In the Shadow of the Moon

by Amy Cherrix

  On July 3, 1969, another N-1 lifted off from Baikonur. The rocket rose briefly before collapsing and exploding with the equivalent energy of a nuclear bomb—the largest rocket explosion in history. The debris field spanned six miles.

  Without Korolev, the once-great Soviet space program had crumbled. Rather than admit or acknowledge their failure in the space race at the time, the truth of the top secret N-1 moon program and its failures remained classified from the Russian people. Participants in the program were forbidden to speak about their involvement. It wasn’t until 1989, near the collapse of the Soviet Union, that the country learned it had tried—and failed—to build a rocket that would land on the moon. Vasily Mishin finally broke his silence about his pivotal role in the doomed N-1 project. In 1990, he wrote: “Only he who does nothing makes mistakes. We, the successors of S. P. Korolev, did everything we could, but our efforts proved to be inadequate.”

  Chapter 39

  “One Small Step”

  On July 20, 1969, seventeen days after the second failed N-1 rocket launch in the Soviet Union, Von Braun prepared to watch as his lifelong dream of space travel came true. America was about to attempt the world’s first moon landing. It was the realization of Wernher von Braun’s boyhood vision of building a spaceship. He had doodled its likeness in a school notebook. To secure funding for his rocket research, he had agreed to join the Nazi Party and become an officer in Hitler’s SS. As his critics would later argue, this dream was von Braun’s justification for turning a blind eye to the atrocities at the Nazis’ Mittelwerk V-2 factory. It was the reason he risked his life by betraying the Nazis to surrender to the United States at the end of World War II. During those early, dry Fort Bliss years, it had been his sustaining hope, before the US government opened its mind—and its wallet—to the possibilities of spaceflight. In exchange for his expertise and the V-2 technology, his status as a Nazi officer had been buried within classified documents. Every choice he had made had led to this moment, when his rocket would send humankind to the moon. Twenty-four years after arriving in the United States, Wernher von Braun was considered by many to be an American hero.

  Apollo 11 lifted off on July 16. Four days later, on the morning of the moon landing, NASA guidance officer (GUIDO) Steve Bales arrived in the Apollo Mission Control Center in Houston, an hour early. The dark-haired, blue-eyed twenty-six year-old’s job was to “monitor the lunar module’s guidance computer,” he said. It was an unlikely career path for the son of a janitor and hairstylist from the small town of Fremont, Iowa, with a population of less than five hundred people. Bales’s life had changed at age thirteen when he turned on his family’s television set and watched a Walt Disney “Tomorrowland” episode starring Wernher von Braun. The show, Bales said, “probably more than anything else, influenced me to study aerospace engineering.”

  At his workstation, Bales lit a cigarette and began reviewing his notes. When the first cigarette burned to its filter, he lit another. It was a stressful job, and almost everyone in Mission Control smoked. In those days, warnings about the dangers of cigarettes were often ignored. The only thing thicker than the haze of smoke in Mission Control was the tension. Bales remembered feeling like he could “cut it with a knife.” He didn’t know it then, but eight hours later, the lives of the astronauts would be in his hands.

  Apollo 11

  “Program alarm.” The calm voice of Commander Neil Armstrong sounded inside NASA ground control. Half a billion people worldwide waited as astronauts Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, in the lunar module (also known as “Eagle”), journeyed toward the moon. Fellow astronaut Michael Collins orbited above them in the Columbia command module. The astronauts were four minutes into the landing sequence and 33,000 feet from the lunar surface.

  “It’s a 1202,” Armstrong said. Neither he nor Aldrin knew how to interpret the computer screen displaying error code “1202,” and there wasn’t much time.

  Everyone in Mission Control, including von Braun, waited for Bales to make a decision. Guidance officers were trained to respond in an instant to situations like this. What Bales said next would determine whether Armstrong and Aldrin continued their flight or aborted the historic mission.

  He searched his memory. The astronauts were racing toward the moon. The window of time in which they could initiate a safe and successful abort was closing. Worse, no one knew if an abort was actually possible. The Eagle could crash into the lunar surface. Some 240,000 miles away from Earth, the lives of the astronauts depended on Bales’s response.

  Suddenly the voice of another guidance specialist, twenty-four-year-old Jack Garman, burst into his headset. “Steve! It’s on our little list!” Then Bales remembered. Gene Kranz, the Apollo flight director, had ordered each guidance specialist to write down every error code that the mission could encounter and tape the list to his desk.

  A 1202 meant the computer was overloaded with information. The alarm signaled that it was sorting too much data at once. As long as the alarm was intermittent, the landing could proceed. If the alarm became sustained, they would be forced to abort. Bales knew what to do.

  Seconds had passed since Armstrong’s request for a reading.

  “We’re GO on that alarm,” Bales said confidently into his headset’s microphone.

  The capsule communicator (CAPCOM) relayed the message to Armstrong.

  “Roger,” Armstrong replied.

  Armstrong and Aldrin weren’t out of the woods yet. The Eagle was off course and they had overshot their original landing coordinates. The predetermined site had been ideal, with a smooth surface free of debris, but the field before Commander Armstrong now was a deep crater, littered with large moon-rock boulders. There was nowhere to land and they were running out of fuel.

  Armstrong, a skilled fighter pilot, held his nerve as he continued to steer the spacecraft in search of a safe spot to set it down.

  The landing sequence reached the sixty-second mark, and precious fuel reserves plummeted. “Better remind them there ain’t no damn gas stations on the moon,” Kranz said.

  At the thirty-second mark, the Eagle was less than ten feet from the surface. Moon dust swirled beneath it, and a new alert appeared on Armstrong’s lunar module console.

  CONTACT LIGHT.

  Armstrong’s voice returned to the ground control room: “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”

  Later, as Armstrong exited the capsule and climbed down its ladder, von Braun watched from Mission Control with tears in his eyes, seeing his life’s work culminate on a television monitor. “That’s one small step for man,” Armstrong said as his foot touched the surface of the moon, “one giant leap for mankind.”

  Half a world away, inside a Soviet military base control room, cosmonaut Alexei Leonov, who had crossed his fingers in a gesture of hope for Armstrong and Aldrin, burst into cheers as the historic moment unfolded on a television screen in front of him: “I swear to God . . . we hoped the guys would make it. We wanted this to happen.” The Soviet leadership sent a congratulatory letter to the United States, but they did not issue a public comment. The Soviet newspaper Pravda allotted two paragraphs to the moon-landing story, placing it at the bottom of an interior page. Only select government officials were permitted to view actual video footage of America’s victory in the space race.

  Millions of people worldwide had gathered around radios or television sets that day, waiting for updates. They cried and cheered for what they were seeing and hearing but could scarcely comprehend: in a grainy black-and-white video, Armstrong and Aldrin were planting an American flag on the moon. Classrooms and living rooms around the world erupted into applause. In the coming weeks and years, thousands of letters from enthusiastic people around the world poured in, congratulating NASA and the Apollo 11 astronauts for their unprecedented achievement.

  From Blacon, England, thirteen-year-old Michael Jennings and his mother, Margaret, wrote: “The night of the landing, we didn’t go to bed at all .
. . we were with you every minute.” Eleven-year-old André von Hebra in São Paulo, Brazil, had found a career path: “I adore space and everything which is connected with it. . . . When I am grown up, I will be an astronaut.” For ten-year-old Marianne Malden, who was living in Okinawa, Japan, with her missionary parents, it had been a long night. “My parents had to pour cold water on my face to keep me awake but I saw it and I’ll never forget it.” The same went for Jerry Hammond of Glens Falls, New York, who shared that he, too, had sacrificed sleep, staying awake for thirty-eight straight hours “to record all of the news of [the] flight.” But Hammond’s motivation for watching the event’s media coverage was grief. “My only son was killed in Vietnam in October 1968,” he wrote. “And my interest in your flight was the only thing that kept me from really breaking up.”

  Von Braun’s emotions must have been overwhelming as he watched the flag of his adopted country stake its claim on the moon. He had been obsessed by the idea of a moon landing for as long as he could remember. He was so convinced he could make it possible that perhaps in some way it also felt inevitable. Von Braun had kept his word to himself and to the American people, to whom he had tirelessly evangelized about the promise of exploration. He helped inspire the creation of the space program and courted the admiration of influential people in his lifelong quest. Wernher von Braun was an engineer and a brilliant manager of people. At heart, he was also a dreamer so obsessed with the realization of his dream that he had been willing to do whatever was necessary to make it come true. What was it that made him able to confront the possibility of failure on such a grand scale, without allowing anything to stop him? Whatever it was—confidence, determination, hubris, or brazen self-interest—it defined his character and choices and made the moon landing possible.

  Chapter 40

  Return to Rocket City

  On July 24, 1969, von Braun’s Apollo 11 victory came full circle when Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins safely splashed down in the Pacific Ocean. In Huntsville, city leaders prepared to celebrate its famous rocket engineer and favorite adopted son.

  Von Braun’s hometown welcome was almost as well choreographed as a rocket launch. Town leadership wanted to capitalize on Huntsville’s role in the moon landing. It was an irresistible opportunity to attract national publicity for Huntsville and the Marshall Space Flight Center, with its connection to a world-changing moment. The city was on the cutting edge of the new future in space. Its leaders wanted other technology companies and industries to know that Huntsville welcomed more high-tech businesses to continue building on the foundation laid by von Braun and his team.

  In the twenty years since the Germans had arrived at Redstone Arsenal, the once-rural town had undergone a renaissance. As their work evolved, so did Huntsville, with rocket technology, infrastructure, and aerospace jobs. If the United States owed von Braun a debt of gratitude for winning the space race and masterminding the moon landing, it was fair to say that Huntsville owed him a debt of gratitude as well. The sleepy Watercress Capital of the World emerged as the “Space Capital of the Universe.” When the Germans arrived, the city’s population had been around 15,000. By 1969 it was over 137,000.

  The day of the Apollo 11 splashdown, televised public service announcements invited Huntsvillians to a celebration. Dr. von Braun would be honored with a parade and would give a speech on the city’s courthouse steps.

  Von Braun was hoisted onto the shoulders of proud civic leaders and carried through the street, as the city of Huntsville celebrated the successful splashdown of Apollo 11 in 1969.

  Over five thousand residents and community leaders gathered at the Madison County Courthouse to greet von Braun. He arrived in the time-honored tradition of returning hometown American heroes—seated on the back of a convertible, waving at the enthusiastic crowd. When he stepped out of the car, civic leaders hoisted him onto their shoulders, carrying him to the courthouse and up the steps. Von Braun laughed and continued to wave to the assembled townspeople, who crowded the streets and sidewalks. A local marching band played a triumphant chorus of “Hail to the Chief” as he took his place behind the podium. “That ride was as thrilling as a Saturn V boost into space,” he quipped.

  Two hours late, von Braun begged forgiveness from the admiring audience, explaining that he had been following the splashdown of the Apollo 11 capsule from his office. His familiar charm was on display, as was his easy smile. When he spoke, it was about the future.

  He told the crowd that he was optimistic about an eventual trip to Mars and a space station, speaking in familiar themes of hope and progress. To Huntsville, a city that had been redefined by his work, it sounded like more good things were yet to come. “Now that man has left his planetary cradle and is not confined to Earth,” von Braun said, “we must hope that their trip was not in vain. Exploration must continue.”

  In fact, the Apollo moon-landing program was just getting started. The second successful mission (Apollo 12) lifted off on November 14, 1969, with astronauts Pete Conrad, Richard Gordon, and Alan Bean aboard. Their historic moon mission was highlighted by the first use of an automatic guidance system that minimized manual control of the craft by the pilot. Other mission goals included developing capabilities to work in the lunar environment and gathering seventy-five pounds of moon rock. The flight also achieved an unscheduled objective: NASA’s first documented incident of an off-planet dance performance. Apparently, astronaut Pete Conrad thought his space boots were also dancing shoes and found his zero-gravity groove, dancing on the moon. The astronauts safely returned to Earth ten days later. NASA was riding high on the success of the Apollo program, But the next mission would remind the world just how unpredictable—and dangerous—spaceflight could be.

  On April 14, 1970, Apollo 13 commander Jim Lovell spoke six of the most famous words in spaceflight history: “Houston, we’ve had a problem here.”14 From Apollo 13’s command module, Lovell signaled to Mission Control that the spacecraft carrying himself and fellow astronauts Fred Haise and Jack Swigert was in trouble. The crew had been in space for three days when oxygen tank number one had exploded, causing a failure in oxygen tank number two. The potentially deadly onboard explosion forced an abort of their scheduled moon landing and endangered the astronauts. The failing command module was rapidly losing power. The crew abandoned their ship and moved into the lunar module, which would serve as a lifeboat. But the lunar module wasn’t built to transport three astronauts back to Earth and had no mechanism to scrub carbon dioxide from the air. The command module, which was supposed to be their ride home, came equipped with special canisters for this purpose, but they didn’t fit in the lunar module “lifeboat.” Without them, CO2 would rise to fatal levels. Engineers on the ground rushed to figure out how to rig an adapter that would make the canisters fit using only items that the astronauts had access to in the lunar module. The resulting contraption was a combination of duct tape, tube socks, and space-suit hoses. It wasn’t sophisticated, but it saved their lives, and all three astronauts returned safely to Earth.

  NASA would launch four more Apollo missions (14 through 17) to investigate larger areas of the moon’s surface and collect samples. Nuclear-powered scientific instruments were also positioned on the moon, and they transmitted data back to Earth for years. Famous video recordings from those subsequent missions show astronauts aboard their lunar roving vehicle, trundling for miles across the surface as they maneuvered around rocks, collecting samples and kicking up moon dust.

  Chapter 41

  Life after Apollo

  The last flight in the series would be Apollo 17, in December 1972. It splashed down in a world that was beginning to care less and less about moon shots. America’s appetite for space travel had been satisfied and the Russians defeated. The enthusiasm for space exploration that Kennedy had inspired during his unfinished presidency was slipping away with the passage of time. In its place, the urgency of serious problems on Earth took precedence. The jungle war persisted in Vietnam, as
well as the ongoing fight for civil rights in the United States. These issues continued to raise justifiable questions from the American people about the wisdom of funneling billions into the space program.

  In 1970, von Braun accepted a job in Washington, DC, as deputy associate administrator at NASA. His role was to help the agency plan for the future of space travel. A Mars mission was still on the table, as well as a future space station, but rousing the support and funding would be much more difficult than it had been when Kennedy announced the Apollo program. The agency was betting that von Braun’s talents of persuasion would be enough to keep big NASA projects alive.

  The news of von Braun’s departure was a devastating blow to the people of Huntsville. Although he was a hero to millions around the world, he was a neighbor and an enduring source of civic pride for his community. It was a small comfort that he was not leaving NASA for good, but von Braun’s adopted hometown wasn’t releasing him without a proper goodbye and a reminder that as far as they were concerned, his departure was temporary.

  The banner behind the podium where von Braun would deliver his farewell remarks made this sentiment clear:

  DR. WERNHER VON BRAUN:

  HUNTSVILLE’S FIRST CITIZEN . . .

  ON LOAN TO WASHINGTON, DC

  The somber feelings of many in attendance were matched by the day’s gray skies and rainfall. It was February 24, 1970, officially designated “Wernher von Braun Day.” While folks in Huntsville hoped von Braun’s stay in Washington was a temporary arrangement, they commemorated his contributions with two lasting symbols of gratitude and affection. The first was a monument dedicated in his honor. The inscription read in part: Dr. von Braun, whose vision and knowledge made possible the landing of the first man on the moon by the United States, contributed significantly to the life of this community. He will forever be respected and admired by his local fellow citizens. The second tribute honored von Braun’s cultural contribution to the city of Huntsville. He and members of his German engineering team were talented instrumentalists. In the mid-1950s, they had partnered with local musicans to found the Huntsville Symphony Orchestra. The city was planning to build a new fifteen-million-dollar cultural, entertainment, and convention complex and would name it the Von Braun Civic Center.