Moonshot: The Inside Story of Mankind's Greatest Adventure

by Dan Parry

  Twenty-seven minutes from re-entry, Columbia entered the Earth's shadow. Then, with just 14 minutes to go, the service module was jettisoned. After keeping the crew supplied with water, oxygen and electrical power throughout the mission, it was no longer needed, and the men watched it fly past their windows on its way to burning up in the atmosphere. At launch, Apollo 11 had been heavier than 3,300 tons; now all that remained was the command module, which weighed less than six. Columbia's blunt side, previously hidden by the service module, was protected by a heat-shield. Made of resin, the shield was ablative, in that as the temperature rose pieces of it would gradually flake off, exposing cooler material underneath.

  Once their altitude fell to 67 miles (400,000 feet) above the Earth, the crew began to be buffeted about as Columbia ripped a burning hole through the night sky above the Solomon Islands, north-east of Australia.28 Wearing only their flight-suits, and sitting with their backs to the direction of travel, the men plummeted 33 miles towards the ocean while covering the first 500 miles of the ground-track. Falling too fast to push the air out of the way, Columbia hurtled through a blaze of colour as it collided with gaseous molecules beneath the heat-shield, smashing into them, generating friction and creating bursts of heat that accumulated into a fiery ball. 'We started to get all these colours past the windows,' Collins later remembered, 'subtle lavenders, light blue-greens, little touches of violet, and great variations mostly of blues and greens.'29 As flames rolled back the blackness of space, Michael believed they were 'flooding the entire Pacific basin with light'.30 The disintegration (or ionisation) of the molecules blocked radio signals, and for three minutes the crew were unable to talk to Houston. At 5,000°F, temperatures outside the spacecraft were hotter than the exhaust from the F-1 engines that had launched the men eight days earlier.31 The command module's silver-coloured thermal shielding helped to prevent heat penetrating the cabin, and inside the crew were kept cool by the spacecraft's life-support system.

  Eventually Columbia flattened out, at which point each man felt six and a half times heavier than his normal weight on Earth as the g-forces peaked at their maximum level. The spacecraft flew the next 500 miles more or less horizontally, but it was approaching the landing point too quickly and risked overshooting it. Following a predetermined plan, the computer shifted the command module's angle of attack, sending Columbia thousands of feet back up into the atmosphere. Then, as they dived down to cover the final 300 miles towards the landing point, the crew were given a second dose of high g-forces. By the time the spacecraft had descended to an altitude of 15 miles, it was plunging almost vertically.

  At 24,000 feet, a cover protecting the apex of the command module was jettisoned and two small drogue parachutes were released, stabilising the descent.32 At 10,000 feet, three much larger parachutes opened. Looking up out of the windows, Michael watched the orange and white streams of cloth blossom into three great canopies. Together they eased Columbia through banks of stratocumulus clouds. The men struggled to regain control of their arms and legs, now suddenly heavy with gravity.

  Once radio contact resumed, Houston stayed off the air as much as possible while the navy prepared to retrieve the crew.

  Rescue helicopter: 'Swim 1. Have a visual dead ahead about a mile.'

  Hornet: 'Hornet. Roger.'

  Rescue helicopter: 'Roger. This is Swim 1, Apollo 11.'

  Armstrong: '300 feet.'

  Rescue helicopter: 'Roger. You're looking real good.'

  Rescue helicopter: 'Splashdown!'

  Less than ten minutes after beginning re-entry, Columbia plunged into the Pacific 812 miles south-west of Hawaii. While it was 11.50am in Houston, locally it was 7.50am, ten minutes before dawn. Splashing down into water was seen as a softer, and therefore safer, option than hitting the ground; even so, in coming down at 20mph they still landed with a solid jolt. Buzz needed to push in circuit breakers that would allow Michael to eject the parachutes, but he was thrown forward with the impact, and as they filled with water the parachutes dragged Columbia over before they could be cut. After eventually releasing the canopies, Michael had to shut down the spacecraft's power. Before he could do this, however, he had to quickly close the vents that had allowed the cabin to match atmospheric pressure. This instruction on the checklist, circled and underlined, was intended to prevent the 'moon bugs' escaping, and in Michael's mind failure to carry it out would mean that 'the whole world gets contaminated, and everybody is mad at you'.33

  The spacecraft was designed to float, either right way up in the 'stable 1' position or upside down in 'stable 2'. Suspended by their restraints in the uncomfortable stable 2 position, Buzz, Michael and Neil waited for three flotation balloons to roll Columbia over. In the intervening seven minutes a snorkel valve began to let in seawater, and while waiting for navy swimmers to be carried out to them by helicopter they took another seasickness pill. The spacecraft had landed within 12 miles of the Hornet, the prime component in an extensive recovery force that was directed from a room next to the MOCR in Mission Control. Consisting of two ships in the Pacific and three in the Atlantic, the force was supported by 13 aircraft at seven bases around the world.34

  Briefly opening Columbia's hatch, navy swimmer and decontamination specialist Lieutenant Clancy Hatleberg threw in three 'biological isolation garments', or BIGs. Rubber suits equipped with a hood, a visor and a biological filter, the outfits were the next stage in the plan to prevent the risk of contamination.

  Standing in the lower equipment bay, the hatch closed once more, Neil put his on first, followed by Mike; Buzz slipped into his while sitting in a couch. After helping each other secure zips and fasteners, they scrambled out of Columbia and clambered into a raft bobbing in the purplish-blue water beside the spacecraft. While trying to ignore a growing sense of seasickness, the men sprayed each other with disinfectant, again as part of the decontamination regime. With their face-masks fogging up, they were then hoisted up into one of the Sea King helicopters hovering above, leaving the swimmers to shut the hatch and disinfect the command module.

  The safe retrieval of the crew was filmed from another helicopter, and seeing the men on television, Janet, Joan and Pat allowed themselves to celebrate. In the Armstrong household, everyone jubilantly waved flags while drinking champagne.35 The TV pictures were also shown in Mission Control, where huge cigars were handed out to the controllers, astronauts and VIPs cheering and applauding in the Mission Operations Control Room. Those who had watched the splashdown from the viewing gallery joined the party in the MOCR, and with the celebrations in full swing there was barely room to move.

  Aboard the helicopter the men were greeted by NASA doctor Bill Carpentier, who would have jumped into the water and helped them to safety had one of them been injured. To Buzz, Columbia had represented safety and security; now, looking down on it from above, the spacecraft seemed small and helpless. He was struck by a 'peculiar feeling of loss'.36

  After touching down on Hornet, the helicopter was lowered into one of the ship's vast hangars. Uncomfortably warm in their BIGs and struggling to keep their balance, Neil, Michael and Buzz stepped on to the deck to the accompaniment of a brass band. While waving to hundreds of sailors, and a sprinkling of VIPs, they briskly walked into a silver trailer set up 30 feet away. The Mobile Quarantine Facility (MQF) would be their home until they got to Houston, and only Carpentier and technician John Hirasaki were allowed to join them.

  The crew had been living and working in virtual isolation since June, and now that they were home, for the moment nothing would change. Their period of quarantine had been set at three weeks, and after spending three days of this in space they would pass another three in the MQF. The airtight trailer contained a lounge area, a galley (complete with microwave oven), bunk-beds and washing facilities. After a series of hurried medical checks, the men showered and, for the first time in more than a week, put on clean clothes. When they were ready, a curtain was drawn back from a window and there, waiting outside to g
reet them, was Richard Nixon. The president was genuinely enthralled to meet them and during a short, lighthearted exchange he described himself as the 'luckiest man in the world'.37

  Two hours after the men arrived aboard the ship, Columbia was hauled from the water and hooked up to the MQF via a plastic tunnel. With assistance from the crew, Hirasaki went into the spacecraft, and after making sure the thrusters and pyrotechnics were safe he retrieved the films and rock-boxes. These were passed to the outside world via an airlock in the MQF before being taken by separate helicopters to Johnston Island, from where they were flown to Houston.

  As the ship sailed for Hawaii, the enormity of their mission struck Buzz once again, as it had during training.38 Now, however, there was no longer a flight to focus on. Instead, there was a growing realisation that there would be months of public functions to attend. Later, Buzz came to realise that it was his time on the Hornet that marked the 'start of the trip to the unknown'.39

  The following day Michael crawled back into Columbia to retrieve the flight-plans and checklists. Before leaving, above the sextant he wrote 'Spacecraft 107 – alias Apollo 11 – alias Columbia. The best ship to come down the line. God Bless Her. Michael Collins, CMP'.40

  On arrival at Pearl Harbor the MQF was loaded aboard a flatbed lorry, and as it was gently driven to an airfield crowds of onlookers accompanied the crew's slow journey. It was then hoisted aboard a C-141 transport jet for the six-hour flight to Houston. Just after midnight on the morning of Sunday 27 July, Neil, Michael and Buzz landed at Ellington Air Force Base, near the Manned Spacecraft Center. The MQF was hauled out of the aircraft and taken to a brightly lit area where again another enormous crowd awaited them. This time, however, the well-wishers included friendly faces from home. Wearing Hawaiian carnation leis, Janet, Joan and Pat, accompanied by their children, could do little more than swap smiles through a window and hold stilted conversations over telephones. But the women could see for themselves that their men were safe, and that now they were in Houston they were home. 'Oh, thank God,' said Joan, through her tears.41

  The rocks, the men and even Columbia were all to be accommodated in a purpose-built quarantine facility at the Manned Spacecraft Center known as the Lunar Receiving Laboratory (LRL). The three-storey LRL was based on plans drawn up in 1966 by an inter-agency committee composed of government departments, the National Academy of Sciences and NASA. As well as quarters for the crew – and the technicians, doctors, housekeepers and cooks looking after them – the LRL also contained elaborate facilities to store and analyse lunar material in vacuum conditions. Sealed from the outside world by biological barrier systems, the LRL's inhabitants would be held for the remaining two weeks of the quarantine period.

  They could be held for longer if more time were needed to prove that anyone who had come into contact with the rocks posed no risk to Earth.42 This would be established in the ultraclean facilities of the sample operations area. Here, on 26 July, the rock-boxes were opened under vacuum, preserving them in their pristine state. After initial analysis, they were to be transferred, still under vacuum, to laboratories where their mineral and chemical content could be assessed. In examining the rocks for any evidence of life, samples would be exposed to plants, fish, birds, oysters, flies, cockroaches, prawns and germ-free mice, which would then be closely watched for evidence of a reaction. Fifty feet below the LRL, other samples would be assessed in a radiation laboratory using gamma ray spectrometry techniques. Meanwhile, Columbia would also be examined so that problems during the flight could be investigated. In designing and building the LRL, no expense had been spared. Nothing like it existed anywhere else in the world.

  From Ellington, the MQF was driven by lorry along roads packed with more excited onlookers before being parked beside the LRL. Once a germ-proof barrier had been set up, the men were released into their new home. In the following days they spent most of their time preparing written reports and delivering day-long debriefing sessions, attended by many different people. Sitting behind glass, they answered questions about every detail of the flight, for the benefit of Deke Slayton, the crew of Apollo 12, flight controllers, systems engineers, managers, mission planners and everyone else involved in returning to the Moon. The crew in turn were told the precise location of the landing site, determined by the film taken through Buzz's window. They were also given news that NASA had not wished to broadcast during the mission, including details of the fatal incident involving Senator Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. By the time they came to be asked questions about the LRL itself, Collins simply replied, 'I want out.'43

  Every now and again the LRL population was joined by people who had been accidentally exposed to lunar material. They too had to be confined to quarantine until the mice proved there was nothing to worry about. In the meantime a colony of red ants voluntarily broke in and the crew were happy to point out to the technicians in charge of the supposedly impregnable facility that the number of insects seemed to be steadily growing.44 In between debriefings, and visits from family members (who were also held back by glass), the men tackled some of their burgeoning mail-bags, signing pictures and answering requests for autographs. They also discussed their future.

  Collins had already told Deke that he would not be taking part in another flight, but he didn't yet know what he wanted to do. Nor did he know what Buzz and Neil were intending, 'but whatever it is, we should support each other', he wrote, adding, 'I'm not sure we have yet built the basis for that support'.45 Buzz, however, was struggling to support himself emotionally. In a picture taken during the debriefings, he later came to believe that 'everyone else appears relaxed and there I am – eyes wide and looking frightened'.46 At the centre of his worries lay concerns about what to do next. He was conscious that many public commitments were being planned for the crew and he saw it as his duty to accept them. Since these would keep him away from training for quite a while, he realised that the chances of flying again were shrinking. Decisions about his future were being made for him, and Buzz came to feel that things were slipping out of his control. It would be nearly three years before he felt able to make a new start.47

  Earlier than anticipated, at 9pm on the evening of Sunday 10 August, the quarantine was declared over and the doors of the LRL were opened. Within two days Neil, Buzz and Michael would begin the first of many press conferences, speeches and guest appearances where they would be received as a team of dashing superheroes. For one last evening, however, they were still mere men. Taking what Collins described as 'their first smell of the earth in nearly a month', they went home to be reunited with their families.48

  EPILOGUE

  In all, Project Apollo lasted a total of 12 years, marshalling the industrial resources of a superpower in one of the biggest government enterprises mounted in peacetime. Apollo 11 represented only a fraction of the work that went into America's race to reach the Moon. Eagle was not the only lunar module NASA built, any more than Neil Armstrong was the only man able to fly it. While the crew were training for their mission, other astronauts were preparing for subsequent flights, and these preparations continued even after the race had been won by Neil and Buzz. In November 1969, Pete Conrad and the crew of Apollo 12 survived a lightning strike during lift-off, before landing with pinpoint accuracy beside Surveyor 3 in the Ocean of Storms. Conrad relished the chance to walk on the Moon and did so with an exuberance typical of his larger than life attitude.1

  By the time Apollo 13 launched in April 1970, flying to the Moon was becoming old news and the TV networks struggled to provoke interest. Jim Lovell and Fred Haise (both of whom had been part of the Apollo 11 backup crew) planned to explore a highland region near the Fra Mauro crater but were lucky to make it home after an explosion crippled their service module. After Apollo 14 successfully landed in February 1971, NASA decided to press ahead with plans for more ambitious missions. The final three flights carried enough consumables for a three -day stay on the surface and were equipped with lunar rover 'moon bu
ggies'. In April 1972, Charlie Duke got to see what the Moon was like for himself when he served as the lunar module pilot aboard Apollo 16.

  NASA had planned to land on the surface a total of ten times. But on 20 July 1969, the relentless drive to send a man to the Moon lost much of its energy in the enthusiastic cheering and flag-waving echoing through Mission Control. After all the political posturing, the hard work and the faith, the dream had finally been realised. With the space race effectively over, new priorities demanded attention and cash, and within six months missions began to be cancelled.

  When Michael Collins was recovering from surgery in 1968 he had been offered a job at headquarters, in the Apollo applications programme.2 This work focused on applying old Apollo hardware to new projects, and at the top of the list was a manned orbital space station. Unlike the lunar missions, the space station was dedicated to scientific research from its inception, a fact reflected in its name – Skylab. The Moon having been conquered, scientific research came to lead NASA's agenda, and since this was best done within easy reach of Earth, Skylab was confined to Earth orbit. Similarly, Skylab's successor, the International Space Station, operates at an altitude of 220 miles – little more than the distance between London and Paris. It is serviced by the space shuttle, which itself can fly no higher than 400 miles from the Earth. Since Apollo 17 returned from the Moon in 1972, no-one has travelled any further than a few hundred miles above the atmosphere.

  In the years since Apollo came to an end, lunar samples have been studied in laboratories around the world. Neil and Buzz brought back 48lb of surface material, including 50 rocks of various sizes.3 After initial analysis in the Lunar Receiving Laboratory, samples were distributed to international research teams, many of whom came to Houston in January 1970 for the first annual lunar science conference. Over four days, the conference heard that some of the rocks were basalts, formed from molten lava, but many were breccias – fragments of older rocks that had been fused together during the shock and heat of a meteoroid impact.4 Some of the smaller samples were entirely different to the larger rocks and were thought to have come from the lunar highlands. More than 20 minerals known on Earth were identified, along with three new ones unique to the Moon. The basalts appeared to be between three and four billion years old, while the dust included particles believed to have been formed 4.6 billion years ago. The search for evidence of living organisms that had begun in the LRL failed to find any positive results.