by Gene Kranz
January 27, 1967, Apollo 1
There are not many days in Houston that begin with a shiver. This one did, and it was not a premonition. A cold front was pushing through southeast Texas that Friday morning. A rare freeze was expected as I left the house for work, in the dark. I was ready to roll. The details of the day’s agenda were dancing in my head as I pulled out of the driveway.
Command and Service Module (CSM) 012 arrived at Kennedy Space Center from North American’s factory at Downey, California, on August 26, 1966. Systems tests were completed in September and were followed by altitude chamber tests to verify spacecraft pressure integrity and validate the system’s performance in a vacuum. During the chamber tests, problems with an oxygen regulator and later with the cooling system delayed completion of chamber testing until the Christmas holiday period. The Kennedy launch team carried most of the burden. They were working around the clock except on Christmas and New Year’s Day to complete testing so the CSM could be mated to the Saturn booster in early January 1967. The MCC had its own problems. Telemetry and trajectory computers were crashing for undetermined reasons, and astronaut training was falling behind due to simulator problems.
The CSM was moved to the launch pad at complex 34 on January 6 and the mechanical and electrical hookups (“plugs”) between the CSM, booster, and launch complex progressed smoothly and were completed January 18. A plugs-in test with the CSM and booster was supported by the MCC and was successfully completed the following day.
The launch day countdown is rehearsed several times to run through procedures, to check facilities, and to train the launch and flight teams. Rehearsals for the Apollo 1 launch day countdown consisted of two tests. The plugs-in test verified the procedures used to check out spacecraft and booster systems using electrical power supplied by the launch complex at the Cape. The plugs-out test verified the procedures for the final three hours from the entry of the crew into the CSM through launch. Ten minutes before the simulated launch the CSM was switched to internal power. (The plugs-out test configuration used a set of batteries mounted outside the CSM. The fuel cells were not active.) The plugs-out test concluded with a simulated launch and a series of orbital tests supported by the MCC.
The Cape is responsible for making sure that the CSM and booster are safe and meet the pre-launch requirements specified in the test procedures. The MCC’s responsibility is to ensure that all telemetry, command, and computer functions meet the mission rule criteria and that the MCC is ready to assume control of the mission. The testing sequence is similar to that used in Gemini, although more complex.
A second plugs-in test was conducted starting at 3:00 A.M. CST on January 25 to refine countdown procedures and troubleshoot launch day communications. The test was supported by the Apollo 1 backup crew, Wally Schirra, Walt Cunningham, and Donn Eisele, and my team in the MCC. Due to problems with the Kennedy Spacecraft Center ground checkout equipment, the planned ten-hour test staggered through the next day, finally concluding around 2:00 A.M. January 26. Since my team did not get much hands-on experience during the test I volunteered to power up the MCC and support the early hours of the following day’s plugs-out test.
The plugs-out test was not classified as high-risk. This classification was reserved for tests at the vacuum chamber or those involving propellants, cryogenics, high-pressure systems, or live pyrotechnics.
The sun was not yet up when I arrived at my office that morning. I called the Kennedy Space Center test conductor; his report that there were no more deviations (changes) to the test and checkout procedure was reassuring. [The TCP was a several-inches-thick manual for the test that synchronized every action of all elements of the launch team, booster, MCC, and CSM crew. It was not unusual to have twenty to thirty pages of changes that had to be inserted into the manual in the hours before a test.] I shoved a thick stack of the papers from my desk into a briefcase and walked the short distance to Mission Control, arriving about 7:00 A.M. local time.
When I put on the headset and moved to the flight director’s console, John Hatcher, the ground controller, informed me, “Flight, the MCC is Green!” (Colors were used in controllers’ verbal status reports. Green was Go, Amber indicated problems, and Red indicated a NoGo.) John continued, “All voice, telemetry, command, and radar interfaces between the MCC and KSC [Kennedy Space Center] were checked. We are now receiving CSM telemetry. The MCC countdown is on schedule and my test team is in place.” Hatcher, as usual, had everything under control, so with less than a month to the planned Apollo 1 launch, I turned to my action list, nailing each item with a to-do date.
My office mail included a note from Kraft, indicating that headquarters was conducting a meeting in Washington to lay out the Apollo schedule. Chris knew that a recent report by General Sam Phillips, the Apollo program director, had been critical of Mission Control. Phillips expressed his concern about our ability to support the approaching flight schedule. His report said: “Mission Control has two problems, the software is not written and the computers are not working.” Kraft’s action memo to me was clear: “Get your damn systems guys to stop the gold-plating. I want you to personally justify every one of their requirements.”
I penned a brief “roger” on his memo and left it in the flight director’s log for him to review when he reported for countdown support in the afternoon. Then, in the early morning, I brought the MCC on line for the test scheduled to take place early that afternoon. MCC personnel participating in the plugs-out test would arrive an hour before the crew entered the cabin, about 11:00 A.M.
As I listened, the countdown preparations progressed smoothly. The banter between the communications technicians at Houston and the Cape told me that the Apollo team chemistry was developing rapidly. The launch and flight control teams had reaped the benefits of the previous two days of plugs-in testing. There had been a bundle of communications problems, but at this point the voice communications sounded crisp.
Hodge appeared just after 11:00 A.M. Shortly thereafter a mixed team of controllers straggled in from their nearby offices. Our handover was short. “John, the interface tests are complete, communications solid, and the MCC is Go. I have a team in place on our end to troubleshoot any communications problems if they reoccur.”
Settling into his chair, Hodge adjusted his headset and neatly placed his pipe and tobacco pouch below the voice comm panel. In his clipped British accent he remarked, “I sure as hell hope it goes well today. We need to get a break from this blasted testing and get going on our own work.” I nodded as I packed my headset in a pouch and shoved it in a drawer. I didn’t want to get John started on the long litany of open work remaining for Flight Control. Just past noon in Houston, I handed the console log to Hodge and departed for the office area. I had planned to leave early that day.
At the launch pad, the test conductor gave the Go for crew entry into the command module. Gus Grissom, Ed White, and Roger Chaffee had arrived at the sterilized White Room, then ambled across the twenty-foot catwalk to the hull of the capsule. Shortly after entering the spacecraft, Grissom activated the suit circuit oxygen flow, and immediately noted an odor like sour milk. The spacecraft test conductor continued the countdown hold, as technicians performed air sampling of the suit circuit. When the sampling was completed, Hodge ran a brief status check and gave the pad test conductor a Go to resume the count at 1:25 P.M. Houston time.
Chris Kraft had been listening to the MCC and pad voice transmissions in his office. Since the countdown process is often erratic, we normally listened to the countdown over the squawk boxes in our offices until it was time to report for our shift in the control room, all of a five-minute walk away. When the count resumed and the launch team completed the hatch installation, Chris left to report to the MCC for the final hours of the simulated launch countdown.
Chris adjusted his headset and started to track each step of the test. Kraft and his Red Team would launch Apollo 1 and then support the first three orbits before handing over to my
team. My White Team was to pick up from Kraft five hours after launch. I had the systems shift, responsible for dealing with any CSM problems and getting the crew to sleep. Hodge then picked up with his Blue Team, developed the next day’s flight plan, awakened the crew, and then handed back to Kraft. The three-shift sequence was the same one we successfully used in early Gemini.
Shortly before 3:00 P.M., Kraft polled his team and waited for the test conductor’s call-outs for the MCC abort command checks. Hodge, with his handover complete, briefly considered returning to his office, then put down his tweed jacket, shrugged, and ambled toward the coffee pot. If the test dragged on (like the previous day’s plugs-in test), he planned to relieve Chris later in the day so that Chris would have the option to go back to his office and do some paperwork or take off for the weekend. As usual during such tests we had a mixture of members from different teams involved so that all controllers got a chance to see the CSM telemetry.
Since everything seemed to be going well, I left the office early to avoid the traffic.
Marta and I had not had many nights out since the birth of our sixth child, Jean Marie, now nine months old. I had promised her an evening at the Athens Bar and Grill, a popular Greek restaurant on the Houston Ship Channel, where on any night the impromptu entertainment might include, for example, a large, sweaty woman slinging a skinny sailor around the dance floor. I also wanted to see what the big deal was about eating food cooked in grape leaves.
Arriving home, I had to hit the deck running and get dressed if we were to beat the evening supper crowd. Marta had the kids all lined up and fed. With the help of the older ones, a single baby-sitter could handle the whole gang and, since it was a Friday night, the kids didn’t have any homework.
At the launch complex in Florida, meanwhile, the spacecraft voice lines started glitching. The crew was having trouble communicating with the launch team as well as with each other. It was approaching sunset at the Cape when the countdown was held to permit troubleshooting. Kraft kidded George Page, the test conductor at the Cape, saying that he was keeping score on who called the most holds.
The communications systems used between the crew, launch team, and MCC were incredibly complex. Hundreds of engineers, operators, and technicians were wired to their support teams. In Mission Control there were more than a hundred communications panels, each with forty-eight talk-listen buttons. If you wanted to talk to someone sitting next to you, the voice communications went through dozens of connections. From the MCC to the Cape the communications were carried by numerous telephone lines. When anything broke down, the simplest problem might take hours to troubleshoot and resolve. Doing it during a pad test bordered on the impossible.
The launch team continued trying to work around the communications problems. Attempting to resolve the comm problems, Grissom and Ed White exchanged their suit audio/electrical connectors while Roger Chaffee and the launch team rehearsed the procedures for a dry check of the spacecraft thrusters. At 5:20 P.M., the countdown entered the scheduled hold point at T minus ten minutes where the spacecraft would switch to its internal power. The communications problems had to be fixed before proceeding. Kraft entered the hold in his console log, punched at his voice comm, and said, “Ground Control, see if you can get a handle on the voice problems. The rest of you can take ten.”
At 5:31:04 Houston time a brief voice report jolted the launch and flight teams. It was perhaps the defining moment in our race to get to the Moon. After this, nothing would be quite the same, ever again.
“Fire!”
“We’ve got a fire in the cockpit!”
“We’ve got a bad fire . . . get us out. We’re burning up . . . ”
The last sound was a scream, shrill and brief. The elapsed time of the crew report: twelve seconds.
There would be no final agreement on who in the Apollo spacecraft shouted what. But even today, just reading the words on paper is chilling.
There was a gallant but futile effort to rescue the trapped threesome. The pad rescue team as well as crewmen from North American, mechanics and technicians, grabbed fire extinguishers and rushed toward the inferno. At least twice, shock waves and secondary explosions drove them back, knocking many to their knees. Some got close enough to struggle with the hatch. The heat of the hatch burned through their gloves and the smoke sent them staggering, choking and blinded. The call went out for firemen and ambulances. By then it was too late.
I had just finished hurriedly dressing to go out to dinner when I heard a knock on the door. Thinking the baby-sitter was early, I buttoned my shirt as I walked down the stairs. Again I heard the knock, only this time more insistent. I yelled out, “Hold on, I’m coming.”
Opening the door, I was surprised to see my neighbor and fellow flight controller, Jim Hannigan. He strode in, agitated and breathless. “Have you heard what happened?” he exclaimed. Bewildered, I raised my hands as Jim walked across the room to turn on the TV. He then blurted out: “They had a fire on the launch pad. They think the crew is dead!”
I had a sudden apocalyptic vision of a gigantic explosion that had taken out the flight crew, the Saturn rocket, and the launch complex. Marta had raced down the stairs as Hannigan’s wife, Peggy, visibly upset, walked in the door, crying out, “It’s just awful. I can’t believe it.” Since the details in news bulletins at that point were few, I assumed, from the emotional state of Jim and his wife, that one of the controllers had reached him on the phone. (Kraft had moved quickly to cut off all outgoing calls.)
Confused, I rapidly switched TV channels. There was no new information, only a brief report that an accident had occurred. I grabbed my badge and plastic pocket protector full of pencils. Nodding briefly to Marta, I jumped into our black Plymouth station wagon and tore out the driveway, shooting through traffic lights on the ten-mile drive to the Space Center. I practically dared a cop to get in my way.
I tried to figure out where in the countdown the accident had occurred. Given my awareness of the command problems in Gemini, my mind raced through the current tests. A thousand questions filled my thoughts as I tried to rule out the MCC as a cause of the tragedy on Pad 34. Nothing I knew about the situation made sense. This had been a very low-risk test. I kept telling myself, “The propellant systems are not loaded.” I kept thinking about it the way I would analyze an aircraft accident—did some part of the plane fail, was it pilot error, did someone on the ground screw up?
The radio was still reporting only sketchy details of the accident as I swung into my parking slot behind the MCC building. I bolted from the car and raced to the entrance. Getting inside was difficult. With the news of the fire, every controller was reporting to the MCC to find out what happened. Cars were parked haphazardly behind the building.
Kraft had declared a total freeze on operations to protect the data, terminating phone calls and directing the controllers to write down every event, any and every recollection of what they had seen and heard. With any ground or flight accident, it was essential to the investigation to bring everything to a dead stop while memories and data were still fresh and uncontaminated by the inevitable aftershock, confusion, and second-guessing.
At the Cape, they had been able to keep news of the disaster under wraps for about an hour, but leaks were inevitable. Wives of some of the technicians had received tense phone calls from their husbands, saying only that they would be home late. Sensing that something horrific had happened, the wives called the newspapers and radio stations with anxious questions. Reporters began to put pressure on their contacts who worked at the Cape and at MCC.
Security had barred further entry to the MCC without the permission of Kraft or Hodge. I waited for the guard to break through the busy signal on the phone at the flight director’s console. Cursing in frustration, I walked around to the rear entrance, bluffing my way past the guard, saying, “The main elevators are locked out. I’ve got to take the freight elevator to the second floor.”
Once I was in the control roo
m there could be no doubt that something catastrophic had happened. All I had to do was look into the eyes of the controllers. They seemed stunned, talking in short snatches, all wondering what the hell happened. I finally reached Hodge. Kraft was standing by the surgeon, listening more than talking. Hodge was unusually quiet, muttering under his breath, “It was gruesome,” then lapsing into silence. Clenching his pipe in his teeth, he fought to retain enough composure to stay focused. It wasn’t easy for him. It was impossible for the younger controllers. They were milling around, standing, then sitting, too agitated to stay still. They kept playing back the telemetry recordings, looking for clues, desperately clinging to their belief in their data, expecting to find answers.
Kraft hung up the phone after a lengthy discussion with Slayton, then solemnly returned to the flight director’s console. “Deke thinks we were damned lucky,” he reported, “that we didn’t lose a hell of a lot more. There was fire coming from the capsule, molten metal dribbling down the side of the service module.”