by Buzz Aldrin
Another marvelous celebration took place a few weeks later, when my hometown of Montclair, New Jersey, pulled out all the stops to honor me with a parade and banquet. It actually rained on my parade as Joan and I rode through town in a convertible, but the drizzle didn’t dampen my spirits a bit. One of the highlights that I would cherish all my life took place when the longtime U.S. senator from New Jersey, Albert W. Hawkes, told the banquet crowd, “In all my years as a senator, in all the many votes and suggestions I have made, I shall remember that, to me, the most significant decision I made was to nominate a young man from Montclair, New Jersey, as a cadet at West Point. His accomplishments exceeded my wildest dreams.”
IF MY HOMECOMING in Montclair was a dream come true, the next big event on our schedule was the nightmare every public speaker dreads. On Tuesday, September 16, 1969, we traveled to Washington, D.C., to speak at a joint session of Congress. It was simultaneously one of the greatest privileges and one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. By now I’d given dozens of speeches, and had stood in front of huge crowds of cheering well-wishers, so it wasn’t stage fright that caused my apprehension, but the majesty of it all, standing in the U.S. House of Representatives as the Vice President and members of both the House and the Senate filed into the cavernous and stately room. Members of the President’s cabinet, ambassadors, and high-ranking government officials from other countries were on hand as well. I fretted over that speech more than any of them. In putting that speech together, I drew from every source I could find, even political cartoons and caricatures.
It was a relatively short speech in which I wanted to recognize the tremendous commitment it took on the part of our government and the hundreds of thousands of people all across our country working together to get us to the moon, while laying out a vision for the future. I told the joint session of Congress, “This should give all of us hope and inspiration to overcome some of the more difficult problems here on Earth. The Apollo lesson is that national goals can be met where there is a strong enough will to do so.” The audience responded with a rousing and gratifying ovation.
THE DAY PRIOR to appearing before Congress, the Washington, D.C., post office hosted Neil, Mike, and me for the unveiling of a special postage stamp commemorating the mission of Apollo 11 and our landing on the moon. That sounded exciting enough, until the new stamp was revealed and, under a drawing of Neil stepping off the Eagle onto the lunar surface, the caption read, FIRST MAN ON THE MOON. I smiled rather weakly when I first saw the stamp, though it was a bittersweet honor. I didn’t even dare to think what Mike must have thought, but it seemed to me that something referring to “first men” would have been more accurate and more appropriate. As it was, our being there felt like we were backup singers for Elvis.
I wasn’t upset about the stamp; it just felt odd, especially when the post office asked Neil, Mike, and me to sign a large number of first-edition sheets of stamps that would then be sold. I thought, Why would you want me to sign this if you didn’t think it important to include Mike and me somehow? But we dutifully signed a large stack of first-day issues, because, after all, that’s what American heroes do.
If I was mildly disappointed by the post office’s callous exclusion, my father was furious. He set about on a one-man crusade to get the stamp caption changed to “First Men on the Moon.” He even spent some time picketing in front of the White House, but his efforts proved more a source of amusement for the media than an encouragement for including Mike and me in the honor. I just shrugged. What was done was done.
NEIL’S FAMOUS WORDS upon our landing set the theme for our worldwide goodwill tour to be known as “Operation Giant Step.” We stopped first at Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a rather odd place to begin a world tour. It was the fall of 1969, and student protests were common on American campuses. Some young people were bitter and angry over the war in Vietnam; others had their own agendas. Nevertheless, I would never have imagined that as Mike, Neil, and I approached the auditorium, we’d be pelted by a barrage of eggs and tomatoes. Fortunately the students were lousy shots and none of us were hit, but I felt sad that these young people could be so disgruntled with America. Rather than being proud of us for going to the moon, they chided us for wasting so much money while wars and famine plagued parts of the Earth. This was a different America than the one to which my father and the heroes of World War II came home.
We were on the world tour for forty-five days. During that time we visited twenty-three countries, as well as the Vatican, and were received by twenty heads of state, including presidents, kings and queens, and prime ministers. To each we presented a replica of the plaque we left on the moon, which stated, WE CAME IN PEACE FOR ALL MANKIND. Everywhere we traveled, throngs of people swarmed the streets in an effort to see us. It was truly a heartwarming experience, but after a while we began to feel a bit like circus animals on display. We greeted several million people in twenty-seven cities directly, and many millions more through television, radio, and the press. And of course there were the obligatory speeches that Neil, Mike, and I had given so many times now that we could almost stand in for each other.
Nevertheless, the predominant feeling we had from people all around the world was one of warmth and friendliness, even in some of the countries that were not necessarily as pro–United States as we would have liked. The trip was inspiring and exhausting.
We returned to the United States in time to attend the launch of Apollo 12 at Kennedy Space Center, a lunar landing mission carrying Alan Bean, Pete Conrad, and Dick Gordon on a journey quite similar to ours. NASA thought it wise to call us home in case there was something we could contribute should there be trouble during Apollo 12, but it was also a precaution against bad publicity. If something went wrong, they didn’t want us halfway around the world, being asked pointed questions we would have no immediate way of answering. We really didn’t mind returning home for a few days. It was wonderful to sleep in our own beds, to celebrate Thanksgiving at home, and of course to see our children, whom we hadn’t seen now for several weeks.
It was also a thrill to watch the majestic Saturn V rocket thunder off the pad, carrying our friends and colleagues toward the moon, knowing more than they about the adventure they were about to experience.
President Nixon attended the launch, as well. We had recommended to the President that he watch this launch outdoors to better appreciate the impact of the sound and shock waves coming from the launch pad, rather than view it from inside Launch Control Center, where onlookers experience a mere rattling of the windows. But as it turned out, the liftoff of Apollo 12 occurred during a thunderstorm, so the President was better off inside. Within the first minute, the rocket was struck by lightning, requiring the crew to quickly reboot their systems. Unimpaired, the flight continued safely from there, and the Apollo 12 mission could not have been a better follow-up as mankind’s second moon landing.
All too soon, though, Neil, Mike, and I were heading to Canada, on the next leg of our own journey. I have to admit, going to the moon felt a lot easier than going around the world on the goodwill tour.
The world tour stretched from August 13 to November 5, with a few short breaks. In September we came back from the international portion of Operation Giant Step for a two-day “vacation.” I walked into my office and was greeted by huge mounds of mail everywhere. I could barely find my desk! The letters and cards came from around the world, from well-wishers, students, space aficionados, and of course, a plethora of school, corporate, and civic groups offering speaking invitations. Secretaries in the NASA mail room opened the mail and, whenever possible, answered it, but most needed a direct response from me. This mail was sent on to me and stacked in my office awaiting my return. I started working on the stacks of mail, answering a few, before I realized this was a bottomless pit. As I answered one letter, the secretary brought in several hundred more. While I greatly appreciated the congratulatory wishes, and the sincere interest on the part of
the public, I lamented that I couldn’t do a better job of answering the many requests. I pictured a young boy a future rocket scientist, writing a letter with well-thought-out questions about the Apollo 11 mission, and then sending off his letter, checking the mailbox each day, and awaiting a response that likely would never come. I sure didn’t want to let that young man down, yet when I looked at the stacks of mail, I knew I couldn’t possibly keep up, either.
The traveling and speechmaking slowed down a bit over the Christmas holiday, but then resumed in early January 1970. Now, however, Neil, Mike, and I were often split up, one of us speaking at an event in California while another went to Iowa, and another to Georgia. The three of us continued crisscrossing the country for months, with most of the events scheduled by NASA, and a few of our own thrown in wherever we could fit them. Throughout 1969 and 1970, Neil, Mike, and I served as unofficial space ambassadors traveling the country on NASA’s behalf.
After a while, I felt that NASA was taking advantage of our willingness to be cooperative. Certainly we were still employed by the space agency, and we were honored to represent America’s astronauts, but we were not public-relations guys. All we really wanted to do was get back to work. Even before going to the moon, we understood that there would be a fascination on the part of the public when we returned, and we were willing to deal with that, up to an extent. We realized that we were now regarded as public property, and we did our best to maintain as much of a sense of pre–Apollo 11 normalcy in our lives as possible. But for nearly two years NASA paraded us out in front of one group after another, on display as it were, to do our routine promoting space exploration, and especially reminding anyone with any influence of how important congressional funding was to the program.
AFTER THE WORLD tour, on November 5, 1969, the three of us wrote a formal letter to President Nixon, kind of a final report. In describing the residual impact of our mission, we said, “The predominant impression is the warmth and friendliness shown us as representatives of the American space program. Although the world recognizes the Apollo 11 mission as an outstanding American achievement, people everywhere felt that they too had participated in the event…. We believe that the people we met are also persuaded that the application of science and technology combined with the will to do so can produce solutions to the problems of men everywhere.” Along with the letter, we presented the President with a huge photo album chronicling the highlights from all of the countries we visited.
At the conclusion of the tour, we had a special dinner with President Nixon in the White House. He was quite interested in every aspect of our trip, and seemed genuinely concerned about our future plans. He said to Mike Collins, “I know you have been talking with Secretary Rogers about a position with the State Department.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike nodded. “I’m looking forward to that.”
“And, Neil, what is it that you want to do?” the President asked.
“I’d like to stay with NASA for a while, and maybe work in the aeronautics department.” It seemed odd to me that Neil wanted to divorce himself early on from space activities, and devote himself to aviation, but that was his heart and soul, so I didn’t fault him for that. Neil was a true test pilot; he enjoyed flying airplanes, running them through a variety of maneuvers, whether they were space-related or not.
The President turned to me, and asked about my plans. At the time I didn’t really know, but I was thinking of returning to the Air Force, and I could see myself as a role model for young airmen at the Academy, so the position of commandant of the Air Force Academy seemed appealing to me. I didn’t feel comfortable in voicing that to President Nixon at the time, but I did put in a good word for my dad. I suggested to the President that my father would make an excellent ambassador to Sweden.
At the time, the United States was not on the best of terms with the notoriously neutral country. Olaf Palme was the prime minister, and was strongly opposed to our involvement in Vietnam. From the U.S. standpoint, our government was not pleased that Sweden had welcomed those regarded as draft dodgers and deserters. I knew there was an opening in our embassy in Sweden, because during our round-the-world trip, we had not visited Sweden. We visited England, of course, where Neil had his roots, and Italy, where Mike had been born in Genoa, but rather than going to the homeland of my heritage, we went to Norway instead. It was not an accidental change in our itinerary. It was a statement.
I slept in the Lincoln Bedroom in the White House that night, and the sense of history surrounding me inspired me to consider how I might best serve my country. Ever since my days at the Military Academy at West Point, where our motto was “Duty, Honor, Country,” service to my country has been a predominant motivation in my life. During our quarantine, Neil, Mike, and I had talked often about the “what next” question, and we decided that it would be selfish of us to return to NASA and take positions back in the Apollo lunar flight rotation. The normal routine would have had us return to lunar training as a backup crew for a flight, possibly Apollo 14, then, two flights later, being the primary crew. Since Mike Collins had not actually set foot on the moon, he would no doubt have precedence for a mission that would get him back to the surface. Nevertheless, Neil, Mike, and I felt that the more noble gesture on our part would be to give other astronauts a chance to reach the moon. While we continued to work for NASA, we elected not to stay in the crew rotation cycle.
Besides, by that time, we had become in essence the public face of NASA. When anyone called the agency for a speaker, whether it was for a university symposium or a Little League baseball field dedication, we were always at the top of the list. No doubt, some people thought we could better serve America’s space program by representing it to the world. Nice thought, but we were trained as pilots, not as public-relations people, and of the three Apollo 11 astronauts, none of us was prepared to be a person under constant fire from the media, someone whose every word—even if it was nonsensical—instantly showed up in newspapers, magazines, and other media around the world. Imagine the biggest rock star or Hollywood celebrity dealing with the media feeding frenzy that happens nowadays; now multiply that exponentially and you have some idea of what we three PR novices experienced for months following the landing on the moon. NASA of course expected a barrage of interview requests and public appearance requests, but they never anticipated the physical and emotional drain the instant fame would put on men who had spent most of their adult lives in a cockpit.
THE TRANSITION FROM “astronaut preparing to accomplish the next big thing” to “astronaut telling about the last big thing” did not come easily to me. For the previous eight years, from the time I had been studying rendezvous techniques at MIT, and working on my doctoral dissertation, which contained many of the ideas we incorporated in the Gemini and Apollo space programs, my life had revolved around astronautics—not just talking about it, but doing it, getting ready for it, and making something happen. Now, as much as I understood that in America “heroes have duties,” talking about it was growing old quickly. Nevertheless, I was committed to doing my best, hoping to inspire other people through my experiences, especially the younger generation, who I hoped would take the exploration of space further than even I could imagine.
That’s why, in early January 1970, I resumed traveling from one end of the country to the other, making public appearances and giving speeches on behalf of NASA. Following my appearance on NBC’s flagship morning news program, the Today Show, host Hugh Downs and I discussed the negative response Neil, Mike, and I had received at Marquette University. Hugh shared my consternation over the disenchantment of America’s high school and college-aged youth. A few weeks later, outbreaks of deadly violence at Kent State and Jackson State universities brought the issue into Americans’ living rooms in graphic detail.
I wasn’t sure what to do, but I felt compelled to find some way in which I could get involved—something that would offer a new challenge, as well as an opportunity to perhaps capitalize on s
ome of the public’s familiarity with my name. My mind started to cogitate on the possibilities.
In February 1970, my father’s close friend, General Jimmy Doolittle, approached me about becoming a part of the board of directors of Mutual of Omaha, a once-venerable, well-known insurance company. The company perpetuated its clean-cut, wholesome image by hiring military heroes and other nationally known figures, although it was probably more popular for sponsoring an outdoorsman show, Wild Kingdom, on television each week, starring the legendary sportsman Marlin Perkins. Since retiring from the military, General Doolittle had been a member of Mutual’s board. “I’ll put in a good word for you,” he assured me.
Sure enough, at their annual meeting in February, Mutual of Omaha elected me to their board of directors. Board chairman and chief executive officer of the company V. J. Skutt extolled my virtues. “Colonel Aldrin, the great astronaut and young man of good judgment and high principles, will help get our organization off to a flying start in new products and service for the decade ahead,” he told the press.1 Before long, Mr. Skutt would change his tune.
About the same time that I joined Mutual of Omaha, I also joined the board of Amvideo Corporation, a Massachusetts-based parent company of Annapolis CATV, Inc. Cable television was a fledgling industry at that time, with only a handful of stations operating around the country and even fewer with original programming. But I felt sure that the cable television industry held tremendous promise, so I looked at my involvement as an investment in my future.
NASA approved both of my corporate affiliations. The space program restricted astronauts’ outside business interests, tenaciously guarding the image of the program, so NASA’s imprimatur was important to me.