these
plains are poorly understood partly because several different
processes related to both meteor impact and internal volcanism
may have produced similar plains.
     The basaltic maria phase was the main period during which
the accumulation of heat from radioactive elements within the
Moon produced melting and volcanic eruptions. Those eruptions
filled all of the large basins with thick masses of dark-colored
basalt called the maria. (These sea-like regions are the dark
portions of the full Moon.) The lunar basalts are very different
from basalts on Earth; they contain much less sodium, carbon, and
water and commonly have much more titanium. iron, and heavy
elements. At least the upper parts of the maria are ancient lava
flows up to 300 feet thick. Many flows differ significantly from
each other in chemical and mineral characteristics, differences
that vary with both the age and the region.
     The quiet crust phase from about 3.0 billion years ago to
the present was largely just that- quiet. Compared to the past,
very little happened except for the formation of scattered, very
bright craters like Tycho and Copernicus, the creation of
regional fault systems like the Hyginus Rille, and the appearance
of mysterious light-colored swirls like Reiner Gamma. Eruptions
of basaltic maria also seem to have continued along a ridge and
volcanic system that stretches for 1200 miles along the north-
south axis of Mare Procellarum. Some of the events may be
indications of continuing internal activity and stress beneath a
now strong crust, such as the slow, solid convection of the lunar
mantle.
     For the most part, the surface of the Moon appears to have
completed recording its history about three billion years ago. It
has been largely unchanged except for the continued eroding rain
of small meteors and now by the first primitive probings of men.
     The Moon is as chemically and structurally differentiated as
the Earth, lacking only the continued refinements of internal
melting, solid convection, surficial weathering, and recycling of
the crust. It moves through space as an ancient text, related to
the history of the Earth only through the interpretations of our
minds. It also exists as an archive of our Sun, possibly
preserving in its soils much information of importance to man's
future.
     If we are to continue to read the text, we must continue to
go there and beyond.
- Harrison H. Scmitt
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Missions of Understanding
     The last three Apollo journeys were great missions of
understanding during which our interpretation of the evolution of
the Moon evolved. In July 1971 the first of these missions,
Apollo 15, visited Hadley Rille at the foot of the Apennine
Mountains. Apollo 15 gave lunar exploration a new scale in
duration and complexity. Col. David R. Scott, Col. James B.
Irwin, and Lt. Col. Alfred M. Worden looked at the whole planet
for 13 days through the eyes of precision cameras and electronics
as well as the eyes of men. Scott and Irwin spent nearly 67 hours
on the Moon's surface, and were the first to use a wheeled
surface vehicle, the Rover, to inspect a wide variety of
geological features. Finally, before returning to Earth, they
placed a small satellite in lunar orbit that greatly expanded our
knowledge of the distribution and geological correlation of
gravitational and magnetic variations within the Moon's crust.
     The varied samples and observations from the vicinity of
Hadley Rille and the mountain ring of Imbrium called the Apennine's
pushed knowledge of lunar processes back past the four-billion-
year barrier we had seemed to see on previous missions. We also
discovered that lunar history behind this barrier was partially
masked by multiple cycles of impact melting and fragmentation.
Nevertheless, the rock fragments we sampled gave vague glimpses
into the first half-billion years of lunar evolution and into
some details of the nature of the melted shell. Part of this view
into the past was provided by the well-known "Genesis Rock" of
anorthosite (a plagioclase-rich rock). In addition, we expanded
our understanding of the complex volcanic processes that created
the present surfaces of the maria. These processes were now seen
to have included not only the internal separation of minerals
within lava flows but possible processes of volcanic erosion and
fracturing that could have created the rilles.
     The Apollo 15 astronauts placed instruments on the Moon
which, in conjunction with earlier missions, finally established
a geophysical net of stations. Of particular importance was a net
of seismometers by which we began to decipher the inner structure
of the Moon. Correlations of information from these stations with
other facts enabled us to interpret several major portions of the
interior. The Moon's crustal rocks, rich in the calcium and
aluminum silicate plagioclase, are broken extensively near the
surface but more coherent at depths from 15 to 40 miles. The
crust rests on an upper mantle 125 to 200 miles thick that
contains the magnesium and iron silicates, pyroxene and olivine.
From about 200 or 250 to about 400 miles deep, the lower mantle
is possibly similar to some types of stony meteorites called
chondrites. From about 400 miles to about 700 miles deep, the
chondrite material appears to be locally melted and seismically
active. There are also many reasons now to believe that the Moon
has an iron-rich core from about 700 miles deep to its center at
1080 miles that produced a global magnetic field until only
recent times.
     The geophysical station at Hadley-Apennines also told us
that the flow of heat from the Moon was possibly two times that
expected for a body having approximately the same radioisotopic
composition as the Earth's mantle. If true, this tended to
confirm earlier suggestions that much of the radioisotopic
material in the Moon was concentrated in its crust. Otherwise,
the interior of the Moon would be more fluid and show greater
activity than we sense with the seismometers.
     We began with Apollo 15 to be able to correlate our landing
areas around the whole Moon by virtue of very-high-quality
photographs and geochemical x-ray and gamma-ray mapping from
orbit. The x-ray remote sensing investigations disclosed the
provincial nature of lunar chemistry, particularly by
highlighting differences in aluminum-to-silicon and magnesium-to-
silicon ratios within the maria and the highlands. By outlining
variations in the distribution of uranium, thorium, and
potassium, the gamma-ray information suggested that large basin-
forming events were capable of creating geochemical provinces by
the ejection of material from depths of six or more miles.
     Possibly of equal importance with all these findings by
Apollo 15 was the discovery -- shared through television by
millions of people -- that there existed beauty and majesty in
views of nature that had previously been outside human
experience.
     The mission of Apollo 16 to Descartes in April 1972 revealed
that we were not yet ready to understand the earliest chapters of
lunar history exposed in the southern highlands. In the samples
that Capt. John W. Young, Comdr. Thomas K. Mattingly. and Col.
Charles M. Duke, Jr., obtained in the Descartes area, the major
central events of that history seemed to be compressed in time
far more than we had guessed. There are indications that the
formation of the youngest major lunar basins, the eruption of
light-colored plains materials, and the earliest extrusions of
mare basalts required only about 100 million years of time around
3.9 billion years ago.
     The extreme complexity of the problem of interpreting the
lunar highland rocks and processes became evident even as the
Apollo 16 mission progressed. Rather than discovering materials
of clearly volcanic origin as many expected, the men found
samples that suggested an interlocking, sequence of igneous and
impact processes. A new chemical rock group known as "very high
aluminum basalts" could be defined, although its ancestry
relative to other lunar materials was obscured by later events
that gave the cratered highlands their present form. The results
of Apollo 16 have within them an integrated look at almost all
previously and subsequently identified highland rock types. With
this complexity comes a unique, as yet unexploited, opportunity
to understand the formation and modification of the Moon's early
crust and potentially that of the Earth.
     The materials found in the Descartes region were similar to
those sampled slightly earlier by Luna 20 in the Apollonius
region. But there were significant differences in the aluminum
content of debris representative of the two regions. Also there
were differences in the abundance of fragments of distinctive
crystalline rocks known as the anorthosite-norite-troctolite
suite. After Apollo 15, this suite of rocks had been recognized
as possibly being a much reworked leftover of at least portions
of the ancient lunar crust. Luna 20 and Apollo 16 confirmed its
great importance to the understanding of the ancient melted
shell.
- Harrison H. Scmitt
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
 SP-350 Page 279.
A New Way of Exploration
     The great explorations of history were unique, but in some
ways all voyages of exploration are alike. There is a means of
transportation; food, tools, and a way of living; methods of
investigation, mapping, and sampling; and the collaboration of
fellow explorers. What distinguishes one voyage from another is
the place gone to and the discoveries made there. In our time,
the places were on the Moon, and the discoveries have revealed
another planet.
     In Apollo, our ships were Saturns and CSMs, the latter more
than just transport and resupply ships, for they were also
orbiting laboratories, bearing spectrometers, lasers, and
precision cameras. Our sketchbooks and notebooks were cameras and
voice recordings. The alert experts of Mission Control were our
guardian angels, in addition to those issued by Providence. The
landed lunar module was our base camp, and the lunar rover was
our steed. On the Apollo 17 mission, the LM Challenger could
support us in its base-camp role for 75 hours, with a contingency
margin of 12 hours more. In one-sixth gravity, its hammocks
provided comfortable sleeping positions, with none of the lumps
of camp cots or pine boughs. The total absence of black flies or
mosquitoes was wonderful; and the rehydrated food was better than
the grub dished up by some camp cooks.
     Out on the surface, the backpack could support us for seven
to eight hours, depending on physical exertion. We carried enough
extra oxygen, water, and batteries in Challenger to recharge the
backpack twice, for three major excursions outside. We also had
an emergency supply of oxygen in the backpack that could provide
at least 30 minutes of suit pressure and oxygen at large rates of
flow, in case the suit was holed. Only one aspect of work in the
pressure suit was very difficult and that was the effort of
gripping tools against pressure within the glove. Like squeezing
a tennis ball repetitively for nine hours, this was very
fatiguing to forearm muscles; we also separated our fingernails
from the quick as the nails scraped against the glove fingers.
The forearm fatigue disappeared after each night's sleep; sore
fingernails did not disappear until days after we left the Moon.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
A Major Thermal Event?
     The last crystallization age of some of the Apollo 16 rocks
appeared to be about 3.9 billion years, and continued to indicate
that this age is a major turning point in lunar history. This
general age for the cooling of highland-like materials also was
found to hold for the ejecta blanket of the Imbrium Basin at Fra
Mauro, for the rocks of the Apennines, and later for some of the
highland rocks at Taurus-Littrow. This limit suggested (1) a
major thermal event associated with the formation of several
large basins over a relatively short time, or (2) a major thermal
event associated with the formation of the light-colored plains,
or (3) the rapid cessation of the period of major cratering that
continually reworked the highlands until most vestiges of
original ages had disappeared and only the last local impact
event was recorded. As we attempt to explain the absence of very
old rocks on Earth, we should not forget these possibilities for
resetting our own geologic clocks.
     Apollo 16 continued the broad-scale geological, geochemical,
and geophysical mapping of the Moon's crust from orbit begun by
Apollo 15. This mapping greatly expanded our knowledge of
geochemical provinces and geophysical variations, and has helped
to lead to many of the generalizations it is now possible to make
about the evolution of the lunar crust.
     Apollo 17 carried Capt. Eugene A. Cernan, Capt. Ronald
Evans, and me in December 1972 to the valley of Taurus-Littrow
near the coast of the great frozen basaltic "sea" of Serenitatis.
The unique visual character and beauty of this valley was, I
hope, seen by most people on television as we saw it in person.
The unique scientific character of this valley has helped to
lessen our sadness that Apollo explorations ended with our visit.
It would have been hard to find a better locality in which to
synthesize and expand our ideas about the evolution of the Moon.
     At Taurus-Littrow we looked at and sampled the ancient lunar
record ranging back from the extrusion of the oldest known mare
basalts, through the formation of the fragmental rocks of the
Serenitatis mountain ring, and thence back into fragments in
these rocks that may reflect the very origins of the lunar crust.
We also found and are now studying volcanic materials and
debris-forming processes that range forward from the formation of
the earliest mare basalt surface through 3.8 billion years of
modification of that surface.
     The pre-mare events in the Taurus-Littrow region that
culminated in the formation of the Serenitatis Basin produced at
least three major and distinctive units of complex fragmental
rocks. The oldest of these rock units contains distinctive
fragments of crystalline magnesium and iron-rich rocks that
appear to be the remains of the crystallization of the melted
shell. This conclusion is supported by a crushed rock of
magnesium olivine with an apparent crystallization age of 4.6
billion years. The old fragmental rock unit containing these
ancient fragments was intruded and locally altered by another
unit which was partially molten at the time of intrusion about
3.9 billion years ago. Such intrusive fragmental rocks are
probably the direct result of the massive impact event that
formed the nearby Serenitatis Basin; however, an internal
volcanic origin cannot yet be ruled out. The third fragmental
rock unit seems to cap the tops of the mountains and it may be
the ejecta from one of the several large old basins within range
of the valley. This unit contains a wide variety of fragments of
the lunar crust, including barium-rich granitic rock.
     The valley of Taurus-Littrow and other low areas nearby
appear to be a fortuitous window that exposes some of the oldest,
if not the oldest, mare basalt extrusives on the Moon. They are
about 3.8 billion years old, and are 50 to 100 million years
older than the basalts at Tranquility Base. They also contain
titanium oxide in amounts up to 13 percent by weight.
- Harrison H. Scmitt
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Beads of Orange Glass
     The modification of the surface of the valley basalt
included the addition of mantles of beads of chemically
distinctive orange glass (the "orange soil") and black
devitrified glass. The beads appear to have been formed by
volcanic processes having their origins in the deep interior of
the Moon. The titanium-, magnesium-, and iron-rich nature of
these silicate glasses surprised us in many ways. Their
approximately 10- to 30-million-year age of exposure to the Sun
is young and was expected for the dark mantling deposits seen in
photographs; but their 3.5- to 3.7-billion-year age of cooling
from a liquid was not expected. The explanation for this
difference is not yet obvious.
     All the Apollo missions left the Moon before the lunar
sunrise had progressed into the vast regions of the lunar west:
Mare Procellarum, where the mysterious features of that region's
central ridge system still await the crew of a mission diverted
after Apollo 13, and Mare Orientale, whose stark alpine rings
have been viewed only in the subdued blue light of Earth. The
promise of these regions and of the far side of the Moon has not
diminished. They seemingly watch the progression of sunrises,
awaiting the landing craft of another generation of explorers.
- Harrison H. Scmitt
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Legacy of Apollo
|   Chapter: Fifteen
!    Author: Homer E. Newell
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 289
|-----------------------------------------------------
The Legacy of Apollo
     Because we live on it, the Earth is the center of things for
us. Around Earth all other celestial bodies circle endlessly, or
so it seemed to our forebears. For countless generations men who
thought about such matters regarded the Earth as the center of
the universe. So satisfying was this view, so entrenched in
doctrine and dogma did it become, that when Copernicus and Kepler
challenged the idea, they stirred up a hornet's nest. The concept
of the Sun as the central stillness in the solar system around
which Earth and all other planets revolve was considered too
unsettling to be tolerated, and edict and persecution sought to
suppress these dangerous new ideas. But in vain, for the
Copernican revolution in human thought continues to this very
day. In countless ways it colors the picture men draw of
themselves and of man's place in the universe.
     Apollo's greatest impact was to impress dramatically upon
men's minds, more clearly than ever before, the significance of
the Copernican view. The spectacle of a spacecraft leaving Earth
with the incredible speed of almost 6 miles per second- thirteen
times faster than a rifle bullet- traveling through space like a
miniature planet, bearing men for the first time to another
world, focused the attention of hundreds of millions of people.
We saw Earth as only one of nine planets in the solar system,
insignificant, except to us, among the unreachable stars in the
vast expanse of the heavens. In cosmic perspective Earth is but a
tiny object in a remote corner of space, companion to a modest
star, one of a hundred billion stars making up one of billions of
galaxies scattered over unimaginable distances to beyond the
farthest reaches to which we have been able to peer with the most
powerful telescopes.
     But while helping to convey Earth's insignificance in the
cosmic scale, Apollo dramatically displayed Earth's uniqueness
and overwhelming significance on the human scale. Standing in
imagination on the rocky rubble of a lunar plain, looking through
an astronaut's eye and camera out over the vast arid wasteland of
our inhospitable satellite, we saw above the horizon the
beautiful, blue, fragile Earth. It awakened a heightened
appreciation of and sense of responsibility toward our home in
space. In the entire solar system, 6 billion miles across, only
Earth so far as we now know nourishes the vast abundance of life
that we so casually accept. Only by understanding thoroughly our
planet and our place on it can we hope to learn how to use its
resources wisely, to preserve for future generations our island
in space in its pristine vigor and beauty. And that is where the
true significance of Apollo lunar science comes in.
     To understand fully our own planet, it is essential that we
study many planets, Photography and Spacecraft making comparisons
among them. An inevitable myopia interferes when we try to learn
about planets from the study of only one. The Moon is a planet in
its own right, by reason of its substantial size and mass, and
what we learn of lunar science also advances Earth science.
     As our nearest neighbor in space, the Moon has long been an
object of wonder and study. Through the telescope the astronomer
has seen myriads of craters on its surface clear evidence of lava
flows, and even some suggestion of current volcanic activity. The
Moon is decidedly out of round. The sharpness of telescopic
images, and the suddenness with which stars disappear behind the
Moon and later reappear show clearly that the Moon has virtually
no atmosphere. No mountain systems like the Rockies or the
Himalayas could be seen. Without atmospheric erosion and
mountain-building activity, we supposed that the Moon would
preserve on its face the record of solar system history to the
very earliest days. But viewing the Moon from 239,000 miles away
left much room for speculation and disagreement. So when rockets
became available, plans were quickly laid for investigating the
Moon close at hand, eventually by man himself.
- Homer E. Newell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Implanting Sensors on the Moon
     Serious space probe studies of the Moon began with the
Soviet Zond and Luna, and with the U.S. Ranger, Surveyor, and
Lunar Orbiter. Armed with the information obtained by unmanned
probes, the United States carried out the Apollo manned missions,
implanting nuclear-powered geophysical laboratories at several
landing sites, including seismometers, magnetometers, plasma and
pressure gauges, heat flow instruments, and laser corner
reflectors. These laboratories continue to operate long after the
astronauts have returned to Earth. On two missions, the lunar
surface laboratories were supplemented by satellites left in
orbit to support geodetic studies. Detailed studies of lunar
surface composition by X-ray fluorescence and radioactivity
measurements were made from the Apollo spacecraft itself. Most
importantly. the astronauts brought back from their six landing
missions hundreds of pounds of lunar rocks and soil, which,
together with the small amount returned by Soviet unmanned sample
missions, have since been the subject of analysis and study by
scientists around the world.
     How old is the Moon? This was the first major question.
Although a few thought the Moon would prove to be considerably
younger than Earth. most felt it would turn out to be of the same
vintage as our own planet. From radioactive dating of the lunar
rocks and soil it is now established that the Moon formed about
4.6 billion years ago. The Moon is, indeed, very old, as old as
Earth, and is telling us much about the earliest years of our
planet and of the solar system. But to our great surprise the
lunar rocks show that the Moon's surface is no longer in its
original condition, having undergone considerable change in the
first 1.5 billion years. A few of the highland rocks in the
Apollo samples are older than 4 billion years -- at least one is
4.6 billion years old, the probable time of formation and initial
melting of the Moon -- but most of them have been shocked and
remelted by meteoroid impacts 4 billion years ago. Most of the
mare lava flows are from 3 to slightly less than 4 billion years
old. indicating that substantial melting and flow occurred on the
Moon long after its formation. Gravitational energy released
during the aggregation of the Moon, heat generated by radioactive
elements in the lunar material, and thermal effects of the huge
impacts that sculptured the lunar surface all undoubtedly
contributed to the early melting of the outer layers.
     What is the physical condition of the lunar surface? The
question generated countless heated debates before the lunar
landings. It was clear from the visible meteorite cratering that
the surface must be thoroughly chopped up. How fine would the
material be? Would it be loosely or densely packed? Could it hold
a spacecraft landed upon it? How thick would the layer of rubble
be? Some spoke of deep deposits of finely powdered dust into
which a spacecraft would sink out of sight. Now we know that the
Moon's surface is everywhere covered with many feet of fragmented
material, or regolith. A sizable fraction of the soil is very
fine dust, but the material is sufficiently cohesive and well
packed that it easily supported the Apollo spacecraft, the
astronauts, and their lunar rover.
     Of what is the Moon made? This was a question about which
one could only speculate from afar. It could be essentially
meteoritic material. It might be like the Earth's crust. Or it
might be something entirely different. Any proposition put forth,
however, had to satisfy the constraint that the Moon's density is
only 3.36 , considerably lighter than Earth's average density of
5.5. One of the major questions was: Is there any water there?
Water would be the most important constituent that one might hope
to find on the Moon. It would be essential for the support of any
microbial life there. It would be an invaluable resource for
lunar bases that might be established in the remote future. No
one expected to find water exposed on the surface- it would
quickly evaporate in the airless, oven-hot environment of the
lunar day- but many supposed that there might be substantial
subsurface water in the form of ice as a permafrost. Even if free
water were not found, it was fully expected that there would be
water of crystallization in the lunar minerals.
     Learning at firsthand about the stuff of which the Moon is
made from the actual lunar material carried back by the Apollo
astronauts has been one of the most exciting scientific
undertakings of our day. More than 700 scientists, including
several hundred from twenty other countries, have spent uncounted
hours analyzing samples, conducting laboratory tests, and
theorizing over the significance of what was being revealed for
the first time. Annually at the Johnson Space Center they have
assembled to share their findings and to try to explain them. No
water was found. Lunar material is very dry. with practically no
water of crystallization. The hydrous minerals so common on Earth
arc exceedingly rare in the lunar rocks and soil. Moreover, lunar
material is depleted in most volatile elements. suggesting a very
hot processing at some time in their history. The rocks in the
lunar maria arc similar to, though significantly different from,
lavas on Earth. Highland samples show a considerable separation
of lunar material into different minerals, showing a
differentiation like that responsible for the wide variety of
rocks and minerals on Earth. Moon material is neither exactly
like the meteorites nor exactly like the Earth's crust, but all
three could have had a common source with a different history.
- Homer E. Newell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Hot Debates About Volcanoes
     What have been the relative roles of impact cratering and
volcanism? For the crater-ridden Moon the obvious first question
is how were the craters formed: by meteorites hitting the surface
at high velocity, or as the remains of once active volcanoes?
Debates on this subject generated about as much heat as the
volcanoes themselves. Many argued for, or gave the appearance of
arguing for, one extreme or the other. More sober debaters
recognized that both cratering and volcanism played a role and
sought to discern their relative importance. It is clear that the
Moon has changed considerably since it was first formed, but most
of that change occurred more than three billion years ago.
Apparently the first 1.5 billion years were a period of violent
evolution, involving the Mare Imbrium event and other cataclysmic
impacts, followed by the vast flooding of the mare plains with a
series of lava flows. In contrast, the last three billion years
have been relatively quiet, with occasional impacts like those
that generated the craters Copernicus and Tycho, but no great
lava events.
     The implication of this for Earth is that during its first
billion years Earth also must have been subjected to severe
bombardment, generating huge craters like those still seen on the
Moon, and this may also have been true for other planets as well.
Certainly the Mariner 9 pictures of Mars and Mariner 10 pictures
of Mercury show that both planets experienced substantial
cratering, while terrestrial radars indicate the same for Venus.
The evidence mounts that violent meteorite bombardment was
widespread in the solar system in times past. On Earth, however,
erosion, crumpling of the crust, and subsequent volcanism have
erased most of the evidence of this early catastrophic period.
     Is the Moon still active today? Infrequent observations of
sudden localized glows or hazes on the Moon have caused a stir
when they occurred, and gave rise to speculation as to whether
these were due to current volcanic activity, or were merely
trapped gases shaken loose by moonquakes or meteorite impacts.
There was speculation about whether our satellite was a dead
planet or still a live one. Five Apollo seismometers were set up
at different landing sites, and four of them are still working.
At times of lunar perigee, these detect moonquakes of very deep
foci centered at 500 to 620 miles below the lunar crust. The
energy released over a year by these moonquakes, however, is a
billion times less than that released by earthquakes over a
similar period. No evidence of current volcanic activity on the
Moon has been found from either the unmanned or manned space
missions In most places the soil just below the surface appears
to have been relatively undisturbed for millions of years, which
is consistent with the rarity of large-scale meteorite impacts
that Earth experiences today. At the very surface a slow erosion
takes place by micrometeorite impacts and solar-wind particles,
wearing away on the average a few molecular layers a year on
exposed surfaces. Material does move around. Some material falls
and slides down slopes, some may be moved around by electrostatic
forces, and much of what movement occurs is due to splashes from
meteorite impacts. But all in all, the Moon appears to be
extremely quiet now, in comparison with its earliest history or
with Earth today.
     Is the interior of the Moon hot or cold? Discussion of this
subject once made the sparks fly. Assuming the Moon contains
radioactive elements, as does Earth, then the heat generated by
their decay should warm up the interior. But would this source
provide enough heat to melt the Moon? Whatever the cause, the
lava flows apparent on the surface of the Moon show that at least
part of the Moon's interior actually was molten at one time. But
on the other side of the picture, the distinctly out-of-round
shape implies a rigidity that a very hot and plastic Moon would
not have. The Apollo measurements have added fuel to this flaming
controversy. Anomalous concentrations of mass called mascons have
been discovered in the great circular mare basins, detected by
the way in which they distort the Moon's gravitational field. In
a hot, plastic Moon, these mascons would have sunk until the
gravity field was restored to equilibrium. The fact that they
persist today indicates a rigid, cool Moon. Yet melting and lava
flooding in the upper layers of the Moon are widespread.
Electrical conductivities inside the Moon, deduced from the
Moon's reaction to the electrical charges and magnetic fields in
the solar wind, indicate that the outer layers, down to 500 to
620 miles in depth, are now well below the melting point. Below
those levels, however, is a region where seismic shear waves are
markedly attenuated, indicating partial melting of the lunar
material there. Moreover while magnetic measurements do not
reveal any dipole magnetic field at present like that of the
Earth, remnant magnetization in rock samples, and substantial
local magnetic fields. suggest that the Moon may well have had a
dipole field in the past. Since it is believed that such a
planetary magnetic dipole field is generated by circulation in a
liquid core, this implies that at one time the core of the Moon
was molten. This would further imply that the Moon was at one
time quite hot throughout, which gets us right back to the
difficulty of explaining how the mascons and the aspherical shape
can continue to exist. There is a real puzzle here that needs
sorting out.
     Does the Moon have any atmosphere at all? Before Apollo it
was already clear that the Moon could have very little
atmosphere. It was expected that heavier gases like argon and
krypton would be found clinging close to the surface, but in the
lower gravitational field lighter gases would long since have
escaped. In large measure this has been confirmed. Argon
generated by radioactivity in the lunar crust, and hydrogen,
helium, and neon from the solar wind, account for most of what
little atmosphere there is, and that is over a billion times less
than the Earth's atmosphere.
- Homer E. Newell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Ancient Tracks of Radiation
     What are the principal effects of the Sun upon the Moon, and
how do they differ from the effects of the Sun on Earth?
Protected by Earth's atmosphere, we are not directly exposed to
the lethal part of the Sun's radiations. But the airless Moon is
starkly exposed. By a neat twist, this situation gives us a way
of checking up on the Sun's activity over the past few million
years. Cosmic rays from the Sun and galaxy leave tracks in the
soil grains and rock surfaces on which they impact; these tracks
can be enhanced by etching, and counted. The track intensities
indicate the intensity of the radiation to which the materials
were exposed. By analyzing the rate at which lunar material is
brought out onto the surface and then later buried again, it is
possible to estimate the times when different layers in the lunar
regolith were exposed, and for how long. Thus sample cores of the
lunar regolith taken by the Apollo astronauts enable us to look
back in time at the radiation environment experienced by the
Moon. No significant changes in galactic cosmic radiation are
seen, but there is a suggestion that there might have been
variation in solar cosmic rays over the last one to ten million
years. This would imply changes in solar activity, which in turn
may have had effects on Earth.
     Is there life on the Moon? Some of the bitterest exchanges
took place over this question If there were life, no matter how
primitive, we would want to study it carefully and compare it
with Earth life. This would require very difficult and expensive
sterilization of all materials and equipment landed on the Moon,
so as not to contaminate Moon life with Earth life. Also there
was the question of contamination of Earth by Moon life, possibly
a serious hazard to us on Earth. So difficult, time-consuming,
and expensive quarantine procedures were urged. On the other side
of this argument were those who pointed to the hostile conditions
on the Moon: virtually no atmosphere, probably no water,
temperatures ranging from 150 C during lunar night to more than
120 C at lunar noon, merciless exposure to lethal doses of solar
ultraviolet, X-rays, and charged particles. No life, they argued,
could possibly exist under these conditions. The biologists
countered: water and moderate temperature conditions below ground
might sustain primitive life forms. And so the argument went on
and on, until finally Apollo flew to the Moon with careful
precautions against back contamination of Earth, but with limited
effort to protect the Moon.
     It turns out that there is no evidence that indigenous life
exists now or has ever existed on the Moon. A careful search for
carbon was made, since Earth life is carbon based. In the lunar
samples one hundred to two hundred parts per million of carbon
were found; of this no more than a few tens of parts per million
are indigenous to the lunar material, the rest being brought in
by the solar wind. None of the carbon appears to derive from life
processes. As a consequence, after the first few Apollo flights,
even the back-contamination quarantine procedures were dropped.
- Homer E. Newell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
The Nagging Question of Origin
     Where did the Moon come from? This is the big puzzler of
them all. There were three major theories. The Moon came from
Earth, possibly wrenched from what is now the Pacific Ocean. Or
the Moon formed in the vicinity of Earth at the same time that
Earth was forming. Or the Moon formed somewhere else in the solar
system, and was later captured by Earth. Most students of the
subject reject the first possibility, because it proves very
difficult to explain all the steps that must have occurred to
bring this about. That leaves various versions of the last two as
principal contenders. Apollo has done little to favor one over
the other. Indeed, some feel that we will never be able to say
for sure. But the question is a nagging one, and scientists will
continue to argue over it.
     The deep significance of the Apollo investigations lies in
the fact that these measurements and observations give us a
detailed insight into a planetary body other than Earth, thereby
helping us to understand better our own planet. Before space
probes, lunar and planetary science had for a long time been
inactive, due in part to lack of new data to spark serious
thought. With the vast quantities of lunar data returned by
Apollo and other lunar missions, together with rich new space-
probe data from Mars, Venus, Mercury. and Jupiter, and new
discoveries on Earth such as the slow spreading of ocean floors
and the drifting of continents, a new field of comparative study
of planets has virtually exploded into world science. In this
comparative investigation of the planets, the Moon is an
important link.
     Already it is clear that bodies of planetary size will
undergo considerable evolution after their formation. Most of
this evolution takes place early, and it is probably less in the
case of a Moon-sized planet, leaving the planet relatively quiet
for most of its history. A planet the size of Mars, though
substantially smaller than Earth, remains active for much longer
than a Moon-sized body, as the Mariner 9 pictures clearly show.
With its huge volcanoes, its giant canyon several times deeper
than the Grand Canyon and long enough to span the United States,
its variable polar caps, its suggestion of colliding crustal
plates, Mars is clearly still an active planet. Venus, the size
of the Earth, with its very hot surface and extremely dense and
dynamic atmosphere, may well prove to be more active volcanically
and tectonically than Earth. Mercury, intermediate between Mars
and the Moon in size, is heavily cratered and seems to be much
like the lunar highlands.
     It will be fascinating when we can complete this perspective
by studying the giant outer planets on the one hand, and the very
small bodies like the comets and asteroids on the other. As
Pioneer 10 and 11 have shown, Jupiter is extremely dynamic. We
may expect the same to prove true of the other giant planets when
we get a chance to see them close at hand. Moreover, the large
planets, consisting, as they do, mainly of the lighter elements
like hydrogen and helium, should provide a revealing insight into
conditions in the solar nebula at the time the planets of the
solar system were condensing out of the nebula. The same should
be true of the comets and asteroids. The asteroids in particular
are probably too small to have undergone any gravitational or
radioactive melting, and therefore should in their interiors be
as they were at the time of their formation, unless they, too,
turn out to be fragments of what were once larger bodies.
- Homer E. Newell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Life in an Ocean of Gas
     Our atmosphere is the breath of life to everything we do. It
is an ocean of gas in which we live as fish live in an ocean of
water. It is an integral part of our planet, and we cannot
understand Earth's history without also understanding its
atmosphere. In seeking to do this, the wide variation from the
airless Moon to the exotic and turbulent atmosphere of Jupiter
provides an invaluable context and perspective. As it happens,
the solar system has several planetary atmospheres between these
extremes.
     Earth's atmosphere lies intermediate in surface pressure
between that of Venus and Mars, Venus' atmosphere being about 100
times that of Earth, and Mars' about one one-hundredth. The
composition of the atmospheres of Venus and Mars is predominantly
carbon dioxide, while Earth's today is predominantly nitrogen and
oxygen. On the other hand, the amount of carbon dioxide tied up
in the carbonate of the Earth's crust is comparable to what we
see free in the atmosphere of Venus today. Presumably on Earth
carbon dioxide exhaled from volcanoes, in the presence of the
abundant water, was soon taken up into the crustal rocks. Life on
Earth doubtless accounts for the presence of so much oxygen in
the atmosphere, most of which was probably generated by
photosynthesis. From the Mariner observations of Mercury, it
appears that Mercury is closer to the Moon than to Mars as far as
atmosphere is concerned.
     Much patient work remains to bring out the full significance
of Apollo observations. Nevertheless it is already clear that
Apollo has made a great contribution to the development of the
new field of comparative planetary studies, a field that over the
years will provide us priceless insights into our own planet. In
days of deep concern over the Earth's environment and finite
resources, comparative planetology is a new science of
incalculable importance, and Apollo led the way.
- Homer E. Newell
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
|-----------------------------------------------------
| Sub-Title: The Contributors
|   Chapter: 
!    Author: 
!      Book: SP-350 - Apollo Expeditions to the Moon
!      Page: 304
|-----------------------------------------------------
The Contributors
     Authoring the preceding fifteen chapters are these seventeen
men who, along with thousands of others, were intensely involved
in Apollo's expeditions to the Moon. Some have left the space
program; all continue to make significant contributions to the
world around them.
Edgar M. Cortright (b. 1923)
     An aeronautical engineer, Cortright joined the NACA Flight
Propulsion Laboratory in 1948. Ten years later he helped lay the
groundwork for NASA's formation and continued at Headquarters to
plan and direct space programs, including those for scouting the
Moon. Since 1968 Cortright has been Director of Langley Research
Center, and has led in the development of the Viking Mars
landings.
Editor's Note
     In planning this photo history we set out to record the
story of Apollo before the colors fade and memories blur. At
first we aimed to restrict ourselves to the actual expeditions to
the Moon. But it soon became clear that this approach could not
capture the scope and spirit of so far-reaching an enterprise. So
we decided that the breadth of Apollo would be shown best from
the differing perspectives of the people directly concerned. Each
chapter author was encouraged to recount his part of the story as
he remembered it. We refrained from homogenizing these
contributions, although we recognized that they are necessarily
personalized and slightly duplicative. But they do offer the
viewpoints of some of the people who made Apollo happen, and thus
may provide fresh insights into that incredible project.
     To help develop the idea into a book, I turned to Frank
Rowsome, NASA's technical publications chief, with whom I had
collaborated on an earlier book, Exploring Space with a Camera.
Others who helped were Sandra Scaffidi, photo editor; Kay
Voglewede, copy editor; and Harry Samuels, art director. Special
research was done by George Abbey, William R. Corliss, James
Daus, Leon Kosofsky, Andrew Ruppel, and Ray Zavasky. Volta Torrey
and David Anderton aided on Chapters 1, 10, and 12. Robert
Sherrod not only wrote Chapter 8 but also drew on his extensive
Apollo knowledge to give assistance on Chapters 6, 9, and 13.
Harold Pryor of NASA's Scientific and Technical Information
Office lent us people, facilities, and support.
     We offer this book as a grateful memento to the hundreds of
thousands of people who worked on Apollo, and as a fond tribute
to our fellow Americans who gave the program such steadfast
support. Apollo is worth remembering not only for what it did,
but for what it taught us we can do.
  Edgar M. Cortright, Director
  NASA Langley Research Center
  28 July 1975
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )
Edwin E. Aldrin, Jr. (b. 1930)
     A West Point graduate, Aldrin did his MIT doctoral thesis on
manned orbital rendezvous. He flew with Lovell in Gemini 12 and
set foot on the Moon as lunar module pilot on Apollo 11. A former
combat pilot (66 Korean missions), Aldrin left the space program
to command the Air Force Test Pilot School. Now retired from the
military, he is a consultant to firms engaged in advanced
technologies.
Michael Collins (b. 1930)
     A West Point graduate and test pilot, Collins flew on Gemini
12 and walked in space. On the historic Apollo 11 flight to the
Moon, he commanded the Columbia in orbit above the lunar surface.
A brigadier general in the Air Force Reserve, with some 266 hours
of space flight, Collins is now the Director of the Smithsonian
Institution's National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.
Charles Conrad, Jr. (b. 1930)
     Princeton engineering graduate Conrad became a naval aviator
and test pilot. He flew aboard Gemini 5 and Gemini 11, and was
spacecraft commander in Apollo 12 and again in Skylab 2. Since
his retirement from the Navy in 1974, Conrad has served as a vice
president of the American Television and Communication
Corporation.
Robert R. Gilruth (b. 1913)
     With two degrees in aeronautical engineering, Gilruth joined
NACA's Langley Aeronautical Laboratory in 1937, becoming
Assistant Director there in 1952. In 1958 he was named director
of the Space Task Group and Project Mercury. When the STG became
the Manned Spacecraft Center, Gilruth went to Houston as
Director, and served from 1961 to 1972, leading the Gemini and
Apollo programs.
Christopher C. Kraft, Jr. (b. 1924)
     Came to NASA through NACA, joining the Langley laboratory in
1945 and becoming director of Project Mercury flight operations
in 1959. His contributions to Mission Control continued in his
service as Director of Flight Operations for the Gemini and
Apollo programs. He was made Deputy Director of the Manned
Spacecraft Center in 1969, and Director in 1972.
James A. Lovell (b. 1928)
     An Annapolis graduate and test pilot, Lovell has flown
around the Moon twice, first in Apollo 8, man's initial lunar
flight, and then in Apollo 13. Earlier he flew in Gemini 7 and
12. Lovell worked on space science applications from 1971 to 1972
at Manned Spacecraft Center; he is now president of the Bay-
Houston Towing Co.
George M. Low (b. 1926)
     Began his NASA career at Lewis Research Center in 1949.
Named Chief of Manned Space Flight in 1958, and Deputy Director
of Manned Spacecraft Center in 1964, he took over the Apollo
spacecraft program in 1967. Low became NASA's Deputy
Administrator in 1969.
George E. Mueller (b. 1918)
     Came to NASA from industry in 1963. There he had directed
ballistic missile and space probe programs. Noted for his work in
microwave measurement and in telemetry, he served as NASA's
Associate Administrator for Manned Space Flight from 1963 to
1969, when he returned to industry. He is now Chairman and
President of the System Development Corporation in California.
Homer E. Newell (b. 1915)
     Was the Naval Research Laboratory's Science Program
Coordinator on Project Vanguard- America's first scientific
satellite. He joined NASA in 1958, serving in Headquarters as
Associate Administrator for Space Science and Applications from
1963 to 1967. From 1967 to his retirement in 1974, Newell was
NASA Associate Administrator. He is the author of many works on
space sciences.
Rocco A. Petrone (b. 1926)
     A West Point graduate, Petrone came to NASA in 1960. There
he managed the activation of all Apollo launch facilities. He
personally supervised the Apollo 11 launch. Named Director of the
Apollo program in 1969 and of the Marshall Space Flight Center in
1973, Petrone became Associate Administrator of NASA in 1974. He
now heads the National Center for Resource Recovery.
Samuel C. Phillips (b. 1921)
     An electrical engineer, Phillips became Deputy Director then
Director of the Apollo program in 1964, serving till 1969. Before
that he directed the Air Force's Minuteman program. A World War
11 fighter pilot and former Director National Security Agency,
Phillips, a four-star general, now heads the Air Force Systems
Command.
Harrison H. Schmitt (b. 1935)
     A New Mexico geologist, Cal Tech and Harvard graduate,
Schmitt became an astronaut/scientist in 1965, and went to the
Moon as Apollo 17's lunar module pilot. Schmitt served as NASA's
Assistant Administrator for Energy Programs during 1974 and 1975.
Alan B. Shepard, Jr. (b. 1923)
     America's first man to journey into space, flying a
Redstone-boosted Mercury in 1961. He was also the spacecraft
commander on the Apollo 14 flight and landed on the Moon in 1971.
Shepard has served as chief of the Astronaut Office and as a
delegate to the United Nations' General Assembly in 1971. An
Annapolis graduate and former test pilot, Shepard holds the rank
of rear admiral.
Robert Sherrod (b. 1909)
     Noted foreign correspondent and editor (Time, Life, Saturday
Evening Post, Sherrod is the author of five books on the
military, including his monumental History of Marine Corps
Aviation in World War II. He covered the battles of Attu, Tarawa,
Saipan, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, and later, the Korean and
Vietnamese conflicts. For several years he has been working on a
book about Apollo.
Wernher von Braun (b. 1912, d. 1977)
     Came to the United States in 1945 to conduct missile
research for the Army. He directed the Pershing and Jupiter
rocket programs before leading work on the powerful Saturn. Von
Braun was Director of the Marshall Space Flight Center from 1960
to 1970 and NASA Deputy Associate Administrator for Planning,
1970 to 1972. He is now a vice president with Fairchild
Industries.
James E. Webb (b. 1906)
     Prior to appointment as NASA Administrator in 1961 Webb, a
lawyer, held major posts in government and industry. A Marine
officer and pilot, he served as Under Secretary of State, as
Budget Bureau Director, and as a corporate officer and director.
Departing NASA in 1968, Webb resumed law practice in Washington,
DC.
       ( Apollo Expeditions to the Moon, edited by Edgar M. Cortright,
 NASA SP; 350, Washington, DC, 1975 )