by Al Worden
While in New York, we did a round of talk shows. The host of the Today Show back then was Hugh Downs, and he had a very funny sideman, the former baseball player Joe Garagiola. During our interview, Joe leaned in and said he understood that astronauts sometimes had differences of opinion in flight, but who had the last word?
Staying lighthearted in keeping with the show’s tone, I raised my hand. Dave shot me a funny look, but Joe laughed and asked me for my answer. I told Joe that the last word was always me saying “Yes, sir!” to Dave. It got a big laugh, and the show continued.
But Dave didn’t forget. In the relative privacy of a limousine on the way to our next engagement, he chewed me out for the entire ride. It wasn’t the only time during that long world tour that Dave and I clashed. He didn’t like me to say things that he hadn’t come up with or vetted. The mission was over, but he was still in charge, and he would make damn sure I remembered it. Jim, miserable, slunk back into his seat during these exchanges and didn’t say a word.
Chicago gives us a wonderful welcome as we parade through the streets.
What could I do? Dave could make life hell for me back in Houston if he wanted. As my commander, people would listen to his opinions about me. So I gritted my teeth and, without letting it suck all the enjoyment out of the trips, tried to do as he ordered.
Fortunately, there was plenty to enjoy. We had a similarly humbling reception in Chicago, where Mayor Daley drove out to meet us at the airport then took us on a tour of the city. Chicago was—and is—very ethnically diverse, and Daley wanted us to visit every neighborhood. It seemed that every different group had their own cultural celebration that day. Now this was my kind of thing. I could party, eat, drink, and outdance them all. It wasn’t really Dave’s scene, but I loved it.
Then we were whisked to a large formal dinner with the mayor. I’d vaguely remembered that Bob Lawrence, the pilot I’d known from astronaut selection testing, was from Chicago. Barbara, his widow, still lived there, so I invited her to the gathering. It was only by chance that Bob had died in a plane crash four years earlier. He could have just as easily have been a NASA astronaut returning from a triumphant trip to the moon and fêted by adoring crowds. I enjoyed a long chat with Barbara that night, sharing my memories of her husband.
I also called Eddie Fisher that day. The popular singer had come by the astronaut office whenever he was in Houston, and we’d become sort of friendly. He invited us to his late show and saved a table for us. By the time we disentangled ourselves from the other celebrations and made it to his theater, we were an hour late for his show. We snuck in, hoping not to disturb a show we assumed was well under way.
But it wasn’t. Eddie had held the show until we arrived, then came over and sang at our table. It was the kind of star treatment we were not used to, and I doubted it would ever feel normal.
NASA provided framed souvenir presentations for us to give away at every stop. Every dignitary from President Nixon on down received a flag that had journeyed with us to the moon and back. Many were specially flown, such as a United Nations flag for the UN. Mayors generally received the flag of their state. NASA didn’t ask, or seem to care, what happened to them after they were presented.
We received the star treatment in every stop we made in America, and then we headed to Western Europe. The people there seemed just as proud of us, which is exactly what we had hoped. We had flown to the moon as Americans, but we explored for the whole world. We hit England, France, Austria, Germany, and Belgium for another dizzying round of meeting world leaders, royalty, and speaking at scientific institutions. It was fun, but my favorite moments were between stops, where in some little village in the middle of Europe, we’d halt for a simple lunch with fascinating company. I always felt in my element in a room full of informal, fun-loving strangers, all eager to show us a good time. Plus, in England, I reconnected with many of my friends from the test pilot school days. It felt wonderful to see them again and share what had happened to me in the last five years.
I was alone, while Dave and Jim had Lurton and Mary with them. Lurton was great company, a very special lady whom I adored. Dave was lucky to have her. And Mary always took care of me. If I were asleep on an airplane on some long flight across the world, Mary would be the one to tuck a blanket around me and make sure I was okay. Lurton and Mary made me feel like family.
At the White House we present President Nixon with a flown item from our mission.
While in Rome, we had a private audience with Pope Paul VI. He was a tiny man, but had a special aura about him that only a few global leaders possess. We had an entourage of about twenty government people with us, and as he came down the line greeting us all, he stopped, looked me in the eye, and said, “Hmmm, I know you from somewhere.”
That flummoxed me. I think I would have remembered if I knew the Pope, and I didn’t. “You are very familiar,” he added, leaving me lost for words.
Was the Pope playing a “Gotcha” trick on me worthy of Wally Schirra? Then he remembered. He had seen me on Fred Rogers’ show. I didn’t know which was more surreal: that the Pope thought he knew me or that he recognized me from American children’s television. To this day, I wonder if the Pope was playing a practical joke.
Our next visits were a real step into the unknown. Communist Eastern Europe was technically “the enemy” during the Cold War. Most of it was under the control of the Soviet Union—some parts more willingly than others—and Moscow was never too keen about friendly connections to the West. The international significance of the Apollo program made us the ideal ambassadors, it seemed, to journey there without tension. On these visits I grew to understand that the whole world appreciated our exploration of the moon. There may have been political disagreements, but when it came to the individual people who flew in space, it felt like we all cheered each other on.
I had more fun in the communist countries than I did anywhere else overseas. Our hosts were often reserved and formal at first, but soon loosened up. In fact, at one party in Poland we had the whole room, including our Polish hosts, playing an interesting Cold War version of hide-and-seek. We looked for, and found, all of the hidden microphones.
One night early in the visit, I decided to take a walk around the block with one of the ladies accompanying us from the State Department. As we stepped out of the lobby and headed down the street, we noticed a shadowy figure lurking behind us, wearing a trench coat and wide-brimmed hat. We stopped and looked at him. He also stopped and waited for us to grow bored. We started to walk again. He followed once again. We had a tail.
We beckoned him to join us; we would be glad of the company. But he wouldn’t come. So we jogged back, put ourselves on either side and forced him to walk along with us. It turned out that he was responsible for ensuring we didn’t inadvertently get into any trouble. Our hotel was across the street from a sensitive military defense building, and if we had wandered down the wrong alley we might have caused a diplomatic incident.
Our tail, I was told, was the number two person in the Polish secret police. He certainly had power. We would be having lunch with a university president or other important person, but when this little guy made a subtle hand signal, our hosts knew it was time to wrap up the hospitality. It was time for us to leave, however enjoyable the conversation. The guy had the country under his thumb.
And yet, on the last day of our trip, he pulled me to one side, and whispered, “Any chance you could find me a job in the United States?” I wonder what he was doing by the late 1980s, when communism finally crumbled in Poland.
In Yugoslavia we were guests of President Tito at his mountain resort in Bled. I grew to love skiing again while there. It had been years since I’d had time to indulge myself in the sport. We also rode horse-drawn sleighs and took hunting trips in the beautiful forests. Every time we went out to dinner, we ended up singing and dancing with the locals. They were great people, and I had a ball.
Of all the travel, meeting kings, queens
and world leaders, the most meaningful trip to me was the visit back to my home town of Jackson. It was literally a red-carpet welcome, and the press reported that more than 21,000 people turned up to see me. I rode through town in an open-top limousine with my daughters next to me, waving at the crowds, while four jets flew over in salute. I ended up staying for a few days at my parents’ house. As I turned in for the first night back home, I could only marvel at how much I had experienced since I left town.
In February of 1972 the president welcomed us back to the White House, to report on our overseas trips. He seemed keen to hear about our impressions of the communist countries we had visited. After we told him about our travels, he asked where we would like to visit next. “Mars!” I replied with a laugh, a not-too-subtle push for him to increase the NASA budget. The whole room burst out laughing.
“Well, I must tell you, we’re awfully proud of you,” the president added. “There are lots of people here who appreciate you. And there is still a fascination with it … a fascination with you as people.” He then talked with enthusiasm about the space shuttle and how it could increase the kind of international cooperation we’d been encouraging on our trip. “We’ll be calling on you!” he added as we left the Oval Office.
You may wonder how I can recall this conversation so clearly. Well, it’s not every day that the president tells you he is proud of you. But there is another reason. President Nixon secretly recorded his phone calls and meetings at the time. Some of those tapes would come back to haunt him, forcing him to resign in shame just two years later. Other recordings are more innocuous, and they include our meeting that day. Listening to it now—and it has long been declassified—more than anything I hear laughter, as we relaxed and enjoyed the company of a man praising us for our efforts to represent our country, both in space and overseas.
I had done little public relations before the flight. The travels after our mission took up most of the year, so I felt very seasoned when I returned to Houston at long last. However, the extra publicity brought some unwanted attention: before long, I discovered that I had my first stalker.
CHAPTER 12
RUIN
I was eager to get back to work. After all, pilots and astronauts want to fly, not give speeches. But as I searched for my next role in Houston, I began to receive disturbing letters from a woman in England. She was in a mental hospital and wrote to me about imaginary animals—mostly elephants, I recall—that walked through her room and on the walls. I turned the letters over to our security officers.
The letters kept coming. She was now out of hospital, she told me. One letter enclosed the key to her apartment and told me to visit when I was next in Europe. I continued to turn over the letters to security.
The last letter said, “I am on my way.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I grew very concerned. My two young daughters lived right across the street from the space center, and there had been plenty of press about the location of my space-age bachelor pad. We wouldn’t be hard to find. The security team who guarded the space center stayed alert.
A couple of days after the last letter, they came across the woman walking along the fence line of the center. I don’t know how they dealt with her. I was told that they put her on an airplane back to England. I never heard from her again. If this was fame, I was not sure I wanted it.
At least there was work to do again. Dave, Jim, and I were assigned as the backup crew for Apollo 17, which would attempt the final lunar landing. Heading back into training so fast was normally a sign that Deke was pleased with your work, and you would soon rotate into a prime crew once again. This time, however, was a little bittersweet. After Apollo 17, there would be nothing left to fly. We were asked because we were fully trained, not because there was any prospect of a future moon flight.
Still, I was pleased. I intended to stick around, and the only other work then available in Houston was advanced design work on the space shuttle. I wasn’t keen on shuffling paper around the office. As a backup crewmember I’d train on real hardware instead. And if something happened to Ron Evans, on the prime crew, I’d head back to the moon for the second year running. Ron was training to perform a spacewalk and run a SIM bay. I would have enjoyed doing it again, flying over different regions of the moon.
Years of intense training meant I already knew the spacecraft inside out. However, there was no end to the geology and science experiment knowledge I could absorb. I happily soaked it up once again as I rejoined the training routine.
Dave and Jim were less keen. Dave told me he was eager to get another flight, and I sensed he didn’t want to wait until the shuttle flew. The crews for the Skylab space station missions were already assigned: no chance to fly there. But one last Apollo flight was planned after that. The Apollo-Soyuz Test Project would be the first joint mission with the Soviet Union. Dave naturally expressed interest in it. Command of the first international spaceflight would be the crowning glory of his space career. Of course, there was no shortage of contenders for that seat. But with three flights now under his belt, Dave had increasing influence in the office politics that could decide the issue.
Jim wasn’t interested in Apollo 17 for a different reason: he was ready to quit. After the relentless pace of moving from Apollo 12 right into Apollo 15, he had no interest in the training grind again. Worse, he was the backup for Jack Schmitt, the only professional geologist assigned to a lunar landing. The scientific community had pushed for Schmitt to walk on the moon for years. If Jack caught a cold, we had the feeling that Jim wouldn’t replace him. Instead, NASA would spend millions of dollars delaying the mission until Jack was better. Jim had no chance to fly again. His heart wasn’t in it.
A couple of years older than me and Dave, Jim had already put in twenty years with the air force, meaning he could retire from military life and draw an air force pension. Dave and I still had a couple of years to go before we could do that. So Jim began to look for something else to do. He found it in religion.
When Jim began to talk about how he had felt the presence of God on the moon, I was confused. For one thing, Jim hadn’t shared this experience during the flight or on the world tour. Secondly, I just couldn’t understand why, if someone felt that God was all around him in everything he did, they’d be closer to God on the moon than on Earth. I had long talks with Jim as I tried to puzzle out what he meant. The general public frequently asked us about spiritual experiences in the otherworldly realm of space, and Jim’s response seemed to answer that constant inquiry a little too neatly for me. But the more we talked, the more I understood he was firm about rededicating his life to this new, spiritual direction. I hadn’t felt any connection to a spiritual deity when I was in space. But if Jim said he had, then that was fine by me.
Jim grew close to a minister at the local Baptist church in Nassau Bay and began to give religious speeches around Houston in his free time. He had a direction. So did Dave, it seemed. I wasn’t sure what I might do. I could stick around and one day command a space shuttle flight. Or I could go into private industry and put all of my aerospace engineering experience to good use. For now, however, I wanted to make Apollo 17 as good a flight as possible.
Then that promising world crumbled and slipped out of my grasp.
In the fall of 1971, right after the flight, I had sent Herrick his forty-four covers, keeping to our understanding. I expected him to keep his word and not sell them. Additionally, at some point during our busy travel schedule when my mind was elsewhere, Herrick called to ask what I was doing with my own covers. They were sitting on my office desk, I told him. He suggested that, for safekeeping, I send them to him so he could look after them for me in his safety deposit box. I trusted him and followed his suggestion. I was a fool.
My arrangement with Herrick was completely within NASA rules. The other deal, with Eiermann, was also under way. I understood that Dave had, as he agreed, sent a hundred covers to Eiermann, who in turn passed them to Sieger. Soon afterward, I rece
ived a German bank book in the mail with the agreed amount in it. So did Jim and Dave. I didn’t give it much thought, figuring the money was safely out of the country in a foreign bank, and that I could forget about it for a few years, until Merrill and Alison were ready to go to college. I’d been assured, after all, that the covers would only be discreetly sold many years after we were out of public life.
Then I heard a disturbing report that Herrick had begun to publicly sell his covers through a stamp dealer in Connecticut. Worst of all, the news came from Deke. He had received a letter from a stamp-collecting company asking him for confirmation that the covers now on the market were genuine. Deke, of course, asked me what this was all about. I calmly told him. With the Herrick arrangement, I had nothing to hide; I had worked completely within NASA’s rules.
Privately, however, I hit the roof. Herrick had betrayed me. I wrote him a scathing letter and demanded to know what the hell he was doing, explaining that he might destroy my career with his actions. I never received any explanation. Whether he meant to do this to me all along, I can only speculate. All I knew was that our verbal agreement had been extremely clear, and I should never have trusted a guy I now realized I hadn’t known at all. After all, I didn’t even know his first name—and I still don’t. My gut feeling about him had been completely wrong.
I didn’t think it could get worse. Then it did—much worse. The covers in Germany began to hit the stamp-collecting market, too.
To this day, I don’t know why for sure, because my involvement in that deal was limited to nodding my head at a dinner meeting. I heard later that Eiermann had never instructed Sieger to delay the sales for a few years, so Sieger began to sell them almost immediately to his list of private clients.