Epic Rivalry

by Von Hardesty

  The clear import of the McNamara-Webb memorandum was that the American space program, whether in military or civilian form, was an essential component in winning the Cold War. By early May, Kennedy National Security Adviser McGeorge Bundy would later recall, the president essentially had made the decision to go ahead with Project Apollo and had little interest in hearing arguments to the contrary.58

  President Kennedy addressed a joint session of Congress on May 25, 1961. He delivered what he characterized as a second State of the Union Address for the year, made necessary by “the extraordinary times” in which the nation found itself. The address contained a space component, fueled by the recent Gagarin flight and the entire panoply of past Soviet space accomplishments: “Finally, if we are to win the battle that is now going on around the world between freedom and tyranny, the dramatic achievements in space which occurred in recent weeks should have made clear to us all, as did Sputnik in 1957, the impact of this adventure on the minds of men everywhere who are attempting to make a determination of which road they should take…. Now it is time to take longer strides—time for a great new American enterprise—time for this nation to take a clearly leading role in space achievement which, in many ways, may hold the key to our future on Earth.” Citing the time factor and the Soviet Union’s significant lead in large rocket engines, Kennedy observed, “We nevertheless are required to make new efforts on our own. For while we cannot guarantee that we shall one day be first, we can guarantee that any failure to make this effort will make us last.”

  Kennedy then concluded with his oft-quoted challenge to countrymen, “I therefore ask this Congress, above and beyond the increases I have earlier requested for space activity, to provide the funds which are needed to meet the following national goals: First, I believe that 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. No single space project in this period will be more impressive to mankind and more important for the long-range exploration of space. And none will be more difficult or expensive to accomplish.”59

  Despite the ringing declarations of Kennedy’s May 1961 speech, he continued in private meetings to voice his lack of real interest in space. At the same time, he acknowledged candidly the primary role of Cold War considerations in driving U.S. space spending and policies. On November 20, 1962, 18 months after his call for an American manned lunar landing, Kennedy met with NASA administrator Webb and budget bureau director Bell to discuss concerns that NASA was not paying sufficient attention to Project Apollo and that additional funding might be required for the human spaceflight program. While the meeting was recorded, the tape and a transcript were not made public until August 2001. Two comments by the president provided dramatic insight into his true feelings. “Now, this may not change anything about that schedule but at least we ought to be clear, otherwise we shouldn’t be spending this kind of money because I’m not that interested in space,” Kennedy said. Just a minute earlier, he had said, “And the second point is the fact that the Soviet Union has made this a test of the system. So that’s why we’re doing it.”60

  THE SUBORBITAL FLIGHTS

  Even before Kennedy announced the nation’s commitment to send men to the moon, America, like a proverbial sleeping giant, had already awakened to its coming role in space. On May 5, Project Mercury sent the first American, astronaut Alan Shepard, into space, albeit only for 15 minutes on a suborbital ride to an altitude of 116.5 miles.

  A Navy pilot, Shepard had flown some of the latest jet fighters at the Patuxent River Naval Air Station, Maryland, and belonged to an elite circle of senior Navy test pilots. He had also performed aircraft carrier-landing suitability and in-flight refueling trials for new Navy fighters, and served two tours with carrier-based squadrons.

  Shepard’s flight was just what the nation needed at that point, and 45 million Americans watched on television as Shepard’s Freedom 7 Mercury capsule lifted off from its Cape Canaveral launch pad atop a Redstone missile. Among them was the president, watching at the White House along with First Lady Jackie Kennedy and senior administration officials, including Lyndon Johnson. Only after Shepard’s liftoff and a tense wait for word that he had been recovered and was onboard a rescue helicopter did the president smile and relax. He turned to the others and said quietly, “It’s a success.”61

  The suborbital jaunt proved to be a success with no major mishap, and Shepard’s impatience to go into space was later immortalized in Tom Wolfe’s The Right Stuff. With less than three minutes remaining in the countdown, Mercury control called a hold, not the first one that morning. The prospect that the hold could possibly result in a postponement did not make Shepard happy. “All right,” he snapped. “I’m cooler than you are. Why don’t you fix your little problem…and light this candle.” That seemed to work; a few minutes later, Mercury Control declared the launch a “go,” and Shepard was on his way.62 Shepard encountered some buffeting at the transonic zone, which turned more severe when the spacecraft reached maximum dynamic pressure at 90 seconds. At this point the buffeting became rather extreme, bouncing Shepard’s head so violently he could not read his instruments. At the two-minute mark, the astronaut experienced the maximum g forces. Then 22 seconds later, the engines cut off; at this point Shepard was traveling at a speed of 5,134 mph. Initially, he had flown face-forward, but now for reentry, the capsule turned around automatically. Shepard tilted the heat shield downward 34 degrees for the passage through the upper atmosphere. When the retro-rockets fired to slow the spacecraft, it jolted the astronaut with what was later called a “comforting kick in the ass.”63

  The first American suborbital flight was executed in full public view from liftoff to recovery, in sharp contrast to the near-total secrecy attending Gagarin’s flight a few weeks earlier. Shepard’s short trip was not lacking in technological significance, either. Nearing the top of his suborbital ride, Shepard switched Freedom 7’s attitude-control system from automatic to manual, one axis at a time: pitch (up and down motion), yaw (left and right motion), and roll (revolving motions). He experimented briefly with all three axes, a key exercise in demonstrating the importance of pilot control by the astronauts.64 Predictably, Shepard was embraced by the American public as a genuine hero, and welcomed to Washington, D.C., after his flight with a huge parade down Pennsylvania Avenue attended by more than 250,000 people.

  The second manned Mercury suborbital flight took place on July 21, 1961. Virgil “Gus” T. Grissom took command of the spacecraft that he had dubbed Liberty Bell 7. Grissom, an Indiana native, brought to the Mercury program a stellar record of achievement. As an Air Force pilot he had flown 100 combat missions in Korea at the controls of the fabled F-86 Sabre jet fighter. He had won the Distinguished Flying Cross for chasing off a North Korean MiG-15 seeking to shoot down an American reconnaissance aircraft. He went on to become a test pilot, checking out all-weather fighters for the Air Force. For Grissom’s short flight, providing 10 minutes of weightlessness, the focus shifted to as much visual observation as possible. The capsule had one window, which allowed for nearly 30 degrees of forward vision—up, down, and sideways. He lifted off at 7:20 a.m. Having reached an altitude of 118 miles, he repeated some of the same manual-control tests as Shepard and then quickly prepared for reentry. All went well in the descent phase. Once the capsule touched down in the Atlantic Ocean, Grissom prepared for his recovery from the capsule, radioing two nearby recovery helicopters to come and pick him up.

  Liberty Bell 7 had a side escape hatch cover that was secured by explosive bolts; the astronaut was to remove a lock pin and then press a plunger in order to blow the door free and allow his safe exit from the capsule. A total of 70 bolts, each fitted with a detonation fuse, secured the side hatch. When the astronaut pulled the pin in the cockpit, a fist force of five or six pounds blew open the hatch. Grissom alerted the rescue helicopter. As the rescue party approached, a near disaster unfolded: “I was lying there, mind
ing my own business when I heard a dull thud,” Grissom later reported. Suddenly, the hatch cover blew away and salt water began filling the capsule. Grissom told a board of inquiry later that while he was unable to recall all of his actions at this point, he was certain that he had not touched the hatch-activation plunger. Grissom emerged from the capsule and swam away.

  The helicopter pilots assumed that Grissom could take care of himself in the water, and one helicopter began an attempt to recover the capsule. Grissom nearly drowned. As the capsule began to submerge, he was barely able to grab the collar dropped by the helicopter and had to be pulled to safety. The valve on his space suit had not been closed, so it quickly filled with water. Grissom was pulled upward to the awaiting rescue helicopter. In the end, the water-filled capsule proved too heavy for lifting by the helicopter and had to be cut loose, sinking to the ocean floor, some 2,800 fathoms under the Atlantic, not to be retrieved for 40 years.65 Grissom’s saga was a grim reminder of the inherent dangers of reentry and rescue. Both suborbital flights, notwithstanding the loss of Liberty Bell 7, had been successful. Still, they appeared anemic and modest when compared to the achievement of Yuri Gagarin.

  TITOV SCORES ANOTHER SOVIET VICTORY

  The extraordinary success of Gagarin’s spaceflight set the stage for a second Soviet manned feat—the dramatic launch of German Titov, Gagarin’s backup, for an extended 17 orbits of the Earth. For the first time a human being would be in space for an entire day. The date for the space venture was set for August 1961, coming in the aftermath of America’s suborbital flights. If successful, the Titov mission would clearly demonstrate the Soviet Union’s superiority in manned spaceflight. The decision had not come without controversy. Several prominent physicians associated with space medicine had recommended only a triple-orbit mission, allowing Titov to fly five hours in space. However, Korolev pushed forcefully for the extended mission, arguing successfully that anything less would appear too cautious and incremental in character.66

  A few external factors shaped the timing of the launch. Khrushchev, to the confusion of Korolev and his team, insisted that the launch take place before August 10. Only later did they realize that this date was not arbitrary, but linked to the construction of the Berlin Wall, scheduled to begin on August 13, a secret concealed from the team at Baikonur. At this juncture, Khrushchev had become an avid supporter of the space program and looked upon each successful mission as a propaganda opportunity. Space triumphs were now integral to Soviet foreign policy, a metaphor for the presumed superiority of a society shaped by Marxist-Leninist ideology. Given its strategic importance, the Soviet space program benefited from the largess of the state: Khrushchev had approved a massive outlay of funding for the Baikonur complex, design bureaus engaged in space-related research, and cosmonaut training—the entire costly infrastructure associated with space exploration.67

  As with most men selected for the cosmonaut corps, Titov was young; he had entered the cosmonaut training at the age of 24. He differed dramatically from Gagarin, being more of an extrovert and outspoken on many issues. He often was restive with the rigors and demands of cosmonaut training. He was more sophisticated than most pilots, possessing wide intellectual interests beyond the narrow sphere of aerospace. He took a keen interest in the arts, expressed great admiration for the American writer Ernest Hemingway, enjoyed quoting long passages of poetry from memory, and displayed an inclination (as circumstances permitted) to discuss political issues. (In the 1990s, he became a member of the Russian Duma.) A native of the Altai region, Titov had an ethnic Russian background. Regarded by his peers as a gifted pilot, Titov’s military career, for the most part, had been conventional in nature: He graduated from the Kacha Higher Air Force School in 1957 and then entered active duty as a military pilot in the Leningrad area.68

  As the pilot of the second Vostok mission, Titov set a new benchmark in manned space travel. His time in orbit, however, did not unfold without challenges. He lifted off from Baikonur at 9:00 a.m. on August 6, 1961. The Vostok 2 booster performed smoothly, inserting the spacecraft into orbit without mishap. Yet no sooner had Titov entered his orbital path than he felt profoundly ill and disoriented. This sensation turned acute, and he felt as if he were flying upside down. One disturbing symptom was the inability to read his instruments or to focus his eyes on the Earth below. To regain a sense of normalcy, he attempted to move about in the tight compartment of the capsule, but this did not improve his condition; if anything, the sudden illness only deepened in severity. Titov had become a victim of spatial disorientation, a consequence of being in near-zero gravity.69

  By the second orbit, Titov pondered whether he should scrub the mission, asking mission control for permission to return to Earth. Doctors on the ground were fully aware of Titov’s situation as they monitored the various sensors recording the cosmonaut’s vital signs. During the third orbit, they anxiously inquired about his condition. Titov reported back that he was fine; he was intent on riding out the spasm of disorientation. By the sixth orbit, he attempted to eat a meal from plastic tubes, a menu of soup puree, liver pate, and black currant jam. Still gripped by vertigo and nausea, Titov ate only sparingly, and at one point he vomited. His condition improved with each orbit, and finally he was able to catch some sleep. By the twelfth orbit, he felt nearly normal.70

  Titov’s persistent space sickness had disrupted the planned schedule of experiments, but he was able to resume his work once his health improved. One experiment called for the filming of Earth’s horizon for 10 minutes as the spacecraft entered and exited from Earth’s shadow. This perspective on the planet was unique, and later images would be published by the Soviets to demonstrate the extraordinary achievement of the Vostok 2 mission. For those on the ground, two internal TV cameras on board showed Titov inside the capsule. The extended orbital mission was largely without mishap, except for a temporary drop in the internal temperature of the capsule, a result of the cooling fans being accidentally turned on at launch.71

  Reentry, the most perilous phase, offered some further challenges. At retrofire, the Vostok 2 slowed and then began its descent into the upper atmosphere. Shortly after this critical stage occurred, Titov heard a sudden noise, which indicated that the two compartments of the spacecraft had separated on schedule. He became alarmed, though, when he heard a persistent rapping sound, a telltale indicator that the separated instrument compartment was still attached. Both modules entered the atmosphere together, with the instrument compartment eventually burning away. Titov managed to make his homeward-bound descent without difficulty, notwithstanding the initially buffeting that came with the still attached instrument module. The cosmonaut parachuted to safety just past 10 a.m. on August 7. He landed near the small village of Krasniy Kut near the city of Saratov.72

  Titov orbited the Earth for a total of one day, one hour, and 11 minutes, an astounding record for the time. Subsequent Soviet news coverage offered few details on his discomfort in space, stressing instead the monumental nature of his achievement. In subsequent weeks and months, Gagarin and Titov—the two heroes of the Soviet space program—made a world tour. As the year 1961 ended, the dominance of the Soviet Union in space travel was universally acknowledged.

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  “FORD VERSUS CHEVY”

  As automobile enthusiasts well know, there is no mistaking a Ford for a Chevy. In the space age, there would be no mistaking an Apollo for a Soyuz, either: American and Soviet space rockets and spacecraft mirrored separate design philosophies. All space-age designs required innovative ways to meld form and function. In the end, each tradition had its own style when it came to design.

  Livery. Rockets can be painted any color or no color at all, so rocket liveries often reveal something about the priorities and values of their builders. The primary color of Soviet space rockets reflected their very close relationship with the Soviet military missile programs: They were generally painted army green. White accents and bare-metal areas
appear variously on later Soviet rockets without strict scheme, perhaps reflecting the somewhat improvisational nature of Soviet engineering.

  Rockets developed under U.S. military programs, such as the Atlas and Titan series, were typically silvery bare-metal vehicles because hull paint was nonessential. Black bars and white backgrounds were applied where high-contrast visual tracking marks were needed, but overall these rockets were unpainted. These silver rockets expressed a military attitude of utilitarianism.

  The American rockets that made the strongest impression in the public media, however, were white with black markings. This livery defined the popular American image of what a rocket looked like. From the Mercury-Redstone of Alan Shepard to the Saturn IB of Wally Schirra and the great Saturn V rockets of Apollo 8 and all the moon landings, the look was consistent. These rockets all carried black and white livery because they were developed under the supervision of Wernher von Braun’s rocket team, which had been using it on their rockets ever since the first successful A-4 (V-2) had lifted off at Peenemünde in 1942. The scheme had originated at the direction of von Braun’s mentor Hermann Oberth, but was created for the science fiction rocket seen in Fritz Lang’s 1929 science-fiction film The Girl in the Moon. The German engineers sometimes justified the high-contrast livery on their rockets as an aid to visual tracking, but the truth was that Wernher von Braun just liked it that way.

  The massive Saturn V first stage in the Vehicle Assembly Building at Cape Kennedy.

  Silhouette. When Wernher von Braun envisioned the per-rocket of the future for the book Across the Space Frontier in 1952, he conceived a vehicle with a pointed nose like his V-2, but with a wide flaring base that gave the rocket a tapered silhouette like a megaphone.73 Von Braun tended to avoid counting on “miracle” technology solutions that might never be developed; he wanted to make realistic plans, so he stuck as close as possible to the state of the art. The V-2 had operated on a single engine. Building a ubstantially larger rocket engine presented major engineering challenges, so von Braun presumed that the super-rocket would need dozens of rocket motors, including 51 in its first stage alone. This platoon of engines swelled the base of the super-rocket and gave it its characteristic tapered shape.